The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter Read online

  “Some days, I’m sure, were pretty crappy.

  “One thing for certain: the structure known as Jesthe existed, way back then, but as a small, almost quaint dwelling. A cute little cottage compared to the present monstrosity that towers over our heads.

  “Living inside this version of Jesthe was a couple with red blood in their veins. One of each gender. A brother and sister.”

  The fecund laughed to see Octavia’s reaction.

  “I’m kidding. They weren’t siblings. What kind of story do you think this is? How dull would it be to hear about the exploits of siblings? Are they attracted to each other? Will they sleep together? What’s their special bond? Who cares! These people were fine sovereigns of their land and of their people. Proud specimens. Your friend, you know, the chatelaine, is a descendant of this couple. That’s right, girl, the drunken sadsack you call your boss.” Another white rat skull, clacking hollowly against the stones. “Anyhow, the young couple—and Jesthe, of course—eventually became very well known to me.

  “The first castellan and chatelaine. Carolus and Anna. They had recently been wed. Anna was brought in from a neighbouring family, a miniscule village that today has been subsumed and forgotten. She was almost as crazy as Carolus.”

  “You never said he was crazy. You said he was proud.”

  “Well, he was crazy. Did I tell you Anna was twelve years old?”

  “No.”

  “Why do people like that end up together? Have you ever wondered? I’ve seen it happen again and again. A strange phenomenon. Lunacy attracting lunacy. Then, of course, they encourage each other, I suppose, validate each other.

  “But I digress.

  “Carolus and Anna had three children, two boys and a girl.

  “And Solum—for the settlement already had that name—grew around them.”

  Octavia squatted on her haunches, using the upturned basket for support.

  “The family managed to lead their subjects in a state of quiet terror, during which there were small amounts of prosperity, it’s true, and several great harvests, but the most memorable change of all during this period was a marked increase in the disappearances of nubile youths—primarily virginal females (such as, I’m sure, yourself).” Again laughter. “In fact, my dear Octavia, the shortage of birthing age women—from ten or so years old to perhaps sixteen—in the surrounding townships, soon became so profound and dire that feuds were fought over the few fertile daughters who managed, by luck, or by desperate plot, including lockdown, to remain within the auspices they were born into.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear this story,” Octavia said. “Can’t you tell me another one?”

  “You can’t pick and choose. And why don’t you like this one, anyhow? I was just getting to the good part. Listen:

  “I smelled food. Jesthe had become irresistible, calling to me, wafting aromas I could not resist. I have a pronounced weakness, you understand, a metabolism you would never understand. I sniffed out this place. I watched the activity best I could from the safety of hedgerows, salivating, hearing screams no human could hear. Do you know what the castellan and his wife were up to?”

  Octavia shook her head.

  “They were bathing in the temperate fluids that spilled from the arteries of these girls—to stay young! That’s right, my marked friend: red blood! Of all things! Madness and vanity combined.

  “The new gods approved. What god doesn’t like a blood bath?

  “Knowing that my own appetites would be welcome, I approached. It was, as they say, a dark and stormy night. I knocked on the front door of Jesthe with a proposition for the happy couple.

  “At first, they were suspicious. Naturally.” The third skull ricocheted and the fecund appeared to transform briefly, becoming blurry around the edges before snapping back into place, sharper than before. “I introduced myself. And that, as you folks say, was the beginning of the good ol’ days. The rest is history.

  “Sadly, like I’d said, the couple turned out to be crazy as fleas. Carolus used to regularly drink fermented barley. A lot. Until he became quite unreliable and insensate. He became stupid when drunk. He never had a sense of humour at the best of times. For his own distorted reasons, he ended the deal we had worked out by catapulting the bloodless bodies of four dead girls over the walls of Jesthe, wasting perfectly good meals. He ranted that the blood of these girls had gone bad. Anna was sick in her bed. In his anger, Carolus marked the faces of the dead girls with black kohl!”

  “Is this true?”

  “True? What does true mean? Now stop interrupting me. Where was I? Ah, yes: bodies rained down on the farms beyond the gates, and all the rumours that had been circulating in the township about missing girls became very real.

  “Jesthe was soon stormed.

  “Me? I ran and hid. Of course, no bodies were ever found inside because they had been, well, disposed of, but the courtyard gardens—which opened behind the regal bedchambers—were discovered to be the site of intense flowerings. The soil was richer and blacker than any other garden for miles around.” The monster smiled, perhaps at the memory of such vanished luxury. “And from the royal pond, which encircled the glorious bursts of roses and persimmons and dandelion, there came an odour most peculiar.

  “Jesthe was torched.

  “The couple, found huddled together in a false chamber in their own bedroom, were dragged from their hiding place and dismembered by a gaggle of distraught parents.”

  “Are you telling me how kholics began?”

  “Will you please keep silent? Have respect for the storyteller.”

  “But—”

  “Shh! From my hiding spot, I went nearly delirious with emanations and emotions. One good thing had come to an end, yet I could not get over what a fabulously insane race you were! I never could have imagined such goings-on. Remaining hidden, trying not to burst out with excitement and awe, was very difficult for me.

  “Jesthe, of course, is primarily stone, and did not catch fire.

  “The water of the pond, however—where I had set up temporary quarters—nearly boiled me alive!

  “After all this activity, crowds departed. Several of your years went by. I must have fallen asleep. Jesthe was repaired and returned to the three children, who promised never to do anything as wicked as their parents had done. The kids were, by this time, almost adults—and almost as scrambled in the head as their parents had been. Why were they given back the seat of power here at the palace? A good question. The masses are idiotic, unable to do anything without being told. But that’s another story.

  “These new leaders asked servants to identify themselves by dressing in red, for blood, and they implemented the testing of all babies, so that bad-tasting ones could be avoided when it was bath time.”

  “This is ridiculous. I don’t believe a word of it. Now you’re telling me about the palatinate?”

  “Melancholy killed the parents. There’s a direct relation. The girls that had poison in their veins were the ones tossed over the ramparts. Their children, the heirs, were acting out of loyalty. It all fits together.”

  Octavia turned away.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you had parents, you might understand.

  “After the incident, more and more houses were built. A perimeter wall was completed. In honour of your great new city, forests were razed, waters polluted. You bred indiscriminately, as you often do. Proliferated like mad, without thought.

  “When I finally awoke, I was famished. I snacked on a dead duck and the few expired frogs that came my way. Then, once—oh lucky day (or so I thought)—I swallowed the delicious body of a child who had strayed too close to the pond and had drowned. A boy, I think it was. Rather bony, if I recall. Dressed in shorts. I kid you not. But say what I will about humans, you people are fond of your young, aren’t you? Just like me. And you are quick to accuse. I tried to explain that the child was already dead and puffy but no one li
stened. I tried to explain that the fecund does not end lives, nor can she, but that she converts, or gives, life.” The last rat skull, lobbed in Octavia’s direction, fell just short of the portcullis.

  “I’ve lost my place again. I must be getting old. I lose my place so often! Oh yes, I was in the pond, unhappily surprised by a group of searchers, who had been looking for their precious boy and had labelled me a killer. Like the previous crowd of vigilantes, these people had nasty pikes and nastier temperaments. I must have been sluggish from all those years of hunger and sleeping, for to my great shame, I was captured. Dragged from the water, relocated to this awful cell, I have been passed down from generation to generation, like an heirloom, my maternal gifts discovered, turned into an act, employed in numerous humiliating ways. I have given birth to armies, lovers, pets . . .

  “I suppose the food here is all right. And the guests, sometimes, are ravishing, if somewhat quiet.” She winked.

  “That’s a horrible story.”

  “I’m a monster. What did you expect? All my stories are horrible.”

  “I don’t think that’s how testing started and I don’t think you’ve ever eaten anyone, even if they were dead.”

  “Don’t make the mistake of liking me, girl. I warn you.”

  “I don’t like you.”

  “I think you do. A little bit. Okay, here’s another story:

  “A lonely chatelaine, out for a walk, sees a pretty girl and falls in love. She brings the girl home.”

  “I know that one.”

  “Okay. How about this part? The chatelaine trusts the girl, who betrays her.”

  Octavia said nothing.

  “Or this one:

  “Long after the last traces of Nowy Solum crumbled, the site was excavated. A foundation was poured on the mix of bricks and bones, a foundation for one of the tallest office buildings ever conceived. In this building, orphans were trained to become huge machines, each capable of travelling between the stars—”

  “How long will it take before you give birth?”

  “Oh. Changing the topic? No more stories today?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then, I’ll answer your question. When will I deliver? It’s not that easy, Octavia. I’d like to tell you something simple, like next week. But it’s complicated. Plus, this pregnancy seems to be different than the others. I’ve told you that already.” The fecund blinked. For the briefest of moments, the expression on her face reflected sincerity, maybe even fear or self-doubt. “Are you sure you don’t want to come a little closer to the bars?”

  “No.” Octavia began to back out of the cell.

  “Wait. Let me tell you one last thing. Trouble is brewing in the city of Nowy Solum. You and your brother are in great danger.”

  Returning home, the benevolent sisters flew metres apart, low over the water, getting neither farther nor closer together. Clouds overhead were thinner here and paler pockets could be seen between the pulled shapes of cumuli. No light reflected off the sisters’ skin and, for a moment, they vanished, leaving vague, distorted patches that winked back into corporeal existence.

  Beneath them, the ocean waters were calm, though recently there had been a great storm.

  Coming over the beach of black stone, banking over brush and thin scrub, they slowed. Detritus had washed up on the shore: driftwood, branches, clumps of seaweed. Several dead or crippled seals lay entangled, not moving. Stranded on one inlet, the body of a huge cephalopod was slowly being decimated by a thousand shrieking gulls and as many silent crabs. Registering this carnage and destruction with dismay, the benevolent sisters circled. There would be work to do to retain order.

  For now, other issues pressed.

  Continuing toward the mountain, they reduced their wakes to minimal. Few branches swayed, fallen leaves lifted gently and settled again. Scarlet birds exploded, screaming from a broken acacia, and moved as one; the sisters banked to avoid sucking any into their scoops.

  Barely wide enough for their full span, they had to stop to enter the cave, alighting and then hopping from rock to rock, or briefly hovering as their eyes scanned the dark within.

  There was water in here, too, but fresh, heavy with minerals, shining with bioluminescence.

  The people harvested shrimp and clams and small, blind fish. Though their exemplar had told the people that the goddesses had awoken, and a few of them had actually watched the sisters leave, to see them so close now caused witnesses to bow, or swoon, with evident apprehension. A few fell, prostate, to the sand. Women wept, perhaps with joy, and children ran along the shore of the dark lake, no sign of the fear or uncertainty their parents felt, splashing water up in sprays of silver with their feet as they tried to keep up.

  The sisters waggled their fingers to return the greetings, and to allay doubts.

  Yet they, too, were concerned.

  Beyond the cave, a narrow exit: they emerged, able to stretch again, soaring in the relative brightness of the central crater. They passed over simple structures, tiers of gardens. More people—looking up, bodies trim and brown—paused in their work.

  As Kingu and Aspu came in for a landing on the shale pad, they called for the exemplar, who, from his front deck of his home, had been watching the sisters’ return with a degree of trepidation.

  Seven years he had been more than content to be the chosen one, with the host in his body. Never had he performed duties other than listening to benign whisperings, pondering instructions on planting or building, or giving out instructions himself about offerings and sacrifices. His four fat wives had agreed to be with him as a direct result of his position. They certainly treated him well. Seven years he had first choice at feasts. His hut was large and in a prime location at the mountain’s foot.

  But now, as the host inside him tugged uncomfortably, and his saliva tasted bitter, the sisters barked at him to appear: he would gladly have surrendered the position to anyone, anyone at all—

  Meet us, the benevolent sisters cried. Meet us!

  At least this time he wore his sandals.

  Jogging the path toward the goddesses’ slab, with large red flowers bowing either side of him, the exemplar soon stood near where the sisters were settling, bless them, pinging and hissing as their temperatures shifted. That heat again, washing over him. Their eyes were open.

  “Aspu,” he said. “Kingu. Most benevolent sisters. Bless you. Happy returns. There was, uh, there was a storm, and we lost several nets. And—”

  He stopped. Aspu was splitting in two. Or maybe it was Kingu. With his heart thudding, the exemplar watched as the goddess slowly gaped wider and wider. What must have been her mouth extended back, past her shoulders, opening so wide that the benevolent sister’s entire front half was divided.

  Inside was a dim interior, peppered by tiny lights. No bodily fluids or entrails spilled forth.

  Exemplar, said the sisters, come closer.

  His feet managed to obey. He stepped onto the shale slab. Now he saw movement inside the body of the goddess, and he heard moaning.

  These women need fresh water, and food. Nothing heavy, just bananas for now. And aloe cream. Lots of it.

  “Women?” he repeated, idiotically. “What women?”

  No answer.

  Panic rose in him. He felt like a child must feel, on the verge of tears, when confronted with an inexplicable, confounding aspect of the adult world.

  Go, exemplar, get what we asked you. These women are nearly dead.

  Squinting, he tried to peer into the goddess’s mouth—and he did see them, he did! Two women, prone, arms at their sides. There was room inside the throat of the benevolent sister for a dozen people or more. No blood at all, just hard shapes in there and what looked like chairs and shimmering figures of light, and the two women, half-naked, reclined on cots.

  Go!

  The host sent jolts through the exemplar’s body. He staggered off to obey.

  The chatelaine arranged for her fire to be relit, and as
ked that servants be sent up to the dungeon to light her father’s fire. Naturally, there was mild protest concerning this request, for none of the women wanted to venture up a tower only to have the naked castellan heap abuse on them, but protests over assignments from the chatelaine could not last for long, or be particularly strong; two fat women vanished, faces covered by gauze, grumbling from her chambers, to carry out the unpleasant task.

  The afternoon tryst with Octavia had taken an edge off the chatelaine and helped give her the fortitude to recover from the visit with her father, though his comments about a grandchild still stung. The castellan was hurtful, and the chatelaine was not sure why she insisted on treating him as anything but. Snippets of the conversation were impossible to ignore and these fragments disturbed her chances at more pleasant daydreams. Of course her pets were like children to her. Given the countless times and countless partners with which she’d had congress, she was quite positive that bearing children of her own was not possible. Her father should know that and show more sensitivity, especially on the day that one of her lovely pets had been stolen.

  Maybe she and the kholic could raise a child together?

  The chatelaine shook her head, almost laughing aloud; these thoughts were ridiculous. She lay down on her bed. Now that she had taken measures to replace the cherub—having sent Octavia in her stead—she found herself reconsidering her decision to grant the palatinate access to the entire palace. What were the chances that she would get robbed again? Did she really want Jesthe—and Nowy Solum, for that matter—to return to the grip of authority it had once been crushed in?

  She sighed, imagining guards outside her room at night, scowling with disapproval while she lay in bed, spooning with the kholic.

  Presently, the chatelaine heard the sounds of logs being added to her fireplace and the business of someone trying to light them; she realized she had dozed off. She sat up.

  The women by the fireplace were not paying her the least attention.