They
worked in the sunshine, which wonder of wonders, in this place did not cause
any form of skin cancer, or leathery aging of the skin. In this place. High
Vale. They were about two hundred yards removed from the great house, down
below the pastures, close to the river, moving upon the short grasses, Wolf
flowing in slow motions, Jack doing his best to mimic every nuance of every
move. Jack kept snorting, and shaking his head. They were bare chested,
exercising in their breeches and boots.
“Can
we stop with the kappas, already? Please, I hate the kappas,” Jack whined.
“Kata!
Would you please stop goofing off? You asked me to teach you this stuff,” Wolf
said, calmly, maintaining his motion, smoothly working through the kata.
“Yeah,
but I wanted to learn how to fight, not dance,” Jack sniffed, finally throwing
down his arms and stalking away from the older man. “Plus I’m sweating like a
pig.”
“Don’t
let the chef hear you say that!”
Wolf
completed the simple kata, and bowed to an unseen sensei.
“Come
on, Jack, show me a simple defensive stance, just the basics,” Wolf said, at
the edge of his patience. But he had not lost his temper with the kid, not yet.
He did not really have to remind himself that Jack was a kid, and that kids
were kids, but he did have to remind himself that Jack did not pick this stuff up,
not very fast at all. In fact, he had not managed to retain anything Wolf had
already shown him.
Jack
sighed and put his fists up. Wolf shook his head.
“Will
you please make a little effort?”
Jack
sighed again, and he bent his knees, just a little, and he finally put down his
chin so that it was near his chest, but as always he had just about everything
else wrong.
“Thumbs
out, Jack. If you punch someone like that you’ll bust your thumbs. Never tuck
your thumbs, and keep your fists loose, like you’re holding a butterfly and don’t
want to crush it. Put your left fist out, a little farther; remember that’s
your tapper. Pull your right fist a little closer to your jaw, no, not against
your jaw, just up close, not that close, okay not that far—Jack, will you at
least pretend to be making an effort?”
Jack
sighed, again, and this was a really big sigh, like the worst actor in an
amateur theater troupe, loud, exaggerated, and drawn out, projecting in order
for the cheap seats to hear.
“Maybe
you should just keep doing all the derring-do, cuz I suck at this stuff,
Stacey. Fisticuffs. Sheesh.”
“If
I’m there, I will, but I might not always be there, you know that,” Wolf said,
now sighing as well.
“You’re
gonna be there, just get used to it. Sheesh, it’s not like I’m going to let you
go anywhere,” Jack said, rolling his eyes and dropping to the grass, stripping
off his boots and stretching out.
Wolf
folded up as he plunked to the grass, and stripped off his own boots, and
leaned back onto his elbows, enjoying the sunshine. In this place, he felt more
like a plant than an animal, and he loved the caress of the sun. The sun seemed
about ten percent bigger than they were used to—compared to, well, normal times—and
it felt more regularly warm, and did not singe the eyes when you looked up at
it.
“You
know what you remind me of?” Jack asked, perking up now that Wolf had switched
out of teacher mode.
“What,
a slob? A bum? A skeleton with lazy bones, just-a sleepin’ in the sun?”
“No,
you remind me of one of those big dinosaurs, the ones that look kind of like
the T-Rex, only they are obviously vegetarian, and gentle? You just knew, as a
kid, that those guys could mix it up with the T-Rex and the other nasty
carnivores—carni-saurs? Carnosaurs?
Carnosaureses? Whatever you call the bad-guy dinosaurs.”
“I
guess there was no big surprise there, that we are both vegetarians, we always
kind of know each other, don’t we? Something that shines in the eyes. Although
carnivores can’t really tell, at least not at first. But we see it.”
“Yeah,
yeah, I’ve noticed that! What would you call it—wimpiness?” Jack laughed.
“Maybe,”
Wolf grinned, chuckling. “But I would probably call it more gentleness. We
recognize a certain...gentleness, all
vegetarians do, or maybe a certain cleanness.”
“Nah,
we’re wimps, let’s face it. It’s always why we have to kind of keep it a...secret, from literally everyone. When
they find out, at first they think we’re weird, and then wimpy, and then they
start making their jokes, right? We’re actually worse than nerds. Well, I guess
it’s more accurate to say that we are
nerds, just vegetarian nerds.”
“Yeah,
I guess, I don’t usually announce it, not like the vegans do.”
“Yeah,
yeah, those guys—they always proclaim it! Back, filthy mortals, step aside,
please do not brush against me with your filthy, germy, carnivore-germy
lower-form beings!”
“Vegans
are religious,” Wolf said, closing his eyes, lolling in the sunshine. “Vegetarians
are usually...spiritual, something
like that.”
“And
carnivores are like the loudly religious, ah meat! I need my meat, you can’t
beat my meat!” Jack chortled.
“They
put bacon in everything, literally everything,” Wolf agreed, shaking his head. “Once
a woman brought muffins to work, and she had bits of bacon actually cooked
inside—muffins! And salads. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if they came out with
a bacon milkshake! Bacon ice cream.”
“It’s
so completely gross,” Jack snorted. “I would always see some extremely
beautiful girl, at lunch, and I would be thinking, how in the world can anyone
be so...gorgeous? And then I’d see
her biting into a burger, with bacon poking out, and then her magic aura would
wink out. I’d imagine what her breath would smell like, you know? If I kissed
her, all that meat, that blood smell—it’s almost as bad as imagining her on the
toilet. Sheesh.”
“Best
not to imagine such things,” Wolf chuckled.
“Have
you ever?” Jack said, leaning forward.
“Imagined
such things?”
“No,
have you ever kissed a meat-eater?”
“Oh
yeah, of course. In fact, all my girlfriends were meat-eaters, and you could
tell. There’s a strong scent to them, sure. It’s not bad, not exactly. But it’s
meaty. Kind of like musk. It probably makes them seem a little more...exciting.
Not so nice, you know. The bad girl, a little smelly, you can even pick out the
smell under all their perfumes. I guess it seems a little dirty.”
Jack
burst into laughter.
“You’ve
had a lot of smelly girlfriends?”
“After
I turned about, oh, seventeen I guess—your age—I always had a girlfriend, of
varying seriousness, but never any that were all that—satisfying, the
relationships.”
“Just
the sex?” Jack said, trying to keep a level of seriousness to his tone, but
unable to hide his perkiness.
“I
guess that was the usual reason, the sex, and the companionship. But I guess I
never met that one, you know? The
magical one. I was never looking for conquests. I wanted her, my fantaise artiste,
my dream artist, a mysteriously deep woman. But I guess I always attracted the
wrong type. It was mostly my fault, I guess, because I give off the wrong
signal. They always see me as the bad boy, and a certain kind of girl likes the
bad boy, usually the wrong type. All my girlfriends were extremely aggressive,
and that’s who I usually ended up with. My Mom would always tell me to go for
the shy girls, the quiet girls, the nice girls.”
“See?”
Jack laughed. “The vegetarian dinosaur syndrome! You look like a T-Rex, but
really you’re one of those big plant eaters! They think they’re getting one of
those big bloody meat-rippers, and here’s you, nibbling away at the green! All
nice. All gentle. Boy, they must have been disappointed when they found out the
truth!”
Wolf
laughed. “I think you’ve got it. I’ve never thought of it that way, but that’s
pretty close to the heart of the matter.”
“Describe
her,” Jack commanded.
“A
reader, that would have been nice, not even one of my girlfriends read (or
maybe they just couldn’t read), they thought books were the stupidest things,
and here that’s what I was always doing, writing. So what are they ultimately
going to think of this nerd, at his computer, always writing? I’ve always
imagined cuddling up and reading with a woman, either from the same book,
sipping coffee, our feet tangled together, or each of us reading our own books,
me a thick, fat Brandon Sanderson fantasy, and her a slim, elegant Jhumpa
Lahiri; I wouldn’t mind chick lit, in fact I actually like chick lit.”
“Jhumpa
who?”
“Jhumpa
Lahiri, very good writer. Probably a great writer, kind of contemporary Jane
Austen.”
“Oh
man, Stacey, no way, I can’t read Jane Austen. I can’t believe you like Austen!”
“Well,
maybe when you’re a little older. She’s the best, and the Bronte sisters.”
“Really?
Jane Airhead?”
“Oh
hey, Jack, come on, I love Emily Bronte’s Wuthering
Heights more than any other book, and her sister Charlotte’s Jane Eyre is close. But again, maybe
when you’re older.”
“I
hope not,” Jack said, shaking his head. “But I have thought about reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Now
that sounds like a rip-roaring tale I could get into it.”
“It’s
really funny, I mean laugh-out-loud funny, but it’s not funny unless you’re a
big, big fan of the original Pride and
Prejudice. But if you’re too big a fan, you’ll hate it.”
“Okay,
so you want a lady artist, that reads, is a vegetarian, and what—blonde?”
“Oh
no, I’ve always liked the brunettes, with lots of hair.”
“Myself,
I’ve always kind of liked blondes, and sometimes redheads, or strawberry
blondes.”
“Really,
I like that too. There’s something about a redhead. Ooh, and Asians. Black
girls. Tall Scandinavian babes with white hair. Cowgirls are hot. But really, maybe
just the right blonde, with deep brown eyes.”
“I
like blue eyes.”
“Maybe
the right blue eyes, sure. But blue eyes have always seemed like vanilla to me,
everywhere and the same. But yeah, you get the right pair of blue eyes, and
wow.”
Jack
sighed. “So you’re pretty much saying you like any type of woman? Looks-wise.
Can’t pin it down more than a girl with multicolored hair that reads and
guzzles coffee? Loud belches, would that help?”
“Tight,
faded jeans, that’s probably my downfall, I can hardly resist a woman in tight
jeans. Especially when there’s holes in the knees! But, Jane Seymour, the
actress? Ah, in all her phases, she’s like the moon. The young Jane, the
middle-aged Jane, I don’t know which Jane I like the best, but I’d probably
melt away to nothingness if I met her in real life, or someone like her. Lady
Jane. She’ll be hot in her eighties. Or Sandra Bullock, there’s something about
her that just catches at my heart.”
“Yeah,
I like Sandra Bullock, too. While You
Were Sleeping.”
“Don’t
move, just be very, very still,” Wolf said, his tone not changing.
“What
is it?” Jack whispered, freezing, eyes going huge.
“Just
don’t move, unless I tell you to run, and then do that, very fast,” Wolf said,
easing to his feet, his shillelagh appearing in his hand. He moved with
exaggerated slowness, almost like he was doing his kata again.
A
scorpion, the size of a German Shepard came scuttling along the bank of the
river, it’s big claws clacketing as it moved back and forth, apparently searching.
The creature was a decent twenty yards from them, and Wolf doubted it could see
all that well. Hopefully, it would just continue on its chitinous way. Just
keep clacking, you bug you.
“Oh
no way,” Jack said, peeking around Wolf’s legs, who had moved to place himself
between Jack and the scorpion.
“Why
do they have to throw in something like this?” Wolf said, sounding more than a
little put out. Here they were, just a chattering away, enjoying the sunshine
and the grass, in an utterly beautiful world, and now here came the nightmare
that walks by day.
“Guess
they like to keep things interesting,” Jack whispered, scrambling to his feet.
“I
told you not to move,” Wolf snapped, because the scorpion abruptly scuttled
forward ten feet, in their direction.
Jack
began hopping about, trying to pull on his boots.
“Would
you just please stop waving your body around like a red flag?” Wolf sighed,
exasperated. “Do you have any horns you can blow?”
Because
now the scorpion was charging them.
Wolf
stood, barefoot, slightly crouching, the black shillelagh up and motionless.
“Wouldn’t
this be just about the best time to run?” Jack stuttered, scrambling back and
forth behind Wolf, looking for something, anything—sure, he had this dagger,
and it was nice and everything, but it felt woefully insufficient at the charge
of a rampaging giant scorpion.
“Stop
moving,” Wolf commanded in his low growl.
Jack
finally froze, peeking over Wolf’s shoulder. And when Jack stopped moving, the
scorpion abruptly halted, its tail up and threatening, its claws both open for
maximum crunching power. Hell, those clompers could probably severe a leg, at
the thigh! But Wolf concentrated on the uplifted tail, and watched queasily as
a viscous dark drip swelled at the tip of the nasty looking stinger.
“Oh
now that’s just lovely,” Wolf whispered. The scorpion shifted on its six legs,
reacting to the whisper. He wished he had his MMA gloves and armored arm
bracer, but they were lying in the grass, near his boots, shirt, and vest.
“Do
you speak?” Wolf said, addressing the scorpion, in what sounded to Jack as a remarkably
calm thing and way to say to a scorpion, and perfectly reasonable, considering
that this was High Vale.
The
scorpion jerked at the words, and scrambled a few feet to the side, but kept
its alien head aimed at them—its stinger, as well.
“Worth
a try, everything else seems to be so talkative,” Jack muttered. Then he looked
to a strand of trees perhaps fifty feet away, because something sparkly caught
his attention. For just a moment, it looked like a stream of fireflies swished
through the foliage, high in the trees. Fireflies, in full daylight?
“Maybe
I can just scare it away,” Wolf began to say, but before he even got to the
word scare the scorpion pounced at
him, the tail descending, the pincers pinching.
Wolf
moved backward, deflecting the stinger strike with the shillelagh. His back
punched into Jack and nearly knocked him off his feet, and Wolf suffered a bad
few moments where he almost tripped over the boy and went down. But he
deflected the first stringer lash—it felt like batting away a lashing steel
chain, and then expertly slammed the black fighting club into a pincer, and the
impact was so powerful he almost lost his grasp on the shillelagh.
Jack
danced back and when Wolf moved to the side and he had a clear view of the
attacking scorpion, Jack hurled his dagger with all his might. It was a perfect
throw. It was an expert throw, as if he had been throwing daggers all his life.
But the weapon banged off the scorpion’s carapace and didn’t leave a scratch.
The insect—the arachnid—the monster turned toward Jack, its claws going wide.
Wolf
dashed about the creature while Jack froze in place, and he leapt and caught
the tail just beneath the stinger. He tried to snap the tail, exerting all his
mighty strength, but it was like attempting to snap a cable. The scorpion
scrambled, whipping its tail, and Wolf lifted off his feet and flew a good six
feet to the side, but he maintained his hold on the deadly whip. He threw his
body backward, jerking on the tail, applying all his weight.
The
scorpion came about at him, very fast, and grasping the tail, not letting go—he
was hurled in the other direction.
Whatever
he did, he was not letting go his hold on this crazy whip—he felt like Baloo
the Bear unable to release the tiger tail. He hollered and groaned as the tail
thrashed him back and forth, at least thankfully in the opposite direction from
which the scorpion scuttled—his arms felt jerked out of the sockets. It came at
him from the left, and he was yanked to the right, away from the grasping claws.
The thing was actually defeating its own attacks. The clasping claws sounded
like steel bear traps snapping shut. Wolf flew the other way. This thing, this
bug, half his size, was whipping him about like the most hated doll in the
world.
“Stupid
bug!” Wolf howled, and he took the tail and cranked on it, snapping it tight
and throwing his weight into a full swing, and managed to lift the monster off
its feet and hurl it about like the hammer throw, but it proved to be a wimpy
throw, at least in its result, for the giant bug only flew about five feet, and
tumbled in a roll, its body thrashing all the way over to slam down on its
back, its legs kicking wildly in the air for a moment, and then it stretched
over itself and came up facing away from them, then scrambled back, its tail
waving like a battle flag.
Damn,
but his shillelagh was in the grass, and for a few moments Wolf couldn’t spot
the weapon, and he needed it. Perhaps he’d been foolish to drop the club to
seize the tail.
“Here
it is!” Jack shouted, snatching up the shillelagh, but his body seized in an
electric jolt, and he jerked rigid, dropping the club, collapsing into a
loose-limbed heap, falling back on the grass with his mouth slack, a thin wisp
of smoke rising from his mouth.
“Jack!”
Wolf roared, and the scorpion scuttled toward him, but it was obviously
shifting its gaze (did the thing even have eyes?) between them, deciding
whether to go after the unconscious lump of meat, or take out the big conscious
lump of meat?
Wolf
rushed and dove toward Jack, coming up with the shillelagh in his hands as the
scorpion scuttled forward, striking its stinger down. Wolf deflected the strike
and then slammed his club into the closest claw, which clamped down, and as the
scorpion turned again to bring the other claw to attack Wolf was thrown over
onto his back—the shillelagh ripped from his hand, but he scrambled and made it
halfway to his feet when the scorpion tail struck again, and Wolf jerked to the
side, but the strike was so close that the passing tail actually punched him in
the head, knocking him back into the ground. Flashes of light filled his
vision, but he forced himself to roll, away from Jack, kicking out his feet,
scrambling, and he felt the stinger punch the ground by his head. Instinctively
he seized the tail again, in both hands, and the scorpion jerked him up off his
feet and his body followed the tail and flew over the creature’s chittering
body, he watched it pass beneath him and then he came down hard, on his left
arm, and the wind rushed from his body, but he rolled, and was able to rise.
The
scorpion was motionless, between Wolf and Jack. Again, it seemed to be choosing
between them.
“Here!
Over here, you stupid bug!” Wolf roared, stamping his feet and waving his right
arm. His left arm dangled at his side.
The
scorpion scooted about, facing him.
Jack
appeared to be rousing, coughing. Thank God, just as long as the kid’s
movements didn’t draw back the attention of the monster.
“Come
on! Come on!” Wolf thundered at the top of his lungs, and the scorpion tracked
him, followed him as he took several steps backward, attempting to draw it away
from the youth in the grass. The scorpion scuttled forward, in pursuit, but
then it paused again, and half-turned back toward Jack. Comically, it waved
Wolf’s shillelagh in its claw, almost as if it were taunting him. Ha ha, I’ve got your disco stick, big man!
How
do you fight this thing? If he had one of his daggers that were nestled in his
vest, he could throw for that meaty looking thing that passed for a face—what
an ugly thing! Goodness, but it was ugly.
Then
an arrow whumped right into that face that Wolf was studying, neat as that, the
arrow sprouted, almost magically, and the scorpion chittered, and died. It
looked like it was deflating, all the air leaking at once from his chitinous
body.
Wolf
looked and there stood Seven, Jack’s bow in her left hand, still lifted, even
now nocking another arrow.
“Seven!”
Jack cried, sitting up in the grass, still looking woozy.
“Thank
God!” Wolf cried, crumpling onto his butt, even now unsure of just how battered
his body actually was. He had been jerked, thumped, slammed, flipped, thrown,
and dashed, several times, and that punch from the passing tail had been harder
than anything he’d absorbed in the ring, it had been like getting punched again
by the crooden giant. All this, form
a lightweight bug no bigger than Danny Devito.
“No,
you can thank me, this time,” Seven
said, joking, and in her tight glistening buckskins she rushed forward to Jack
and knelt by his side. “Did it sting you?”
“Probably,
I don’t know—I don’t think so, I mean I’m still alive, I think,” Jack babbled,
grinning hugely at his Ghost Lady.
“Six
sent me,” she said, placing the bow on the grass near Jack, and removing the
quiver of arrows, placing them within his reach. “He said you forgot this, and
that you really shouldn’t be close to the river without your bow, because, you
know, there are scorpions prowling around the river!”
Jack
laughed. “Oh yeah, that.”
Wolf
managed to get to his feet, but swayed, his head, spinning. His left arm
dangled, but it didn’t feel broken. He went to the scorpion and seized his
shillelagh, but couldn’t manage to pry the club free from the claw. Even in
death, the dog-sized scorpion was stronger than him. He cranked the walking
stick, back and forth, like a pry bar, leaning his weight against the wood, and
finally managed to get the claw open about an inch. He plunked down, weary, in
the grass, one foot propped up on the claw.
“Are
you okay, Stacey?” Seven called, coming to him. “Did you get stung?”
“No,
just punched, and basically manhandled,” he muttered, head down, gasping for
breath.
“That’s
a good thing, because I don’t know what will happen if you die here,” she said,
softly, kneeling by him. She smoothed her hand along the muscles of his left
arm. “I don’t know what would happen to me, if you died,” she whispered.
“I’m
okay, just winded,” he said.
“It’s
not broken, is it?”
“No,
I don’t think so, just shocked, or sprained. I’m at least getting some feeling
back in it, and it doesn’t hurt, not quite yet,” he said, closing his eyes,
lulled by the caress of her hand. “That feels good.”
She
pushed her fingers into his mane and pushed his hair back out of his face, then
she kept on, putting her fingers through his hair, and he sighed.
“You
have to be careful, Stacey,” she said, staring at his chest and muscled torso
as she gentled his brow. It was like soothing a horse.
“Good
thing you came along,” he murmured. “I was out of ideas.”
“Always
getting into trouble, Stacey, Stacey, Stacey. Stacey the black sheep, Stacey
the bad boy,” she crooned. She sat down beside him and pulled him over, placing
his head in her lap. “Just rest a while. I’m here. I’m here.”
“Oh,
I love that,” he said, feeling dreamy, “I love your fingers through my hair.”
“I
know,” she said, continuing her fingers moving and pulling and smoothing, combing.
“Me too.”
And
Wolf began snoring.
“What
a time to take a nap,” Jack said, kneeling near Seven, taking Wolf’s right hand
in both his hands. He glanced up at the nearby trees, because again he saw what
he thought must be movement, a cloud of fireflies, something high up, something
sparkly, but then he told himself he must be imagining things, because it kind
of looked like Tinkerbell flittering through the leaves. But his eyes were
drawn back to the river, and the thing.
“He
just needs to rest, a bit,” Seven said, softly.
“No,
I mean—that,” Jack said, indicating
with his head, away down the riverbank. She glanced up.
Another
scorpion came wandering along, its pincers opening and closing, and while the
first scorpion, the now-dead arachnid, was terrifying at the size of a large
dog, this one coming was closer to the size of a bull. Its tail alone must be
twenty feet long.
“Oh
boy, that one might take a bit more than an arrow,” she said, lightly slapping
Wolf’s face.
“Whatever
you do, just don’t move, boy have I learned that lesson well,” he whispered,
near her ear. He inhaled deeply. She smelled wonderful. “You’re a vegetarian,
aren’t you?”
“Isn’t
everyone?” she whispered in return. “Where I come from, it would be a miracle
to find meat, let alone think of eating it. But that’s right, I keep
forgetting, in your time everyone was barbarian. I keep forgetting, you both
seem so real.”
“I
think if we don’t move, like Stacey said, maybe it will just keep going down
the river,” Jack whispered.
“What
are you doing in my hair?” she whispered.
“Just
smelling you,” Jack whispered.
“Well
stop it, it’s distracting,” she whispered.
“You
like Stacey, don’t you?” he whispered.
“I
don’t know what I feel about him,” she whispered, and her fingers stopped
moving through the sleeping man’s hair. “There’s something about him. He just
makes me crazy. Usually, I just want to kill him. But other times, there’s
something magical about him.”
“I
don’t blame you,” Jack whispered, “Even I think he’s incredibly hot, and he’s
my father.”
She
snorted. “You think he’s your...? No, Jack, he’s—”
“Is
that your horse?” Jack said, loudly.
“Is
what my horse?” she whispered,
looking at him.
Jack
seized her jaw in his hand and turned her head so that she was looking in the
same direction he was looking. And she saw that Dancer, her beautiful dappled
horse, was clumping down the embankment, probably looking for her.
They
looked back toward the truly monstrous scorpion, and, of course, drawn by the
horse, the monster was charging toward them—greedily, hungrily—because, after
all, there was just so much meat waiting here, so much meat, and so little time
for a giant scorpion to rend and tear.
© Copyright 2016 Douglas Christian Larsen. Vestigial Surreality. All Rights Reserved by the Author, Douglas Christian Larsen. No part of this serial fiction may be reproduced (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews) or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher, Wolftales UNlimited, but please feel free to share the story with anyone, only not for sale or resale. This work is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental (wink, wink).
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