Splotch Scrunch Cruelty-Shaped Cruelty (fiction)

By Mark Lax

It was a splotch upon the swamp, having the outline of a drop of ink fallen from the sky. When looked into, its horizon would display a distant black domed structure. You saw this from the same perspective on all sides, just as you saw the same street surrounding the same black, boxy structures no matter what angle you approached it from. All in all, it was about a quarter of a mile square.

Outside its black outline, the swamp was the swamp—the same as it had been forever. In no way had the splotch stopped the birds and bugs and frogs from chirping. None of them ventured inside from the swamp, however. Thus far, nothing had ventured out of the splotch, either. What the splotch may have replaced, what it was physically obscuring or sitting on, no one could recall. It was probably another anonymous chunk of swamp.

There was a perimeter to it, invisible in its boundary, hanging in the air. Beyond this, no color passed. Everything inside was grey, black or white. Looking up, through it, the sky was clear and ash. If you backed off and looked from a distance, the sky above it was clearly still blue and overcast, with the regular gathering clouds of spring. It was only from the perspective of looking into the splotch that the sky changed.

Unlike the choppy area around it, the ground inside the splotch was perfectly flat and even. Six three story black buildings, all made from perfectly uniform black bricks were inside; seemingly a little village. They were in a circle, surrounded by a broad perfectly black avenue. On either side of the road into the splotch, which followed you no matter how you attempted to circumnavigate around the perimeter, were the walls of two black buildings, which you could not see in whole. A wooden slat fence, about six feet tall, was on the other side of the encircling street. Beyond this fence, some ways away, was the large domed building. You could not get a better angle on any of this.

“Put a fence around it if you are really concerned,” the foreigner Wyvern said to me. “So far it’s not hurting anything. Maybe it will just go away?”

Why had they sent for him? We had our own miracle people. Had there been a line dividing this swamp, the splotch would clearly be on our side. I was always of the mind that the swamp was mine in its entirety, although that is not strictly diplomatic policy.

Not mine, as in my possession, but rather mine as in my charge to look out for.

My assistant Brixan was playing at the air, watching as her finger tips turned white. Wyvern was twenty feet behind us, surveying the scene from a tall clod of earth. Next to him was his winged white horse with its gaudy purple sash and jewel encrusted bridle.

I always thought Wyvern was more suited for a parade than work. Not at all like our Brixan, with her broad shoulders and scuffed kit. How she can stand to share a shadow with this clown without snapping is beyond me. She is like our country, undiluted and naturally fine.

Except for this splotch, which it is my intention to dispatch, discipline or conquer. I turn to Brixan and ask “Are you ready, my dear?”

“Yes, your worship,” she says, tilting her face and narrowing her eyes. Her hand goes to the hilt of her scabbard.

“Bishop, you’re not serious,” Wyvern says.

Stepping in the splotch’s direction, Brixan asks “You want I should go first?”

His voice rising, Wyvern says as if I didn’t hear him the first time “I don’t like this.”

“Then don’t like it where you are,” I snap. “After me, Brixan.”

We step in and the world goes silent. Neither of us cast a shadow onto the black as night road. The buildings which were supposed to be to either side of us are now gone. Brixan’s skin is now white as opposed to its normal light pink. Her brown shoulder pads become black, their scuff marks transformed into white cross hatching. The long golden tresses flowing from her helm are now white and her simple metal skull cap is black. My own armor is now black. The dark brown of my skin is now grey.

We take another two steps in to accommodate the following Wyvern. He does not bleach out. His silver, winged helmet stays that way, as does his royal blue armor with the animated crimson flying dragons upon it. His matching flared red gauntlets, cuffed boots and long diaphanous cape remain the same. Who knows what his master the Dreaded Baron has infused him with? I like Wyvern even less at this moment. As if that were possible.

There is sound here. We heard Wyvern coming. But we do not hear the birds or the frogs outside. Instead we hear a distant claxon, holding one long low note before striking again.

The road is now a curve, running around the buildings to the right and the left. Over Wyvern’s shoulder, I can still see the swamp, with all of its greens and browns and the blue sky above it.

I say “Brixan, you go left, I’ll go right.”

Wyvern says “Split up? Genius move.”

“Root yourself, then,” I say to Wyvern. My instruction to Brixan is “Call out if you need me.”

“I’m going with her,” Wyvern says.

Of course he is. We part.

A moment later, I glance back out to the swamp and it is gone. In its place is the slat fence, which I approach. In front of this fence is a patch of well tended grasses, all short and black. In its manner it is like a garden, except for the monotony.

The fence is what it seems to be; wooden slats, although they are rather firmly fixed in place. And they are oddly uniform, strangely thin. Something is covering the planks, but it is neither paint nor stain. It’s hard to tell without the color.

Beyond the fence, several acres away, is the omnipresent black dome. But what is before that? The fence blocks the sight.

I can barely see over the fence. Surrounding the dome is a flat field of black, similar to the road. At first. Then I see a hand, a little black hand with four fingers wave to me, reaching out of the field. I see legs and feet. For a moment the field is spotted with tiny blinking black eyeballs. Something black flails out. It is drop shaped, with spindly arms and legs and oversized hands and feet. And it dives back in, causing a ripple in the black, which now moves like waves in a lake. Globes sprouting perfectly round mouths percolate up, each opening in silent screams.

Then it is a field of black, flat, motionless and uninteresting—more of what the road is made from.

This causes me to eye the road a bit more closely before returning to it. It does not undulate or sprout appendages. I bend down and put my hand to it. It has the feel of a liquid, but none of the give. It does not run off. I cannot stick my hand into it. For a moment it seems ridiculous that I thought that I could.

I put a silent call up for power, but feel unaltered. Perhaps I have no need of aid?

Across the avenue, surrounded by more banks of trimmed grasses, is one of the three story buildings. A pair of white doors is at its center. Each door has an arch of black high on its face. Before the door are a pair of steps, appearing to be brick or stone but showing no signs of chisel or mortar.

This seamless stone is also laid in end to end planks, dividing the grass banks before the building. The building’s bricks, if that is what they are, are perfectly uniform and perfectly spaced by mortar. I have never seen anything like any of this, and I consider myself well worldly.

Aligned parallel to the building, where the stone path tapers down to the black road, is a long, broad enclosed cart. It is about chest high. Or I think it’s a cart, given that it has four wheels. The wheels are as black as the road with white centers. I can see my reflection in its glass as I approach.

Inside the vehicle are two sets of padded benches with backs. I touch the cart’s black surface. Like the road, it feels of liquid. I knock it. It sounds hollow, perhaps metal. In a mirror, which is oddly protruding from it, I spot something moving behind me. I turn slowly.

I see the fronts of the next two buildings down the curve. On the stairs of the second one from me is an animal, perhaps my height at the shoulders.

The beast has the outline of a cat. A cloud of fuzzy black runs forward from its shoulders. Bones are showing through its limbs, open to the air. All I can make of its face are two pointed ears near the top of its head and teeth bursting randomly out through its long snout. The rest of the thing is white or grey. It must be as long as the cart.

Presently it is rubbing its rope like tail against the steps of the building. It opens its mouth, a jagged and hard to define thing, and I hear the claxon sound again.

I feel something through the road, rhythmic thumps growing stronger behind me. A glance over my shoulder shows it is another beast, approaching from the way I came.

A four fingered black hand sprouts from my breastplate and slaps me. I look down and don’t see it. It slaps me again.

I think I was about to bite it or grab it, when suddenly the beast from behind was upon me. I dove to the grass.

It is huge and black, with ears like sails. In the middle of its face is a moving tree trunk framed by a pair of white curved horns. The thing must be eight feet tall. It stands on bending pillars. The thing’s body is an impressive bulb.

This creature couldn’t give a wit about me. Its shield-like head tilts not at all. This beast goes skipping, heavily, past me, straight down the middle of the road. I get to my feet and track it as it heads down the curve and away. The cat pays it no mind.

I decide to head in the direction opposite of these two creatures. In front of the next building are two more of the carts, although they have different shapes.

“Bishop!” Brixan calls to me. She is across the courtyard, behind the buildings. Or that is how she sounds. I keep my eyes scanning in the cat’s direction as I advance.

She has not called out of alarm. (She wouldn’t, even if it was called for.) Brixan simply needs my attention and direction. It is more respect and obedience, as it should be.

The courtyard is an oval, bisected by more of the rectangular stone planks and grass plantings. Building’s faces here show more windows on this side; each has four aligned in sets of two. Short hedges rim the area. It is the most common thing I have seen here yet. All it is missing is a market at the center.

Wyvern and Brixan are in the alley between two buildings. In front of Brixan is a square of stone with rounded railings around it. At the center of this box of bars is a stairway, heading down.

Wyvern speaks first. He has his crystal machete out, a thing that reflects images of the past. “I’ve waved this everywhere. I am seeing nothing. Not even the present.”

Brixan points down at the stairs, saying “It said it was the complaint department.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Wyvern protests. “And I was with her the whole time.”

“Of course you didn’t hear, infidel. Or see anything. That is your necessary and sufficient function, isn’t it?” I say to him.

Brixan draws her sword and shoots a look at me for approval. I nod my head and she starts to descend the stairs.

“You know, territorial imperative has its limits,” the miscreant Wyvern explains.

“Easy for you to say,” I snarl. “It’s not your swamp.”

He asks “Will you listen to yourself?”

I say “As the only authority here, mine is the only voice to be listened to. When it’s not being drown out by a coward.”

Wyvern points at the stairs, saying “She’s gone. Two steps down and the darkness took her.”

“Probably a trick of the light,” I say, heading to the top of the case.

“I don’t even hear her,” he adds.

She is gone. The black stairs down are vacant. There are dozens of them heading down.

“Thirty-three percent casualties is above my withdrawal limit,” Wyvern says.

“Good riddance,” I mutter.

Before parting he says “I am going for help.” And he probably is. I am too preoccupied to add anything, although I do stare him out as he wades away. He takes those strides of his, starting across the black roadway. And I wonder where to. The cat slinks towards him. When last I saw it the thing was nowhere near. Wyvern halts. A ball of orange flame forms in his gauntlet. The cat holds up, fixed either by the flame in Wyvern’s hands or the confident smirk on his face. And Wyvern continues his graceful way across the street. What a waste. At least he left with some dignity.

As to where he went to, it seemed he was headed in the direction of the fence. But where to then? Over the fence and to the dome? The moment he reached the fence it became the roadway portion defined by the two buildings that we had first passed through. I saw him leave between these buildings and then out to the swamp. His boots slip into the stirrups and he gains the saddle of his winged mount, Little Pal.

(Stupid name for a winged horse, if you ask me.)

As the horse curls back, about to make its vault to the sky, I feel the ground beneath my shoes give. Not give way or move, but rather change from hard to soft. I look down and the stone plate I was on is gone, along with the railings and the stairs. I am on grey grass.

I un-sling the cudgel from my back and swing it around my head. Let those who need to see the symbol of my office. Now is the time to smite, not that it ever was any other time. The cudgel makes its whistle, chimes its chimes and lets loose with white smoke. I inhale the incense deeply and brace myself.

A look across the street reveals the fence has now returned. I wasn’t leaving, anyway. Again the claxon sounds, which I trace back to the cat. The beast is indifferent, only half facing me and half sniffing randomly in the air. And I know what I am going to smite first.

The cat stupidly paws at a wisp of smoke as my shadow crosses his back. My cudgel rises and comes down with swift, two handed force. I felt nothing through the shaft, but the cat’s head came off. Not splattered or pounded or severed. It just fell and rolled left. The body sagged improbably right, slowly taking up a curled posture as if to sleep.

It did convincingly stop moving. And the claxon quite suddenly went silent.

Time to break windows. Time to make noise. I start with the glass in the carts. The glass does not shatter as it should, but breaks into odd cubes. Sides in the cart dent easily, sounding out hollow. What a useless cart this would be, in any case. No place for hauling hay. Its benches are so low that you cannot see over the beast pulling it, whatever the beast may be. After one quite fearsome blow of mine, the entire contrivance erupts with a series of rhythmic bleats. The lamps on its front and back illuminate and extinguish in a pattern independent of the noise.

I certainly have made all the racket in the world. This world, at least. I step back and the bleating and flashing continues. Again, I feel pounding in the ground growing stronger. I whirl to face the giant beast. “Are you the master here?”

It was heading at its normal trot down the middle of the road, converging upon me. It veers gradually and then halts at the side of the road, right behind the cart I have assaulted. It falls, although slowly, on its side and is motionless.

I move to a pace from it. The beast does not seem to be moving or breathing. In truth, if it was ever breathing, I would not have noticed it. It’s simply lying there. The beast’s round feet show three toe nails on their face even though the foot shows no evidence of toes.

There is a note on its hairy side. I hadn’t seen it before. I swear it wasn’t there. I pluck it up.

Some authority has cited the beast for resting in a restricted zone. If the beast—an elephant, it says--would like to contest its fine, it may do so at the complaint department. That term again. Good for the beast. Where do I go to complain?

The dome. I am not sure if the thought occurs to me or imposes itself. And given my present circumstances, what would it matter? The dome is as good of a place as any, although I doubt my fat form can make it over the fence. I start across the street.

No matter how far I seem to move down the fence, the perspective of the dome never changes. Looks at the buildings inside the road clearly show that I am progressing about the perimeter of this circular world.

At least the field of black about the dome isn’t sprouting anything. I put my hands to the top of the fence and anticipate hefting my stout self up and then, hopefully, over.

I am back in the alley. Suddenly. Ahead is the way out to the swamp. I take three quick steps in the swamp’s direction and then stop. My eyes scan the windows of the structures bracing the alley. They are black. If there are eyes behind them, and it would seem there are eyes somewhere, I cannot see them.

I pivot back in the direction of the circular village. Directly ahead of me, flush with the black of the road, is the stone rectangle with its curved railings and stairs heading down at its center.

I wad up the elephant’s ‘parking ticket’ and hurl it down the stairs. It lands midway. It does not disappear.

“I have had enough of you! Come up, heathens. I am the spokesman for your local regent and all of the gods. Don’t make me come down there after you!” I say as I take my first steps down the case.

I can make my thingy three feet long.

I can race up and down the walls or around and around the road, or faster and faster in the black of the cart’s tires. I can ride the dome or dive into the parking lot. I can be the cat or the elephant. Once the claxon sounds again there is much for me to do, but no time to do it.

Our agenda is to not have any agenda. No more orders or important people here. They have done enough, sent all scrunch splotch with their cruelty shaped cruelty and their word shaped rules. Thanks to presumptions and misgivings they have rendered everything instantly equal, the animate and inanimate relatives here as one. Although it seems a shame to part with this harmony, for what seems a moment for the last time a moment needs to seem for me, I must.

Our ambassador has been chosen. We will spit out the dear Brixan. She is filled with too much life and now just full enough for her to impart and is not so full of it—unlike a certain pan-thesis prelate I used to be able to name. Up the steps she comes, but then halts in needless sentiment.

I have no use for my still imperious shattered face nor the smoking stick sprawled amidst broken limbs. Having calmed herself, she snatches the silly relic up and silently sends out prayers--mental fool’s errands here. She is such a pretty thing. I know no one ever tells her that. I would have, but she was my direct subordinate—and I owned socks older than her.

I rise out from the liquid oozing from where I was once housed. I salute her with a wave from my four fingered hand and a bleat from my prehensile tongue.

Damn, can she run!