From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Thu, 29 Dec 2011 13:33:57 -0600 (CST) Subject: Canto by David Stoddard-Hunt Source: direct Reply To: dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com TITLE: Canto AUTHOR: David Stoddard-Hunt CATS/KEYS: S, A, mytharc, post-series REFERENCES: Colony, End Game, Herrenvolk, The Unnatural, Requiem, Within, Without CONTENT: general audiences SUMMARY: I contain multitudes. DISCLAIMER: Ususfructus CONTACT: dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com AUTHORS NOTES: For John Gardner, in admiration. The Poet's "Song of Myself" (pub. dom.): rpo.library.utoronto. ca/poem/2288.html A nod, too, to the lectures of C.S. Lewis. Finally, as always, for Paige. * I contain multitudes, your Poet said. He was speaking metaphorically, of course. I am not. I contain your Poet; he is among my multitude, now. I share his essence, though not his credo. He, instead, adheres to mine: every atom belong- ing to you as good belongs to me. I met him - your poet - in an epoch of carnage; he, hip-deep in the middle of it all, retained an enormity of spirit and an unvanquished zeal for life. Here was a man I had to know. How could I resist? As you may have gathered, I have a passion for poets. Always have. You might even say it's in my DNA. Or, well - hnnnnh - you might not. Say this for me, though: I'm nothing if not adaptable. * Why do you look at me this way? Is it the coveralls? They're borrowed. The nametag, then. Do I not look like an 'Ernesto' to you? Hnnnnh. I'm not. I borrowed Ernesto, too. * He is not alone, your Poet, if you were worried. You look worried. Don't be. He walks among the countless within me, of every hue and caste, every rank and religion: poets and princes; men of war, men of science, men of art; tradesmen, teachers, barristers (when necessary) and bards, though - alas - not that one. Women, too, on occasion have joined him in company, and priests and paupers, the old and the young, the wise and the foolish. So many in number, in fact, that I do lose track. Some, I confess, I've forgotten utterly. Does that trouble you? If I am ever troubled by it, I state it plainly; one of my priests hears my confession, and yet another blesses it. Hnnnnh, hnnnnh. What? You don't see the humor in that? * You have questions, naturally. Who am I? What am I? What do I want? What do I want with you? What will become of you? In ascending order of importance, I am certain. Rest assured. All will become clear in due course. These are simple questions, to which there are no simple answers. I'm afraid you'll have to trust me on this. Let us begin with the question of identity: who am I? Well, there, you see? Even to this, there is no simple answer. My kind has a name among the stars, and a reputation for exquisite utility. We have a name 'out there,' it is true, but it would be meaningless to you. Besides, as much it may appear to the contrary, we are from here, not 'out there.' "Form'd from this soil, this air." That is not simply poetic license; no, it is fact! And it is why I much prefer the name they, my human quarry, have given me: Bounty Hunter. Hnnnnh. * "What is a man anyhow? What am I? What are you?" A wise man, your poet. Correction: my poet. * Little known fact about my kind: we evolved spontaneously and, in galactic terms at any rate, simultaneously in different forms on scattered worlds, wherever the Dark Essence has chosen to pair with native fauna. Certain pairings have been more successful than others. After some teething pains, we, here, have been quite successful. Just your luck. Hnnnnnh. For reasons unknown even to the Dark Essence, a pairing with one species cannot assume the form of the pairing with another. For me and my brethren, it limits our usefulness to those few worlds with humanoid life, this one among them, of course. It is one of our few shortcomings. Go ahead. Try to use your newfound, secret knowledge. See how far it gets you. * My quarry; I should tell you a little about them. They deserve to have their tale told, while there is still time for the telling. Over the years, the nature of my job has - Hnnnh - shifted, from janitorial to something akin to night watch. Believe me or not, it's true. I was tasked, at first, with cleaning up messes, big ones, left by others. Which is, more or less, what I'd been doing for half a century, local time. Hmmm? Ah. What is the phrase? I am older than I look. Recently, in the course of my duties, a pattern developed. You might call it coincidence, though they would not; nor would I. Where I had to go, there they - one or the other, or both - would eventually turn up, also. They were, frankly, difficult to ignore. With time, they became my assignment, my focus: these two, and only these two. It is an association that continues to this day, nearly fifteen years later. Astonishing. My interactions with most people don't last fifteen minutes. It is true: there have been many times when, had I wanted to, I could have killed them. I told him this, once. Believe me or not, he does have a way about him that can make you want to kill him. I have not done so, and my restraint has paid dividends. I am pleased. Even this association has an expiration date, however; a date that is drawing near. I can do nothing to stop it from coming, neither will I hasten its arrival. I know that I will feel their absence, when it comes. Still, a job is a job, is it not? And I do enjoy my work. * They say - They, hmm. I mean you; "people" - that you can't go home again. I differ, though I never beg to do so. I never beg for anything. I left. And, now, I am back. Home. The old stomping ground hasn't changed much, from the time I first knew it. There is just more, more of everything: the people, their places, their things. At heart - since, don't you say, that is where 'home' is? - still much the same. "Urge and urge and urge, always the procreant urge." So true. A fine thing, that. Good for business. * As managerial regimes have changed, my job in regard to the two of them has been set, changed, changed back, changed again. Yet the focus upon them has not softened. Since the arrival of the faceless ones, more so since the death of Spender, my brief has been to harass, not to harm. I maintain I have never tried to harm them, not really; in any case, hnnnh, not grievously. But, that is water over something and under something else. None of my multitude can ever remember which is which. Colloquialisms - not my strongest suit. Observe and report? Not a strong suit, either. But I manage. I've made a game out of it: Our Game. * Little known fact about me: I trust him about as far as I can throw him. But, hnnnnnh, I can throw him quite a distance! Make of that what you will. * Our Game, in fact, is what brought me here, with you. It is the reason, too, for the coveralls, and for Ernesto. It was good this time, Our Game. Oh, yes, very good! Its rules are as simple as the assignment that spawned it: track them, and make my presence known at random intervals. The objective: to disrupt and demoralize. How I go about achieving this is entirely up to me. I may have given you the impression, before, that I don't believe in coincidences. I do; such happy accidents - call them luck, good fortune, or whatever - make life interesting, wouldn't you agree? I do believe, though, that you can make your own luck, whether good or bad. It was lucky they should have engine trouble. That, I had no hand in whatsoever; truly, I did not. But I was there, to take advantage of the situation. It was lucky, too, that one of the mechanics should have chosen that particular moment to sneak off for a cigarette. I'm sure Ernesto had heard the warning many, many times before, yet never heeded its essential truth: smoking will kill you. Hnnnnnh. So it happened: Ernesto was there, rubbing his oily hands on an even oilier rag, at the very moment they pulled up in front of the service bay, with complaints of an overheating engine and the possibility of a fluid leak. Yes, Ernesto assured them, he would take a look, and do what he could. * Little known fact about us (and we'd prefer to keep it that way): in addition to our primary - shall we say - talent, we have the ability to heal the human body of its injuries, ailments and complaints. I have seldom availed myself of that skill. * This is how Our Game runs: pop up unexpectedly, grin, savor the reaction, and go. Always leave them fearing more, isn't that how the saying goes? The more inopportune the moment, the more unusual the place, the better: their clerk in the fifteen-items-or-fewer line at the supermarket; the cop waving them past the scene of an accident; the man in the long-haul trucker's cap enjoying the blue plate special and a coffee, one stool over at a greasy spoon; or, as now, a mechanic in a Texaco service bay, slotted under the chassis of their vehicle, wrench and rag in hand. I couldn't see very much from my vantage point, understand, but I could hear quite clearly. Footsteps, getting louder as the person approached, echoing in the gap between the pavement and the undercarriage. Tic, tic, tic, tic - a woman's tread. Ah! I felt Ernesto receding, in anticipation. You should have seen her when I rolled out, face up - my face up - on the dolly, from underneath their vehicle. The expression! Blood and hope draining from her cheeks faster than the water had been from their cracked radiator hose. Oh, I fixed the leak. "Trust the man from the stars!" Hnnnh. I doubt she ever will again. She didn't even give me the chance to wipe my hands on my rag and say "All set, Ma'am." Odd. I know she appreciates good manners. She blanched and ran, grabbing him by the elbow as he exited the convenience mart, colored packets - meant, I am sure, as a substitute for a proper meal - fluttering to the ground as they fled toward a tour bus queue. I came here to enjoy, that is to say observe, their escape, from a place with a modicum of natural cover. But it wasn't until I came through that door, noticed you, and turned back to find them, that it dawned on me. They're abandoning their vehicle! Why? Surely, they have no reason to mistrust my workmanship. I performed the necessary repairs expertly, I tell you. Child's play! I'm not entirely certain of this, but I think I'm offended. Say, you don't happen to be in the market for a vehicle, do you? I might happen to know of one that has recently been made available. High miles, but it has just been completely serviced and, hnnnh, it's a steal. * Immense have been the preparations for me. * Oh yes, that was good, very good. Though a mere diversion, Our Game does hold its singular pleasures. Still, it's nothing to compare with the sport we had in the old days, mark my word. That! That, friend, was thrilling. Really got the blood pumping in every way - every way - imaginable. In those days, warriors and kings trembled at the mere mention of us; shapers sang of our terrible deeds! Who sings of us now? Not that I'd want to listen to those songs, with what passes for music in this day and age. Noise, damned noise. Listen, I'm normally not so expansive. But, I did promise you answers, it is a really good story, and I do believe we've got some time to kill before those tour buses depart. Now, I won't say 'stop me if you've heard this one before.' You may well think you have. But you've never heard it told by a primary source, have you? No! Besides, no one ever truly means it when they say 'stop me if you've heard this one,' anyway. They're just being polite. * First, as preface, a brief creation story - again, not the one you think you know, but one that sounds very much like it, which has the added benefit of being true. In the beginning, the real beginning, there was Purity, the Dark Essence, font of all life in the universe. Both life and life force, Purity is benevolent; it seeks out lower forms of life and blesses them. If the blessing takes, Purity raises those lower forms to become more than they are, more than they can dream (if ever they have dreamt) of becoming. "It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all." My poet wrote that - a most elegant summation of Purity - years before he was blessed. He understood Purity without knowing that it existed. That is astonishing. That, friend, is Faith. To receive Purity is to be raised up, freed from the limitations that formerly shackled the lower form of life. To receive Purity is a blessing. To receive Purity is to enter into the service of Purity. To be in the service of Purity is to be free. Does that sound circular? Contradictory? It is not. To serve Purity is to strive for the highest ends of life, those toward which you would naturally strive of your own accord, if you had the ability to discern what those ends were. Purity erases all doubt. To serve Purity is to be liberated from doubt, released from all limitation. To serve Purity is the ultimate blessing. My, well, let's just call them my 'employers,' shall we? My employers are in the service of Purity. I am in the service of Purity. To submit to Purity is to embody the divine, through which all things are possible. Blasphemy? No. Good and evil have no meaning in Purity. How can they? Purity is all life, good, bad or indifferent. Purity brings form, union, and plan out from chaos. Purity is an ordered universe. I am its acolyte, evangelist and priest. * The first attempts to bless humanity were failures. In the human organism, there was a basic weakness that caused an adverse reaction to Purity. An allergy. Humanity - you! - allergic to the Divine. Can you imagine? As insulting as this must have been on a basic level, Purity never give up on you, on your potential. Those first humans anointed by Purity did change, make no mistake, just not into a form harmonious with the Dark Essence. They became Howlers, disagreeable creatures the lot of them. * Little known fact about us: we were not always this good looking. * It is not uncommon among the fauna of the galaxy, this inability to receive the blessing of Purity. There is no shame in it. Few species are even fit to acclimate to contact with Purity. Fewer still acclimate well. On some unfortunate worlds, receipt of the Gift fails utterly. The only cure is total cleansing. Seen in such a light, your allergy was less of a concern than you might have feared. With good breeding, it has been tamed, though not eliminated. * "Mother" was a Howler. Let us be clear: what you refer to as my 'mother' is merely a primitive ancestor, gorged on human flesh, so bloated and drunk with blood that she, for lack of a more precise term, overwhelmed the Purity within her. Purity demanded we adapt. And so we did. (Recall what I said about 'good breeding.') The result was my direct corporeal precursor, no longer a Howler, yet neither fully human, though handsomer and somewhat more civilized: eyes, not hell-slits, for example; fur, not scales; and paws instead of talons. One or two of these, my precursors, still survive in remote areas. They were never very social, but they were, you would certainly have to agree, a marked improvement. Still, Purity was not satisfied; such was its desire to bond with humanity, to bless and improve you. * I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face. * In those days, my 'mother' was alive but rarely ventured forth. My corporeal precursor - the before picture of me, if you will - was about upon the land. In that country, the natives regarded me with fear, and did little to stop my predations. There came, finally, a king who'd had his fill of me and acted decisively, as kings will. He brought in a knight from across the northern sea, a warrior surpassing all other men in valor, strength and courage, for one purpose: to slay me. The before me, just to be clear. Oh ho, I thought (though I had no words then), what manner of thing is this who comes armed to face me? Soon enough, I had my answer. Long-sword high he charged, your knight, and, fearless, swung and lopped off an arm. Such was the power of the Purity inside me even then that the arm re-grew before his astonished eyes. And yet he was unfazed and, startlingly, unafraid. Time and again he charged and swung. I repulsed his blows, parrying his thrusts with vicious swings of my own. My claws raked and scarred, blood from my wounds burned him and clouded his sight. Weakening and near death, still the knight came at me and, with a great arc of his blade, cleaved my furred skull in two. The knight sagged back against a tree, sure to have outlasted me for but a moment only. At that instant, recognizing at last a superior and suitable specimen of the breed, Purity reached out and blessed the knight with a life-force beyond imagining, bringing the best part of me along with it in the process. The knight lived on; lived as no human ever had. And I lived on, in the form of that knight. His face became mine. His face, my true face, is the one you see before you, and the one you will see on any one of my kind, to this very day. * Little known fact (not necessarily about us): Beowulf has got it wrong. Obviously. * Mother had to die. Purity had a new, more suitable host. Though it was not in any way her doing, Mother's flawed blessing was an insult to Purity, which is, by definition, flawless. Mother had to die. And die she did. * A word about my true face. You may have heard tales, twice-told and unreliable I assure you, that I have different face: grey, perhaps green, but definitely inhuman. Stuff and nonsense, my poet would have said. Are you a baseball fan? I am not; it is far too tame a sport for my liking. If you are, then doubtless you have heard the legend of a player in the most minor of leagues: a black man, as it happens, though that is a distinction I have never understood, greater than Ruth, Cobb, or Mantle; greater, in fact, than all of them combined, and blessed with an almost superhuman strength. That part of the legend, at least, is true. From there, the 'truth' of the tale depends on the teller. The first to tell it was a policeman, but his account grew more fabulous with each telling. Now, he is an old drunk, and his tale is very lurid indeed. He it was who claimed to have seen our "true" face. He is mistaken. I know, for I was there. Part of the legend, I can confirm, is true: his feats were indeed superhuman, as was he. He was, you might say, my kin. His 'true' face was mine. I can tell you the truth of everything about him, save why he would desert us for, as he told me, 'the love of the game.' * I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist, I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and an encloser of things to be. * A word more: this time, about 'motherhood.' This need to nurture and swaddle your young in a pouch, either real or metaphoric. Among the sentient races, it is viewed as a sign of weakness, the reason - perhaps - that mammals have gone extinct on most worlds. Humanity, to its credit, has evolved a fiercer strain of motherhood. Of this strain, she is exemplary. Her chance at motherhood was stolen and then restored, mysteriously on both counts, and yet she persevered. Her offspring showed superhuman abilities, and yet she did not abandon it, until, finally, it came under threat from within and without humankind. Only then, with utmost reluctance, did she give her offspring up to be raised by others. I admire ferocity. So, I admire her. So, too - grudgingly - I have come to admire this aspect, at least, of motherhood. It was out of respect, therefore, that, when her mother died, I sent her a condolence gift. I understand it is customary; the thoughtful thing to do. She was, for a time, inconsolable. I sent a tree ornament, also customary, hinged at the middle and hollow inside, containing two capsules that, if ingested, would have eased her grief at once. I said it was thoughtful. I did not say those thoughts were necessarily tender. * You wish to know about my 'talent,' what it was and how I came by it. I will tell you. Purity, as always, came first; my special ability followed. It is Purity that provides me with the living memory of those of my kind who came before, and Purity that enables me, and every other of my kind, to subsume and preserve the lives of others, such as my poet. Exposure to Purity is, you would have to say, a transformative experience. What? (I do not like being interrupted.) You do not understand? Ah, you would like to know what I mean when I say I subsume a life? Subsummation is the process - no, more - it is the art of becoming someone else. It is more than mimicry, and more than disguise. Think of it as the ability to upload an entire person into memory, and being able to access that memory instantly, on command. Getting one's appearance correct is merely a matter of careful observation and instinct; the voice, one of precise manipulation of the vocal folds. Getting the person right, though, is not so easy. Purity does most of the work, reaching out and retrieving the person's essence - you might say, without a shred of shame for the redundancy, his personality. Even with the superlative assistance of Purity, the devil - I think I have this right - is wholly in the details. I have learned to fill in the details by getting the person to open up to me, to talk about themselves. Surprisingly, that is not at all difficult to do. * Little known fact about us: most facts about us are little known. * As amusing as it has been, Our Game is losing its capacity to occupy, to enthrall. Why? Call it what you will: boredom; a sense of ennui; entropy, perhaps. Time is winding down, after all. To be honest - and I sense I can be honest with you, can't I? - things have not been 'right' now for quite a while, since Spender's time, with the arrival of the faceless ones and the inevitable overreaction by our humans. Do not mistake me. I've no fondness for the faceless ones, none whatsoever. Reason? They reject Purity, our life force and guide. It is difficult not to take that, ah, personally. They are the avowed opponent of all in the service, or who would come in to the service of Purity. Thus, they are your opponent, as well. On a more basic level, it is said they can sense us, my kind, like blind bloodhounds, over great distances. Among all of the terrors in the universe, this alone gives me pause. You doubt this? Do not try to deny it; I see that you do. But you have not seen them! Eyes, nares, and mouths sewn shut and plastered over? It is enough to give even my poet the, ah, the willies. Finally, there is this: they bring chaos to Purity's order. They have spoiled long years of preparation by my employers, who established a working relationship with a small group of humans through which to facilitate Purity's plan, people we could work with. People like Spender. Ah, Spender! There was a man who understood reality. So unlike most humans, fretting over useless notions: what might be done; worse, what ought to be done; wondering what would happen if only things were different. Hand- wringing, Spender called it; a phrase of his I liked, found evocative. Spender was pragmatic. Spender knew: things are never going to be different. It is just this simple: things are what they are. Unless, of course, the thing happens to be, hnnnh hnnnh, me. I miss Spender. * Little known fact about Spender: his pragmatism was spoiled by a sentimental streak I could not understand, at first. That has changed. * Boredom. It provides my every motivation to keep them safe and sound. It is possible that, after not too many more of my appearances, he will confront me. Perhaps, it will be she! Perhaps, both. I'm not choosy. They'll have mapped it out in advance, yes, knowing them, a flanking maneuver to get the drop on me. Now wouldn't that be exciting? I live in hope. Our Game grows tiresome; no doubt, they would agree. The alternative, however, is worse - no doubt they would agree to this as well, but for other reasons - nothing to do but wait for the human calendar to flip to its last page. * It comes down to this: I've grown fond of them; they possess qualities - a warrior's spirit and a poet's heart - that particularly appeal to me. I cannot kill them, nor can I subsume them, for they would no longer be themselves; they would be me. You're thinking, I imagine, "where's the fun in that?" Well, we'll have to agree to disagree on that. For now. * I can't say for certain, but I believe they are trying to board that southbound tour bus. It is what I would do, in their shoes. In fact, it is what I am going to do: get on that tour bus, right along with them. I must be discreet, of course. Ernesto and his coveralls are no longer able to accomplish that, I think you'll agree. This is where you come in. Oh, now, stop mewling. You humans - Waaa! Please don't hurt me. Waaa! Don't kill me. Waaa! My village! Waaa! My planet! - always whining. You just can't accept your place in the scheme of things. What's the phrase? Can't see the forest for the trees. You don't even have a proper grasp of the tree. This planet is a needle on a measly branch. And humanity? A slender growth ring, down quite low. Not the way you see it, hmm? "Humanity!" "The Earth!" As if you were the only sentient race in the universe, with the one and only living planet. Hnnnnnh. Surprise! * I make no apologies for what is to happen to you, or for what is to happen to your world. Both things are in the service of Purity. Both things are blessings. Besides, you haven't heard my proposition yet. Better still, let's call it an invitation. (For there is no need to name it for what it truly is.) * You're afraid. What to do about that? I can't promise you it won't hurt. Perhaps this will give you comfort: you will help to ensure that they can continue their struggle to save humanity, as vain a hope as that may be. That is a sensible bargain, is it not? For them, at any rate. * Time we were going. Hmm? Ah, yes. The invitation! It is this, and it is the best offer you are likely ever to receive: "Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, you shall possess the good of the earth and sun,(there are millions of suns left)" A little florid, the language? Yes, I know. For that, I do apologize. I'm afraid, hnnnnnnh, it's the poet in me. ***