“I do, indeed,” I said. “What can you tell me about the beings known as the Unbegotton?” I hoped to gain a bit of insight into the species from which the Shepherd of Wolves hailed.
“A strange question,” the creature said, its mouths frowning. “Why would you ask me such?”
“I happen to be playing a game hosted by such a creature,” I explained, “and I was wondering what you, a being from the Outer Spheres, could tell me about them.”
“Well, what’s to truly know?” the Flesh Weaver said, seeming satisfied with my answer. “They are wholly unknowable, and well beyond attributes that can be caught within even the largest web of words. If you think the game you’re playing with them has any outcome aside from death and madness, then you are sorely mistaken. You should thank me for saving you from their awful schemes. Being digested alive and woven into my web is a glorious end compared to the bottomless hell they’d have flung you into.”
“Well, if it’s all the same to you,” I said, “I think I’ll continue playing their game, shortly after I’ve done with you, of course. But please, anything you can tell me—anything at all—would be greatly appreciated.”
The beast chuckled, its mouths upturned in various degrees of mirth. “You’re an amusing morsel, indeed! But as much as I’ve enjoyed our time together, I must sleep and regrow the mess you’ve made of one of my heads, to say nothing of what those wicked blades of yours did to a number of my legs. I recommend that you sleep as well, little gnat. Dream wonderful dreams, for they will surely be your last taste of happiness before horror everlasting becomes you.” With that, the creature withdrew into a great pit that plunged into darkness and stone.
I did exactly as the creature recommended. The silence—completely relieved of the creature’s voice—combined with darkness and sleep, would do much to restore me. However, as I should have come to expect, sleep only brought new and more glorious horrors.
With all that had happened, I had neglected to examine the next name on my list—Garret House. The cocoon of darkness and silence held me closer than the web of flesh ever could, and within my slumber, I found myself inside the man’s dream. As with my current waking reality, the dream was a wonderland of un-fleshed things—a gallery not of webs, but of carefully tailored skin-suits. I saw manikins made from polished bone, endless rows of the wonderful things, each one attired in a different fashion of stolen skin. On platforms that rose high above them were beasts dressed in the skins of men, and men clothed with the flesh of beasts. Lights carved through the darkness above the fantastic amalgamations, making them seem not unlike trophies within a display case. Garret House immediately transformed from a faceless name into a monstrous identity—Mister Hide.
My heart leapt so hard with unrestrained delight that I wondered if its frantic clapping had compromised my quiet. My fellow artist was a monster of a man who exchanged the skins of his victims with the hides of other creatures—creatures that he believed better suited the nature of his victims. He had once reupholstered an entire room of bankers with the pink leathers of swine.
It occurred to me to challenge the Flesh Weaver’s assumptions concerning the Unbegotton’s endgame—the world was becoming absorbed in dream, as it should be. Here I was, confronted by a killer who obsessed over the appropriate skinning of both man and beast, and in the waking world I had been met by a beast who was itself a fusion of untold numbers of reconstituted skins. The Deadworld had become merely a symbol for dreams to come, a signpost for wonders waiting to be dreamed into existence.
Unfortunately, I should have been a little less delighted by my surroundings and a bit more observant, as something had drawn close to me, undetected. “Another interloper, I see,” sounded a voice made of rock and deep places. “What name has the waking world given you, my scripted opponent and future victim? Wait just a minute now, that impressive axe of yours has already given you away, I think. Why, you’re the Family Man, aren’t you?”
I turned around to see a massive man, every inch as large and powerfully built as myself, dressed in the skins of men. By his sides hung two great skinning knives, every inch the size and sharpness of my sisters. “Indeed, I am,” I replied. “And you, my friend, must be the infamous Mister Hide. My compliments on such a wonderful dream. I’ve been hosted by many of my victims’ nightmares, and I must admit, yours is by far the most splendid.” My sisters emerged from their sleep, grinning at the massive knives that had moved into Hide’s hands.
Behind the Mad Skinner, a small army of skin-swapped men and beasts gathered. I could feel their searing hunger collide with the burning stares of my family, who had risen from their sleeping places and materialized behind me, standing at the ready. I was again doing precisely what the Flesh Weaver had suggested—having a marvelous dream.
Of course, it was my father who began the festivities. Jumping high into the air with a roar, he brought the power of his weapon to bear directly into the center of the gathered man-beasts and beast-men. The result was a hellish detonation—his strength, augmented by the surrounding nightmare, was transformed into searing fire and death. During the cacophony of blood and flame, my sisters slipped silently into the shadows, smiling and killing and dancing. I can never stress enough just how wonderful a pair they truly are.
The Skinner and I were like two stubborn oaks, survivors of a tornado, standing solemn and straight amid the ruin of lesser flora. The clamor of ceaseless violence rang out everywhere, but Mister Hide chose to contrast the moment with some pleasant conversation. “This shared dreaming business is all very well and good, my friend, but the violence you’ve brought with you is entirely uncalled for. There’s no need to rend my secrets from my sleep—I’ll gladly tell you where I am. Beyond my location and my real name, I haven’t any other secrets for you to take.”
I can’t say I wasn’t a bit disappointed with my adversary’s lack of enthusiasm for our first confrontation, but I supposed it was refreshing to see that he was an especially collected individual, even if his calm bordered on indifference. “So, you would have nothing from me, your future opponent, to afford you some potentially valuable insight into the violence and killing to come?” I asked, hoping to rouse the killer. “Am I supposed to be impressed by your disinterest?”
“You may be precisely whatever you choose, Family Man,” the Skinner replied. “I’ve little use for mock battle, as I can’t skin a dream, now can I?”
He made a good point. Regardless, if he chose not to seek my measure in dreamed combat, he would be ill prepared to fight me to the best of his ability within the waking world, and I would be given an unfair advantage. I did not enjoy victories that were only half-gained, and unfortunately, my art would reflect as much. I decided to press him. “I certainly understand your reticence. You may need some time to determine how you might wear my skin, given that I might hang a bit too large on you.” A base taunt, to be sure, but the killer’s physique was chiseled and polished—well beyond his needs, whereas my own was simply the byproduct of my craft. There was vanity in the man, and I would seek it out.
“You disgrace my body when you compare it to your own, little man,” the killer retorted. “But I shan’t fall for your jeers, as anyone with eyes can see you’re the smaller of us. Besides, your pelt is so riddled with scars, I wouldn’t wear it were I freezing to death. No, I see your skin better worn by a stray dog. A feral, three-legged mutt.”
I smiled. “You’re right, there’s no sense in banter or battle, so I will have whatever you will surrender to me. I will take your one remaining secret and leave you to your much-needed sleep. Also, I shall not make any assumptions as to the strength of your mind, given that it can carry only two little secrets.” From over the Skinner’s shoulder, I saw my father bathed in battle, aglow with the heat of killing. He smiled his approval at my tactics.
“I’m losing my patience for you, Family Man,” the giant growled.
“I
s it because your patience grows too heavy for you to heft?” I asked, still grinning.
The beast dressed in human leathers was finally beginning to show its teeth. The Skinner fell silent, and I could see his movements take on precision, a well-oiled grace that could steal a man’s skin in as little time as it took to bleed. “I’ll not waste any further words on you, mongrel,” he hissed, slowly stalking toward me with blades in both his hands. “I’ll let my actions do the talking,”
“Indeed,” I said, marching to meet him with my own blades at the ready. “Let’s have a conversation.”
Sparks danced as we came together in steel, muscle, and dream. We locked our blades together as anger poured from his bloodshot eyes. I could feel the raw power of the dream guiding him. His was a quest to perfect the collective body—a skin for everyone and everyone in their proper skin. He was a corrector of botched geometry—not some simple exchanger of skins. He was disgusted that the world had failed to be honest with itself, concealing vice under virtue, hiding ugliness beneath beauty, smuggling death behind the veil of life. He would strip the earth of its dishonesty and reupholster it with sewn-together skins cut from raw truth.
I felt as though I were pushing against a brick wall—as did Hide, no doubt. Perhaps it was just a figment of my own vanity, but I thought I began to feel his wall cracking. Inopportunely, before our contest could conclude, we were interrupted by a tumbling beast-head one of my sisters had delightedly liberated. The bloodied weight of it collided with our knot of blades. We stepped back from each other, evaluating.
The atmosphere had become fire and fierceness and screams. I felt as if we were standing within the very eye of a tempest, yet my opponent seemed as placid as a puddle after the rain. He was reassessing me, no doubt—just as I’d hoped he would. He would take no chances when next we met, for he would remember my strength and the willpower that funded its fire. He would remember my eyes, for they had shown him the darkness I concealed—and they dared him to cut it from me. For my part, I learned that I was wrong about the man. There was no vanity within him, just the desire to put the world right. He was built from the stone of his conviction, every muscle declared the strength of his truth, and their polish and preen spoke to the excellence of his purpose—he was in his proper skin.
Finally, after staring at me through the frenzy of monsters and killers that spilled all around us, he said, “You are no beast, my friend, and you are no man. I will have to think long and hard on what to do with your skin.” As the world between us faded and the dream began to flee the dull crush of waking, I heard Mister Hide’s parting words. “I will see you again in the town of Willard, where we will finish our conversation.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When I awoke from the dream of Mister Hide, I could smell the distinct aroma of burning flesh. Apparently, there were some lingering fibers of the killing dream still clinging to my father, indulging his penchant for distilling fire from fury. The flesh cocoon ignited from its mere proximity to my father’s ill temperament. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I decided to use my burning father to awaken my captor.
I emerged from my fleshy bonds, wrapped in fire and dream. The firelight moved into the deep hole to which the Flesh Weaver had retired. I could see him, an utter chaos of parts, hunkered down into itself. Like my father’s deadly blade, my strength was still attached to the Red Dream. I cleared the intervening distance between myself and the Weaver in a single bound. My father seethed with dissatisfaction at the monster that slept when it should have been dying.
The narrower space of the Weaver’s home focused the light of my father, and I could see the crouching horror that had recoiled into itself like some gigantic spider within its sanctum of web and shadow. I don’t know how many sets of eyes opened upon me as I descended, bearing fire, blade, and lingering nightmare. And while the creature possessed a wealth of toothy maws, the scream that ripped loose from them was dreadfully uniform.
To the creature’s credit, it was fast enough to move its mountainous body clear of the killing share of my father’s blow. Still, it was sorely riven, as was the ancient stone upon which it slept.
It became a storm of glistening shadows and elongated stingers as it proceeded to fill the stone chamber with its lethal assortment of slaying limbs. It discharged a boiling stream of liquefied flesh into the darkness at me. The Red Dream had almost evaporated, and I tapped its last reality-defying reservoir as I leaped beyond the scorching fluid.
While airborne, I freed my sisters into the darkness, their laughter skipping across the webs of squirming flesh that filled the Weaver’s lair. The alien abomination quickly recoiled from their glittering smiles, and they disappeared into distant darkness, their laughter following after. When an adequate amount of space had opened up between myself and the Flesh Weaver, it hauled itself up to an impressive height, presiding like an insectoid mountain over the range of its underworld. “’Twas no idle boast you made, was it, human? You really do have the power to kill me. But it seems your fires have died away, and your precious knives are lost to you. While I’m certain that axe of yours is death incarnate, I’ll not again let it so close to me.”
The beast extended two lengths of serrated bone pincers from sheaths of flesh that lined its swollen abdomen. Its speed again proved incredible—it crossed almost instantly the distance between us, stabbing one of its boney appendages into my leg. The monster lifted me from the ground by my wound and attempted to fling me into its throbbing webs, laughing as though it had already triumphed.
I wrenched free of the spiny weapon and launched my father into the darkness. The Weaver withdrew with a lopsided combination of fear and wisdom, but the creature was not my target. My father collided with the stalactite-dripping ceiling of the cavern, detonating like laughing thunder. For a moment, it seemed as if the earth itself had lowered a cleated boot upon the loathsome weaver of skins, crushing a mere bug beneath its gargantuan stone foot. All became a deafening cloud of dust as cavern ceiling met floor—still the creature lived.
The small mountain of fallen stone fell away as a badly mangled pincer broke through. Soon, the creature had entirely risen from its would-be crypt, shaking off the broken earth like a dog shedding rainwater. The ruined horror addressed me anew. “A fine swan song, if nothing else. But you will find my death harder to acquire than you might have originally calculated.”
It pleased me no end when my timing was impeccable—or in this particular case, my sisters’ timing. Just as the Weaver poured itself away from the sundered rock, my sisters made their move—but not before I countered my opponent’s previous assertion. “Ah, but you have still to see the product of my calculations, monster.”
From a pile of the creature’s smoldering and disembodied parts—the result of my father’s previous efforts— rose a severed, claw-tipped limb, which took little time plunging into the weaver’s most conspicuous head. Before my opponent could employ its incredible speed to avoid further ravaging, a thick mass of squirming flesh from the Weaver’s web engulfed its struggling form.
My sisters had found their mark. I took a moment to describe the scene to the clearly confounded Weaver. “Only now do you see, creature, that my sisters were never meant for you—at least, not those parts of you that were still attached.” With that, I allowed my sisters to continue their good work. They took their time, laughing that sweet laughter of theirs, smiles like sugar.
The surviving mass of the creature, now little more than a towering heap of quivering flesh and crushed carapace, collapsed before me. I walked to the pile of my enemy, trying to find a functioning set of eyes to look into. After some considerable searching, a large eye blinked at me, assuring that consciousness still lingered. When I was certain the thing focused upon me, I spoke. “Unlike you, I won’t pretend that I might spare you, should only your pleas for mercy properly entertain me. That would be rude. Instead, I will simply allow you to liv
e. I have no quarrel with you, and you are already so much art. In time, when you have adequately regenerated from the lesson I have imparted, you will be a marvelous nightmare again. And nothing would please me more. Perhaps, should your ego allow, and if I’m still alive after my quest concludes, I would very much like to call upon you again. But I can see that you’re in no condition to give your answer now. However, do please think it over, won’t you?”
With that, I collected my family and departed the underground lair of the wretched Flesh Weaver. I was off to the town of Willard to finish a conversation.
The road out of Unduur’s darkness and back to the surface was longer than I’d assumed. The gloom from the subterranean city still seemed to cling to me, lending my actions an additional heft that culminated in the early search for shelter, well before the formal conclusion of nighttime. I theorized that the killing dream that made my escape from the Weaver’s web a tenable enterprise had also left my body nearly empty of any viable earthly energies. Or perhaps it was the residuum of the Weaver’s venom, still skulking about my body in some dwindling measure, seeking my undoing. So, when I came upon the remains of a house stinking from the natural powers that worked against its manmade composition—the express purpose of bringing man’s works back in line with the duller needs of the woods—I realized I had found my sanctuary from the sun.
Once inside, I made immediately for the attic. I had very much hoped to gain both a sufficient view of my surroundings and the luxury of reposing in a room with only one way in or out. I generally don’t bother to take such pains, but I was exceptionally low on energy and alertness. The house and its rooms were unexceptional for a structure of its type and circumstances, except for the view I managed to acquire. The pleasing vantage allowed my vision to fall invisible and sharp upon any who might test my silence, weak and slack though its webs might have been.
I gathered myself into the thickest coils of both spider and cobweb, allowing gravity to settle me into the most natural resting position. Due to the possibility of falling into yet another Red Dream, I chose only to relax, rather than to sleep. The silence came to me like a twilit breeze, soft and glowing, passing through my body like a cleansing breath, gently whispering away the clogs of time and trouble, serenading my soul with the invisible songs of forgotten singers. But silence can be a tricky beast, as it is no respecter of time and space, nor does it distinguish between the real and unreal. Thus can it deliver you into the strangest hands, with whims as rootless as tumbleweeds.
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