by Jeffrey Ford
“I told him a story,” said Vasthasha.
“You lied,” said the other.
“As you wish,” said the foliate.
“Does he know we are all now joining together to revive the Beyond?”
“I didn’t bother. Things were complex enough. Besides, as I understand his species’ concept of a story, there must be a villain,” said Vasthasha.
Shkchl’s rasping increased, and the foliate knew he was laughing.
“Does he understand the sacrifice he must make—the other ingredient besides the fruit?”
The foliate shook his head.
“What if he escapes before the serpent tastes his blood?”
“He won’t,” said Vasthasha.
“don’t be afraid.”
I am certain that the use of sheer beauty is illegal in the town of Wenau, but I hid two vials of it and a syringe in the fold where my right wing meets my back. The only other belongings I brought with me were my pen and ink and the manuscript of the hunter’s journey. What choice did I have, seeing as where I had last left Cley, about to encounter the great serpent? I knew I would be staying here for a few days, and I could not, in that time, forestall the story, which is now, I feel, at the point of some apotheosis. The tale had left my mind in great turmoil, which was probably a blessing in that it distracted me somewhat from concerns at facing Semla Hood and my other detractors.
I sit now, in a second-floor apartment, overlooking the main street of the flourishing town. This place that Feskin has arranged for me is very fine, even though the furniture has not been adapted for my idiosyncratic physiognomy. Now that it is late, and Wenau is asleep, I have taken the beauty. I am impatiently waiting, as usual, for signs of the Beyond to slither through my mind. In the meantime, allow me to describe for you the events of my own encounter with a serpent perhaps as dangerous as Cley’s, namely the prejudice and ingrained suspicion of humanity.
I arrived this morning, as had been arranged, dressed in my suit and hat, trembling with a very real fear of being rejected. Feskin said I looked fine, but I went to the mirror in the small bathroom at the back of the schoolhouse no fewer than three times to check my attire and to do some last-minute practice at smiling without showing my fangs. Once I had remembered the exact facial contortion that was necessary for a convincing closed-mouth grin, I told the teacher that I was ready.
We left the sanctuary of the school and started down the street. The day was clear and very mild. Citizens of the town were out and about, shopping in the stores and standing on the corners engaged in conversation. I tried to pay no attention to the stares I was receiving, nor to the voiced insults. Some people moved to the other side of the street when they saw us coming, and a very brave few called out wishes of good luck and waved, albeit from a distance.
“We are going before Constable Spencer,” said Feskin. “He is the sole proprietor of law and order in this town. I have always known him to be a fair and honest man, not given to rampant emotion but always working from the empirical evidence of any given case.”
“And what will happen when we arrive?” I asked.
“There will be quite a few people there I suspect,” said the teacher. “Do not be alarmed by the armed guards. Spencer will make sure that the spectators remain silent. Your detractors will enter and make their case against you. You will then have a chance to answer their charges. The constable will render the final verdict. I have already spoken to him, and he is greatly impressed that you are coming to stand up for yourself.”
We turned into a side street and arrived at a large building that houses the court, the jail, and Spencer’s office. There was a mob of people outside, two of whom carried rifles. My heart began to pound. Then Emilia broke away from the crowd and came running up to greet me. She put her hand out and I took it in mine and held it for a moment.
“Don’t be afraid, Misrix,” she said.
Of all those present, the child was the only one who could understand what it might be like to be me.
As we approached the crowd, the two armed guards ordered everyone to step aside and make way for us to enter. In passing through their ranks, I was reminded of Cley passing through the Beshanti lines when he left Fort Vordor, and it struck me that there was nothing that could prevent a disgruntled citizen from pulling out a hidden weapon and putting a slug into my head. At the last moment, before we could pass through the entrance, one angry-looking large fellow moved into Feskin’s way, and the thin, bespectacled schoolteacher reached out and nonchalantly shoved the man out of our path.
“Step aside,” said Feskin, and I was mightily impressed with his courage. I had been so wrapped up in my own fear I had not considered the chance that my friend was also taking by being my representative.
I whispered a word of thanks to him as I followed, but I’m sure it was drowned out by the sounds of voices cheering me while many more yelled, “Death to the Demon!”
My mind was literally swirling like a whirlpool, and it was all I could do to stand straight and not walk like I was drunk. We moved inside and across a spacious room. To the right there were rows of seats that were already filled with townspeople, and to the left was a large desk at which sat a man dressed completely in black. I realized that this must be Constable Spencer. He was much shorter than I had imagined but powerful-looking, with a wide chest and shoulders. His hair was thinning and gray, and he had a bushy mustache of the same color. His expression was the lack of an expression, his mouth a straight line across a large, red face.
Upon seeing us, Spencer stood and lifted his hand high to bring it down hard on the desktop. The sound made me jump, and at the same time quieted those gathered behind us.
“Silence,” he said to all. “If anyone interferes with these proceedings, he or she can expect to spend some time in jail.”
Feskin walked forward and shook hands with the constable. “This,” said the teacher, “is Misrix,” and swept his arm back toward me.
“Step forward,” said Spencer.
I did and as I approached him he put his hand out. I, in turn, offered mine. He grabbed it, not seeming to fear the claws, and pumped my arm up and down. “I know you did not have to come, and this will be considered when I decide the outcome,” he said.
I nodded to him and stepped back.
“State your case,” said the constable, as he sat once more.
“We have come before you today for two reasons,” said Feskin. “One is so that my friend, Misrix, may answer the charges leveled against him by Semla Hood and others, namely that his having in his possession a certain stone knife that she believes once belonged to Cley proves he has murdered our town’s most illustrious founder. Second, and more important, we come to ask that Misrix be given a chance to prove his goodwill and be allowed an opportunity to become a citizen of Wenau and to live among us.”
“Two very distinct issues,” said Spencer. “We will not decide the latter today, but I must add that Mr. Misrix’s presence here can only improve his prospects for citizenship later on. Now, as to the charges leveled …” The constable waved toward the audience. “Come forward, Mrs. Hood,” he said.
I turned around and saw approaching the old woman who had visited me at the ruins. Three other gentlemen followed her. She carried in her hand the knife she had taken from my museum.
“I understand that you bring with you a piece of evidence,” said Spencer.
The old woman stepped up to the desk and placed the knife before the constable. “This,” she said, “is Cley’s knife. I know it, these men know it, and I am sure this creature, whom we foolishly entertain as a human being, has killed my old friend.”
“And what makes you believe this knife once belonged to Cley?” asked Spencer.
“Besides the fact that I had seen him use it on numerous occasions when he and my husband were close friends, it has a distinct design on the handle, the image of a coiled snake. In addition, the blade is made of stone, not metal. It was given to him by
the Traveler, that native of the Beyond, Ea. You know your history, I should hope, Constable Spencer.”
“Yes, madam,” said Spencer, smiling. Then he turned to me, and asked, “Was this knife in your possession?”
“It was in a collection I kept; a museum I have been constructing from items I have found in the ruins of the Well-Built City,” I said, and bowed inanely when I was finished.
“And where in the ruins did you find it?” he asked.
“My recollection is vague, but I believe it was stuck in a section of remaining wall,” I said.
“And why would a knife be stuck in a wall?” he asked.
I felt I was losing ground in the investigation, and blurted out, “And why would anything be anywhere in that jumbled offspring of explosions? I once found a child’s skeleton embedded in a column of coral.”
One of the men with Semla Hood spoke up. “I too knew Cley, and that is his knife. There were no others like it in the realm until the Traveler appeared. I also know that Cley would not be separated from it, since he used it for all purposes from fishing to hunting to delivering babies. He showed me once that it cuts like a scalpel.”
The other two men behind the old woman nodded in agreement.
“I see …” said Spencer, but here, Feskin spoke up.
“If you will allow me,” said the teacher, who did not wait for a nod of approval but continued speaking. “When the Traveler was captured by Below, would he not then have been carrying a knife? He obviously would not have been allowed to keep it in his captivity. Perhaps this is the object we have before us now. It could have been left in one of the offices of a ministry and then been embedded into a wall as a result of an explosion. Ea must have made Cley a knife when they both lived in close proximity in the early Wenau.”
“Then where is Cley?” asked the old woman, directing her question to Misrix.
“I left him in the Beyond. I could not go on, but he felt he had to deliver the green veil to Arla Beaton,” I said. “We were friends. We helped each other. It was I who saved him from his addiction to the drug, sheer beauty. I saved his life. Why would I take it?”
Spencer called for quiet. He picked up the knife, one finger on the handle, one at the sharp tip, and twirled it with his thumb. A second later, a trickle of blood ran down his hand. He dropped the weapon on the desk and looked up. Taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket, he wrapped it around the wounded finger.
“If Cley is dead, where is the body? Where are the witnesses to this murder?” asked the constable. “What is the motive? What I find here is that you, Mrs. Hood, absconded with a piece of property that was not yours. Seeing that you truly believed it was valuable evidence used in the commission of a crime, I will not charge you with theft. As far as Misrix is concerned, he is free to go. In addition,” he said, raising his voice so that all in the room might hear him, “anyone caught harassing, threatening, or attacking this visitor to our town will suffer the severest penalties. I should hope you, Mrs. Hood, remember your history. This town was built with the idea in mind that all those of goodwill, no matter their economic or social standing in the community, be allowed to live here safely. Should we forget the lesson that was taught to us by Cley—that looks can be deceiving? Remember that Misrix came today of his own will, had saved Emilia from drowning, and that many of you have been in his company and found him to be a decent fellow. That is all.”
Need I tell you I was ecstatic? Feskin actually tried to hug me. I flapped my wings, and my tail did a dance on its own. The constable tried to hand the knife back to me, but I held up my own hands and shook my head. “For you,” I said, and he nodded, accepting the gift with a smile.
Semla Hood stormed out of the building, followed by her contingent, and I stood in the middle of a crowd of well-wishers. Somehow they all knew I would be found innocent. It was a moment I will never forget. Emilia’s mother allowed me to put her daughter on my shoulders, and we went out into the sunlight.
Later, at the inn, over drinks, Feskin told me that the constable’s word is well respected and that it will be a mere matter of weeks before I can officially join the community of Wenau. The bill was torn up by the innkeeper. As the day progressed into evening, I walked the streets of town, chatting with one and all. There were those who still shunned me, but it was obvious they were now in the minority. For the third time in my life, I was born.
Thinking about these events of today still gives me a great sense of satisfaction, and it is difficult to concentrate on Cley’s journey even though I am beginning to feel the beauty at work. Instead of showing me the Beyond, as it has, it is showing me my future—perhaps a small cottage on the edge of town. No need to rub their noses in it; I will always be different. But then I see friendship and easy, useless conversation for years to come. I will be of great help in performing feats of strength, in defending the community, and I should not forget my intellect. Maybe, with all of my reading, I could do some teaching at the school. I love Emilia and the other children. Even better, I could bring all of the volumes from the ruins and create a quiet, contemplative place where others could come to read, talk about philosophy, and tell stories. Yes, that is a stroke of genius.
I wonder now, beyond where I should, if someday, perhaps a woman of the town might learn to like me enough to be my regular companion. Can I even think it, a wife? What would the child of a woman and a demon look like? As my mind works feverishly to encompass the notion, I notice that there are ferns growing from the floor, vines hanging from the ceiling, a tree in the corner where there had been a cabinet with a clock in it. Wenau is becoming my own Paradise. What is this? The child? Pink and smooth and wriggling … But wait, it has scales instead of flesh, and, no, a horned head and a mouth of needlelike teeth. It stretches toward me, armless, legless, a terrible monster. The serpent has entered my Paradise, and I am off …
green veil on the wind
The world inside the hollow mountain was bounded by the inner slopes of granite that reached up and up to the wide opening above where the blue sky was like a distant dream of ocean. The lush garden appeared to be a nearly perfect circle, and although the circumference was predominantly in shadow, the center was bright with sunlight.
Cley was stunned by the beauty that surrounded him—the green of the foliage and grass almost glowing, the abundance of birds and butterflies, the brilliance of the flowers. It reminded him of the oasis in which he first met Vasthasha, but that was like a yellowed photograph in comparison to this vibrant reality. He felt a subtle breeze from above ruffle his hair and caress his body. Aromas mingled to create a perfume of fruit and blossom and earth that he believed must be the scent of life itself.
As he walked toward the center of the garden, he left behind the generously spaced trees that grew more like an orchard than a forest and came to the edge of a thick, green lawn. At a distance he saw a body of water, and at the center of this lake, an island with a narrow land bridge stretching out to it. He somehow knew that this was where he would find the serpent.
The grass was like velvet against his bare feet, and now that he was in full sunlight he felt as if he could lie down and sleep forever. He yawned and when he exhaled the silver-backed leaves of the trees across the lake seemed to sway with his breath. His thoughts no longer dwelt on Wood or Wraith or Willa or Wenau. The image of Arla Beaton dissolved as did all his memories and self-recriminations from the past. Now there was but one thought in his mind and that was to tempt the serpent. He heard a sound like music, very faint chimes and voices, and he could not tell if it was oozing out of the air or coming from within his own ears.
Cley proceeded across the land bridge, holding the dark fruit in one hand and the crystal in the other. The weight of these objects in his palms was all that prevented him from drifting off into flight or sleep. Sunlight glittered on the clear water—a million sparks forming and reforming geometric patterns before his eyes. Beneath the surface there were fat, orange fish, kissing out bubbles that
burst into the air like notes from a flute.
Through the trees on the small island, at the very axis of the garden, he came upon the enormous, sleeping form of Sirimon. It was four times the size of any of those skeletons he had discovered in the Beyond. This one was as long and wide as the smoke serpent created by the body scribe—large enough to encircle an entire village. Its scales were a resilient pink, as if made of metal, like armor. The body of the creature was as thick as Cley was tall and the head nearly as wide as the Olsens’ house. The horns were sharpened-bone tree trunks, and the mouth could easily devour a horse in one pass.
There was no fear in the hunter. He stepped up to the side of the great serpent and rubbed his hand along the length of its body. Its breathing was measured and altogether relaxing. Cley walked to the head and held the fruit forward, close up to the flaring nostrils. He watched the lidless eyes for signs of cognizance, but they remained fixed, like prodigious concave windows with yellow curtains inside opened just barely in vertical slits.
As he stood, swaying before the incredible entity, the hunter saw in his mind’s eye flashes of scenes from the ancient war in the Beyond. Foliates and dwellers of the inland ocean clashed in combat. Great black mollusks without shells, organic machines draped with seaweed, moved through the forests devouring trees. Vines ensnared some of these juggernauts, and flocks of crows swept out of the sky to tear at their flesh. Fleets of swelled leviathan bladders blocked the sun, pouring liquid fire that melted meadows into dry waste. Pa-ni-ta sent swirling clouds of poisonous insects into the Palishize, and the Water People countered with a dozen different plagues.
Cley saw the Sirimon dying in great numbers, saw the Beshanti suffering, the Word, speechless in the face of destruction, and then an extraordinary thought entered his mind. “If the wilderness had consciousness, a will, then why did it turn upon itself? The inland ocean was as much a part of the Beyond as were the forests and the meadows and marshes. It did all of this to itself and now needed to be rescued.”
