Tales of Loss and Dispossession |
You Don’t Know What You’ve Got
Tales of Loss & Dispossession
A Gryphonwood Anthology
Gryphonwood Press
YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’VE GOT… TALES OF LOSS AND DISPOSSESSION Copyright 2009 by Gryphonwood Press
Each story is the property of the respective author.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American copyright conventions.
Published by Gryphonwood Press
www.gryphonwoodpress.com
Edited by David Wood and Ryan A. Span
Cover Art by Jan Pospíŝìl
Concept and Cover Layout by Ryan A. Span
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 13: 978-0-9795738-6-6
ISBN 10: 0-9795738-6-6
Printed in the United States of America
First printing: February, 2009
This anthology is dedicated to the memories of:
Forrest J. Ackerman
Robert Asprin
Arthur C. Clarke
Michael Crichton
Tony Hillerman
Existence
Jim Bernheimer
Silence greets your request. The gods glare at you, their loyal Priest-King. They have the power to grant your deepest desire, or destroy you in an instant.
Dra, the ebony-skinned goddess of fertility, shakes her flowing mane of silken hair and delivers a smoldering look, capable of leading faithful husbands and even wives astray. You focus, trying not to be consumed by lust as her throaty laughter speaks directly to your loins. “Oh my, the human is serious. He wishes us to elevate him to an equal among us. Had you begged for a simple coupling, I would have granted it, but you astound me with your audacity!”
Finding your tongue amidst the roaring laughter, you plead your case, “Great Goddess, I have served you and the rest well. Many sacrifices were made in your honor. The altars run red with the blood of enemies, non-believers, and followers of false gods. Your people are united and, under my hand, their petty quarrels are no more.”
You are ill at ease in the role of fawning sycophant, but you are not like most people. You are the Priest-King – the voice of the gods. Command a mother and she strangles her newborn child with the flesh that still connects them. With a simple gesture, brothers draw knives and fight until one or both fall dead.
Power, followers, and concubines – everything a mortal can want – is yours. It is not enough. There is more, so very much more, and you are one who dares where others only dream!
Their presence and tangible power fills the massive temple and you feel a crushing weight on your soul. Pungent odors assail your nostrils and breathing becomes more difficult. The assembled omnipotent beings continue to openly mock you, but you’ve come too far. The only course is to continue. To turn back now would mean a certain death.
“My magic is strong. I am as powerful as a human can become. I merely wish a greater role in this existence, to never die, and serve you forever. Reward me and I will be your eternal servant!”
The laughter stops and the taste of bile surges to the back of your throat. Vais, animal skins draped over his mighty frame, thumps his spear against his great wooden shield. The god of war enjoys the sacrifices, but abhors the order you have brought to the people. “Arrogant worm! I thought you beneath my concern, but I cannot ignore such idiocy. Brothers and sisters, a mortal demands that we raise him up as an equal! What say you?”
Dra shifts and her eyes narrow in anger. Even her fury is sensual. “It is a rare occurrence when I find myself agreeing with Vais, but I too, find this request ludicrous. How shall we punish you, mortal?”
Instinctively, your magic senses the forthcoming attack. Against beings such as this, your inner light is a lit torch held in the face of a midday sun.
Vais smiles like the jungle cat preparing to pounce. “I say we strip him of his vaunted magic and let the peasants tear him to pieces when they learn he no longer has our favor!”
“Not enough,” insists Ura of the sky, seeing his chance to impress Dra and curry her favor. “Were we to do that, he would just be returned to being a mere human. To truly teach him the error of his ways, we should make him less than human.”
His twin, the Sea Lord, speaks. His voice is a growl – an icy chill from the depths of the ocean. “Oh, a very interesting idea brother, I agree. Let him serve as an example to all those beneath us to remember their station. My dear Dra, you know beauty in all its forms. Can you shape this maggot into a form which no one will ever find beautiful?”
You now realize what capricious and uncaring beings those who rule the Earth and heavens are. Vais rips your magic from your soul. Years spent in meditation and battle, nurturing the light inside, are lost in an instant of anger. The others exert their influence on your body as a potter would work a lump of clay on a wheel.
They amuse themselves at your expense. The pain defies description, as flesh is replaced with mud, then straw, then stone. Eventually, you lose track amidst the horrible agony. Your pleas for mercy only serve as encouragement for them. Each tries to outdo the others with a new form of humiliation.
“Our Priest-King rules from a magnificent palace full of finery. Let us bind him to a marsh and give him the place amongst us he so richly deserves – a kingdom of his very own!” The Sea Lord pronounces to the enjoyment of all.
Ura replies, “Yes! Well said, brother. But I ask, what is a king without subjects? Let the winged bloodsuckers worship at his misshapen form. Let them be drawn to his smell, to partake of his flesh, and take sacrament from the juices that flow through him!”
Dra, whom you hoped to mate with and watch her birth your children, pulls the hardest on your body, giving it a simian appearance. Thick, knotted hair grows all over this hideous form.
She hisses, “The swamp shall nourish and replenish you. The fine meals, delivered by naked women, will be replaced with fungus that grows on bark, moss licked from the rocks, and grubs that you will dig from the damp soil with your clawed hands. You shall endure as long as the land, an everlasting warning to those who make demands of us. You shall be a beast of the bog – a monster of the marsh!”
The others dub her decree a masterstroke. She turns to the one being who had not participated to this point. “My sister, what gift shall you impart upon him?”
The Goddess of Wisdom, Drea, scowls at her sister for interrupting her unending meditation and considers you. She is beautiful, but not overpoweringly so. Seconds pass before her lips part, “I give him the gift of tongues. He shall continue to recognize what the mortals say about him and know the meaning behind their shrieks of horror, but no words they shall ever recognize will come from his lips.”
The torture lasts for days without end. When they finally grow bored with you, Vais hurls you out of their sacred valley and into the forsaken swamp from which you can never willingly leave.
You pray that it is over, but they are not done with you yet. Vais comes whenever he is spoiling for a fight. You have an inhuman strength, but it is nothing compared to his glory. He pummels and abuses you with vicious savagery knowing that the swamp eventually heals your wounds and makes you whole again. He does his worst when you refuse to engage in pointless battles or on the rare instances when you manage to inflict a slight injury on his body. Sometimes, heroes are sent. Some win, most do not, but the swamp and the mud endlessly mend your wounds.
Dra’s visits are every bit as humiliating. On a stone altar, just outside your domain, she brings lovers for moonlit encounters. Like a moth to the flame, these wanton acts draw you. When she finishes, she stares at you and never says a word.
Ura plays with you as a feline would a small rodent. From his winged chariot he hurls thunderbolts as you scurry for shelter. His twin batters your sanctuary with wind and water that leave you shivering and wet for days at a time.
Oddly, Drea visits only once. She walks gracefully through the bog observing the creatures, the trees, and the insects that constantly gnaw on you. You follow her journey waiting for something, anything. Is she here to restore you, humiliate you, or destroy you and end this miserable existence? She sits on her sister’s altar and looks at you trapped at the edge of this foul prison.
“I have no mercy to spare for you, creature. You have your path and I have mine. I do not see them crossing again. Perhaps one day, you will truly understand. Farewell.”
Her words are full of cryptic meanings, but they become clearer as the gods gradually disappear from the world. There is a change that you can sense. Your battles with Vais are less intense. Dra’s brazen escapades lose their luster. The skies and nearby ocean are calm for weeks at a time. You conclude the gods are leaving, because the mortals no longer heed them. Are they dying or just going on to a different realm? What is to become of you? Uncertainty reigns and answers elude you.
The years turn to decades and the decades to centuries. Those mighty gods, their names are forgotten by all save you. The marsh ebbs and flows as the years pass. Sometimes, it even envelopes Dra’s altar and you sit on the crumbling monument and search for deeper meaning. Other times, the draining bog forces you to retreat towards the safety of the center.
Occasionally, you see men. Some are light-skinned and come from some part of the world unknown to you. Did the gods leave and go there? Are other gods coming? These newcomers wear different clothing and bring four-legged beasts with them.
You judge their worthiness. Those failing to meet your standards never leave the swamp. Those who carry trinkets and baubles that interest you rarely leave the swamp. Those few that you allow to leave your kingdom carry warnings to their brethren that there is something less than pleasant here.
The travelers become less frequent, but your method of discouraging visitors attracts the attention of a new breed of would-be heroes and braggarts. You learn what a musket is. The crude ball of metal is but a tap compared to the rage of Vais. You discover that a steel breastplate is no match for your claws.
Often, you simply exist – no real thoughts, just feeding, pacing, brooding, and sleeping. Immortality is far less than you had hoped. Weeks are spent pondering the trinkets taken from the travelers. You understand their words, but they have a written language that is rather complex. Still, you have plenty of time and little else to do.
When you accidently detonate yourself with barrels filled with a black powder, you destroy your cache of books and this greatly angers you. It takes years to acquire new books and the language has changed again forcing you to start anew.
More time passes and now the beasts are replaced with large metal objects that men call machines. The first ones frighten you, but you learn to accept their presence. You regret that now.
Larger machines follow. The men on them look for something below the swamp – the gasses that make fire. They value this and begin building permanent structures in your swamp. No, this is not allowed! You kill again, hoping to use fear as you have in the past.
Striking at night, you rip their flimsy metal shelters open and attack the workers in their beds. They scream, they run, they beg, but you show precious little mercy. Who has ever shown it to you? You make certain that one is left alive to tell the tale.
Material possessions no longer hold any value for you. Perhaps that is why you think they will flee and abandon their fire-gas gathering machines. It is a gross error on your part and wherever Vais and Dra are now, you are certain that they again mock you.
Murky-brown water splashes away from your clawed feet as you rush through the marsh. Flattening your hulking mass between a rock and two trees growing together as one, you rest. Though you should keep moving, continuing is too exhausting.
In the distance, the noise from their machines can be heard and the penetrating light from the orbs mounted on them flash through the patches of trees like deadly fireflies. All your usual tricks fail. The guttural howls from your lips do not scare them off. Instead, it brings them closer. While they searched the southern edge of the swamp where you left conspicuous tracks, you ransacked their campsite. The destruction was quite thorough, but they refuse to leave! Determination runs deep in their veins. Only now do you conclude that they are not more fire-gas gatherers, they are hunters, and you are their prey.
These hunters travel in larger packs than the heroes of old. Their weapons throw tiny darts of light which rip through your flesh like daggers. Beneath your matted fur, dozens of these small wounds oozed with blood. Covering them with the mud of the wet land beneath your feet starts the healing process, but it does little for the pain.
Dozens now chase you; they have sky chariots that circle the sky probing the darkness with beams of light. In a sick way, you admire them. Their actions strike a chord in your memory of the days when you walked as a man and flaunted your power. Rest eludes you – ironic that an immortal beast should now be regretting a few missed days of sleep.
You can’t afford to spend much longer here. Still, the gods of old gave you a savage strength and a massive body. Even with no magic, you will not fall here. Survival is all that matters! Brute force topples a small tree as thick as your closed fist. They have their weapons, now you have one as well.
The years of living in this forsaken place give you knowledge of every pile of moss-covered sludge, grouping of trees and the location of every sinkhole. You crouch on the rocks nearby and howl, knowing it will draw one or more of their wheeled machines towards you.
Their mechanical torches illuminate you as a pair of their machines approach. You scream at them, urging them on. They think you are a dull-witted beast. It is time to remove that notion. The smaller machine travels through the water and hits the sinkhole with one of its wheels. That sends the contraption careening through the air and the two riders with it. They are of no consequence.
The larger vehicle with the four wheels and the platform commands your attention. Two of the men on the platform fire large barreled weapons. Instead of stinging darts, the metal ball explodes into nets that even your claws can barely rend. You have no intention of thrashing in the muck trying to free yourself for their entertainment. Instead, you thrust your makeshift staff out and the nets wrap around it.
Roaring, you vault towards them, so confident in their machines and weapons, so certain of their superior intellect, so very wrong. The machine shudders with the addition of your sudden weight. They drop their net-firing weapons and reach for their stinging ones. You will feel more pain, but so will they.
“Shoot it! Shoot it!” the female driving the machine commands. In times of old, a female would never command males. One of them stings you several times, but you backhand him off the machine.
Another clubs you with his net-caster as the other remaining man and the female use the smaller stingers to further injure you. Your clawed hand catches the weapon swatting at you and with a violent pull you swing the man between you and those armed with stingers.
The darts are much more effective against his pale, pasty flesh. Perhaps you should learn how to use these stinging weapons. You thrust his body towards them and squeeze onto the platform. Both claws work together and rip the final man in half, coating you with his gore and filling your ears with the sound of his screams. The weak female is all that is left.
Her ebony skin is as dark as charcoal and her build is athletic and muscular. Her beauty is akin to Dra’s. Perhaps it is she reincarnated? The slight pause costs you dearly as her stinger sends jolts of pain directly into your head. You vision darkens in one eye and bones shatter in your jaw. Enraged, you lash out at this avatar of a long departed goddess. She leaps off the platform into the bog below.
The wounds take a toll and slow you down. The cursed land heals, but not immediately. This is not the first time you've given chase half blinded. The cramped platform hinders your pursuit, but you free yourself and fall down to the marsh below.
For now, you must pursue this female and learn her secrets. If the gods plan to return, you must know why! This new goddess will suffer. You are now powerful and she is weak.
The female has a large lead, but even injured, you are faster. Did they not make you this way? She deserves to see firsthand her handiwork, does she not?
Arms and legs propel you on all fours – more like an animal and not a man. Her fleeing form weaves in and out of your field of vision. Nostrils flare and you inhale the scent of her fear, rejoicing in it. She screams, but you aren’t even listening to the words. All that matters is that you feel her in your grasp and give her a taste of retribution.
Sheer determination keeps you moving after her. To the right, the ground is much more compact. You should have gone that way. Even so, you are almost upon her. There is no escape!
She rushes into the clearing, where you often dry your fur under the sun. In days to come, it will be pleasant to lie under the warmth of the great orb and recall the righteous fury you are about to inflict. Perhaps the insects will echo her screams…
So consumed in thoughts of revenge, you barely notice the others waiting in the clearing. No! The goddess tricked you! It's a trap. The nets fly as even more of the thrice-cursed stingers rip at your flesh like a swarm of angry insects. You stagger forward, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge failure. The nets make it harder to move and a powerful blast sends you sprawling to the ground.
Frantically, you rip at the mesh, but there are too many of layers. Screams of pain and frustration come unbidden from your lips. More stings and soon your screams are reduced to pitiful moans. Are you finally dying? Is the technology of man finally superior to the powers of the ancient gods? The stings stop abruptly, but the damage is more than you can stand.
In a fog of agony you hear voices. “Sweet Jesus! The thing’s still alive! We must have shot it a hundred times!”
“Shock it!” The goddess commands and her worshippers obey her. A different kind of net is thrown over you. It appears more delicate, but you're still pinned by the others and lack the strength to even try.
The humans yell to each other and then your muscles convulse in pain, much like the night you stood next to a cypress tree watching a great storm. The god of the sky spotted you and sent a thunderbolt down upon you, shattering the tree and injuring you for days to follow.
Perhaps the goddess, in her new incarnation, is not as weak as you thought her to be? She demands her followers inflict even more harm on you, a reminder of how the most beautiful people can be the cruelest.
After two more powerful jolts, you can take no more and succumb to unconsciousness.
You’re moving, which is strange because you are lying down. Your body throbs with a dull ache. It takes a moment to process what has happened. Your injured eye has not been restored, which troubles you. Simple meditation fights off the pain coursing through your body and grants a level of clarity. The rustle of thick chains greets your movement.
A prisoner in the belly of one of their moving machines – that is what you are! There is a new sensation, one of weakness permeating your flesh. The connection that you share with the bog is frayed. This mechanical carriage carries you beyond the swamp. Fear and trepidation consume your thoughts and lead you to renew your assault on the heavy shackles.
Eventually, your rage is spent. You lack the strength to break free, so you must rely on guile. For too long you have relied on the instincts of a misshapen beast. You must remember what it is to think and reason if you are to escape.
Pulling your sore frame into a meditative position, you relax and wait for this journey to end. Hours are nothing to one that has existed for centuries.
“It’s just been sitting there for the last ten hours. The thing gives me the willies, Kendra! We should just keep shooting it until it dies.”
The female is aptly named – Kin of Dra. Cleansed of the muck of the swamp she is very beautiful. If she is not the goddess reborn, she must be a daughter. Destroying one of her children will certainly be a fitting revenge.
She speaks, addressing the fearful male warrior, “That’d be my preference, but Mr. Daniels here is bringing in scientists to study it. I put a slug through its left eye at point blank and all I did was blind it. Even a gorilla would be dead!”
“You probably missed and it was blinded by the muzzle flash.” A second male says. He wears different clothing than the others and carries no obvious weapon. “What I want to know is if there are any more of them. The safety of my workers is the number one priority! That’s what I am paying you for.”
Kendra answers, “I’m well aware of that, sir. That thing killed a dozen of my men over the last three days. We’ll scour the swamp and make certain there are no others before you send your workers back in. Even then, we’ll have squads assigned to your engineers. So, when do the researchers arrive?”
“They'll be here in the morning. Assuming the thing is still alive, filming it and producing a documentary should fetch a tidy sum.”
You try to follow their words, but they mean little without the proper context. One thing you can tell is that the warriors and their employer are greedy. It is a flaw you know very well – something you can use. What failings the others have remains to be seen. When the time comes you will show them your wrath!
Meditation helps, but you continue to weaken. Without the healing powers of the swamp, your time will soon be upon you. It will be a humiliating end to a humiliating life. Faced with your own mortality, you worry that your true tormentors await you in the next realm, ready to resume their torturous ways.
“Hair samples recovered from the specimen show that the DNA is closer to human rather than simian. This is unexpected. Doctor Albright has already theorized that this might be a missing link along the human evolutionary chain.”
The new female is a pretty thing. Her hair is like spun gold. She dresses in a white jacket and has bands of metal encircling her right leg. A cane helps her to walk. She is one of the five “scientists” trying to explain your existence. Mankind no longer believes in such things as magic, so you continue to defy their explanation.
Her blue eyes and the intelligence behind them capture your attention along with one other detail – her name. The one known as Doctor Albright referred to her initially as Doctor Jacobs, but then addressed her as Andrea. Is she Drea the Wise reborn? If she is, how can you possibly escape?
The others do not remind you of any of your gods, so you focus on her.
She uses a long pole and pushes a tray towards you. There are two metal bowls on it. One is water and the other has a butchered fish in it. The water slakes your thirst, but the fish does not come from the swamp and your body rejects it with a violent spasm, as it did with the meat and vegetables the day before. You drink the remainder of the water to try and rid your mouth of the foul taste. Kicking the tray away in disgust, you listen to it clatter against the bars.
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