Wolf was born with holes in his leathery wings, with no teeth where fangs should have been; he was consigned to liquification and the idiot made another try, knowing full well that evil must have undamaged wings and teeth with which to bite.
Wolf was born without a face, and he was liquified and the idiot made another try, realizing that evil must have eyes in order to find its victims and persuade them.
Wolf was born with more teeth than he should have had, the fangs as long as his fingers. His claws were sharp and like the blades of knives, and his face spoke of rot and decay, so hideous was its composition. And the idiot fed him back into the Furnace after much consideration, aware that evil must never be so utterly vile that there seems no way against it.
Wolf was born.
And he died.
He had no sins.
In time, Sebastian found how the controls were meant to be operated: the right knob to control the intensity of the color beyond the glass, the left to move that color through the spectrum. This was, at least, the outward manifestation of them, though they surely performed more complicated tasks within the bowels of the Furnace. The idiot cared only for appearances, however, and he was happy. Four times, without fail, he formed Wolf complete, just as he was meant to be to play his role. Sebastian had conquered the details of creation, and the catalogue of puppet identities was open to him.
Sebastian's good humor reached a peak with his fourth full success at creating the villainous Wolf, and it was a giddiness that arose from this good humor that led to his worst mistake since Springsun. He placed the unconscious Wolf in one of the shallow nutrient trays to help bring him around. The black wings glistened wetly, fluttered now and then as Wolf's body came slowly to full life. Sebastian wanted to see if the small beast could walk and talk and was otherwise in possession of its own faculties as it had been after the previous three creations. Impatient for the puppet to come awake, he went to pour wine for himself and for Noname, a small celebration, the first he had allowed himself since Springsun. He left Wolf unwatched.
Whenever a puppet is created in a Vonopoen Furnace, the identity disc is retained within the machine until such a time as the same puppet is returned to its component synthetic flesh liquid. When the puppet is fed into storage, all of its new experiences are first transferred to the wafer. In this manner, a puppet is able to have a continuing life, though that life may be broken into one- and two-day lengths over a period of a great many years. This was thought to be a wise consideration by the Vonopoen artisans, for a puppet who is permitted to have some existence of its own will be more easily controlled than one who feels that he is being used to perform and cast aside like a prop afterwards. Too, to earn the reward of a private night or two, after their performances, the puppets will work harder on stage, perform to their best abilities.
The puppets are actually tiny humans, the Vonopoens warn all those who come to learn about puppeteering. And those who refuse to see them as such are inviting financial failure-and perhaps personal harm.
Wolf s identity wafer had recorded the long string of bad creations that he had undergone. Scored into his mind were the recollections of the painful distortions he had been born into while Sebastian was learning the use of the machine, the details so vivid as to make his nerves scream again and his muscles twitch and convulse in horror. Too, he remembered the three good creations before this one, and the quick return to the Furnace every time. The first memory frightened him, even though he was supposed to portray evil incarnate. The second memory angered him, for he had always taken his short hours of off-stage private life as a right and not just as a privilege.
Now, as consciousness was complete and his body began to react a bit to the commands he gave it, he wanted to escape. Whether it was the mischeviousness of all puppets, or whether the experiences of the butchered creations had done something to his mind, one could not say at this point. Later, it could be seen that the latter explanation was the more likely.
Wolf sat up in the nutrient bath. The viscous fluid ran down his dark sides, dripping into the tray. It fell from his wings like gravy from the bulk of a holiday fowl come suddenly and unappetizingly to life just before the ritual of carving.
Noname and Sebastian were to the right, half turned from the equipment, filling two glasses of unequal size. They did not seem to notice that Wolf was fully active. Or perhaps they did not care. In any event, he determined to make the most of the fortunate circumstances.
Noname giggled.
Wolf stood, raised his wings to full spread, tested them quietly. They were still damp, though he had no feathers to be clogged. The water and the nutrient salts suspended in it merely beaded on his dark skin like so many jewels.
Sebastian turned in that moment and raised his glass of black wine as if he were about to toast his work. Even though he saw the poised figure, toes curled over the edge of the metal shelf, body hunched forward, wings spread and at their arc, he did not stop smiling. Indeed, his smile seemed even to broaden, as if he were pleased at this exhibition of his handiwork.
Wolf leaped.
He flapped his wings furiously and sailed toward the door at the end of the truck cargo are,. It stood slightly ajar, rattling a bit as the cool wind caught it.
Sebastian turned, following the creature's flight, still grinning and still ignorant of what the small, vampiric creature desired: freedom, escape, sanity.
Noname saw it first and shouted a warning. "He's leaving!" Over and over again. "He's leaving! He's leaving!" As if the repetition and not the words themselves would set the idiot into action.
Wolf struck the door and battered it open without a great deal of effort since it was lightly hinged and welloiled. He struggled through, into the darkness of the late autumn night. In seconds, his wings had carried him so far that the two in the truck could no longer hear the soft echo of beating membrane.
A fog had settled in from the south, across the only stretch of fiat land, and now it hung between the trees like the mist that swept through Sebastian's mind whenever he tried to concentrate too long or too hard on any single problem. Visibility was cut severely. Trees loomed up suddenly in front of them, like prehistoric behemoths. Out of nowhere, vines tangled in their feet, like grasping fingers, like snakes that wound about their victims and crushed them to death before devouring them. Here and there forest animals cried to one another, and the bursts of inhuman conversation made them start every minute or so, as if they did not know whether harmless animals or vicious demons made the sounds.
It had occurred to Sebastian that puppets could not go any farther from the Furnace than a few thousand feet without experiencing a harsh, bone-rending pain that drove them home. That meant that Wolf was not all lost, that they might discover him at any minute. He could not remember just how far a puppet could go, but he was certain they should have to search only a small area.
And still they found nothing.
For a moment, Sebastian bad considered letting the small beast go free, but he had soon realized that if anyone discovered it besides Ben Samuels-it would be a clue to their whereabouts. Even if they left and the thing were
found later, the police would know where to search for them. Wolf must be found, quickly, and returned to the
Furnace, or all could come tumbling swiftly down.
"Anything?" Sebastian asked Noname.
"Not here," Noname said. The fog grew thicker the closer one got to the ground, and Sebastian could see nothing more than the top of the puppet's head bobbling along beside him.
He was frightened -and he wanted to go back to the truck and lock the door and go to sleep and forget about Wolf. He didn't want to be in the foggy, dark trees, stumbling around and not able to see where he was going. The fog reminded him of a spider's web. And for the first time in a good many days, he remembered that the spider from the basement of the Grande Theater in Blue had gotten on the truck. It was here with them now, and it might have come out into the fog,
behind them, stalking them.
He shuddered. But he went on; fear does not always justify turning back.
"Why don't we look around up there closer to Ben's cabin?" Noname asked. "There's light up there, anyway. The only light around. It'll make for easier looking. And maybe he was attracted by the light."
"Maybe."
Wolf did not seem like the sort of creature who would seek release from dark places.
"And, besides, it's cold out. It's probably even colder for him than for us, because he hasn't had time to dress, remember. He might think there will be heat up near the lights."
"Let's go," Sebastian decided.
He loped up the long path to the cabin, with Noname barely able to tag at his heels.
They saw Wolf almost at once when they reached the bay of diffused yellow light around the rude cabin. He was swooping from one end of the porch to the other, close under the flat roof, like a moth gone mad, darting at the two windows and the light that spilled through them, but afraid to touch, silent except for the sound of his wings.
"Hey!" Noname shouted.
Sebastian took up the cry.
Wolf turned and zoomed over their heads so low that he seemed ready to attack Sebastian. A few yards behind them, as they were turning to look for him, he came around and flew back, low again, toward the porch, as if he too were frightened of the night and the mist. He struck the window this time, dead center, shattered it and tumbled through, screeching in pain and anger.
Glass rang on a hardwood floor.
Something fell in the living room, made a loud clattering noise, though it did not seem to break.
Sebastian and the puppet hesitated only a moment, then ran for the porch steps. They found the front door bolted, and they stood there rattling it for a few moments before either of them remembered the broken window glass. Ben Samuels was cursing, and the violent, booming echo of this abuse drew them to the window. The idiot smashed the remaining shards of glass that prickled in the frame. By the time he had started through, the old man was not cursing any longer. He was screaming . . . .
It was not like a woman's scream, not high and wavering but deep and perfunctory, delivered almost reluctantly. It was more a scream of fury than one of dread, though there was pain and fear in it as well.
Sebastian cracked his skull against the bottom of the top part of the window, almost fell backwards onto the porch.
He clutched at the sill until his dizziness was gone, then swung sideways into the room, falling onto his knees. He felt a fragment of glass grind into his left leg, but it did not hurt enough for him to take the time to examine the wound. He pushed to his feet and rubbed his bruised forehead which had already begun to swell. He looked about for the old man and the puppet, afraid of what he might find.
Noname jumped from the windowsill and landed on a rather large piece of glass which cracked under him, though he escaped injury.
Samuels was on the floor across the room. He was wedged between a huge easy chair and an ottoman. A book lay rumpled on the floor half a dozen feet away where it had fallen when the vampire had attacked. Despite his strength, the old man could not dislodge the small beast clawing at his chest and throat. He beat upon Wolf's back, but the flapping, rubbery wings cushioned the creature's spine and protected it from damage or deflated the blows altogether.
There was blood on Samuels' hands. But it was his own.
Wolf snarled, as if he were merely playing another performance of the horror story he had been made for. All other parts of his personality had been driven down into him, and the blood lust had risen.
"Stop it I" Sebastian howled.
Noname ran toward the struggle. Even to Sebastian, who respected the fierceness of things as small as spiders, the puppet looked pitifully ineffective. Wolf was strong, designed to overcome creatures his own size, designed to kill them for the pleasure of the audience. Noname had been designed for life, nothing more.
Samuels had stopped screaming. His fists flailed weakly now, even missing Wolf's wings as often as he made contact with them. His entire body kicked and spasmed, almost like one of a pair of lovers.
Noname leaped onto Wolf's back, between the long, dark wings where the creature was vulnerable. He endured the savagely flapping membranes that pummeled him on all sides, slipped. an arm around the vampire's throat, drew backwards with all his might, pulling the beast's fangs from the old man's neck and also cutting off blood to Wolf's brain.
Ignoring the contestants as Noname and Wolf rolled across the floor in their frantic contest, Sebastian knelt beside Samuels. The old man's eyes were open, though they seemed glazed. There was blood all over his face, and his throat was a ragged mess.
"Sorry . .." Sebastian said. He was crying, and he felt his head ballooning with a sense of inadequacy.
"Sorry."
"I Can't-"
Samuels tried to get up. He slumped back, his head bouncing once on the floor, and he was dead. He had died not understanding what was happening to him. Perhaps he had imagined that the rejuvenation treatments that he took once a year in the city would preserve him forever against accidental death as well as against the natural decay of his flesh. Or, more likely, he had long ago forgotten about death. Here, alone in these woods, he was not a witness to the mortality of friends and relatives. He saw only the trees, and they appeared to persevere, to stay the centuries, growing larger and larger, sometimes suffering drought and other times a late spring, but always holding to their place in the world. He saw, too, the flowers that bloomed every summer, fresh after a long winter's sleep.
There was no predator of any import in these forests, and what small animals did die had the grace to use their burrows as a final resting place, out of sight and out of mind. After a lifetime of hermetic existence, perhaps Ben Samuels had come to think of himself as being as immortal as the trees, as the land, the earth.
Sebastian turned just as Wolf finished with Noname. The vampire had nearly shredded the puppet that had attacked it. Noname was dead.
The idiot's chest tightened. Suddenly, he hated the Furnace and Bitty Belina and everything that he had done these last five years.
Wolf flew.
Sebastian dodged the dark body, but by the time he whirled to confront it from the other direction, it was upon him, claws hooked into his shirt, its head level with his jugular vein.
He felt its claws rending the flesh beneath his shirt. Warm blood ran down his belly.
He grasped Wolf's head in both hands. A low, ugly snarl rumbled in his throat, worse than any noise the vampire had made.
Wolf bit his fingers. _
He didn't notice.
He literally tore the puppet's head from its shoulders. Wolf's doll-sized mouth worked even after he had been decapitated, as if he could reach out from death and respond to this indignity perpetrated upon him.
Sebastian wrung the torn neck until the blood stopped running. He threw the remains down. And as quickly as the rage had come, it passed, loneliness settling in its place. The loneliness brought exhaustion, and he sank to the floor, his chin against his chest.
He sat there for a long while. Then, slowly, he rose and began the now familiar ritual of disposal of the corpses . .
He tried to re-create Noname. But now that he knew how to work the controls of the Furnace, he could not call forth any twisted creatures. If Noname was brought to life, he did not recognize him.
He slept.
Two days after the murders, Sebastian found the Holistian Pearl in the pocket of the coat he had worn that night he left Springsun. It was a darker gray than he had ever seen it. He had heard that when a Pearl became black it was still not dead, though living only subliminally. He rolled it back and forth between his fingers, watching it grow lighter and lighter, just as it had in Pertos' hands so many times before.
When he thought of Pertos, he thought of Ben Samuels and Noname, and he put the Pearl down in disgust.
After supper he took the
Pearl in his hands again. There are those who contend that a Holistian Pearl is not just a bauble that can produce hallucinations or call up the memories of past owners, but a personality that seeks out those who need comforting. They say that, in a room with many bright objects, the distressed man will always pick up the Pearl, even if he does not know what it is and what it can do for him. And so it was that the idiot sat down with the jewel again, even though he did not wish to touch something that had belonged to Pertos and that now had associations with death.
The Pearl grew white as he touched it, caressed it.
He relaxed as the tendrils of manipulatory power threaded outwards from the jewel and reached his brain.
He was rising through the air, and the Earth was dwindling behind him. He watched this with fascination. He laughed with delight when the moon drew near in seconds, passed by and dwindled like the motherworld had.
The Pearl took him farther.
There were stars.
And soon there were ships, thousands of them, and he knew it was a colony of space gypsies that had never touched earth. And then the panic started. He realized he was not on solid ground either, and that old fear of aimlessness, of unstable surroundings, struck him with the force of a mallet, driving him in on himself.
He woke, shouting senseless things, and he threw the Pearl across the room. It snapped against the wall of the cargo hold, hit the floor, and rolled back to him. He did not pick it up again.
A week after the murders, on the first of many very cold days to come, he walked up the slope to the empty cabin. There were a few snow flurries in the sir and they dropped softly on his eyelashes, melted on his face and streamed down. He liked snow, and he was feeling better than he had in some time. The cabin door was unlocked, as it had been since the night of Samuels' death. He had not been back since, but now he wanted to get the keys to drive the Rover down to the truck and charge his own vehicle's battery, as the old man had taught him.
Koontz, Dean R. - Flesh In The Furnace (v1.0) Page 7
