The New Death and others (2 page)

As Abi-simti wandered the streets of Telelee,
too fretful to sit still, a cat crossed her path. It was a moggy
with white fur, and a black patch on one eye. This cat rubbed
itself against her leg, as cats do to mark their territory. To be
precise, it chose her left leg, which ended in a hoof, and thus
stood as proof that even her power had limits. Abi-simti was not
minded to receive this lesson. In fury she cried,

"May the Crone turn the water of your bowels
to ice, O cat! Your lordly self-satisfaction shall not go
unchallenged. You who have claimed territory shall instead be both
conquered, and the means of greater conquest". Saying this she
picked up Artemisia (for it was her), and made her way home with
great speed. Abi-simti was in despair no longer, but had a cunning
stratagem.

First she brought forth creatures of a far
star, who looked like shadows, but had substance, and who obeyed
her commands, though not willingly. She bade these creatures to go
forth, and gather the cats of Telelee. This they did, with silent
and terrifying efficiency.

Having dismissed the shadows, Abi-simti then
found with her arts an island that had no name, and no-one living
there. She summoned a djinn of the air to carry her there, along
with her feline captives. There she bound spirits of the water as
her slaves. They worked day and night for many months. Nigh every
tree on the island was felled, the rocks in the streams were cut
and shaped, and even the sand on the beach was fused into glass. At
the end of this time, there stood a huge harp. It was higher than
three elephants standing one atop the other, and had hundreds of
strings. There were metal fingers to pluck the strings, hundreds of
fingers for hundreds of strings, so that the harp seemed to be
caressed by a centipede of prodigious size.

But the strangest part of this harp was the
music it made. For the strings brought forth no sound. Instead,
when the mechanism was operated correctly, the metal fingers would
pluck a string. This plucking would cause cogs to turn wheels and
wheels to turn cogs, and at last a lever would fall. At the end of
this lever was a nail, and at the end of the nail was a cat, which
would yowl in pain. Abi-simti had arranged the cats so that the cry
of each one was the exact pitch that the corresponding string
should have made.

Having made this harp, Abi-simti caused it to
play. It played night and day, for as many months as her
djinn-slaves had toiled to build it. It was more strident than
nails scratching a blackboard, more revolting than the sounds
issuing from a communal latrine during an outbreak of
dysentery.

At last the music reached the ears of the
god. He said to the Snake-Wearers,

"In two worlds and millennia uncounted no
sound more strident or unmusical has defiled my ears. This
cacophony, surely, is the very embodiment of discordance, which I
hold dear. Therefore, O ten-taloned witches, go forth and find its
author, that you may bring them before me and I may praise
them."

This the Snake-Wearers did. They found the
nameless island, and Abi-simti.

"Are you the architect of this device, and
the music thereof?" they asked, and Abi-simti averred that she was.
"Then explain to us its construction," they demanded.

Abi-simti showed the witches the levers by
which she worked the fingers. She showed them the fingers that
plucked the strings, and the strings themselves, and the cogs that
the strings caused to turn. She pointed out the wheels that the
cogs moved, and the cogs which were moved by the wheels. Finally,
she discoursed upon the lever which responded to the wheels.
Lastly, aglow with pride and ambition, Abi-simti showed the
Snake-Wearers the nails, and the cats who were prodded by them.

"O Abi-simti," the Snake-Wearers said, "did
you not know that all witches are cat-lovers?" Having spoken, they
tore her apart.

What happened to the witches, whether they
returned to the god, and if so whether he slew them or forgave
them, is nowhere recorded. Yet it is told that there are untrod
places in the world where it is doom to play a harp.

In Telelee wise and venerable cats still tell
kittens of the time of their great-grandparents, when the shadow of
Death lay across the city.

The harp now lies in rusted ruin, and the
trees have all regrown. Through the wreckage, it is said, wild cats
prowl. Some have white fur with a black patch over one eye, and all
have an unmistakable air of smugness.

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The Enemy Within

The foreigners were everywhere. It was
extraordinary, when one took the time to look, how many one saw. It
was like the dirt in the house of a man who lives alone. The piles
of clothes build up and crumbs remain unswept, seen but not
noticed. Then one day company will be expected, and one will see as
if with new eyes.

Yet, he thought, surely a diamond in the muck
shines all the more brightly. There could be no greater contrast
than between his actions and theirs. Where they were cunning,
deceitful, and clever he was straightforward, blunt, simple,
direct. He epitomized the contrast between his people and theirs in
actions as simple as eating. He could not walk the street without
any number of exotic concatenations of oils, spices and flavors
beckoning to him. He disdained them all, choosing the hearty,
simple and satisfying food of his birth.

Even his appearance, his very clothing,
marked him as obviously local. Yet many of the foreigners wore the
same as anyone else, almost like a disguise, so that one might not
notice until they passed close. And, he thought, if a foreigner
might be mistaken for one of us...could one of us be mistaken for a
foreigner?

It was a strange thought. Yet once thought,
it could not be un-thought. His beard, for example. What could be
less foreign than that beard? It recalled the wizards of
mythology--or, more historically, the pioneers and woodsmen who had
carved this land from the wilderness. Yet the foreigners, too,
often wore long beards. It was like one of those disturbing
pictures which was a candle-stick one moment and a pair of faces
the next. In certain lights, from certain angles, a foreign face
seemed to look out from behind his own. It was sometimes hidden and
sometimes seen, like a gang lurking in the shadows of a church.

He shaved off his beard. There was no
question of keeping his mustache. A man with a mustache and no
beard appears sleazy, untrustworthy; an oily carpet-seller, or
something worse. A smooth, clean, wholesome face presented itself
in the mirror. A face that, metaphorically and literally, kept
nothing hidden.

He had a vague idea that their religion
forbade cutting the hair, or cutting certain parts of it. He hardly
had long hair, not by today's standards. Yet if one was dressed for
winter, so that only a small amount of hair was visible, could a
mistake be made? He could not be sure that it would. Yet he could
not be sure that it would not. It was better to be safe than sorry.
This simple saying, he thought, had a deep wisdom. Not exotic, not
alluring--and therefore ignored by most--but good and true.

He looked at his new haircut with
satisfaction. It gave him a certain military air. And indeed he was
taking part in a kind of war, though one where homeland and enemy
territory were not distinct, but horribly mixed. Or perhaps he
could be compared to a monk, head freshly-shaved as a sign of his
vocation. A monk, or a priest...

Like one who wanders familiar paths,
unheeding of the way, and suddenly looks up to find themselves
lost, his thoughts led him from light to darkness. The thought of
priests reminded him of the shaven-headed priests of ancient Egypt;
tall, bald, wicked and hook-nosed. And with a shock, he realised
that he too could be described as hook-nosed. He could not believe
his eyes. He turned before the mirror, first one way and then the
other. He even raised his hands to his face and felt it, as if it
would prove to be false, as if it would come off like one of those
combinations of false nose and glasses that are sold in novelty
shops. Too blind to see the nose in front of his face. Another
commonplace saying with a profound truth.

He went out, and returned with a new knife.
The pain was unbearable, and he had to use whiskey to numb himself,
as well as maintain his courage. At last the part in question was
removed. It did not bleed nearly as much as he had imagined.

"There," he said. He raised a wisp of cotton
wool to the wound. But his hand did not complete the movement. It
hung in the air, as if he no longer commanded it, as he stared at
his fingers. His long, slim, covetous fingers.

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The End

"OK, that was a pretty scary story, but I
think I've got a better one." Rob paused to pop a roasted
marshmallow in his mouth. He stood up. In the flames of the
campfire his eyes seemed to glow, like those of a wolf in the
night.

"Once upon a time, not so long ago, a group
of friends went out camping. There were five young men and
women...but did I say five? In truth there were but four. For the
fifth member of their party was not the young man he appeared to
be. He was not a man at all; indeed, not even a living creature,
but one of the walking dead! Dear friends, there is a twist in the
tale. This is no story. Many years have I walked in the guise of
mortal man. Many thirsty years. Now, at last, I shall feed!" Rob
opened his mouth, now filled with long, wolf-like fangs, and howled
with inhuman laughter.

There was a long silence.

"Wow. This is awkward, Rob," said Jenny at
last. "I'm actually a vampire as well. But I guess we can split two
ways?"

"Three ways," said Mark.

"Oh, no
way
you're both vampires too,"
Rob said angrily.

"No, no. I'm a demon. I was hoping to tempt
you into sin and damn your souls. Well, Tim and Alice's souls
now."

A pair of bat-like wings, huge and leathery,
sprouted from Alice's back.

"Sorry. Succubus."

Tim raised his hand.

"I'm the coagulated rage of the murdered
children whose bodies lie beneath us. I regenerate, so I guess you
guys could eat a bit of me, but I'm kind of sour..." He trailed off
as the others shook their heads. Mark warmed his hands at the
campfire. Everywhere is too cold when you come from Hell.

"Man, what are the odds?" Rob asked no one in
particular. "I mean, you assume everyone else is a real human, am I
right?"

"I guess so," Tim replied. "I actually
stalked these four college kids last month? Turned out they were
the ghosts of some college kids I killed years ago. Pretty
embarrassing."

"You don't..." Alice began, then trailed
off.

"What?" Mark asked.

"Well, you don't think that they're all
gone?"

"Who?"

"Humans. Mortals. They haven't...I don't
know, died out?"

"What, so...so everyone's really a vampire or
a demon or something?"

"Well, yeah."

"No. No, no way. I mean, we'd know. You could
tell."

"You know," Mark said thoughtfully, "people
don't seem to be into forbidden magic any more. It's been so long
since anyone tried to sell me their soul. It was...actually I think
it was in the 20th century some time. Gee, that long. But no, no
way they could all be gone." He turned to the two vampires. "I mean
you guys get hunted all the time don't you?"

"Oh, for sure," Jenny nodded. "I'm always
thinking people are following me or about to throw holy water or
whatever. There was this old guy, Obadiah something. Wow, he just
didn't give up. Followed me pretty much the whole Civil War."

No one replied. The only sounds were the
insects and the fire. At last Alice broke the silence.

"Hey, if this was a TV show? The vampire
hunters would leap out at us about now, and they'd be all like 'we
didn't die, we just got real careful' or 'we're over here' or
something."

But no human sprang upon them. None at
all.

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If My Life Was Filmed

If my life was filmed, it would

go straight to DVD

and someone who was famous once

would have the role of me

and if five stars meant 'excellent'

you'd give it two or three

and most of those who rented it

would watch ironically.

Years later they would track me down

and do an interview.

They'd say "I heard you died," and I'd

say "Yeah, I heard that too."

"Is any of it fictional?"

"Perhaps a scene or two.

There weren't as many ninjas, but

the rest is mostly true."

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A Date With Destiny

Once upon a time there was a man who had a
date with Destiny. He dressed in his best clothes, made sure to put
on deodorant and aftershave, and masturbated beforehand, so that he
would not be led into error by lust. At the appointed time and
place he presented himself, flowers in hand.

Alas, he had never met her in person, but had
arranged the date through meetallegoricalfigures.com. And username
hotdestinyfate69 was not Destiny at all, but Ambition, who had used
Destiny's photo to get more messages. She meant to explain this
before meeting him, but always decided to do it later.

So Ambition turned up, presenting herself as
Destiny. She agreed with everything the man said, and the man found
her delightful. In truth the man liked the idea of going out with
Destiny, but probably would have found Destiny herself a bit bossy.
Ambition and the man stayed together, and lived happily ever
after.