by Robyn Fraser
“We’re almost out of the jungle,” said Rose about an hour later.
Thank god, thought Deanna. Her legs were sore from all the trekking and climbing over fallen trees.
Rose pointed ahead. “I can see a clearing. Probably just five more—oh, bumblepoop.”
“What’s wrong?” The hairs on the back of Deanna’s neck stood on end. Rose had stopped abruptly, and she’d almost tripped over the chicken, who seemed to be fixated on a spot in the foliage just ahead.
“Don’t move,” whispered Rose. “There’s a pleonger up there. Behind those ferns.”
Since they were pretty much surrounded by ferns, this wasn’t very helpful to Deanna, but she did what she was told and stayed perfectly still. “I can’t see it,” she whispered back.
“That’s because their fur blends in with the surroundings so well.” Rose pointed to a spot ahead and just a little to the right. “There. Do you see him now? He’s moving our way.”
Deanna kept all but her eyes perfectly still as she scanned the area Rose had indicated. And there he was, a mane of leaf-green fur around his tawny brown face, lithe, bark-brown body mottled with green spots. Caramel eyes were glued on Rose and Deanna. And his size, well…
“It’s a kitten!” Deanna exclaimed and took a step forward. The poor thing looked barely a couple months old, though admittedly not quite like any kitten she’d ever seen. She loved cats, though her parents would never let her have one.
“Deanna, no—”
The roar that shot from the pleonger’s mouth was louder than a lion’s. And the teeth that gleamed from the cavernous opening looked as sharp as needles.
Deanna stopped moving. And breathing. And even blinking.
“Do you know any dance moves?” whispered Rose. They were side by side now.
“What? No,” Deanna whispered back, trying not to move her mouth as the pleonger’s tufted brown and green tail twitched high in the air and his eyes scanned each of them lazily. The creature seemed almost bored, like he was trying to decide if they were worth the bother to kill and eat.
“Any songs? Long poems?”
“Not really.”
“How about theatre?” Rose dared a slight turn of her head to glance up at Deanna. “Any Shakespeare scenes that you’ve memorized and can recite in dramatic verse?”
“This really isn’t the time to be asking me about my theatrical talents, Rose.”
“Just trust me,” whispered the chicken. Then, a little louder, with a glance at the pleonger, she added, “Do you have any artistic abilities you can share with our friend here?” The cat-like creature had taken a step or two closer and was now less than ten feet away.
“No, I…well, I can draw. But I don’t understand—”
“Perfect!” said Rose. “Draw something.” The pleonger took another step toward them with a glint in his eyes that seemed to suggest they would indeed make a nice meal. “Now, please.”
“Okay. But I have to move to get my pad and pencil from my backpack.”
“Yes, yes, no problem. Just hurry.” Then, turning to the pleonger, Rose said, “She’s going to draw something for you. Anything you like.”
As Deanna carefully slipped off and unzipped her backpack, the pleonger sat down, wrapping his long tail around his small body, and waited.
“Um, what should I draw?” She’d found a blank page and an HB pencil and had slowly kneeled down to a more comfortable position for sketching.
“I’ll take a portrait, if you don’t mind.” The voice was deep and smooth and made Deanna shiver. It was the pleonger speaking.
“O…okay.” The hand holding the pencil over the page was shaking. Deanna hoped the animal didn’t notice. “Um, face-on or profile?”
The pleonger scratched his chin with a front claw. A very long, very sharp front claw. “Hmmm…it’s been quite some time since I’ve had either done—at least of any quality. I think I’ll take a face-on.” The not-at-all-a-kitten cocked his head. “Would you like me to reposition myself? Perhaps into better lighting?”
The lighting was just fine for Deanna’s needs, and she had an almost too-good-for-comfort view of the pleonger—pointed teeth, claws and all. She shook her head.
“You’re fine right there. I’m going to start now. My portraits tend to be slightly exaggerated, if that’s all right? I’m not as good at doing perfectly realistic drawings.” She really, really hoped it was all right.
The pleonger nodded his head. “As long as it appeals to me,” he replied.
“Ah…umm…as long as it appeals, you’ll let us be on our way, right?” Rose asked. She was shaking.
Slowly, the creature turned his eyes to Rose. “As long as it appeals.” He grinned, showing his sharp fangs once again. “Now, I’m very eager to have my work completed. Begin at once.”
No one spoke as Deanna got to work, beginning with the outline of the pleonger’s head, front legs and chest and gradually filling in the facial features and details. She made him larger, grander and more fearsome than he currently appeared, sitting there staidly, mouth closed, claws retracted. In the drawing she opened the mouth, displayed the paws with their sharp killing attachments in full glory, filled out and enlarged his image to make him look like the fearsome creature he was.
After almost an hour, she was done.
“Let me see it,” said the pleonger after Deanna had lowered her pad and pencil, “and we’ll see if you shall be on your way today or whether the two of you shall be dinner and dessert.” He pointed a claw at Deanna and Rose in turn, then padded over to stand beside Deanna, who was now sitting cross-legged on the mossy ground.
Deanna turned the portrait toward him, angling it down a little so he could better see. At this close distance, Deanna had a sudden urge to pet the pleonger like she might a friendly neighborhood cat but, thankfully, good sense prevailed and she refrained.
The pleonger stared at the image for a full two minutes, tilting his head one way then the other, saying nothing. Deanna felt her insides knot up even tighter than usual, and though she dared not look directly, from the corner of her eye she saw Rose’s multi-colored feathers quivering.
Finally, he spoke. “I don’t know why you said it would be exaggerated. It seems a perfect likeness of me. I’ll take it.”
Deanna let out the breath she’d been holding. “Thank you.” With care to not rip it, she tore the sheet from its coiled binding and passed it to the not-cat, who took it with his right front paw, his eyes still glued to the page.
“Yes, an exact likeness. Very good. I’ll be having this framed.” The pleonger spared a glance at his captives. “Now, be off with the two of you. The Carnivorous Cavern is just a few minutes straight ahead.” He pointed with his tail. “I heard you speaking of it as you were walking.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Rose. She stood up and nudged Deanna’s shoulder. “Come on, D, let’s get going.”
Deanna stood, packed her art supplies and began to follow the chicken who, in her eagerness to get as far away from the pleonger as possible—or maybe she was just really hungry—had moved several paces ahead. Deanna turned to say goodbye to the not-a-kitten, but he was already gone, not a trace of his existence in evidence.
“What was all that about?” asked Deanna, catching up to Rose.
Rose paused in her steps. “Pleongers consider themselves to be connoisseurs of the arts. Impressing them with your talent is the surest way to escape their claws. Thank Dog you can draw, D. My artistic abilities are limited to Thursday night karaoke. And believe me when I say that you wouldn’t want to chance your life on my rendition of Justin Bieber’s Sorry.” She waved ahead. “Now let’s get out of here before we run into another one.”
The duo continued on. In short order, the dense vegetation opened to a sunny, cloudless sky, and just as suddenly as she’d entered it, Deanna exited the jungle. Below was a valley, and just beyond it to the right was a great body of water spanning north and east for as far as the eye could see
.
“Finally,” said Rose, as they stepped onto a gravel path bordered by low fields of grasses and wildflowers. “The Carnivorous Cavern.” She pointed a wing straight ahead. “We made it.”
Chapter Five
Where Carnivores Eat Tofu and Caverns Eat People
“That big shack, you mean?” Deanna wasn’t sure what else Rose would be pointing to. Less than a quarter-mile in the distance, at the base of large, vertical cliffs, sat a dozen or so tiny wooden shacks. They were scattered along the shoreline like dice.
At the far end of them, jutting out from the cliff like a wart, was a much taller shack. It was maybe three stories high, maybe four, Deanna couldn’t tell. A long, crooked metal chimney poked up from its top, wisps of smoke curling out.
In the water sat a stubby wooden dock. Several boats were tied up to it. People dotted the land between cliff and water, walking about or doing whatever it was that people in this port town did.
Rose nodded. “Yes, that’s the Carnivorous Cavern. Are you hungry?”
Though Deanna felt slightly wary about entering such a run down establishment—it looked like it might cave in on itself at any moment—she hadn’t eaten since her toast and peanut butter breakfast. “I guess so,” she replied.
Rose led them along the downward sloping path, steep cliffs to their left, shoreline to their right. The air tasted like salt. Deanna felt only mildly surprised when, once they were close enough, she realized that the people she’d seen from a distance weren’t human at all—at least not most of them. They passed a blue octopus, who was wearing a red and green polka-dot beanie hat and was holding hands with a creature who looked part giraffe, part platypus. He, or she, was wearing a breathable black mesh fabric over a brown spotted torso.
“Port Potty is one of the most liberal places in Illusiland,” whispered Rose after waving to the couple, who greeted them likewise, and giving them a moment to get out of earshot. “Which is great, of course. I’m all for diversity.” She tilted her head. “But really, that hat? Not exactly the latest in fashion, is it?” Rose glanced at Deanna as though expecting an answer.
“Uh, no, I guess not.”
After greeting a few other non-human people en route to their destination, they finally reached the front entrance of the Carnivorous Cavern. It was even more dilapidated-looking close up, with crooked-hanging double doors, windows so caked in dust and grime that Deanna couldn’t see in, and a large hole in the wooden steps that led up to the entryway. Deanna would almost surely have stepped into this had Rose not knocked her in the knee at the last second.
The inside of the establishment was almost worse than the outside. It smelled like boiled cabbage and was crammed with mismatched tables and chairs; a long wooden bar with ripped and wobbly stools ran along one side; posters hung askew on the walls in no discernible pattern; and there was barely enough light to see any of it. In spite of all that, the place was almost completely full, and after a few moments of searching for a table, Rose gave up and directed Deanna to two empty stools at the bar.
Once seated, Deanna glanced around nervously at the patrons. A few stared back, including a wolf in a wool sweater, a crying crocodile and a pig with wings.
“What can I do ya for?”
The rough voice startled Deanna and she cricked her neck turning around to look. Directly in front of her, behind the bar, a dirt-grey towel slung over one shoulder, was a humanish man.
Humanish because, though he had two legs, two arms, a head and stood upright, his eyes were more widely spaced than any human Deanna had ever seen, and he had thin tusks protruding down either side of his mouth. He was also bald, but Deanna had seen lots of older men without hair, so that wasn’t too unusual. However, the two-inch red horn sticking out from the top of his forehead like a mutant unicorn was. She barely registered the fact that he was wearing a yellow-striped sundress. But the look he gave Deanna—a half-frown, half scowl—made her heart skitter to the back of its ribcage.
“I’ll have the Bloody Burger,” said Rose, drawing his attention away, allowing Deanna’s heart to settle. “And…well…yes, I’ll have a glass of Port Potty port. Why not? It’s been a long, cold few weeks. I could use a glass to warm the old cockles, you know?”
The bartender turned to Deanna. “And you, Miss…?” He paused, as though waiting for her to say her name.
“Dea—”
“Deandra,” interjected Rose quickly with the false name. Deanna glanced over at the chicken, whose eyes were wider than usual. “Deandra of, um, Illusive Island.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow. “So, Deandra of, um, Illusive Island, what can I get you to eat and drink? Menu’s here.” He pointed behind him to a black chalkboard. Written on it was the following:
Today’s Edibles:
Bloody Burger (comes with pickle)
Burnt Black-eyes with Squashed Innards
Kidney and Ear Pie
Dog in a Bun
-All meals come with Chips
Dessert:
Ladies’ Fingers in Blood Clot Cream
None of the menu items were the least bit appealing to Deanna. In fact, just reading them was making her stomach turn.
“Ummmm…” she began after some difficult deliberation, “I guess I usually like burgers, but can you make it so it’s not bloody?” The thought of eating bloody meat made her all too aware that it was from a creature that had once been alive. She preferred not to think about that.
“Oh,” said Rose, “the ‘bloody’ part just means it’s doused with salsa and ketchup, Dean…Deandra. Any meal you get on the west side of Slightly Silly Sea is free of dead people.” Her face clouded over. “But over in Concreta,” she continued solemnly, “well, that’s another story. One I don’t want to discuss before eating.”
“The burger’s made from tofu, the black-eyes are peas with a side of acorn squash, it’s kidney bean and ear of corn pie, and ‘Dog’ just means it tastes heavenly. Least in our cook’s opinion,” said the bartender, pointing with a dirt-encrusted thumb to the door behind him where, Deanna presumed, the kitchen was. “It’s just a potato-bean mash with a bunch of herbs and oil in a folded chunk of bread, really.” He shook his head. “I don’t make up the names—that’s cook’s job. I just write ‘em on the board.” He raised an eyebrow. “So, what’ll it be?”
“I don’t like tofu,” she said, flustered at the unusual choices.
“Have you ever had it before?” asked Rose.
“Well, no—”
“Two Bloody Burgers and a pint o’ port it is,” said the bartender. “And to wet your whistle?” He eyed Deanna again.
“You mean to drink?” Deanna gulped. She was really feeling out of her element now.
The bartender nodded.
“Um, cream soda?”
“Water comin’ up,” said the bartender. Then he abruptly turned and walked through the kitchen door, yelling the order out to whoever was back there.
Deanna was about to say something to Rose, but was distracted by the sound of hoof beats behind her. She turned, assuming it must be a horse, but instead a small zebra, its head on level with hers, was standing there. He—the black motorcycle jacket and white/black goatee and mustache gave the gender away to Deanna—was focused on Rose, who had also turned to look.
“Annabelle!” cried Rose. She fluttered off her stool and gave the zebra a winged hug around the neck and a peck on the cheek before settling back on the seat. Rose had a wide grin on her face. “Deann…Deandra, this is my dear friend Annabelle,” she said. “Annabelle, this is my friend Deandra.”
The zebra held out a front hoof and, after only a moment’s hesitation, Deanna shook it.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Annabelle. She—Deanna felt she needed to alter her original gender assumption—turned back to Rose. “I heard you might be in town. Wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes?” She glanced briefly at Deanna. “In private, that is.”
“Certainly,” said Rose. “
You don’t mind if I leave you for a few, do you Dean…dra? You can just sit tight and wait for the food to come.”
“No, I’ll be fine.” With all the strangeness she’d seen already, Deanna didn’t suppose that there could be anything left to surprise her now.
“Great. Just be a minute or two.” Rose hoped off the stool and she and Annabelle walked out of the Cavern together.
As she often did when bored but without enough time to sink herself into a drawing, Deanna pulled her Smartphone out from her backpack and checked for messages. Though she didn’t have any in-person friends, Deanna was part of a flourishing online artists’ community and had acquaintances there that she chatted with regularly. But after turning on her phone, she realized that there was no Internet service available. At the same moment, the horned bartender returned with two large wooden plates of greasy food and plopped them on the counter in front of her.
“Where’s your friend, Miss Deandra?” he asked.
“Just outside talking to someone she knows. Um, do you have internet service here?” She held up her phone.
The bartender raised an eyebrow, then shook his head. “No, never heard of that.” He paused, then, almost as an afterthought, added, “But we do have exitnet service.” He pointed to a door at the far end of the counter, past the kitchen. “Take that door, go through the cavern and you’ll get the exitnet once you’re outside.”
“Oh, it’s okay, I don’t really—”
“No, I insist,” said the bartender. He grabbed the plates back. “I’ll keep these warm for you while you’re gone.”
“O-kay,” said Deanna, feeling uncomfortable, but not wanting to offend the rather intimidating person in front of her. She slid off the stool and made her way along the length of the counter, catching the occasional shifty eye of a customer. Finally she arrived at the door the bartender had pointed to and pushed it open.
Deanna stepped into a cave; at least supposed it must be one. The walls and ceiling were ragged stone and the only light was from the dim lanterns that hung every few feet. She made her way along the passage, careful not to trip over chunks of rock and other debris. About twenty feet along, the cave curved to the right and, another dozen or so feet ahead, was a solid door. She reached this as quickly as she could, feeling closed in and anxious in the tight space, like the tunnel might collapse on her at any minute.
