There’s a portly preacher man up on stage with the animals. He’s whiter than Frosty’s taint and he’s blowing hard about respecting their superiors, the sentient creatures that have put up with human abuse for so long. His purple robes are tattered and unwashed.
Looks like a homeless Grimace, Uncle Ray whispers to Jojo. Jojo bites the edge of his hand so that he does not disrupt Worship with his laughter—drawing blood even, but Jess does not get the joke. Uncle Ray just tells her it was something from before her time. Jess wonders if this Grimace was an Old God, one that will soon return to spread his mighty gospel.
Some short little cotton-candy-haired old lady in a crinkled paisley tunic kneels in front of the goat, and then brings its damp beard to her lips. Her face is full of glistening tears. It looks like someone filled up a water balloon with her makeup inside and threw it at her face to see how it might come out.
Jess wonders what makes the preacher man pick a particular member of the audience and match them up with one of these beautiful beasts. She simultaneously wishes for and fears this privilege. Will she ever be chosen? And if so, how will it change the course of her young life?
Jojo finds the jokers that took the Mr. Martin meat. Right under their noses, two blocks south on Slater Street. The scavengers had eaten about half of it, including the private parts (which every pamphlet claims are the most nutritious bits, but Jess refuses to try them). The Tyler family passes through a door that is not only unlocked but barely hanging on its hinges. Uncle Ray and Jojo take the back end of a hammer to each of the thieves’ heads while they are laughing the night away in their mildewed basement, lit up on some homemade hooch. A bootleg videotape plays in the background, some ancient banned television program where an adorable wisecracking alien puppet tries to eat the family cat. Jess observes the scene from the top of the stairs without a sound and feels nothing. Jojo curses about the blood splattered on the new blue jeans he just bartered for.
Uncle Ray and Jojo will not face any prison time for this murder. In fact, should they even bother to inform the proper authorities, they might be rewarded with a medal and a meal of choice from the Gourmet District, where the wealthy have many untapped resources and prison slaves. Meat theft is punishable by death, not regulated by the state, so says the Eat Treaty. But Uncle Ray is a humble man. He only wants to provide for his family and keep his home safe. Jojo—not so much. He will likely leak the information to his source at the Print Shop and get his picture in next Sunday’s pamphlet.
Now the family has rescued the rest of Mr. Martin, plus the added the bonus of the thieves and some other flesh of indeterminate origin that was crammed in the back of the thieves’ fridge. The mystery meat is scaly and scabby, but unquestionably human. Any potential disease or contamination will cook right out. Any foul tastes can be masked with cumin and garlic powder. The Tyler House freezer is so full that the door barely closes. Jess wonders if—in the old world—it had been a crime to steal from thieves, to reclaim what had been unjustly taken. Jojo tells Jess that Robin Hood was probably gay, because why else would he be worrying about stealing and giving back to the poor when he could just be boinking a babe like Maid Marian? That even in the Disney version, she was a real fox. Jess just shrugs, another reference from the old world lost on her.
Jojo guards the stash with his life. He can forget about his little lady friend for a while unless she stops by for supper sometime. Supper in the traditional sense. Traditional in the post–Great Reverence sense. More important matters to attend to here. Duty calls.
On an overcast Sunday afternoon, Jess and Uncle Ray make a trip to the farmers market. Chickens trot freely among the people as if they have their own shopping agenda, so many crowded into some spots that their loose feathers in the air appear to be the result of an impromptu pillow fight. Their clucking is metronomic, trance-inducing. Jess stops at a booth where a husband, wife, and son are selling their family flesh. Each of them is missing some piece that was once aesthetically necessary or even quite useful, but not essential to survival. An earlobe, the tip of a nose, a tongue, some fingers. Jess stares at the son. He is around her age and, strangely, is missing exactly the same fingers on exactly the same hand as she. She feels something stir within her, a kinship-gone-crush that she refuses to vocalize, but they at least exchange crooked smiles. The boy has only a handful of teeth left. Enamel is a precious bargaining chip in these times.
Jess spies an old woman behind the family, what remains of her slumped in a wheelchair. She is a quadruple amputee, also missing much of her face, and appears to have had a double mastectomy. Now that Jess’s own breasts are beginning to develop, she wonders if and when they will be large enough to become a useful commodity. To offer the purest of milk to all those who seek it. Uncle Ray has already been underlining passages in the Breast section of the Eat Treaty.
A cream-colored substance oozes from the old woman’s nasal cavity and a fly hungrily rubs its legs together in the curve of her remaining lip. The fly seems to be well aware that the old woman cannot swat it. Jess studies the woman clinically. She presumes the family made a decision that Gramma had lived the longest life and therefore should be the first to be sold off at the market so that the rest of the family might thrive for a few more weeks. Jess knows this because her own Gramma went through the same process when Jess was still a toddler. She does not remember this, but Uncle Ray brings the fact up more than is necessary.
Jess sees an emaciated, androgynous child peddling professionally bagged rat droppings. She barters a piece of flesh that once belonged to the thieves, a tiny, lean patch that she has hidden from Uncle Ray all morning, knowing that trading for this bag of droppings will put her in Jojo’s good graces when she gifts it to him. Jojo and his girlfriend snort the precious droppings on special occasions, and their anniversary is coming up. The droppings offer some strange level of high that Jess is curious about, but not curious enough to pilfer any of the droppings for herself. Her body is a temple and no waste shall enter its gates.
Uncle Ray purchases a bag of oranges because he claims Jojo has been deficient in his vitamin C consumption lately and is at risk for scurvy. That is all the currency they have for today.
As they leave the market, there are true vegetarian protestors politely picketing off to the side so as not to actually obstruct any foot traffic. They wield signs that say ALL MEAT IS SACRED—DON’T EAT SOMEONE WHO COULD BE THE NEXT EINSTEIN OR MLK OR POL POT and A WORLD WITHOUT MEAT=A WORLD REALLY NEAT. Jess is curious as to why they would not picket the entrance, as people leaving have already made their purchases and made up their minds. But she sees worth in their cause, will sneak away from home one day when Uncle Ray is in a drunken coma and attempt to learn more, maybe even join in the protest if she feels it worth the effort.
Jess attends Worship by herself the following Sunday. Uncle Ray is taking care of Jojo, who has come down with a case of something that may or may not be chicken pox. She stops by the market to speak to the meat-free protestors, but is disillusioned by the fact that most of them appear to be taking a break rather than staying focused on their cause. They are drinking some milky beverage made of flaxseed. So she moves on for now. At the church, the pews are near empty, perhaps because there is a Sacrifice Lottery on the other side of town. Everyone wants to know who will be next obese denizen to be consumed in the communal feast, but Jess just rolls her eyes at the thought.
The purple priest is reading rewritten Leviticus passages, practically singing them in a bouncing-ball cadence. He has an almost beautiful and soothing voice, like an angel’s harp that is slightly off key. Nothing matters until the animals are brought out to gaze upon. An alpaca with its fur dyed blue, a pug/shih tzu mix in a too-tiny pink T-shirt that says “Lil’ Princess,” and—
Jess’s solo attendance today is like sweet serendipity, for the third animal that sits on the stage is everything she has hoped for. She immediately recognizes that long, thin maw lined with jagged razors, and eyes with
a cold stare that burrows into her soul.
A gharial.
The last gharial, or one of many—this does not matter at this moment. What matters is that such a creature exists at all. Extinction is a myth that can be disproven with just one subject.
The priest notices Jess’s excitement, makes eye contact with her, and beckons to her. It is as if he has been holding out for this very moment, taunting her for months upon years with the idea that she was not worthy. That there are not many attendees to choose from this particular Sunday is beside the point. This is Jess’s time to shine.
She approaches the stage. She is trembling, but she does not give a single damn. The gharial is indifferent to her approach, but Jess expects this. A gharial is not a golden retriever waiting patiently for its human companion to return home so that it may lick upon his or her face. A gharial is cold and calculating, but it is still beautiful.
It is the closest thing to God that Jess has ever known.
Jess reaches out her hand with the missing fingers, knowing that the likelihood of losing the fingers on her other hand is slim, but still possible. Those teeth do not lie.
The old scars along her arm are striped in perfect indented lines like tribal tattoos. She reaches, she approaches. The gharial seems to be almost sleeping, probably dreaming of the gorgeous swamp it calls home and the plentiful fish that only it is allowed to consume without repercussion.
Jess kneels before the gharial, her finger stumps twitching, her destiny fulfilled.
Chad Stroup received his MFA in fiction from San Diego State University. His short stories have been featured in anthologies like Splatterlands, Creature Stew, and the San Diego Horror Professionals series, and his poetry has appeared in the first three volumes of the HWA Poetry Showcase. Secrets of the Weird, Stroup’s debut novel, is forthcoming from Grey Matter Press. Visit Subvertbia, a home for some of his short fiction, poetry, and reviews at subvertbia.blogspot.com, and drop by his Facebook page as well at facebook.com/ChadStroupWriter.
Voice of the Mountian
by
Roger Dale Trexler
Long before the white man came to southern Illinois, the indigenous tribes of men heard the voice of the mountain. It spoke to them when the rain fell and when the wind blew, and it told them of things that were to come. Oftentimes, it did not so much speak as emit a feeling. It gave them glimpses of the future. They foresaw the Trail of Tears, with thousands of Indians traversing the area around Ka-she-la, which the white men called the Santorian Mountains. They saw death and suffering and it drove many of them mad.
They tried to make the mountain stop talking to them by offering up sacrifices. Fearing the wrath of the gods, the superstitious natives chose ancient rituals of blood to appease the mountain. Many virgins perished in their effort to silence the mountain’s voice, but the mountain refused to quit speaking.
Over time, those who did not go mad were driven away from the mountain by the constant voice.
And, in time, the white man came to the area and the legend of the voice became known to him.
It was said that the white man silenced the voice of the mountain. But, it was not completely true. The voice merely had no desire to speak to the white man, so it remained silent, and the indigenous tribe that heard the voice was told to keep it to itself by the mountain.
The voice had no use for the white man. It had seen into the future and knew what was to come.
In time, the tribes scattered and became a part of the white man culture and the voice stopped talking.
Tonya Redcloud looked at the Santorian Mountains with awe. Her genealogical studies had brought her to the mountain range, and she was looking forward to discovering more about her family there. She had done enough research to know that she was descendent from a part of the tribe that originally populated the area, and she had come in contact with relatives who had told her there was an ancient burial ground in the mountains. It was said those graves were marked with headstones—which seemed odd to her because it was not a Native American custom to mark their graves—and she set out to take pictures and rubbings of those headstones.
Still, as she exited her car, she felt a chill run through her. It was a hot late June day and the air was so thick you could wear it, but the chill ran through her nonetheless. A soft breeze had blown out of the trees like a hot breath from hell when she stepped out of her car, but then died out to a quiet calm that made the air heavy and hard to breathe. There was an eerie feeling that she could not shake, but she unloaded her backpack and started along the trail that led up the mountain.
There were no other hikers on the trail, yet the trail appeared to be well traveled. It was as if some mysterious force of nature would not allow the grass to overgrow the path up the mountain. Indeed, it appeared as if the Parks and Recreation people had visited the trail just that morning to clear the path off.
Tonya also found that odd, but it did not deter her from walking down the path into the woods.
Less than fifty feet into the woods, she turned. She could not see her car, and the path back that way seemed strangely overgrown and hazy.
For a moment, Tonya thought about running back to the car and driving away. But she was young and stubborn and foolhardy, and she had set her mind to traveling into the woods and finding the rumored ancient graveyard of her ancestors.
She blinked her eyes, and suddenly the fog lifted and the trail was visible again.
“What the hell?” she said. She shook her head as she stared at the now-clear path. The feeling that she needed to run back to her car was again almost overwhelming, but then the wind blew through the trees and she thought she heard a soft voice say: “Stay.”
She turned, bewildered.
“Hello?” she shouted.
The wind rustled through the leaves again, but it was just the wind.
I heard it, she thought. I heard a voice. I wasn’t imagining things. It was real.
“Yes,” she said. “Speak to me again.”
This time when the wind blew she heard: “Come.”
The shiver that ran down her spine then was more from excitement than fear. Somehow, some way, she knew the voice of the mountain was calling her to come see it. She did not know why. Perhaps, she reckoned, it was her Native American ancestry and her people’s acute awareness of the spiritual world. Or maybe, she thought as another shiver ran through her, it was a ghost calling.
Then, as quickly as it had chilled her, the shiver went away. The voice of the mountain was still speaking to her, if not in language, in feeling. As the chill dissipated, she knew it was, without a doubt, a ghost that called to her. It had to be. Slowly, she came to the realization that what was calling her was something that had not been heard in the Santorian Mountains in a long, long time. Her fear was gradually replaced with excitement, and she answered the voice.
“I’m coming,” she said.
She started walking again.
She looked up at the sky and saw that the sun seemed to shine down brighter upon her. There were odd sounds coming from the forest. They were sounds that had not graced a forest in millions of years.
She walked on a few steps but stopped and gasped in amazement as something ran across her path.
A small, knee-high dinosaur turned and looked at her. It regarded her for a moment, then squawked and ran off into the bushes.
A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped.
Turning, she saw a woman. She was dressed in the skin of an animal, but not any animal she had ever laid eyes upon.
“Do not fear,” the woman said. “You have been brought here for a reason.”
The woman smiled and, oddly enough, what fear Tonya had was gone.
The woman said: “My name is Malhalla. I am the one who called to you.”
“You … called … to … me?”
Malhalla nodded. “I have been waiting a very long time for you,” she said. “But I always knew you would come.”
Tonya shook h
er head and closed her eyes, thinking she was imagining the woman. Yet, when she re-opened her eyes, Malhalla was still there, still smiling.
“I am real,” she said. “At least, I was.”
“You were?”
“Yes,” Malhalla said. “I lived on your plane of existence once, a long time ago.” She pointed.
Tonya turned to see a vision of what used to be. Huts lined the path ahead of her. All around her, she saw there was life as Native Americans went about their daily business.
“What is this?” she asked.
Malhalla said: “We were a great tribe once. Your historians call us the Mississippians, but that is not what we called ourselves. We lived off the grace of the land and we were at peace. ” She smiled again. “We heard the voice of the mountain back then. Your people have forgotten it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It is simple, really. Your people and your world have lost touch with reality. You do not hear Mother Nature’s call any longer … and she is calling you. She’s pleading with your kind to stop what you are doing … before it’s too late.”
Malhalla took Tonya’s hand and together they walked into the ancient Mississippian village. Women were playing with children and cooking while men worked in the fields.
“Do you see it?” Malhalla asked.
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