ChiZine Publications
FIRST EDITION
Objects of Worship © 2009 by Claude Lalumière
Jacket illustration and design © 2009 by Erik Mohr
Spot illustrations © 2009 Rupert Bottenberg
All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Lalumière, Claude
Objects of worship / Claude Lalumière ; editors: Brett Alexander Savory & Sandra Kasturi ; illustrator: Rupert Bottenberg ; graphic design/cover artist: Erik Mohr ; introduction writer: James Morrow.
ISBN 978-0-9812978-0-4 (bound).--ISBN 978-0-9812978-2-8 (pbk.)
I. Savory, Brett Alexander, 1973- II. Kasturi, Sandra, 1966- III. Bottenberg, Rupert IV. Title.
PS8623.A465O25 2009 C813’.6 C2009-903942-7
CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS
Toronto, Canada
www.chizinepub.com
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Edited by Brett Alexander Savory
Copyedited and proofread by Sandra Kasturi
Converted to Mobipocket and ePub by Christine http://finding-free-ebooks.blogspot.com/
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction by James Morrow
The Object of Worship
The Ethical Treatment of Meat
Hochelaga and Sons
The Sea, at Bari
The Darkness at the Heart of the World
Spiderkid
Njàbò
A Place Where Nothing Ever Happens
A Visit to the Optometrist
Roman Predator’s Chimeric Odyssey
Destroyer of Worlds
This Is The Ice Age
Afterword: Behind the Scenes with Claude Lalumière
Acknowledgements
About the Author
INTRODUCTION
GODS OF DESIRE: THE EROTIC THEOLOGY OF CLAUDE LALUMIÈRE
by James Morrow
Surely we can all agree that the universe would be a better place if Claude Lalumière had been put in charge of its clustered suns and interstellar gases, whereas, alas, the job instead went to the anthropocentric, xenophobic, sexophobic, misogynist, bloody-minded, egomaniacal, and generally unimaginative Supreme Being of the Western religious tradition. But despite Lalumière’s lamentable lack of godhead, speculative fiction aficionados have many reasons to acquire and read Objects of Worship. Minimalist in style, plenary in scope, elliptical in sensibility, and abrim with sardonic humour, the present collection affords its readers far more food for thought than any quantitatively equivalent swatch of Holy Writ.
Conventional wisdom holds that, while literary fiction is concerned primarily with plumbing the human psyche, genre fiction derives its appeal from narrative twists and turns. It seems to me that Objects of Worship occupies a third domain. These twelve stories are not so much character-driven or plot-driven as drive-driven. Lalumière’s protagonists exhibit the sorts of yearnings and proclivities that our most respected social institutions teach us to mistrust: erotic energy, artistic mania, idiosyncratic mysticism, impassioned empathy with the natural world. These characters constitute a rogues gallery of sexual, political, and culinary outsiders. On page after page we profit from the appealing company of misfits, bohemians, eccentrics, visionaries, loners, losers, gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and zombies, all determined to prevail in a world that has no particular use for them.
Forces both rational and irrational contrive to keep Lalumière’s oddballs and dissenters from getting what they want. Whereas the protagonists of much speculative fiction, including the characters in my own satiric epics, turn to the official epistemology of the secular West — experimental science — for insight and empowerment, we find little enthusiasm for that worldview in Objects of Worship. In one of those pranks so beloved by the laws of caprice, our author was born with a name that evokes the 18th-Century Enlightenment, “le siécle des Lumiéres,” the joke being that Claude Lalumière has cultivated a decided chariness toward that heritage and its technological stepchildren. A major character in “Hochelaga and Sons,” the narrator’s hapless father, was once “a disposable guinea pig” subjected to atrocious Nazi medical experiments performed in the name of science. “Roman Predator’s Chimeric Odyssey” unfolds in the aftermath of a “BioWar” that sterilized much of the planet, leaving it to the descendents of “laboratory-created hybrids.” “This Is the Ice Age” thrusts the reader into a frozen dystopia inadvertently wrought by “the rogue R&D department of some corporate weapons manufacturer.”
If Lalumière regards the empirical with suspicion, he brings an equally wary eye to the empyrean. In the universe of Objects of Worship, all deities are guilty until proven innocent. The nebulous gods of the title story cheerily suck up oblations from humans and give them nothing in return but grief. The plot of “Hochelaga and Sons” turns on the Hebrew God’s preoccupation with treyf, unclean things, a proscription that tragically prevents the hero’s fantastically gifted brother from confounding a terrorist threat called the Hegemony of Hate. “The Sea, at Bari” dramatizes an encounter between a troubled young man and a nightmarish beast that can be exorcised only through a grisly variation on the eucharist. “The Darkness at the Heart of the World” and “A Visit to the Optometrist” both feature Yamesh-Lot, the kind of foul Lovecraftian lord who reminds us of the recurrent disconnect between embracing the supernatural and doing the right thing.
For all Lalumière’s religious skepticism, it’s clear that he would sooner cast his lot with an imaginative metaphysics than with any sort of Skinnerian utopianism or Newtonian instrumentalism. Not all of the transcendent beings in Objects of Worship are malign. “Spiderkid” gives its readers a moving celebration of the world’s arachnid deities, “all degraded memories of God . . . the primordial Spider who wove the universe into being.” “The Darkness at the Heart of the World” presents the mythos of the Shifpan-Shap, avatars of a Gaia-like “Green Blue and Brown God” locked in perpetual conflict with the demonic Yamesh-Lot. In “Njàbò” we meet a sympathetic female elephant-god who refuses to forget how ruthlessly the human species arranged the extermination of her kind.
Beyond the more obvious sorts of deities, we find herein an abundance of those cape-flaunting, long-underwear-clad, quasi-divine protagonists known as superheroes. While I personally harbour a profound indifference toward this particular aspect of popular culture, I must admit that certain writers of a postmodern bent have spun their childhood affection for Superman and his descendents into beguiling works of fiction, among them Michael Bishop’s Count Geiger’s Blues, Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, and Jonathan Lethem’s The Fortress of Solitude, achievements to which we must now add three stories from the present volume, “Hochelaga and Sons,” “Spiderkid,” and “Destroyer of Worlds.”
It’s clear that Lalumière has thought through the most severe critique of the superhero ethos, namely, that the sort of justice it seems to recommend partakes of vigilantism at best and fascism at worst. At his earliest convenience, around the midpoint of “Hochelaga and Sons,” the author presents a taxonomy of superheroes in which the troublesome “crimefighters” are accorded the shortest entry, for his heart clearly lies with the cosmic “protectors” and the romantic “adventurers.” Lalumière knows perfectly well that the promiscuous violence and casual apocalypses of Marvel Comics are, to use Susan Sontag’s memorable phrase, “in complicity with the abhorrent.” “But perhaps it was time for all this to end,” muses the unnamed
protagonist of “Destroyer of Worlds.” “For another world, perhaps a better world, to be born from this one’s destruction . . . Perhaps I was full of shit — justifying a monstrous offer I could not bring myself to refuse.”
And so it happened that Lalumière’s enthusiasm for Jack Kirby, Steve Ditko, and other such graphic storytellers ultimately won me over. Indeed, before I’d finished Objects of Worship, Lalumière had himself emerged in my eyes as a kind of offbeat superhero — several, in fact. In the following pages you will meet an authorial persona we might call Lord Libido, that is, Lalumière the paladin of eroticism, as well as Doctor Vegan, that is, Lalumière the crusader for animal rights, not to mention Irony Man, the Lalumière who understands the ubiquity of thwarted human intentions, plus The Eclectic Ranger, the Lalumière who has synthesized many narrative traditions into a dozen entrancing tales — tales from which I shall keep you no longer.
THE OBJECT OF WORSHIP
The god settles on the table. Rose tears a piece from her toast, slathers a heap of cream cheese on the ear-sized morsel, and lays it next to the god. It consumes the tribute.
Rose smiles as the god’s warmth permeates her body, enfolds her heart. She squeezes Sara’s hand. “Your turn.”
With an irritated sigh, Sara cuts a thin — too thin, Rose thinks — sliver from a slightly unripe banana. Sara’s hand moves toward the god, but Rose grabs her wrist.
“That’s not enough. At least put some peanut butter on it.”
Rose recoils from Sara’s glare.
“I don’t need you to tell me how to worship.” But Sara nevertheless dips her knife into the jar and smears a dollop of chunky peanut butter on her tribute before offering it to the god.
Rose runs the six blocks from home to the video store. As assistant manager, it’s her responsibility to open the shop in the morning. Rose usually gets to the store a half-hour early; she likes to attend to her morning tasks unhurriedly. But today the home god was too upset. It hates when she and Sara fight, or even when they exchange tense words. After breakfast, they had to cuddle silently on the couch with the god nestled between them until harmony was restored. When Rose and Sara finally kissed, the god rewarded them.
Rose looks at her watch as she reaches the storefront. She’s made it with five minutes to spare. Two of the employees are waiting outside. And smoking. They know the staff rules. No smoking in front of the store. If they have to smoke, they should do it in the alley, or at least not so close to the door.
“We’re not on the clock yet, so don’t get on our case,” says Vandana as she stubs out her cigarette under her black construction boots.
“Yeah,” Maddie concurs, flicking away her own half-smoked cigarette with her long, crooked fingers. The green polish is flaking off her chipped, overlong nails.
Rose unlocks the front door, steps inside, then quickly punches in the security code on the pad next to the light switch. Ashley — cheerful and perfectly groomed, as always — arrives; Rose waves in all three clerks before locking the door again, so they can ready the store. But first things first.
The store god rests in its altar, which is carved into a column next to the counter. All four women kneel, cooing prayers at the god. The god glows, acknowledging their presence, but does not otherwise stir.
By the time the store opens, they’re six minutes late; only one customer is waiting. Rose apologizes, but the woman — a tall redhead with a striking face, long luxurious hair, and big curious eyes — laughs it off. “I just got here.” Her smile is playful; it’s enough to wipe away the remains of Rose’s tension.
Rose is grateful for this change in the day’s course. She should thank the store god. There’s a box of chocolates in her desk. She’ll bring one out for the god. Maybe mint cream? Or almond crunch?
Suddenly, the god moans painfully.
The god darkens.
Vandana, Maddie, and Ashley are already trying to soothe it by singing to it. The store god loves song, but the clerks’ efforts are having no effect.
The only customer — that beautiful redhead — is browsing through the new releases as if nothing untoward was happening.
Rose walks up to her. “Have you greeted the god?”
The woman frowns and tries to suppress a chuckle. “What? . . . No.”
“The altar is by the counter. Perhaps a small prayer?”
“I don’t think so.”
Gods must always be greeted. It’s the same everywhere. Showing proper respect to the gods is what holds society together.
Rose just stares blankly at the woman, who resumes browsing. She picks a shrinkwrapped DVD case off the rack. Burning Sky, Rose notices, remembering that Sara had asked her to bring a copy home.
The customer walks to the counter, holding the DVD. Rose follows her.
The three clerks are still trying to soothe the god, but it is more anxious than ever. Smoke spews from the altar.
The customer turns toward Rose. “Can I buy this?”
Rose snatches the DVD away. “Please leave. Right now.”
“Because of that thing,” she points at the god, “you won’t take my money?”
“Get out.”
After the woman has gone, Rose fetches the box of chocolates from her office and, piece by piece, feeds all of it to the god. Finally, the god appears to calm down.
Then the god leaves its perch, finds the DVD the woman had intended to buy, and destroys it.
Above the bed, in its niche in the wall, the altar lies empty. Rose stiffens and stops herself from reminding Sara that it needs to be cleaned. This has been such a stressful day; Rose wants it to end on a good note. But Sara’s neglect nags at her.
Sara sighs. “I’ll clean it tomorrow, okay? I can tell it’s bugging you.”
They hug, their breasts touching under the covers. Sara continues, “You shouldn’t second-guess me so much. I know your family does things differently, but I’ve always taken good care of the god. We live in harmony.”
The god’s been in Sara’s family for generations. Sara had been given to her mother by the god. And the god had given Sara’s mother to Sara’s grandmother . . . Sara grew up with the god, has spent her entire life with it. She and the god are ritually bonded; there are duties the god won’t allow anyone else to perform. But Sara is not as fastidious as Rose would like.
“You’re still thinking about it.” Sara, grinning mischievously, tickles Rose.
“No, stop!”
Sara pins Rose down, holding her wrists tight against the mattress. She bends toward her and almost kisses her, almost lets their lips brush.
Rose snags Sara’s lower lip between her teeth, and Sara lets herself slide down on top of her lover. They kiss. Sara jams her leg between Rose’s thighs. They squirm against each other. They love each other.
Noise awakens Rose. It’s still dark. She groans, knowing how hard it can be for her to get back to sleep when she’s roused in the middle of the night. She looks up; the altar is still empty. The god usually watches over them at night.
Sara snores, lost to sleep.
Worried, Rose gets out of bed and grabs her robe. She follows the source of the sound.
Through the kitchen window she looks at the large inner courtyard shared by five neighbouring houses. The gods are gathered. The gods are singing.
A few other neighbours are sitting on their balconies, watching the gods.
All thirteen resident gods are there — one for every household with access to the courtyard. One of the gods lies in the middle of a circle formed by the other twelve. One by one, each god leaves the circle to rub itself against the god in the centre. They go around many times. With each round the singing intensifies, until it reaches a thunderous crescendo and all the gods swarm toward the centre. Abruptly the singing stops, and the mass of congregated gods pulses with light.
Rose returns to bed, troubled and confused. Before moving in with Sara, Rose had never seen gods together, and she is still unfamiliar with their socia
l habits. Unsettled by them, even. It’s a city thing, with so many households close together. Rose is still a country girl at heart, despite having lived here for three years.
Eventually, just as dawn breaks, the god returns to its altar. Rose has not slept the whole time.
Rose whispers a prayer to the god as it settles in. The god glows. Then the god joins Rose in bed, slips under the covers. It rubs itself against Rose’s toes, her soles, her legs, her stomach, her breasts . . . It shares its warmth with Rose. Rose’s heart melts with love for the god. The god presses itself between her legs. She spreads her legs. The god accepts the tribute of her moistness. And then the god gives itself to Rose.
Rose gasps.
Rose makes pancakes for breakfast. Lots of pancakes. With blueberries in them. She lightly sautés sliced apples and bananas, to serve on the side.
Yawning, Sara emerges from the bedroom. “Babe, it smells so delicious!”
The table is already set. Plates. Cutlery. Juice. Pot of coffee. Mugs. Can of maple syrup.
“Do I have time to shower, or should I eat now and shower after?”
“The pancakes’ll keep warm in the oven.”
“Fuck it. That smell is too delicious. Let’s eat now.” Sara sits, and Rose brings the pancakes and the sautéed fruit.
Sara asks, “What’s all that ruckus outside?”
“I think one of the neighbours is moving.”
“Yeah . . . Didn’t Jocelyn say she might be leaving? Something about a new job?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really know her.”
“Ah, who cares? Let’s eat this great food before it gets cold. Thanks so much for making this, babe.”
Sara stuffs herself like an enthusiastic child, grinning at Rose the whole time.
The god settles on the table. Together, the two women offer it an entire pancake, with banana and apple slices on top. The god consumes the tribute. The god hums.
Sara chokes.
Rose pats her on the back, and Sara coughs, clearing her throat.
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