by P. N. Elrod
It's all a food chain, round and round. The bigger eats the smaller. And what goes around may come around, but the hunger blots out the thought. Thinking is a terrible thing. As terrible as feeling… anything. No, I must eat life, step by evolutionary step, in order to break the bonds and forge new links, that I may become truly big or truly anything, and blot out the sky or seem to disappear…
They come to me. The Doctor cannot stop them. They have no bones, to make one choke—imagine that! You see, they carry theirs on their backs; an "ex-o-skeleton" it's called. It holds them together, this protective shell, not to mention giving them a certain crunchy je ne sais quoi. And they can move about in this jointed suit of armor, but they cannot grow. So it's shed at intervals in the process called "ecdysis." They molt and grow and molt and grow some more.
And so the Grand Experiment continues. First, with flies. They sniff my shit in the chamber pot and are drawn like, well… flies.
Phylum—Arthrapoda, Class—Insecta, Order—Diptera…
The Tale of the Fly
First. It was the smell that first attracted it. The fly. And the stillness. The scent of a human female, of a male, and another, who was lying flat—no longer human, but very nearly so.
Decay is-z-z-z-z-z… dizzying, like rotting meat. Ahh…
The fly, the proverbial on-the-wall-type fly, took in the intimate scene with its feelers, sense hairs, and compound eyes, like huge bulging buds atop its head. Patches of light and shadow; a young boy, grub-human and curious, entered the room. The fly, also curious, flit and rode in on his head, smelled his shining hair, and licked the oils with its's-s-sucking mouth. The boy stopped and stared at the body, which lay on the bed.
"T-Timmy," the female clicked and hummed. Her oils had a similar taste. The taste of Mother.
The other male, not flat, but standing grim, the one the Mother called "Doc-tor," hissed at the boy, "Stay out of the room!"
The shaking air wafted waste. Flesh, losing freshness, the turning of oils, excited the fly-e-e-e-e-e. It lit upon the Almost-Man, who was not really asleep, but near death. He too tasted like the boy, in a subtle sort of way, this Father-Flesh.
"But Mummy, I, I…"
The Mother-Flesh shook her head and sighed. The Great Doctor-Human pointed, "Out!" The fly landed on his medicinal nail, then the wall, and finally the bedsheet, which quivered for a moment—a pale foot stuck out and gasped for air—and then was still. The fly settled on a stubby toe, set its proboscis down and lapped the stillness and the sweat, the darkness that was nestled there.
"Timmy!"
And the boy ran out. Oh, there'd be other times to savor his youthful juice. For now the No-Longer-Father-Flesh was a treat the fly could not resist. But living smells invaded the feast. The mosaic blur that was the Mother missed the fly, but barely, as it leapt and flew, attaching itself to the overhead light. It could sense the looks it was getting. The Doctor-look, stern and arrogant. The Mother-look, with heaving breath, trickling the ancient odor of superstition.
"I am but a fly," he buzzed. And then was still. "I" was new. The death-sweat and the pain were new and surely belonged to the Dead. And yet he felt the Father no longer down below, but within his insect gizzard. It clung to his hairs and rimmed his eyes. Even his eyesight had somehow changed, although he wasn't exactly sure how.
Perhaps the Mother was to blame, with her woeful Mother-stare and the fear that souls can be stolen at the moment of death—all directed at this common fly and somehow made real. Or so the fly thought, with almost human craft.
Not even as a maggot had he felt such squirming novelty. The Father lay heavily on his wings, but he was able to make it out an open window. Soon his wondrous cargo no longer weighed him down. He felt so light and of light itself. Never had he flown so high. Could he fly to a place called Heaven? That was new too, this "Hea-ven," where he sensed could be found an Infinite Love and Infinite Wisdom and Infinite Sweetness, like the mixing of sugar and excrement, but sweeter still by far.
Open… gates… Heavy Father… Out! The gizzard… the flesh… Sucking… Dark… The Daddy-toe… Rotting meat… The chamber pot… Ecdysis… Decay… Ecdysis… Power… Dead centre… Chains…
Cut into Cut into Cut into Out!
The Nasty Heel of a Boot.
I never even got to touch his toe. Little things can have power too. The imploding heart… and he was gone. I was five and couldn't understand, and yet I knew that something had come crashing and would never fly again. My mother soon remarried; the tears had dried, I guess. And This Husband couldn't be, would never be… but now made real the striking of flesh and bone, rather than the birthing of flesh and blood.
Blood…
Fly Number 139. When I first began my Grand Experiment, I kept tally, of a sort, by notching the back of the door with a dinner knife after lights out. I now jot numbers down in a little book the Doctor has asked me to use. He insisted on a written entry, and not knowing what else to do, I laughed. He tried to confiscate my notching-tool and paid dearly for it. Oh, it was hardly a mortal wound. You're more likely to die from the food than a swipe from what was meant to cut into that crap. But he managed to bleed copiously—there on the floor. The taste was, exquisite! He was appalled at the sight of me lapping on all fours the puddle of his deep red. To this day, I am limited in my cutlery to only using a spoon. Now, a spoon takes more effort, but makes a more artistic gouge.
But I have agreed to also make entries in his "little book." He thinks it gives a sense of order to my world. Certainly to his, but not to mine. Numbers, like order, are not real. Thus have I rendered them meaningless. Number 81 sits beside the number 4, 21 beneath 39, and on and on. Oh, he will ponder and search for meaning, and when he finally deciphers a pattern, he thinks I may yet be cured. But the only pattern, and what is real are my notches on the door over there. They don't signify any number, but an instance of pleasure in the consumption of life. I have configured a wondrous thing, a veritable work of Art… and Magic. With each mark The Master is drawn that much closer. And when the pattern is complete, He will be here for me. There is as much method in my madness as in the doctor's. But Herr Doktor Seward, I look seaward for my salvation, ha! and I will never be your creature.
The cure is not in little books, but sailing here to Carfax. From out of His castle near the Borgo Pass, He comes where He is needed most. Soldier and alchemist, with a mighty brain, learning beyond compare, and a heart that knows no fear. I keep crude count, and oddly, but that Count Dracula may one night appear with that great lofty dome of His forehead, the aquiline nose, long sharp nails, extraordinary pallor, and vengeful red eyes that blaz-z-z-z-ze!
Order—Hymenoptera… yellow, black, and fuzzy… Apis… Apis…
The Tale of the Bee
The usual riot of color—the redyellowbluegreen of it all—and the smell, the woozy, intoxicating scents that teased and drew and beckoned; and they were all still about, but strange. Dulled and blunted almost beyond recognition. And the sun—high in the bright blue air, or had been. Don't know where to go; but go. And the bee, knocked almost senseless to reach the world it had known, hit a barrier it couldn't really see. And it hurt. The hardness and the heat. Glass; the bee had known this thing before, but then there was always some eventual escape from its cool deception. Now the bee was surrounded by that memory, but with metal on top and punched with holes. Bits of blue air sneaked in— a healing breeze—and roused the bee from its stupor. Sort of. For now it seemed to be flying, and yet its wings were still. Focus was not a simple thing, but the bee soon realized a young human was carrying the jar in which it had been trapped. The boy pressed his own proboscis against the glass. A monstrous face.
Boys will be boys.
Through the holes in the lid he poked blades of grass and bits of clover. Lovely clover. Its tantalizing odor revived the bee even more—enough to see an older male approaching the boy. The man's body seemed to weave, although this could have been a distortion of the glass. And w
ith a flashing thud, the jar flew out of the young boy's hand, landing in a soft clump of grass.
A few minutes passed before the bee could get its bearings. If the bee could've understood the human tongue, it would've heard the man, with slurring speech:
"Who're you laughing at, eh?" Slap! "Sneaking a peek at your Mum and me?! I'm on to you. You're no good." Slap! (Boys will be…) "Your Mum will give you away, and it'll serve you right. You're nothing and will always be. Fly-catching son-of-a-bitch!"
The Young One shakily challenged the Dominant Male. "I-It's a bee, and it's bee-eautiful."
Now, the bee could not follow this, and yet, and yet… Smack! And then the heady smell of blood. Beloved rose-deep-red trickling down the Monster-Boy's face.
"What do you know about beauty? Infant!"
And with the nasty toe of the boot, the Step-Father kicked the jar aloft. The glass-eyed planet panicked and flew by in flashes of light. The bee and all—shattered 'gainst a rock. On fire; and the bee was speared by a shard of glass.
Somehow… somehow, he found some humming spark and shook himself free. Bumbling and erratic, he weaved towards them through the air. He could no longer sense the sun's direction, and his aim was mostly gone. He didn't even know if he still had a stinger to do the job up proper. Blood-rose and clover bits would be the last to tempt his tender labium, but even that memory was thrown in shadow by the urge to inflict on another his pain and dying.
Boys will be boys, and bees will be; and with his last ounce he dove towards the moving smudges of light that were the Kick-Father and the Bleeding Son. Perhaps the bee would be able to pierce the Giant, the Killer of Beautiful Things and restore the world to its honeyed state. Nectar flows, and so does time…
Slap!… The tender labium… Sucking sweet… Nothing…
Nothing… Bee-eautiful… Boys will be… Poking…
Blades of grass… Shards of glass… Distortion… Trickling laughter red… The heat… The hardness…
Smack!
The Killer
Senseless.
Surrounded by memory and the healing breezzzze…
The usual riot.
***
I started up. I stirred things up. I deserved what I got. And I was bad. I was eight years old! Whose truth is true?
He confused my mother with his charm—and harm; kept us in check, then left with all our goods. Worldly. The bigger eats the smaller in a chain that circles the Earth.
So with much fretful caring, my mother, poor and broken down, did send me away, after all. Whose truth… ? She could no longer provide. She could no longer find it within herself. She could no longer find herself. But, in time, I soon found myself in a home for waifs and wayward youths!
Home…
If only I could sleep through until He comes. The Doctor can give me chloral, the modern Morpheus, C2HC13OH2O. No! My Un-dead Master comes; I mustn't be… un-ready.
I will welcome and invite Him in. Beings of His ilk cannot come unless bidden at first to enter. And then nothing can stop Him from slipping through the crack beneath the door or through the bars on the window on moonlight rays. Elemental dust that settles into something long and dark with fiery eyes. Bright avenging beacon; He is my only hope.
He is of the night, yet He does not cast a shadow, as do-gooding humans do. Shadow will be dispelled. I want no shadows! Nor can He reflect himself in a looking glass. One sees only oneself.
Mirror and shadow; why are they such mysteries? Why do they hound us so? The blow from a fist or a flick of a switch renders them quite useless. A scientific explanation renders them merely tedious. A vampire abolishes. He cuts through invention and natural occurrence, straddles the dimensions, and toys with perception with a flick of a thorny nail. This is a good thing! He takes away control from "X" and gives to "Y" with a piercing kiss.
In the dark pitch of perfect blackness shadows do not exist, nor does reflection.
Why am I so weak? I need sustenance—with something more than just six legs. Hmmm…
Eight-legged, with claws and an attitude, Class—Arachnida… Spinner of silken tales…
The Spider
Cool shadow and the damp pleased the spider. And corners— perfect home for its woven artistry, and more. There; the crumbling husks of a fly, and even a bee, once so, but then paralyzed with poison, and now sucked dry and bound up in steely strands of silk.
A quiet chattering drew attention. The spider knew that sound. The chattering of adolescent teeth. The young visitor yet again. His entrance was always sudden, loud and violent. A dark silhouette with a rumbling voice would push the boy into the underworld of the spider.
"And pray for forgiveness!"
The slam of a door. The momentary rising of dust. A short bout of whimpering. And then the chatter. And shivering. Bare white flesh—not much good for hiding. And in the course of time that it took the spider to drop along the thread of its dragline and cautiously approach the naked form, back off, and climb up to a ceiling beam, another silhouette had entered the basement storage room. He dropped a tin plate with a clunk and nudged it towards the youth with his foot.
"Food for Fido." Or Spot or Rex. The boy seemed to be called by a number of names. "No, you're a flea on a dog named Fido." Mocking laughter, then he was gone.
Now the spider had known the occasional flea. Not bad, but not very filling. Just what sort of flea was this pale chattering giant? Perhaps another dropping-down was in order. But the slow creaking of the door and the flickering flame of a candle held the spider back. And a quiet voice:
"Timmy?"
The faithful flea-boy drew a breath. "Brother Tom?"
"Poor lad; what will we ever do with you?"
"I didn't mean to hurt anyone. It was only a scratch. Morgan called me names, and Brother Jim, he…"
"He took his side; I know. It pays to be popular, I suppose. You must be freezing." He briskly rubbed the boy's cold chest from behind.
Then silence. The spider stared at the flickering of the tallow shaft. Light had brought a play of shadows into its domain. This was all proving quite the spectacle.
The bearer of light and warmth enfolded the naked youth in his baggy robe. The boy tried to pull away, but claws—the spider envied such claws—pressed against the slim neck. The boy, he tried to pull away! A tongue darted into Timmy's startled eyes, licked the salty tears away. The spider was impressed. Then
Brother Tom made the young boy's head seem to disappear in the woolen folds of his robe. No more chattering, but choking and gasping. Forceful arms and legs holding tight the struggle in. An elated shout… a muffled cry—quite the spectacle—ending in threatening tones:
"You mustn't tell. Ever. You were asking. I gave from the heart. The sin is yours. It could go very badly for you. I'd pray if I were you."
The spider dropped. The two already seemed half-paralyzed. Fear, and satiation. Tom held Tim in wrapping arms. It was as if they slept as the not-so-itsy-bitsy spewed out his thread from his spinneret. It was as if they dreamt him large. And so the silken threads became ropes of steel; cephalothorax and abdomen and legs with combs and claws now hugely spread. Inspired by their dreams, the spider sewed them shut. Wound airtight the eyes and nose and mouth. Too bad the boy had to be twined, but the spider couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. By midnight Brother Jim would find their mummified remains. And a dark and hungry god to feed, in the bowels of the home for waifs and wayward, wayward… !
Sewn shut… the naked shadows… prey for forgiveness…
the darting tongue… suck dry… the crumbling… flea
Flee
Flee
Flee!
The perfect home.
It was a consummation neither devout not to be wished. Things got more complex after that, and not a little absurd. He once told me to bite his tongue. I did it once. He liked it. But not too hard. It was sorely tempting to pierce straight through. But misbehavior would lead to being dunked in a bath of icy water and
left naked in the basement, shivering for hours. Some boys were tied up and hidden behind a screen for being too marked up for show. Bed wetters, stripped half-naked down below, had to face a wall and bang their heads and feet against the brick 'til they were swollen and dripping blood.
Blood.
It was not the slapping hands and fists that was the worst, but creeping… creeping hands that slid like slugs on a trail of slime. And places touched that should not have been. The Brothers swarmed like a plague of locusts. Gregarious, they spoiled with pennies and sweets, before despoiling their youthful charges. Us.
Things were done that should not have been! I cannot describe the pain of, of… entry. Perhaps if there had been love… But the bigger eats the smaller, and power is the game. I had to bury my underclothes, soiled and soaked with blood, in the playground after lights out.
And when, with time, I no longer felt the physical pain of, of… I knew that I was truly lost.
I want back the blood I shed! The years that were taken away from me. If it takes a thousand years, I swear… !
When The Master, Count Dracula comes, He will bring life everlasting. And then, how they all will quake! Wild justice will tame all those lily hearts, hiding stamen that stab, that have stabbed. No more. God is no shield. But a mask. Oh, let their souls try to upward go; I care not. It's blood I crave and the flesh and the deep dark earth. My Vampire-Lord doesn't deal with souls; He spits them out. Like seed. They sprout, rooted to this world, not the next. They will not join Sweet Jesus, though they will try and reach. But the heat of the sun turns cold and hollow. Winter cuts them down to size. And We will laugh.
