Old Odd Ends

Fantasy

The God of Drawers and Eyeballs

YOU NEVER ANSWER WHEN I call, Jenver said as she stormed around the room, thrusting possessions into her bag. Toothbrush, pajamas, books, everything lying in the open.

Everything except the statue of Hobal of the Many Bodies, with his broad chest, seven eyes and thirteen arms.

It's not like I ask much, she continued, glaring at the statue. But if I'm going to be your high priest, I should at least get a reply to one or two of my prayers.

Ignoring the wardrobe full of priestly robes, she approached the old wooden chest of drawers that held her personal clothes. The top drawer handle was damp and rubbery to the touch, and she jerked back in alarm.

The handle had been replaced by an eyeball. So had the one next to it. The drawer below had gained a mouth.

Its lips parted. The wood around it rippled like flesh, making Jenver's skin crawl.

I am Hobal, He Who is Praised Most Highly, the drawers announced in a voice like a stampede. How dare you abandon me?

For a moment, Jenver stared in awe. It was years since she had seen any sign of response from the god. Direct manifestations were almost unheard of. Maybe he loved her after all.

Then she remembered all those years of silence.

We pray and you never answer. She folded her arms across her chest. It had taken all of her courage to consider giving up her career, but now the decision was made, stubbornness carried her through the shock of the manifestation. I've had enough.

Enough? Hobal boomed. You dare say enough to Hobal?

Jenver took a step back. Her leg knocked against the bed.

Unpack your bag, Hobal commanded. Return to my service or face the consequences.

The bed shifted as the mattress turned into a giant tongue held up by a frame made of arms and legs. The pulsing of the tongue against her leg made Jenver want to heave. The madness of the sight made her want to curl up in the corner and hide.

If she had seen even a fraction of this power before, things would have been different.

But then, if Hobal had this power before, why was he only using it now?

What consequences? she asked.

Terrible things, Hobal replied. Awful things.

The tongue ran along her thigh, leaving her trousers soaked with drool.

Is that all you can do? she asked. Terrible things? Because I've been waiting all this time for your bounty to the faithful. I'm not staying to be bullied.

Then what will make you stay? the drawers asked.

Just give me one good thing, Jenver said. Something to make my service worthwhile.

The eyeballs turned to look at each other, then down at the lips.

Um, flowers? the Hobal drawers said. Gifts of flowers are a good thing, are they not?

I organise the flower rota for your temple! Jenver said. I don't need you to give me flowers.

Chocolates? the god asked.

Argh! You're my god, not my boyfriend!

Gold, then? Hobal sounded pleased with himself. I can make you wealthy.

If I wanted to be wealthy I'd have become a stockbroker like dad wanted.

Gritting her teeth, Jenver grabbed one of the eyeballs and pulled. The lips screamed. The drawer opened, revealing her socks.

That's it! Hobal bellowed. You're not getting out of here alive.

The doorway turned into another mouth, teeth gnashing up and down. A liquid that smelled like vomit oozed out from under the bed and started dissolving the carpet.

Fine. Jenver threw her socks down into the sludge. I dedicated my life to you. If you won't answer the prayers of your people, I might as well be dead.

Wait. The eyes looked at each other again. The one she'd pulled on was bloodshot and twitching. Then they turned their gaze on her. When you say answer, do you mean give people what they want?

Yes, Jenver said. No. Maybe. Sometimes. People ask for stupid things. But you could at least tell them why you can't help.

You would stay for that?

I... Jenver hesitated. It sounded so much better than what had been happening. Infinitely better than dissolving in a room full of stomach acid. But it wasn't actually good. You have to do what they ask for sometimes as well. You can't always say no.

The giant lips pursed. Then the whole chest of drawers leaned forward as if nodding.

Very well, Hobal said. We have a deal.

The tongue turned back to a mattress, the teeth to a door frame. Bile stopped oozing from under the bed, though the carpet would need replacing.

Jenver looked at the statue of Hobal.

I'll be keeping an eye on you, she said.

And I on you, the lips replied before disappearing from the front of the drawer.

The eyes - one white and one bloodshot - stayed staring at her as she unpacked and prepared for the evening service.

Salting the Soil

TO ELLIS'S RELIEF, the rain had cleared as the sun came up. Dark banks of cloud still rolled over the windswept moors, but they were thinning as they headed toward the sea.

Grumbling to himself every step of the way, Ellis pushed a rickety wooden barrow full of salt up the ridge line. He would have rather spent time at the plow or milking his cows, but both law and tradition were clear. After the rains, locals must re-lay the ward.

Ellis hated the ward. Not just for the work of maintaining it and the poor recompense sent by the crown. It was the way it poisoned the soil, salt soaking in with every rainfall, creating a stretch of land where nothing could live and no man could farm.

Such a waste.

At the top of the ridge he stopped, took out his shovel, and started filling gaps in the thick line of salt that was the ward.

A spirit approached from the other side. It didn't even try to hide its nature. Though it was shaped like a woman, its body was the stuff of a fetid pond, all algae, thick weed, and dirty water. Its only clothing was wooden sandals.

Neighbour, will you leave a gap that I might get through? the spirit asked. I have business on the other side.

I'm sure you do, Ellis said, hurrying to fill nearby gaps. Business stealing souls, no doubt.

You don't really believe that, do you? the spirit asked, its voice dancing like a spring brook. I'm no more a soul stealer than you are. I just want to get across to trade my wares.

It held up a sack and opened the mouth to reveal wild herbs, things that could heal injuries and preserve meat, plants that seldom grew on Ellis's land. Things he needed.

For a moment, he hesitated.

I know your game, he said, reluctantly returning to laying salt. You're trying to tempt me. But letting you through will only lead to hurt.

As opposed to this? the spirit asked, pointing at the ward. Poisoning your own land on the orders of people you've never met?

Why would they have me do it if there weren't danger? Ellis asked.

Danger to them, not you. The conflict between our rulers goes back centuries. I could tell you about it if you like, though not until I've traded my herbs.

Ellis moved on to the next gap. None of the breaches in the ward were large enough for the spirit to cross, but if they grew it would be another matter.

Assuming he wanted to stop her. Which he was almost sure he did.

Please, the spirit said, lips trembling. My name is Onina. I have a daughter. She is sick and needs medicine that does not grow on this side. I must get through to trade.

Ellis paused. He thought of his own Kara, playing with her straw dolls in the farmhouse kitchen.

There was no-one else to see what he was doing. Still, instinct made him step close to the barrier and to Onina, speaking in a secretive tone.

How old is your daughter? he asked.

Onina took a step closer, almost touching the barrier. Her rippling green flesh shrivelled a little at the closeness of the salt and she winced.

Six years old, she said. Our children grow slower than yours, making them vulnerable for longer. It is as if she were a three-year-old human, burning with a terrible fever.

Ellis remembered the winter Kara had fallen sick, her little face screwed up in misery as she shivered and coughed. If not for the berries her grandmother had found she would have died.

If I let you through, you've got to promise to be back within a day, he said. I can disguise you in some of my wife's clothes.

Thank you, Onina said, leaning her face closer through a small hole in the ward. Just leave a gap, and I will be gone as soon as I am done.

Someone might see that. Ellis shook his head. I'll close it, then when you're done I can make a gap again.

In that case...

Onina shot out her hand, grabbing Ellis's wrist. He fell in the salt, startled and bewildered, and she shoved him back and forth on the cold ground.

Now! she shouted.

A dozen more spirits appeared from hiding places across the countryside behind her.

Horror grabbed Ellis. She was using him to break the barrier, his body scattering salt as he was shoved back and forth. The spirits would pour through. Who knew what they would do.

He struggled, but Onina was twice as strong as him and he could not break free. He could not reach his shovel or the salt in the barrow. He did not dare grab any from the already weakened ward.

The spirits rushed towards them.

Onina shoved his face in the mud. Even that tasted of salt. The bitter flavour of his poisoned farmland.

Poisoned to her as well as him.

Grabbing a handful of mud, Ellis flung it in Onina's face. Green flesh shrivelled at the salt's touch. She flung her hands up, letting him go.

He leapt to his feet, grabbed his shovel from the barrow and swung it wildly. Salt sprayed through the air and the spirits jerked back mere feet from the gap. Another shovelful and the gap was too small to pass through. Two more and it was gone.

The spirits glared and screeched at Ellis. Onina's placid face became an ugly mess of teeth and hatred. But no more ugly than Ellis's thoughts about her trickery and betrayal.

Pushing his wheelbarrow ahead of him, he went eagerly to repair the rest of the ward.

The Tightrope Walker

I SAT AT MY WINDOW. The warm light of sunrise spread through the sky, its rich orange shining all the bolder against the grey sea below. The beach was deserted. I wondered what it would be like to walk there, to feel the sand between my toes, the damp beneath my feet.

But walking on the beach meant leaving the flat, and even through a sleepless night like this one, I could barely will myself to get up out of my chair. My sketchpad lay idle in my lap, paints and canvass gathering dust in the corner. As long as I did nothing I felt nothing. It was when I stirred that the dread came.

A movement caught my eye. At first, I thought that it was an early morning runner, made pale by some trick of the light. But he was not on the road or the  beach. He stood with arms held wide, balancing on the wire along which lights were strung above the promenade. With smooth, careful movements he walked along his unusual tightrope.

The walker did not look real. His face and clothes were all white as paper. His features seemed draw on in crude ink. Yet he was the most real thing that I had ever seen.

By the time he descended from the wire and disappeared, I was smiling like I hadn't in months. I opened my sketchbook, sharpened a pencil, and set to work.

EVERY MORNING, THE tightrope walker was there, stirring me back to life.

The first time I painted all day before collapsing exhausted. After a week, I managed only the mornings. Soon I was down to an hour each day. As the vivid memory of the tightrope walker faded, so did my passion for life and for art.

I knew the power of art. If I could capture the essence of that fleeting moment then its inspiration could carry me through the day. And so I sat one morning, pencil in hand, watching the tightrope walker begin his journey above the lights.

A few swift strokes caught the outlines of sea and sky, lamps and pier. Then I set to work on the man himself. His arms, his body, his head, those legs which flowed with sure and artful movement along the wire.

He seemed more ephemeral than usual, like a ghost in the dawn. I hurried to draw him while I still could, but with each stroke of my pencil he faded further from the world. I cast aside my sketchbook and pencil, but it was too late.

The tightrope walker was gone.

Tears streamed down my face. Once I was empty,