UnCommon Bodies: A Collection of Oddities, Survivors, and Other Impossibilities (UnCommon Anthologies Book 1)

by Michael Harris Cohen

  "What the–what is in this thing?" I say between splutters.

  He takes the pipe from my trembling fingers and puffs at it again.

  "Not as grown up as you'd like to pretend you are, now, are you?"

  I don't reply, and he asks again, "So you were saying... something's not quite right with you? An ailment?"

  "Uh, no. Not exactly." I laugh aloud. It sounds so fake, my laugh. I swear to myself. Now he's going to know for sure I'm hiding something. Something no one must guess. Certainly not this...this old man. "And even if I did," I say, "as if I'd tell you in our very first meeting?"

  He lets out a bark of laugh, "You sure this is the first time we've met, Leana?"

  I swear inwardly. "You know my name?"

  "As if I am going to tell you all my secrets, in our first meeting?" He raises his eyebrows.

  "Aha! You admit it then, this is our first meeting."

  "Quick you are." He nods. "It is our first meeting, in this life, in this skin that we wear, yes."

  "Oh, please, don't give me a story about reincarnation and the like," I say, trying to sound as if I don't believe him, but my heart begins to beat faster.

  "You know you really should put facts to the test before dismissing them this way," he says.

  Yah. Whatever. "Interesting tattoos," I blurt out, my gaze drawn once more to the spot between his eyebrows.

  "Nice sword," he counters, and I start.

  I was so sure no one could see the sword, thought I had hidden it well. I want to cover it up, want to get a large blanket and throw it over myself and hide from the world. I pull out the sword and cradle it on my lap.

  Its touch is still new to me, almost as foreign as the beast I carry within myself: my other half.

  "Looks ancient, your sword. Where did you get it?" he asks, a quizzical expression in his eyes. A slight smile plays around his brown-with-age lips.

  It's as if he knows...No, that's not possible, he can't recognise this sword, can he? He knew my name, though...

  "It belongs to me," I say and, unable to stop myself, I bunch the fingers of my left hand and touch the sword, then bring my fingertips back to my lips and kiss them.

  "Superstitious, are you?" he asks.

  "Not particularly," I reply.

  Yes I am. Of course I am, especially right now, when I'm looking to escape my past, to reclaim my future. To reclaim myself.

  There you go again, getting philosophical. Overthinking everything. You're so going to tie yourself up in knots.

  I blink, take a deep breath to calm myself and try not to shuffle under the lamp seller's piercing scrutiny. It's as if he can read my thoughts, as if he knows me already. Knows me in a simple easy I-see-you-as-you-are-now way.

  Clearing my throat I ask, "Are you headed to the market to sell them?" I nod towards his lamps.

  "Yes," he nods, "it sprang up after the tsunami; a place for the survivors to barter what they had. When all else fails, we have only the old ways to fall back on."

  "Did you see it, the tsunami?"

  He laughs at that, "I survived it. Just me and a handful of other kids."

  Huh? I've never met a real survivor of the tsunami. Someone who lived through it.

  "And you've stayed here since?" I lean forward.

  "Where else would I go?" he asks. "This is home." His eyes snap onto mine suddenly. "Now you, you are far from home aren't you? And you're not one of us, either," he says, a canny look coming into his eyes. "You are half-human."

  The muscles of my back go rigid. How does he know that?

  "Yes," I agree, surprised that he can so quickly tell the delicate difference between a human and a hybrid. We walk more heavily than normal people. There's something not quite human about our footprints. But very few know this.

  My eyes narrow and a low growl wells up in my throat. I swallow it down and my fingers graze the sword.

  No, don't do that, don't pull out the sword. Not yet.

  I tuck my hands back under my thighs, then say, "I don't know where my other half comes from."

  No, you lie. You do know what your other half is. You just don't want to 'fess up. Not even to yourself.

  "We in Bombay don't have that problem. We are all fully human in this city."

  "Really? Everyone here is totally human?"

  "Fully, one hundred percent!" he nods.

  100% human? No way. My neck muscles go rigid with tension. How had I not known that Bombay was a 'humans only' city? How did I miss that? Do they even welcome hybrids here? All my life I've wanted to be completely human. And now I am surrounded by them. Except I'll never be like them. If I could, I'd tear my skin off my bones and dig into the cells below, and pull out that animal DNA running through me, the one intertwined with my own genome. I would–

  No, don't go there. Don't go wishing for something you can never be. Just keep him talking; keep him distracted so he doesn't guess who you really are.

  "So was it just the bunch of you kids who survived the storm?" I ask.

  "There were others, grown ups too, but we didn't meet them 'til many years later," he says.

  "How did you grow up, then? Who took care of you? And all this...?" I gesture to the land we pass by. Land filled with low-rise buildings, children playing by the beaches. "How did all this come about?"

  "It's all thanks to Brahma, the founding father of this new world."

  "Brahma?" Of course I've heard about him, whispers of how he had helped rebuild the city. But I've never heard the story first hand.

  "Tell me more," I say. "How did he save the city?"

  "A few months before the tsunami hit, Brahma, then a young soldier in the army, was on a leave of absence, in Bombay. One day when washing his hands in the Banganga Tank—" seeing the question on my face, he explains, "It's an underwater spring at the Walkeshwar temple in Bombay."

  "How many temples are there in Bombay, anyway?"

  "Too many." He chuckles. "We love our temples, it's where we come together to not only pray but to reassure ourselves that we are together on our shared journeys. That we are not alone." He pauses as if gathering his thoughts. "Anyway where were we?"

  "Brahma," I prompt him.

  He nods. "Oh, yes. So Brahma is strolling by this beautiful spot. He is in a contemplative mood, wondering what's the point of all this combat? He is gazing into the water, sitting by the edge of the pool, soaking in the quiet, when he feels really thirsty. So, he cups the water from the pool and drinks from it. The water is fresh and sweet, and he's returning for one last sip, when he sees a tiny fish in his cupped palm. To his surprise the fish talks to him.

  "It begs him to save it, saying that it would return the favor.

  "Brahma asks the fish how something so tiny could save a man like himself?

  "The fish replies that there is a great storm on the way, bringing with it floods which will wash away all living things, and it was here to save Brahma from that.

  "Despite his misgivings, Brahma takes the fish home and puts it in a pot."

  A talking fish? It's just an old story of course, but somehow I almost believe him.

  "And then?" I urge him.

  He continues. "Within a day, the fish outgrows the pot, and he has to move it back to the Banganga Tank. The fish keeps growing, so he takes it to a lake. Soon the fish outgrows the lake so he takes it to the open sea. Within a week, the fish is large enough to fill the entire shoreline of the city, and it asks Brahma to build a boat, for the flood is coming. By this time, the skies have darkened with angry clouds, building up, churning crossly.

  "Brahma calls all the recruits in the city to help build the ship. When the waters rise, the ship rises with it. The fish advises Brahma to find three women who he thinks he could spend the rest of his life with, and bring them to the ship.

  "It tells Brahma to choose such women as represented by the three worlds–heaven, hell and earth–for together they would be creating a new city for future generations. And so he chooses Gayatri the
prostitute, Savitri the chef, and Vidya the schoolteacher. When he brings them back to the boat, he finds that the massive fish has reached out to women in the city, asking them to bring their children to the boat to be saved.

  "And thus Brahma finds himself with three women and twenty-one children, all born the week before the apocalypse struck."

  "Three humans, twenty one babies, and one ship!" I exclaim. "And then there's you and the other kids."

  "Twenty four of them and nineteen of us kids made it out alive," he agrees. "Not to forget the big fish, now," he chuckles.

  "And did it survive the storm too?"

  "Oh! Yes, the fish tows them to safety, away from the city, toward the middle of the ocean where all is calm. And when the tsunami blows itself out, they return."

  "To a destroyed city?"

  "To the original seven islands that made up Bombay. All through the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries, the city had grown unchecked to become one of the most populated urban areas–and among the richest–in the world. Overnight, all that craving, all that thirst for money and power, was washed away. Nature had taken revenge for the centuries of greed the citizens had indulged in. By the end of 2014, when the waters receded, there was no more maximum city. All that remained was Bombay as it had been in the beginning."

  The boat lurches and I jerk out of the images his words have trapped me in.

  "Not far now," he says, beginning to gather his lamps.

  "Wait, what happened then?" I am holding my breath now; I want him to complete his story. I need to know how it ends. Have to find out.

  "What happened to what?" he teases me.

  "The children, and Brahma and his women?"

  "When the waters settle back, the fish tows them back to the islands, letting them off on a small hill at the southernmost tip of the city. It was the only space with enough fresh water and food to sustain them over the next few years."

  "How did Brahma provide for all of them?"

  "Brahma knew how to survive. Being in the army had taught him that much. So there, with his new tribe, he stood next to the ancient temple of Lord Shiva, a thousand feet above sea level."

  "Was that the only thing to survive? That temple?"

  "That, and the temple of the Mother Goddess, Mumbadevi, after whom the city of Bombay is named, emerged unscathed from the tsunami."

  "So, at least in destruction, nature had balanced out the masculine and the feminine?"

  I don't realize I have said that aloud until he says, "Wise, aren't you? Yes, you can look at it that way too. As you well know, the post tsunami years weren't easy, for it was as if the storm was only the start. Soon after, the effects of global warming accelerated."

  He pauses and I take up the story, "The survivors of the storm had to face up to something much bigger; the threat of human extinction, for the sun's radiation grew in intensity, rendering many sterile."

  He nods and continues, "Some died without progeny. Others began mating with non-human species, the only way to propagate their bloodlines. All of this happened only in the last decade."

  When he stops, I know it's my turn. It's as if we are trading words in a twisted relay race, each of us reading from a puzzle that has already been solved.

  "And yet," I swallow, "yet, Bombay managed to keep its blood-lines pure." My voice tapers off but my mind is racing with questions. How had they done this? Unless, unless they have a way of keeping us hybrids out.

  But if they did, why haven't I heard about it before?

  My lips curl back and I want to snarl and demand he stop playing games with me, but instead I ask, "And how did the people of this city keep the purity of their genes? How did you stay 100% human with so few left?"

  "We are selective about who we let into the city, and who we take on as partners and spouses." He pauses, looking at me thoughtfully, "In fact it makes me wonder what you are doing here. What are you up to, Leana?"

  He stares at me, and there's this expression on his face, a wise, knowing look that sears through me. I blink, but can't look away. I am trapped in that all seeing stare of his.

  The hairs on my forearms stand on end, and I know then that he knows what I know. He knows who I really am.

  No, he doesn't. He has no idea. Him and his tall stories.

  And if he does know, if he has guessed that so quickly, then he can't live. Not if he's guessed my ancestry, my true identity, or where I am headed with the sword.

  I pull the blade out of its sheath and leap at him.

  Sept 30, 2060. 7pm

  Bam. Bam. Bam. Those drums are so loud. Who's beating them so?

  I stir and pain shoots through my skull, bouncing off one side, swinging to the next and back to the other side, and back again.

  BAM. BAM. BAM. The beating intensifies, sparking red behind my eyeballs, knocking against my ears with such violence, everything goes quiet for a second before the sounds from the outside world rush right back, smashing straight into the bottom of my skull. I groan.

  Die. Die now. Anything is better than this horrible, horrible pain that's tearing me apart.

  A touch to my forehead, and something cool flows over my head, over my hair, down my feverish cheeks, splashing over my chest and taking some of the pain with it.

  Then there's a pause during which the pain rushes in again, greedily, taking over, and then the water flows in again.

  Pain.

  Water.

  Pain.

  Water.

  The ebb and flow is killing me. The lack of pain only makes the return of the throbbing so much worse. The contrast hurts much more than being bathed in one long stream of pain. All. The. Time. I push myself up to my feet, swaying, dragging my legs, one step. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Keep counting. Keep going. I walk up the beach. Half way up the shore and I am sinking down and falling slowly.

  I open my eyes and blink a few times to clear them. In front of me, all I can see is black and brown and gray. No, it's sand. Sand. I'm on the beach.

  Darkness has fallen and the tide has crept in after me, lapping at my feet now. I bring a hand up to touch my forehead, and a spark of red and yellow shoots through my skull. My hand falls to the side. There's a throb at the base of my skull.

  Getting up to my feet, I walk slowly up the rest of the beach. Reaching the low wall skirting the garden behind it, I lower myself against it, leaning my head against the bricks. Ah! That's better. My neck's not strong enough to support me yet. I close my eyes and drift.

  A dog barks in the distance, the palm trees rustle from somewhere overhead. The waves come in with a swoooooosh and pull back with a swaaaaaash.

  I breathe in and out. In and out. Flow in with the wave and out again. In and out. In and out. The rhythm calms me, lulls me a little, and sleep creeps in on the wings of the next wave. Then a laugh peals through the air. A girl screams with surprise. More laughter and a boy yells, "I am so gonna get you."

  I turn slowly and, by the time I look over the wall, they have run past me and towards the outline of a building in the distance.

  There are colored lights outlining a small minaret, pyramidal almost. A temple? Now that I focus on the scene, I'm not sure, but I think there are stalls stretching out from the main building and moving figures milling around it. A warm breeze blows the faint notes of music towards me.

  What's this? A celebration of some kind?

  The building ahead looks vaguely familiar. Where have I seen it before? I get to my feet, ignoring the knock of pain against my temples. Out of habit, I feel for the sword nestled against my back and then swear. It's not there. Of course not. He took it. Why, that old conniving bastard.

  Anger bubbles up under my skin, pushing aside the last vestiges of pain, so my nerve endings all snap to attention. I turn back to look at the yawning darkness behind me. Aki, the lamp seller. The most skilled swordsman in this new world. He'd been waiting for me. He knew who I was, where I was going. He hit me, injured me, took my swor
d and pushed me overboard.

  Now, I'm furious. The blood rushes to my head and I swear aloud. You stupid, stupid girl. That doddering old man got the better of you. Okay, so not that doddering, and he was pretty good with a sword. But he was old, one-foot-in-the-grave old, and yet you couldn't defeat him. He was better than you, way better than you, and he kicked your ass, all right. Now, what are you going to do? You sad little girl!

  I growl aloud, adrenaline rushing through my bloodstream.

  Every individual hair on my body stands on end. My eyes refocus, searing through the dark. My night vision readjusts and I take in the scene. Every. Little. Detail. I make out the carvings of the temple; the red-brick colored minaret shooting up; the individual statues scattered in the courtyard, colored in lurid blues and greens; and around it, people. I look down and see the hair on my arms stand up, and grow longer and thicker.

  No. No. No. Don't give in. Not now.

  A burst of energy has me leaping over the wall and I jog towards the temple.

  Keep moving, keep going.

  I know where I am, now. It's the temple I had seen from the ferry, the temple of the Hugging Saint. Hug boy's temple. Apparently the lamp seller dropped me off here. But, why, why would he do that?

  I'm not sure. I don't know why I'm going to the temple either. But it's like the animal inside–the wolf–is taking over.

  No, I cannot. I will not let that happen.

  I fist my hands at my side and will the nails to retract. To my relief, they obey me. For now.

  Take a deep breath.

  Another.

  Another.

  Keep going.

  I walk past the brightly colored stalls along the perimeter of the grounds. My nostrils quiver as I smell freshly made snacks. My mouth waters, and I swallow down the pang of hunger that leaps up into my mouth.

  I reach a stall selling small mounds of sweetened cheese shot through with saffron threads, sprinkled with cardamom powder, and slivered with almond and pistachio. I can't move further. Have to eat. Have to get my hands on the food.