CW: physical injury, brief mention of animal death
Chapter 19: The End of All Things, Big and Small
Occipital. Frontal. Parietal. Temporal. Occipital. Frontal. Parietal. Temporal. Occipital. Frontal. Parietal. Temporal. Occipital. Frontal. Parietal. Temporal. Occipital. Frontal. Parietal. Temporal. Occipital. Frontal. Parietal. Temporal. Occipital. Frontal. Parietal. Temporal.
The flying machine was like a brain. Here's the stem, the hippocampus, the temporal, the frontal, the occipital--huh, occipital--the parietal.
Occipital. Frontal. Parietal. Temporal. Occipital. Frontal. Parietal. Temporal. Occipital. Frontal. Parietal. Temporal. Occipital. Frontal. Parietal. Temporal.
Hir hand swifted across the page in hir commonplace. Those guys in Eudora wanted the engine smaller, the wings larger, spectacle. Like it was all show, all pop no substance. Thinking on showboating before they even hit air. How they were gonna market this thing to the guys out in Ru Divine. Fair play, do whatever you're gonna do. Not hir style, that's for damn sure. Flying was for the people, for the workers, not for the Ru Divine capitalists or the Eudorian warlords.
Occipital. Frontal. Parietal. Temporal. Occipital. Frontal. Parietal. Temporal. Occipital. Frontal. Parietal. Temporal.
They were gonna take it. Those fucks out in Eudora. Once they had it down? They were gonna take it, no question. Sell it to the highest bidder. Kill it cold blood. Leastways they were gonna try. They'd have to get through hir first.
Viola stumped into the bedroom, threw this big haul on the floor. The desk full choke with blueprints and notebooks and drawings of big hairy vulvas. Not sure where vulvas belonged in flying machine construction. Guess that's a trade secret.
"They awake?" the journalist asked for the seventh time that day and fortieth this week.
"Nopey-dopey," the aviator replied.
Sadie Crane'd been out since De'afi found them, hoofed it back to the staying house. Sobered up real fast.
At current, Sadie Crane was this huge shut-eyed lump. Their fever'd gone down some, thank stars in sky. And they took a little bit of food, milk and water and veggie stew. So they weren't totally out, but maybe...adrift?
"You know, I think we're all gonna end up dead," said Viola.
"Nah, worse," De'afi said back. "We're gonna live."
"Fuck," the journalist sighed.
"We got any of that palela left?" the aviator queried.
"Paella," Viola corrected. "And sure, I think. Knock yourself dead. I'm gonna walk."
"Back soon, okey-dokey?" the aviator said. "Getting late out there."
"Yeah, yeah, be back real soon," she promised.
She headed for a walk, get her head clear.
There were lotsa things Viola'd never done before. She'd never been kissed, for example. She'd never cooked paella, for another. She'd never taken a walk so close to dark, one more. And, consequentially, she'd never encountered the black fox.
Tonight was the night.
The world juttered and splorched like paint splatter before her very eyes, spat her ass-over-teakettle onto the cold late evening dirt. Foot hit a downed tree branch and kicked her forward. Bit it so bad she almost knocked herself dead. Gods alive. Okay, fine. You wanna be that kinda night? Be that kinda night.
Stuck her palms under and poled her arms up, rolled herself forward. She was...ugh. Like one enormous slab of bruised meat. Least she wasn't on her face like some kinda pathetic unrolled shrimp. She was on her side like a slightly more pathetic unrolled shrimp.
"Damn fuck hell," the journalist swore.
She might be dead. For real totally absolutely dead, if she couldn't get home before it got completely dark out. Why in hell's bells did she think taking a walk this late was a good idea? Needed outta the house that bad? Sybil was so goddamn right, she really was the saddest wettest pile of useless flesh this side of Arcadia. Her friend needed her and what was she doing? Getting herself dead on this piss-ass road.
She crept her way back to fallen log, held her side like she could push the deep purple bruise back into her skin. Good luck didn't grow on trees. Especially not ghost trees, white limbs speckled in black dots.
The log was about five feet across and thick. By misfortune or divine intervention, it'd come down right middle of the damn road. And she, like the biggest stupid this side of the All Creation, hadn't seen it till she flipped off and over like a hotcake.
"Ass!" she belled.
That felt good, screaming "Ass!" top of her lungs. But it didn't fix the problem. Screaming "Ass!" hardly ever does. Sometimes it makes things a whole lot worse.
Having not solved her dilemma by screaming "Ass!", Viola shot eyes down the path. So she was probably dead, but. Couldn't hurt to take inventory.
She checked to make sure her rucksack was okay. And it was, thank stars. Not even a scratch. She had enough food and water to last one day--two if she rationed--notebooks for writing in and that was about it. Not even a single bandage. Fuck. And there it was, so damn bright. The ugly ugly truth she'd been ripping out of herself since Sybil. She was never meant to live longer than him, leastways not more than a few years.
Reminder, said the inside of Viola's head. You should have been back fifteen minutes ago.
She swore under her breath, held her side and started walking. Back to the staying house. She'd be home in maybe sixteen? Minutes? Basic math. She loved basic math.
You should try journalism again, said the inside of Viola's head. It was what you were about. Before him. Do you even remember what you were about before him?
Nope, can't say she did. She did not remember a second of time before Sybil or her big sister Millennia. She lost Viola M'et-Sepirot-Keita, could have never earned those three last names. She didn't deserve to be their kid and she sure as shit didn't deserve to be anyone's friend or sister.
All because she had this idea--dumb idea--about The Spinners Club and a memorial to her dead friend. Did she even want that? Or did she wanna make music again? Did she wanna believe it was okay to not miss him?
The royals used to worry about losing what they made their world out of, said the inside of Viola's head. Now they worry about revolution.
Viola came to a bridge. A lonely ricket of wood over the saddest babbly little dribble of water.
Note to self, said the inside of Viola's head. Internal bleeding is a killer ninety-percent of the time, if not taken care of quick.
She was half over the bridge, thinking it was kinda weird. Her head never spoke to her like this. Sounded like her big sis, but...different.
Reminder, said the inside of Viola's head. There are approximately six billion people on All Creation. And you're one of them, whether you like it or not.
At the other end of the bridge, middle of that forest path. A spray of coal-dark, roughly ankle. It stopped, cranked its head sideways and looked right at her. Huge owlish peepers. Its tail batted the windsweep.
Reminder, said the inside of Viola's head. Hallucinations are a common sign of sleep deprivation. Or concussion.
"Hello?" she ventured.
And the black fox said to her, its spotlights flickering like shutters over windows.
"Do you know when you're gonna die?" It asked.
She looked the black fox square and didn't move. Scared outta wits but holding ground. Like Big Sis taught her.
"What's happening to me?" the journalist trembled. "Is my head all--is it done for? Like my head's done?"
The black fox seemed to mull over the question, swiping its big bushy black tail. It wasn't interested in her, not the way people get interested in people. More like how people get interested in beetles. She wasn't important, not for a passer-through.
"What are you scared of?" It asked.
She stood on the balls of her feet a second.
"You know, I had this dream once a real long time back," Viola said. "About how we all got this rot. Got this rot inside, ya know? Growin' real big, can't do nothing about it. We just gotta let it eat. 'Till there's nothing left, 'till it's just all Rot inside."
She tugged and pulled at the nail of her middle finger.
"I'm scared my friends don't love me," the journalist said. "Scared they fell real hard for the idea of me. Scared Millennia's gonna be there my whole life, telling me this ain't it. Scared I'll forget to eat. Scared I'm never gonna find another hole to suck me in and that makes me empty."
The nail broke. It fell, without ceremony, onto the ground. That was fine. She wasn't using that nail. It was another thing of her and she already had too many things of her.
"Scared of the dark," Viola finished.
The coal-dark fox observed her.
"Almost the end of black strawberry season," the fox said after moments. "You don't wanna miss that."
Oh yeah. Black strawberries. Millennia's favorite. They grew during the cold months, never any other time year this way down Arcadia. Viola used to go out picking them. Before.
Viola blinked once. The coal-dark fox disappeared, gone off its side of the bridge. She was relieved for a spell, but then disappointed. Relieved again. Disappointed. And plain fucking confused.
She returned to the staying house, missing total dark by a few minutes.
The door zwizzed shut behind her, banged in its frame and she charged outta her skin. Damn fuck hell. She hadn't jumped like that since Millennia left the mummified remains of a dead bird in her pack. As a practical joke. She was eight years at the time and did not find it very funny.
Downstairs bathroom. She salved bruises and pulled bandages over cuts, cleaned herself up best she knew how.
Sadie Crane's deerskin pack was by the living room couch. She grabbed it up, hugged it to her chest. Reminded herself she didn't want to die tonight.
De'afi appeared in the downstairs, hurtling off the second to last stair. Landed on hir feet like a cat.
"Bet it's gonna rain," ze said.
Viola said nothing about the coming rain. She fiddled the jackalope's foot that hung from Sadie Crane's deerskin, bottom lip sucked between teeth. Sybil never said where he got the jackalope's foot, did he? Never said, not even once. And Viola, the insufferable know-everything, wondered a bit harder.
"Sadie Crane up yet?" she queried.
"Not last I seen, sorry," the aviator replied.
She breathed a taut little sigh. Years of misery, in that sigh. Years wondering if she'd ever be Enough. Not even tolerated or wanted around, but Enough.
The aviator and journalist stared at each other for long moments. Saw each other clear. And what they had to do. Not to make this End, but to maybe. Maybe have another year. If Sadie Crane would agree to it, if Sadie Crane could stand going back. One more time.
End of Chapter 19
I heard a rapping at my door. And when I opened it, nothing. Just my own face staring back.
--Excerpt from "The Last Poems of the Eldest Son" by Qua the Storyteller