The Empire of Gut and Bone (2 page)

T
he man strode toward them over the broken terrain through clouds of gas as thick as powder. He wore some kind of ribbed jumpsuit and a hooded coat that sprouted white, bristly hairs. On his back were strapped two crossed planks — skis. In his hand, he held a contraption: a tin cylinder punctured with holes, in which something orange burned and gave off smoke. A fan behind it blew the smoke forward in jets and darts.

The man asked them questions in a language none of them understood.

He stopped and cocked his head. He gestured at the dead bags. He spoke again. He shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” said Brian. Clearly and deliberately, he asked, “Do you speak English, sir?”

The man shut off the fan. The thick smog, no longer driven forward, bunched and dawdled. The man spoke again.

“Sorry,” said Gregory. “We don’t speak jumpsuit.”

The figure grimaced, put down his gadget, and took out a short, curved knife. It was stained brown.

Kalgrash hefted his battle-ax and looked resolute.

The man took out a cigar and cut off the end. He lit it in his tin lamp and stuck it in his mouth. He had a black goatee, and looked wiry and sure of himself.

Keeping his knife out, he walked over to one of the toothed sacks. He began splitting it open. He separated the skin from some dry, red lining. Brian, appalled, watched as the man seized on to a dry mat of nerves and tugged them free.

Once the tangle of nerves dangled from his hand, he tossed the rest of the carcass aside. He moved on to the next sack. He paid no attention to the troll, who was only a few feet away.

Brian and Gregory descended the staircase, stepping gingerly over the dead bags. When they reached the foot of the stairs, Brian said to the man, “Norumbega?”

The man glanced up from his work, now interested. He pointed at the portal at the top of the steps. “Norumbega,” he said. He jabbed his finger again up toward the black slab. Then he indicated the boys. “Norumbega?” he asked.

Gregory turned to Brian. “Do we say yes to that, or no?”

They did not answer. The man went about his work without further interest in the boys, tearing out the nets of nerve and gathering them in a skin. When he was done, he rose and looked inquiringly at the three who’d watched
him gut sacks up and down the stairs. He asked them a few questions, which they could not understand. He touched his skis, then indicated he wondered where the boys’ skis were.

Brian shrugged. He shook his head and swiped his hands back and forth to show they didn’t have any.

The man looked irritable. He gestured for them to follow him.

They picked up their few things and walked through the ruins. They passed under incomplete arches and down hallways that had never been built.

At the edge of the ruin, the sticky, yellow marsh began. Only a few feet from shore stood the man’s sleigh. It was huge, with a little cabin, windows lit, and the chimney of a woodstove. It was drawn by three beasts of burden — headless, it seemed, mainly folds and flaps of skin, but with six or seven legs apiece. They idled in the saffron muck.

The man hauled his wide skis off his back, fastened them to his boots, and slushed out to his sleigh. He clambered aboard and returned with a little goo-sled and a paddle. He fetched the three of them one by one.

In a few minutes, they were all sitting aboard.

“I guess he’s friendly,” said Gregory.

“I guess.” Brian wasn’t sure. The man didn’t smile or talk any more. He pulled back his hood. His ears were pointed.

Far above them, against the cracked, black sky, spidery birds lolloped into dusk.

For hours, they slushed over miles of muck. It was two or three feet deep. Quite quickly, the unbuilt city disappeared behind them, and then all that was left were the sharp veins of light in the sky, and the dim plain. Occasionally, they passed a metallic stem rising out of the goo, a single, crooked finger glinting dully, bloated at the top with some kind of pod.

“I hate the sky,” said Gregory. “It looks like lightning got lazy.”

“I think,” said Brian, “that it’s not a sky. I think it’s actually a surface.”

Gregory grimaced. He didn’t like any of it.

The place was too empty. The landscape looked, somehow, like defeat.

They spent some time below, in the cabin. The stove was warm, lit with something like coal, and Brian and Gregory huddled close to it, trying to get the chill out of their hands. Most of the cabin was crammed with appliances. The boys couldn’t tell what the gadgets did. They had cranks and revolving chains and (in one case) four sets of little riveted wings.

The troll sat up above, watching the sticky tundra pass. The goateed man saw that Kalgrash’s arm was damaged, and, clenching his cigar in his teeth, went below for tools. As the troll sat and watched the three lumbering beasts pull the sleigh, the man carefully soldered his arm, slashed back on Earth by the crystalline kreslings. It was not a complete fix, but it improved the break.

They passed an islet of dull green rock. There was nothing else for miles.

Later, as Kalgrash and the two boys sat near the stove, Brian said glumly, “It’s not like I expected here.”

Gregory snorted in agreement. “Yeah. I thought it would be like when we traveled into the past. The palaces and all the noblemen in wigs. I thought there would be more fanfares, and the Emperor would be here —”

“Remember him?” said Brian warmly. “The guy you stole the crown from? And the Empress? And that bishop? The ones we saw on the barges and in the Haunted Hunting Grounds.”

Gregory grinned. “Right. Exactly. The long coats and all the silk stuff. That’s what I was expecting.” He waved his hand with repulsion. “Not so much sludge.”

The boys were getting hungry. Brian said he’d go ask the man when they were going to eat. He clambered up the little staircase to the bench where the man sat, holding the reins of the three ruddy steeds.

Their host was talking into a speaking-horn. He growled into it, then held it up to his ear to listen. He seemed testy. Brian quietly went back down into the cabin.

“He’s on the phone,” he told Gregory.

“I could eat a horse.”

Kalgrash cautioned: “Hooves.”

Brian mused, “It sounded like he was arguing. I’m worried. Where do you think he’s taking us?”

Gregory flopped backward on the cot. “A Chinese buffet,” he groaned, his arms trailing backward over his
head. “Spring rolls. Pot stickers. Chicken lo mein. French fries. Five Vegetable Pleasures.”

He stood and went up to reason with their host.

“French fries?” Kalgrash muttered. “What kind of Chinese buffet do you people go to, anyway?”

Gregory shut the door to the cabin. Their host was off the phone. He leaned forward, smoking his cigar, watching the dark, wet terrain. The beasts yanked them untiringly across the waste.

Gregory pointed to his mouth. He clapped his jaw open and shut.

The man mistook his meaning. He apparently needed no food himself, and perhaps did not understand eating at all. He assumed Gregory wanted a bit and a bridle to help pull the sleigh. A little mystified, he went below and got one, handed it to Gregory, and pointed down at the sloppy tundra before them in invitation. He signaled that the bit should be gripped in the teeth. Gregory, in despair, held the bit dangling.

So there was no food, and it took what might have been days to cross the marsh. Brian had a headache and lay on his side near the dead, cold stove. Gregory’s stomach rattled. Kalgrash usually only ate food for show — he didn’t need it — but he was worried for the boys, and kept watch over them while they slept.

Above, the cracks in the sky turned from blue to white. And the sleigh for the first time switched direction, according to some knowledge or agreement of their host. It crossed miles toward some uncertain destination, its ski tracks and wake ebbing behind it, dimming in the sludge.

A
n elf was in the soups.

He chose chicken and stars — hurled three cans in the cart. He had the veg already, and baggies of sliced meats.

Wee Snig was at the Halt’N’Buy. It was his turn to buy provisions. It was hard to get enough to eat, with time passing so strangely, so quickly, within the barriers of the Thusser settlement. In the few hours it took to walk from the base of Norumbega Mountain to get groceries, a day passed beneath the mountain and in the haunted suburb on its slopes. For whichever of them stayed behind, watching the portal in the catacombs — Wee Snig or Prudence — it felt like forever.

Snig selected bread. He was not doing well at looking unobtrusive among the humans. He looked a little crazy. His vest was open, his shirt collarless and dirty from imprisonment. His pants were rolled up above the shins and patched like a clown’s. He wore an orange, knit ski hat — though it was eighty degrees out — to hide his ears.

He quickly scanned the cart. Every moment counted, amplified. He had what he needed. He got in line. The line was intolerably long. He stared impatiently at the glossy magazines in the rack —
Chic, TV Guide,
and
Me.
He thought of Prudence crouched there in that infernal darkness, amidst the blackened scabs of long-burned monsters.

In the line, it was his turn. He didn’t know exactly how checkout worked, but he figured that he couldn’t go wrong if he approached the whole process in a lordly and commanding manner.

He threw his items onto the conveyor belt. He handed the cashier Prudence’s card. “Madame!” he said to the girl. “Make money come out of this card to pay for these foodstuffs.” He waved his hand.

She stared at him.

“Make — make the money happen!” he said. “She told me a number! I tell you the number, and you make the money happen! Why do you look at me as if I’m insane?”

The girl gave him the keypad to type in the PIN. As he jabbed with his finger, he berated the boy bagger: “My friend, I wonder if you would be so good as to stop staring at me as if I were your day’s gift of lunacy and just deposit those bananas in that fine paper sack. Come! Stop gawping. Don’t you have opposable thumbs, child of Eve? Use them. Pinch. Lift. While you dawdle with my dinner, empires fall. Generations of moth spring forth, flourish, and die. My gums recede, my flesh shrivels! Time passes, children! Your pink face pales, young woman — old
woman! Beneath it lies the skull, awaiting its moment to burst out and show its teeth!”

The kid with the bags said, “This is your dinner?”

“Indeed. Bag it, bagger!”

“It’s dog food.”

“Horse,” said Wee Snig proudly, “can be perfectly succulent.” He grabbed his bags by their handles and swept out.

Wee Snig was in a snit, so he did not notice the photocopied pictures taped on the door — photos of two boys missing for four days.

He tramped behind the Halt’N’Buy and headed down a path through the woods. It was late summer, and the sun was bright.

In another forty minutes or so, he reached the perimeter of the Thusser settlement. There was no marker, but he could feel time slither differently as he passed through. It moved faster. Five minutes later, and he was walking through fall. The leaves were browning.

He climbed an outcropping to see Rumbling Elk Haven. (“Where Nature Meets Class! Affordably!”) He gazed through the branches.

He swore. It had gotten much worse since he had left for groceries.

There was no longer any semblance of order. Cars were deposited on lawns or in ditches. The doors on some were open. The batteries had died days before. No one moved in the houses. People were hiding or had already been absorbed and were dreaming. They were the surface on which the Thusser would settle, the medium through
which the Thusser would move. Some lay asleep on their lawns, slumped as if discarded.

The webbing of Thusser construction was spreading from the center outward. Houses wobbled in the wind, becoming more like the filmy nests in which the Thusser roosted.

There was one spot of human motion. It was near Prudence’s old place — a little sixties ranch house in the midst of the new construction. Kids rode in slow, hypnotized circles in front of it. They did not stop or speak. They looked very thin.

And then Sniggleping saw someone else.

A door opened. A man came out on the front stoop. He was dressed in sneaks, Dockers, and a cardigan. He walked down the brick path that led from his door to the street. On the way, he stepped on the hand of the house’s previous owner, who now slept sprawled out on the drive.

All at once, Snig saw that the man’s ears were pointed, and there were dark rings around his eyes.

The Thusser had arrived. They had taken possession while he was out getting dog food and soup.

The man paused by his new mailbox — hesitated — and looked up into the hills.

His eyes met Snig’s.

And Sniggleping ran.

He thrashed through the bushes down the rock face, along the path toward the hidden door to the roots of the mountain.

He had not gone thirty feet when he came upon a new
lawn. A new house. Its rooms were still empty. It was built across the path, and had appeared in less than two hours, according to the time that the rest of the world kept.

The settlement was spreading.

Snig crouched low. The plastic bags rattled. He ran around the lawn. He didn’t touch it with his feet.

The path continued, though interrupted by new construction.

He reached a door in the rock. He opened it and shut it behind him.

Down through the dark passages into the City of Gargoyles, he ran.

In the city, there was light.

It was dim, but lanterns were lit all up and down the avenues. The fleshy bulbs that grew on houses glowed from within. They were Thusser nests, and they were occupied. Thusser walked the streets. They had thrown caution to the wind. They had come through from their world.

Snig pulled off his cap. His ears sprang free. He stooped near mud, ran his finger through it, and smudged it around his eyes. He needed to look like one of the Thusser.

Carefully, he walked through the streets.

Not many had come yet. Those who’d arrived were still settlers, exploring the ruins, setting up shop. A few businesses were open, wares still in crates. At a sidewalk café, two Thusser in nineteenth-century morning coats and cravats relaxed at a table, discussing real estate. Both had drinks in metal flagons hung from hooks near their
heads. Long tubes ran from the bottom of the flagons to needles that pierced their throats. They drank directly, without the use of their mouths. It allowed them to talk more freely as the rich vermouth of alien worlds drained directly into their gullets.

Snig, alone amidst his enemies, was in a panic. He tried to walk like nothing was wrong. He strode like a Thusser.

Poor Prudence,
he thought.
Time must be going even faster. She hasn’t eaten for what — two days, then? Three?

He hurried to get to her side.

The drawbridge of the castle was guarded by Thusser in military smocks. They did not pay much attention to Sniggleping as he crossed the square. He passed by them, bustling as if he had business.

The boys must have reached the Emperor by now,
he fretted.
The Rules must be invoked. This is all in direct violation.
He wondered where they were, how they were faring — they and his dear troll.

He slipped into St. Diancecht’s Cathedral. It was dark. He raced for the back, where the door to the crypt lay.

Behind him, he heard the great doors open.

A soldier entered with a torch. In the language of the Thusser, the soldier called out, “Sir? Sir? There’s no one allowed in the cathedral.”

At once, Sniggleping turned, startled — and one of his plastic bags split. The food tumbled out across the flagstones.

He turned off his lamp.

“Sir?”

The soldier approached, his footsteps echoing in the dark nave. He pulled out his saber. He shone his light around. It picked out faces — angels, devils, saints on bikes, souls smiling as they left behind their bodies. The pool of light from his torch sloshed across cans of dog food and a bundle of celery lying on the cold stone floor. They cast steep shadows across the pews.

The soldier arrived at the shell of the torn bag. He glanced around nervously, looking for the intruder. No sign. The air itself was white with ancient dust. With his elbow, the soldier adjusted his shako …

… and was clobbered by a Famished Lad™ Beef Stew.

Sniggleping stepped from behind a pillar. He had, in his day, been a crackerjack pitcher for the Norumbega team.

He rushed forward to gather the cans in his remaining bag and descend into the crypt.

When the guard awoke, there was no sign that anyone had been there at all.