Category: Issue #15

You seem like the kind of human that likes stories. You’re willing to come into my domain, to sit attentively and try and gain just a little bit more knowledge about things you can’t understand. You know, I remember not so long ago, demons were things people wanted to stay away from. But here you are, with perked ears and pressing questions, wanting to leave with just a few secrets of the world. Small details like that reveal a lot about a person. You remind me of somebody I knew once, many years ago. If you’d like, I’ll tell you a story. But I warn you, you might not enjoy how it ends. It’s interesting watching humans react, when the thing they value most is taken away. Every human I’ve ever met has seemed so above the earthly struggles of other creatures. What happens when they start to fall, when the fragile supports for their lives start to stray? They scramble and fight towards any kind of relief, no matter the cost. In that moment of desperation, they’re just like any other starving animal.

Lauren was one of those humans who I took particular interest in watching. In her youth, I watched her bounding and playing in the fields, only returning home after a full day under the sky. I don’t know what it was that set her apart from the sheep that she lived with, but she seemed wilder, more in tune with the natural world. Her father was a skilful hunter, and as she grew into a young adult, he trained her until her skills rivalled his own. Teaching her to have a respect for the wild, and the ancient forces that dwelled in the natural world, Lauren grew to be a respected and noble hunter. With her light hair and wild features, and the speed with which she glided through the overgrowth of the woods, the villagers compared her more to a wolf than a young maiden.

The more I watched, the more fascinated I was with the pure desire she held, not just to run and explore everything the world had to offer, but to be the fastest, most efficient hunter in the village. She would venture where nobody else would dare, and take on any quarry that came her way. This determination was intriguing to me.  

On a particularly close hunt, I watched her chase a white rabbit along the stony riverbed. She had crept down the rocky slopes, trying to follow the small animal’s bounds, but the rocks were slick with river water. It was so easy for me to shift her position ever so slightly from the shadows. The second Lauren was close enough to spring towards the rabbit, her footholds betrayed her, her ankle standing fast as her body plummeted. Her knee twisted, trying vainly to stay straight as her bones gave way with a delicious crack.

Oh, the doctors had plenty to say when they found her. As they carried her into bed and tried desperately to set her crushed bones into place, they assured her, even as she screamed, that a broken leg was far from the worst thing that could have happened. But when they finally finished their work, and Lauren’s ruined leg was hidden beneath a wrapping of bandage, it was obvious for anybody watching that the spark that had once driven her forwards was all but extinguished. She would never walk again; the doctors were very clear in saying. The bones, muscles and ligaments were ruptured and splintered in a way that shouldn’t have been possible for such an injury. Now her leg lay immobilized, twisted and misshapen like a tree branch growing oddly in a cramped space.

I visited her many times from her bedside. She had taken to watching the predators of the night from the confines of her room. She saw an owl, with its broad feathers and knowing eyes, gliding towards its nightly meal. A wolf howled faintly from the crags of the mountain, its voice barely reaching her ears from many miles away. But I was her favourite thing to watch. I wore the skin of a wild, black cat, with sleek features and agile limbs, as I chased the beady-eyed mice that crept from her cottage at night.

The first time I met her, I enjoyed playing a game with my prey. It was effortless to ensnare the mice I chased; yet I chose to leave the smallest of gaps in the cage my claws became, allowing the tiniest of glimpses of freedom, but never enough to escape before being ensnared again. From the first time she saw me, I knew she was enthralled, not by my skin, but with how I stalked my prey. In her eyes I saw the grief of her situation mingled with the envy for my grace. I wore the skin of a hunter, a skin she had once worn and now mourned.

When I first spoke with her, she was terrified. Humans are supposedly the only creatures in your world that can speak, and hearing my voice ignited all manner of superstitions in Lauren. She pushed me away as I prowled down the side of her bed. She cursed me and fought me when I began to ask her questions. But as the night wore on, I sensed a shred of curiosity beneath her façade. She wanted to know why I was there, and what I was doing talking to her. Any doubts that lingered in her mind were quickly swept away when I asked her one simple question.

‘Lauren, if you could make one desire of yours a reality, if you could request something of the gods, something that would elevate your life above what it is now, what would you want?’

Lauren took a long pause before finally responding. ‘I want to run, to fly, to hunt again. I’ve never felt more useless trapped in this bed, and I want nothing more than to chase and move freely, like you do.’

It became clear quite quickly the kind of person she really was, you see. Every problem in Lauren’s life had a simple solution. There was no river she couldn’t find a path around, no jungle she couldn’t push her way through. And even now, with her body failing her, Lauren refused to accept that there wasn’t another path to get what she needed. She knew what I was; she knew that the omen of a dark creature whispering promises in the night brought misfortune and sorrow. But life was a game to Lauren. A game that she had always won. I could tell that deep inside of her heart. She wasn’t ready to start losing. And so, I offered her a path towards what she craved. I would give her power, the ability to run and hunt again, the ability to stand as being more than a simple human. I would make her a predator.

I can tell you’ve heard stories like this before. I hope you aren’t too angry with me. Maybe you fear for Lauren’s safety, having dealings with a creature like me. Maybe you might even call me cruel, for taking such a beautiful, natural thing and twisting it for my own needs.

Night after night I returned to her side, gradually showing her more of the power I had at my disposal. I changed my shape into exotic animals that she had never seen. I enticed her with stories of far-away lands and hidden ancient truths of the very earth. Every night she turned me away, calling me demon, and monster. And every night, I watched from the shadows as she stared yearningly out the window for longer and longer, as I slowly convinced her. Her expression would soften each night, as she started to laugh at my jokes, and listen intently to the many promises I made. Eventually, she did accept my offer. Rest assured, I gave her everything she asked for.

Magic is something you humans consider other-worldly. But in truth magic comes from the very earth itself. It might well be the most natural thing still thriving in this place you choose to live in. I used a small portion of it to repair Lauren’s leg, and another to build her a home, in the secluded wilds of the woods. A house brimming with the magic of the ancient wild. Magic that she now wielded.

The first few years passed in happiness for Lauren. The house was large and ever changing, the paintings and furniture living companions for her. The library was full of books, that sang and laughed and cheerfully told her any stories she desired. Fanciful creatures filled the halls, animals of every land, happy to chase her and be chased through the house.

Over time, Lauren found that the house, and its many denizens, existed to serve her will. At a whim, the paintings would shift and move to her desires, showing her any image she yearned for. Her favourites were images of snow-capped mountains, of forests and undiscovered country, entire lands that she would have loved to run through. The books in her library told her stories of foreign land: some covered in more ice than stone, whose great peaks were too treacherous for even the most daring of explorers, of great red deserts full of creatures that were dangerous enough to kill any who hunted them.

But as the years passed her by, Lauren learned that magic was a resource like any other. And as the years slowly drained her reserves of magic, she found that the furniture and the walls of the house began to decay. The paintings, once full of vibrant colour, began to ooze and drip from the frames and seep into a colourless mass on the floor. The books began to screech harshly as their pages blackened and curled up into nothingness.

Lauren herself, whose very body was fuelled by this ancient stream of magic, got the worst of it. She found herself decomposing with the house, her own flesh rotting and writhing, her healed leg beginning to creak and break and twist into something horrific and unnameable.

When she begged me to fix it, I told her simply that I couldn’t. This was her domain.  She now needed to provide for it. Lure an innocent soul into the house and slay them. Whatever magic is inside of their soul will go to the house, and their blood will restore your power.

Even as her body decayed, she vowed to never sully her hands with human blood. But as she withered and her mind started to crack under the ravages of time, the promise of relief became unbearable.

What more could poor Lauren do, but finally hunt. An old man had wandered into the woods, crossbow in hand, straying just too close to the house. At my urging, she decided to finally break her vow.

She opened the door, shifting the weight off of her ruined leg as she peered outside. Her eyes were withered and unfocussed. Her frail body trembled as she supported her weight on the doorframe. She held out her hand, attempting to use her magic to attack the man, and small sparks danced at the edges of her fingertips. However, the second her hand crossed the threshold of the house, the sparks faded away, draining Lauren of her strength and leaving her withered form dizzy and faint.

The man noticed her attempt, and paused in his tracks. Lauren’s eyes were failing her, but she saw clearly as his face contorted in fury. He charged towards her door with a familiar determination, brandishing his weapon as he yelled all manner of curses. As Lauren hobbled further into the house, he followed her with all of the persistence of a hunter, deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of decay and ruin. He finally caught up to her, his murderous intent coming to a head, as he brandished his weapon. At that moment, Lauren felt utterly powerless and weak, her body too frail to take any action. And in that desperation, as her heart wished earnestly to live on just a little bit further, she invoked my name, and my power brimmed at her fingertips.

The splintered wooden beams of the walls in the house turned into arrows, their wooden shafts flying from all corners as they pierced the man’s body. His broken frame fell lifelessly to the ground. As his lifeblood sank into the rotten floorboards, the house, and the witch that lived inside of it, began to heal and recover. 

Lauren, now young and vibrant again, strode forward towards the dead man. She was shocked as, now with clear eyes, she saw the corpse of her father, withered by the years, but still wearing the stern, determined expression he’d always had.

She begged me to restore him to life, and to let her die instead. Indeed, there is nothing nature more reviles than a child slaying its parent. But I had already claimed my prize, and this was a reward I could not return. I feasted that night, and even as her skin became smooth once more, Lauren finally understood the role she had inherited for the rest of her days. She thought she was the cat, prowling gracefully as she hunted. But as the years passed and she learned how to lure her prey into her thrall, Lauren finally recognised her place. She was the mouse, enjoying the brief seconds of freedom between my claws, before I snared her once again.

In the years to come, Lauren became resigned to her fate. Powerless to flee the house, never gaining the courage to allow herself to die, her relationship with humanity became far more estranged than she was used to. Mortality became a fleeting thought, something to exploit from others, rather than to be applied to herself. She learned how to use the magic I gave her to better play her role.

With her magic she took the skin of a hawk. She left her human form behind, soaring above the trees as her keen avian eyes scanned the ground for prey. She relished the wind rushing over her feathers, how agile and swift her movements could be. As she approached the den of her prey, she shifted into a wolf, with strong legs and powerful jaws, with a pelt of soft grey. She crept through the overgrowth of the woods, slinking and stalking towards her victims. She approached the lonely and the wistful as a pale lady of the woods, drawing them away from their homes with her beautiful, bewitching visage. They followed her blindly through the dense woods, venturing deeper and deeper, until they found a lovely wooden house. It was charming and beautiful to look at. But when one ventured inside of their own accord it became a deadly trap. A web that ensnared and consumed its victims. 

You might think I’m a monster, and to some degree I’m sure you’re right. But no matter the fate of Lauren, she at least understood how things really were. Humans are just as bad as any demon I know. You destroy, corrupt, and shirk responsibility, all to ensure your precious little, limited lives continue. What I have done that is any different? For all of the ways that Lauren has fallen astray, I maintain that every promise I made her came true. She lives as something more than human. More than animal. That’s the truth of life, the secret that you came here to find. Flesh is flesh, and all animals have it, even humans. It’s only you humans that consider yourselves above the struggles of the earth. Are you really content to live like that?

I like you. I think, below the programmed responses that every person instinctively holds about their stake on the world, you see a glimmer of truth in what I say. As open as Lauren has become, I think she has outlived her usefulness.

Lauren shows a coldness to her now that I never saw in her before. She kills as a matter of fun now, rather than just to survive. I think somewhere along the line, she figured out that I can’t directly influence the world itself. All power has limits I suppose. And even though the thought of a mortal challenging me is amusing, if she gathers enough power, she believes that she will no longer have a use for me.

Tell me, what can I offer you? Perhaps there’s something missing from your life that I can give, if you take Lauren’s place. Every human I’ve met has disappointed me, but maybe you’re different. I sense a spark inside of you, a desire to explore what exists beyond the shackles of humanity. I promise, you’ll be different to Lauren. You’ll have power that the creatures of this world could only dream of. So, what do you say?

Joshua felt like he had sat under this solitary tree forever. He pulled his ragged shawl around himself and lifted his head to listen to the wind howl through the branches.  It was his eighth day on field assignment and, much as he enjoyed watching the humans, he was counting the hours until he could shrug off the facade of an old beggar woman and settle into his preferred image—a junior angel ready for promotion (his appearance for most of the last millennium).

As he had done countless times, Joshua returned to base and submitted a banal field report outlining numerous transgressions of God’s law. As no one ever commented on his reports, Joshua hoped they were what management wanted. He put the thought that they never read them out of his mind, as he set off to find Patrick.

‘Hail Brother Patrick. Verily, there are curious happenings upon the face of the Earth.’ Patrick removed his sunglasses and regarded Joshua for a few moments, before addressing the issue head on.

‘Why the fuck are you talking like a knob?’

‘Umm, well, I went to a presentation by the archangel on being the best angel you can be. He said God’s advocates should speak graciously one unto another.’ Joshua paused, his lips moving as he reran Gabriel’s words in his head. ‘Oh, and he said swear words were the artifice of the devil.’

‘Gabriel looks and speaks like he’s got a horn shoved up his—’

‘Shhh,’ Joshua twitched, ‘he could be listening.’

‘That prick listening to the conversation of two low class angels is as likely as Lucifer popping up to borrow a box of matches.’ Joshua cringed. Fortunately, Patrick changed tack. ‘Anyway, what about these curious happenings upon the face of the Earth?’

*

At the viewing portal, Joshua adjusted the settings until they were looking down on a large scrubby plain. Among a grove of olive trees, two men laboured to cut trees into planks.

Shem stood on a massive trunk pushing a saw. At the bottom of the sawpit, Ham stopped pulling the other end to rest his aching shoulders and to watch a pair of rhinoceros beetles amble up the side of the pit. Shem soon became impatient and stomped on the log, creating an avalanche of sawdust. Wiping the dust from his eyes, Ham roared with anger. As he scrambled out of the pit, his brother was already running. Shem ran past a woman, who led a pair of horses straining against the weight of the cord of wood they were towing towards the main construction area, where an old man was nailing planks to a large wooden structure.

‘You dragged me here for a woodwork lesson?’ Patrick stepped away from the portal, his mind already back on the poker game he was setting up in the archive room. He had a special card deck prepared—angels were so trusting.

‘They’re building a boat.’ Joshua took Patrick’s arm and tugged him back.

‘Wow, that’s completely different, to see guys build a boat. Let me get some popcorn—make a night of it.’

‘They’re on top of a mountain.’ That got Patrick’s attention—more a big hill than a mountain, but still. Weird. ‘The old guy said God told him to do it.’

‘Hmm, all communications with humans are entered in the Divine Orders Register.’ Patrick flicked through a volume from a nearby shelf. ‘Here we are… Tired of people’s evil ways… A flood to wipe out all life…. Noah instructed to build an ark to take two of each animal… Stuff about food… The ark to be three hundred cubits long.’

‘What’s a cubit?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest.’ If forced to guess, Patrick was thinking maybe it was the height of the god of love (bizarrely, this is about right).

‘I wonder what the animals make of the arrangement.’ Joshua said—thinking about all the animals that would be the innocent victims of this plan.

‘Hitch a ride with one.’

‘Mindriding. The last angel caught doing that was reincarnated as a dung beetle.”

‘Don’t get caught.’ Patrick shrugged. The strategy had always worked for him.

There was a warren at the edge of the boat building operation. The peace of the rabbits seemed idyllic to Joshua. It would be a pleasant change from being an angel, never knowing if you are good enough. Joshua entered the mind of one of the large buck rabbits. He was shocked by the rabbit’s feelings—not by how alien they were, but how familiar. There was the sense of desire, the need to prove yourself, and the repressed anger. The rabbit unleashed its feelings. It set upon another buck which was probing the territorial boundaries. The fight was brief, but brutal. Joshua sensed the pain as his rabbit was bitten on the shoulder, but in the heat of battle, it fought on, soon inflicting a fierce bite on its foe’s neck—the other buck ran off to lick it wounds.

Joshua entered the mind of a dragonfly jinking back and forth across the surface of a brook. Its thoughts so simple; little more than a set of instructions—flap wings/seek food/eat mosquito/change direction/survive. It was calming for a while, but Joshua soon grew bored.

In the mind of a wolf, Joshua perceived the world through the wolf’s senses. A pale visual framework with objects given form through smell; like a coloured haze associated with each object. Joshua felt the wolf tense. The wolf had found a trail—pale blue vapour weaving through the leaves on the forest floor. The wolf loped around a tree and came face to face with another wolf. The female wolf bared her teeth, but then relaxed and approached.

On his enumerable field assignments, Joshua had seen fornication many times; between people, between animals, and on one occasion between a person and an animal. But he had never experienced sex. Once the wolf mounted the female, Joshua shared the increasing sense of tension. It felt something like a thunderstorm headache, he thought—there needed to be some release. Then came the release. And then it was over… And Joshua reeled—an angel for centuries and a young wolf could have an experience, a connection, to transcend anything he had felt before.

A little later, a wolf in the distance started the howl. It was taken up by the female wolf. Then Joshua’s wolf joined the howl. Joshua felt it become inhabited with a sense of belonging: to its pack; to all the wolves that would join the howl that night; and to those that would join in the future. When Joshua returned to heaven, he didn’t know how to feel like an angel anymore.

‘He has to be stopped,’ he told Patrick as soon as he found him.

‘Hello, good to see you too.’ Patrick regarded his long-time friend. Joshua was wired. Patrick decided it was best to be calm and humour him. ‘Who has to be stopped, mate?’

‘God.’

‘GOD!’ Patrick shouted. ‘You mean the, omniscient, omnipresent omnipotent God?’

‘Probably also omnivorous.’

‘Are you…’ Patrick looked over his shoulder and reduced his volume. ‘Are you mad?’

‘Are they all evil? All the people? All the children? All the animals? We have to stop this.’

‘Jesus! I need a drink,’ Patrick said, burying his face in both hands.

‘Who’s Jesus?’

‘I have no idea. It just felt like the right thing to say.’

*

As Patrick and Joshua set off to find a drink, a group of angels were meeting in secret. Uriel, sculpted and muscular, stood discussing clothes with Raphael, who currently favoured a mature rugged look. He was pleased with the authoritative air his cleft chin gave him.  Four other archangels sat around a large burnished gold table, dissecting last night’s intramural football match, while they waited for their final member.

Gabriel strode in, his white robes billowing like the smoke of a forest fire. The members of The Sanctimonium considered themselves a self-managed team. Archangels knew their own mind; they surpassed the need for leadership. Gabriel just surpassed it more than everyone else. He sat at the head of the table.

‘I now call the 2,647^th meeting of The Sanctimonium to order.’

*

Alcohol has no effect on angels, so Joshua and Patrick had retired to the mind of one of the Earth’s ne’er-do-wells. He was at one of the many bars which were doing a steady trade around the ark’s construction site. The locals were mostly farmers and herders. Normally, the highlight of a night’s entertainment was taking bets on which goat was going to take a dump next. The construction of the ark was a phenomenon—a once in a lifetime event. See the ark and die.

The angels’ host was on his fifth glass of wine. Patrick and Joshua enjoyed the false sense of alcohol-induced wellbeing, while having a place to talk. Their host was dimly aware of their conversation echoing through his mind, but put it down to alcohol-fuelled delusions. In his experience, which was extensive in this area, the hallucinations cleared up after the eighth glass of house red. He focused on reaching this target.

‘We must be able to do something that could help us,’ said Joshua.

‘Well you can talk like a nob.’ The angels had no physical form within their host’s mind. They couldn’t see each other, but Joshua could sense Patrick laughing. Joshua borrowed a small part of their host’s mind and imagined a hand, almost clenched into a fist, but for one extended finger.

‘You know,’ said Patrick, ‘I think I preferred the old shy retiring Joshua.’ Joshua wondered whether he preferred that Joshua too. That Joshua didn’t seem to have quite so much doubt and confusion.

*

‘The first order of business,’ said Gabriel, once he’d got everyone’s attention, ‘is progress of the Eden II project. An update, Brother Raphael.’ Raphael went to stand up, but Gabriel waved him down. ‘No need for formalities Brother Raphael, we’re all friends here.’ Raphael looked around the unsmiling faces.

‘Thank you, Brother Gabriel, the Eden II project remains on track. The ark is all but complete and we have authorised the mindriding of two of each species, so they can be guided to the ark.’ Raphael paused and shifted in his seat before continuing in a less certain voice. ‘Umm, I was just wondering if we’re sure that God is okay with this?’

‘We’ve been through this.’ Gabriel stared around the rest of the group who avoided his gaze. ‘One more time then. God created Eden—yes?’

‘Yes.’ Raphael voice was little more than a whisper contrasting with Gabriel’s boom.

‘So, God will be happy that we wipe the slate clean and create a new Eden?’

‘Well, I suppose so.’ Gabriel glare could have cut diamond. ‘Yes, of course,’ said Raphael.

‘And The Sanctimonium exists to handle all the trivial details which are beneath God.’ Gabriel spread both arms to embrace all those around the table. The Sanctimonium had, in fact, been created by the archangels following the fall of Eden. The archangels, of course, accepted that God was all-knowing. It was just, well, perhaps he had a blind spot when it came to what made people tick. What with the whole ‘whatever you do, don’t eat the delicious juicy red apple’ debacle.

Over the following centuries, The Sanctimonium had gradually taken over the running of pretty much everything. The only thing which spoiled their absolute control was the way people just kept doing as they pleased, without any regard for the nuisance they caused.

*

Joshua couldn’t remember whether he or Patrick came up with the idea to enter Noah’s mind. When he did, Joshua looked out through Noah’s eyes at Ham stacking baskets. Noah had put Ham in charge of beetles, which Ham initially thought would be an easy gig (Shem was mucking out the ruminants). As different beetle species arrived, he put fifty pairs into a basket. He’d admired the iridescent colours of the many species of jewel beetle. When he had fifteen baskets full, he was in awe of their unending variety. Jewel beetles kept coming and soon there were one hundred baskets. Ham despaired of their unending variety.

‘Noah! Noah, this is God.’ Joshua was shocked by the voice filling Noah’s head. But Noah took it in his stride.

‘Yes Lord,’ Noah said. Ham looked up from the basket he was now filling with blister beetles.

‘Is there someone there with you Noah?’ said the voice in Noah’s head. Joshua kept quiet—something was bothering him about the voice.

‘Just my son, Lord.’ Noah patted Ham on the shoulder causing him to mishandle one of the blister beetles. It squirted its trademark caustic liquid. He pulled his hand away, dropping the basket and sending coloured ovals across the floor of the ark. As he scrabbled to retrieve them, he stepped back turning a yellow and black beetle into a smear across the floor.

‘Oh, fuck!’ said Ham.

‘Who was that?’ said the voice. ‘Swear words are the artifice of the devil.’ And Joshua knew where he had heard the voice before.

‘Sorry Lord, it won’t happen again,’ said Noah. He kicked Ham, then put a finger to his lips.

‘Very well,’ said the voice of Gabriel. ‘It is time to seal up the ark and prepare for the flood.’

Later that evening, Patrick and Joshua watched Ham through the eyes of a stag beetle. Ham had collapsed on his bunk. Baskets of beetles were stacked up against every wall and arrayed around his bed. He tossed and turned; occasionally he moaned. Patrick went to have a look in Ham’s mind. He came back quickly.

‘His mind’s full of beetles—even with his eyes closed, he sees beetles; endless rows of beetles. It’s like some sort of psychosis.’

‘Beetlemania?’ suggested Joshua.

*

Standing in front of Gabriel’s office door, Joshua had played out a hundred different versions of their confrontation—none came close to what followed. Joshua knocked and as soon as he heard an answer, threw the door back on its hinges. He pointed at Gabriel’s desk and shouted.

‘I know what you’ve been doing.’ The effect was spoiled somewhat when Gabriel responded from an easy chair, way off to Joshua’s left.

‘You know about The Sanctimonium?’ said Gabriel as he stood up.

‘The sancti-what?’ Joshua paused in the doorway and turned to face Gabriel.

‘Don’t say you know I’ve been embezzling from the fallen angels’ fund?’

‘What… No.’ Joshua lowered his outstretched arm.

‘Oh God, surely, you haven’t found out about the choir boys.’

‘Umm…’ Joshua felt he should try and take back the initiative. ‘I know you’ve been impersonating God.’

‘Oh, that. What of it?’

Joshua made his demand that the plan to wipe out all life on earth must be stopped. Gabriel listened quietly and said he would consider the request. As the door closed against Joshua’s back, he wondered if he should have made clear it wasn’t really supposed to be a request.

*

Beneath the Mediterranean, the African tectonic plate drives under its Eurasian cousin as it has for millennia. But now, a massive fault in its surface causes it to stick. Huge stresses build up as Africa continues to move north as inexorably as an HSC student during schoolies week.

The stuck plate snaps free, displacing a volume of water impossible to enumerate in this time before the invention of the Olympic swimming pool. A massive tsunami sweeps outward from the underwater earthquake. As it approaches land, water piles on water forming a wave one thousand cubits high from horizon to horizon. Where it makes landfall, it smashes all before it, until… It rolls up a large hill, where the ark bobs afloat.

Two angels watch through a portal.

‘Gabriel didn’t change his mind then,’ says Joshua, his face as depressing as a nearly full coffee card for a long defunct café. Patrick adjusts a setting; zooming further out. The wave spreads, eventually devastating an area the size of the Mediterranean.

‘But look, most of the world is untouched. Maybe he did change his mind.’

Joshua is no longer there.

*

The last of the day’s light leaks from the sky as the wolf lopes up a hill surrounded by the receding floodwater. Under a solitary tree, the wolf sits on its haunches and lifts its head to start the howl. It hears an echo inside its head.

There is always room for one more in the howl.

“He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.”

• Dr Johnson

“Beneath the surface of every one of these fallen men lies the beast inside them; it is as if in each of them is the point of intersection where some animal species meets humanity.”

• Victor Hugo

As the Man enters the Zoo, he remembers when he was led through the same dark halls as a kid, in a small pack of twenty of his peers, all of them terrified and intrigued by what was on display. As he walks, he sees his memories appear like ghosts in the glass, walking alongside him. He tries to ignore the cold steel of chains clamped around his wrists and ankles, jangling and echoing against the cracked stonework as they walk together. Behind him, he can hear his shadows follow his footsteps, all of them behind the thin form of the Tour Guide.

‘On this level, we keep all of our Rats. Desperate little things, aren’t they?’ The Tour Guide laughed, a sick little chuckle that suggested that he might not be the best person to talk to children. Or perhaps the best, given the circumstances. ‘They rend and take in selfishness, eager to escape the flames of their own destruction, and mindless to the suffering that they cause.’ As the pack passed the glass crate cages, they could hear the skitter-scattering of their tiny feet and the sound of their gnawing teeth tearing into their meal. The unfortunate creature had been brought in like a bewildered cow to an abattoir, blind to what lay behind the iron door it had chosen.

The Tour Guide is older now, but the only sign of this is his hair, which has faded from grey to pure white. Other than that, his face still retains the same cruel and thin lines. Above them, the Man can still hear the Cat singing its song on the flesh of its poor prey; broken birds with melted wings of aspiration, flying high and thinking that they could live forever. He knows now, as he suspects they do as well, that this is impossible; the Administration is forever. They had destroyed it; they had thought they had set everyone free. But the people were liars to their own hearts; they didn’t wish for the freedom that he had brought.  Like a hydric machine, others had filled the void that they had created and rebuilt the cages to which they had become accustomed; it was what they were trained to do. It was the only thing they knew. He had lost everything, blood had stained his hands and now he was being punished for it.

Together, the Man, his shadows, and his memories descend the stairs to the next level, the next series of clear cages. One of these, he thinks, could soon be his, and he dreaded the thought.  

The Tour Guide stopped abruptly and turned on his heel with outstretched arms, looming above the children. His face stretched into a wide smile, his lips pulling at the waxen skin of his cheeks, but his eyes seemed fixed in place, a squint of disgust. Unmoved by the rest of his face, their colour was the light grey of the hidden sky at dawn. He looked to the largest of the children in the small crowd and held his gaze, before continuing, still with a forced smile. ‘Here, we hold our Pigs. They eat whatever they are given, to excess, again with no mind to the others they hurt. Where the Rats debase themselves through their desperate self-preservation, the Pigs have nothing to blame but their gluttony.’

Through the window-walls, they could see the herd of pigs fighting amongst themselves for the “food” that had been dragged in by masked figures and dropped it with a heavy thud. As quickly as they had entered, they were gone, slamming the iron door shut behind them. The poor creature lay on the floor, completely still, except for its eyes, which darted around in a frantic panic. Its eye made contact with the Man’s, still a child in his own mind, and held it. He could not hear any sound through the reflection, but he knew that the creature was trapped by its own muscles, not responding to its brain, and it was screaming. Its eyes darted more frantically, trying for some way to escape their prison of flesh, itself caged by the glass. Its muted screams rattle inside the Man’s head, like a mistuned radio picking up a thunderstorm. It was suffering. That much he knew, both then and now. The eye kept his gaze, even as the body it belonged to shook and tore apart in red and pink splashes of chaos, until finally one of the pigs took the eye as dessert. Not even bones remained on the bloody floor when the frenzy died down.

Another level down, the Tour Guide continued with his sermon, a speech that he had crafted and refined to his liking over the years.

‘And here, we keep our Bull. Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he asks, pausing to hear the resounding wonder of the young crowd. As the words bounce around his mind again, the Man could see the large bull in front of him once more. It was still fiercely ornate and intricately decorated. As they approached, it growled, and steam seemed to curl from its mouth, slowly filling the room with a fine mist of sickly-sweet incense. As a child, he had thought that the creature looked almost too perfect, like a giant living creature that had been encased in bronze, not pieced and welded together in a deliberate design. It was only later that he learned how it had been made, and the fate of its creator, a poor artist who had spoken out against the Administration too many times. They had been told that he had died due to an accident in testing, but the Man knew that this was simply another of many lies the Administration told on a daily basis. Like the creator of this beautiful and terrible thing, he had grown tired of his role as a cog in the machine, and had only hoped to make a difference. He had hoped that destroying the figurehead would bring down the cages, and the borders with them. Instead, he had lost him for nothing. Nothing had changed, except for the feeling of failure that lingers inside his gut, and that, in a twisted way, this was what he deserved. He wonders what lie will be told of his own fate, as well as his compatriots. ‘It doesn’t really matter’, he thinks. ‘It’s not my job anymore.’

Another level down, the Tour Guide led them through halls that shined blue and green, flowing lightning cracks of white light flashing like waves against the walls. Each cell was filled with water, filled with more creatures. Behind one wall, there remained splatters of blood splashed from a meal, slowly fading into the water with the ebb and flow of the creatures moving inside. The Tour Guide sighed, ‘Now, unfortunately, we’ve missed feeding time, but–’ the speech was drowned out by half of the children groaning in unison. Meanwhile, the Man turned to look at another cell. There was nothing but clear water inside. The only sound was the muted shout of the Tour Guide in the background. Suddenly, a trapdoor opened in the ceiling, and a large black plastic bag was thrown in, splashing into the water and sinking fast. Looking back, he notes how similar the bag looked to the ones he had seen two of his compatriots now call their final resting place. For a moment in his memory, the Man could see another masked face through the open hole in the ceiling, its black eyes staring deep into his own before slamming the trapdoor closed. He turned his attention back to the bag, slowly sinking to the bottom of the cell. It moved strangely as it sank, like a living tar that was failing to form limbs, a writhing mass of worms that wanted to be free in the water.

It softly struck the bottom of the tank, and whatever was inside continued to writhe and shake, its movements slowed by the water. The thing inside seemed to pay no attention to its sudden stop, still only focused on panicking and struggling, like an escape artist realising their key was missing. The bag finally tore open and another poor creature broke free from its pocket of air, and with it came several serpents wrapped around its torso and limbs, strangling and biting at the pale and blue flesh. He recognizes the face now, and regrets that he did nothing, that he could do nothing, when he had first been brought here. The creature was struggling, unable to breathe, while the serpents entwined around him, flourishing on the struggle of their own blood. He was now exactly what they said he was: a Snake, one that had spoken poison to the masses, a cancerous tumour that had to be excised as an example to the rest of them. This was proof that the system worked.

Tears run down the face of the Man, snapping back from his memories. He had cut off the head of the serpent that had wrapped itself around the world, but in its place a stronger monstrosity had risen, one that had grown even more determined to stamp out any dissidents, any dissonance from their message of conformity in fear.

‘Are you paying attention, boy?’ The Tour Guide had suddenly appeared next to the Man’s face. He held his face between his skeletal fingers, curling under the cheeks and framing his mouth, forcing it into a smile showing teeth. This close, he could smell an unholy stench, a steam of rotting eggs and mould emanating from the thin mouth and hooked nose.

‘Yes’, he lied, terrified. The Tour Guide stared at him for a long moment, the grey eyes filled with disgust digging into his own, searching for something, anything, any excuse to make an example in front of the crowd. Disappointed, he inhaled deeply, as though he was drawing in and feeding on the fear of the small children around him. With this, he stretched his thin body back to his normal tallness, and sighed before continuing. As the Tour Guide turned away, the Man could feel his classmates watching him, catching one eye watching him with a furious intent, peeking behind the girl’s blonde hair before she turned her attention back to the Tour Guide, eagerly devouring every word that escaped his thin lips.

‘Well, in any case, it seems you’ve started watching without me.’ He feigned a sadness in his face, his lips stretching down before curving into his twisted smile, but his eyes remained still.

Finally, both the Man and his memories are led to the final cage. Beyond the open grey stone and steel archway, thirteen doors lay around the chamber, spread out evenly like the markings of a clock. Each door had a symbol engraved into it, carved as intricately as the details of the hairs of the Bronze Bull. Each symbol was one of the animals they had seen on their journey through the Zoo. He saw the mental images in the clear light of his mind, and each were stained a deep red.

Here the ghosts of children fade away, and the Man is finally alone in the chamber, alone in his mind, no more memories of this place to draw upon to distract from his reality. Around him wait the Tour Guide and the Magistrate, along with his two nameless shadows, each wearing black and white and ravenous masks. They had gently accompanied him on his journey, one on each side behind him, always nudging him forward to keep pace whenever he walked a little too slow, with a reluctance that no one would blame him for.

His speech and his part to play over, the Tour Guide slinks away, like a cat leaving a midnight catch at its owner’s feet. The Magistrate nodded to him, slightly shaking the dirty white wig that she wore with pride, exposing strands of greying blonde hair. She fixes her wig with a slight touch, making sure it fit tight against her skull like a parasitic crown. Her gold rimmed spectacles balance on her crooked nose, and the thick lenses grant her grey eyes an alien quality, bulbous and slightly too large for her face. A grey gown hides her form, and he imagines that the warts that adorn her face have spread across her body, a hideous representation of her welcoming invitation of the Administration’s word into her own spirit. She was beautiful once, he thinks, but years within the system have withered her skin and hunched her form. She is apparently the same age as him, and he wonders now if she was really among the crowd of children that had been led through these halls so many years ago. He knew it to be true, but truth is easily fabricated these days. She clears her throat, a sickening sound of acrid air passed though rusting pipes. She begins her own prepared speech, the one she had spoken word for word for years; the same years that the Man had spent creating lies in the name of the Administration’s truth. Her prey was now at the centre of her web, and her own predatory dance begins.

‘No mind can ever be wiped completely clean,’ she says with a vulture’s smirk, as though she was looking at a future meal with an eager tongue, not a man with a sorry soul. ‘There will always remain traces of past lives, past memories. We have realised, with this, that the animal inside will always remain. Thus, it has been decided to erase your human mind and let you beast choose its rightful place.’

The shadows take their places and buckle the man into the faux leather chair. They strap the cap of electrodes and wires to his shaved head. As one of the masked figures behind him sticks a needle into his neck and urges its venom into his system, he wonders which door his body will chance opening when he is stripped of his humanity. The tears have dried up and left him, and he prepares his mind for a final sleep. As thought and memory begin to drift away, he wonders which punishment – which death – the lizard brain of his walking corpse will soon choose for itself.

5:00pm. closing time.

Spot’s brown paw flipped the closing sign. Though it was time to close the shelter it wouldn’t be long before Scarlet Ebony arrived for her scheduled appointment. Though Spot did all he could to avoid her appointments it was inevitable since she was the only source of money keeping the shelter afloat. Spot hated that he needed her help to support his cause to find good homes for humans, but she was the only consistent source of income the shelter had. Spot was in no place to be picky about how he received an income.

His shelter was hanging on by its bare bones to stay alive. With each breath the shelter showed how weak it was becoming. Cracks framed each of the walls. Their fingers reaching out to hug each and every cover of the shelter. The vinyl floor was starting to show its true age. In areas it was peeling itself from the floor showing the concrete underneath. The darkness of the vinyl couldn’t hide the wet spots forming due to the repeated showing of human to potential customers. Some have been treated that barbaric by animals that the mere sight of one causes the human to enter melt down mode and remove all it can from its body. This act alone, with the issue of overcrowding, gave the shelter its most distinct feature, a smell that no matter how hard you try to block your nose demanded you to smell it. Odours of urine, shit, blood, and bleach swirled together into the nose of all who entered. Not matter how much bleach Spot used to clean the place the other odours also found a way back to the shelter. Due to his long hours Spot had become used to the smell. Though others gagged at the smell upon entering the shelter, Spot welcomed it like a friend, a reminder of why he was at the shelter. Spot had an hour before Scarlet arrived to groom his latest offering of humans to her. In their time together Spot had learnt to keep his thoughts to himself and in a twisted way, be grateful she was clearing out space.

Closing the last of the beige blinds, Spot made his way to the reception desk. Pulling out his To Do list Spot checked what was left. His eyes narrowed down on the two tasks left to complete for the day.

9. Move Alex into the death row.

10. Groom humans for Scarlet’s arrival at 6:00pm.

Task nine was a daily reminder of the reality of the shelter. For every human who finds a home two are sentenced to death. Death can come in one of two ways: A trip to the shelter’s death row or a place in Scarlet’s newest closet.

Checking is watch Spot noted the time to be 5:14pm. He had exactly forty-six minutes to complete both tasks. Placing the notepad into his pocket Spot made his way to the room which held the aggressive humans. The slightest sound of footsteps would cause an eruption of chaos, so Spot started trying to muffle the sound of his approaching paws. Howling, screaming and barking came from every cage. The sound echoing form one cage to another looking for a path to escape. Spot’s path to the isolation section followed a path few animals were allowed to see.

For appearances sake the cleanest, youngest, bright eyed humans were kept near the front display windows. The further into the shelter you traveled the more aged, scared, and aggressive the humans got. Every human in the shelter was the result of animals wanting a pet human until they realised how much care was required. Each human Spot passed was either brought in here, left, or abandoned at the shelter’s door in the early morning hours. Either way they have all been neglected, abused, or mistreated and deemed too old, dangerous, or unwanted.

Since Spot had taken over Green Hills Human Shelter, the number of humans calling the shelter home had astronomically risen. More and more animals were now leaving their humans at shelters as they weren’t bothered to properly care for them or didn’t realise just how much care was involved. In extreme cases the humans were aggressive, dangerous, or just simply weren’t safe for the owners to have. On his first day, Spot’s bright eyes told of a dog ready to help and care for the humans, but soon the reality of the shelter shattered his innocence. Now he was forced — by the multiplying number of humans in the shelter — to resign himself to only helping those that could be saved.

The door of the isolation room had metal plating along its bottom. Its need to keep the human locked behind it required Spot to use extra force to open it. As Spot’s shoulder forced the door open its metal based scraped against the tiles. To any who entered a feeling of doom meet them at the door like a crushing wave. Even the humans who ended up in this room couldn’t escape the pull of the doom’s tide. Here is where the shelters worst of the worst ended up. Due to the large number of humans to care for, most in this room were left tied up, dirty, and hairy. They were either not lucky enough to be adopted within four months or were too aggressive to be left anywhere else. Alex was three cages from the door and required a muzzle over his month. In his first month here he had bitten a staff member and constantly lashed out at anyone walked past his cage. With the cage door closed and locked Alex had kept charging at the door wanting for it to pop open. To keep him contained iron chains were locked tightly around his wrist and ankles to restrict his movements to a few feet. Stopping at his cage door Spot crouched down to be eye level with him. It was the least he could do considering where he would be taking him. A metallic order lingering in the air cased Spot to notice dark red drag marks covering the tiled floor. Moving his eyes up the floor to the back-wall Spot gazed at Alex.

He now wore the same look as the night Spot found him. The sight of Alex on that night was something Spot had trouble forgetting. The memory of that night burnt itself into the back of Spot’s eyelids.

Spot had run to the backdoor to be met by a horrific scene, lying on the floor was a barely recognisable human. A thick layer of matted hair and what could only be assumed to be dirt covered every inch of the human’s body hiding it’s gender and skin tone. If it wasn’t for the coat of dirt, the human would have been completely naked. A white shard sticking out of the human’s right leg caught Spot’s attention. Bending down to take a look, Spot noted it to be bone. The contours of goose bumps didn’t hide the bloody rivers forming between the flesh mountains. Taking a step towards the human saw it take up a defensive position, ready to attack. Spot needed to bring the human inside in the calmest way possible. Lifting his paw, he had gently stroked the humans head, ‘It’s okay, it’s okay. No one will hurt you.’

A bath had revealed Alex to be male. He wasn’t too old, but apparently he had developed the response to attack anyone who wanted to help him now that the dirt wasn’t restricting his movement. Whoever his past owner was treated him with such disrespect that all animals, to him, were a threat. The poor bastard needed to have his hair shaved off, bones reset and plaster enclosing his whole right leg. His bones did heal but his aggression never went away. His iron cuffs had dug into his skin which made him look as though he was wearing red bracelets. An unprovoked attack on a staff member was Alex’s last chance gone. In an ideal situation, Alex would have be given time to settle into his new surrounding but in a place where overcrowding was a problem putting aggressive humans down was the quickest solution. Dread radiated through Spot’s body, the sooner the task was complete the sooner it would be over. Spot slowly inserted the key into lock.

Ding-Ding.

The ding of the bell echoed through the shelter’s halls to the isolation room. It couldn’t possibly be her yet. Spot turned to look at his watch which read 5:54pm. Shit, Scarlet was here and Spot hadn’t groomed the humans. Panic jump-started Spot’s need to figure out how to explain to Scarlet why the humans hadn’t been groomed. Throwing the key back on its hook Spot raced through the shelter to the front reception. How the hell did forty minutes pass without him completing a single task? Better yet how the hell was he going to explain the humans not being groomed? Scarlet was the type to show up promptly but not early and expected all of her demands whether they be simple or difficult to be meet.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ panted Spot. The last thing a smart animal did was keep Scarlet Ebony waiting.

‘And here I thought dogs waited by the door for their master to show,’ purred Scarlet as pointed red nails removed black sunglasses from her face.

She was an animal whose reputation did little justice to physical presence. A black cat with perfectly groomed fur and manicured, red paws. She demanded attention into every room she entered with power and control radiating off her body. To close associates she was known as The Collector, since she only ever wore the finest of things. The echo of her designer heels warned of her coming and they were also great for stepping on those who dared to disobey. She only ever wore designer clothes and topped off her look with a coat woven of blood.

‘Nice coat,’ remarked Spot. Scarlet twirled at the mention of the coat. She was one who always made a point to show off her “fake” human leather clothes. She smiled, making sure the irony in her voice dripped of her tongue, ‘It looks like real human leather.’ Her red nails followed the stitching of the leather jacket. Spot placed his hands on the reception desk. He had to control himself. Those with a sensitive nose could tell you exactly how real the leather was. Cane in one hand she strutted across the vinyl floor ensuring with each step who held the power in this meeting.

‘How many humans do you have today?’ she purred. She was one to skip small talk and get straight to the point.

‘I have over twenty to look at but be warned I haven’t had time to completely groom them.’ It was best to admit mistakes early on in the meeting.

Her soft-spoken voice demanded attention as listens were forced to lean in to hear her words, ‘Your incompetence knows no bounds.’

‘I …’ Scarlet’s stare stopped him.

‘Spear me your excuses,’ distain dripped from her voice. ‘I though you of all people would value my business,’ she continued. Spot’s paws started to sweat.

His answer was make or break, ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘No, it won’t or next time your face will be closely acquainted with my nails.’ Though a smile graced her lips, the words couldn’t hide the threat they contained. Deep down Spot knew that the only reason Scarlet came to his shelter was that it was the cheapest, quickest, and most illegally convenient way for her to obtain humans. However, he also knew she was someone not to cross. Scarlet was known for her impeccable taste in collecting and this was not different for when she was shopping for humans. Normally when Spot was selling humans to animals there was an underlying sense of joy since it would be adopted, but selling humans to Scarlet always left Spot with an inescapable chill. All he could do now was continue the exchange as to not piss her off and get her out of here as soon as possible.

‘Are you after any particular types of human today or are you just browsing?’

‘I will inspect each on offer and see which ones are acceptable.’ The menacing nature of her voice told Spot what she really meant, I will personal scan over each and every inch of the humans you are presenting noting each and every imperfection they have. Spot pushed the pedal that opened the gate that separated the main part of the shelter from the reception area.

‘Right this way.’

Spot lead Scarlet to the section which held the human he was hoping she would take. He hated himself for agreeing to do business with Scarlet, but it was the only option he had left in dealing with the shelters overcrowding problem. Though he knew vaguely what Scarlet did to the humans she took he always though better her than ask. Before anyone judges know that for Spot it was easier to hand the humans over to another than killing them himself on a cold metal bed.

Entering the section row after row of humans spilled out of small, dark cages. Overcrowding caused elderly and adults humans to be forced to share a cage. The baby and toddler humans were forced into tiny cages which looked like a blue and silver Tetris game against walls. The cages were cramped, cold, and barely able to provide the humans with their basic needs. The only way they can find room was to stick whatever limb they could through the cage’s narrow bars. As soon as they entered the room its unique perfume hit them. The mixing of bleach, blood and urine made Scarlet turn her nose up at each human she strutted past. The clicking of her heels on the tiles was enough to alert the humans to retreat to the back of their cages and play dead. Somehow the animals had learned to recognise the echo of her heels. With each click of the heels bonding off the walls the humans welcomed the cages back wall to swallow them up whole. Spot lead her to the very end of the section.

‘Here are the humans I personal selected for you to look at.’

Scarlet intensely gazed over each human then approached one to start her detailed inspection. All the humans looked decent but lifeless, hair tangled but mostly groomed, and eyes wide open but bloodshot.

To give her room, Spot moved back and just watched. Scarlet was very thorough with her inspections. She would only take what she deemed to be the best. She ran her claws along every bit of skin the humans had, her eyes narrowing to find the smallest scare, bruise, or skin mark. The tiniest of blemishes saw the human tossed aside. During her inspection of a young man she threw the human against the wall of the cage for having the smallest of scratches. The thump instinctively made Spot take a cautious step forward. Though he wanted to help the human he knew it was dangerous to interfere. One wrong move and that cane of hers would fracture his bones.

Her next victim was a young female blond. ‘My what pretty hair you have’ she stroked her claws through the hair, ‘I have been needing a new blonde wig’. Her perfectionist tyranny continued well into the next. Though Spot just watched he didn’t think about leaving the room.

After the last human meet her critical eye she rose to her feet.

‘I will take her, him, him and her’ her cane indicating her new purchase. The finality in her voice made it clear that only those four meet her criteria. Spot led Scarlet back to the reception area. From her designer bag Scarlet pulled out a white envelope and handed it to Spot.

‘My associates will come past tomorrow night for pick at 7:00pm sharp. Make sure the humans are groomed and restrained for the journey.’ She made sure her eyes narrowed in on Spot’s for her next words, ‘if any of them gets the tiniest of marks in the next twenty hours it will cost you.’ She held the gaze long enough for Spot to take the threat seriously.

Nodding to accept her request Spot held the bloody envelope in his hands. Turning she calmly walked towards the door before briefly stopping. With her hand around the door handle Scarlet paused for a moment.

‘Spot’ her small yet controlled voice spoke. The lingering silence meant he was listening.

‘I expect my next trip to be more fruitful.’ He knew what awaited his next meeting with Scarlet. A good beaten unless he presented more humans with flourless skin and luscious hair.

Bang.

The door closed, its glass still shaking.

Spot disregarded the envelope into a filing cabinet. He had to account for the money before the shelter opened for business. Grabbing the nearest pen Spot started his to do list for tomorrow.

1. Groom Bob, Sandy, Tammy and John.
2. Put their documentation aside for ‘adoption’.

With the scribing of the last word Spot flipped back to today’s list. The joy of removing humans from the shelter was short lived for Spot when he remembered where they were being taken. Task ten was now crossed off his list. Only task nine remained incomplete. Spot slowly walked to the isolation room and took a leash off the wall. The short ten paces to Alex’s cage felt like a marathon. Hearing movement Alex lifted up his head. Spot placed the leash on the floor and looked straight into Alex’s eyes. He knew there was only one way to get Alex out of the cage with little trouble.

‘Time for a walk boy.’

Shots rang through the woodlands. Mighty horses kicked up the dirt, heedless of the underbrush and overhanging branches. Their riders crouched low and clamped tight with their knees. They followed the howls of the hounds. Their noses pointed straight ahead, flying through the grass, hot on the chase.

A quarter mile ahead a small brown vixen scrambled through the underbrush. She ducked through curled up roots and leapt over patches of nettle. The dogs were on her trail now, so the only way out was speed. She had an instinct for the forest paths, a track of grass that bent easily under her paws, a turned over tree that forded small gully.

She burst out of the tree line into a wide clearing. There was a stream and beyond that more woodland. Freedom if she could get there. Less than halfway across the clearing the pack of dogs arrived and with the vixen in sight renewed their efforts. On their heels the galloping horses doubled their speed across the flat land, the men on their backs shouting and kicking to go faster.

She reached the bank and jumped,

In one moment, she saw the rider stand in his stirrups and hold his gun to his eye. There was a shout of pain that split the air and the water rose up to hit her.

‘Miss Conner, wake up!’ The housemaid was clamping Mary’s arms down in the sodden bed sheets. ‘Dear God, release her from this demon.’

‘It was just a dream. Please, I’m fine.’ Mary took off her soaked nightcap and started ringing out her thick curled hair.

The housemaid relented and busied herself with pulling apart the bedsheets. ‘Would you like me to refill the wash basin for you Miss?’

Mary scowled, ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Are you sure Miss, you seemed sweaty from your, ahem, dream.’ The woman avoided Mary’s eyes but kept a firm lip.

‘Perhaps after a short walk then, I need some fresh air.’ A practiced smile sent the housemaid away and Mary sank into a chair.

*

Mrs Conner was already at the breakfast table reading some letters while warm porridge steamed idly. Mary sweetened hers with sugar and wolfed it down. She hadn’t realised how much the bad sleep and subsequent dowsing had made her ache.

‘Where are you off to this morning?’ Mrs Conner must have been briefed on the morning’s events.

‘Just a short walk. I won’t be too far.’ Mary said between spoonfuls.

The housemaid glared disapprovingly from her spot near the door.

Mrs Conner hadn’t looked up from her letter, struggling a little with the small print. ‘Oh bother. They’ve disallowed your adoption papers again.’

‘They’ll never let you do it ma. Especially with your brother-in-law lobbying against you.’

‘Nonsense Mary. He’s always said he’s quite happy with his lot, and why shouldn’t he be, he owns the largest plantation in the county. I just want to see you set up to flourish after I’m gone.’ Mrs Conner’s husband had died early into their marriage. He hadn’t had a chance to build his own wealth, so now Mrs Conner was living on a pension from his elder brother, also Mr Conner. It funded the cottage they lived in, the housemaid’s salary, and Mrs Conner’s eccentricities.

‘And when Mr Conner turns me away, where do I go?’

‘Don’t be silly dearie, I hoped I would see you married.’

Mary took a moment to imagine that life. Her husband tilling his own land, two children playing in the yard. She would call them back inside for lunch during the hottest part of the day. ‘I would like that, I think,’ she whispered.

‘I know you would. Now I must confess I don’t personally know any of the free men in town. But I am sure there is someone among them who would appreciate your upbringing.’

The vixen curled up with a pair of pups in a dugout den. They suckled up to her as her mate fussed. He exited the den, then she heard a yelp and the sound of metal shutting closed. She made to get up, but the pups had clamped down hard holding her back. There was the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the den entrance.

A gloved hand reached in through the tunnel and grabbed one of the pups. Her claws scratched at the dirt as she tried to escape, but the den was collapsing around her. The last she heard was the mewling of the second pup as it was taken out of her reach.

Mary fled the cottage, only grabbing a white shawl to keep warm. The weak winter sun hadn’t taken the frost from the ground, so she focused on keeping her footing. Naked deciduous trees stood aimless in the empty fields. The path from the cottage took her to the main complex of the plantation. It consisted of barns, animal pens, the slave’s barracks, and the Conner’s house, most of which were deserted this early in the day.

Her daze was broken by a shout from a pair working on the fence line. ‘Miss Conner, what are you up so early for?’ The two men, who she now recognised as Ike and Charlie, were digging holes parallel to the wooden rail fence.

It was easier to say, ‘Just came by for some fresh air. What are you working on?’

Ike stamped his shovel. ‘Oh, I bet it gets stuffy in that cottage, getting fussed over by a housemaid.’

‘That’s alright, Ike.’ Charlie raised and lowered the crowbar to dislodge frozen topsoil. ‘We’re putting up a new fence.’

‘This one’s not good enough?’ Mary stood on the bottom rung of the wooden fence.

‘This’ll be a wire fence, for keeping out foxes.’ Charlie said.

‘All this extra work, why not just put it around the chicken coop?’

Ike seemed exasperated, ‘Well if you’ve got a problem with it you can take it up with Mr Conner. We just build the damn thing.’ He hefted the barrow full of dirt and headed back towards a barn.

Mary glanced around and hopped the fence, landing awkwardly in her boots.

‘Woah there, what are you up to.’

She put a hand to his mouth, ‘Hear me out. Will you keep a secret?’

‘Of course.’

‘Okay, I think I’m going to run away. I’ll join up with the railroad.’

‘You’re a free woman, why do you need to do that?’

‘Life isn’t all sunshine, no matter how much Ike may think it is. Ma says I need to find my own way, but I couldn’t settle down here. I’d be living in fear, and no self-preserving man in town would want to marry the rejected niece of the plantation master.’

Charlie held up a hand to stop her. ‘You want me to run away with you? That’s why you came to tell me.’

Mary couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He kept the same measured tone he used with everyone. ‘Well sure. I think it makes sense to me, in that sort of way.’

‘It makes sense to me too, in that way. But you see why it can’t be. I need to stay here and look after the others. Can you imagine Ike on his own?’ She knew it wasn’t just Ike. No one could be certain whether they were to stay on the plantation or be sold somewhere else. She’d seen it happen over the years and had always admired the way Charlie supported the others through their grief. It would be selfish to take him away for her own.

‘Perhaps some other time then, some other place.’

‘No. If you leave, promise me you won’t come back. Find your own way and be happy there.’

‘Get back to work!’

Mr Conner was walking over from the main house, a cup of black coffee cradled in his hands.

‘Good morning uncle.’ Mary called as Charlie resumed his hole digging.

‘I’m not your uncle.’ He took a long sip from his coffee and studied Mary up and down. ‘Would you tell my sister that there’s no chance for her little scheme. I’ve suffered enough to have you running around, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong and bothering my property.’

‘What else is family for?’ She knew humour wouldn’t help the situation, but she wished it could.

Mr Conner smiled. ‘It amazes me how stupid you people can really be. How do you think your mother came by you?’ He stepped forward so he was in her face. ‘She bought you. You’re not family. You’re not even a person. Just a dress up doll for the daughter she never had. And here is the fun part. When she dies, you belong to me.’

Mary was caught frozen even as her mind raced away. She had to run, just like she had said. She’d known all along, somehow. The way he’d looked at her as she grew up with Charlie and Ike; property, borrowed and soon to be returned.

The digging sounds had stopped. Instead, Charlie held the crowbar at rest, with his legs firm on the ground ready to rush forward.

She steadied herself and took a breath. ‘Goodbye Mr Conner. Goodbye Charlie.’ Then she returned to the cottage.

In the middle of the night, the vixen crept back onto the poultry farm. She sniffed out the direction of the coop and slipped through the darkness. Then a wire trap closed around the vixen’s neck and pulled the cord to an alarm bell.

The farmer, who had been waiting up on his porch, rushed over to see what he’d caught. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to come back so soon after her last chicken. He held her by the scruff of her neck as he undid the trap, so she couldn’t scratch him to let her go.

The farmer took her to a wire pen, dropped her in and covered it with a wooden board. No matter how much she barked he didn’t come back to free her. So, she waited, crouched on the ground, sleepless.

When the rooster crowed the whole farm seemed to light up with activity. Hundreds of chickens poured out of the coop and running among them was a young hound. He beelined to her pen to look at the new smell.

He jumped about and stuck his nose through a gap to sniff her out. Curious, she tried to gauge what he was up to. Her first thought was that he wanted to eat her. The way the hunting packs ran made her think they were savage beasts that would tear her apart. But this one she could only describe as playful.

The hound was digging at the base of the wire that circled the pen, and the vixen joined in when she saw that the wire didn’t extend into the ground. They worked together, and when it was large enough, she crawled through the hole to freedom.

The hound chased after her for a while but when she made it clear that she was going back to the woods he sulked back to guarding the chickens.

Mary had joined up with a group of five escaped slaves travelling up from the coast. They were all yard men from a stock farm and told an elaborate story of how they set the cattle loose in the middle of the night to distract the guards and slip away unnoticed.

They stayed two hundred yards to the west of the Mississippi River to keep their bearings as they moved from station to station. Mary enjoyed the journey until one day they were passing through a narrow valley that was being patrolled. The hunters were on foot, but there was no mistaking the long rifles they held at the ready.

The small group huddled in a shallow ditch, holding their breath. The men pushed Mary to the back to shield her, but she knew they would need to escape. The shouts from the hunters were growing closer and they could hear the sticks crack under their boots. Everything stayed still for a long minute as the sounds died away.

Then there was a gunshot and one of the men fell to the ground. Mary didn’t have a chance to see who it was as everyone scrambled to get out. More shots flew past hitting no one so the hunters gave chase.

‘There’s a stream up ahead, we can lose them,’ someone called. Mary remembered her first nightmare being chased by dogs and riders. What if they hadn’t used up all their shots, there’d be no cover over the water. Instead she ran up the ridge, splitting away from the others.

The dirt was loose at this sharp angle, but the trees were firmly held by their roots, so she clambered up from trunk to trunk. There was a shout, thirty feet below one of the hunters was aiming his gun. The shot hit the tree and rained out splinters.

‘Get back here traitor!’ He was following her now and gaining steadily. She couldn’t outrun him; she didn’t have a weapon.

She remembered that last time she saw Charlie. Feet planted and ready to jump to her defence. She imagined it was Mr Conner moving up behind her, except now he wouldn’t be stopped.

The hunter grabbed at her dress. In one movement Mary spun around and kicked him with all the rest of her strength. The dirt slipped from underneath him and Mary grabbed a branch to steady herself. He fell back down the ridge and took the full impact of a tree trunk to the back of his head. She heard his last shout expire from pierced lungs and by the time she opened her eyes his had gone glassy.

Mary paused only to whisper a prayer before turning back north. When she made it to the next station the master fixed the scratches on her arms and legs. Only two other passengers had made it across the stream and outrun the hunters over a few miles. They continued the rest of the journey in a sombre mood and had no more trouble with slave hunters.

Mary paused on the edge of Lake Ontario. The cloak she had been given from the shelter kept her warm despite the dusk winds off the water. There were celebrations every time more passengers came into port, but her thoughts drifted to the people she left behind.

‘Good evening, miss.’ Mary was stirred from her thoughts by a cheerful voice from behind her.

‘Good evening, sir. May I ask with whom I have the pleasure of speaking.’ She didn’t realise she’d fallen back on Mrs Conner’s mannerisms.

His laughter only slightly embarrassed her. ‘My name is Jonathan, Jonathan Reynard. I gave myself that name because all the ladies here say I’m quite the catch.’

Now it was her turn to laugh, and she couldn’t stop. Not because of Jonathan, but she was reminded of Charlie telling her to be happy. Nothing she could do would ever fix the world she’d been born into, but now she could build a new one, wild and free.

Spring

Have you noticed? Did you smell it? The wattle is out. That unmistakeable scent is in the air, but just a whiff as it is only beginning to flower, the perfume not yet overpowering. Did you notice the tickle in your nose, the slightest sniff?  It’s starting, hayfever season. Did you hear the whipbirds? They were out in force this morning. That elusive, incongruous little green-black bird with the punk haircut and the dominating voice. The male and female were having a cracking duet high up in the blue gums. Did you feel the condensation on your hair from the cool spring morning, turning it frizzy and making you shiver? But mostly did you notice the dogs? Don’t you think they resemble their owners? Or maybe it’s the other way around, do the owners look like their dogs? I think they subconsciously must want to.

Did you catch the chocolate Labrador going past, so fat that he sometimes rolls down the path when he trips over his own feet? His owner is somewhat portly, to say the least, puffing after him.  And the running dogs.  Did you see the greyhound today? Did you see yesterday the whippet and the other day, the red Kelpie? They all join their lean, fit owners on their daily run, pacing studiously at their owners’ heels, keeping up, urging them on, like a canine personal trainer.

Did you see the staffy, following his nuggety bloke around the park, both of them with no neck? And the power walking lady, her black curly hair pulled back and up in a high ponytail, which bobs up and down as she walks. Her two black poodles prance behind her with their tails bobbing along with hers, in unison. Their resemblance to each other is uncanny.  I once asked her, as nonchalantly as possible, if she noticed the similarity. She laughed incredulously and looked at me as if I was strange. 

‘No of course not. I rather hope I don’t resemble a dog actually,’ she flounced. I found her incognisance puzzling. What was going on here?

And I notice the naughty dogs.  Like schoolboys hiding behind the gym from the teacher.  Unwatched by their self-absorbed owners who are always on their phones, they get up to all the mischief they can before getting caught.  Hole digging, ball stealing and general destruction. These dogs can put the Australian cricket team to shame with their ball tampering skills. They are the masters of feigning innocence when caught, and swap looks of irreproachability with their owners when challenged.

Did you see the old man leaning on his cane as he slowly hobbles along? His seventeen year old schnauzer waddling behind, their arthritic hips clicking as they go. They are both deaf and oblivious to the bikes and scooters whizzing past them, saved from injury by children with quick reflexes. Sometimes they get separated, stopping in their tracks and peering myopically around for each other. I suppose the best part about having a dog is growing old together. These two definitely look alike, with their grizzled old muzzles covered in grey.

Do you notice the lanky young guy with the endless legs? They match his Irish wolfhound’s legs, the two of them tall, thin and a bit awkward, taking great strides around the park. They lean over other dogs, peering down at them with interest. And did you see the new guy, he seems very shy, standing away by himself? He is not sure of the park protocol, watching tentatively. His young, white German Shepherd cross behaves strangely too, making tentative approaches for play but unsure how far to go. His body language disturbs the other dogs who chase him away. He is like the new kid at school, unsure of where his place is.

Or the pretty lady with the Pomeranian who drives to the park, then sits on a bench. Did you see where her dog sits? On the bench next to her, the two of them happy with their daily exertion. Both satisfied that being there is enough. She hides her face behind a wall of hair and occupies her time by flipping through apps on her phone.

Have you come across the aggressive owners? Like the frustrated, angry man fighting to hold his leashed, snarling greyhounds, swearing at me to move aside on the path.

‘Get out of the way, you stupid bitch.’ His angst at the world on show for all to see, with his dogs channelling it like canine mediums. And the bald man with the bullet-headed bulldog, who both just growl at everyone?

I had an interesting altercation with the bald man once. His bullet bulldog I’ve discovered is a sniffer, insistent on sniffing other dogs beyond the point of decency. Bullet head sniffed me and my dog continuously until we both were annoyed. The bald man looked away.

I’ve noticed all these people. Upon some further research, I found that apparently there is a psychological mechanism which explains why a person might choose a dog that looks similar to themselves. It is simply familiarity, especially around the eyes. Apparently looking into similar eyes to your own invokes a feeling of the familiar, which is comforting. This makes research rings true as did you notice me, with my curly brown hair and brown eyes. My labradoodle is like me with his brown eyes and curly fur. We also share characteristics of indifference and aloofness, turning away from friendly overtures and pretending to be busy with our game to avoid conversations. He is very observant of my interactions with other people, knowing who my friends are, the ones I am willing to share a few words with. And he knows when it is time to leave. So maybe he notices too?

*

Summer

The morning air is losing its crispness. Gone is that delicious coolness and the warm air is lingering all night now and into the mornings. Summer is stampeding towards us and the dogs are panting more and running less. Did you see this morning that someone has put up a sign on the dog bag dispenser?

‘Lost staffy. Last seen at the park.’ His owner, the nuggety bloke is standing nearby looking forlorn. The black curly haired pony tailed lady is cheering him up, talking about microchips and friendly neighbourhoods. They walk off together to look for the staffy, the poodles scampering behind.

And after that, the small crowd had gathered to discuss the lost dog, everyone eagerly offering advice on where he could be and what they could do to help. The fat lab’s owner promises to put something on Facebook and everyone agrees to update the post if they hear anything. I noticed then the old man on the edge of the crowd, his schnauzer is playing with the white German shepherd, the younger dog gently nuzzling the older dog. The old man seems delighted and animatedly chats to the shy young man who is smiling now. They are discussing their dogs and swapping training techniques. I overhear the old man saying the best part about having a dog is growing old together and feel smug that I had noticed this already. He then said he has trained his old canine companion to smell when his toast is cooked and let him know.   

I saw later in the day, the word ‘found’ had been scrawled across the lost dog poster. The portly labrador owner saw me looking at the poster and yelled out ‘good news isn’t it.’

He took great pleasure in taking credit for his Facebook post which had received a message from a lady three streets north of the park. She had returned home to notice the staffy hiding, shivering and scared, under her front porch. She thinks he might have been chasing her cat under the house but got stuck, thanks to his ‘roundness.’ We both chuckle over this mental image. 

‘See ya round’ he says. And then I saw them, the nuggety man and the poodle lady, they were power walking together. The staffy was half running, half skipping behind them, valiantly trying to keep up with the poodles who would routinely stop and look around for him. They all seemed to be enjoying their liaison.

*

Autumn

I felt the air change today. Did you feel the nip? I’ve noticed more long sleeves being worn in the park now. The heat of the past month is abating and everyone strides around the park a little faster now. The dogs don’t need coaxing anymore to chase one last ball.

I see the power walking couple with their poodles and staffy every day now. The bloke seems to have a neck now, his handsome chin emerging thanks to the exercise. All three dogs trotting in time behind their people. And I watched the pretty Pomeranian lady, she is walking now too, no longer confined to her bench. Her dog wanders along behind her and was bailed up by the Irish wolfhound. I could see he wasn’t doing any harm but noticed the grimace of distaste on her face. I think the lanky guy noticed too as he hurried over to drag his boy away. Surprisingly she relented and asked him, ‘is your dog a rescue?’ in that pitying tone often used to explain away bad behaviour. I heard him laugh.

‘Yes, but that doesn’t have anything to do with his issues. He just thinks he is fearfully attractive,’ he said. Before he could say anything else, she jumped in with, ‘he probably just needs to meet more dogs,’ a trifle flirtatiously I noticed.

*

Winter

All the dog jumpers are out now. No, not pole vaulting or hurdles, but the little knitted jackets, pullovers and vests that everyone puts on their dogs when the wind gets bitter. They walk around stiffly, the larger dogs with grievous looks on their faces, the smaller ones humiliated by the dashing home-knitted attempts they are forced to wear. This attitude of clothing animals mystifies me and I often wonder if owners forget that their dogs already have a coat on. I look at my dog, happily sniffing and weeing all over the place with not a thought about being cold and laugh silently.

I saw the old man today. It was the first time in a long time.  He looked happy to be out and about.  He was being pushed in a wheelchair, his schnauzer sitting on his lap looking frail. Pushing him was the shy young man, his white German shepherd having a great time barking and trying to bite the wheels of the wheelchair. They both smiled a cheery good morning to me as I passed.

*

Spring

I heard my first whipbird today and the wattle is back. It seems to bloom earlier and earlier.

The bullet-headed bulldog knows me now and charges over for a sniff.  His owner doesn’t growl at me or my dog anymore and even stands nearer while the dogs circle us. He seems close to striking up conversation.

Did you see the notice for the Christmas party?  It is to be held at the park, BYO drinks and dogs. It seems to have gone up very early this year. A few owners cluster around the poster, discussing details. The fat lab owner is there, and the Irish wolfhound and Pomeranian owners, talking and laughing together. The party sounds like fun.  Maybe I’ll raise my theory of dogs resembling their owners and see whether anyone else has noticed.

 I’ll definitely be there.