Bestial Acts (2 page)

I spent as much time as I could leafing through the pages of that encyclopaedia. I hurried to finish the class assignments so I could have an excuse to go to the back of the class and lose myself in its pages. The teacher was more than happy to see one of her flock eager to spend time reading.

I used to grab a volume at random and let the pages fall. When the pages had settled, I’d look at the open spread . . . the bold headings, the black-and-white photos, the colour drawings. . . .

Inevitably, some item would grab my attention. Often, I’d be seduced by the artwork accompanying the entries describing mythical beasts. Every entry had at least one cross-reference: an epoch, a country, a civilization, an author . . . I’d hunt down the cross-references, trying to put the pieces of these interlocking puzzles together. I still remember the intense frustration I felt every time I failed to find a cross-reference because it wasn’t contained in the surviving volumes. A lot of pages were missing, too. Ripped out. How could anyone do that to these books?

I made no distinction between history and mythology. Troy and Gilgamesh, for example, cross-referenced to both historical and mythological entries. Bored and restless and wanting to believe anything that would stimulate me, I was more than happy to accept that these often contradictory readings of the past were all equally true, that reality was not flat and linear, but complex and multidimensional, allowing for many versions of the same events to exist simultaneously. For many pasts to lead to the same present.

Many of the entries in the encyclopaedia were about things that weren’t mentioned anywhere else. Things, it seemed, no-one had ever heard about. Like how the dark tendrils of Yamesh-Lot, the lord of nightmares, preyed on humanity’s dreams. The exploits of the Shifpan-Shap and their tragic, ultimate curse. The mysteries of the Green Blue and Brown God. Many of these interrelated myths contradicted each other, but that excited me even more. They hinted not only at alternate pasts of the world but at an altogether different way of apprehending reality.

One evening at dinner, I can’t remember why, I started to talk about my theories on history, myth, and reality. Maybe somebody had said something that triggered a connection? More likely, I was just eager to blurt out whatever was on my mind.

Before I’d gone very far in my monologue, my parents started interrogating me, angrily, almost viciously, about the origins of these ideas. Where did I find out about such things? Who was putting this nonsense into my head? Who? Who was I spending my time with? Who was telling me these things? Who! Why! Where! How! Why couldn’t I be like other kids? Tell us! Tell us! Tell us who’s putting all these ideas into your head! Tell us who’s making you crazy!

It was Dad who did the most of interrogating. Mom mostly cried. Usually, Dad didn’t seem to care as much as Mom about the fact that I was a weird kid. As long as I didn’t get into trouble, and I rarely did. But, that evening, he was livid. His face was red. He was lashing out at me, as if I’d done something to hurt or betray him.

I knew better than to talk about the encyclopaedia. I knew—I just knew—they’d arrange to have me banned from reading it, or have it taken away entirely. I screamed that they were my own ideas (they were—but my sadly unimaginative parents could never believe or understand that); I bolted out of the kitchen and locked myself in my bedroom. From that point on, I knew I would never—could never—feel connected to these people.

After that, I still spent as much time as I could devouring the encyclopaedia. It was no longer with the mad rush of a new passion, but with pleasant familiarity. I paid a different kind of attention to the volumes. I examined them not only for their content, but also as objects. I studied the wrinkled spines and scratched covers, ran my fingers over the subtly embossed letters forming the words of the title (
The Clarence & Charles Old World Encyclopaedia
) and the name of the publishing company (Kurtzberg, Vaughn & Jones, Publishers). I carefully memorized all the letters, digits, and symbols on the copyright page.

Around that time, I was spending more time exploring the downtown core. It had never occurred to me before that were such things as bookshops. I was so excited when I discovered that there were dozens of them in the city. I was sure, now, that I’d finally lay my hands on those missing volumes of
The Clarence & Charles Old World Encyclopaedia.

I scoured all the bookshops. I had no money to purchase the books, but I didn’t let that interfere with my quest. I’d deal with that, somehow. But. . . .

I couldn’t find the volumes. Frustrated, I started to ask. Mostly, I was curtly dismissed, my query not taken at all seriously. A few times, though, some shopkeeper or clerk would take pity on me and actually look through thick volumes for the title or the publisher. But there was no trace of the
Clarence & Charles
anywhere. No-one had ever heard of it. No reference book even listed its publisher. But I made a pest of myself. I kept insisting, even to the ones who were nice to me, that their references were wrong or inaccurate. I knew the encyclopaedia existed. Every school day, I lost myself in its pages.

It took me a few months to think of hitting the libraries. I thought my experience with bookshops had been frustrating. Ah! That was nothing compared to the humiliation and frustration that awaited me in the city’s public libraries.

In those days, libraries—all those I went to—were segregated into “adult” and “children’s” sections—in separate rooms. Everywhere, the adult section was open to anyone twelve or older, but anyone younger was relegated to the dull purgatory of the children’s section, denied access to the adult area. No amount of sneaking, lying, or pleading gained me entry to the adult stacks or, even, to convince the strict, unimaginative librarians to find out for me if
The Clarence & Charles Old World Encyclopaedia
was to be found in the forbidden sections. I got thrown out of every library in town, once narrowly escaping being detained and having my parents called.

When the school year gave way to summer, it meant that I no longer had access to the
Clarence & Charles
. But by then I had found something else.

I was spending a lot of time in an understaffed, overstuffed five-level bookstore. I didn’t find the encyclopaedia there either, but I spent whole days sitting on the dirty floor of that huge maze, reading, with no-one pestering me. The place was so filthy. The books were in terrible shape. Pages torn out. Covers missing. Smelly, gunky stains on the pages. But I’d never seen so many books in one place!

On the fourth floor there was, in a dimly lit corner, a row of books shelved so low they were barely off the floor. They captured my imagination almost as much as the
Clarence & Charles
. They were all from the same publisher, Unknown Knowledge Press. They were all paperbacks, and all the covers had a wine-red background with crude line art featuring pyramids, flying saucers, fabulous creatures, eyes in the sky, and all the usual paraphernalia of esoteric beliefs. The series name was boldly plastered on each cover in larger type than any of the individual titles or authors: Strange World.

Unknown Knowledge Press—what a ridiculous name! But, back then, just the right thing to get my attention. These books presented conflicting, contradictory theories concerning the secret history of the world. Perfect fodder for me: I believed in a fluid past where all possibilities were just as likely, just as true. Although I never came across a book in that series that promoted my theory, it seemed to be the only way to reconcile all the divergent histories and beliefs found in those pages. And I believed everything I read. It was all too fantastic not to be true.

Aydee was awakened by a feather falling on her face. It cut her cheek, just slightly, but enough to make her wince. It was a long feather, almost as long as her arm. And sharp. Picking it up, she nicked one of her fingers. Its colour was a shifting shade of green, blue, and brown. Aydee had never seen such an elusive colour. She wiped the thin wound on her cheek with a finger and then tasted her blood.

The smell of rotting garbage reminded her of the previous night, of her journey through the alley, of finding refuge with the lioness. She looked around her and discovered that she wasn’t really in an alley. The night before, the shadows had misled her, and she’d ducked into a crevice between buildings that was barely any deeper than it was wide. The lioness had only been a dream, she thought, could only have been a dream. And yet . . . she wasn’t at all hungry anymore. She pushed herself up from her bed of garbage bags.

Still holding the feather, she walked out onto the sidewalk. It was morning rush hour. The streets were filled with people and cars. What were those frenzied shadows moving across everything?

She looked up in the sky. A winged skeleton was brandishing a flaming sword against a mass of darkness from which oozed both clusters of tendrils and a tangible aura of menace. The skeleton, whom she thought of as male because of its size, hung in mid-air, his thick wings—of the same ethereal colour as the feather in her hand—beating rapidly. The darkness had no fixed shape. It erupted from a rip in the sky, blossoming in many directions, sprouting tendrils and limbs of various shapes, only some of which were directed toward the winged creature. Sometimes, a dark tendril succeeded, briefly, in wrapping itself around one of the skeleton’s limbs. The winged warrior fought back ferociously, wielding his sword at lightning speed, hacking away at his attacker. It was the most exciting thing Aydee had ever seen.

Aydee tore her eyes away from the conflict. Why wasn’t anyone reacting to this? Everyone on the street seemed oblivious to the duel raging above their heads.

A shadow fell across her face. She looked up again to see a dark tendril shooting straight at her. She felt a rush of wind as the skeleton swooped down, chopping off the tentacle before it could touch her. It was then that she noticed the leather satchel strapped over his shoulder and across his chest, his free arm clutching it protectively.

The darkness shaped itself into a funnel and attacked, trying to wrap itself around the skeleton’s head. The winged creature’s sword cut through the oozing mass.

The skeleton took advantage of the respite in the dark substance’s assault and dove, his sword a fiery spearhead, into the heart of his malleable foe. A thick column sprang out of the darkness and swatted the winged skeleton. The swordfighter temporarily lost his balance. More tendrils and funnels burst out of the dark mass, but the winged warrior’s sword slashed through the enfolding darkness, slicing ever closer to the spot from which the darkness emanated, hacking away at the oozing mass with increasing ferocity.

The darkness wrapped a cylinder of itself around the skeleton’s head. It savagely twisted its opponent’s neck, shaking the winged creature’s whole body. It enlaced its tendrils around his legs and wings. The entrapped warrior fought blindly, desperately, his sword cutting through the darkness. It sprouted more and more tentacles, each darting out with increased urgency. But the warrior hovered at the heart of the dark mass. Holding his sword with both hands, he plunged his weapon into the darkness.

There erupted a screeching wail that knocked Aydee off her feet. By the time she regained her bearings, it was over. All she could see was the winged skeleton lying on the ground, partly propped against a lamppost, his flaming sword nowhere in sight. Of the darkness, there was no sign.

She ran to the skeleton. She stood over him and examined him closely. Passersby studiously ignored her.

The warrior’s bones were badly splintered. His wings had lost much of their splendour. They were now ragged and sparsely feathered, their colour fading. She looked at the feather in her hand. Its colour, too, was fading.

Overcome with compassion, Aydee reached down to touch the fallen warrior. She wanted, needed to help. She whispered: “What can I do? What?”

The eyeless skull turned toward her. His empty gaze fell on the young girl’s worried face. The warrior opened his mouth, but the only sound that escaped was a slow, quiet hiss.