Something happened a few days ago which had not happened in at least a dozen years: a story came to me, unbidden and fully formed. I don't write fiction anymore, which is weird because it was my all consuming passion for decades. But, gift horses, right? I put it all down on paper as fast as I could. Turns out it's an eerie bastard. Horror, almost. Why am I putting it here, on my very fine music website? Well, I've nowhere else to put it, and I... might use it as inspiration for a piece?
Shut up.
Anyhoo, here it is. It's a little under 4,000 words, in English, and it's called Kindness.
= = = =
Kindness
Fran was at her kitchen table, intent on 4 vertical (Elastic determination, 9 letters, started with R), when the heavily made-up woman with the red hair sat down across from her. A sweetish smell, subtle yet somehow piercing, wafted over that of the roast, for a short moment by Fran’s reckoning, and then was gone again. Fran was surprised but not exactly alarmed, even after the woman addressed her with a short burst of utterly alien syllables.
"I'm sorry. I don't understand," said Fran.
A fleeting look of irritation flickered across the woman's features. Still, when she spoke again, her tone was pleasant enough. "Oh, English," she said. "You were waiting for me."
This was news to Fran, but she took it in stride. "Was I? Yes, I suppose I was." She looked at the woman with mild curiosity. Conventionally beautiful, red hair, elaborate make-up, athletic build, a sort of severe but stylish grey-green suit. "I'm sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name."
"You may call me Moth."
"That's an unusual name."
"I get that a lot," Moth shrugged. She took in the room in a quick appraising glance. Fake wood panelling cabinets. Turquoise formica counter, with cooking utensils and a plastic cutting board. A few pots in the sink. A small CRT television on the counter, next to the toaster. A digital readout clock -- 6:37, in red blocky numbers. In the evening, Moth surmised. Fran was in the middle of preparing dinner, apparently, and had sat down after putting the roast in the oven. There was a large window over the sink, but the curtains were drawn shut.
“Are you alone?” Moth asked.
“Oh no, the children are playing upstairs.”
Moth cocked an ear vaguely upwards. “Quiet, aren’t they?”
Fran’s smile was odd. “Yes, they’re very well behaved. They’re probably reading in Joshua’s room. Joshua’s pretty bookish.”
“Two of them, I believe?”
“Yes,” nodded Fran. Her smile widened and became warm. “Ashley’s birthday is coming up -- she’s turning eight -- and Joshua’s twelve.”
Moth made a note. It was an invisible process. Somewhere a file was updated.
“Your husband isn’t home?” she asked.
Fran’s gaze slid back down to her crossword puzzle. “He’s at work. Well, at this moment he’s probably already on his way back. He should be here any minute. Will you stay to dinner?”
“That’s a lovely invitation. I’m actually waiting for a friend. We wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense!” cried Fran. “The roast is huge, and the kids don’t eat much. I’ll just start on some more potatoes. Mashed all right? Do stay.” She looked at Moth directly for a little too long by Moth’s Reckoning. “Please.”
Moth made another note as she nodded. “All right. Yes. Thank you very much.”
Seemingly delighted, Fran pushed the crossword aside and went out through a side door. She came back in -- from the pantry, presumably -- with a small load of potatoes, which she set about peeling.
“So you’re a housewife?”
“I’m sorry?” Fran sounded both amused and slightly offended. “No, I work too. I’m a school teacher. I teach third grade.” She scraped a little mound of peelings into the garbage under the sink. “But it’s summer vacation just now.”
“Yes, of course,” said Moth. Another note. Fran appeared unaware of it, but even by her Reckoning it was in fact a few days into February.
“The idea that I’m a housewife,” tutted Fran, still smiling. “I wouldn’t have married Brian if he’d been the kind to ask me to stop working outside. I mean this is the Eighties.”
Moth laughed knowingly. The notes were coming thick and fast. By her Reckoning, in this Division the Eighties were already some decades out.
There was a lull. “Do you need any help with that?” Moth eventually asked.
“No, thanks. Cooking helps me think.” The last potato dropped into the pot of water. Fran reached over and switched the burner on.
Moth decided to take a small risk. “Brian is your second husband.”
Fran’s hand, which now held a glass salt shaker, slowed over the pot. After a short hesitation, Fran shook some salt into the water. She took a deep breath, turned, smiled very widely indeed and sat back down to her crossword. “Yes. After Simon died -- Simon was my first husband --”
“The children’s father,” interjected Moth softly.
“Yes. After Simon died, Brian showed up, and he helped. He really helped. I wouldn’t have imagined…” She blushed. “He doesn’t exactly look the Adonis, you see. But then I’m hardly Aphrodite myself. Never was, even in my prime, let’s be honest. One thing led to another, anyway, and here we are. Still managed to bag two fellas, right?” she finished with a laugh. “The kids weren’t quite so keen, mind.”
“No?”
Fran shrugged. “Well, you know how stubborn children can be. Rigid, sort of thing?” She seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Can’t really blame them either, I suppose. Not exactly the kind of situation to light their world on fire, is it? They miss their dad. I do too, if it comes to that. I wouldn’t say it quite like that to poor Brian’s face, bless him, but… you know.” She sighed, then added, brightening, “They’re slowly coming round though.”
“Of course they are,” said Moth. “Shall we look in on them?”
There was a fine blast of sweetness -- almonds? -- over everything, evaporating almost immediately, and a cheerful male voice addressed them, apparently from the front hall, in the same foreign language Moth had used when she’d arrived. The man beamed as he walked in. He looked awfully cheery for someone who would die in this room.
“English,” said Moth.
The man looked momentarily nonplussed. He straightened his tie to regain his composure and said: “I’m sorry. Hello.”
Fran stood up. “Don’t worry about it. You’re Moth’s friend? We were waiting for you.”
The man shot a quick, vaguely questioning glance at Moth, who nodded once. He walked to Fran and shook hands with her genially. “Yes. Yes I am. Call me Butterfly.”
“I’m Fran. Lovely to meet you.”
Her mouth worked for a few seconds more, by Butterfly’s Reckoning. He figured that she was probably considering whether to remark on his name.
In fact, Fran was inspecting him as discreetly as she knew how, and thinking that, though Moth and Butterfly were dressed similarly, and shared a certain, what was it, businesslike manner, like they worked in the same office or something, they looked nothing alike. Butterfly was nowhere near as dazzling as his colleague. Not unattractive, exactly, but his hair was thinning and his middle was starting to run to flab. It made the suit bulge, just a little.
“Shall we look in on the kids?” repeated Moth.
“An excellent idea!” exclaimed Butterfly. “Fran?”
Fran demurred. “I have to stay with the roast. And the potatoes have only started to boil. You guys go.”
Moth peered pointedly at Butterfly as she announced with some authority: “Let me go up and say hi then. Butterfly, do stay here with Fran. I’m sure you can make yourself useful.”
“Yes, of course,” Butterfly readily agreed.
“Are you sure?” wondered Fran, and saw that Moth was. “Joshua’s room is the second door on the left. Ashley’s across the hall, if they’re not together. Tell them to get ready for dinner?”
Moth nodded and turned to leave. As she was about to step into the corridor -- she could only see the outline of the staircase, as the rest of the house was quite dark -- Fran’s voice stopped her.
“Moth?”
Moth’s head dipped back into the kitchen. Fran was staring at her. Was her gaze wistful? Hopeful? Empty? Dead? Moth found it difficult to tell. She made a note of that and made sure Butterfly would get it.
“Let them know I love them,” whispered Fran.
Moth nodded again and walked out. The lights weren’t working, but Moth could see quite well in the dark. As she was starting up the carpeted stairs, she heard Butterfly ask Fran: “D’you have any savory? It’s brilliant in mashed potatoes.” Moth half smiled. He was right.
Moth didn’t immediately go to Joshua’s room. First she walked to the window at the very end of the upstairs hall. She drew the curtains back, peered out quickly, and made a cursory note. It would not surprise Butterfly. They both knew what she was going to see.
She itched to give Collection a call. But after the disaster at Woodstock, protocols had been revised. Collection would take no call until she was ready to report.
She didn’t bother to knock at the children’s door. She walked in, saw the dessicated corpses on the bed, the rarefied tufts of hair, the sunken papery cheeks, the blackened voids where the eyes had once twinkled, the lips thinned and pulled back around browned teeth, and walked out. This had been violent, and by any Reckoning it had happened a long time ago. She received an Impression of fire. Not just any old fire either. Something altogether more elemental. She noted it all down -- kids, room, vestigial Resonance, books on the desk -- and went back downstairs. And if her tread was now a little quicker than it had been going up, what of it?
She composed herself before going back into the kitchen. She immediately saw that Butterfly had received the notes. Fran looked up, expectantly.
“You were right, they’re reading,” said Moth. “Joshua says they’re coming down as soon as he’s finished his short story. He’s reading Poe?”
“Oh, I wish he wouldn’t,” said Fran with genuine concern as she put her crossword puzzle away into a drawer. “He’s too young for Poe, it’ll freak him out.”
“Twelve is a good age to read Poe,” said Butterfly.
”Lovely kids in any case,” added Moth. “Polite, charming. You must be proud.” Fran glowed.
Setting the table -- roast and mashed potatoes in the center, smelling wonderful -- and sitting down to wait for Brian took no more than three minutes by Fran’s Reckoning. Moth and Butterfly both knew, however, that it was only after an extraordinarily long time that the sound of the opening front door finally came.
“There’s Brian!” Fran cried. She bounded up and ran to the kitchen door. A heavyset man with slicked brown hair and pudgy lips stepped in and into her outstretched arms before she could put her foot down into the hall. He kissed her with some greed. She let it happen before pushing him back with an embarrassed giggle. Again, Moth noted how she could not quite determine how sincere, or deluded, or feigned, or self-interested Fran’s demeanour was.
Brian put his attaché-case down and threw his trenchcoat back through the doorway, onto the bannister. He turned round, plaid shirt stained at the armpits, creased trousers held by suspenders, dimly glowing mud on his shoes, and glared at Moth and Butterfly. There, noted Moth, stood a man who wanted to be alone with his family after a hard day at the office. He had not expected company.
“Look, honey,” said Fran sunnily. “It’s Moth and Butterfly. They’re having dinner with us.”
“Hello, Brian,” said Butterfly. “You invited us, remember?”
Brian’s smile was predatory. “Yes,” he sighed. “Yes, I suppose I did.” He leveled a baleful stare at the visitors. “Welcome.”
“I think this calls for wine,” announced Fran. “Come on, everybody sit.” She fished a bottle of red out of the pantry and gave it, with the opener, to Butterfly. Nothing about this meal said summer vacation, noted Moth.
“Here, open it, Butterfly,” said Fran. “I’ll get the glasses. Moth, can you help me with those? We have crackers and cheese somewhere as well, Brian, will you take care of that?”
For a short while by Fran’s Reckoning, the kitchen was astir and bustling. Then they were sitting. The wine was not of any great vintage, but it made for a perfectly serviceable table drink. They were all glad to have something to occupy their idle hands with.
They toasted one another’s health awkwardly.
“And what is it you do, Brian?” asked Moth after an indeterminate silence.
More indeterminate silence. “This and that,” mumbled Brian, reaching for a piece of brie.
“A little more of this than of that,” tittered Fran. “Family joke,” she explained, spying Butterfly’s puzzlement.
Butterfly grinned appreciatively. “A lot more of this than of that, by my reckoning,” he said.
Brian stiffened. It was as obvious as a klaxon to Moth and Butterfly, but Fran either did not notice it, or affected not to.
“We’re about ready for the main course, I think,” said Fran suddenly. “Brian, call the children down to dinner, will you? They’ll be so happy to see you.”
Brian pushed his lower lip out. His sullen eyes flamed. His voice, when it eventually sounded, was a low, machine-like rumble. “Are you sure, darling? They’re probably not very hungry.”
“Do you think so?” said Moth. “Joshua said they’re coming down in a few minutes anyway.”
Brian took a gulp of wine. He swallowed for an obscene amount of time. Years, possibly, by Moth’s Reckoning. “Did he?” he asked at some point.
“Oh yes,” Moth assured him firmly. “Just now.”
Brian’s breathing was becoming frayed. He was darting unconcealed glances at the curtained window above the sink, and at the door behind him. Moth made a note to Butterfly, who relaxed and let his hand fall distractedly across his lap.
Then Moth clicked her tongue. The sound reverberated through the whole house. “Well,” she said deliberately, “there’s a Discrepancy and no mistake.”
All the glasses on the table, and the television set on the counter, exploded as Brian roared with the voice of a thousand evil dimensions, and liquefied into a many-limbed, transelemental pool of fire. Moth had already leapt across to Fran and pushed her down, shielding her, and Butterfly’s searer was in his hand, pointing at the sidereal, gibbering mass of the Discrepancy. The searer sliced through all the Divisions and forced a charred hole into the Brianthing’s body. The hole was not only an absence of Brian’s substance, it was an absence of everything. Calmly, Butterfly seared Fran’s husband again. Then Brian really started to shriek.
Butterfly’s finger was tightening on the searer’s trigger for the third time when a yowling, flaming appendage the colour of liquid gold snaked up, almost too fast to be seen, and took his hand. Blood jetted across the table.
Moth whipped round at Butterfly’s startled cry of pain, just in time to see him hit the walls in several meaty, wet, glistening hunks that trailed intestines like garlands. There was a downpour of blood about the kitchen. It drenched both Moth and Fran, who was already losing the ability to scream. Fran’s eyes no longer looked in the same direction.
To the end of her days, Moth never quite knew why Brian did not simply murder her next. Perhaps he was too dazed by his injuries to think clearly. That was certainly what she would tell Collection later, and how she would spin the tale in her old age.
Lowing like a cosmic ruminant, the Discrepancy heaved and throbbed, disoriented. Its maw worked mechanically -- open, closed, out, in -- now would have been the time to feed on Butterfly’s body and soul, had everything gone the way nature intended. The holes in its palpitating bulk suppurated angry looking, fiery red pus. In fits and starts, it reformed itself into a vaguely human shape -- God knew why -- then lumbered round, dripping lashes of itself onto the carpet, and made for the front door. When it threw it open, a neatly manicured lawn on a suburban street entirely failed to appear. In its place writhed a lot of what Moth had already seen through the upstairs window: the roiling, whirling ribbons of Nothing and All, where the creature had hidden Fran’s house, a few moments ago by its Reckoning. The Discrepancy groaned, shook itself, and sprang toward the freedom of the voids.
Moth’s divisional garotte slithered across its throat. Brian wheezed in surprise and outrage as the filament tightened and bit into him, thin and intransigent. He groped hysterically for the doorframe, feeling himself hauled back into the lobby. Something that looked like a thrashing tongue shot out of its mouth. Moth averted her gaze, and braced herself across the Discrepancy’s back.
Brian had guile and desperation and callousness, but Moth had training, and the blood of her friend on her skin. It was done in a matter of minutes by her Reckoning. By that of the Discrepancy’s -- if there was any justice in the worlds -- it lasted for much, much longer. Moth kept the tension on the garotte until long after the spasms had stopped coursing along the Brianthing’s skin. Coughing, retching, babbling incoherently, Moth let go, staggered back, fought to remain upright. What the Discrepancy had left behind was already darkening to evil embers. She slammed the front door shut. Then, slowly, she let herself slide down to the floor of the lobby, and breathed.
Much later, she gathered the remains into the Vial, always a delicate operation.
When Moth walked back into the kitchen, Fran was still screaming, but a thin hiss was all that actually escaped her throat. It made a sound like a bike wheel slowly deflating. Fran was huddled into a shivering ball near the oven, her knees drawn tight under her chin, her skin and hair filthy with blood and bits of Butterfly. The aroma of the roast had not entirely dissipated.
There was no getting around it: Moth simply could not ascertain if anything lucid remained behind Fran’s disturbed eyes. She knew what she believed, however. Gingerly, not wanting to frighten her -- had Moth been in her right mind she would have seen how absurd the thought was -- she put a hand on the poor woman’s shoulder and made her sleep. Then she sat heavily at the kitchen table and contacted Collection.
“Report,” said Collection.
“The Discrepancy has been straightlined,” said Moth, and sent the Vial.
She heard Collection swear. Swearing was something Collection sometimes did. “That… was a strong Discrepancy,” Collection said, a hint of reproach in its voice. “The vestigial Resonance nearly blew my hand off.”
“It was,” agreed Moth. “It’s all in the notes.” She wiped some of the bloody grime off her cheeks and flicked it away, watching it speckle the walls. There was nothing left of her usual impeccable make-up. “I’m afraid Butterfly didn’t make it through.”
A soft gasp. “That’s too bad. We lose good people now and then. That can’t be helped.” Collection seemed sincere, Moth thought. “Are you all right?”
“I’m all right.”
“Did… did he go quickly?”
Nerves made her crass. “Not quite quickly enough by his Reckoning, if I had to guess.”
“That’s too bad,” Collection repeated lamely. Moth could feel the wince in the voice.
“He acquitted himself well, though,” she went on with a mixture of sadness and pride. “It’s only because he wounded the Discrepancy that I was able to straightline it.”
“That will be a boon of sorts to his family, I guess,” said Collection, dubitative. “And it’s worth twenty percent more on his Estate Pension.”
Moth nodded. Lost on Collection, of course.
“Can the body be repatriated?”
Moth sniffed sadly. ”I don’t think so. I’ll bring back a Relic for the Rites.”
“I see. Any survivors?”
Moth’s eyes flitted quickly to the sleeping Fran.
“No. No one but me in here now.”
“That’s too bad,” said Collection for the third time. “No need for a clean-up crew, then?”
“No, I’ll wipe it down when I leave,” muttered Moth. “There were holes in the Brief, you know. I don’t like that. Nothing major -- it was English and not Sinhala, details like that. But when you show up you need all your wits about you, and the smallest thing can throw you off.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Collection sounded apologetic, but also defensive. The Briefs came from a different department. “It’s not an exact science, you know.”
“I know.”
The sound of a throat being cleared. A false start, then another. “Would you like to be excused from the office party?” asked Collection at length, trying to be solicitous. “I can make a discreet announcement. Everyone will understand.”
Moth thought for a moment. Her cheeks coloured. “Will Cicada be there?” she said timidly.
Collection didn’t actually chuckle, but it was a near thing. Everyone’s nerves were strained, it seemed. “I believe so. She sent in her RSVP last week. Went for the vegan option, if memory serves.”
“I think a drink might do me good,” murmured Moth. Not for the first time, she marvelled at what passed for normal to them all.
“Right,” said Collection. “See you tonight, then. Don’t forget to drop by Medical first thing though.”
“I won’t.”
The presence of Collection winked out. Moth knew exactly how it went, but it never failed to unsettle her. It was like someone kicking away your walking stick. Rubbing her temples, hoping to clear her head, Moth stole back to Fran’s side.
No. Butterfly’s Relic. Grisly work, but it had to be done, so better do it now. Looking for a suitable knife, she opened a few drawers and stumbled upon Fran’s crossword puzzle. She glanced through it, idly, and was struck by one prophetic clue. Yes, a queer coincidence and no mistake.
With the Relic resting safely in the breast pocket of her suit, wrapped in her sodden handkerchief, Moth finally turned her attention back to Fran. She observed her for a while, frowning. Fran was sleeping, yes, but fitfully, even now. The Elemental Madness was in her for good. It would never leave her again.
Moth bent over Fran. She almost stroked her hair, in an attempt at tenderness, but checked her gesture when she realised just into what she was about to stick her hand. A congealing, gooey mess framed Fran’s face. It gleamed sickly. Frankly, it smelled a bit too. Moth sacrificed a dishcloth to wipe Fran’s gory features to a more human state. Then a second one for her own face.
Very gently, Moth touched Fran on the shoulder again.
“Would you like to hug the children goodnight?” she whispered.
Fran’s eyes fluttered open. They found her at last, but oh, the madness was close.
“Yes,” Fran said, her voice nearly inaudible. “Yes, that would be lovely.”
Moth half dragged, half carried her upstairs, and that felt much harder than garroting Brian had been. When they entered Joshua’s room, Fran stopped so suddenly they nearly tumbled over. Moth froze: perhaps this had been a mistake. Fran’s eyes swirled deliriously for longer than Moth liked. Then they cleared, and settled on the grim husks on the bed. Moth’s hand hovered over Fran’s shoulder.
When Fran spoke, however, it was with genuine, uncontrived love. “Hey, guys,” she croaked. “Will you come and give me a hug before you go to sleep?”
After a minute or so, she said, still smiling, “All right, I’ll hug you then.”
Moth helped her onto the bed. Fran snuggled to the brittle carcasses, ignoring the sound of long dry bones snapping. With a happy sigh, she began caressing nonexistent hair. Moth bit her lip.
“Good night, my loves,” Fran cooed. “Hey, let’s all go to the park tomorrow, okay? And the day after that. There’s still loads of summertime left. Daddy loves the park. He can take the day off. I love you.” She kissed them, first Ashley, then Joshua. “You’re the best kids ever. I love you so much. Good night.” She began singing a lullaby Moth had never heard before.
Between the third and fourth incomprehensible verse, Moth touched Fran on the shoulder one last time. Fran’s hands slowly closed about her children, and in due course she stopped moving altogether.
Moth kept that off the notes. It was a kindness really.
Some time later by her Reckoning, she reduced the house to a singularity and left in a drift of almondy perfume.
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