NEW: Trillobiography, WIP 5/?
Lisby
Jeremiah, too. I worked hard all day and sat on the hacienda roof
at night, sipping beer and talking to Wyatt about things that
needed doing in Tombstone. When I went home, my family
wasn't there. Jeremiah was with Bessie and the girls; Sculee
stayed with Moldar.
I can't lie to you because you've already heard about it: I did get
drunk at Kate's in the patient company of Thomas A. Becket.
(He's always attracted attention here with his Goderville fashions,
but this new purple...what the hell is it called? A _hoopelande_?
And those curled toes on his shoes.... He looks like such a pouf
that I call him 'Thomas A. Assbait.' Becket says you gave him
this purple-pansy dress for his good service to you. My god, tell
me that you didn't dress Petunia the same way.)
I knocked back tequila, or "succumbed to the worm," as Kate
calls it, while Becket sat on the adjacent barstool observing the
tin-piano maelstrom. Kate got him talking about the Before
Time. Becket said that he used to live far north, in the country
above our old one. He'd been a lawman, too, with a bright red
uniform the color of Kate's satin corset. One summer day, the
bees came and left bodies bloating in the streets. The immune
survivors had no weapons to fight the Federals who rounded
them up and shipped them to the same Factories that processed
us. Before they took him away, the Bluttos shot his dog. Becket
said he could still see blood on white fur and brain matter on
asphalt. My stomach did a sickly flop.
Eventually, Becket rolled me home. Sweetheart that he is, he
stayed to make sure I didn't suffocate in my own upchuck. Wyatt
and Virge came around the next morning. They sat at my table,
drank the coffee Becket had brewed, and watched me lay on my
chair like wilted lettuce.
"He sure is green," Virge pronounced sagely.
"Sure is," Wyatt agreed.
I'll spare you a verbal portrait of my dry heaves.
That drinking binge was the nadir of my depression. By mid-
afternoon, I was on my way to Bessie's to check on my son. I
found Jeremiah living the petit sultan's life. The girls had him in
Bessie's four-poster bed, tarted up in face paint and a long frilled
shirt cut down from an old nightgown. His mouth opened like a
baby-bird's to let them spoon in bread pudding.
Jeremiah looked at me standing in the doorway, and I swear,
Sylvie, he droned in regal boredom, "Oh, you, da da."
I crossed my arms on my chest. "Having a tough time, kid? I feel
real sorry for you." Jeremiah understood me, or at least my tone.
He ducked his head and grinned. For an instant I was looking at
Moldar, at the playful smile that I remembered, the one I'd
wanted him to show me at Sanctuary. You know, in all
probability, I have two of them now. How can Fate be so kind to
me when others have been so deprived?
I shooed everyone away and sat on the bed with Jeremiah.
Moldar's young reflection gave me hugs and big spitty kisses that
really cracked me up. It all ended in a tickle brawl, participation
in which the ladies would not be denied. Jeremiah's giggling is
like water on the dry basin of these hearts.
Listen, Sylvie, before I forget, I need to understand what Moldar
may have gone through at Cherry Hill. I want to know what the
conditions there were like: the climate, the rations, the
punishments and labor quotas. Wyatt and Virgil told me they
were segregated from the day they were blanked. They said they
never really saw the inside of the detention yard. (Holliday is of
no help either. When I asked about Cherry Hill, he shuddered
and said he's repressed it all, then popped open his pocket flask
for a "medicinal" swig.) My brothers said that you were among
the general camp population until Chancellor culled you out for
leadership training and sequestered you with them. So, can you
bear to tell me about daily Simp life at Cherry Hill?
My wife was in the Sanctuary courtyard when I arrived. She
hesitated, and for a moment I was afraid she'd turn and walk
away. But she strode toward me with all Sculee's characteristic
purpose, then launched herself into my arms leaking Aimee's
uninhibited tears.
There was hugging and kissing, and after we'd gotten that out of
the way, we discussed Moldar's condition. Generally, she told
me, he was improving. His lungs still sounded rotten, but he was
fairly coherent and visibly less emaciated for the constant stream
of fluids and nutrients dumped into his veins. Solid food was just
possible. When she tried to feed him, she said, he might refuse to
eat or throw up soon afterward. But Luther could "stare" him
into holding down things like poached eggs and toast. (Oh, for
Boggs's preternatural powers.) Another improvement: Moldar
had begun communicating by nodding or shaking his head. That
and hissing.
"Hissing?"
Aimee grimaced. She explained that Moldar ranged between
quiet passivity, the kind of Newborn hysterics resolved by a
whiff of The Happy and gentle restraint, and a glowering
fierceness punctuated by feline protestations. "He curls his
fingers like claws," she admitted sheepishly, "but it's defensive.
He doesn't attack. And it only happens when someone startles
him."
"Uh-huh." I was trying to reel in my eyebrows. Then there was a
vibration in my head like wheat running through a sieve. Rattle,
rattle, rattle-- kerplunk: the answer. "It's Little Buddy," I blurted.
Aimee's squint made it plain that she was blank on the Biodevice,
although she'd once spoken to me of a monster she'd removed
from Moldar, only to have the Feds--or whomever they were--
promptly install another.
When I reminded her, she looked relieved. "So that's what's
wriggling around down there."
"Wriggling?"
"Yeah. I've seen something under the skin in the small of his
back. At first I thought it was a muscle spasm, then I got scared
that it was a really big tapeworm. You say I took one of these
things out of him?"
"That's what you told me."
"Hmmm." She frowned. "Well, I'm a Simp's uncle now."
Moldar was propped up in bed, eyes turned to the cream and red
mountains beyond the window casing. This time, when he looked
toward me, he stretched out long pale arms.
Moldar knew me. Aimee'd said he would, but I didn't believe
until those arms beckoned. I crushed him to me with the strength
of my affection, wanting to weep, but he was already in the
throes of hitching, silent sobs. The old pattern reemerged: Walt
the comforter and safehouse to Moldar in anguish-- a role I'd
cherished once my self- loathing had numbed through the
repetition of his suffering. As big as my biceps and balls had
been then, I hadn't stopped Them from hurting him. I'd been a
stick boy against a brick. But I'd held him, by god. I could still
hold him now.
Finally, Moldar sighed and rested against me. His close- cropped
hair bristled uncomfortably against my neck and chin, but it
smelled of soap and herbs. I held the hand with the disconnected
IV port still taped in place, rolled his fingers around with my
own, saw the calluses, scabbed knuckles, and ragged fingernails.
The Feds had worked him hard, it seemed, right up until the
fucking train pulled out. Then I held Moldar at arm's length and
observed with relief that Sculee wasn't shitting: he was visibly
improved-- still far from healthy, but plodding thatwardly. When
the Gaunts clear up I think he'll look, give or take, as I remember
him. (Which is pretty odd, actually, since it _has_ been nearly
five years on Planet I'dreallyrathernotbe.)
When I asked Moldar if he understood me, he nodded and I
swear I hallucinated a hallelujah chorus. But when I entreated
him to speak, his gaze dropped, the lids hooded his eyes, and he
didn't respond. Boggs had already threatened me with death and a
spanking if I pushed Moldar on the talking thing, so I backed off,
spoke instead about how I shouldn't have expected him to
recognize me; Speaking of rejuvenation, isn't Sculee a hot babe?;
Hey, Tombstone has a baseball team that could sure use his help.
He'd loved the game, if I remembered right....
Moldar sidled up against me as I sank back against his pillows,
my useless words adding to the happy fluff that engulfed me. Yet
as I babbled and floated in cotton, another part of me staggered. I
was holding Lazarus; I was holding the Resurrection. Only
Draper's return could have been such a frickin' miracle. I stopped
talking to kiss his forehead and the tip of his nose. Then I felt a
vibration deep inside his chest. When I drew back, Moldar's irises
had expanded into black ovals. One hand rose to clumsily pat my
cheek.
"Hi," I acknowledged, understanding and remembering. "Yeah,
it's me. It's Walt. I'm back." The vibration grew stronger and the
black eye portals shut as Moldar slowly relaxed. I held them.
Moldar and Little Buddy, for one body housed both. Whatever
had befallen them in these last years, they'd survived it together.
February 18
Hello again, Sylvie. Becket has arrived with your latest letter.
Aimee thanks you for all the information on Elliot. Since I wrote
about our worries, Jeremiah has experienced a growth spurt, and
so have the other half dozen baby boys who appear to be his age,
as if they're from the same batch or something. No, we haven't
introduced Jeremiah to Moldar. When we told him there were ten
probable Hims toddling around town, Moldar curled up on his
cot and wept. No one could comfort him. I've experimentally
mentioned Jeremiah twice since then. Both times Moldar's eyes
grew glassy with tears.
The baby, Aimee, and I were at home together the other evening
when the Lights came. As his salt-white mother stiffened in her
seat by the fireplace, Jeremiah waddled across the floor. He put
his small hand to her mouth as she started to shriek. "Mama no
no," he said, frowning. And Mama shut up. She sat there, mouth
open, eyes wide, but damned if she wasn't silent. I held her hand
and Jeremiah played on the floor at our feet until the Things
arrived. We lost about three hours, but no one disappeared or
became young or has reported any odd wounds or waking visions
of seed-shaped eyes, so go figure. And as for how Jeremiah
stopped Aimee's screamie-jeebies, go figure, too. However, the
event has made Wyatt and Virgil wonder if they can work the
same magic. You're asked to get Elliot to try it, the next time
you've got Lights over Luxury House or whatever you call the
spiffy place you live in.
And, yes, if I can get Camilius Fly, the town photographer to
haul his equipment to Sanctuary, and if Moldar doesn't wig out,
we'll get his picture so you can see how your son will most likely
look as an adult (I do think better eating and dormancy habits,
and fewer traumas, will make Elliot more robust). I can't blame
you for wanting to view the proof of the pudding. My promises
that Elliot will make the population salivate are hollow against
the photographic evidence. Meanwhile, believe me if you can:
Moldar is an attractive man-- even now, when he's somewhere
between a pallid invalid and walking wounded. I know he was
too gorgeous to breathe oxygen when we first met.
Aimee has been raving about the locals humping Moldar's leg
when he returns to fuller glory. I've watched his face when she
goes on about his sex appeal. There's a quizzical, concerned
expression that translates as "I can't believe she's saying this."
He's realizing that Sculee's been largely usurped by a nutcake
called Aimee. I loved Aimee before I remembered Dana, and
having both is a delight for me. Moldar, however, will have to
tolerate a new personality dominating a familiar body. I'd take
comfort in examples of partners who've accepted each other's
integrated selves, but I don't know anyone who has found a
Before-life Love, moreover worked through this integration
thing.
6: 35 P.M.
I'm writing from home now. Of course, I never said I was
writing from the office, so who the fuck cares.
To continue: Moldar's up and walking, but he'll pass out if he
stands up too fast. He conked his head on the bricks a few times
before Doc and Sculee figured out the problem, so someone stays
by his side whenever he moves around.
You asked about scars. I got a look at Moldar's body just
recently. Until that day I'd only caught glimpses of him partially
or fully nude. I was off duty, playing Angel because Aimee and
Boggs were at the clinic. As I led Moldar out of the courtyard,
where he'd sat in the soft winter sun, his face tensed with
discomfort. His body hurt. God, I sympathized.
I asked Moldar if he wanted a massage. Therapeutic touch is
central to the Sanctuary cure, but Moldar'd been rejecting it with
definitive headshakes. This time, however, he raised his
eyebrows and pointed at me. I grinned, thrilled by the novel
interaction. "Yeah, I'll give you the massage, Moldar." Inside his
room, I closed the door and rooted around in the pineboard
cabinet for oil. He was naked when I turned, holding his white
robe in a ball over his stomach and genitals.
My smile faded as I came slowly forward, thinking I should tell
him that being touched again was part of healing, that no one
inflicted pain inside Sanctuary, that he could tell me to stop any
time-- all the gentle reassurances I'd heard as a Newborn. I
reached out, letting him watch the slow ascent of my hand to his
shoulder. "I won't hurt you. Lay down. It'll feel good."
(Have you noticed that when I actually speak, I revert to
caveman? For all that you and Petunia have endured my
conversational prose, I think anyone who knows me in person
would shit and die if I spoke to them the way I write to you.)
Moldar nodded again, then caught my hand as I removed it,
guided it to the low middle of his back. Beneath my palm, his
skin was unnaturally hot. "That's where Little Buddy is, right? I
remember," I assured him. "I won't hurt him either. Go ahead
and lie down."
Moldar eyes drifted across the mattress and his body followed.
But after the surprising ease of his movement, I saw his fingers
dig into the bedcovers. When I squirted massage oil into my
cupped hand, he shivered and actually bit the blanket beneath his
face. I knew what he was thinking. Of course I knew. "Moldar,
relax. I won't go near your asshole." (See, Sylvie. Caveman.)
Moldar twitched and shook for the first few minutes, until his
hyperactive reflex was overwhelmed by the meltdown of his
shoulder muscles. As I worked the flesh beneath my hands, I saw
old whipmarks. Circled my thumb around a nub of scar tissue
just above his left shoulder blade, then traced a thin pink line
along his spine from his first vertebrae to his coccyx. There were
more recent lash marks across his buttocks and thighs. And the
goddamned tattoo. Evil green. I'd add that to his list of scars--
wouldn't you?
Sculee told me that she's seen marks in other places. Places I
wasn't straying near that day. She thinks they messed with his
'nads. I've also seen a large scar high on Moldar's left thigh.
Sculee told me that he was shot there years ago, when she was in
her first youth. That's why she knows for sure he's
February 19
I was interrupted yesterday by an Angel who burst through my
front door shouting that there were Bluttos in Sanctuary. I threw
down my pen and sprinted out of the house into the twilight, ran
toward the spired structure that is our sanctum, a healing place
the Feds had promised never to enter.
I heard clumping as a horse approached at a gallop, then passed
to my left, kicking up dust. It was Wyatt with another Angel
behind him in the saddle. "What the hell are they here for?" I
panted when I caught up to my brother, who'd dismounted by
Sanctuary's heavy double doors. "Do you think they're cracking
down on before- life regressions?"
"I don't know, but no one's being regressed here right now. Doc's
gone over to Hooker's. He'll have a mutherfuckin' shit fit when
he gets back, no matter what they're doin'. He says the Feds have
bad vibes. They leave a spiritual stench." Wyatt shoved through
the doors into the wide vestibule, the two Angels and me
following. "There'll have to be a ceremony to make the place
sacred again."
"I think Doc's right. Light a sage wand and I'll dance around the
bonfire."
Wyatt glanced at me sideways. "I'm surrounded by you
goddamned hippie freaks."
We pressed on into the dimly lit courtyard, finding Governor
Chancellor and four Blutto guards with their armor's tiny system
lights winking. Several Newborns were screaming in their rooms.
Their white-robed Angels had abandoned them to ring the loggia,
forming panels of a living shroud ready to enwrap the contagion
rather than let it spread. Wyatt shook his head at the two who had
fetched us, branding them as assholes. His primed posture
softened as he approached the old man and his entourage. Asked
Chancellor why he'd come.
"I know this is unusual." The governor's smile was a hairline.
Funny his lips never fattened with the rest of him. "There's a
patient I must see."
"Sir, we can't have these guards here."
Chancellor frowned at Wyatt. Shot a distasteful glance toward
the closest caterwaul, a woman keening "whywhywhy" behind a
door to our left. "The men shan't encroach upon your-- what do
you call the Merchandise?"
"Newborns."
"Yes. Newborns. My men will stay here with you. These nurses
can be dismissed to quiet your babes. Nothing untoward will
happen."
"You being here is untoward." Yup. That was me. Appending
"sir" did not soften the Bluttos' umbrage, but Chancellor tossed
me an absolution that held off his dogs.
"I understand your concern, Warren. My guards and I would not
be here unless it was gravely important to me. The Simpleton I
need to see is ETL-188 from the last Delivery train."
Shit.
Wyatt squeezed my arm. I said nothing, realizing that I ought to
have been prepared for this. Chancellor'd sent over those clothes
so that Moldar would recognize us and be comforted. It should
have dawned on me that he knew Moldar, knew that Sculee and I
knew Moldar. Hell, the bastard probably knew everything we'd
forgotten. There might be years of our lives in his files,
memories recorded on metal tiny squares like the one Aimee said
had been in her neck.
I cleared my throat and looked at the tips of my boots. Asked
Chancellor if I could accompany him because Moldar was skittish
and my presence would calm him. Seeing me cowed, Chancellor
graciously agreed, and in a moment we were moving, side by
side, toward Moldar's room. Luther Boggs answered my knock.
He said nothing, but stared unblinking at Chancellor while the
scent of roses played in my nostrils. Finally, he opened the door.
"Let me go in first." I didn't wait for permission, just slipped
past Boggs to find an oil lamp burning on the table by the rocker
and a lonely man's card game in progress. Moldar was lying in
bed. He lifted himself up on his elbows. I started to tell him it
was all right, that he needn't be frightened, but he was straining
to see beyond me. I looked over my shoulder, saw that
Chancellor had followed me in. "Hello, son." He nodded. "I
thought you'd recognize me. I told them not to bother blanking
you, that it was a waste of chemicals."
Moldar pushed back the covers and slowly stood, then passed me
with careful steps. Tall and obscenely thin, half swallowed by his
linen gown, Moldar moved toward Chancellor and sank to his
knees at the fat man's feet. I thought he was fainting, but then the
governor proffered a hand and Moldar kissed it with what
seemed like real emotion, although I couldn't-- no, I wouldn't--
allow that emotion was pleasure.
Chancellor lifted his supplicant's chin and studied Moldar's
bleakened face. The governor sighed. "The new colonel put you
in the yard after I left. You know I expressly forbade it. But
when a man is given power he'll use it to destroy another man's
efforts. I am sorry to find you so ill. Rise up now, boy. The hard
floor must hurt your knees."
Chancellor helped Moldar to his feet and led him to sit on edge
of the bed. I stood by unneeded, for Moldar wasn't spooked by
Chancellor. When the governor spoke, he listened, quiet and
attentive. But what the governor said ran by me-- I was
overwhelmed by disappointment that Moldar had broken.
Everyone else had the right to make the pain stop if they could,
and to suck and fuck their captors afterward for extra rations or a
weekly shower. But not Moldar. Saints don't break. They die in
their own strength. They drown in it, a liquid suicide.
Through the smog of emotion, I heard Chancellor talking, finally
caught the tail of a sentence, "an orgy of whoring to get you to
Tombstone. But I've kept my promise. Now life will be better."
He'd send over a box of things for Moldar, he said, especially
some good clothes. Moldar wasn't to dress in homespun glad-
rags. He was high-quality Merchandise and not a Simpleton
ragamuffin. Suddenly, Moldar's shoulders curved in a round of
phlegmy coughs. As Moldar bent forward, Chancellor tugged his
handkerchief from his uniform's front pocket and held it to
Moldar's mouth. That gesture of compassion made my fists
clench.
"So, it's still in there? It's still alive?" Chancellor asked and
Moldar nodded, his breath frayed and wet. The governor
frowned. "I should take you to my house and nurse you." When
Moldar vehemently shook his head, Chancellor conceded, "Yes, I
suppose it would mark you as a collaborator."
I locked my teeth together as the squat little man tucked Moldar
back into bed and bade him good-bye. Oh Sylvie, what I did next
was reprehensible. I gave the governor a moment to lumber into
the courtyard, then I leaned over Moldar and demanded to know
what Chancellor'd meant about collaboration. When a few rapid
blinks were his only reply, I grabbed him by the shoulders and
shook him. The lamplight showed the rapid change: Moldar's
irises elongated, losing hazel for black. His hiss startled me, as
did the stinging swipe across my cheek. Then Boggs was pulling
me away, calling me a stupid sonofabitch, pushing and shoving
to expel me.
Chancellor was speaking to Wyatt in the courtyard while the
Bluttos waited, shouldering their long-barreled guns. All heads
turned as Boggs slammed the door to shut me out. I paused for
an instant, touching the scratches, then strode toward Chancellor
on the impulse of rage. "Why doesn't he speak?" I shouted. "You
know. Tell me!"
The Bluttos lifted their weapons. Four red laser dots skittered
over my canvas coat as they aimed. I stopped, squinting into
crimson. Then Wyatt stepped in front of me and the dots were
marking his chest and his face. "Tell me!" I shouted again over
my brother's shoulder.
Chancellor pursed his mouth then released the tension to state,
"He has no vocal folds. They were removed so his screams would
not disturb the scientists."
I felt myself pale.
"We'll leave." The governor moved toward the vestibule with his
Bluttos walking backward, guns trained on us. Under the golden
glow of a hanging lantern, Chancellor pivoted. "Warren, if your
well being was not important, we should not be speaking now."
I got chewed out by everyone: Wyatt, Virgil, Boggs, Aimee....
The only one who couldn't join in was Moldar. Not that he
would have. When I sat down beside him to apologize, he
covered my mouth with one palm and touched his chest with
another. "Me," I interpreted. "My fault."
I felt surprise. Dizzy. Flecks of memory: Moldar sitting in one of
my old office chairs. I see the badge dangling from his lapel. It's
backwards-- the picture and three big letters hidden. He's
haggard, disheveled, telling me it's his fault that Dana Sculee
died. No-- was lost. I don't know. Whatever happened, he was to
blame. 'That's right,' I think. 'You dragged her down.'
Outside. A gorgeous spring day in a deciduous world far from
Tombstone. A little kid has gone missing-- is most likely dead--
and a caretaker gibbers her guilt. With soft certainty, Moldar
pronounces, "It's not your fault; it's mine." 'It certainly is,' I
think. 'But you're ready to pay. That's why I've come to respect
you.'
Sculee and Moldar scream at each other in our posh front room.
She's green-gilled morning-sick and he's wobbly on bare feet.
White rug, white bathrobe, white face, and he's yelling, "I did
this to you, now I'm making it right!"
"You bastard," I hear her shout, "You fucking bastard!"
His hands are over his ears. He's bruised and there are ligature
marks around his wrists and I think, 'It's not your fault. It never
was.' They would have done it to him anyway. If letting Sculee
conceive made Moldar climb up on the medical torture table
rather than be hoisted, then it was worth it for Them.
Moldar'd wanted to believe he was paying the price. Moldar still
did. As I looked at him, there in the present, I realized that he
would do it all again to expiate his guilt. He would fucking do it
tomorrow. Hand himself over, just the way he'd bartered for
Draper's conception, and did again to save the baby, her mother,
and me just before Cold Harbor. There were other times he
pawned himself, too. Times I can't remember yet, but I know
they occurred. Yesterday, I'd been furious that Molder'd gained
George Chancellor's favor; today, I was furious that he hadn't
weaseled out of suffering more often. God knows what I'll want
of him tomorrow.
I do know that I want a man with a voice. I shouldn't pity
myself, but...damn. The tones I remember were silk and charcoal
and the mind directing them was so clever. I'll never intimately
know that mind again. I'd meant to tell you earlier that the
blanking has taken Moldar's literacy. I know that he can learn
hand signals to communicate, but I'll miss the depth of thought
conveyed by his words.
Then again, I still know how to write and read. As does Aimee,
whenever she's mostly Sculee. Maybe we can teach him? ...God,
I've thought about that for a moment and I want to do a
doodlebug curl. The Federal training is pounding in my brain:
Forbidden, forbidden, forbidden.
Shit. Fuck them. They screwed their own pooch by using a faulty
process that leaves some of us intact. If he can learn, I'm going to
teach Moldar, right here under this rock called Sanctuary.
(An aside: Did you know that doodlebugs aren't bugs-- they're
crustaceans? How do I know that? Who knows. What's a
crustacean? Who knows, but damned if I can't spell it. Did you
know that back in Camp, we entertained ourselves with
doodlebug bowling? Petunia, of course, excelled at it.)
I need to give this over to My Lord Assbait.
Walter
March 5
Wyatt says that I need to get out of town. The Bluttos want to
whup me for dissing the governor. Tomorrow, Wyatt's sending
me down to Sonora to check on the border-area cattle ranches.
You may not hear from me for a while.
W.
March 15
Petunia told me that sheep are raised in Goderville, along with
the wheat, barley, and such. Do the Lights dick around with your
flocks? Here, they certainly lust after cattle, but leave the sheep
to the human perverts.
Before I get to my bovine adventure, I wanted to mention that
Sonora is where Curly Bill's Gang hangs out these days. I
avoided the Prick, but I did come across poor John "Fiz-
something" Byers on the arm of a caretaker, being led to the
community bathhouse. "Hello, mister director," Byers waved at
me.
"That's the Deputy Sheriff," I heard his nursemaid correct. But
Byers was already doddering onward, blowing spit bubbles.
The ranch elders took me and my peace officers out on the range,
about an hour's ride from the Big House. Just as we came over a
ridge, my horse Dilemma spooked and nearly threw me. It took
every bit of my skill to make her top that hill. There Dilemma
stopped and would go no further.
Once I saw what she smelled, then fuck if I could blame her. Our
party looked down at the rotted carcasses of more than a hundred
brown-and-white cattle spread across the valley floor. The odor
of decay became choking as we walked down the slope after
hitching the mounts to some scrub. There should have been
clouds of flies, but there wasn't a one. And instead of maggots,
bizarre plants had grown out of the animals' guts: a generation of
orange thick-leafed things covered in little turquoise bumps. The
strange plants had sprouted, withered, and now lay swooned
across the dead beasts. When I lifted one leaf with a stick, it
didn't flop pliantly as I expected. Instead, it broke and crumbled.
"What are they?" the Head Elder asked.
"I've never seen anything like them before," was all I could
reply. We tried collecting samples to take back to Tombstone,
but with the slightest touch the dead plants fell to dust.
And the mystery goes deeper. The Elder told us that this herd
came across the Magic Fence. That's the invisible barrier around
the ghetto, in case you call it differently up there. The Sonorans
had been letting the cows graze the valley, waiting to see if the
Feds would come to reclaim them. They were on the verge of
declaring finders keepers when the Lights showed up, a whole
day was lost, and they awoke to the horror on the range.
When I got back to Tombstone, I told this story to my brothers,
but they'd also never heard the like of it. Have you?