Visions of the Mutant Rain Forest

by Frazier, Robert

  “Tomorrow we will leave for the coast,” he told her. “Nothing more but death awaits us here.”

  She slept restlessly, her mind filled with dreams unlike any of her own. She dreamt of Mingus’ accordion of plastic photos, only it contained not pictures of Therese but of her and Jorge, of dead Paulo, of the Indios, and a score or more of other faces she did not recognize. Mingus removed them from their envelopes and shuffled them like cards, laying them out upon a table, picking them up and shuffling them again. Then Therese entered the dream, not the Therese of the photos but a woman transformed by the forest and somehow a part of it. Her flesh was green like her eyes, eyes that no longer suffered but were filled with an inhuman insolence. She was naked but for the vines of wild jade roses twining from between her legs to wind about her breasts, belly and thighs. She joined Mingus in his game and they passed the cards back and forth, laughing and whispering to one another like infatuated lovers. They placed bets with the piles of chips scattered before them, not poker chips but holochips, like the ones Genna used in her camera.

  “The forest is a woman,” Therese told Mingus, smiling mysteriously, one narrow green hand cupping the chips in the center of the table and sweeping them to her side. “The forest is a womb.”

  “You are the forest,” he answered, smiling back at her, oblivious to his losses, his small eyes hard with lust.

  Genna saw that the table on which they shuffled and passed the card-photos was the cleanly severed stump of a gargantua. From the exposed concentric circles of its old growth, a new growth sprouted: a pale, scruffy fungus that had already begun to adhere to the cards and cover the faces on them.

  Near dawn Genna awoke, alone, disturbed by a painful itch. The blue plastic walls of the tent glowed intermittently as distant flashes of heat lightning illuminated the horizon. For a moment Genna thought she was still dreaming, for the dimly flickering walls seemed to be covered with writing. When she lit her lamp, she stifled a cry. Its feeble rays revealed tiny black maggots everywhere. Some had already dropped onto her bedroll and embedded bristles in her arms.

  After she methodically extracted the barbs with a tweezers from the med kit and sprayed the small puncture wounds with antibiotic, Genna went to check on Mingus. His tent had also been invaded by maggots, but his cot was empty and the man was gone.

  ***

  In this larger-than-life portraiture the features of the face are grossly distorted, the flesh tattooed more intricately than that of a Maori mask. Cheeks and brows swollen. Eyes mere anthracite pebbles. Jowly wattles beneath the bulb of a chin. Nostrils broadened to bestial dimensions. Open mouth like a slash of mud.

  Even at close range, the expression of such features is unreadable. Take a step or two back and they vanish beneath the colors that scar and adorn them. In patterns geometric and organic, brilliant hues splay across the surface of the flesh . . . or rather within its surface.

  For on closer examination once again, it appears that this is not flesh at all. Its rough and variegated texture resembles that of a canvas thickly encrusted with translucent paint.

  ***

  “At first light we’ll retrace our path to the Para,” Jorge told Genna over their predawn cook fire, “and follow it downstream to the coast. Anything that’s not essential, we leave behind.”

  “Not my camera,” Genna told him.

  Jorge shook his head and made a dismissive gesture.

  “And what about Mingus?”

  The Castilian looked to the woods beyond the perimeter of their camp. The trunks of the gargantuas receded into the near darkness in irregular columns. They stood like pillars, seeming massive and numerous enough to uphold the sky, their branches cloaked in shadow, their bark obscured by the clinging vines.

  “There’s nothing we can do.” Jorge’s eyes looked sunken and desolate. With their expedition in ruins he seemed completely demoralized, any semblance of military posture abandoned. “The bastard is on his own now.”

  The Indio maintained his distance from them, his face streaked with red dye from the seeds, his lips moving soundlessly. Although he continued to take Jorge’s orders, since the death of his fellows Mercao more than ever appeared to inhabit a world apart. He was no longer eating, but drawing on his pipe constantly. Pungent smoke from the native drug filled the clearing, and when Genna inadvertently inhaled a whiff, the rush of exultation that followed took her by surprise.

  We shouldn’t be retreating, she thought for a moment. We should advance farther into the forest. We should find Mingus, Therese, and the humani. She felt certain they were on the verge of an incredible discovery.

  Then her mood plummeted in a wave of dizziness, leaving her shaken and confused.

  They were loading their packs at Jorge’s direction when Mingus returned from his night in the forest. Or at least the thing that Mingus had become. The man wore his transformation for all to see. He staggered into the clearing in the half light before dawn, looming larger than his usual bulk, with a gibbous hump weighting his shoulders, and legs that swelled through bursts in his pant seams. One arm dangled uselessly at his side while the other, outstretched and trembling, performed arcane, sweeping gestures, as if sensing the air before it like the antenna of a bee. He spoke to no one, nor took any notice of their presence. Instead, he wandered through the campsite, halting to stare at the embers of the fire pit, at his tent, the handles of the shovels standing in the mound of dirt near Paulo’s grave; anything man-made warranted attention. He rarely looked up or apprised himself of his location, as if his steps were random and he was only able to focus on the objects immediately before him. Except for his right arm, which twitched with a life of its own, he moved like a patient newly awakened, rediscovering the world after a long and feverish dream.

  “As if our problems weren’t enough,” Jorge said, nodding toward Mingus.

  “Mercao can handle him,” Genna suggested.

  “Mercao will save his own skin first.” Jorge rubbed his chin and scuffed one foot in the dust. “And I’m tempted to follow his example.”

  “But,” Genna said with a pause, as she considered the implications of Jorge’s comment with regard to her own safety, “he’s recovered enough to walk. He looks almost strong.”

  “He can walk,” Jorge agreed, “but is he ready to leave? Will he do what we tell him to do?”

  Genna raised her holocam and moved toward the hulking figure. Mingus ignored her. He stared at one of the sonic projectors. His good arm danced and turned in the air above it as if he were performing a ritual exorcism, or composing sentences only he could read. His concentration was absolute. When Genna trained her camera on his face, she made a startling discovery.

  Mingus’ flesh was covered with the pinched and deformed fractal structures known as Julia sets. She had seen studies of them hanging in the galleries at Soho, captured in the static medium of glass panes. These complex shapes started at a central point around Mingus’ eyes and spread in elliptical curves, like the arms of a spiral galaxy stretching out from its core of stars. Some made fuzzy vines, some paisley patterns, some webs of lace or dust clouds, some the ciliated structures visible on insect chitin under an electron microscope. And all were in constant motion and change.

  Genna zoomed in while the latest pattern shrank to a circle, then a blob, then generated another fractal that grew and advanced in increasing levels of complication. The design swirled out around Mingus’ left eye with a seahorse tail, shading the lid and eye socket in a shimmering powder blue. If such a display were manifest on the skin of a man, she thought, then something elemental had infected him, something so central to his genetic makeup that it could alter the pigmentation in his cells.

  But it wasn’t pigment involved after all. It wasn’t even skin. When Genna zoomed the lens in farther on Mingus, to the center of one swollen cheek, she detected a film, roughly textured, that mimicked and exaggerated the lines and pores of the epidermis. This ragged growth, which appeared to be a kind of fungus, posses
sed a cloudy sheen that captured all colors at once. When intently focused on, an individual patch might appear azure, orange, yellow or any shade, but only for a fraction of a second. Then a new wash of color would shift across it, riding the fractals like a wave, gaining intensity as it rose from within the shallow depths of its translucency. How the successive patterns and colors controlled this cycle and displayed themselves so effectively, Genna couldn’t begin to guess. How Mingus managed to survive with his physiology so radically altered was a further mystery. She clicked a series of studies at different levels of magnification, and then let the camera dangle about her neck, baffled by the phenomenon.

  There was little doubt that Jorge’s surmise was correct. Mingus was no longer the same man who harassed his hirelings and attacked the forest with manic energy. He was passive and subdued, a captive of the vegetable integument that covered, she now realized, not only his face but his entire body, including some gauzy fluff that threaded and consumed patches of his khaki pants. Even if he were capable of communication, she doubted the man could be motivated to follow them in their retreat. He would have to be prodded. Or dragged.

  A loud roar echoed through the jungle, both plaintive and menacing in its timbre. If this were truly the call of the humani, as Mingus claimed, the beasts were very near. As Genna raised the camera to catch any reaction from her subject, she sensed Jorge by her side. He placed one hand on her shoulder, his grip tightening.

  “We must leave,” he said fiercely.

  A second roar sounded, and a breeze from nowhere swept the clearing. Shreds of the growth that webbed Mingus’ clothes broke loose to ride the air like dandelion seeds.

  Genna dodged back to avoid any contact with the swirling spores, crowding Jorge with her, yet even as her weight and posture shifted she kept her lens trained, cranking up the magnification to capture Mingus’ face in full portraiture. She was operating at peak efficiency, moving like a dancer with the holocam as her balance point, each of her shots framed with an uncanny sense of timing and composition. She had experienced this kind of involvement before, this oneness with the creation at hand, while reshaping holographs in her studio, but never with such intensity, and never while working in the field. Even if this were a further dislocation of her personality, another spell the forest had cast, she accepted its enhancement of her talent and the heady rush that accompanied it without a second thought. Here was the real answer to Jorge’s question about why she took holographs. This sense of timelessness . . . of durable lucidity . . . that transcended the identity known as Genna Opall.

  The bestial roars became an ill-timed chorus, and Genna watched in complete fascination as a new series of changes shifted across her viewfinder. The throaty calls about them were mirrored in the light show on Mingus’ face. She clicked a shot as the intricate fractals gave way to bold abstractions that pulsed with fluid ease. A wave of luminous orange claimed the distorted visage before her, flowing like lava across a miniature landscape, obliterating all in its path. Genna wondered what the man’s flesh must feel like, if each visual change also caused a corresponding change in texture. When she thought about touching Mingus, all she could imagine was the bizarre growth that covered his body crumbling beneath her fingers, infecting her own pores. She pictured herself enveloped in fungal scum as she staggered blindly into oblivion, the cries of the forest mirrored in the chaotic art across her face.

  Rather than recoiling from the image, her racing mind extended its logic. That must be it. She understood at last. The patterns were not random or self-generated . . . they were a mirror. Not of the cries themselves, but of Mingus’ response to them.

  “Now!” Jorge shouted, wrenching the camera from her hands, causing her to lose her footing and stumble against him as the strap caught on the nape of her neck.

  For the first time, Mingus seemed to notice them. He glanced up from the sonic projector and his good arm fell to his side.

  “Mus fine Threesh,” he said.

  “What?” Genna asked.

  Mingus worked his mouth open and shut to clear the elastic threads of mucus that stitched his lips. One large thread curled around his jaw and disappeared into his chin. The volcanic orange was fading from his features, replaced by colors pastel and cool, mostly green.

  “Therese is here.”

  The man’s eyes did not focus on Genna’s, but stared at her mouth.

  “You aren’t well. We must get you back to civilization and a doctor. That’s what’s important now.”

  “With the natives at the front, we can push on.”

  “But Mingus, the Indios are . . . ”

  “The men can hack the growth while I watch for her, follow her signs. They’re everywhere.”

  “The three of us are all that’s left,” Jorge said, “and we’re leaving. You can either come with us or stay here and join the others.”

  Genna saw that Mercao had come to stand by Jorge’s side, his eyes riveted on Mingus, the pipe dead in his hand. Again the breeze sprang up from nowhere. As more of the fluff from Mingus’ clothes broke loose, Jorge and Genna shifted upwind, but the Indio held his ground. Several of the airborne spores lit on his hair and face. Scrofulous white like large scabs of dandruff, they stood out in sharp contrast to his darkness. Mercao made no attempt to brush them off. He continued to stare, mesmerized by the apparition before them.

  “Signs everywhere,” Mingus went on. He had not turned to them, but spoke to the spot where Genna had stood. “Just this morning I saw a tent flap unravel to writhing vines. The shovel handles are no longer wood. Oh, no . . . they are beetles in a tight formation, barely discernible, ready to deconstruct at any moment. And other things are no longer as they seem. The signs are there. She’s taking over. She’s—”

  “Mingus, you’re crazy,” Jorge shouted. “Shut this stuff up!”

  “Green roses are blooming everywhere.”

  “Mingus!”

  Genna said, “I don’t think he can hear you.”

  Another roar seemed to emanate from the very air about them.

  Mingus cocked his head to one side. “Therese has sent her voice. She’s speaking to us.”

  “You see, he responds to sound.”

  “No, Jorge, only certain sounds. His communication is one way.”

  “Therese!” Mingus yelled as he straightened his misshapen shoulders. His limp arm suddenly came to life, jerking in fits and starts like a marionette. He raised both hands, clasped with fingers intertwined, as if in supplication to the immense tangle of roses that now covered everything below fifteen meters surrounding their camp. Genna became aware of their fragrance for the first time, a dense floral pheromone, nearly sickening in its overpowering sweetness.

  “Let’s see if he’ll respond to this,” Jorge said.

  Grabbing one of the shovels, he approached Mingus from the side and jabbed him with its spade.

  The fabric of the man’s shirt split as if it were rotted; a patch of the white growth beneath tore away. Mingus’ actual flesh was revealed like a raw wound. Tiny beads of red swelled and ran into rivulets. The fungus was rooted in his veins and arteries, drawing its nutrients directly from his bloodstream. Before Genna could assimilate this horror, another was upon them. The spade of the shovel fell from the handle in Jorge’s grip, and just as Mingus had predicted, the wooden handle disintegrated to countless scurrying black beetles.

  The Castilian stumbled backward, beating the insects off his sleeves and trousers, cursing incomprehensibly. He called to Mercao for help, but the Indio stood motionless, rooted in place, the white flakes spreading across his face.

  “Therese!” Mingus roared, oblivious to the assault and its aftermath. A fresh wave of color erupted across his forehead and flowed down his cheeks, the fractals forming and disintegrating with increasing rapidity. Other roars sounded from several directions at once, in response to his call.

  Genna’s heightened awareness had not deserted her. She perceived the clearing and the forest beyond
with incredible clarity, each successive moment charged with significance. She could feel the breeze, now a steady wind, rocking the branches and rustling the leaves over their heads, wafting the scent of the roses through the camp. She could see the beetles, scattering in a widening circle from the spot where the spade of the shovel had fallen. Behind her to the east the rising sun cast long, oblique rays through the foliage to speckle the ground with dancing lozenges of light. To the west the sky was immersed in the deep blue remnants of night, a few stray stars and a silver moon fading from sight. She raised the holocam and pivoting full circle, without conscious thought, clicked off one shot after another. When she looked up from the frame of her viewfinder, beyond the field of the sonic projectors and into the lightening woods, she could make out several huge animals circling the rose thickets. They moved on all fours with a loping gait, their shaggy heads bent low, narrow snouts sniffing the ground before them. She knew at once that these were not the humani, at least not from the descriptions Mingus had given them.

  “Maned wolves. Once the size of dogs,” Jorge said in response to Genna’s unasked question. He had returned to her side with the machine pistol gripped in bloodless hands. His tone was desperate. “As to why they’re wearing roses . . . ”

  These Amazonian wolves stood tall and stout as bison, with high shoulders and necks ringed with a thick, rust-colored fur a shade or two darker than their body pelts. Their long ears pointed and twitched; their eyes flashed like coins minted in burning metal. Twining about their torsos, either freshly cut or rooted in their bodies as the fungus that claimed Mingus was rooted in his, were the same vines of wild roses that covered the trunks of the gargantuas. One beast directly downwind from Mingus dipped its black nose to sweep the earth, then raised it high, as if trying to sniff out a path around the compressed, high-pitched sound barrage that held it at bay. Genna flinched as the animal yawned. Its incisors were as long as her fingers, and wickedly serrated down each side.