Future Lovecraft (9 page)

“When has that ever stopped us? Come on. We’ll think of something. “

The sisters put their heads together, to communicate telepathically. Wanting to make surprise one of their weapons, they decided to follow a single bee, in order to determine what the group was up to. Downsizing to the dimensions of baby dragonflies, they zoomed to the top of the stacks, so they could hover over the entire collection. From there, they watched the bees moving through the stacks. They seemed to be reading the book titles on the spines. “I didn’t think bees could read French,” whispered Iris.

“We’ve already agreed that these aren’t ordinary bees.”

“No, they’re not...but...ah...look there, that lazy one...it’s falling behind the others.”

No matter how well-drilled an army, even of rampaging sentient bees, there’s always at least one who can’t or won’t keep up. Iris and Thyme had found a slacker.

Taking advantage of their diminished size, they flitted and darted behind the lone, lazy bee as it fell farther and farther behind the main group, stopping every few shelves for several seconds before moving on. “What a lazy plodder. It isn’t helping its fellows at all,” said Thyme.

“I think it’s looking for a place to sleep until the pack comes back.”

“You could be right. Look at that.”

The slow, and really, rather-size-challenged nekrobee had slipped between two books, its violet glow dimming to a memory. “What do we do now?” asked Iris.

“I’m not sure. I think we’ve got company. Look behind you.”

“They look angry. Do they look angry to you?”

Five flashing purple bees had appeared behind them. Another group materialised around a corner, while a third cluster zoomed down from the top of a row. As the twins attempted a tactical retreat toward the front of the stacks, still another group appeared, cutting them off. They were surrounded.

“Yes, Iris. They look angry to me.”

“Damnit, we’ve been ambushed....”

“Led into a trap...”

“...by our own carelessness.”

“Now what do we do?”

That question was answered by the bees. Buzzing, they circled the girls, who had retaken normal size in hopes of improving the odds. Not a chance. The bees darted in, stingers first, trying for an arm or a cheek. To avoid them, Iris and Thyme waved books pulled from the shelves. It was hopeless. Any attempt to deviate or escape was countered by a cloud of angry, purple insects. Inexorably, the bees manoeuvred the girls deeper into the darkness. After five minutes, the twins had run out of stacks, books and ideas. All the while, in the far back, an eye, set into an opaque black circle, watched the melee.

“Iris, that wasn’t here the last time I checked.”

“It’s here now, sister, and we’re about to go through it.”

Unblinking, it had followed their frantic attempts to escape. Once they were flat against it, the eye swirled open. Surrounded by irritated buzzing, the girls exploded through the sable pupil into a lightless cavern.

Behind them, the eye clanged shut. Far ahead, violet lights glowed in the darkness. The bees pushed them towards it. “They really like this colour,” mouthed Iris.

“When we get out of here, I’ll never look at a lilac bush in same way again.”

“If we get out.”

They were moving down a tunnel with smooth, slippery sides. Deeper in, it was lit by flashing bees nailed at intervals to the ceiling.

“I wonder how often they change the bulbs,” said Thyme.

“Don’t joke. Those poor things.”

“Those ‘poor things’ may be herding us to our deaths.”

Ten metres ahead, the tunnel widened into a chamber, its walls covered in markings that looked like writing, but indecipherable. A short, man-like creature, dwarfed by four angular stick insects, waited in the centre.

“Iris.” Thyme poked her sister. “Check out the vertically-challenged dude with the basketball-player bodyguard?”

“My, my, he is short. Looks like a jack-o’-lantern plopped on top of a pumpkin.”

“His mother must have had a mega case of carotene poisoning when she was carrying him.”

“I don’t fancy the look of his bodyguard, either. Green stick insect is not this season’s best fashion choice.”

Mr Pumpkin Man strutted up to the twins. “You two have caused me a very great amount of difficulty. That wasn’t nice.”

“What funny noises it makes,” Thyme said. “They sound like they’re being generated by a machine.”

“No talking,” he barked. “When I want to hear your voices, I’ll tell you. Now, be quiet and follow me.”

“Why should we do that?” Thyme demanded.

“Because, if you don’t, I shall have one of my very tall and very hungry friends crunch off your sister’s arm.”

“You and what army?” Iris shifted from human form into a small, stinging creature. “They’ll have to catch me first.” She swooped in and landing a dart, right on the creature’s shiny, orange head.

“Ouch! Get her! Don’t kill her!” Pumpkin Man screamed. “IT wants them alive.”

The tallest of the Praying-Mantis creatures waved a raptorial leg at Iris, its mandible clicking commands. She darted away, but was soon cornered. With all four trying to grab her, she wouldn’t hold out for long.

“Leave my sister alone!” Thyme, shifting as she screamed, swooped at the Mantis Leader’s eye. It roared and thrashed in pain, all four pairs of legs flailing, lopping off feelers and bits of other mantises. Iris tried to escape the melee and flew straight into a wall of nekrobees. Ominous, saw-like buzzing broadcast how angry they were. Once again, they herded the twins, pushing them deeper into the cavern until the girls teetered on the edge of a cliff. Behind them gaped a long drop into nothingness. “Are you ready, sister?” said Iris.

“Ready when you are.” They jumped.

 ***

Endless hours, or seconds, passed. It was impossible to tell. All perception of time had vanished. The bottom, when it arrived, did so without warning. They landed—Splot!—in a puddle of sticky, foul-smelling, purple goo.

“I’m really beginning to hate this colour,” said Iris.

“Me, too. What’s that stink?”

Iris leaned closer to the puddle and sniffed. “It’s from the Dragon Arum (
Dracunculus vulgaris)
, I think. Euch! Disgusting! The things I do for you.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Probably. I don’t know. Never touched one before.”

“Then I think we should get out of here as fast as possible. Damn!”

“Now what?”

“I’m stuck. Can you lift your arm?”

Iris jerked her arm upward; rubbery strings wrapped around her forearm pulled it back.

“Damn!”

Taking a deep breath, she bent over suddenly and pulled a knife out of her boot. Bouncing back up, she slashed at the tentacles holding her arm. The puddle creature writhed and hissed, releasing her. As it backed away growling, she moved to cut her sister free.

“That’s better,” said Thyme, rubbing her arm. “That was gross.”

“You two are becoming very tiresome. First, you blind my avatar’s guards and now, you’ve frightened my poor little dragon flower.”

The twins swivelled around to discover an enormous, squishy-looking thing with waving tentacles and beady, purple eyes.

“What the...who or what are you?” Thyme demanded.

“More purple,” muttered Iris.

“Many people have called me by many names; all were wrong and all were right.”

“First, it tries to kill us, complains when we protect ourselves, and now answers our questions with stupid riddles.” Thyme detested inconsistencies.

“If you must possess something as trivial as a name before answering my questions, ‘
The Elder God
’ will do as well as any.”

“Thank you. I’m relieved we have that settled,” said Iris.

“Now, will you have the courtesy to answer me? Whatever are you doing here? Why have you invaded my home?” While the creature was saying this, oily tentacles had extruded from hand-like appendages and were slithering across their faces, caressing their hair and examining their ear-cavities.

“Argh! What in the name of bastard kittens do you think you are doing?” Thyme barked.

“I’m trying to discover your weaknesses—your price. Everyone has one.”

“And you think that rubbing slime and squid spit in our hair will make us reveal it?”

“Do you know a better way?” The mouth part of the monster smirked.

“Stop that!” Iris pushed an intrusive tentacle away from the corner of her eye socket.

“Yes. Why don’t you just ask us what our price is?”

“What an intriguing idea. No one has ever suggested
that
before.” The monster leaned back, appearing to be deep in thought. “All right, what is it that you care about more than all else in this life?”

“Books!” they shouted in unison.

“Ouch! Not so loud, if you please.” Several tentacles clutched the places on its head where—in a humanoid—ears would be, and grimaced.

“Books, book, books!” they screamed again.

“Books on paper, whole books, old books, new books, books between cardboard covers…” shouted Thyme.

“With leather bindings,” added Iris. “Unexpurgated, uncut, undoctored, unelectronic—real books!”

“Books for children—that they can hold.”

“And young adults and students.”

“All right, I get the point. So, tell me how I can use that to get you to leave my pets, my sweet little nekrobees, alone.”

“’Sweet little nekrobees,’” Thyme mimicked the Elder. “About as sweet as a tarantula crossed with a rattlesnake.”

“You don’t like my little pets?” it asked, as one settled on its frontal area. A tentacle reached down and caressed the bee before popping it into a mouth. Crunch and it was gone. The Elder belched a stench of rotting violets.

“Euw! Don’t you ever brush your teeth?” Iris complained.

“My, you are a silly girl. Answer my question, please. How can I persuade you to stop persecuting my bees?”

“Keep the damnable, flying vermin out of our library,” said Thyme.

“Oh, but I can’t do that. They have work to do there—important work.”

“What’s that, then?” said Thyme.

“And what kind of work causes my books to cry and scream?” demanded Iris.

“Surgery is always painful—is it not?”

“Surgery! What kind of surgery?” They cried, this time in unison.

“When something is diseased or broken or wrong, it should be cut out, like a cancer. Don’t you agree?”

“There are no cancers in my books, only ideas,” said Iris.

“Ah, my dear Iris, I’m sure you would agree that ideas can sometimes be dangerous, that wrong ideas can spread like disease until they infect entire civilisations.”

The creature’s beaming, oily smile made Thyme want to smash her fist right into the middle of that blubbery gob.

Iris thought about The Elder’s words before she answered. “I believe, if people read enough, are educated enough—think about hard things enough, they can protect themselves against dangerous ideas.”

“My darling Iris, you are so idealistic. “

“I’m not your darling.”

“And who gets to decide which ideas are good and which are dangerous?” Thyme demanded.

“In this case, I do.”

“Wait! No...I get it.” A shining yellow globe lit up above Iris’ head. “That’s what those horrid bees are doing. They’re changing texts—to suit...YOU!”

“What a clever child you are.”

“That’s monstrous.”

“Why bother? Nobody reads these books—nobody but us, anyway. The rest of the world gets its ideas from electronic libraries.” Thyme, muttered.

“That’s right. And where do you think electronic libraries get their texts from?”

“Huh?”

“Your books, and those in the other central depositories, are the foundation texts for all the world’s electronic media.”

“So, if you change our copy, you change all the rest.”

“What smart little girlies you are.”

Growling and hissing, Thyme was temporarily beyond speech, so Iris took up the cudgel.

“Let me see if I understand you correctly: You’re not re-writing history….”

“That’s so passé. Nobody believes what’s in history books, anymore.”

“Because monsters like you have re-written them so often.”

“I’ll ignore that, but yes, history books have become irrelevant. Facts don’t influence individual actions—except for soldiers, anyway.”

“And you think novels do?”

“Certainly. The world’s great books form the underlying paradigms of all human behaviour.”

“At least we agree on something. What’s wrong with our books the way they are?”

“Oh, Iris, are you really so naïve? Your books are so nice...so moral. They have nothing to teach us about how to live in a modern world.”

“You’re saying that if Madame Bovary hadn’t been so guilt-ridden, she wouldn’t have ended up riding around the French countryside with her lover’s head on her lap?”

“Exactly. Had she been more pragmatic, she’d have lived a long and happy life.”

“Next, you’ll say Anna Karenina shouldn’t have thrown herself in front of that train.”

“Stupid, stupid, stupid...a sorry waste of human resources.”

“You think that, by changing the plots of great novels, you can influence how people behave? That’s nonsense—nobody cares about literature these days.”

“Not necessarily. Even if very few have read a particular book, everyone knows the basics. The ideas in them permeate our global consciousness.”

“You think altering the core ideas in our books will change human behaviour? said Thyme. “It won’t work. Nobody but people like us reads, anymore. The general population won’t be exposed to your changes,” said Iris.

“That’s because
your books
,” the Elder sneered, “are so removed from real life. But if I and my bees bring these into line with current realities...Do you have any idea how many people think popular media—novels, TV, films...ARE the truth? Remember the flap back in the ‘oughties caused by Dan Brown’s
The Da Vinci Code?”

“Yuck! Unfortunately.” Iris looked as if she had bitten into something rotten and very bad-tasting.

Thyme said, “You want to Dan-Brownify our classical heritage?”

“Please.” The creature looked affronted. “Nothing so egregious as that. I like to think I’m a better writer.”