The First

by Scott Nicholson

  THE FIRST

  By Scott Nicholson

  Published by Haunted Computer Books at Smashwords

  Copyright 2009 Scott Nicholson

  This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be shared, given away, or illegally copied, and all rights belong to the author. This is a work of fiction, and any coincidence between any persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Thank you for reading the book and please post a review or tell your friends if you like this work. Visit Scott Nicholson at www.hauntedcomputer.com.

  OTHER BOOKS BY SCOTT NICHOLSON

  The Red Church

  The Skull Ring

  Burial to Follow

  Drummer Boy

  Flowers

  Ashes

  The Harvest

  The Manor

  The Home

  The Farm

  They Hunger

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PHANTASMIA

  1. The Way of All Flesh

  2. The Night The Wind Died

  3 Dumb Luck

  4. When You Wear These Shoes

  5. Must See To Appreciate

  HYPNOGAGIA

  6. Heal Thyself

  7. Letters and Lies

  8. Wampus Cat

  9. Beggar’s Velvet

  DYSTOPIA

  10. Tellers

  11. Angelorum Orbis

  12. Doomsday Diary

  13. Narrow Is The Way

  14. The Shaping

  15. Socketful of Blather

  AFTERWORD

  BONUS MATERIAL: Shifting Sands of Memory

  Article: Don’t Sweat The Short Stuff?

  THE WAY OF ALL FLESH

  The warrior came to Ibeja in the night. He was the greatest warrior, at least in that day's battle, and the scent of blood hung about him like smoke. He climbed onto Ibeja's body that was barely more than a layer of dry skin over bone. She stared at the gap in the thatched roof, at the sprinkled mocking stars. He mated without speaking.

  The sounds of other matings came from the nearby huts, drowning out the buzz of insects that devoured the withered grass. Ibeja's heart felt like a small hot stone in her chest. The other women were taking seeds, would give birth to the tiny, shriveled things that would one day soon become warriors themselves. But she alone was not allowed the joy of bringing forth life.

  The warrior thrust against her, quickly and without passion, muscles glistening in the dim starlight. Her bones rattled like a cage of sticks, her flesh a leathery prison, her body as light as the birds that picked over the battlegrounds at sunset. Ibeja accepted the mating the same way she accepted the dying moon, the gray emptiness of the fields, and the dust-choked riverbeds that stretched bleakly beyond the village.

  The warrior's eyes were wide and white, staring past her into a long darkness. He grunted with release. She allowed him his moment of pleasure before she took him. Her ribs stretched apart and the skin peeled back, the night air cool against her exposed lungs and heart. The bones separated and their sharp edges clasped his shoulders, pulled him against her slick organs. His grunts turned into screams, then were smothered by viscera. She hoped her heart was a sweet enough distraction as it thrust into his mouth.

  Her torso opened wider, her own need now strong. As always in this moment of taking, she thought of the flowers she had seen in her youth. Sometimes a sudden storm had risen, sending a drowning fury that drummed down too fast for the ground to absorb. Then the harsh sun would return, and in those brief hours before it vented its own full wrath, bright red flowers unfurled from the vines that ran beneath the shady rocks.

  That's the image Ibeja held in her mind, the only image she had found that didn't repulse her. She herself was a flower, a blossom that would become fruit. She was the new mother of nature in a world that nature had long since fled.

  The hut filled with the wet gurgle of the ritual. Her nameless and faceless lover entered her, she took him into her torso and felt his blood and meat coursing through her veins, filling her, bloating her limbs, reviving her and giving her the strength to finish her loving work. Ibeja's ribs worked like fingers, thrusting the honored warrior deeply inside her.

  As his bones cracked and dissolved, her skin stretched to cover the added bulk. The skin knitted itself together and the weight spread sluggishly throughout Ibeja's body. Her belly grumbled as it digested the tough and bitter male flesh. She was helpless now, unable to move, and all she could do was wait and watch as the stars slowly disappeared into the orange flesh of dawn.

  "Ibeja?" The voice outside the hut broke the stillness of dawn.

  Ibeja worked her lips together, getting accustomed to their new thickness. "Enter."

  The woven grass that covered the door parted, and a thin brown woman came into the hut. She was naked and carried a colorful clay jug. "A great new day, Mother," she said, kneeling beside Ibeja.

  "A great new day, Yoru," Ibeja answered.

  Yoru lightly placed her hand on Ibeja's stomach, admiring the tautness. "You took a big mate," she said.

  "Yes," Ibeja said. As always, she was disturbed by the awe in the voices of the others. Did they not sense that she would trade places with them a thousand times, she would gladly give her exalted place for one night of human love, for a chance to couple with a mate who kissed her and called her by name, or for one day of carrying life in her belly instead of death?

  But she swallowed her own jealousy, a thing more bitter than dried blood, and asked, "How was your mating?"

  Yoru giggled and rubbed her own gaunt belly. "I believe he planted one. Maybe someday it grows into a great warrior and comes to you in the night."

  Yoru's eyes shone with remembered pleasure as she dipped her hand into the jar and brought a palmful of water to Ibeja's mouth. Ibeja sipped it until her tongue no longer felt like an old bone. "Where are they fighting today?" she asked when the water was gone.

  "To the east," Yoru answered, pointing. "My mate says that water was found there, at the bottom of the mountains. He says he saw a tree." She raised her hands and let them drop slowly, wiggling her fingers.

  "Tree?" Ibeja said. The digestion was nearly complete. She wiggled her own plump fingers in imitation of Yoru, though she could not yet lift her swollen arms.

  "Tree. Many tribes send warriors there to fight in a great battle."

  Battle. And those left standing at the end of the day would return to the village, would come into the huts and lie down with women. The greatest warrior of that day, the one who spilled the most blood, would come to Ibeja.

  If their tribe won, the warriors would cut down the tree and bring it back so that all could admire it, could touch its rough bark and pull the brown leaves from its branches. Then they would burn it in sacrifice, and the children would be brought from the hard hills to dance around the fire. As the sparks rose to the black sky, the warriors would praise the silent spirits that delivered the tree unto them. The women would wait in the huts, alone except for the singing and chanting and the pounding of children's feet.

  But first, this day had to be lived. This day's work had to be done. Ibeja groaned with effort as she tried to roll onto her side. Yoru helped by tugging on her shoulder, but the young woman was too weak from hunger. Ibeja settled onto her back again.

  "Your skin shines," said Yoru. She ran a hand over the supple flesh, tucked gentle fingers into the thick folds. Her touch was that of a worshipper.

  "Your eyes shine," Ibeja said. "Brighter than my skin. It's the magic of the life you carry inside."

  Yoru moved her hands from Ibeja. "Oh, to give birth is nothing. Any of the others can do it. But none can do what you do. You are truly the giver of life."

  Ibeja turned her face to the far wall. The thing she had consumed made her m
omentarily ill. Or perhaps it was the hollowness deep inside. Now matter how much she brought into her body, she was never full. Always the longing, the ache, the loneliness twitched warmly in her chest.

  "I should have said nothing," Yoru said. "You are the Mother. We are the children."

  Ibeja shook her head, her jowls quivering gently. "You are no child. You make children yourself."

  "We make too many children. More and more. The grain dies under this sun, and the fires of battle blow hot over the fields."

  "There is enough," Ibeja said, closing her eyes. "There is always enough."

  "Warriors die, too."

  "And more are born." Ibeja groaned with effort and sat up. Yoru bent over her, helping her reposition herself.

  "More warriors have lost themselves inside me than have been taken in battle," Ibeja said. Tears filled the corners of her eyes. She would never allow herself tears outside these walls, in front of the villagers. Too many looked to her for strength and courage. She rubbed a plenteous palm against her cheeks, and the tears dried in the hot still air.

  "You give more life than you take," Yoru said soothingly.

  "No. It is exactly equal."

  "Mother, you—"

  Ibeja held up a hand to interrupt her. "Don't call me that. You are a mother. I am not."

  "But without you, the children—," Yoru protested.

  "Shh. Tell me how it feels, to have the live thing in your belly. I know only the feeling of dead things." Ibeja shifted on her worn mat, her flesh rippling gracefully with the movement.

  Yoru bowed her head, and her words became dream-like, distant, as reverent as the chant made over captured trees. "At first, you can't feel the child," she said. "Except you know it's in there. You know it even before the mate rolls away and sleeps. There's a warm glow, like you swallowed fire. And the child whispers of its dreams, only the whisper is in your head."

  Yoru paused, and Ibeja knew the woman was waiting to see if she were angry. Ibeja said, "And what does the child say to you?"

  "It says 'Bring me into the world. Let me live.'"

  Ibeja's own night voices were silent. Her dreams held their mournful tongues. "And as the child grows inside you?"

  "It falls into the rhythm of my breathing and my heartbeat. It sucks life from me, but it also gives life back. It makes me weak, but it also gives me strength. Is that too strange?"

  "Not strange. Beautiful." Her voice became softer. "And when it's ready to come out?"

  Yoru gave a bitter laugh. "It fights. That's how you know it will be a mighty warrior. It is born in blood, and will live in blood, and will die in blood, with great honor. It does not cry, if it is to be a warrior."

  Ibeja nodded. Only those who would grow to be mothers were allowed to weep, even from the womb. As if the males slithered into the burning world full of the hate of their enemies, with no room left for sorrow. "The one you have inside you now, can you tell what it is?"

  Yoru stood suddenly, almost losing her balance. She waved her thin frantic arms and her voice rose. "It will be a great warrior," she shouted. "It will kill ten times ten of the enemy, whether they come from the east or the west. It will bring tall trees to the ground, trees so high they brush the bottom of the clouds. It will be the one that comes to you, that gives itself to your belly so that you will be large."

  Sweat dappled Yoru's skin. Ibeja stared at Yoru's small breasts that were as withered as the berries on the hills. Then she touched her own pendulous breasts, hefted their bountiful mass in her palms. The curse of her station went beyond the nightmare of taking and consuming the hard bitter flesh of warriors. She alone had this glorious excess, this largesse.

  She saw her reflection sometimes, in the surface of the water when attendants brought her the morning jar. She knew how stunning her face was, with its drooping skin and the creases beneath her chin. Too much of her, in a lean land among lean people, more of her than she deserved. She looked down at the distended belly that flopped so languidly between her legs.

  If only a child were inside her, then she could forgive herself this vain bulk. But she didn't create life. She absorbed it and changed it, transformed it from hard muscle to soft gruel. She destroyed life.

  The sun was higher now, pouring its anger through the cracks in the grass-walled hut. From the village outside came the songs of the women who were returning from their morning forage. The songs were sad, of warriors lost and rivers that had run away and fields that were too crisp underfoot. The smell of smoke was in the air, probably a brush fire from some distant war.

  "I don't want to take your child, so I hope he's not a great warrior," Ibeja said. "But that is many days from now. First it must be born."

  Yoru's belly had gotten larger, the skin slightly distended outward. She patted it lovingly. "The afternoon always comes. So does the child."

  "And when it comes out, and it is held up to you and placed on your chest, how does that feel?" Ibeja asked, knowing that she could never truly understand, but wanting to hear of it anyway.

  Yoru looked up through the roof. "It is a moment bigger than the sky. You feel both that you are blessed by the spirits to have such a thing, yet also very small, because this thing is now larger than your own desires."

  "And its needs come before your own." Ibeja knew that much about motherhood. When she herself looked on the faces of the children, she had that same feeling. She held no ownership of them, no pride in them, but she also knew they more important than her. No matter how big she became after consuming, she was never larger than the children's needs.

  They were the future, after all. They were hope in a land where hope was as rare as rain. One day a child, maybe even one born in this generation, would lead the people from these harsh sands. Or would become a warrior so great that all other tribes would fall before him. Or would have Ibeja's gift, to take her place as the sacred vessel.

  "You are making yourself sad," Yoru said.

  "No, I am happy." And she nearly was. The warrior was completely digested now, distributed evenly throughout her body. "It is time. Help me up."

  Yoru planted her feet, sank her sharp fingers into Ibeja's upper arms, and leaned backward. Ibeja grunted and pushed with her calves. She rose against the invisible hand of gravity and stood with her flesh gently undulating. She braced herself against Yoru until she gained her balance.

  With each new meal, she had to learn to rise all over again. She wondered if the sun had to learn to rise each day, bloated on its meal of stars. Or did it work the other way, that as it speared itself on the sharp ridges in the west each evening, it gave birth to those many scattered lights? She closed her eyes, forgot the foolishness of worrying over stars, and thought about the children.

  Even the nourishment that coursed through Ibeja's veins didn't provide all the strength she needed. Walking always felt so strange, as if she might either sink into the ground or else get blown aloft by the frugal wind. She took a trembling step to the door, Yoru at her side. Another and another, her broad feet like pouches of mud.

  She pushed aside the woven mat and blinked against the afternoon. This was her walk. It was time to forget about her own loneliness, the hollowness in her heart that was in such war with the heaviness of her body. It was time only for children.

  As she walked past the brittle huts, mothers came to the doors or put down their weaving or claywork to watch. Their gaunt faces were slack with reverence, their eyes gazing in wonder at Ibeja's wobbling mass. The women's bellies were all bulging slightly from the previous night's seed. If they dreaded the pain that would come in a few hours, they gave no sign.

  They would be mothers this day, as every day. They thought Ibeja was their own mother. She knew better. She was no one's mother.

  Ibeja had mastered her bulk now, and walked with more command, her heavy head tilted slightly upward. Yoru trailed behind, and a few of the mothers left their huts to follow also. They talked among themselves of Ibeja's beauty, the generous wealth of her fl
esh, the divine curves and bulges.

  The procession went past the last of the huts toward a grouping of large rocks. The gray and tan boulders leaned against each other as if carelessly dropped on the earth by the spirits. In the nooks and spaces between the rocks were the few places that the stern sun spared.

  Ibeja thought she saw movement in the shade. Then came the sounds of play, soft laughter, a shout of surprise. One of the children peered from a dark hollow, a small boy with large eyes and round cheeks. Ibeja looked at him, trying to remember if she had seen him before. She wondered what name she would have given him if he had been hers.

  The child smiled at her, and a tiny girl appeared at his side and stepped into the light. Her skin was as smooth as moist clay. She squealed in delight, and other children came out from the slivers of darkness to scramble over the stones. Ten, then twenty, stood waiting for her, eyes bright with expectation.

  Ibeja went to them, regal and serene. These girls would grow to be mothers, these boys would harden into the most fearsome of warriors. The plump brown flesh would lose its healthy glow, would shrink and shrivel and wrinkle. They would one day know hunger, would give and take seed, would take their part in this weary yet wondrous cycle. But today they were only children.

  She came to the base of the stones and eased herself down, her miraculous flab swinging like a thing separate from her real body. She was warm, but didn't want the sweat to come. She couldn't waste herself that way. She settled on her rear, the eyes of the children on her, their gaze crawling across her skin like insects. The mothers stood some distance away, knowing this wasn't their moment, that their children belonged to the True Mother.

  Ibeja lay on her back in the sand. The sun had started its downward slide, on its way to eating or birthing stars. A wisp of cloud floated high and forlorn, stingy in the heat. One more sparse and stingy creation in a sparse and stingy world, a world that did not give enough of itself. She watched the cloud as the heat untangled its white threads.