The Urn

by G. Wells Taylor

  With only sharp steel after that, then we both would die. I grinned at the blade then raised my eyes to watch.

  The world outside had grown darker as the storm descended, and now lightning gleamed on the splash of water I’d dragged into the yurt. Any moment the devil-dog would round the doorframe bristling, bone-crushing fangs bared in its monstrous face, and I struggled to keep my breathing shallow, and the pistol steady in my hand.

  One shot.

  Lightning crashed, and I almost fired the gun when the sudden flash threw a strange shadow across the doorway.

  I took a calming breath, and sighted along the barrel. Then the repetitive clicking cycled anew.

  The shadow touched the farthest side of the doorframe, showing the deadly closeness of the animal outside. But something was wrong. Truly, the devil-dogs could not have such guile or skill at the hunt to climb up to the yurt, to wait just out of sight and now, the size was wrong.

  A fearful shudder went through me as I thought of the wild men. Had one of them killed the devil-dog at the grave before seeing his chance with me? Did his devilish passions lust for my blood, to sink his great fangs into my flesh and kill...but my mind lurched away from the notion for only gibbering madness could prepare me for that!

  The shadow flickered across the doorframe and inside wall as the distant lightning flashed again and again. But it was so small, the shadow, and the limbs cast there had no heft or mass. However that did little to allay my fears for a shadow was a poor gauge for actual size, and useless for divulging intent.

  The sharp clicking noise continued. It was there again, repetitive, against the rushing fall of rain outside. But now, in this new location, I could better hear it. The clicking was too high, reedy, and almost insect-like, no wild man or devil-dog could make such a sound...perhaps my imagination...or I had truly gone mad.

  For I was reminded of bats. The clicks were like unto the noises I had heard those night creatures make in the caves around the mountain castle—back home.

  What was this?

  There followed a quiet, quick scrabbling sound on the planks outside, and then I could see the first long filmy hair on the interloper’s head, blown into view by the damp and gusty breeze.

  Thunder boomed and lightning thrashed the sky, and the shadow moved as the thing crept into the doorway on all fours. Driven by fear, by its need for shelter, it entered and crouched in the path of my pistol.

  I took a breath, and whispered the name of Saint Sarah.

  The creature was pale and glistened with rain; its skin was like that of a salamander or frog, but pale—so pale as to be almost white.

  Large almond-shaped eyes peered at me from a bulbous head. The orbs gleamed with crimson light, like they were warmed by an inner fire. The face was small and blunt—appearing human but unfinished, dwarfed beneath the large, rounded skull that rested on narrow shoulders.

  The body itself was short and compact; its edges rounded by fibrous, tightly woven muscle. There was no abdomen to speak of; its ribs seemed to rock uncomfortably against the high, flat hip bones. These components combined to form a torso no more than ten inches in length.

  The resulting truncated shape accentuated the thinness of the creature’s arms and legs that traveled out from the body to elbows and knees before flaring slowly to form the extremities. The hands and feet bore very narrow digits which exaggerated the elongation further, resulting in an even more spidery appearance.

  The pistol shook in my hand as I studied the thing.

  Its eyes held mine, their warmth calming my spirit, and I recklessly set my weapons aside as the creature squatted in the doorway to watch me.

  I did not know the face. It was raw—its components an afterthought—incomplete. Dwarfed in some way, each feature was in its place but there was little detail. The body was the same—without line or mark, like a crawling infant’s, but this was no infant.

  Tantalizingly familiar but who? What? It could be... It couldn’t be. It could only be...

  Master! First killed then kept in his special urn and carried many miles before a final drowning and burial, but now this—and how this? Oh Heaven, what magic have we wrought? For my love had come again, changed he was but brought back to life for me and me alone to care for—to love and cherish!

  The eyes continued to glow, and the thin-lipped mouth opened wide to form a scarlet hole in which a red tongue vibrated and the curious clicking sound filled the cabin.

  Lighting struck a tree by the beach, and the flash was accompanied by an explosion of wood and burning cinders that sent the frightened little creature sprinting across the floor and into my arms too quickly for me to recoil.

  It pushed its round head into the crook of my shoulder and left arm; the wriggling fingers and toes bringing a strained laugh from me before I chuckled.

  “Can it be you?” I asked, striving to hold the slippery body in my hands.

  I was answered by more clicking sounds, and a ticklish nibbling at my shirt.

  The lightning crashed again, and the creature shivered where it hugged tight against my chest with its little limbs trembling.

  “Peace, now,” I cooed. “You are safe with Horvat.”

  But the creature kept shaking.

  “I must call you something,” I continued, with my damp, cold back against the wall. “And yet, I well remember the warnings about your need for secrecy.” I looked out through the open door as lightning struck the sea and rain thundered down. I suddenly imagined every kind of wild beast stalking toward us seeking shelter, so I shifted to my knees and slid over to close the portal and latch it.

  The creature clung to me, its heart pounding so hard I could feel its cadence in my own breast.

  “That’s better,” I said of the locked door, as more lightning flashes flickered through the windows. “Or we’ll have the very king of beasts here for your coronation...”

  I smiled at my own cleverness, pleased that I was speaking. It had been so long.

  I caught the spindly creature in my calloused hands and hoisted him out in the dim light before me. Its long fingers and toes clutched my corded wrists in a fright, but the big, crimson eyes flared with something like excitement. I lowered it, and raised it quickly again, and its mouth fell open and froze in an expression of glee.

  The clicking came with the creature’s unfinished smile, but it kept its tight grip upon me.

  In the next flash of lightning, I saw the gums inside the red mouth were bare and pink, save for a pair of needle-like protrusions at the upper jaw—the bone-like canines appeared to be of such a delicate construction, but knowing well this creature’s lineage; I did not doubt the “fragile” fangs would be strong enough to tear the thickest hide.

  And I grimly remembered the dead devil-dog by the grave.

  “Oh, is it you then, my dear?” I asked the creature, drawing him close and hugging his cold, wet body to my chest. “Is it really you?”

  I got up and sat in the chair I had knocked aside. Something in me had been so weary since I’d lost the master that now having found him again—if this were truly him—I felt the weight begin to lift, and the promise of purpose beyond my own wretched survival energized me.

  “It must be you,” I said, unable to imagine anything else.

  The creature sat in my lap and looked up at me with lambent eyes.

  “As I can only think of you as my lord and protector, I shall name you the word for ‘master’ in my own tongue so none who might hear it could ever trace the word to your true identity, unless we should find rescue from this awful place, or come among our countrymen,” I said, pausing to clear my throat as a cooing noise came from the little creature—before it gave up a blast of rapid-fire clicking.

  “It is an ignoble thing to use so coarse a language to name one so fine, you might think, but for one absurd moment in time your safety is more important than your history, and so I name thee Gazda...”

  In my dearest heart I would have named him gazdálko
dik also a name of my own tongue, as I had named him to myself in secret dreams, but I dared not take such license in his delicate state—whether it was true or a simple fantasy of mine. Those secret thoughts, I fear would be lost in time, and if I was to be remembered, I shall be content to be his faithful servant.

  “Gazda will be your name,” I repeated, “until you tell me different.”

  CHAPTER 9

  FROM THE GYPSY HORVAT’S JOURNAL

  10th October, 1894. Survivors

  I realized that while Gazda’s was a distinctly human face, it was an unfinished portrait. The skin was pale, almost transparent and showed blue veins and the fleshy masses beneath. His features were like a doll’s with everything in the right place: eyes, nose, ears and mouth, but they appeared to be hastily drawn, like place markers awaiting the artist’s hand.

  Of course, as weeks passed his face and body slowly changed, and were clearly developing into something more human in appearance. The insubstantial skin began to mimic the varied surface of human skin, though it remained unnaturally pale in color and did not redden or tan in the tropical sun.

  His thin, reed-like limbs and extremities developed contours similar to my own with fingers and toes growing knobby and wrinkled about the knuckles; the arms and legs bulged around elbows and knees and swelled at the forearms and calves. His fingernails also grew in darker than his skin, hard and sharp to the touch.

  All of these changes continued over our first months together. Evidence of Gazda’s gender developed alongside the clarification of his facial features. His eyes became less prominent having shrunk back into his skull with the “glow” appearing only at moments in the shadow.

  At all other times they were dark blue—almost black—ringed with plenty of white where they rested beneath full lids similar to my own. Nose and lips swelled to become childlike; his eyebrows were dark but fine and the wispy hairs that first straggled from his scalp were replaced by short black bristles.

  Often Gazda would stare at me, curled up in a blanket well warmed in my arms and tight against my chest. He would study my face and reach up with his little hands and tug at my beard to bring me close, so that he could caress the stubble on my cheeks, rub my forehead and pluck at my nose.

  I was amazed at his keen interest and the considerable strength in those fingers as he continued these investigations, for investigations they were.

  His dark eyes ran over every feature on my face as his breath came slowly in and out, his small pale chest rising and falling.

  It became apparent that the majority of energy little Gazda absorbed from his bloody meals was put toward this development of physical characteristics because his size did not change. While he became more human looking, he more and more resembled a child of one year in age.

  Agile he was, and strong when he clung to me going about our home, when he scrambled on all fours, or climbed any surface with his fingers and toes like a monkey.

  Like the monkeys that I have eaten, at least the way they appear as I watch their curious interactions in the trees overhead...playful and frenetic...and busy.

  I say monkey, though it was plain to me that Gazda’s continued development was directed toward a human in form.

  Though a monkey he remained in mischief.

  Gazda was energetic and curious. He had a fondness for all living things, and played with any creature that found its way into our abode. I watched on one occasion as he chased an insect quite fearlessly around the floor, only to become startled when the thing opened its wings to fly.

  The poor fellow fell back on his bottom where he cried and clicked until another insect caught his interest.

  Another time, he played so vigorously with a frog that had entered the yurt that the creature died from the interaction. From the limp and floppy limbs I guessed that every bone in its body had been broken, but I would never caution my young ward to be more careful. His strength was already well beyond the capacity of most natural creatures his size.

  Besides, the frog’s death had not disturbed him, for Gazda played with its corpse until I had to finally take it from him in pieces. He smiled and licked his fingers as I threw his unfortunate playmate out the door.

  Gazda had been too nimble and quick for me to take out of the yurt at first, so I had spent the initial few days inside learning about him, his limitations, and hopefully, gaining his trust so that he might understand me if I warned him of any danger.

  As he was a child by all appearances, and had no language but his clicking, and he made no effort to communicate more, I saw no reason to again remind him of his noble heritage.

  I was simply amazed that he was there, that fate had altered our destinies so much, and then offered salvation once again.

  It seemed to me that he had no memory of himself or if he did, the true knowledge was locked behind his inability to speak. So, I remained optimistic and remembered the master’s book and how it warned of such a thing and the “child-mind” that he might return with.

  Always, the book had spoken of his returning by degrees regarding life and memory, and so I could only think this was its most radical form, and I would remind him of his history when he was ready. At the moment, he was more focused on playing with insects and frogs, and gaining a complete mastery of his own developing body.

  I would teach him about his true self later by relating stories of his life, and by exposing him to the newspapers, magazines and books I had found during successive outings at beachcombing.

  The printed material was obviously more flotsam from the Westerner and had held little interest for me as more than material for lighting fires, but I had been thrifty with it after the many sodden pages had been dried, and so enough remained to assist with Gazda’s tutelage. There were illustrations amongst the material that might be a good place to start.

  I had thought to retrieve the master’s book and urn also, since both might benefit his restoration; but later during our first outing, I discovered that the grave had been refilled with dark earth by the torrential rains that fell during the storm when we were reunited. I would reclaim the treasures at the first opportunity, but was presently overwhelmed with the busy Gazda’s early growth.

  Finally, the need for food forced me to leave the yurt. At first Gazda had shown no sign of hunger, and I attributed this to his first meal of the devil-dog, which considering its size must have been filling, but I was reminded of my young ward’s returning appetite after suffering a few painful nips from those sharp little canines.

  Since Gazda did not understand his weaknesses I was forced to solve the immediate problem of leaving him alone while foraging for food by developing a sling from sailcloth that would firmly catch up his arms and legs and keep him tucked safely against my chest. In this way, could we go about this chore, without me having to fear his escaping into the wilderness.

  I tested the function of this device inside the cabin, and he found it good fun at first to be carried thus—until we went outside when I had quickly seen flashes of indignation as something caught Gazda’s eye and he struggled mightily to investigate it, only to realize that he was a prisoner of the sling.

  The angry clicking provoked by that discovery was nearly deafening, but the world around our little home was as easily distracting to the eye, so he accepted the sling if it allowed him access to the broader world.

  He would have time to explore it physically when he had grown.

  The wild men returned. The hideous, hairy tribe had taken to watching me and the yurt again. Despite the toll I had taken upon their thick hides using my dwindling supply of shot, they insisted upon scrutinizing my every move. They settled their entire group in, females and infants also, atop the rise at the edge of the jungle where they could eat my berries just out of range of my pistol.

  They had grown used to the sound of the gun, and while it provoked a fright and retreat in them, they now returned to the fruit.

  Since I could not waste the ammunition, I had to suffer whi
le they raided my garden.

  The big males probed the edge of my range, but I was reluctant to fire without a sure shot. I had grown to fear that they wanted access to the yurt, and so I would save my gun for close exchanges if they dared to come.

  So I timed our expeditions to the actions of the wild men, and when their group moved off, I carried Gazda quickly as I went about our chores. This always had me worrying about him.

  He had not remembered himself yet, and so was still terribly vulnerable in the jungle setting. I did what I could to keep him safe, but his curiosity often dragged us closer to trouble. Despite his physical development that had been ongoing, I still did not trust him in the forest, so I continued to carry Gazda bound up in a sling when I checked my snares for animals that would serve his needs and mine.

  He complained incessantly about the restraint, but I had grown used to his struggling, and clicking. I had hoped that he would adapt to the sling, or come to understand it was essential to his leaving the yurt, but he had refused; so, I could not retire the device because his physical growth continued at a pace faster than his mental. He had much more maturing to do before he could go about the jungle at the speeds I knew he would be capable.

  So we walked from snare to snare with a hand-woven basket in which I collected living and dead prizes from the twine loops. Occasionally, to quiet his protestations I would feed him out in the long grasses by pressing the throat of some creature to his mouth where Gazda’s head protruded from the sling. That was a treat that usually lightened his mood and quieted his clicking, a distraction I did not need as I kept watchful for carnivores and the return of the wild men.

  Usually I would hurry about our business, and take the captured creatures back to the yurt where Gazda would watch me prepare them. He would get some of the blood as I butchered the animals, and I would get the meat.

  I had noticed that Gazda grew somewhat feeble between feedings and his skin could grow cold at such times. It was a less extreme form of what happened when I took him outside in the morning or afternoon, or if the sunlight fell upon him. At such times, he became limp—sleeping so deeply that there was little movement of his chest as he lay wrapped in the sling, much as a child might with his mother.