Written and revised over the past week. Hope you like it.
"Hold
Your Breath When the Devil Sings"
After
the Battle of Greenswards, Sergeant Bowman sat down next to me and
offered a black cigarette.
“How
many dead?” he asked.
“Fifty-six,”
I said.
“All
with that?” He pointed to my rifle.
“Mmm.”
“Eyes you got, man. Good eyes,” he said.
I
knew then and there. Through the brown waters of fatigue and senses
smashed into dysfunction, I knew. The notion was like a rifle-shot to
the head. I saw.
I
decided to play stupid.
“So,”
I said. “What and where next? Where d'we go next?”
He
smiled. Three of his front teeth had been knocked out, but he did not
notice or did not care. His right earlobe had been shot off or torn
off. Blood painted his jawline.
“Ain't no more 'us' for you, Darcha,” he said, rubbing his chin
and frowning at a dead YS. “Not no more. Captain Ruppert, he done
seen you. You'll be with Humble Queen right soon. Suppose I
should say that I'm jealous.”
Sergeant
Bowman laughed, which blew smoke into my face. He grabbed my knee and
shook my leg.
“It's
decided?” I asked.
“Damn,
buddy, can't pull one off on you, can you?” Bowman continued
smiling his toothless bloody smile as he patted the horn he wore on
his belt. “They been watchin'.”
Bowman
jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, indicating one of the blood-red
officer's coaches a hundred yards away.
“Suppose
they want you showered, prettied up. That Queen, you can't be dirty
for her.”
I
stared at the officer's coach.
“Put
down your rifle,” said Sergeant Bowman.
But
even when the officer, clad in yellow sash and immaculate white
boots, came for me, I did not surrender my weapon until Sergeant
Bowman, who had tagged along, was obliged to wrench it from my hands.
* * *
I
rode alone. The black horse that Captain Ruppert had granted me was
silent, longsuffering, with a back like steel. It did not mind when I
spoke to it, or wept against its neck. Its indifference was a
consolation.
We
passed along a road called Slaughter's Way, which followed the ocean.
At times the road wound down to the beach, and I would close my eyes
against the salt spray. Mostly I had my thoughts to myself, with only
the noise of my mount's hoofs and the rustle of grass for
company.
The
black powder that I put beneath my tongue took away most memories of
the battle, and of my wife, and of the YS that we had held back from
the very land my horse's feet turned. In the short intervals when I
did not have the black powder I found myself stroking the .44 pistol
that Captain Ruppert had allowed me and scanning the undulant lines
of the horizon.
I
passed one village, mostly empty save for three women, all clad in
gray and white, who watched me pass with rifles in their small hands.
They looked so thin I imagined they would tumble away in the cold sea
gales. When I waved at them they retreated into a moribund house to
peer at me through broken windows, their rifle muzzles protruding
from the glass like fossilized tails of giant rats.
Then,
the keep. I would have sworn on God's Bible that it had not been
there a moment in the past.
It
stood in the ocean, a hundred meters from the shore. It rose from a
base of shimmering material that was either mother-of-pearl or its
clone. If it was actual mother-of-pearl, millions of oysters had lost
their lives to construct the base which could not have been fewer
than two hundred meters in diameter.
The
keep itself was three triangles, each with a base fifty meters across
and each tapering to a point.
Towers to the east and west were white. The center tower shone a
glistening black, like the pupil of a cat's eye in torchlight.
From
the base of the black tower flowed a black road, like oil spilling
from a broken lamp. The road stained the mother-of-pearl base of the
towers and snaked through the water and finally reached the edge of
the beach. The road meandered purposefully for another three hundred
or so meters before it reached my horse's hooves.
“Jesus
Christ our Lord,” I prayed.
Down
at the base of the towers, nearly a quarter mile away, there was
someone riding out to meet me. I
watched and waited for the Humble Queen's emissary. I prayed and
prayed but God only responded in the sound of an engine.
When
she greeted me I could not bring myself to holster my weapon.
* * *
After
escorting me silently to the base of the tower, the emissary spoke.
“She's
right, honey,” said the woman, after shutting off her motorcycle
and booting down its kickstand. “With
you she is especially right. Eyes, right?” Her voice was as
shrill as a seagull's.
I
did not answer. I stared at the dazzling ground around us. The luster
of the mother-of-pearl caught even the gray light. Veins of purple,
white, and blue flowed together.
“Come
on, honey,” she said. I felt her touch my leg. “Expectin' you.”
I
looked down at the woman. She had taken the scrap of purple fabric
from her face, and it fluttered over her shoulder like it was a part
of her hair. Her face was plain, plain. She had one missing front
tooth.
“My
name is Darcha Amun, and I am a married man,” I said.
“Oh,
honey,” she said.
She
stepped back from me and went to her motorcycle. After rummaging in a
saddlebag she picked out a tiny pistol.
“Didn't want to do this, gorgeous,” she said.
I
realized, as if waking from a dream, that I had the .44 pointed at
her. I had no recollection of any motion of my body or the pistol or
anything else. The woman did not appear concerned.
“I
will not,” I said.
“In
a way this is okay,” she said. “Gonna get all of the sleep you
need.”
I
did not fire the .44 when she pointed her tiny pistol toward me. I
expected a crack from the gun but all I heard was a click, and a
sting in my neck.
I
fell into her arms. I felt her pulling me off of my horse.
I dreamed
of oceans.
* * *
Three
days later I dined with the Queen.
She
touched my leg and said, “Look up.”
I
looked up.
Above
us rose a vaulted ceiling, twenty meters high. Randomly placed white
lights, glowing as dimly as Christmas bulbs, highlighted the
glistening uniform purple-black which was the color of every wall,
ceiling, and floor in the keep. Also above us hung a bright chandelier in
the shape of an oyster shell.
“Even when you're looking away from me, they're lovely,” she said. “You're not eating, darling.” The Queen dipped her shining hand into the mouth of a
spinefish gaping at her from a pewter tray. She extracted a piece of
white meat. I heard her chewing.
“Eat,
eat,” she urged.
I
took a strawberry covered in white chocolate from one of the numerous
trays.
“Good,”
she said, laughing. Something moist hit the side of my face. “Good.
Dessert first. Ha. Like sweets. Tell me about your –
your eyes.”
We
were alone in the great hall. There were no other conversations save
our own and the whispering in my mind. The noise of the ocean was as
a distant pulsing of blood, a heartbeat on the other side of the
wall.
“What
about them,” I said.
“What
color were your father's eyes, darling? What color were your mother's
eyes?”
“I
do not know.”
“Ha
ha ha,” she said. She prodded me with her elbow. “You would not,
would you? That is correct.”
“The
YS--”
“Hulga!”
called the Humble Queen, cutting me off. “I think Drooga here would
like champagne.”
The
Queen laughed again and jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow.
“Champagne will get you oiled up, darling,” she said. “Maybe it
put some lead in the pencil, right?”
The
Queen laughed, a ribald sound that echoed through the hallway. For
the second time that evening, I felt moved to look her in the face.
Her
skin was as white as bleached cotton. Despite her reputation she was
not fat. She was naked from the waist up, her breasts painted a light
purple. A necklace made out of mother-of-pearl dangled bib-like from
around her thin neck.
“Look
at me with those baby-blues whenever you feel the notion,” said the
Queen. “Are you wearing makeup? Eyeliner?”
I
frowned, looked away from her.
“Aw
now,” she said, and let out a nauseating belch.
I
heard footsteps, and the quiet muttering of Hulga, whoever that was.
The sound of champagne slopping into a glass and Hulga's feet
skittering away.
“Darling,”
repeated the Humble Queen. “Have another glass. Please. You know,
we do not have to delay the inevitable.”
I
looked her in the eyes. Their whites were bloodshot around the dark
purple irises.
“You
took me away,” I said, speaking precisely. “So you can have a child...with eyes like mine. Yes?”
Her
smile did not falter.
“Is
it a secret?” she said.
“No.
I should not be here right now. I should be in the field. I should
not be...” I felt myself grabbing for the pistol that was not
there. “I do not belong here. I belong first in the field, and then
at my home with my wife.”
“Oh
no,” said the Queen. Her breath reeked of butter and fish. “No, darling. You are here right now, where I tell you to
be. You are serving us here.”
“Bitch,” I said. “Self-indulgent, spoiled, drug addicted,
absolutely...”
My
voice broke off as I felt a needle entering the side of my neck.
“Thank
you, Hulga,” the Queen said, as I watched her face waver and bend.
I
fell forward without a sensation of falling. I wondered when I was
going to hit the ground or splash into the ocean. A hand grabbed each
of my shoulders, and I could not tell if their owner stood behind me or
in front of me.
* * *
I
sat at the window and stared at the ocean.
The
ocean was a spectacle, a rolling moor of darkness interspersed with
moonlight. If I squinted through the fog I could see what was surely
the Isle of Min, which had been YS territory for the past fifteen
years. The lights on the Isle wavered in the sick, lurid shades of
green preferred by the YS for both their craft and their personal
adornment.
“What
are you looking at, lover?” asked the Queen.
I
did not look away from the window and I did not answer.
“Does
your nether-region sting, darling?”
I
stared at the YS lights.
“Come
away from the window, lover,”
said the Queen.
“Do
you look at the Isle?” I asked her. “Do you ever consider what it
means? Why--”
“Why
the YS don't make more forays out of it? Because of the wonders of
the army, my love. Now please come.”
The
Queen lay shamelessly nude in the middle of her bed. The pure white
sheets had rearranged themselves into
neat squares and tucked themselves off to one corner.
“Come
and have some milk with me before bedtime, my darling,” she said.
I
looked back to the Isle of Min. The green lights shuffled restlessly.
“Come
and tell me of your wife.”
I
looked back at the light. I
made a wish upon it: that I would be back with my men or back with my
wife, either in safety or in peril. I wished the Queen ill, that she
would perish under the weight of one of the YS, crushing her body
that had so recently used mine. I wished all of these things as
fervently as I wished for my own eyes to close, to dream of something
else other than an acid-green ocean and the Queen's fingers.
I
stood from the windowsill. A square of light passed my shoulder and
then dissipated into the purple of the walls.
And
I started to know something else; something I dared not admit even to
myself.
She
began humming a tune as I ambled over to the bed. It was a tune that
had been popular with the men, and it had been rumored that the queen
herself had composed the melody. Here I was with proof of the fact,
as if it had not been within myself for the entire time. The melody
was in a Myxolidian mode, which the harder of the musicians found
decadent in its soft qualities, but still was inexplicably popular
with the soldiers. Its title was “Hold
Your Breath When the Devil Sings."
* * *
The
sucking sound of a breathing YS echoed through the chamber.
I
opened my eyes and saw it standing on the foot of the bed.
It
wore nothing save a green sash, as is their custom during battle.
Outside there hummed one of their ships, casting its green light
through the room, casting bladelike shadows from each post of the
four-post bed.
I
was nude, but so was the YS.
Reflex
launched me toward it. I grabbed for guns that were no longer on my
person as I covered the eight feet between myself and it in two
strides and felt myself slam against it.
The
Queen screamed.
I snatched its forelimb and twisted. The YS made a noise like a musket
going off beside my head.
The
Queen screamed again as I continued to twist and shoved my fist into
one of the distal mouths of the YS. The teeth in its throat closed
around my arm, but I had learned years ago that all the teeth could
do was scrape, not puncture. I grabbed the first lump of tissue that
I found – a taste organ – and yanked and pulled my arm from the
distal mouth.
I
threw the organ against the wall as the YS groaned and gurgled and
spat ichor onto the bed.
I
turned and saw the Queen against the bed, holding a revolver that was
nearly as long as a rifle.
Another YS stood in front of her. She
fired.
The
round did not strike the YS, but shattered a mirror on the far side
of the bedroom, bringing down a rain of shards. Before she could fire
again, the YS was on top of her.
Killing
a YS from behind presents no difficulties, even when it is girded for
battle. I grabbed at a tentacle on its back and twisted, making it
squeal and squirm and twist around into its various shapes. I grabbed
one side of its green sash and twisted that too, tearing it from its
body.
“Shoot
again,” I yelled to the queen.
However,
she did not shoot. She was pummeling the YS on the head with the butt
of the gun, hitting its proximal mouth.
The
gun went off.
I
tore the YS off the queen and threw it against the wall. It was
draining, and ichor hit me in the face.
The thrum of their ship
lessened from a bone-rattling drone to the buzz of an insect as it
sunk away from the window.
For
a moment I breathed deeply and wiped the ichor from my chest.
I heard the ship crash into the rocks below us, twisting in the rocks.
Its synthetic hull shrieked as its sentience died with the ship
itself.
I
calmed my breathing.
A
clamor sounded in the keep below us. The sound of another YS ship
droning up the side of a mountain and the other residents of the keep
– God only knew who they were – wailing as if in sorrow over
their damnation.
I
breathed and out several times.
Acid-green
light cast ghost shadows throughout the room.
I
walked to the queen. I extracted the pistol from her clawed hand. I
wiped the blood from its barrel onto the white sheets folded into
squares on the corner of the bed. Four shots left, at least. I opened
the cylinder and counted four.
The
door to the bedroom burst open and two more of the YS fell inside of
the room. Their yellow sashes fluttered in the weak light.
I
held my breath and aimed the pistol.
* * *
Three
weeks later, when I found Sergeant Bowman in an abandoned building
three miles from the coast, he did not recognize me.
“Put
it down,” he said, his beard scraping against the butt of his M1.
“I
ain't holding anything, son,” I said.
When
he recognized me he started crying. After ten minutes he calmed down
enough to begin asking me questions.
“But
what about you?” I asked him. “Where is everyone else?”
“Didn't
hold their breaths,” he said.
After
we spoke for a couple of more minutes, he led me into the interior of
the building, which I gathered had been a hotel.
“I
live in this room,” he said, pointing toward a green door. “If
you want to leave here I understand.”
He
retired, and I sat up watching the dark ocean.
I
had found my house a week earlier. There was no sign of my wife save
for a handwritten letter taped to the table. It was in her
handwriting, but she had not signed it. It mentioned her going to the
keep to find solace offered by the Humble Queen.
I
sat and watched the ocean until a square of acid-green light appeared
next to the horizon, floating above the water like a flying fish.
Did
she live? Even my eyes, the lust of the Queen herself, could not see.
