400 Boys and 50 More (2 page)

And now the Ruins rose about the ancient avenue, and disappeared into the darkness overhead that the candle’s feeble light could not illuminate. They were like row upon row of black dingy storefronts, leering over the avenue with empty yawning windows. The avenue, I noted, seemed much reduced in size when compared to those prehistoric Ruins. But I proceeded, undaunted, past those eternally dismal Ruins—being sure not to quicken my step—and came at last to the more ruinous Ruins. Those were jagged pillars —teeth, if you will—that were the remnants of structures more ancient than those of the blocky buildings. They sprang from the ground at irregular but frequent intervals, and the flickering candlelight caused them to leap and caper annoyingly.

Soon, I knew, I would come to Miss Avander’s house. But first, as you shall see, I was to have a not entirely pleasant adventure.

For as I walked through the more disordered Ruins, I looked above and within them, and thus did not see that which caused me to stumble a moment later, almost extinguishing my candle. I set my candle upon the ground, and turned to examine the obstacle in the avenue.

It was a human body, bent at awkward angles, and unpleasantly mangled beyond recognition. Dressed, it was, in a white uniform with black stripes—now dreadfully stained and discolored—which I recognized as the uniform of a newspaper boy. Indeed, as I looked closer, I found that the body was sprawled atop the bag of the carrier. Within this bag I found a single newspaper—mine, as I was the last customer on the boy’s route—bearing the blatant headline: SPAWNING SEASON BEGINS.

It was all very tragic, for the poor boy had died—recently, judging from the date on the paper—in delivering my newspaper. Perhaps if I had canceled my subscription this might never have occurred, for I rarely read the newspaper, and almost never even checked to see if it had been delivered. But then, things are always much simpler in retrospect.

As I rose from the awful lich, I noted the six-taloned claw marks on its arm, and realized the full unpleasantness of the situation. The boy had obviously been killed by a Zhode in its mating frenzy. He should have paid closer attention to the headlines he carried, for all parts of the Chasms—though particularly the Ruins—are exceedingly dangerous during the Time of Spawning.

And that latter thought brought me to immediate alertness, aware instantaneously of my surroundings. There was a low hooting in the Ruins before me. . . and I recognized that hooting as the mating call of the Lymmpospopha!

Instantly my letter-opener was in my hand—and I shivered as the hoot was answered, from behind me, with the high- pitched “Da-li! Da-li!” of the courting Zhode!

With my admirable presence of mind, I turned parallel to the avenue, so that I could watch the Ruins on either side. Shadows moved within, approaching the avenue—and, simultaneously, me. To my left there was a final shriek of “Da-li!” and a huge, swollen Zhode jumped onto the avenue beside me. Thankfully, it didn’t see me immediately, as it was looking for its mate, the Lymmpospopha. And, a moment later, that infamous creature too lumbered heavily onto the path beside me, hooting through the single orifice in its tiny, bulbous head.

However, with the arrival of the Lymmpospopha, my presence could no longer remain a secret. This creature spotted me immediately, and gave an enquiring hoot in my direction, thereby pointing me out to the Zhode, who seemed rather disturbed that I should be observing this annual ritual. Thinking of poor Miss Avander—desperately waiting for my fuses—I slashed out with the letter-opener, and thus removed the Lymmpospopha’s tiny head from its gelatinous “shoulders.”

The poor creature staggered backward into the Ruins, spouting a pale ichor that was not exceedingly pleasant to the nose. Its enraged mate, the Zhode, now leaped at me, so that I was forced to deliver a rather cunningly-placed, fatal stab to its tentacular mass. It, too, fell shrieking into the Ruins, and in the distance I could now hear other things coming to investigate.

Thinking it wise to bring Miss Avander her fuses as swiftly as possible, I grabbed up my candle, smoothed down my hair, and dashed down the impossibly ancient avenue in the direction of that fair lady’s home.

Now imagine my genuine surprise when, approaching Miss Avander’s tiny cottage, I discovered bright lights pouring brightly forth from all her windows—and even a porch light burning cheerily above her red door! I rang the doorbell, thinking it very peculiar that there should be electric bulbs glowing when the fuse had burnt out.

The door at last opened wide, revealing a very lovely Miss Avander dressed in a beautiful blue gown. Needless to say, there were electric lights burning within the house, too.

(And here I must make a very unpleasant statement—for it appears I have, most scandalously, lied to you. Miss Avander had not really burnt out a fuse—and I, you see, had not truly believed her story quite as much as I had hinted earlier. Indeed, I had not even brought fuses with me, for the thumping box in my pocket turned out to contain chocolate bon-bons, and these I duly presented to Miss Avander.)

“Ah, Mr. Leandro,” she smiled, “do come in. Did you have a pleasant journey through the Ruins?”

“Thank you, Miss Avander. As a matter of fact, my journey was very unsettling, for I discovered the corpse of a paper carrier, and have aggravated the spawning hordes without. Even now, I fear, they march upon your home—hoping to destroy us both.”

“Oh, do sit down, Mr. Leandro. What an awful tale. Care for a mint? And what do you suggest we do?”

“Thank you. I suggest that we flee from here, immediately, and return to my house, where I am properly prepared for such an attack. Unless, of course, you happen to have a cache of weapons hidden somewhere?”

“Here, let me help you loosen your coat. No, I fear I have no weapons aside from the letter-opener you gave me last year. But will you not stay?”

“Well, er, now that you bring it up, perhaps I could do with a short rest. We can certainly leave in a few moments, just as easily.”

“I’m glad. . . that you see it in such. . . a manner. . . Mr. Leandro.”

“Yes, I believe a few moments. . . will not hurt. . . Miss. . . Miss. . .”

“Avander.”

But then, just as we had begun an evening of fascinating, intelligent discussion, Miss Avander’s front door—the bright red one, you may recall—splintered into pieces. A six-taloned claw smashed through without any regard to the high cost of finely-crafted doors, and withdrew again.

“Well,” said I, “perhaps we would be just as well off to depart immediately. Miss Avander, have you a fresh candle?”

“I’m sorry,” Miss Avander admitted, “I have naught but a flashlight.”

“Well, all right, but you must carry it. And now, out the back exit!”

We hurried through Miss Avander’s home, and she opened wide that narrow door in her kitchen which led—by means of a secret tunnel—through some of the Ruins, and onto the avenue a short distance from Miss Avander’s house. For various reasons, this exit had proved indispensible on certain occasions when Miss Avander had still been “Mrs.” Avander.

We emerged, minutes later, onto the avenue, to see a mob of hooting Lymmpospophae and shrieking Zhodes overwhelming Miss Avander’s tiny home. To our dismay, we were spotted immediately by one member of the crowd, who hooted and drew us to the attention of the others.

“Now, Miss Avander,” I recommended, “we must run—and don’t trip on the newspaper carrier.”

We dashed off down the avenue, while behind us the actions of the spawning things were rechanneled to pursuing us. In a few minutes we came to the blocky, younger Ruins, and though we ran through these as quickly as we could, the sounds of pursuit grew ever louder behind us.

Moments later, we were out of the Ruins, and I saw, in the distance, the lights of my house. We raced up the walkway, flung open the front door, and locked ourselves within. I went immediately to a panel set in the wall beside the door, and flipped on all the outside flood lights—as the Zhodes and Lymmpospophae dislike light of any sort. Through the window I saw figures gathering in the shadows; hoots and cries of “Da-li! Da-li!” came repeatedly to my ears. The lights wouldn’t hold them off for very much longer, and now only my ingenuity—and preparation—would save us.

I found another button-dotted panel, hidden behind one of my more sensitive Leandro originals, and this proved the key to our salvation.

“Miss Avander,” I said, “what I might do is a very ungentlemanly thing, and utterly immoral besides. So I would appreciate it if you would press these buttons in my stead.”

Miss Avander graciously acquiesced, and placed her dainty finger one by one on each of the buttons, and pushed them. And one by one, coincident with the pressing of the respective buttons, there were unpleasant explosions outside in the shadows all around my house.

These were followed by utterly awful thumps on the roof as the hordes without were demolished by my carefully placed explosives, and flung every which way; it took us three days to clean up the resultant, widespread mess. As Miss Avander’s house had been destroyed by the enraged beasts, she remained as a guest in my house—and thus was able to assist with repairs, as well as provide engaging conversation.

We have not since been bothered by Zhodes or Lymmpospophae, and you people inform me that this is because both of these rare species are now extinct.

Certainly, I could not have foreseen that during that particular part of the season, the mass-migration that you call the Influx had begun, thus bringing all members of both species into the Ruins. And I certainly could not have guessed that they would all attack my home simultaneously, and hence be destroyed by my defenses.

Yes, I am sorry that they are extinct—for such an occurrence is always a tragic thing—but how can you blame me for their extinction? After all, it was Miss Avander who pushed the buttons!

* * *

“Spawn of the Ruins” copyright 1977 by Marc Laidlaw. First appeared in
Shayol
#1 (November 1977), edited by Patricia Cadigan and Arnie Fenner.

TISSUE

“Here,” Daniel said, handing Paula the photograph. “Take a look at this, then tell me you still want to meet my father.”

Paula hefted it in one hand; it was framed in dark wood, covered with a heavy rectangle of glass. A fringe of dust clung to the glass’s edges, under the frame, blurring the borders of the photograph into a spidery haze.

“What is it?
Who
is it?”

“Us. My family.”

“But there’s only . . .”

Paula’s words faded away as she stared at the photograph, trying to understand. Squinting her eyes, polishing the glass—nothing seemed to resolve it. It was merely a simple figure, a person, but as blotched and mottled as an old wall, with sharply ragged edges that unsettled Paula: she couldn’t focus, it was like looking through a prism. There was a disturbing disparity within it, too; abrupt internal changes of tone and texture.

“Your
family
?” she repeated.

Daniel nodded, looking straight ahead at the road as he drove. The shadows were lengthening, the gloom descending. Through the endless stand of trees along the roadside, fields and hills were visible.

“It’s a composite,” he said. “You know, like a collage.” He glanced down at the photograph and pointed at the figure’s left hand. “That’s my hand. The right one’s my mother’s.”

“What?”

“And the chin, there, is my sister’s. That’s my brother’s . . forehead, I think, yeah—and that’s his nose, too. The clothes, I—I’m not sure.”

“And the eyes?”

“My father’s.”

“Daniel, what is this? I mean, why?”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Paula found herself staring at his left hand. The one from the picture.

“Daniel, why?”

He shook his head. “My father’s a madman, that’s why. No reason for it, he’s just. . . Well, yeah, to
him
there’s a reason. This, to him, shows us as a group—close-knit. “One optimally functioning individual organism,” he used to say.

Paula looked at the picture with distaste, then slid it back into the briefcase from which Daniel had taken it.

“It’s grotesque,” she said, rubbing dust from her hands.

“He sent that to me three years ago, when I had just moved away from home. Made it out of old photographs, begging me to come back. God, he must have worked on that thing for weeks—the joins are almost invisible.”

He fell silent, perhaps watching the road for their turn-off, perhaps just thinking. After a while he sighed, shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know why I”m doing this—why I’m giving in and going back after all this time.”

Paula moved closer and put her hand on his arm. “He’s human—he’s alone. Your mother just died. You didn’t even go to the funeral, Daniel—I think this is the least you can do. It’s only for a few days.”

Daniel looked resentfully thoughtful. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that started the whole thing.”

“What?”

“Loneliness. He must be awfully lonely, though, to have come up with his obsessions. He used to play with a jigsaw puzzle, Paula, made entirely out of a shattered pane of glass. For hours. And then that . . thing.” He gestured towards the briefcase, but Paula knew he meant what was in it.

“You’ll survive,” she said.

“Yeah. To survive. That’s the whole thing.”

There was another silence as he considered this.

“Funny,” he said presently. “That’s exactly what my father was always saying.”

* * *

The shadows had swallowed the old farmhouse by the time they found it, trapped in ancient trees at the end of a rough dirt road. The sun was gone, only a pale wash of orange light marking the direction in which it had sunk. Paula looked for a sign of light or life around the weathered building, but found only flooding blackness, shining where it was a window, splintered and peeling where it was the front door.

Daniel stopped the car and stretched back in his seat, yawning. “I feel like I’ve been driving for a month.”

“You look it, too,” said Paula. “I offered to drive . . .”