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Skeksis
or, Are Doughnuts Gothic? I feel the urge to retire to my private chambers, to escape the ordeal of having to cope with the peculiarities of the others of my kind. Refreshments await me there; I move into the food preparation area and collect ingredients for something to drink. I locate a chipped earthenware jug with a conical stopper jammed into its neck. Some inspired tugging and twisting frees it, and an ancient, bitter, musty odor wafts up to my nostrils. I dig a handful of the dark brown powder out and let it slide over the side of my palm into a broad, dish-like cup. The powder burns my skin. I force the stopper back into the jug and shove it back on the rough wooden bench, my hand dislodging some dust and revealing a row of runes so ancient that no-one still living knows how to read them. They crawl across the face of the jug like fat, dying worms. From another container I pick two small white lumps of powder which comes from a plant that grows in the equatorial regions. The plant, which grows in wide fields devoted to this single crop, is harvested once a year by burning the whole field to the ground. This powder had journeyed many leagues to find itself in my cup. I drop the lumps on top of the dark brown powder, and I can almost sense the two substances' mutual dislike. I smile mirthlessly and bring the cup over to a broad trough which runs the length of the hallway. A battered pipe emerges from the wall, with a thin trickle of tepid water dribbling from the rusted end into the trough. I operate some levers which activate distant, rumbling machinery; the water becomes hot, wafts of steam puffing from the pipe, drifting up from the trough. I hold the cup underneath the stream and catch three quarters of a cup-ful, stirring the powders together with a stained, glass rod which transmits faint echoes of the powders' reactions; combining to form new elements, attacking each other, each changing the other into something different, poisonous. The final result is a simmering, black brew whose surface casts back a distorted reflection of the world above it. I carry the cup down broad stone steps, past guttering torches, to my private apartments. The door slams shut behind me and bolts fall into place, securing my privacy. The room is dimly lit by a tethered sphere in one corner, above a huge, padded armchair. I lower my body into its embrace, placing the cup on a nearby table. I find a battered volume of ancient philosophy, a bookmark (the flattened, dried tongue of one of my past enemies) indicating the page I had reached last time I was here. I recall searching through the book for information relating to the Trevinoist Heresy... the search proved to be futile. I turned the second page of the book and glared at the wood-cut picture of the author. Why didn't you include an index, you fool? By now, the contents of the cup have settled; the temperature will be at a bearable level. I lift the cup to my mouth and take three gulps. Within seconds, the liquid has insinuated itself into my system, a subtle warmth rapidly giving way to a raging fire which courses through my veins, making the muscles of my hands quiver. I set the cup down and submit to the influence of the liquid, my eyes closed, my nerves afire. The pain fades after a few minutes (taking with it a vague craving that addiction to this drink had caused) and I turn my attention to the captive refreshments I had purchased a few days ago. They were still alive, but dormant. I reached out idly and picked one of them up, a slightly flattened, wrinkled specimen, turning it over in my hands, particles of gritty sand adhering to my fingers and dropping to the table. I dropped it back into the cage and selected another, plumper specimen. I turned its body around until I located the tiny mouth, then touched my tongue to it, tasting the sand, forcing my tongue further inside, seeking its blood, my teeth sinking into its side, my claws digging into its body, forcing its sweet insides out, my mouth sucking it dry, then, all control lost, frenzied, I bite into the soft, spongy flesh, tearing half of its body away, exposing the inner cavity, the reservoir of its life-blood, my tongue seeking it all out, swallowing convulsively, then the rest of its pallid flesh consumed in smaller bites. I lick traces of red stickiness and the odd grain of sand from my fingers, and consider the remaining captives... |
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