Ben Soul

by Richard George

half of the implant drained. Her right breast, keeping the balance, was pointing nipple upward at the sky as the upper half of that implant drained. Unbeknownst to her, Vanna’s pouting lips were likewise draining unevenly, so that the left corner of her mouth had begun to turn upward as the right corner began to turn down. When she got to the motel Vanna went right to sleep. She did not wake until late morning.

  Her breakfast at the Four Rosas was a simple plate of toast. She eschewed the orange marmalade, fearing it would not settle on her queasy stomach. She followed breakfast with a quick walk part way into the Village. Prime Pussy snarled at her, and then slunk arthritically under Emma’s cottage. No one else appeared to be about. She did not linger long, judging night’s dark cloak to better insure her concealment. A large woman came out of a cottage further along in the Village. Vanna hastily turned around and made for the motel.

  At the desk she asked Harry Pitts for a copy of the morning newspaper. He, engrossed in a gloss on a verse in Habakkuk, handed it to her without looking at her, though he asked her to read it in the lobby, not her room. The headline shrieked her failure. “Talk Show Hostess Fries” led the banner on the first page. Vanna gasped with her shock. Harry looked up at her and frowned in puzzlement. She seemed twisted, physically twisted, in a way he had not noticed the day before. He stared a long moment at her while she read how an unexplained electrical hookup had killed the popular local talk show host. Vanna’s contorted lips moved as she read the quotes from Bertha Van Nation and Barry Cooda, among others. She threw the paper on the counter and stormed off to her room. She hastily packed her battered suitcase with the few articles she had brought with her. Then she sat on the bed to consider what to do next. That’s when the transient psychic attack struck her.

  Her synapses began firing at random. Her damaged brain could no longer control and focus her anger as it once had done, and she sent out psychic pulses of destruction in random directions. One pulse passed through Malcolm Drye’s cottage, searing several hundred African violets to a crisp as it passed. Another, angling more seaward, slew several individuals of Brachyramphus marmoratus, variety Sandansoniensis as they swam and fished in their pelagic way. A third impulse bore eastward into the redwood forest, until it grounded itself out in an unlucky fox’s den, where it skewed the brains of the vixen’s kits.

  Vanna herself collapsed on the unmade bed for almost an hour. When she came to consciousness, she took her packed suitcase, stopped by the motel office only long enough to check out, and went to the highway to hitch a ride. It took her most of the day to get to Pueblo Rio, half-way to Las Tumbas. When her latest ride, in a pickup loaded with manure, dropped her off in Pueblo Rio, she walked toward the Black and Blue Cowgirl Saloon.

  Prime Pussy Passes

  Prime Pussy felt the dark forces pass over her. She mewed in fright. Haakon heard her, and let her in. “What’s wrong, old cat?” he asked her. She mewed again, and rubbed against his ankles for comfort. Even this comforting contact caused her pain. She mewed again. Haakon lifted her, very gently, into his arms. She essayed a purr, though it had more of groaning than purring in its note. She settled into Haakon’s lap to sleep. Her rumble drifted into silence. Haakon stroked her fur with a light touch that soothed her.

  She entered into a dream of clarity. Cats, on occasion, entered into this particular dream state when She-Who-Licks-All-Furs chose to commune with them. Prime Pussy had only once before had such contact, when She-Who-Licks-All-Furs brought her to choose Emma as her guardian human. Prime Pussy, in her dream, pictured herself sitting primly upright, her tail curled around her, waiting expectantly for what was to come, like a young kitten before her Mistress.

  Soundless was the voice She-Who-Licks-All-Furs used, yet Prime Pussy, who had grown deaf over the years, heard it with no effort. The voice said, “Your time is come to leave your ninth life. Do not grieve; you have lived well, even lavishly. Your guardian humans have fed you, kept your litter box clean, medicated you, stroked you, and always provided you clear water to drink. You have been blessed. It is required, now, that you give in return as you pass into my realm of blessing. As you come to me, leave with your people your strength of character and your sense of purpose. A great darkness looms upon them, threatening to overwhelm them. They will need all manner of help from loving creatures who follow the good.”

  Prime Pussy bowed her head, in her dream, to acknowledge She-Who-Licks-All-Furs’ teaching. Her clarity dream ended. She slept a little while unaware of the pain that licked at her joints without reprieve.

  The endorphins provided by communing with the divine lasted little longer than the relief of an aspirin. Prime Pussy moved uneasily in her sleep, and thus grated an arthritic joint against itself. She woke with a piteous mew. Haakon murmured, “There, there, old girl. An ache creep up on you in your sleep?” Prime Pussy mewed again, a mew of satisfaction that Haakon had noticed her discomfort. She stood, carefully, in his lap. He saved her the jolt jumping down would have given her knees by carefully setting her on the floor. She rubbed his ankles to show her appreciation, and trotted stiffly toward her water dish. She drank, lapping the water in with the underside of her tongue as all cats have done since time immemorial. Then she went in to rest beside the hearth.

  How to arrange her dying so that her spirit could be available to Emma in the great need that was about to come upon the Village? Prime Pussy could not guess. She thought of Emma’s interests. Cookie sheets, of course, and Haakon, but what else?

  Unbeknownst to Prime Pussy Emma had a small crystal cat she prized greatly. It had been a gift from La Señora when Emma was a gawky adolescent. After much worrying, Prime Pussy determined to leave the matter in the paws of She-Who-Licks-All-Furs. Prime Pussy drifted into a deep sleep. She was so very tired.

  After a long time Prime Pussy woke to a place of fascinating rodent smells, with occasional wafts of tuna and turkey aromas. She rose and stretched, suddenly whole again, and raced after butterflies and cheeky birds that tempted her to strike, yet always stayed just out of reach. Prime Pussy went racing after them into a golden afternoon that no night would terminate.

  For a moment, Emma’s crystal cat glowed brightly, and then returned to apparent normal. Emma and Haakon were at table, eating a leftover meatloaf and green beans with mashed potatoes.

  Only as evening fell across the Village did Haakon discover Prime Pussy had passed. He gathered Emma in his arms, and together they shed tears into their prayers for Prime Pussy. Wordlessly She-Who-Licks-All-Furs soothed their sorrow with the soft lavender lights of evening.

  When morning came, Haakon prepared a grave in the garden Prime Pussy had so often watched from her perch on the sill of the kitchen window. Emma laid her age ravaged cat in a shoebox on a soft bit of towel, then glued on the box’s lid. “From earth you came,” she said, “and to earth you shall return. You have blessed my life for many years. May the Great Spirit bless your eternity.”

  Then she took the box to Haakon in the garden. He took it from her and laid it tenderly in the grave he had dug. “Sleep well, old cat,” he said, and wiped his eyes. Then he shoveled the dirt over the box and patted the soil into a low mound. “We should mark the grave, do you think?” he said to Emma.

  “No,” she said. “The Great Spirit knows where it is. That suffices.” The stood silent a moment, and then turned and went in. Emma put the kettle to boil while Haakon got out tea bags and cups.

  Inspiration Strikes a Princess

  Malcolm stopped Princess Valiant on her morning walk and invited her in to survey the damage to his violets. He was nearly speechless as he showed her the blackened foliage and crisped blossoms that cut a wide swathe through his violet collection.

  “It’s very bad,” she said, “that you have lost these plants is a sorrow for you, I know. It does provide us, though, with an early warning. Vanna has been here, or not too far from the Village. The taint of her ev
il is on this destruction.” Princess Valiant sniffed. “I smell her trace.” She made a face, as if she had tasted something very foul, indeed.

  Malcolm’s hands fluttered. “I know you have said before that we shall have to present a united front when Vanna comes to wreak havoc amongst us. How will we know when she comes?”

  The crow tattooed on Val’s shoulder drew one wing across its eyes as if to brush tears or soot from them. “That is a question I have not wholly answered,” Val said. “I think we need to meet as a Village to consider establishing warning systems. Can we gather here, at your cottage?’

  “Well, yes,” Malcolm said. “I can prepare some light refreshment. Is tomorrow evening a good time?”

  “Yes. I’ll alert the other Villagers and the folk at the Manor House.”

  “I’ll prepare something light to eat, and something refreshing to drink. At seven?”

  “At seven,” Val said. “I’ll go now. See you tomorrow. And thanks, Malcolm.”

  Val estimated the time to be midmorning, from the brighter glow in the gray skies that marked the sun’s position behind the fog. She knew Dickon and Ben would be walking on the beach with Butter; Butter was quite regular in