Maureen Birnbaum, Barbarian Swordperson

by George Alec Effinger

  I called Daddy, but he and Pammy were out of town too, I remembered. They went to St. Croix when they sent me to Mad River Glen. I'd been to Mars and back, but they were probably still down in the sun and fun. I was all alone. I was penniless. I was beginning to feel like I'd accidentally been erased by the Big Computer or something. So I watched more TV and sent down to room service for food and put it on the bill.

  I didn't wait for midnight. I went out about seven o'clock when it got dark, and it wasn't raining! Hooray! A point for me. I looked up in the sky, and I saw maybe three stars. That's all. People in New York don't realize there're a whole lot of stars they're missing out on. New York kids must be scared out of their punky, wiseass little minds if they ever get out into the country and look up at the night sky. "Hey, what the hell are those?" they go. "Stars," somebody tells 'em. "Nuh-uh. How come we don't got that many on 125th Street?" they go. "Because that's God punishing you for covering all the subway cars with spray paint."

  I have become aware of social problems, Bits)', believe it or not. You'll hear all about it. In the past four years I've learned a lot about right and wrong. I'm dead set against certain things now. For one, I'm not Muffs' anymore. No, no way, Monet. I'm Maureen and I'm proud of it. Maureen's my name, my real name. Muffy was my slave name. It's what all those Columbia math majors called me. No more, kiddo.

  And you've changed a little, too, haven't you? I looked around for something to drink—no vodka, no rum, no tequila. That's not the old Blitzy-Bitsy Spiegelman I remember. A little new Beaujolais in the kitchen and some classy-looking whites—you've been reading those magazines again, honey. And that picture on the table—Bitsy! For crying out loud, do you realize you've cut your hair exactly the same way as my mother's Lhasa apso? And what's with the funky, stretched-out sweatshirt hanging off your shoulder? You look like you can't afford your own clothes and have to raid Goodwill boxes at night. Times change, I guess. From looking around, I think I want to get out of here real fast. But, as your mother says, "As long as you've got your health." I notice you don't have the Captain and Tenille records I gave you anymore. The Knack and Shaun Cassidy albums are missing, too; now there are a few black faces peeping out of your stereo cabinet. Why Bitsy, how sophisticated of you! Our tastes just keep on broadening, don't they? Is the kid with sunglasses and the glittery glove the one who sings with his brothers? He still doesn't look old enough to be let out by himself. I mean, his voice hasn't changed or anything.

  Where was I? Oh, yeah. Well, I went to Central Park and looked for the darkest, loneliest place I could find. I don't know, maybe it was the sight of me with my genuine leather bag in one hand and a long jeweled sword in the other, but nobody bothered me. Somewhere around Sixty-eighth Street I looked up into the sky again. There were more stars here—about six more. I hoped one of those dots of light was Mars. I clutched my bag and my sword, closed my eyes tighty-tight, and projected myself headlong into space. It's a trick you learn. The first time is just an accident, but then you stumble on how to do it whenever you want. You just sort of throw yourself across this creepy-cold distance between Earth and, like, wherever.

  Steering is another matter entirely, honey, let me tell you. Forget what they've told you, it's not all in the wrist. I mean, when I tried to get from Mars to Vermont, I ended up in Manhattan. This time, trying to whoosh myself back to Mars, I ended up—

  You're not going to believe this—

  I landed inside the hollow Earth.

  Don't ask me how I could aim at the sky and land five hundred miles below the dead brown grass of Central Park. I'm not sure. And you're going to have to forget (if you haven't already) all about Mr. Reuven's lectures about the Earth's crust and the mantle and the molten core and so on and on. I knew I was inside, because there was rock all around and above me where the sky should be, and the far, hazy distances lifted up to meet the roof. Overhead there was some kind of blazing little sun that never went out—it was always daytime—but it was the kind of light that makes you look like you've been dead for a week. It wasn't like real sunlight. I was there for four years and I didn't get the beginning of a tan, even though I didn't wear any more clothes than I did on Mars.

  I was in the middle of a big forest—a jungle, really, and the trees were covered with hanging vines and bright, beautiful flowers climbing the trunks. Orchids, I think, though they were shaped funny and were strange colors. Everything in this place was shaped funny, I came to realize, and was a funny color. I wandered around in the jungle for a little while, just staring at the birds and monkeys and butterflies and flowers. It was hot. Let me tell you, it was as hot as your mother's apartment was that Fourth of July when your A. C. went out and you couldn't get anybody to come fix it on the holiday. I was sweating the proverbial bullets. I said to myself, I go "Muffy"—see, I wasn't socially aware yet; it took four years of suffering and hardship to teach me those lessons—I go "Muffy, you know what would be nice? Let's change into something a little cooler." I had in mind a pair of khaki shorts and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and my old Tretorn tennis sneaks. So I opened my suitcase and took off my winter stuff—you have to picture this in your mind, Bitsy, step-by-step—and I was rummaging around, looking for the right outfit, when out from behind this tree stepped this ape.

  Well, I screamed. You'd scream, too. I was naked. I'd never been naked in front of an ape before.

  He galumphed toward me with his knuckles on the ground, carrying some dead animal in his mouth. Behind him came maybe twenty more apes. I told myself not to be terrified; I'd faced bigger monsters on Mars, and these huge old monkeys were probably just as scared of me as I was of them. That's what they always say on TV. Marlin Perkins is always going like, "These huge old monkeys of the deep jungle look fearsome, but in truth they are gentle browsers and vegetarians." Then I thought, why the hell does it have this dead thing in its mouth if it's a vegetarian?

  I stood very still, wishing I could reach down and pick up my sword, Old Betsy, but I didn't dare move. The big ape came right up to me and stopped. He stared at me and, believe me sweetie, I didn't like the evil red eyes he'd got set into his flat little head. They were going up and down my body like I was Miss Anthropoid of 1980. I heard Marlin Perkins's voice in my head again: "These harmless cousins of ours are curious by nature, and will rape and pillage anything in their path."

  Well, I stood still until that goddamn ape slowly reached out a hand, just like in 2001, and almost grabbed my boob.

  Nobody grabs my boob. That's when I went for the sword. Whip. I was standing straight and fierce and beautiful, ready to defend my honor if I had to skewer all twenty of them. The ape gives me this beady stare. Then it goes ptui and spits out the dead animal. "What are you doing in Yag-Nash's territory?" he goes. In pretty good English, yet (with just a trace of a regional accent, but let's not get snobby). I'd been astonished to find that people on Mars spoke English. Now these apes or ape-men or whatever they were did the same thing. Don't ask me to explain it: I'm just a fighting woman.

  I go, "Nothing. I come in peace." I took it that this was Yag-Nash himself I was dealing with.

  Another of these talking Neanderthals came up and looked me over, the same as Yag-Nash had, and goes, "Let's kill the she now. The feathered snake will not feed the whole tribe." It kicked the scruffy dead thing on the ground.

  "No," goes Yag-Nash, "the she will not die. The tribe of Yag-Nash has had bad hunting since the death of the High Priestess. This beautiful she will be our new High Priestess." All the other ugly, hairy brutes opened their eyes wide and started going, "Ohhhhh."

  "Thank you for saving my life," I go.

  "Don't mention it," goes Yag-Nash. They were real Missing Links, Bitsy. I wish they'd stayed Missing.

  I breathed a little easier, but I didn't lower my sword. Something I learned on Mars: don't trust anybody except handsome princes; especially don't trust horribly blechy things from The Twilight Zone. I didn't like being all pink and perky and undressed in front
of these hairballs, but I couldn't get my clothes on and keep them covered at the same time. My problem was solved for me by ol' Yag-Nash, the leader of the pack.

  "Bring her along to the caves," he goes. And the twenty of them swarmed all over me, and grabbed my arms and legs and lifted me off the ground. I hung on to Old Betsy, but she didn't do me any good, you know? I didn't have a chance to get in a good whack at any of them. They kept up this weirdo moaning chant as they carried me through the jungle. I twisted my head a little, and I saw that none of them had thought to bring along my suitcase. Good-bye new outfits; good-bye Je Reviens. And after all that hard shopping we did, too. I never did get to wear any of that stuff.

  When we got to their place—it was like this cliff with caves poked into it like the little holes in a slice of rye bread—they carried me up to the main cave. I don't know how they climbed that cliff. It sure looked sheer and smooth to me. But then, I don't have arms that swing below my knees, or fighting fangs either. We human beings have lost a little something to make up for what we've gained on our Long March Toward Civilization. Thank the Lord.

  When they deposited me on the floor of the main cave—ba-WHUMP-Yag-Nash gestured and the rest of them left in a hurry. He looked down at me with those cruddy little beady eyes of his. He drooled, Bitsy, he really drooled. Like my Uncle Jerry.

  I go, "You didn't bring my clothes along. You have anything here for me to wear?"

  His expression went blank for a second, then he must have had what passed for an idea in his little pea-brain. "I will garb you with the richness and finery of last High Priestess," he goes. "You will like Yag-Nash then. You will be grateful."

  "You bet," I go. I shuddered a little.

  The boss ape hustled out on his short, bowed legs. I had a few minutes to myself, but so what? The main cave was huge, but it didn't lead anywhere and I couldn't climb down that cliff by myself. I was trapped there. I clutched Old Betsy and waited. A little while later my pal came back, carrying a double armload of stuff. He dropped it at my feet. "What's that?" I go.

  "Wear," he goes instructively.

  I sorted through the stuff. At first it looked like a hopeless mess of tangled braids and straps. I couldn't make heads or tails out of it. I carried it all to the light at the mouth of the cave and I gasped, like, Bitsy, it was all gold and jewels! I mean, all of it! There was this bra kind of thing with dangling golden loops and chains and thingies hooked up front to back and all, and a sexy little G-string of gold with a thin little gold hipband. Wow, if I'd have had that stuff on some football weekend up in New Haven . . . ! And the gold was just lousy with jewels. Covered with jewels, all emeralds, some as big as a quarter. "This is for me?" I go.

  "Wear," Yag-Nash goes. He was the strong, silent type.

  I put it on. Well, gold is nice to look at and appraise and all, but it's not much fun to live in. The bra wasn't lined or anything, and the metal edges dug into my skin. The girl who had it before me must have been two full cup-sizes smaller, 'cause my boobs were all squashed together and hauled up almost to my shoulders. Did terrific things for my cleavage, but it was uncomfortable as all hell. And the metal G-string was cold. Yipe.

  "Good," goes Yag-Nash, when I had, uh, garbed myself.

  "Glad you like it," I go. "Now what?"

  "We hunt again tomorrow. Before the hunt, you must pray to the Great Rock-Sky God!"

  "Sure," I go. I knew that was breaking some commandment or something, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  "Now you sleep."

  I go, "But I'm not tired. I'll wait until tonight."

  "What do you mean, 'night'?"

  Then I realized, like, it wasn't ever going to get dark. The little sun in the middle of the Earth never set. So much for sneaking away after the sun went down, as if there were anywhere to sneak to. I stretched out on the cave floor—it was just crawling with bugs and spiders, of course—and after a while, I don't know how long, I went to sleep.

  I had a surprise when I woke up. Yag-Nash had shackled my right ankle and chained me to the wall. "Great," I thought, "that's all I need." Like it made any difference, though before, at least I had the illusion of freedom. I still had my sword. The only thing I could figure out was that Yag-Nash didn't recognize Old Betsy as a weapon. He may never have seen a sword before. I hoped I could make him more familiar with it Real Soon Now.

  Hours later, I suppose, Yag-Nash came back into the cave huffing and puffing from the climb up the rock face. "It is time, 0 High Priestess," he goes.

  "Well," I thought, "every High Priestess has to start sometime." Yag-Nash held something in his hand. His attitude was different now: he was respectful, almost timid. I looked at what he was offering me—it was a big golden crown set with emeralds and huge diamonds. I could have bought Massachusetts, furnished, with that, for God's sake. I took it and plopped it on my head. Then Yag-Nash threw me over his shoulder without a word, not so much as an "Excuse me, Exalted One," and started down the cliff. I shut my eyes and practiced praying.

  There was a sort of flat altar made of roughly shaped rock about a hundred yards into the jungle. The rest of the tribe—I guess there were about a hundred in all—was spread through the big clearing, and they were all chanting and grunting and jumping up and down on their knuckles. It was disgusting. Yag-Nash walked into the middle of the clearing, by this altar thing, and raised his furry arms. "Silence!" he goes.

  There was silence.

  Then it was my turn. I went up to the altar and looked around at my congregation. I put a stern look on my face—see, I figured from Yag-Nash's attitude that as High Priestess I was some big hoo-ha now, and I wanted to see how far I could push it. "First off," I go in a kind of cop voice, loud and commanding, "I don't want you to call me High Priestess. 'Priestess' is a sexist label. I won't have any of that. You will call me Reverend Maureen."

  The Neanderthals nodded their huge, lumpy heads. "Mo-reen," they murmured.

  "That's fine. Now as I understand it, you're about to go on another hunt today. I will say a prayer for your success. I will invoke the blessing of the Great Rock-Sky God on you. I will bring meat for your hungry, hairy bellies. You will treat me with deference."

  "Mo-reen," they all go.

  "Damn right." Then I went into the prayers, something like, "Heavenly Father, we are gathered here together to ask your blessing on our hunters. Today they go out in search of food for their shes and young ones. Game is scarce, and the animals are cunning or fleet of foot. Our hunters are neither, and they are armed only with these cruddy stone knives that couldn't stab their way through wet newspaper. What's more, our hunters don't have the largest cranial capacities, if you know what I mean—and they don't, or I'd be in trouble now. Therefore, we ask that you make it easy on them. A few deer or something trapped in a tar pit would be nice. I don't expect miracles, but like, I get hungry, too, right? I guess that's about all. Thanking you in advance, this is Reverend Maureen, signing off."

  "Amen," murmured the cavemen.

  Yag-Nash goes, "You pray good, Mo-reen. You are a good High—I mean, a good Reverend."

  I shrugged. "It's a gift," I go. "I will bring you much meat. I will end hunger and want among the tribe of Yag-Nash."

  "Good," he goes.

  "And you will treat me well."

  The pot-bellied old creep gave me that slimy squint again. "You will like the way Yag-Nash treats you," he goes. I doubted that very seriously. He grabbed me and carted me out of the clearing, back to the main cave and the shackle and chain. I complained, but it didn't do any good. And lie took the crown, too. That's the kind of man I attract, Bitsy, ain't it the truth? He left me in the cave all alone, secured to the wall. From far away I could hear the shouts of the hunters as they worked themselves up into a sweat.

  Well, this kind of thing went on for one hell of a long time. They'd feed me and bring me water, but that was all. No washing, no exercise, nothing. I was wasting away. Every couple of "days" Yag-Nash would car
ry in the crown and trundle me down the cliff to the altar, where I said a prayer and everybody acted subdued and courteous for a few minutes. Then it was back to the cave and the chain and Maureen Birnbaum, Prisoner of Love. The funny thing was, the hunters did have better luck. They came back with lots of meat, or else I suppose they'd have killed—and maybe eaten—me. I figure that's what happened to the last High Priestess. Yucko. The hunters brought back these big old reindeer and musk oxen and things. I mean, animals you don't find walking around the woods on the surface anymore. The reindeer and oxen were gigantic. They were prehistoric animals, just like Yag-Nash and his crew. I knew that for sure when they brought in the wooly mammoth. You could tell it wasn't just a plain old elephant: it was a mammoth. And they killed other weird critters, too: saber-toothed tigers and beavers the size of bears and sloths as big as hippos. But my congregation had a lot to learn about the fine points of the culinary arts: Cuisine Primitif, you know, the Food of the Clods. Fire-blackened here and there on the outside, bloody raw on the inside. I was hungry all the time, so I got to where I liked it that way.

  After this went on for many months—I filled up the wall as far as I could reach with "daily" scratches—Yag-Nash came into the cave in a real dither. I'd kept him away from me by telling him that if he put one paw on my reverend bod, the Great Rock-Sky God would punish him by driving away all the game. Yag-Nash was hungry more often than he was horny, so I didn't have to worry about him except when his dim bulb of a brain forgot my threat. When he came in all excited, I figured, "Here we go again."

  I was wrong. He goes, "We have captured an enemy."

  This was some news. I mean, I didn't even know there was another tribe anywhere nearby. "Uh-huh," I go.

  "It is a morthak, not like Yag-Nash and his people. You must sacrifice it to the Great Rock-Sky God."