The Cosmology of the Wider World Page 8

  “What’s the problem?” asked the porcupine.

  “It’s simple. He needs a mate.”

  The company nodded its collective head and ‘ahhed’ with affirmation, never having thought of Belius before in terms of needing anything.

  “A need of the greatest kind,” Chelonia said.

  “The utmost, my dear,” the tortoise said to his wife and caressed her shell.

  Vashti continued, “I have discussed the problem with Siftus, and we see that it would be easy to solve it, but there are no other minotaurs in the Wider World. So, not giving in to failure, especially when our friend’s very life might be at stake, we’ve decided to create a female minotaur.”

  The silence below broke into a confusion of murmuring and shouts. Some didn’t think they’d heard correctly and were questioning those next to them. Others heard perfectly well and were now raising all kinds of questions to the pair in the tree. Both Pezimote and Shebeb shook their heads, each for different reasons.

  “Shhhh!” hissed Vashti. “Let me explain. We’ve worked the project out to its most minute detail, and the work has already begun.”

  The creatures quelled their objections and questions and let her continue, having faith in her capacity to reason.

  “Luckily enough, we have Siftus to help us. He has already done a drawing from which we will build her. If I may say, even though it is not one of his great monuments cut from limestone or granite and is no more than a scratching in the dirt, it probably is his greatest creation to date. It’s ingenious. It’s beautiful.”

  The mole, normally a modest creature, was infected by the height of his present position and took a bow. In this motion, though, he lost his balance and toppled forward. The crowd gasped, but Vashti, in one swift lunge, caught him by the collar of his vest with her nearest talon and dragged him back onto the branch.

  “Listen carefully, now. Here’s the plan,” the owl said, continuing her speech with Siftus still in her grasp. “Think to yourselves if there is anything you can do to help. Think if there is any way we can make it better. The form of the body will be molded from river clay, slapped into shape by Weeber and his family. The body will have, running through it, a network of green saplings so that it can move its limbs pliantly. When the form of it is near completion, Siftus will carve the finishing touches onto it—the expression, the beauty marks, and enough wrinkles to make it seem real. The horns will be fashioned from teak branches. The teeth will be pearls from fresh water oysters. The hair on its flanks and neck and whatever other creaturely parts will be donated by whomever can spare a tuft or two. Her tongue will be a single leaf from the blabbering trees, so that she might converse with her mate. The hooves will be cylindrical cuts of branch from my own ashe tree, tapped into the appropriate shapes by woodpeckers.

  “Our friend from the West, the Condor, has already promised me that the Sphinx can donate a human foot; one of the body parts she brought with her from her days in the lesser world. He says that it will come with the toenails painted, as is the custom among humans. The breasts will be fish bladders filled with liquid to give them the correct give and will be set high on the chest in the manner they appeared to Siftus in a fit of inspiration. To animate this lovely there will be a dried gourd of bees inserted into the chest cavity, and in their commotion they will initiate locomotion. As for the brain, a mosquito will be trapped in the dried clay behind the eyes and between the ears, filling our sister’s head with the sweet buzz of consciousness.”

  The ants applauded loudly to see the insect community so well represented, when usually they were unknowingly trod underfoot. All the other creatures joined in, considering the planning behind the project nothing less than marvelous. No one could see any reason why it wouldn’t work.

  “The only thing that we have not decided on is what to make the eyes from. Given their importance as the organ of communication in the language of love, just anything will not do. Rack your brains, help us to find a solution while we prepare the rest of this female.”

  “Excuse me,” said a quiet voice amidst the celebration. Shebeb stood up and faced the branch on which the owl and mole were perched. The creatures all around him fell silent, waiting for him to speak his mind. “Vashti, I can appreciate the reason behind your plan, but I’ve studied the inner workings of creatures for years and it’s not a handful of bees that gives them life. Not one of you has a mosquito in your head. Our tongues are not leaves, our teeth, not pearls. What you propose is beyond our capacity to produce. I hold that what Belius needs is exercise, fresh air and abstinence from the digitalis. Only these things will clear his mind so that he can think through his problems on his own. You know that I would not try to dissuade you if there was the slightest possibility of success …”

  Before the crowd could consider the ape’s opinion, Siftus opened his snout and interrupted. “Wait, Shebeb, you mustn’t work against this plan. Belius is our friend. We love him as we do ourselves. You, as a physician, are more apt than we are to give in to what’s natural, because you know more than we ever will the obstacles we will face. But I don’t hold with what is, with what must be. I don’t care how many times my heart beats a minute or why my eyes are failing me. I live through my imagination and intuition. Don’t tell me that what I see so clearly in my dreams I can’t create. If I believed you, I would jump from this tree right now and kill myself. If I agreed, then it would mean I was already dead and what would be the loss? I’m very much alive, though, and so is my vision of the creature I will call Soffea.”

  The vehemence with which the mole spoke his mind startled nearly everyone. He had always been an enigma to the other creatures in that he so ardently pursued a path called sculpture which had no natural place in the Wider World. Belius had originally interested him in the art and, through trial and error and years of laborious work, he had created some pieces that were so beautiful even the unfeeling sharks would swim up close to shore and beach themselves trying to get closer to them.

  Another round of cheers went up, drowning out Shebeb’s protests. The ape turned and shuffled back toward his cave, shaking his head the way he might over the corpse of a centipede who had not responded to his treatments. That left only one dissenter amidst the throng of different species, and he was not one to open his mouth to make any statements that would challenge the foolishness of others—he had lived too long.

  Away in the tower study, Belius heard the distant clamor of the meeting beneath the ashe, but put it off to a delusion caused by his weakened state. His jaw had given up chewing the nonexistent cud, and he had bathed and had some dinner. He dressed himself and performed a few incidental chores that evening to reacquaint himself with those mundanities of life he had left behind for the two weeks he was in shock.

  Now he sat at his desk, reading from his copy of Dante’s Inferno that had been given to him so many years before by Doctor Grey. His first impulse after dinner was to pick up his quill and begin writing, but he knew that if he wanted to keep his sanity, even at its tenuous status quo, he had better find something more relaxing to do. His reading had gone along quite well, keeping thoughts of the destroyed Cosmology in abeyance. He was almost even enjoying himself, the book bringing back many memories of his childhood from when he had taught himself how to read. Then he reached a certain section of the epic that made him feel uneasy and he went for his pipe. The part that upset him involved the scene when Virgil and the pilgrim meet the minotaur in hell. His reading of the depiction of the mindless, snorting monster came in conjunction with the final round of applause given to Siftus’ speech. The muffled shouts seemed to him to be the cries of those tortured by the beast in the seventh bowl of damnation.

  As he puffed the digitalis, he stared out the window of the study and surveyed, by way of the moonlight, the ravages of his garden. “I think I’ll go out into the rows and work all day tomorrow—work till I sweat, till my muscles ache. If I can just get my crops back in order, perhaps that will set me more at e
ase. At least I will sleep more soundly for the toil.” These thoughts pleased him as those of the Inferno had not. The drug began to work on him, and he felt light headed and tingle bodied.

  “Definitely a walk with Pezimote along the beach at lunch,” he decided and felt the heat of the sun and practiced with his heightened imagination the dialogue with which he would amuse his friend. The scenario seemed so real that now he even heard what he believed to be his friend, calling his name, probably to signal him to slacken his speed and wait up.

  From the scene on the beach, Belius’ imagination moved on to contemplate just how pleasant the future could be without his having to sit down every night and write. He began to move away from the window, noticing at the last moment that his coat was missing from the cross that had been the backbone and arms of the garden scarecrow. As he sat down, wondering what had become of it, he heard the tiny voice, calling his name again. “Must have blown off in the storm that night,” he thought.

  “Belius, Belius,” he heard again, but now realized that the sound was centered in his left ear only.

  “Who’s calling me?” he cried out and spun around in the chair to look over his shoulder, no longer convinced the voice was a remnant from his day dream of well being.

  “It’s me, Belius, I’m sitting in your ear. It’s Thip, the flea. Excuse me for calling so late at night, but I wanted to get you while you were alone.”

  “Ahh, Thip, I remember you, Shebeb’s assistant. What can I do for you?” he asked, cocking his head to its left side as if he were putting his ear closer to a speaker his own size.

  “Belius, I’m enamored of your blood. It’s so rich in all good things and has had a marvelous effect on me. Shebeb has said, it is the unfamiliar human part that makes it so special.”

  “Thank you,” said Belius.

  “Yes, it’s made me grow a considerable amount. I can no longer fit in my old armor. None of my pants fit me and my swords that had always felt of adequate size in my grasp now seem no more than toys.”

  “So, you’re growing bigger from it? I hope this will not ruin your ability to go on journeys.”

  “I don’t care if it does. What I want is more. What I want is to grow.”

  “What are you saying, Thip?” asked Belius, setting his smoldering pipe down on the table next to his chair.

  “I’m saying that I want your blood, as much of it as I can get.”

  Belius heard a change of tone in the small voice. “Well, I’d like to help you out, but I need every drop of blood I’ve got.”

  “Minotaur, you will give me your blood. I’ll come every day at noon, and you’ll let me suck your blood for five minutes.”

  “Impossible,” said Belius. “I think you’d best get back to your castle. I’m not in a good mood these days.”

  “You’ll give it when you hear what I have to tell you.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “If you don’t, I’ll tell all of your friends about your past.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When I was sailing through the ocean of your memory, I happened to be looking over the side into the clear water, as I do, to see what types of reminiscences are swimming about in the patient’s head, things that might have some bearing on the subject’s illness. In the reflection, I saw you kill, with your horns, a two legged creature, I suspect to be a man.”

  Belius instantly straightened up in his seat. “That was no memory; that was a dream.”

  “I can already tell you are lying by the way your pulse just quickened. Let’s not have any of this denial now. If you don’t comply, I’ll surely tell and you’ll be an outcast. You know the law concerning murder. I’m sure you didn’t kill that human for food.”

  All of the air left Belius at once, and he slumped in his chair. “No,” he admitted, “I didn’t. I killed out of anger, out of revenge. I …”

  “Personally, I couldn’t care less what your reasons were. I just know it happened, and I’m glad it did. With your blood, I’ll become a giant. Now, should I tell them?”

  “No, don’t tell,” Belius shouted. “I’ll give you what you want.”

  “I knew that you would. Lay your arm out on the arm of the chair, exposing its underside. I will bite you where the bicep and forearm meet. Come now, do as I say.”

  Belius used his right hoof to push the sleeve of his shirt up well above his elbow. He laid down his arm on the arm of the chair as he had been instructed.

  “Very good of you,” he heard in his ear and then felt the insect on the move. The feel of Thip crawling through his facial hair at other times might have gone unnoticed, but now it itched to the point of burning. The flea leaped from the minotaur’s lower jaw, landed on his left knee and jumped again, coming to rest in the crook of his elbow. Belius looked down in horror to see Thip, much bigger now than when he had first met him, waving three of his miniscule arms. The insignificant figure bent over, grabbed onto the flesh of the arm, and with a thrust of his disproportionate head, sunk his maxillae into the closest artery. A whimper escaped from Belius’ snout. The itch the insect had caused by traipsing across his face was a mere tickle in comparison to that which now tortured his inner arm.

  Pezimote could tell by the sound of the breakers that high tide was quickly approaching. He gently tapped Chelonia’s back with his beak to see if she was awake. There was no reply from inside the shell, to where she had withdrawn her head and legs earlier when they bedded down beneath the palms. The excitement of the council for Belius had worn her out. He had not seen her so animated in recent years as she had been, making plans and discussing the situation with the other creatures. It made his usual twinge of guilt more pronounced as he made his way toward the shore, away from her sleeping form.

  The night was warmed by a tropical breeze; much like the heat that billowed at times from the fireplace in Belius’ tower. Above, the constellation of the magpie was resplendent, each of its thirty jewel-like stars sharp as pin pricks with the night bird’s eye as red as blood. The minotaur had explained once, on a walk along the shore, that the reason for its color was that it was actually a giant red star, a thousand times larger than the globe of the Wider World. Pezimote put this fact out of his mind as he slipped into the surf, not wanting to concentrate on anything but love. He’d had to put off his rendezvous for two weeks while tending to his ailing friend. “I’ll not think of Belius once tonight,” he told himself.

  He swam quickly in the direction of the barrier reef, where he was to meet his young mistress. In the commotion of the gathering earlier that evening he had whispered a message in his mind to Nosthemus. Pezimote knew that he could count on the leviathan to get word to her that she was to meet him at the barrier reef. In the waters beneath the coral outcropping was a huge facsimile of a shark fin. “I wouldn’t,” the whale said to him in his mind.

  It had become nearly impossible for him to meet Mala anywhere on land. Chelonia had too many friends among the night creatures. They had not come right out and told her yet, but they were hinting as gossips love to do for a while before displaying their fools’ gold. At dinner not but three nights before, over one of her special man o’ war pies, she said to him, “So, I hear you’ve been rummaging late at night, dear.”

  “Who’s brought you this stupendous news?” he asked.

  “I forget,” she said.

  “You know my restlessness at night. I go out to have a snack of mangos or what not. It helps me get back to sleep.”

  “I hear that you were seen with one of our people on different occasions. A young tortoise.”

  “Oh … she’s just a child. Sometimes I chat with her on my way to and from the grove, that’s all. She’s young enough to be my granddaughter. Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

  “No, I’m not jealous. But if you ever go beyond chatting with her, I’ll know. I’ve been with you for a hundred and fifty years now. If you betray me with someone else, I’ll know instantly by the look in you
r eye the next time you face me.”

  “What do you mean exactly by betray?” he asked.

  She said nothing.

  Pezimote tried to laugh at her, but it came out a choking sound. “Do be serious,” he said.

  “I am serious. That’s all, now eat your pie.” She had cut him a huge slice as was the custom, but for the first time in his entire life, he had lost his appetite. Each piece of it stuck in his throat for a minute before it went down. It was the most bitter man o’ war pie he had ever had.

  As he spotted the shark fin marker, he heard the familiar sounds of Nosthemus and his chorus of dolphins welling up from beneath the water. He paddled to within a few yards of the reef and was now deep in the shadow of the fin. Almost immediately, Mala surfaced from beneath the water. Droplets rolled off her smooth shell as she swam toward him. He noticed that she had a triangular piece of mother-of- pearl pressed into the soft flesh of her forehead. She called his name as she approached, but that was all he heard before the chorus began; the overwhelming sound of the opening note drowned out the rest of what she said. She swam right up to him and bit him playfully on the neck. Pezimote’s mind went blank with the nip, all his thoughts moving through his body. They didn’t bother to speak but set about instantly rubbing stumps and softly pounding each other’s shells. The old tortoise trembled with excitement, and the young female with both that and fear. The warm breeze that blew down along the surface of the water grew warmer as did the sea around them, attracting a school of minnows. A frenzy of tiny fish stirred up the plankton, causing it to glow phosphorescent against the night.