Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu (19 page)

He was sitting up, leaning
against the couch and his eyes were open, regarding me hazily.
Relief overwhelmed me, if from nothing more than having a friend to
share my fears with. Cringing like a whipped dog, I knelt beside
him and he stroked gentle fingers through my hair.

“What’s happening to me?” I
whimpered.

“Althaia,” he said. “You’re
becoming har.”

“It hurts.”

“I know.”

“You went through this? Why
didn’t you warn me? How long?” I bit my lip to keep from
crying.

“Hush,” he said. “It takes
about three days. I won’t lie to you, it’ll be rough. But you’ll
make it. You’re strong, Jareth. And when it’s all over, you’ll be
like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, beautiful as you were
meant to be. I promise.”

That calmed me down, some.
Three days. It wasn’t permanent, then. I could endure for three
days. But now, as the fear receded, a tide of anger washed over
me.

“How did this happen? You
didn’t cut me and force your blood into my veins. Isn’t that what
they did to you?”

“You must have absorbed my
blood through your burned face,” he said. “Apparently it didn’t
take much to restart the process.”

“What the hell are you talking
about?”

He sighed. “I don’t know how
much longer I’ll be conscious. I’ve lost a lot of blood, Jareth,
and I need to go back into a trance soon. Can you get me some
water?”

I pulled a bottle from the
saddlebags and handed it to him. He drank greedily.

“What do you mean, restart the
process?”

Kithara wiped the back of his
mouth. “I believe that you went through a partial althaia when you
were younger. That’s what caused your face to look burned.”

“What! I wasn’t really burned?
What are you talking about?” I turned and flopped down in
exhaustion next to him. There’s nothing like having a truth that
has defined you; that you’ve lived with every day for much of your
life, revealed as a lie. But I was too drained to feel as angry as
I should. “Hold on. I need some medication before I listen to what
you creeps did to me.” I got my pipe out again, sucked in a
hit.

With a little smile, he reached
out a hand. “I could use some of that. My back feels like someone
smacked it with a sledgehammer.” I handed him the pipe. He took a
hit and blue smoke issued from his lips. He closed his eyes. Long
moments passed. “Much better,” he said dreamily.

“Don’t you go away, shithead.
Not until you explain what happened to me.”

“Not now, Jareth. I can feel
myself slipping away and I have something more important to tell
you. I need you to remove the bullet because I can’t finish the
healing process with the metal lodged in my flesh, disrupting the
fields. You’ll need something to clamp off the arteries so I don’t
bleed to death.”

“Oh god, Kithara, I
can’t...”

“Yes,” he gripped my arm. “You
can.” He shook me. “Stop freaking out and pay attention. If I don’t
make it, you’ll have to go back to Carmine City on your own, seek
out Thiede, and take aruna with one of our hara. If you don’t do
it, the change won’t be fixed. You won’t be whole and your body
will start to degenerate.”

“Oh crap. What’s aruna?”

“It’s harish sex.” He gave me a
wan smile.

That didn’t sound so bad except
that the transformation was kicking in again. My whole body began
itching, as if insects were crawling under my skin. Frantically, I
scratched at my bare legs.

He grabbed my hand, curled his
fingers around it. “You mustn’t do that. It could leave permanent
marks. Give me some more of your poppy. Let me sleep.”

I gave him the pipe again.
“Kithara, I’m scared. I can’t do any of this. Not by myself.”

He didn’t respond, instead he
took a hit, slumped back against the couch. His eyes closed. I
watched him relax and the pipe dropped from his hand onto the rug,
scattering chunky ashes. “No, you bastard, you can’t leave me
again!” I yelled, shaking his arm.

I heard his voice in my head.
Remove the bullet, Jareth. I’m counting on you.
Then his
consciousness winged away, like a sparrow. I was truly alone
now.

Jesus. Okay, remove the bullet.
What did I need? Boiling water? They always boiled water in the
movies. I guess it was to disinfectant the instruments. I had a
pocket knife to cut him with but I’d need to find something to
clamp the artery so it didn’t bleed and I’d need bandages, lots of
them, and a needle and thread. They must have those things around
here somewhere.

I started to get up, but the
pain hit me again, shrieking through my body like a whirlwind of
locusts. I curled up into a ball, moaning, clutching my stomach,
and then entered a realm of demons that seared my eyes with hot
pokers, pulled out my intestines in long, snaky tubes, and gnawed
off my testicles.

Awake, panting, drenched in
sweat. The pale light of dawn vented in through the windows, giving
the house a light, airy feeling as if we were outdoors. The fire
had burned down to embers. I felt almost normal. Apparently, it was
a respite in my transformation. With a start, I sat up, and looked
over at Kithara. He lay at an angle, his face turned towards me, a
braid of his bright hair escaping from the red bandana. Such an
exquisite face. I stroked a finger down his long, narrow nose and
across a high cheekbone. I wondered if he’d always been this
beautiful or if becoming har had enhanced his natural appearance?
His skin appeared waxen. Was he dead? I put my fingers to his neck,
and after long agonizing minutes, felt a faint pulse. Hysterical
laughter bubbled up from my gut. I didn’t know if I could bear
another night like the last one, spent literally in hell. I only
hoped I could get the bullet out of him before the pain hit me
again.

Stiffly, I rose to my feet and
tried to walk. Had to hobble Quasimodo-like, one leg dragging
along. I found the saddle bags that I’d pulled off the bike the
night before. Ravenous, I devoured one of the apples I’d packed
while at the circus, which seemed like an eternity ago, and chugged
down an entire bottle of water. Now it was time. I couldn’t put off
the surgery anymore.

I went into the bathroom,
studiously avoiding looking at myself in the mirror, and ripped the
shower curtain off its rod. Searching through the drawers and
medicine chest, I found some bandages, a bottle of alcohol,
tweezers, and an eyelash curler, which I thought might work to
clamp off the artery. I came back and dumped these things next to
the sink. Rummaging around in the kitchen, I found a large pot into
which I poured the alcohol, then added my pocket knife and the
other instruments. They landed with loud metal clunks. A thorough
search of drawers in a back bedroom finally yielded a packet of
needles and a spool of white thread. They would have to do.

Spreading the shower curtain
out on the floor by the fire, I rolled him onto it, threw some logs
on the fire and poked it up ‘til it crackled, warming the air. I
brought a lamp over so I could see, plugged it in, angled it so the
light shone on his back, then went to the kitchen sink and
thoroughly washed my hands. I carried the pot of implements over,
setting it next to him, then used my lighter to sterilize the
needle and the edge of the knife, which I set on a clean paper
towel, along with the eyelash curler and the tweezers.

The area around the bullet
wound was puffy and bruised; red streaks radiated from the
blackened hole. This didn’t look good at all. I wondered how deep
it went. Okay, Jareth, breathe, I told myself. I made an incision
across the hole, extending the cut on either side. The skin was
surprisingly tough and I had to lean on my hand to put enough
pressure on the blade to cut through. Dark blood ran from the wound
in small rivulets. I forced the incision open with my fingers and
then had to stop and clench my stomach muscles to keep from
puking.

More blood began to spurt from
the incision. I found the little artery and clamped it with the
eyelash curler, a feat that was not easy as the artery was like a
piece of spaghetti. I pinched shut the other side of the artery,
knotted the end of the thread around, and tied it off. It seemed to
hold. Then, I sucked in a breath, stuck my finger in the hole, and
probed about. Shit, I couldn’t find it. Needed to go deeper. The
hole was filling with blood and I could hardly see. I ran to the
kitchen and frantically dumped out drawers until I found a turkey
baster. Ah, that might work. I sterilized it and used it to suck
out the blood. Once that was done, I cut further down into the
muscle.

A warning streak of pain shot
through my abdomen. Praying to whoever would listen, I murmured,
“Please, don’t let it start now. Just give me a little longer.”
Probing further with my finger, I finally felt a small oblong
object. At that moment, Kithara flinched and hissed through his
teeth. “Hang in there buddy,” I said. At least he was alive.

Holding the wound apart with my
fingers, I grabbed the bullet with the tweezers, wrenched it free,
and held the bloody thing up to the light. It really didn’t seem
big enough to have caused all this trouble, but it looked wicked,
its nose flattened by the impact. Great gouts of blood were pumping
out of the wound and I realized the knot on the artery must have
come loose. Fighting both my nausea and more searing bursts of
pain, I sucked the wound clear with the baster, found the artery
again, and tied off both ends. Then, I pulled the lips of the wound
together and sewed up the hole, even though every time I shoved the
needle through the skin, it caused me to grind my teeth in disgust.
I never imagined sewing living flesh like a pair of ripped jeans.
Here I was, Dr. Frankenstein, patching together dead bodies. I
taped bandages over the wound, then sat back, feeling dizzy. The
shower curtain underneath us looked like I had slaughtered a pig on
it. There was a bright, metallic smell. I ran to the front door,
opened it to reveal the broadening light of a fair morning, and
puked up apple slush on the doorstep.

Kithara lay on the couch under
a blanket, his body haloed by golden light. That, at least, seemed
a good sign to me. I didn’t think he could do that if he was dead.
As for me, I was back in my own private hell, rolling about in pain
on the bloody shower curtain, alternately boiling then freezing. My
skin peeled off in great gray sheets stuck with bits of flesh. I
thanked whatever deities might be in attendance that the owners of
the house hadn’t returned because I could imagine their reaction to
the horror being played out on their living room floor. Kithara had
promised it would be over soon and I clung to that idea like a rat
on a raft. I need only endure.

My memory fluttered off to an
earlier time of pain when I had awakened in the hospital with my
face and body burned. On the television screen in the room, I saw a
time-lapse vid of a caterpillar transforming into a butterfly.
Fascinated, I watched the creature twitch and writhe in a strange
dance within its thin-skinned chrysalis. I had imagined that the
caterpillar was dreaming of its rebirth as a beautiful creature,
and thought how fantastic it would be if I could do that, climb
into a shell of skin and emerge new and unburned, spreading my
gorgeous wings in triumph. Now, wracked with pain, I wondered if
the caterpillar had been writhing, not in joy, but in agony. What a
cruel joke of nature if that miraculous transformation was actually
a time of caterpillar hell. I cursed the Wraeththu for inflicting
this horror on me, and vowed that if I survived, I’d make them pay
for it.

Night came and another day
after it. I clawed and bled and cursed and prayed, while my
caterpillar parts rearranged themselves.

It was night again. The serene
light of a waxing moon shone in the windows transforming the room
to ghostly silver. I sat up, weak, shaking, as if I’d been through
a long illness. Kithara’s face looked cold and pale in the
moonlight, his hands folded like wings upon his chest, like one of
those marble sculptures atop a tomb. I shivered. Was he dead?
Rising, I stumbled over to where he lay, felt his neck, cold and
dense under my fingers. No pulse.

Oh god, no, it couldn’t be! Had
I killed him? I pulled him to my chest, sobbing. Please no. Don’t
leave me. Not after all this. In terror, my mind walked away on
dark paths.

I found myself standing at the
door of the house looking out into the stoic ranks of trees, the
towering, primeval forest, and feeling a terrible pain in my heart.
This was the moment I had foreseen and now I understood its
meaning. I had reached the low point of my life. I loved him. How
tragic to discover it at the moment that he was lost to me.
Everything I’d known or thought I’d known had been a lie. I was
broken. My whole body ached and I was tired beyond imagining. What
should I do now? Bury him? Then, try to find the mythical Thiede?
Was the transformation complete? Dare I look at myself to see? Or
should I just get out Sligo’s pistol and end it?

There! I saw a faint shimmer
among the trees. Rapidly, it approached and I could discern a being
of light. An angel? A god? Was I dead too, then? It came closer,
gossamer robes floating about a tall, slender body with a face of
stunning beauty, surrounded by braided ropes of hair, gray in the
moonlight. He or she? I couldn’t tell. It stopped about twenty feet
away from me, cocked its head to one side.

“Hello there Janus, god of
beginnings,” it said in a surprisingly silky voice with echoing
undertones. “How fitting that you stand in a doorway, examining
both your past and your future.”

“Who are you?” I asked,
amazed.

“Can’t you guess? I am
Thiede.”

I stood there gawping like a
rube until he said, “I imagine you have questions. Aren’t you going
to ask me in?”