“AZUL, WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!”
Before Vera could so much as move an inch, the stranger snatched their new friend, fingers coiling like serpents around her collar. Yet Azul made no effort to escape the newcomer’s grip, even as she raised the small girl’s limp body so the two stared face to face.
“Ah… I…” Azul sputtered.
The burly newcomer’s neck swiveled in Vera’s direction, but to their surprise her eyes shone not of fierce anger, but sheer panic.
“Child, I am so, so sorry about this! Whatever this whore has done to you, I will repay tenfold!” Her tone was desperate, eyes pleading.
Vera, startled and confused, sprung a few steps back, boxing whelks clinking together.
The new lady returned her attention to Azul. “As for YOU, conniving witch, can you explain why our most distinguished guest was lured all the way out to the middle of the garden, where she could potentially acquire our virulent illness, conveniently in the area glorious Madame Saguaro sent YOU?”
“I…I thought she was a demon…”
“LIAR!” The nun hollered, long, thin spikes bursting from under her robes. “WHORE! You’ve beguiled her with your dark magic! Same as you’ve beguiled the beasts of our garden; same as you’ve beguiled my sisters! Madame Saguaro might not be wise to your scheming, but I am not so easily swayed! By the powers vested in me, you WILL confess you sins before the great goddess Kib!”
Vera’s eyes threatened to pop of out their skull. Of all the oddities they’d come across on this strange island, they paled next to a lady who spoke the w word so freely. Though Vera couldn’t claim to have much experience with nuns, they’d always gotten the impression they were supposed to be pious and holy. Yet here one was, spitting out the dirtiest of slurs with no remorse.
“Six years, Azul. Just six years before the next Dispatch, and you would doom us all?! Truly, you are a scoundrel beyond compare!”
The trembling girl tried to slip a word in, something, anything in defense, but whatever she would have said was drowned out by the tears falling in torrents down her cheeks.
“It’s my fault.”
The two Batavians returned their attention to the young visitor. Vera stood tall, chest puffed out in a way they hoped looked mature and dignified. Azul’s eyes, meanwhile, practically glazed over as she stared, enraptured by the unearthly beauty she had so wrongly condemned just moments ago.
“Azul didn’t do anything. I went towards her because she looked like she was hurt. So, uh, don’t get angry with her. It’s my fault.”
The burly nun simply shook her head, giving Vera the look they despised more than anything else: pity. It they weren’t so irked, Vera would have been almost impressed by her ability to shift their emotions at the spur of a moment.
“Child, oh, sweet innocent child.” she shook her head, sighing. “I understand this wench’s wiles are unsurpassed, but there is no need to lie to me.” The nun clenched her free fist, gazing dramatically at one of the moons. “I, Barrel of the Sacred Font, will ensure she can deceive you no further!”
But rather than ease their nerves, Vera felt the burning embers of rage stoke their heart. It was one thing to hurt their friends right in front of them, but not only that, she had the nerve to TALK DOWN TO THEM! This loud-mouthed jerk who wasn’t even as tall as they were!
Still, it wasn’t like Vera could just punch a stranger, however tempting. After all, those who were innocent cast the second stone. See Dad, they thought to themselves, I do remember some of the things you tell me!
They took a deep breath, nerves steadying. “I’m. Not. Lying. Azul didn’t trick me or anything. One of the other ladies was talking with Dad and-“
“This nun,” Barrel intruded. “Did she have a… peculiar odor? Daffodil eyes?”
If the gleeful sparkle in the nun’s eyes was any indication, they really, really should have kept their mouth shut.
Vera’s brow furrowed. On one hand, they didn’t want to get the nice lady they met at the entrance in trouble, but on the other, maybe she was getting into mischief Vera didn’t know about.
They barely held back the urge to yell at the moons. If only they hadn’t fallen out of that stupid tree!
. . .
“Uhhh…”
As the beautiful stranger hesitated, Azul could see in her crimson eyes that Miss Barrel had been on point. But why would Miss Creosote do such a thing? True, she had her mishaps-slight tardiness, the occasional misplaced bottle, a devotion to Kib that could have been greater- and she did periodically sneak snacks to Azul’s fellow sisters-in-training, but that was for the greater good! After all, Creosote had argued, one couldn’t properly serve Kib on an empty stomach.
In other words, not the sorts of things that would cause the Goddess of Life herself to descend from Venus to personally smite her!
Had Azul been foolish to trust Miss Creosote? Then again, if Creosote had been responsible for the stranger in the garden, who was to say who the real fool was? Besides Miss Barrel, but she had an opinion on everything, and almost none of them good.
Before Azul could spiral further into her own frustration, the foliage shuddered, then parted as two figures arrived in the clearing. One, a lanky fellow with red eyes, the other the esteemed Miss Creosote herself.
The Prodigy let out a sign of relief, little spikes retreating back into her skin. At last, responsible adults who could (hopefully) sort this out!
. . .
Malagasy, gasping, smothered his child in a tight embrace.
“Vera! Oh thank Kib you’re alright! You didn’t get bitten by mosquitoes, did you? Please tell me you didn’t get bitten!”
Vera didn’t say a word. The hug forced all their air out and threatened to buckle their ribs.
However, his smile evaporated the second he lay eyes on a particularly burly nun holding a small child by collar, said child dangling uselessly as a fish hung out to dry.
“Oh… hi, Barrel.” He said.
Oh crap! He thought.
“Salutations to you as well, Malagasy.” Miss Barrel nodded curtly. “I pray you haven’t found our Monastery… inhospitable, in any way?”
. . .
The lanky man remained tight-lipped, but to a mind as perceptive to the vices of the world as Barrel’s, shallow breathing and sweat drenched face spoke where words failed.
But before she could press for truth, as a proper child of Kib should, Sister Creosote stepped forward. Creosote, who had fled the Monastery the first chance she got, only to return and surge up the ranks, attaining positions that rightfully belonged to more intelligent, competent nuns through guile and deceit. Creosote, who tempted children with worldly pleasures under the guise of ‘self-care’. Creosote, who always had to be the hero, no matter how utterly wrong she was.
“If you must blame anyone, Sister Barrel, it ought to be me. The duty of greeting our wards was mine and mine alone.” Creosote spoke slowly and calmly, the way one might parley with a venomous serpent. Or a bomb.
. . .
Creosote cursed to herself. What in the name of Kib, and Sish, and Roon, and Limpang-Tung, and all the gods and goddesses in between was Barrel doing up here?! She was supposed to be overseeing the manuscripts, for crying out loud!
The spikes covering Barrel’s body grew longer. Sharper.
If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
“But who’s to say you and Azul aren’t co-conspirators? Perhaps you BOTH plotted to spread our virulent illness to this unsuspecting child!” Barrel pointed to Vera, who had just wrestled free of her father’s tight clasp.
. . .
A shiver ran down Vera’s spine. Illness?! Dad hadn’t mentioned THAT! Well, he did say they had something, but it went away a long time ago!
. . .
Creosote exhaled, her veil puffing out ever so slightly where it caught her breath.
“Sister Barrel, the last recorded case of the Contagion was roughly 14.999 million years ago. There’s no reason to believe it is still a thing to be-“
“And how can you be sure, Sister Creosote, perhaps it has taken a new form, one that exists in lightwaves not detectable by our meager-!”
“Barrel, that is not how viruses work.”
“That we know of! The ways of Kib are esoteric and ever flowing into amalgamate forms, to think our mere mortal minds could ever hope to grasp such intricate, eldritch designs, it would be folly, folly I tell you-!”
As tempted as Creosote was to interject, experience had taught her that if you couldn’t get through to your opponent after the fiftieth time, there was no point wasting energy.
Barrel’s eyes threatened to bulge out of her head.
“-But no, this sin, whether by you, or Azul, or a co-conspiration, cannot stand! You must bear witness to Saguaro herself, lest-!”
“Hey.” Malagasy raised his hand. “If it’s not too much trouble, can I ask a question?”
Barrel glared at him like he was a half-digested skeeter that had shambled its way out of a sandcroc’s mouth, but acquiesced. The Monastery had an image it was already failing to protect, after all.
“Certainly, dear guest.”
“Okay, so Vera was hanging out with this kid-“
“Azul.”
“Right, Azul. Now let’s say, hypothetically, that Creosote and her were conspiring to create an encounter that could potentially doom your monastery,” He began, cutting himself off just before he could add ‘despite this not really benefitting anyone’.
“Malagasy!” Creosote cried, “Are you really humoring her-?!”
The slender Venusian simply glanced at her and nodded. He had this.
“Exactly! Everyone dotes on the so-called ‘Prodigy’”, Barrel spat the last word out like it was venom, tossing Azul aside. The child remained motionless. “but I’m not fooled! Her so-called gifts are a dark magic, an undetectable virus that if left unchecked, may well spread-!”
“Fair enough, but my question is, why are you up here? My memory’s a bit foggy, but aren’t you supposed to be… somewhere else?”
“Indeed,” Creosote added, catching Malagasy’s hint. “Downstairs, overseeing production of the illuminated manuscripts. So what brings you all the way up here, to the garden?”
Barrel’s great spines receded ever so slightly, yet still an air of dignity surrounded her. She pulled out a loop of spider silk from her pocket, from which dangled an intricately curved seashell.
“As you can see, I needed to… relieve myself, in the lavatory. And as I did so, I remembered Azul was to work alone in the garden, so it stood to reason I check on her. And what luck! By Kib’s will, I was able to catch Azul in the act!”
Even with her mask, Malagasy could feel Creosote crack an amused grin.
“Yes,” she said, “The lavatory, which sits a good three floors under our feet. To look after the Prodigy, which if I remember correctly, Madame Saguaro specifically said she wanted left alone for the night. I’m not entirely sure Madame Saguaro would be too happy to see you go off course to the degree you have. Especially with the next Dispatch only six years away.”
“But have you not strayed as well, Sister Creosote?! The visitors-!”
“I’ll say it was my fault. I broke the rules.” Said Vera.
“And we’re guests. I’m pretty sure we’re not bound by the same rules you nuns are.” Added Malagasy.
Barrel didn’t even return their gaze. She had so dearly hoped their esteemed guest would see reason. Alas, such was not to be.
The daffodil eyed nun was the next to speak.
“I believe it would be best for all our souls if this misunderstanding was lost to the ides of time.”
Before she could finish, Barrel had slinked off into the woods. But not before she could mouth to Azul’s motionless body,
You’ll slip up eventually, witch. And when you do, I’ll be there to stop you!
Creosote breathed a sigh of relief. “Now Malagasy, children: I do believe we have somewhere to be, no? The nuns should be finishing their nocturnes about now.” As if on cue, Vera and Malagasy could hear, beneath the chittering and the screeching of the night air, a gentle humming suddenly cut off.
But before Creosote and the visitors could leave, Azul finally roused herself.
“Miss Cerosote… what should I do? I… didn’t collect as many pipettes as I should have.”
She reached down, grabbed one of the flower-mosquitoes, and popped the struggling creature’s head off, dropping it in her basket.
Vera thought it was the coolest thing ever.
So THAT’S where pipettes come from!, They thought.
Creosote nodded. “This is the first time you were out here alone. It was inevitable you’d get nervous. I’m sure Madame Saguaro would understand.” But beneath her confidence both Azul and Vera could detect a twinge of uncertainty.
“Anyway, let’s not waste time. Farewell, Azul.”
“Farewell, Sister Creosote.”
Azul hesitated. She’d already messed up so much that day. But at the same time, it wasn’t as though things could get worse. And so Creosote, Malagasy, and Vera walked out of that strange colorful, bleak, sea foam-scented, rotting paradise of the dam*ed.
Yet despite their harrowing adventure, Vera found themselves dragging their feet. For reasons they couldn’t articulate, they felt lighter, like they’d left an important bit of themselves behind in that mosquito-flower grove.
“Nice meeting you!” They called to Azul before she disappeared with the adults into the woods.
The twin moons illuminated the night soft blue, a quiet audience to the nightly drama that was life on Batavia.
. . .
Azul slumped where Barrel had dropped her, mind a swirling vortex of anxiety. It wasn’t until an intrepid greater flooer (Florifacies mirabila maximus), a large, terrestrial, flower faces bat, licked her face did she rise to her feet. There was so much to do, so many places to be, and yet, the thing she desired most was to melt into a soft, mushy puddle and feed the warm earth under her feet. Alas, her body was a cold, cumbersome prison, imprisoning the soul- her REAL self- just the same way a cocoon held a moth. If she wanted redemption, if she wanted freedom, if she wanted to see the Motherland, she would have to do her part and keep things running smoothly until the next Dispatch. For this reason and this reason alone her tired, aching body shambled upright. From her robes she procured a small treat the flooer gleefully lapped up. But just as Azul was about to make her own way into the Monastery, she noticed, at the foot of a tree, a small, leathery rectangle glistening in the moonlight. Glancing side to side to make sure no person was present, she slipped it deep into the folds of her robes, and was on her way.
. . .
Clambering down the Monastery’s sides, the two adults chatted.
“Thank you for the assistance.” Creosote whispered.
“No problem,” replied Malagasy, searching for footholds. “But that’s the thing about folks like Barrel: you’ve gotta be aggressive, or they walk all over you. And you too Vera, okay?”
“I know, Dad.” Sighed Vera.
“In my defense,” said Creosote “Barrel was being aggressive, making me nervous. And when I am nervous, I tend to overlook obvious holes in my opponent’s logic; no matter how obvious.”
“Well you’ll need to stand up for yourself! I can’t always be around to help you out, you know.”
“I know, Dad.” Sighed Creosote.
She and Vera burst out laughing so hard they nearly lost their footing.
Malagasy groaned, mourning the loss of his one peaceful night. Nothing short of a miracle would help him survive the weeks to come.
. . .
Back at the Monastery’s entrance, Zithro happily snoozed at the hitching post. Vera scratched him behind one of his massive ears, to which he squeaked gratefully.
Creosote pulled a finger sized conch from her robes and blew into it. Although Malagasy and Vera heard no noise, a procession of nuns emerged, single file, from the skeletal dragon’s bowels. Eyes of yellow, white, and even some purple, glowed like a galaxy of earthbound stars in the darkness. Without a word they were upon Malagasy’s cargo, lifting over their heads or under their arms the various crates, boxes, and books from his and Vera’s adventures, then retreating to their underground abode with impeccable synchronization. Malagasy held his child close, both keeping their distance, and though Vera would never admit it, they appreciated the gesture. Something about seeing so many robed figures working with the perfect efficiency of wasps or bees unnerved them in a way they couldn’t put into words. In spite of their fear, they couldn’t help but wonder: which of these strangers were friends and which were foe? If their recent misadventure had taught them anything, knowing their allies would be vital once they and their Father settled into the dead dragon who would be their home for the next three weeks.
Once the last nun descended the maw of the great lizard, Creosote walked in, Malagasy and Vera following six feet behind.
. . .
The bowels of the Monastery were, all things considered, well lit. In addition to the moonlight streaming through oblong, chitin windows, a great green globe hung by thick spider thread from the center of the ceiling, fluorescent sea slugs and jellyfish swirling within. Vera had seen such lanterns before- indeed, they were a common sight across the Peganan Islands- but never before one so large, or perfectly spherical. A handful of black bats flitted about the ceiling, pursuing unseen prey. Combined with the ribs and spine of the great sea beast, still visible through the walls, Vera truly felt as though they had been swallowed alive.
A long, crimson rug spit the chamber of worship into two rows of wooden pews that, compared to their setting, appeared rather crude. Whiling away on these were a handful of nuns. Custodians, Vera assumed, from the way they dipped rags into wood buckets of a substance that looked like water but smelled an awful lot like urine. Though they waved in greeting, not one so much as returned their gaze.
At the bow of this esoteric place of worship, which Vera and Malagasy trepidatiously followed Creosote toward, stood a simple podium, unusual only in its’ size; at least as tall as any of the nuns they had encountered thus far. Behind that, a panoramic chitin window depicted intricately detailed images of insects, birds, flowers, reptiles…; at their center floated a lush green orb marked with the double helix: Kib’s sacred symbol. But below this panoptic display of life, spindly fingers cast in shadow reached for the orb, for Kib. Whether the fingers represented reverence or desperation, Vera did not know.
More unsettling still was the thing that resided at the edges of this transparent mural, collecting shadow.
Vera could only describe it as a series of raw, red, fleshy tubes creeping toward the ceiling, the way vines might trellis up a wall, though thicker, and pulsating in a way that suggested digestion. At the tip of each tube, a dark hole exhaled humid air that warmed the Monastery.
And most unsettling of all was the open trapdoor at the foot of the podium, within which a staircase spiraled down into darkness.
“Stay close now, okay?” Malagasy whispered.
Vera nodded. For once, they wouldn’t have any trouble remembering instructions.
Last Redoubt: END