Gobs, Hobs, and Gods

The fire blazed bright, a thing Crob did not like, but had little choice in. There were a lot of things he didn’t like out on the plain–the open sky, the burning sun, the stars hanging above like fiery stalactites. Each night he laid in his small roll and covered his head, sure that he wouldn’t wake, because one of the blazing things above would break free from its moorings and shatter the earth like a hob’s hammer.

Fucking hobs. It was their fault he was out here at all, instead of beneath cool stone. Instead of the soft glow of phosphorescent fungi, the painful glare of a campfire. Instead of the crush and press of his brothers and sisters, this space, all this fucking space where if you weren’t careful, if you weren’t watching every step, you might just fly upward. Or at least he imagined.

Or, thanks to the hobs, and here he spat into the dirt–a thick green gobbet of snot–thanks to the fucking hobs, men could do for you. Towering men, with their bright steel and their terrifying mounts. Their allies, thin and willowy, spun death from the air. And the thrice-godsdamned dwarves. Hairy little rockfuckers.

Not that there was much of a size disparity between gobs and dwarves, but Crob just hated them so much. The way you hate a cavemate who’s decided that shitting in the corner is good enough, or when a spider gets in your mouth at night. It was enough to make a gob shit in his hat.

He stomped over to the fire and tossed the rusty cleaver on his roll, then shed the armor he’d patched together from bits and pieces gathered over the years. Here, the bottom of a pot. There, a piece broken from some explorer’s helmet, hammered flat and riveted in place. He flopped on the ground and let out a sigh that sounded like a small bear clearing its throat.

“Eh?”

Tob gave him a look from the other side of the fire, the white hair from his long ears drooping nearly to the ground. The old gob had been fighting alongside the hobs for nigh on thirty years, and looked it. His green skin was a patchwork of scars. A piece of steel hammered into bone replaced one kneecap. His left ear was missing the tip, and one eye stared out from a milky caul.

“What’s your problem?” he asked.

“This is all shit, and you know it.”

Crob knew grousing to Tob probably wasn’t going to get him very far. The old-timers were proud of their service to the tribe.

“Yes, it is,” Tob replied.

Crob looked up, and the old gob held up a clawed finger.

“But not how you think,” he said.

Crob turned away from the fire, letting his eyes lose the bright afterimage of the flames. He looked out into the dark, shoulders roasting from the near heat. He shrugged.

“Not interested in a lesson.”

“Oh no?” The old gob laughed. “You know everything, do you? Been through the warren a few times?”

“I know more than you think,” Crob replied.

It was a lie. He knew very little, but he wouldn’t let this relic know that. Besides, he’d kissed another gob once. He’d almost even dropped spore with her. Tob’s laughter pulled him out of the memory of slick green skin, warts standing to attention like zipshrooms when you tickled their stalks.

“You don’t know shit,” Tob said.

Crob knew he wasn’t going to get any peace from the old timer unless he walked away or chopped him to little bits. And honestly, both seemed like more work than they were worth. He turned back and raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Okay, enlighten me.”

Tob cackled with glee and scooted a little, until he was closer to Crob’s shoulder. He leaned in and rubbed his hands together, warming them against the fire, though it wasn’t that cold. Crob waited impatiently, fingered the handle of his cleaver. He was considering how best to split the old gob’s skull when Tob spoke.

“You know why we fight?” Tob asked.

Crob sighed. “The hobs tell us to go, and we go, or we get the whip. Or the bucket.”

He shuddered in memory of the bucket. Still, the code of the gob conscript rolled off his tongue like rote. Which it was. The single lesson the hobs taught. Short and brutal, like everything they did. Tob shook his head.

“We fight because this–” the old gob spread his arms, “is ours. Every bit of it. Every stinking tree and shithouse, every tall castle and low cave. It’s ours, Crob, and it’s a sad day when the lowest gobs don’t know that any longer.”

“How d’ya figure? I say let the men and the elves have the tops and we’ll take the dark. I like the dark.”

“And the dwarves?”

“Fuck those hairy little shitscrapers. We’ll have them over spits.”

Tob’s wizened hand, still strong, came around and smacked Crob in the back of the head. “Look, fuckwit,” he said, “this is ours. And I’m gonna tell you why. Your momma should’ve told you, but I think we both know you were probably shit into a mushroom pile and abandoned.”

“Fuck you.”

“You ain’t got the spores,” the old gob said. “Now listen. Way back when, before there were talls and smalls and castle and marsh and fen and cave and plain, there weren’t nothin’. But there was Grubthak.”

“Who’s that?”

“Who’s–?” Tob interrupted his story long enough to sputter a small litany of outrage.

When he finished, silence fell. The fire crackled, and Tob stared at Gob from one yellowed eye. “Your generation,” he scoffed, “shits out the best parts of themselves each morning. Grubthak’s our god. And you’d do well to remember that.”

“Nah,” Crob said.

“Nah?”

“Don’t believe in gods. And if there were some, they’d only want sommat from us, like the hobs and the dwarves.”

“Look, you–” Tob took a deep breath. He muttered darkly under his breath and shook his head. “Anyway, before Grubthak, there were a couple of things. A serpent with a thousand heads. A woman made of flowers. Sentient meat. But as is the way of our people, Grubthak was hungry, and he ate those things. That left him, the void, and a powerful need to shit.

“So he did what all gobs do. He dug himself a hole, and he pushed. And he pushed. He strained for six days, grunting, sweating, and cursing. His curses became men and elves and dwarves. His sweat, the seas. And on the seventh day, with a mighty heave and a furious anger, he shit the world.”

“Into a hole?” Crob asked.

The old gob nodded. “This place is a ball of shit in a pit, and until we prove we’re worthy, we don’t get another one.”

“Seems like a fucked-up thing to want in the first place.”

Again Tob nodded. “The cursed ones wanted this ball of shit for themselves. They were born of anger and need, and those things still drive them. They drove us, the true things that passed from him, underground. Those that wouldn’t run, they killed. Those they couldn’t kill, they chained.”

“This is our world, gob,” and here Tob pounded his chest. “And we aim to take it back.”

“You’re clearly insane,” Crob replied.

Tob looked at him for a long moment, silence passing between them. Finally, the old gob let a disgusted sound, waved a dismissive hand, and slid back to the other side of the fire. Crob laid in his bedroll. For a while, he heard only the sounds of the camp bedding down for the night.

He stared at the stars until he couldn’t, then rolled to his side. Curiosity burned in him, and with one long yellowed claw, he scooped up a small portion of earth and tasted it.

Oh well, he thought. At least I’m not a rockfucker.

 

The Brown Note: A Cord & Nenn Short

Cord hung from the cargo netting we’d rigged into hammocks, upside down. His hair swept towards the floor in a hirsute halo. The boat was headed to Pike, a little town some miles north of the river proper, and it’d been a long couple of days. I shot the stocky thief a look that could have cut glass.

“I’m bored,” he said. He wiggled his eyebrows.

“You’ve got two options, then,” I said, settling back into the netting and cracking the book. Killer Queen. It was just getting good.

“Take over the boat and find the nearest brothel?”

“I mean you could fuck yourself. Or you could listen to me.”

“That’s hurtful,” he said.

“Not as hurtful as me stabbing you til you’re quiet for the rest of the ride.”

I’m not normally murderous towards the ones I love, but he’d been singing some infernal thing from the last port nonstop, and I was just about ready to sever his vocal cords for a short respite. Hey, I’m not a lunatic. He’d heal. He always healed. I wondered briefly if Cord would ever die, or if it would be just him, the cockroaches, and whatever syphilitic lunatic he’d picked for a partner at the end.

“Hey, just because I can’t die doesn’t mean I should. It hurts.”

“Baby.”

“Piss-britches.”

I blew out an exasperated breath. The time he hadn’t spent singing had been spent bitching, and barring ending him, I was almost ready to march above deck and declare my presence. Hopefully, the captain would take mercy and only have me flogged half to death.

“Entertain yourself.”

“I am,” he said. “Your face is redder than a baboon’s ass, and that is entertaining. Wow. Look at that vein. I’m gonna name it Axl.”

I chucked a knife at him, and he cringed as it hit the bulkhead, quivering in place. He climbed back into his hammock and fidgeted. A long sigh. I tried to ignore him and turned back to the book. The Queen was just getting ready to unlace her breeches. He sighed again, and I pictured him flying from the mainmast like a meat flag.

“What?” I asked.

“I need paper.”

I dug into my pack, coming up with paper and a pencil. I passed it up to him.

“I’m convinced your parents were from the same branch of the family tree,” I said.

“Thank you, Nenn,” he said sweetly.

I sat down and dug into my book again. I’d read maybe another ten pages before his head reappeared. He wore a grin, and one eyebrow cocked.

“Funt,” he said.

“What?”

“I decided to make my own curses. Listen: Slimp. Smuctating. Pimhole. Fardwark. Scrum. Clotpole. Wim. Frangilate. I’m quite proud of that one.”

“Okay, use even one of those in a sentence.”

His grin widened, and I knew I’d asked the wrong question.

“A fortnight ago I funted a slimpy little scribe. When we were done, he thanked me for the frangilation, and licked my wim.”

“Have you considered seeing a professional?” I asked.

“Have you considered wearing some shadow on your eyes? Just a little here–,” his fingers came up and swiped under his eye.

I chucked a second blade at him, and it sunk into his shoulder.

“You fardwarking clotpole!” he yelled, then promptly fell into the deck.

He pulled the short blade free with a pained grunt and handed it back to me. Somewhere above deck, a bell sounded, and the motion of the boat calmed.

“Hooray, Pike! Get some sleep,” he said. “We’ve got work tonight.”

“Okay, but trade me nets.”

“Why?”

“Until you stop bleeding, I don’t want it all over me.”

“You’re oddly fastidious for someone who stabs everyone.”

“This is my best shirt.”

“That is your only shirt.”

I climbed into the upper hammock and closed my eyes. After a moment, I heard Cord climb into his with a groan. In a few minutes, his snores filled the hold.

*

We entered Pike just after nightfall, slipping off the boat with relative ease. Most of the sailors were already out carousing or sleeping off the journey, and no one had posted a guard. Pike wasn’t a big town, but it was somewhat respectable. It stood on a slight hill, the docks giving way to shops, shops giving way to modest homes, all of which led up to the mayor’s house some way up the hill. It was a sprawling mansion compared to everything else. For the most part, despite the fair size of the shops and homes, paint flaked, roofing tiles curled, walls warped in the riverside air. Anemic chickens scratched at the dirt paths, and an emaciated goat bleated from a small corral.

“Okay, why are we here?” I asked.

Cord gestured to the big house. “Rumor is, he’s been skimming from the town ledgers, the businesspeople. Taxes are out of control. Got a chest the size of a small elephant.”

“And we’re gonna steal it?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Too hard to move. We’re gonna steal part of it, and redistribute the rest. But first, my plan.”

He gestured toward a lamp pole as we passed it. A poster on the iron read:

BARD/BAND WANTED

SPECIAL TALENTS CONSIDERED

APPLY AT CBGB

“CBGB?” I asked.

“Centaur Balls, Goblin Balls,” Cord said.

“Classy. How the hell did you get those up so fast?” I asked.

“I slipped the bosun a little gold. Captain doesn’t pay him enough. How do you think we got on and off the boat so easily?”

“Nice.”

“I know.”

He steered us down a side street filled with shops stacked shoulder to shoulder, glass fronts displaying threadbare wares. Someone coughed in an alley, and we moved a little quicker, my hands on my knives. Here too, posters decorated walls and poles, and sometimes windows. As we drew near to CBGB, the sounds of music and laughter came to us, and the smells of roast food. My mouth watered at the prospect of not eating dried fish and biscuits, and we picked up the pace.

Inside, the pub was a riot of noise and color. Mercenaries from Gentia rubbed shoulders with Mane’s guard, while pockets of citizenry downed tumblers of beer and shoveled potato and onion mixtures into their mouths. We sat and ordered food, then turned to the stage at the end of the hall. A small band played there at the moment, lackluster and half-hearted, not that the patrons noticed.

My meal was potato skinned thin and fried, and some green that had been boiled and buttered. As we’d seen when we disembarked, meat was at a premium. Fortunately for the town (or maybe not, depending on how often you ate them), potatoes were abundant. While I ate, I watched the door. Patrons came and went as the night lengthened, and I thought perhaps Cord’s advertisement hadn’t attracted any takers. By the time I finished though, the bards began to enter.

The first was a group of three, black hair, black kohl around their eyes, black clothes. They carried two mandolins and a drum. The next–my heart nearly stopped. I recognized them. Vyxen, a girl group I’d seen several times in my youth. Tall, blonde, thin. They carried all sorts of instruments and could play them. The last was a lanky-haired youth with a slouch and a tube with a pipe at one end. I didn’t hold out much hope for him, but Cord perked up when he entered.

The house band trailed off, and the first newcomers took the stage. They tuned their instruments, then the lead, a stocky man in a sleeveless tunic, arms bulging with muscle, announced in a gravelly voice, “We are Goblin Shite!”

The mandolins began, shrill and loud, and the drummer hammered on his instrument in a frenzy, not unlike that of a rabbit’s ability to fuck. The big man launched into a verse, voice straining against the laws of physics and good taste.

“YOUR LOVE MAKES ME WANT TO DIE
I DON’T WANT YOUR POISONED PIE

I DON’T WANT YOUR HAIR-COVERED COMB

I JUST WANT THE QUIET OF THE TOMB

KILL ME

KILL ME
KILL ME

COCKROACH”

The mandolins faded out, and the patrons of the bar fell into dead silence. I looked at Cord. He shrugged.

“Next,” he called.

Goblin Shite trudged off the stage, and Vyxen took their place. Crisy, the lead singer, announced the band name, then they struck up a tune.

“This one’s called Love Swamp.

One day you left me

You can’t just let it be

Now I’m drowning

In the mud

I feel it in my blood

Love Swamp

Let me go

Love Swamp

Everything’s moist

Love Swamp

I never had a choice”

Again, the music faded out. The crowd looked at one another. Silence filled the room. Vyxen left the stage, and as Crisy passed the lead singer of Goblin Shite, she gave him the finger.

“Ah,” I said.

“Heartbreak makes bad poets of us all,” Cord agreed.

The last rose to the stage and pressed the pipe on his tube to his mouth. His cheeks puffed out. The note he played was low, and as it went, it rapidly slid to inaudible. Cord stood and raised his hands.

“That’s good,” he said.

The kid stopped playing, and Cord approached the stage. They stood for a moment, speaking in low tones, then a bit of cash passed between them, and the young musician took the stairs to the rooms above.

“I don’t know what just happened,” I said.

Cord winked. “You’ll see. Let’s get some sleep.”

We headed upstairs to our room.

*

The next morning, the city was almost as bright as the bar the night before. A festival had been called, and the town square teemed with people in white clothing, bare feet, and ribbons. They looked less than happy to be there, milling about listlessly, casting fearful glances at the guards. Seeing them by day, I noticed signs of malnutrition, of hunger. In others, diseases easily stopped by cheap apothecary medicine. Cord was at my elbow like a ghost.

“See?” he said. “He forces them into these things in his honor. Festivals dedicated to his largesse. Like he’s a benevolent king. Let me tell you, those who deserve these sorts of displays usually end up cold in the ground, in my experience. The ones who don’t, well–not everyone has a sword arm, a knight on horseback, or a kindly wizard. The ones who do rarely deserve that privilege. You think a kindly leader needs all that muscle?” he nodded toward one side of the square.

They’d erected a platform and made it up with a tall chair in red and gold. Beside it, guards posted up in bright mail and short blades, pikes at their side, ready for the Mayor to arrive. Bunting surrounded everything, from the stage to the fountain. Cord led us through the crowd.

“What’s the plan here, anyway?” I asked for the third time that day.

“You’ll see. Look, I don’t want to give it away. It’s brilliant.”

“Uh…” I said.

“What?”

Brilliant usually means ‘ending in bloodshed’.”

He made a dismissive sound. “That’s only happened like three times. But I can guarantee that while everyone’s here, we’re going to just walk in and take that gold.”

“Uh, okay. And I’ll shit unicorns.”

“If you could shit unicorns, we could’ve retired a long time ago. Here,” he handed me a pair of wax plugs.

“Your sense of humor gets weirder every day,” I said.

“They’re for your ears.”

“Of course. I knew that.”

A fanfare of trumpets blared, and the crowd parted as the Mayor strutted from a nearby tent. Thin and florid, he climbed the steps to the platform with a look on his face like he’d just been inaugurated as the city’s official shit-smeller. He plopped into his chair.

“Let the festivities begin!” he declared.

Small confetti cannons blared from somewhere, blasting the crowd with colored paper.  A cheer went up. Opposite the Mayor’s platform, the boy from the bar climbed onto the stage, instrument in hand. A scowl crossed the Mayor’s face and he pointed at the boy.

“That is not my band. Guards. Guards!”

Cord nudged me. “Earplugs.”

I shoved the plugs into my ears as the boy blew into his pipe. At first, I heard a distant vibration, then nothing. I looked at Cord.

“Why did I need these?” I shouted.

The guards charged the stage, and I wondered if getting the boy cut to ribbons was part of Cord’s plan. My hands went to my knives as I calculated how many I could take out. Cord put a hand on mine and pointed, shaking his head.

As the wave of guards approached the stage, they staggered, dropping their weapons. They clutched their stomachs and then collapsed. Wet stains spread across their trousers. The effect rippled outward from there, and the town square became an impromptu latrine. Foot by foot, the crowd was hit by that brown note. White trousers turned brown in violent cascades of liquid shit, stains blooming like particularly aggressive flowers. Bare feet splashed in mud that was not wholly mud. Some tried to flee, the Mayor among them, but the sudden intestinal apocalypse had caused panic and chaos, and as I watched, people were trampled and shoved, broken and suffocated in the dank mud. The mayor went down, and Cord nodded at me.

We made our way up the country lane, the screams of the enshittening behind us. The Mayor’s gate opened easily. His front door was unlocked, his personal guard laying unconscious in pools of their own waste. As we passed, one forced himself to his feet, not completely incapacitated. He leaned on his pike, coughed. A thick ripping sound followed, and his face went red as he found the strength to charge, trouser leg leaving a trail as he attacked. I shoved Cord out of the way and slipped past the man’s already sluggish guard. My blades found the insides of his thigh, his wrist, and he collapsed as arteries that once held blood he needed no longer did. It ran from him like headwaters, mixing with the foul brown stuff. I thought of the mud-red alluvial soil of the deltas and turned away.

“Feel better?” Cord asked.

I wiped a blade on my trouser leg as we walked.

“Yeah, actually, I do. You have no idea how close I was to skewering your kidneys for fun. Wait, can you grow those back?”

Cord shrugged. “Never tried.” He glanced over, then down at my knife. “Don’t want to.”

I grinned and sheathed the blade as we came into the treasury.

Cord was right. There was enough treasure for a city. I took a small golden flute as a souvenir and a handful of coins. Then, the other bands appeared, and several sailors behind them, each wearing earplugs, each toting a wheelbarrow. One by one, they loaded the money and carted it into town. As Crisy passed, she gave me a wink, and I blushed to my toes. I watched her go, and Cord was at my elbow, grinning.

“Behind the bushes? Down the basement? Lock the cellar door?”

“Shut up,” I said.

“Gonna talk dirty to her?”

“Gret’s balls,” I said.

When it was empty, we left the way we’d come. I stepped over a guard writhing in a puddle of shit.

“Well, what do you think?” Cord asked.

“It’s a funting mess,” I said.

“We did a good thing.”

I thought of the crowd of townspeople who’d be nursing sore bottoms and egos. I grunted.

“We did an okay thing,” he amended.

I watched the last of the wheelbarrows of gold disappear into town. It would be used to build business, feed families, and care for children. I clapped him on the shoulder.

“We did a terrible thing with a good outcome. How about that?”

He shrugged. “Potato, diarrhea.”

We stepped from the mansion into bright sunlight. At the bottom of the hill, disaster. Here though, it looked like nothing but blue skies. We walked on.

Death, Ink, and the End of the World

Two things happened the day I turned 29. My grandfather died, and the world ended. I’ll get to the apocalypse. Not that it’s not important, but the death of a loved one can feel the same. The sudden cessation of life that’s marked a significant portion of your time on earth is similar to snuffing a candle. A little breath, a wisp of smoke, and the light goes out.

We’d gathered from across the country, flying in from snow, swamp, and sand, from stands of brackish water and white beaches, from homes bracketed by tall pines. We huddled in a small room smelling of antiseptic and blood and that vague sick smell that the old and infirm carry around with them like satchels of incense. The shine from white tile and fluorescents irritated the iris. The type of glare that digs into your brain, makes it impossible to get comfortable. I couldn’t imagine what it was like for the person in the bed.

That person, my grandfather, lay beneath a thin white cotton blanket. Blue stripes ran horizontal in groups of three at the head and foot. Tubes and wires snaked from him, as if they’d built a human still, the medicines distilling his essence, his reality down to this tiny moment in time. A life of sixty-some years and here he lay, condensed into a single final drop of story.

Tattoos swirled up from his elbows, down to his wrists. They appeared as black whorls and lines in smudged relief through the thin hospital gown, half-seen representations of a life lived. They crawled down from his covered hips to his exposed ankles, black ink turned green with age and time; the lines raised scars beside varicose veins.

I looked to my grandmother, thin and frail, skin competing with the light for pale brittleness. My mother, hair just turning white in small threads of the black tapestry of her hair. My sister, young and strong, though sad around the eyes. Each held an object. Grandmother, a rag marked black by the years of wiping fresh tattoos, and a small pair of scissors. The blades glinted under the fluorescents. My mother, a pot of ink and a razor. The bottle of pigment sat dark and quiescent in her palm. My sister, Rea, a small needle gun like a kingfisher in her fist. They looked to me and smiled, each sad, each intense.

My grandfather, small in the bed. I remembered him a big man. Lean, with hard slabs of muscle beneath his thin work shirts. He kept a package of spearmint in the breast pocket, and he’d lean in when we came to him, pull it out, hand us a piece. We’d sit at his knee, the sun reaching jealous fingers through slits in the blinds, trying to anesthetize us with its warmth on a lazy Sunday.

We’d unwrap the gum, powder between the foil and the stick dusting fingertips, and pop it between our lips. That first bite, sweet and cool, waking us, filling our mouths with saliva. Then he’d speak. Stories of his tattoos, where they’d come from, what they meant. Different every time.

This one, a port in Malaysia. A beautiful woman from Kuala Lumpur had hammered it into him with a needle and a stick. Or was it in Maui, a man named Keno with a pin? That one, South Africa. He’d gotten drunk with a footballer. Two weeks later, a woman in Nebraska had talked him into it. Grandmother coughed politely at that story, and he switched tacks. This one, Boston. A Navy man by the name of Franklin gave it to him in the engine room of the U.S.S Anzio. No, wait. It was a child by the name of Dario in Italy.

Each a lie. Each superbly told.

I pulled a chair across the floor, the legs scraping the tile. I flopped into it, feet tired from the flight, from the long stand of vigil. My grandfather snorted in his sleep, opened bleary eyes. He looked around from bloodshot sclera, gaze flitting to each of us like a bee searching for pollen. They landed on me, and his lips, pale quivering things, lifted in recognition. He reached out a hand, so like a bird’s, the bones thin and frail, the skin parchment. He squeezed, and I returned it gently.

“How was the trip?” he asked.

“Fine,” I lied.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

I looked again to my family. They arrayed themselves around me, knelt on the floor, sister first, then mother. Grandmother to the left of Rea. They rolled the leg of my jeans up, and I heard the buzz of the needle begin, the coolness of a blade passed along the hair, the sharp ice of evaporating alcohol.

“It will hurt,” he said.

Would it hurt worse than this? Pulling a thread you’d thought woven so deeply into your life to undo one meant undoing all the tapestry.

I pushed the thoughts back and nodded.

Rea set needle to flesh, and I felt the burn begin.

*

Images poured into my head, a flash flood of names and horror sliding through my mind like a scalpel through tendon.

Mi-go, the Formless. First upon the void. Theirs was the name first spoken in the thick jungles that covered the earth. Once, they slithered and burbled across the face of the water, then through thick undergrowth that seethed with life. Where they touched, they devoured, and what they devoured, they left barren.

Blood and sweat trickled down my thigh as the ink rose close to my groin. My grandmother cut the fabric away as the needle climbed to speed the process, mother following with the razor. I watched the keen edge scrape hair away as easily a scythe harvests grain. Grandmother’s rag wiped my leg, fresh black making the fabric glisten, fresh oil making my skin shine.

The monitoring equipment jittered out a series of beeps, and for a moment, my grandfather’s grip slackened. Anxiety rose in my chest, flittered across the inside of my fingers. Outside, the clouds darkened, and far away, a crack sounded like a thousand trees snapping under their own weight. Then Rea lifted the needle, and it steadied, the alarms quieting. I glanced over at the old man, who had resumed his grip on my hand. His left leg lay clear, the skin unblemished. He breathed hard, pigeon chest rising like a small bellows. A small groan escaped his lips. My heart sent up a bright ache, like the lights above, a silver note of pain. I thought of him surrounded by sawdust and gnarled wood, the thing in his hands once rough, like the skin of his knuckles. He’d turn it over, and work another piece, and bit by bit it took shape. The patience of a stone, a gentle smile on his lips. Small moments of serenity, limned in sunlight.

Rea dipped the needle into the ink, a slight tremble between her hand and my mother’s. Then the gun buzzed again.

*

Yoth, the Cold. When the glaciers slid across the face of the world, she stalked as a wolf. Taller than even the redwoods that mark the west coast, where she walked, she left lakes. The men in those days, small and mean with the depredations of survival, gave up to her the lives of their weak. They took in her ways, and tasted the flesh of fellow men.

The gun buzzed across a kneecap, and I jumped. Beyond the horizon, a howl that sent needles of fear into my guts rippled across the sky. Cold sleet hammered into the panes, leaving an afterbirth of slush in the steel frame. My grandfather pursed his lips and squeezed my hand with a strength borne of pure will, eyes wide. He shook his head ever so slightly. The veins in his temples stood in stark contrast. I wondered if that’s how all life ended, in pain and fear. Feeling small as a child, spending a life building yourself into someone you knew the way water knows the earth, and watching the foundation wash away.

His lips turned up. A flicker of a smile, a reassurance, and I wondered at the strength in that gesture. I remembered hands weathered by decades of work, tough callouses from tilling field and splitting wood, and my wonder passed. The quiet patience as his family split, as time brought troubles. Scars on his hand, plain in the light. Here, a jagged line where a tractor had nearly taken his finger. There, a small nick on his palm where he’d caught himself with a kitchen knife. Scars on the heart, hidden in the dark. Those he never spoke of. Never once a complaint. I forced myself to relax as Rea’s work continued. If he could do this, under the black cloud of agony, wracked by time, so could I. Over the knee, into the tender places of the thigh. Bleed and wipe and sweat. And then that too ended. I saw the other ankle on the old man free of ink.

They cut the shirt from me, my pale skinny chest exposed. We had no fear of nurses or doctors entering. In the small hours between dark and dawn, even the hospital must sleep. The old man smiled again, reached out and patted my cheek. He took my hand.

“Almost,” he said.

Another dip of the gun into the ink. The buzzing, and my chest burned. Another flood of images.

*

Azatoth, the Liar. He’d been in the first men, lurking behind thoughts of food and lust and murder. Behind the walls of the mind, entrenched like a seedling taking root. He guided the hands of Cain and Pilate. The men who poisoned Alexander. The death of Caesar. He’d engineered the Fall, and in the dark, promised young mothers and brutal men the things they most desired. Lies are the black lattice of life–small and insidious. I’m fine. This will be fine. Nothing to worry about. Of course you’re beautiful. I love you. If only they did one thing, they could climb that lattice toward the light. A small untruth, a little unkindness.

More sweat. I felt light-headed, and wondered how much water a man could lose. I squeezed my grandfather’s hand, but he’d fallen asleep. No, not asleep. An alarm sounded from somewhere. I forced myself to concentrate, to look. My family with their heads down, lips moving. I wondered at what litany must pass their lips in the cold hours of the morning, what things they prayed for, who they made promises to. The buzz buzz buzz of the gun. Or had a fly entered the room? An alarm, shrill and insistent.

“Almost, almost,” Rea said.

“Almost, almost,” my family repeated.

“Almost, almost,” a voice in my head echoed.

A deep ache in my chest as the needle passed over, and the muscle twitched, traitor to my will. Rea’s hand slipped. The alarm continued to wail, soon joined by something outside. Sirens?

“Almost,” Rea said.

The buzzing rose to a wail, and I thought my mind would split with it. Across my chest, over shoulder and trapezius, down bicep and forearm. I felt the bones in my wrists grind as I tensed, the ache in my jaw. My teeth felt loose, jangling coins someone had pressed into the bone with no intention of affixing them there. Then it finished.

Done, and the silence nearly deafened me.

“How do you feel?”

Beside me, my grandfather cooled in his bed. A bundle of sticks and bones, the skin of his skull too close to his cheeks, his eyes like clouded marbles. His flesh paled at the end, lips that had spun stories and smelled of spearmint tinted blue. I looked to his throat, where the butterfly pulse of his heart fluttered no more. Where once I’d pressed my face as a child and felt warm stubble scratch my cheek.  His arms lay bare, marked with blue veins, but clear of ink. His fingers splayed open, clutching at nothing, that thin skein of life the fates allow us slipped from his grasp. Beneath the sheet, a smudge of ink. A single line beside a puckered nipple. His memory a nervous bird, perched on the branches of my mind, trembling with anticipation of fright. I held it as tightly as I could, cajoled it to stay.

“How do you feel?” they asked again.

Their voices choked on tears half-swallowed. This was important. More important than antiseptic and empty husks, more important than cold white sheets and the insistent alarm. More important than the legion of men and women who would soon enter the room in white coats and blue scrubs with cold latex on their hands. More important than machines still trying to feed him medicine, pumping cold saline and warm narcotics into a body that had no more use for them than another’s touch. The cold logic of science ignorant of the passing of spirit.

Mourning could come later. This was important. Important as the wail of siren. Important as fire that lit the horizon. Important as the bend of trees in a hot wind. This was the end of the world, or not.

“Fine,” I lied.