Jack mutely shook his head, the motion making him feel for all the world like an intransigent child. The burner on the stove was still lit, and all this talk of being eaten didn’t endear him to hiding in there. He quickly looked around the kitchen before pointing to the breadbox, a blue and yellow thing that looked large enough for him to be fairly comfortable. “In there,” he said.
She nodded and lifted him up to the countertop, and he scrambled into the box and sat on his rear, knees drawn up close to his chin and backpack resting against the rear of the breadbox. Beside him lay a few slices of heavy rye bread, flat and dark and pungent. Hopefully the ogre would have no desire for a sandwich.
The lid to the box did not close completely, and by leaning forward just a bit and turning his head one way or the other, Jack could see most of the kitchen. He watched the old woman as she poured the now-hot water into a teapot and then turn to greet her husband the ogre.
He came marching down stairs that came from the back way, feet stamping so hard that everything in the kitchen not bolted down was hopping or shaking. His entrance was even louder, a great flurry of grunts and bellows and snorts, followed by his flinging a huge canvas bag, an axe and a spear into a corner of the room. The bag, Jack noticed, had a dark, blackish-red stain slowly growing along one side and the bottom.
Tearing his eyes away from that grisly sight, Jack turned his attention back to the ogre. He was taller than his wife by a good meter or more, and wore a floppy cap that appeared to have been stitched from the skin of dead humans. The ogre’s clothes seemed relatively benign otherwise, but his features were certainly anything but. His face was fierce and scowling, pockmarked with scabs and boils and furrowed with wrinkles and lines so that his whole visage appeared to be a series of monstrous red and yellow hills and brown and black chasms, interrupted only by a snarling mouth full of sharp, yellow teeth surrounded by thin cracked pink lips, a flat pug nose with wide dark nostrils, and rheumy eyes that looked like they might shine like red-hot coals in a dark room.
“You’re back early, dear,” said the old woman. “Good luck hunting today?” She took a sip of her tea.
The ogre nodded, leering, perhaps at some misshapen memory of death and dismemberment, thought Jack. “Aye,” he said. “Caught three heifers while they was watering down . . .” He paused, sniffed at the air. “Wife, I smell something. Something here in this kitchen!” He broke into a broad, fierce grin, then bellowed out a poem in a voice so loud Jack thought his ears would bleed.
“Fee-fi-fo-faut!
I smell the blood of a Lunanaut!
Be he alive or be he dead,
I’ll grind his bones to make my bread!”
At this, Jack, who was leaning one hand on a slice of bread while he watched, quickly pulled his hand away. The ogre in the meantime began to tear about the kitchen, pulling out jars and looking behind anything that he felt could be a hiding place. His wife rushed after him, setting her teacup down off the table so that she could take his hands in hers.
“The only thing you smell, my dear, is scraps from the young boy you ate for supper last night. I took what was left and rendered the flesh and boiled the remaining bones so that you could have a nice soup with your meal later today.” She led him to the stove and opened the lid to a pot on the back, dipping in a ladle and pulling out a spoonful for him to check.
The ogre sniffed at the soup, then tasted it and nodded. “Mmph,” he grunted. “That’s excellent. Nicely captures the flavor of youth, don’t you think?”
The old woman nodded. “I thought you’d like it, my love. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you a bowl-full, perhaps a nice mug of warm ale as well?”
Her husband shuffled over to the table and sat at the chair Jack had occupied only a few moments before. He sniffed the air again and then scratched his head. “Sure smells fresh,” he said, but she put a bowl and mug in front of him, and he promptly dug in, eating and drinking everything in what seemed to be only seconds.
When he was done, he leaned back and patted his belly, then called out to the old woman; “Wife! Fetch me my golden harp!”
“Yes dear,” said the old woman, and disappeared from Jack’s field of view for a few seconds. She came back and set a plain wooden chest down on the table in front of her husband, then kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll be out back hanging the wash if you need me,” she said, glancing briefly at the breadbox.
“Aye,” said the ogre. Jack watched the creature wait until his wife left the kitchen, then pull a key from a leather pouch dangling from his belt. He used the key to open a brass padlock, and then opened the chest and reached in.
The harp was indeed golden, adorned in a fashion Jack had never seen before. Its strings shone with a luminosity unmatched by anything in Jack’s experience, and carvings and ornamentations marched along its exterior, each image and relief a separate and stunning work of art.
But the most amazing carving was that of a person, or rather, thought Jack, something like but not quite a person. It stood majestically at the tall end of the harp, image of a beautiful naked woman with long golden tresses, gold spun so fine it looked superior to real hair. It faced out, away from the strings, but three pairs of arms faced backwards, carved in place to look like they were there to pluck the strings.
The carved woman was completed by what looked to be a pair of wings that looked like they could reach high above the harp, although the ogre for some reason had them pinned together in two places with bulky wooden clips. The gold on the wings was so fine that Jack could see shimmering images beyond them, translucence like a distant mirage.
“Sing, harp!” barked the ogre.
With that cue, the harp’s arms moved, began to pluck the strings. Jack blinked in surprise, and then his jaw dropped when the carved woman opened her mouth and started to sing. The melody was gorgeous, the most beautiful thing Jack thought he had ever heard.
Even though Jack was sure he had turned the receiver right down, a torrent of voices from the choralis tore into his ear as the harp hit an especially powerful note. Finally, one voice broke in above the others, clearer now because Jack was holding his hand over his ear to hopefully keep the ogre from hearing the sounds and coming to investigate. “That voice! It must be her! You whose name is Jack, you must do everything you can to save her!”
Jack sat bolt upright at this, almost banging his head against the top of the box. He hadn’t understood anything said before now, and had certainly never heard his name before. The harp was loud enough that he felt safe in whispering, and so he said, “Who are you? And what do you mean?”
“We tried to warn you, but could not find the right tongue in time. But now that you are there, you must help. It is the right thing to do.” By now the voice was fading. “Just save her,” it whispered, and then there was background hiss before the volume tapered off again.
The harp sang for a long time, perhaps two hours or more, although Jack had not thought to check the chronometer when he had first hidden himself. So he sat and waited, frustrated with being stuck in this position, but ecstatic at having a chance to listen. He never understood any of the words the harp sang, but he connected with the emotion; it sang of lost hope, music always seeming ready to soar away into the stratosphere before crashing back with agonizing constriction.
But the ogre appeared unaffected by the music, seemingly enjoying the melodies but not paying attention to the underlying passion. And slowly, Jack watched as the ogre first leaned back in his chair, then leaned forward again, resting his head in his hands, before finally slumping down, asleep. The harp kept playing, albeit quieter than before.
Jack waited for a few minutes, but the sleeping creature did not stir. He opened the lid to the breadbox and tentatively stepped out onto the counter. The harp turned her head and looked at him, surprise showing on her face and voice catching for a brief second, but then she nodded and kept singing.
He quietly pulled the camera activus from his bag and took so
me images of the kitchen, the harp, and the sleeping ogre, zooming in tight so that the high foreheads back home could see the hideous face and know why he hadn’t made any serious contact. Then he put the camera away and jumped as lightly as possible to the floor and walked quietly to the table.
Standing on his toes he found he could just reach the base of the harp where her feet were located. He grabbed it and pulled it over to the edge, looked up and was greeted with the warmest, most melting smile he had ever witnessed in his life.
Top four hands still playing music, the bottom pair reached out for his own, making it easier for Jack to get her down to the floor. The harp was heavy, although not too bad in the light gravity, and so he managed it all right, only one minor chord being struck in the process, sounding a touch dissonant alongside the music accompanying this rescue.
“I’m Jack,” he whispered when she was standing beside him. “I guess I’m here to save you.” He glanced up at the ogre, but by now the monstrous being was snoring in fits and starts.
The harp stopped playing with a cadenza followed by two simple chords, still smiling. “You’ll have to carry me outside,” she said, “and unpin my wings there. I can not fly in here, and my wings would only get in the way.”
Jack nodded, then bent down and slid his arm around her waist. The harp was a little harder to carry from this angle, awkward enough that he half-dragged her as well. But he managed to stagger his way to the front door without dropping her, then stopped and gently let her down when they reached the door.
The old woman had slammed it shut, and the handle was high above Jack’s head. He stood on his toes, but it was still beyond his reach.
“Bring me to the door,” said the harp. “I can lift you up.”
Jack slid the harp over beside the door, then stepped into her cupped hands. Leaning out a bit, he managed to grab hold of the handle. The door was impossibly heavy, but with a straining grunt he was able to pull it open a bit more than a crack. He jumped back to the floor and leaned into it then, pushing and heaving until it was open wide enough to let the two of them out.
There was a roar then, a great shout from deep in the bowels of the castle. “Who has stolen my harp?” This was followed by a crash, and then again everything started to shake.
The ogre was awake and running towards the door.
Jack grabbed the harp and pulled her out onto the top step. “Unpin me!” she cried, tilting her golden wings down until Jack could reach the clips.
He grabbed the first clip, wrestled it off as quickly as he could, at the same time fearful that he would tear something. All the time the raging ogre was coming closer, and by the time he got the second clip undone loose stone was dropping from high up on the castle walls.
The harp spread her wings with a rapturous cry, then leaned over and gave Jack a hurried kiss. “Thank you,” she whispered, and then with a flurry of wings and a great rush of air she soared high into the sky.
Jack took only a second to watch her fly up, and then he was running pell-mell down the stairs, jarring his knees with each oversized step. He had reached the bottom and was running into the garden when the ogre burst through the door, yelling, “Come back, you vermin! I’ll have your flesh for supper and your bones for my bread, I will!”
Now Jack felt the true advantages of being lighter than he was on Earth. Heart pounding and bowels beginning to constrict with fear, he ran with great leaps and bounds, covering incomprehensible distances in amazing time. But all the time the ogre was after him, the ground shaking in its wake and the air reverberating with its clamor and bellowing.
Every so often as he ran a clarifying bead would come into his line of sight, and a startled image of himself running like a frightened gazelle would pop up for a brief second before disappearing from view again. The third time he saw an image of himself he also caught a glimpse of the ogre far in the background, standing still and swinging wildly at something. He stopped for a brief second to look, and realized the ogre must have unwittingly spied a clarifying bead and was busy trying to fight his own image.
This spurred Jack on even more, and soon he was back at the Aquila. He quickly threw his gear into its compartment, then pulled out the dephlogisticator and plugged it back into his suit, turned it on and then fitted his helmet into place.
He was just climbing in when he heard another roar, and saw the ogre bounding up the hill towards him, dagger as big as the largest human sword in his hand. Jack sealed the cockpit, then turned on the magnets. The high foreheads had told him that if he needed to descend ahead of schedule, the magnets would hopefully pull the Aquila and the beanstalk towards the lode-mites back on Earth.
With a groan, the beanstalk started to twist and shudder and the Aquila started to rise. The vessel was soon speeding back up towards the Earth, but it was shaking horribly at the same time. Jack peered out the side window that faced the Moon, and saw that the ogre had managed to leap up and grab hold of the beanstalk and was climbing towards him.
Jack turned up the choralis again. “Mission Control, we have a problem. Aquila is being pursued by a hostile creature. I may not make it back. Please respond, over.”
There was squealing, and Jack thought he could hear the Mission Specialist whispering in the background. But then another voice came on, saying, “Détacher! Non . . . Detach yourself from the legume. We will bear you back to your home and take care of the beast.”
“Who are you?” asked Jack.
“Look to the front of your craft,” came the reply.
Outside there hovered the harp with several other winged beings, all of different shapes and colors, all beautiful beyond belief, flapping their wings with slow, easy movements. She smiled at him and nodded, and so Jack flipped all three switches, releasing the latches from their grips on the beanstalk. There was a brief lurch as the craft jumped away and towards the Earth, and then he could see that it was being held up by winged beings on all sides.
They spiraled down towards the Earth, and soon the launch center and landing pad came into stark relief. He could see the base of the beanstalk, and saw that several people and even two of the winged beings were hard at work chopping at the base of the stalk with large axes. As he was brought down for a feather-light landing two axes sliced into the last bit of plant, and then the stalk was straining over to one side with a creaking groan that put to mind giant teeth grinding together, loud enough so Jack could hear it through the closed hatch and his suit.
Two techs ran and let him out, then hurried him off to the side. His helmet was removed, and then they all stood in awe and watched as bits of the beanstalk fell to earth, accompanied by what looked to be a flaming comet that roared and cursed angrily the entire way down until it crashed to the ground several hundred meters away. The earth shook with the impact, gulls wheeling into the air and screaming madly, bats pouring from the mouth of some uncharted sinkhole and whirling through the daytime sky with precision confusion, and dust and moisture ventured into the air, forming new clouds before delivering wet, blackened soot in large splotches on the pavement and on their heads.
The ogre was dead.
Jack tilted his head back and with the awed techs watched as the winged beings—he knew now to be angels—ascended into the skies, going back home to their place in the Universal Plane. Melodious music reached down to stroke his ears, this time an orchestra and chorus that was joyous and soaring and free, telling tales of release and ecstasy that did his heart glad.
Jack smiled, and then walked back to the Aquila to retrieve his gear.
Last Call
The phone rang. Jackie rolled over and peered at the clock, eyes blurry and trying to make out the numbers. 4:25.
Her eyes flew open and she reached for the phone. The baby chose the same moment to practice soccer with her bladder, and she grimaced, pressing her free hand to her belly. She found the handset and brought it up to her ear, hit the button to answer. Dreading the voice she might hear on the other end.
<
br /> “Hello?”
A soft clicking, and then an impersonal voice. “Mrs. Ferris, this is the operator. Please stand by for a call.”
What the hell? More noises, and then another voice, hollow and sounding far away. So unexpected it took her a second to realize who it was.
“Jackie. Sorry about the time, love.”
With some effort she rolled over onto her back, lay there with her free hand still on her belly, feeling the baby’s motions. “Allen. My God, honey, the phone ringing so early scared the hell out of me. You haven’t come down already, have you?”
A moment’s silence, and then a small chuckle. “No, love, not quite yet.” A few loud breaths, and then, “How’s the baby?”
She smiled, felt the motion as it rolled inside her like a dolphin trying to breach the surface. “Just fine. Must know that its daddy is calling, because there’s some sort of party happening down there right now.”
Her husband chuckled again. “Do me a favor, Jack? Put the phone up to your belly for a minute. I’d like to talk to the Worm for a couple of seconds.”
Jackie laughed. “Jesus, Allen. NASA must owe you some big if you can get patched through from building the station just to talk to a fetus.”
There was a knock on the bedroom door right then, and her mother poked her head in, a concerned look on her face. Jackie mouthed Allen’s name and shrugged her shoulders, smiling so her mother would understand it wasn’t an emergency. Then she pointed at the chair in the corner. Her mother sat, still looking concerned.
Something in Allen’s voice changed, took on the firmness that he knew got things done for him. “Please just do it for me, Jack. Go ahead and put it on speaker so you can hear as well, if you like.”
Over the Darkened Landscape Page 6
