Prophecies, Libels & Dreams

by Ysabeau S. Wilce

  “I will bite you,” says Doom.

  “I doubt that,” is the gritty answer, a deep rumble: “My skin is thick as steel and your teeth will break.”

  “Ha! I am a shark and I will bite you.”

  “Not if I bite you first, little lovely, nip your sweet tiny fingers, crunch crunch each one, oh so delicious, what a snack. Come here, little morsel.”

  The weight of Tiny Doom suddenly eases off his chest, but not without kicking and gripping, holding on to him in a vice-like grip, oww, her fingers dig like nails into his leg but to no avail. Tiny Doom is wrenched off of him, and in the process he’s wrenched sideways; now he’s got a nice view of the grassy floor, a broken teapot, and, just on the edge, someone’s feet. The feet are shod in garish two-tone boots: magenta upper and orange toe-cap. Tiny Doom screams like a rabbit, high and horrible.

  “You’ll bruise her,” says a voice from above the feet. “And then the Pontifexa will be chuffed.”

  “I shall not hurt her one jot if she’s a good girl, but she should shut her trap, a headache I am getting.”

  Good for her, Tiny Doom does not shut her trap, she opens her trap wider and shoots the moon, with a piercing squeal that stabs into Hardhands’ unprotected ears like an awl, slicing all the way down to the center of his brain. With a smack, the shriek abruptly stops.

  Two pretty little bare feet drift into Hardhands’ view. “Stop it, you two. She must be returned in perfect condition, an’ I get my deposit back. It’s only the boy that the Pontifexa wants rid of; the girl is still her heir. Leave her alone, or I shall feed you both into my shredder. Chop chop. The guests are waiting, and he must be prepared.”

  “She squirms,” complains the Minion.

  Madam Rose, sternly: “You, little madam, stop squirming. You had fun being a puppy, and cupcakes besides, and soon you shall be going home to your sweet little bed. How sad Grandmamma and Paimon shall be if I must give them a bad report of your behavior.”

  Sniffle, sniff. “But I want Bwannie.”

  “Never you mind Bwannie for now. Here, have a Choco-Sniff, and here’s one for Pig, too.”

  Sniff, sniffle. “Pig don’t like Choco-Sniffs.”

  Hardhands kicks, but its like kicking air, he can feel the movement in his mind, but his limbs stay stiff and locked. And then his mind recoils: What did Madam Rose say about the Pontifexa? Did he hear a-right? Deposit? Report?

  “Here then is a jacksnap for Pig. Be a good girl, eat your candy, and then you shall kiss Bwannie good-bye.”

  Whine: “I want to go with Bwannie!”

  “Now, now.” Madam Rose’s cheery tone tingles with irritation, but she’s making a good show of not annoying Tiny Doom into another session of shrieking. “Now, Bwannie must stay here, and you must go home—do not start up with the whining again, it’s hardly fitting for the Pontifexa’s heir to cry like a baby, now is it? Here, have another Choco-Sniff.”

  Then more harshly, “You two, get the child ready to be returned and the boy prepared. I shall be right back.”

  The pretty feet float from Hardhands’ view and a grasp attaches to Hardhands’ ankle. Though his internal struggle is mighty, externally he puts up no fuss at all. Flipped over by rough hands, he sees above him the sharp face of a Sylph, pointy eyes, pointy nose, pointy chin. Hands are fumbling at his kilt buckles; the Sylph has really marvelous hair, it’s the color of fresh caramel and it smells, Hardhands notices, as the Sylph bends over to nip at his neck, like new-mown grass. A tiny jolt of pretty pain, and warm wetness dribbles down his neck.

  “Ahhh . . . ,” the Sylph sighs, “You should taste this, first-rate knock-back.”

  “Madama said be nice.”

  “I am being nice, as nice as pie, as nice as he is. Nice and sweet.” The Sylph licks at Hardhands’ neck again; its tongue is scrape-y, like a cat’s, and it hurts in a strangely satisfying way. “Sweet sweet darling boy. He is going to bring our garden joy. What a deal she has made. Give the girl, but keep the boy, he’s useful to us, even if she don’t want him anymore. A good trick he’ll turn for Madama. Bright boy.”

  Hardhands is hoisted aloft, demon claws at his ankles and his wrists slinging him like a side of beef on the way to the barbeque pit. His eyes are slitted open, his head dangling downward, he can see only a narrow slice of floor bobbing by. A carpet patterned with entwined snakes, battered black and red tiles, white marble veined with gold. He’s watching all this, with part of his attention, but mainly he’s running over and over again what Madam Rose had said about the Pontifexa. Was it possible to be true? Did Grandmamma set him up? Sell him out? Was this all a smokescreen to get him out of her hair, away from her treasure? He will not believe it, he will not believe it, it cannot be true!

  Rough movement drops Hardhands onto the cold floor, and metal clenches his ankles. The bracelets bite into his flesh as he is hoisted aloft, and all the blood rushes to his head in a explosion of pressure. For a second, even his slit of sight goes black, but then, just as suddenly, he finds he can open his eyes all the way. He rolls eyeballs upward and sees retreating minion backs. He rolls eyes downward and sees polished marble floor and the tangled drape of his own hair, Paimon’s pomade having finally given up. The fetters are burning bright pain into his ankles, and he’s swaying slightly from some invisible airflow, but the movement is kind of soothing and his back feels nice and stretched out. If it weren’t for the immobilization, and being obvious bait, hanging upside-down could be kind of fun.

  Our hero tries to wiggle, but can’t, tries to jiggle but is still stuck. He doesn’t dare try another sigil and risk blowing his brains out, and without the use of his muscles he cannot gymnastic himself free. He closes his internal eyes, slips his consciousness into darkness, and concentrates. His Will pushes and pushes against the pressure that keeps him contained, focuses into a single point that must burn through. After a second, a minute, an eternity, all bodily sensation—the burn of the fetters, the stretch of his back, the pressure of his bladder, the breeze on his face—slips away, and his Will floats alone on the Current.

  Away from the strictures of his body, Hardhands’ consciousness can take any form that he cares to mold it to, or no form at all, a spark of himself drifting on the Currents of Elsewhere. But such is his fondness for his own form, even Elsewhere, that when he steps lightly from the flesh hanging like a side of beef, he coalesces into a representation of himself in every way identical to his corporeal form, although with lip rouge that will not smudge, and spectacularly elevated hair.

  On Elsewhere feet, Hardhands’ fetch turns to face its meaty shell and is rather pleased with the view; even dangling upside down, he looks pretty darn good. Elsewhere, the sigil that has caged Hardhands’ motion is clearly visible as a pulsating net of green and gold, interwoven at the interstices with splotches of pink. A Coarctation Sigil, under normal circumstances no stronger than pie, but given magnitude by the height of the Current and Hardhands’ starchy condition. The fetch, however, is not limited by starch, and the Current just feeds its strength. Dismantling the constraint is the work of a matter of seconds, and after the fetch slides back into its shell, it’s a mere bagatelle to contort himself down and free.

  Casting free of the fetters with a splashy Gramatica command, Hardhands rubs his ankles, and then stands on tingly feet. Now that he has the leisure to inspect the furnishings, he sees there are no furnishings to inspect because the room, while sumptuously paneled in gorgeous tiger-eye maple, is empty other than a curvy red velvet chaise. The only ornamentations are the jingly chains dangling from the ceiling. The floor is bare stone, cold beneath his bare feet. And now he notices that the flooring directly under the dangle is dark and stained, with something that he suspects is a combination of blood, sweat, and tears.

  Places to go and praterhuman entities to fry, no time to linger to discover the truth of his suspicions. Hardhands turns to make his exit through the sole door, only to find that the door is gone, and in its place a roiling black Vortex
as black and sharp as the Vortex that he himself had cut out of the Aeyther only hours before. He is pushed back by the force of the Vortex, which is spiraling outward, not inward, thus indicating that Something is coming, rather than trying to make him go.

  The edges of the Vortex glow hot-black; the wind that the Vortex is creating burns his skin. He shields his eyes with his hand and tries to stand upright, but his buzzing feet cannot hold against the force, and he falls. The Vortex widens, like a surprised eye, and a slit of light appears pupil-like in its darkness. The pupil widens, becomes a pupa, a cocoon, a shell, an acorn, an egg, growing larger and larger and larger until it fills the room with unbelievable brightness, with a scorching heat that is hotter than the sun, bright enough to burn through Hardhands’ shielding hand. Hardhands feels his skin pucker, his eyes shrivel, his hair start to smolder, and then just as he is sure he is about to burst into flames, the light shatters like an eggshell, and Something has arrived.

  Recently, Hardhands’ Invocations have grown quite bold, and, after some bitter tooth and nails, he’s pulled a few large fish into his circle. But those are as like to This as a fragment of beer bottle is to a faceted diamond. He knows, from the top of his pulsating head to the tips of his quivering toes, that this is no servitor, no denizen, no elemental. Nothing this spectacular can be called, corralled, or compelled. This apparition can be nothing but the highest of the high, the blessed of the blessed: the Goddess Califa herself.

  How to describe what Hardhands sees? Words are too simple, they cannot do justice to Her infinite complexity, she’s Everything and Nothing, both fractured and whole. His impressions are blurred and confused, but here’s a try. Her hair is ruffled black feathers, it is slickery green snakes, it is as fluffy and lofty as frosting. Her eyes—one, two, three, four, maybe five—are as round and polished as green apples, are long tapered crimson slits, they are as flat white as sugar. She’s as narrow as nightfall, She’s as round as winter, She’s as tall as moonrise, She’s shorter than love. Her feet do not crush the little flowers, She is divine, She is fantastic.

  She simply is.

  Hardhands has found his footing only to lose it again, falling to his knees before her, her fresh red smile as strong as a kick to the head, to the heart. Hardhands is smitten—no, not smitten, he’s smote, from the tingly tingly top of his reeling head to the very tippy tip of his tingling toes. He’s freezing and burning, he’s alive, he’s dying, he’s dead. He’s hypmooootized. He gapes at the Goddess, slack-jawed and tight-handed, wanting nothing more than to reach out and grasp at her perfection, bury himself in the ruffle of her feathers. Surely a touch of Her hand would spark such fire in him that he would catch alight and perish in a blaze of exquisite agony, but it would be worth it, oh it would be worth every cinder.

  The Goddess’s mouth opens, with a flicker of a velvet tongue and the glitter of a double row of white teeth. The Gramatica that flows from Her mouth in a sparkly ribband is as crisp and sweet as a summer wine, it slithers over Hardhands’ flushed skin, sliding into his mouth, his eyes, his ears and filling him with a dark sweet rumble.

  “Georgiana’s toy,” the Goddess purrs. He didn’t see Her move but now She is poured over the chaise like silk, and the bear-head minion is offering bowls of snacks, ice cream sundaes, and magazines. “Chewable and sweet, ah lovely darling yum.”

  Hardhands has forgotten Georgiana, he’s forgotten Tiny Doom, he’s forgotten Madam Rose, he’s forgotten himself, he’s forgotten his exquisite manners—no, not entirely, even the Goddess’s splendor cannot expunge good breeding. He toddles up onto sweaty feet and sweeps the floor with his curtsy.

  “I am your obedient servant, your grace,” he croaks.

  The Goddess undulates a languid finger and he finds himself following Her beckon, not that he needs to be beckoned, he can barely hold himself aloof, wants nothing more than to throw himself forward and be swallowed alive. The Goddess spreads Her wings, Her arms, Her legs, and he falls into Her embrace, the prickle of the feathers closing over his bare skin electric and hot.

  X. Doom Acts

  Here is Tiny Doom howling like a banshee, a high-pitched shriek that usually results in immediate attention to whatever need she is screaming for: more pudding, longer story, hotter bath, bubbles. The Minion whose arm she is slung under must be pitch deaf because her shrieks have not the slightest impact upon him. He continues galumphing along, whistling slightly, or perhaps that is just the breeze of his going, which is a rapid clip.

  She tries teeth, her fall-back weapon and always effective, even on Paimon whose blue skin is surprisingly delicate. The Minion’s hide is as chewy as rubber and it tastes like salt licorice. Spitting and coughing, Tiny Doom gives up on the bite. Kicking has no effect other than to bruise her toes, and her arms are too pinned for hitting, and, down the stairs they go, bump bump, Bwannie getting farther and farther away. Pig is jolting behind them, she’s got a grip on one dangly ear, but that’s all, and his bottom is hitting each downward stump, but he’s too soft to thump.

  An outside observer might think that Doom is wailing for more candy, or perhaps is just overtired and up past her bedtime. Madam Rose certainly thought that her commotion was based in overtiredness, plus a surfeit of sugar, and the Bouncer thinks it’s based in spoiledness, plus a surfeit of sugar, but they are both wrong. Sugar is Doom’s drug of choice; she’s not allowed it officially, but unofficially she has her ways (she knows exactly in what drawer the Pontifexa’s secretary keeps his stash of Crumbly Crem-O’s and Jiffy-Ju’s, and if that drawer is empty, Relais can be relied upon to have a box of bon-bons hidden from Hardhands in the bottom of his wardrobe), and so her system can tolerate massive quantities of the stuff before hyperactivity and urpyness sets in.

  No. She is wailing because every night, at tuck-in time, after the Pontifexa has kissed her, and kissed Pig and together they have said their prayers, then Paimon sits on the edge of Tiny Doom’s big white frilly bed and tells her a story. It’s a different story every night, Paimon’s supply of fabulosity being apparently endless, but always with the same basic theme:

  Kid is told what To Do.

  Kid does Not Do what Kid is told To Do.

  Kid gets into Bad Trouble with various Monsters.

  Kid gets Eaten.

  The End, yes, you may have one more drink of water, and then no more excuses and it’s lights out, and to sleep. Now.

  Tiny Doom loves these stories, whose Directives and Troubles are always endlessly inventively different, but which always turn out the same way: with a Giant Monstrous Burp. She knows that Paimon’s little yarns are for fun only, that Kids do not really get eaten when they do not do what they are told, for she does not do what she is told all the time, and she’s never been eaten. Of course, no one would dare eat her anyway, she’s the Heir to the Pontifexa, and has Paimon and Pig besides. Paimon’s stories are just stories, made to deliciously shiver her skin, so that afterwards she lies in the haze of the nightlight, cuddled tight to Pig’s squishiness, and knows that she is safe.

  But now, tonight, she’s seen the gleam in Madam Rose’s eye and seen the look she gave her minions and Tiny Doom knew instantly that Bwannie is in Big Trouble. This is not bedtime, there is no Paimon, and no nightlight, and no drink of water. This is all true Big Trouble, and Tiny Doom knows exactly where Big Trouble ends. Now she is scared, for Bwannie and for herself, and even for Pig, who would make a perfect squishy demon dessert.

  Thus, shrieking.

  “Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanie!” Doom cries. “Bwaaaaaaaaaaaa-nie!”

  They jump the last step, Tiny Doom jolting bony hip, oww, and then round a corner. Doom sucks in the last useless shriek. Her top half is hanging half over the servitor’s shoulder, and her dangling-down head is starting to feel tight, plus the shrieking has left her breathless, so for a few seconds she gulps in air. Gulping, her nose running yucky yuck. She wiggles, whispers, and lets go of Pig.

  He plops down onto the dirty floor, hinder up and snout
down, and then they round another corner and he’s gone.

  She lifts her head, twisting her neck, and there’s the hairy interior of a pointy ear.

  She shouts: “Hey, minion!”

  “I ain’t listening,” says the Minion. “You can shout all you want, but I ain’t listening. Madam told me not to listen, and I ain’t.”

  “I gotta pee!”

  “You gotta wait,” the Minion says. “You be home soon, and then you can pee in your own pot. And you ain’t gotta shout in my ear. You make my brain hurt, you loudness little bit, you.”

  “I gotta pee right now!” Doom, still shouting, anyway, just in case there are noises behind them. “I’M GONNA PEE NOW!”

  The Minion stops and shifts Tiny Doom around like a sack full of flour, and breathes into her face. “You don’t pee on me, loudness.”

  Like Paimon, the Minion has tusks and pointy teeth, but Paimon’s tucks are polished white and his teeth sparkle like sunlight, and his breath smells always of cloves. The Minion’s tusks are rubbed and worn, his teeth yucky yellow, and he’s got bits of someone caught between them.

  Doom wrinkles her nose and holds her breath and says in a whine: “I can’t help it, I have to go, my hot chocolate is all done.” Her feet are dangling and she tries to turn the wiggle into a kick, but she can’t quite reach the Minion’s soft bits, and her purple slippers wiggle at empty air.

  “You pee on me and I snack you up, nasty baby.” The Minion crunches spiny fangs together, clashing sparks. “Delish!”

  “You don’t dare!” says Tiny Doom stoutly. “I am the Pontifexina and my grandmamma would have your knobby hide if you munch me!!”

  “An’ I care, little princess, if you piss me wet, I munch you dry—”