Objects of Worship (21 page)

The egg — roughly Roman’s size — is cracked open. As
Roman approaches, he notices there are tentacles sprouting
from within. Like the ship itself, they, too, shimmer at the
edge of visibility, neither shape nor colour at all stable.

Roman trudges through the gore, getting closer to the
ship.

The tentacles penetrate the chimera’s corpse — no, they
are merging with the beast. Even the egg itself is now losing
definition, blending with the strewn bones and viscera of
the animal. When the dead beast’s head raises from the
water and bellows, Roman is so startled that his feet slip on
something viscous and he falls into the pulsing, slithering
remains of the chimera. The animal has acquired a strange,
disturbing afterlife.

Roman springs up. Instinctively, he bares his fangs and
raises his claws. He rushes toward the egg and tears away
a fistful of tentacles. Black blood spurts from the wounds,
splattering everything. Roman licks his lips and tastes the
dark blood. Immediately the Wolf rises from deep within
him, and he feels his body expand again.

Roman bites into the tentacles in his hand, savouring
the alien meat. He rips out more tentacles, tears their flesh
with his fangs, feels the meat slide down his throat. The
overflow of ichor clots the fur around his mouth.

Peering inside the open cavity of the vessel, he sees
the creature within, a pulsing orb the size of a fat child,
new tentacles shooting out of it to replace those Roman
has eaten. Roman’s jaws clamp down on the creature, and
an agonized shriek issues from the mouth of the partially
reanimated chimera. The chimera’s head once more falls
into the water. The impact causes a wave of water to splash
over Roman. Momentarily startled, he pauses and looks
at the creature in the egg. Inside the torn flesh, Roman
cannot identify any organs or bones, only a mess of tightly
constricted ligaments. The outer flesh of the creature is
not distinct from its ovoid casing but rather like an inner
membrane; the egg ship and the tentacled orb are either
symbiotically merged or two parts of a single creature.

The Wolf overwhelms Roman, interrupting his thoughts.
He attacks. He feasts on the bizarre creature, devouring the
orb, tentacles . . . devouring everything.

As first-time hunters it is Lyana and Paul’s duty and
privilege to attend to the physical needs of the avatar after
the hunt. By now, as dawn breaks, all traces of the Wolf
have vanished from the two youths. Roman — almost twice
as tall as his normal size — admires their taut, naked young
bodies. Paul’s clean-shaven jawline is strong, his lips full.
Lyana’s ears are delicate, her shoulders broad.

Using fresh towels, they dry Roman’s clean fur. It’s
unusual for the Wolf to linger so long and so strongly. But
Roman enjoys it, delights in the strength and power.

While Lyana feeds the fireplace with more wood, Paul
licks Roman’s fangs. Lyana joins them and wraps her legs
around one of Roman’s massive thighs, rubbing herself.
Roman feels her juices moistening his fur.

When Roman’s consciousness is restored, there is no sign
of either Lyana or Paul. The fire is out, and Roman can
smell the juices of sex on his fur. The youths should have
cleaned him. It was their duty and their privilege.

He stands up. His living rooms appear unusually small
to him. Roman’s body has not yet reassumed its unaltered
form.

Roman ventures outside. The sun tells him it’s midmorning. Instantly he feels eyes upon him. He smells fear.
Whispers nag at his ears. People avoid him, but they stare
furtively. The Wolf should have left him by now.

Roman breaks into a run. Running helps him think. Not
this time, though. In a mounting panic, until sundown and
beyond, he runs through the streets of Montreal. People
stay out of his way. He smells fear wherever he goes.

As dawn breaks he rushes up the mountain, escapes
into the trees, and collapses from exhaustion.

In the woods, Roman dreams of the past. But not of his
past. Images, sounds, and scenes flash chaotically through
his mind, blending into each other.

He feels himself lumbering through the brush, feeding
on leaves and bark, fighting off predatory chimeras.
Until something smashes into him, breaking his back. He
remembers floating in a vast amniotic ocean, surrounded
by others like himself, other shimmering blobs. Sometimes
they float near each other, even touch each other. The
contact is both painful and pleasurable. But then shells
grow around the other blobs. A shell grows around him,
isolating him. Still, the warmth of the amniotic ocean
caresses his outer shell. There is turbulence. The warmth
goes away and is replaced by an intense cold. And then he
recognizes Montreal. Running in the streets and alleys.
Playing with other children. Which one is he? He can’t be
sure. He spreads his shit on the wall and someone shouts
at him: “Lyana!” For the first time, he touches the wetness
between his legs, pushes a finger inside, and he gasps. He
sees himself — no, sees Lyana — through someone else’s
eyes. She is under him, his weight presses down on her. Her
fingernails digging into his back, she cries, “Paul . . .”

Then he sees himself — Roman — in his Wolf form. In his
living room. He perceives himself from two perspectives at
once: from Paul’s and Lyana’s. They are worshipping the
Wolf, sharing pleasure with its avatar. Tendrils erupt from
within Roman. The tendrils encircle the hunters’ throats
before they can scream. Roman’s body shimmers, and the
tendrils pull the youths into him, subsuming their bodies
into his.

Roman wakes. He is attached to the ground by a mass of
pulsing tendrils. Damp, decaying smells clog his mind. The
sound of millions of scurrying feet echoes inside his head.
He imagines himself deep in the soil, burrowing through
the Earth. Screaming, he rips the tendrils from himself,
where they grow out of his chest and belly and crotch.
Viscous black goo oozes all over his fur. But the wounds
close up quickly. The detached tendrils wither.

He looks up in the sky: Luna is once again full, lushly
green. It’s time to hunt.

Outside the grounds of the Oratory, the crowd parts before
Roman. The people are so tiny. Like children — no, like
infants. There are screams.

He walks through the gate and stands among the
gathered hunters. He smells their fear. It angers him. The
minuscule hunters do not flee, neither do they attack. They,
too, part before him, letting him through. Roman ignores
them.

At the foot of the stairs Tamara Meatfinder has killed
the ritual wolf. She is ready to be the new avatar. But the
Wolf is still with Roman. There can be but one avatar, one
pack leader. Must he kill her to retain his claim?

In an awed tone, the Bishop says, “Roman Predator?”
The sound of his name rouses something within Roman,
and he becomes aware of his strangeness, his wrongness.

All around him, the hunters and priests and acolytes
whisper his name. Tamara shouts: “Roman the Wolf!” And
a few of them fall to their knees, arms outstretched toward
him in supplication. Then they all do it, repeating the
exclamation — all except the Bishop.

Roman’s skin itches, subtly ripples beneath the fur.
His body aches to release tendrils, to gather all these
bodies into his. Roman fights the impulse. What has he
become? The priests can help him. They hold the secrets
of transmogrification. They can restore him, maybe even
extract Paul and Lyana, extract the . . . alien. This thing
from beyond that is consuming him from the inside.

The Bishop walks down the stairs, toward Roman. He
remembers her as this massive, imposing figure, and yet
here she is at his feet, her head barely reaching his hips.

He sinks to his knees before her. He growls, “Help me.”

She reaches out to touch him, strokes the fur of his belly.
“How . . . ?”

The physical contact makes him lose control of his
body. Tendrils wrap around the fat, muscular woman. She
struggles, but it’s over in an instant. She has been pulled
into Roman’s body, has dissolved into him.

Roman screams in rage and exasperation. The hunters
and priests and acolytes cower. Roman runs away. Runs out
the gate. Runs toward the Wall. Jumps over the Wall. Jumps
so high it feels like flying. Escapes into the wilderness.
Among the chimeras.

Roman Predator preys on chimeras. When the Wolf is
strongest, he hunts them and eats them. When the alien
ascends, he subsumes them.

The memories of so many creatures swirl in Roman’s
mind. He suspects he spends entire days, maybe even
months or years, with other personalities dominating
his hybrid, chimeric body. Sometimes, his consciousness
regains control while he’s in the middle of hunting, or
feasting, or swimming, or praying. Or he finds himself in
unfamiliar surroundings, his tendrils buried in the ground,
or in a giant rock, or in a tree. Whenever his consciousness
floats back to the surface, dreamlike shadow images swiftly
parade through his mind’s eye, but they vanish before they
can leave an imprint on his memory.

Roman stumbles on a pack of nomadic savages. There are
a few dozen of them — men, women, children, babies. Some
of them have guns. He feels the bullets penetrate his skin.
They sting, like bees.

The Wolf and the alien rise in tandem. Roman bares his
fangs while a dozen tendrils sprout from his torso.

The savages scream and flee.

Roman pursues them. More bullets sting him.

Tendrils wrap themselves around the fleeing savages,
pulling them in. Roman barely pauses as these new people
merge with his chimeric body.

Within minutes it is over. Roughly half of the savages
are now part of Roman. The Wolf slew the others.

He sniffs the freshly dead meat, then eats the rest of
the pack.

The Bishop talks to him now. Together, they meditate
and can control the body. Gradually, they integrate into a
complex whole the various minds that inhabit it. The Wolf.
The chimeras. The savages. They discover other sparks
of awareness: insects, worms, arachnids, bacteria, trees,
plants, fungus, rocks . . .

Finally, there is only the alien left to integrate. The
hybrid mind attempts the contact. Communion is achieved.
The last spark of Roman’s individuality dissolves into this
new, engulfing vastness.

The Roman Chimera swims down to the ocean floor. On
the way, tendrils ensnare fish, immediately integrating
them into its hybrid consciousness. Hordes of plankton
penetrate the permeable flesh of the Roman Chimera,
joining it. It feels the mounting pressure of the water on its
skin, but the body adapts instantly to its environment.

When the Roman Chimera reaches the bottom, it
creates a hard shell around itself. And then it drills down,
downward into the Earth, through every layer, to the
planet’s core.

Having reached its destination, the Roman Chimera lets
itself be subsumed. It feeds the Earth.

From the Earth’s core, millions of microscopically thin
tendrils erupt outward.

A woman — from my greying perspective almost a girl,
really — took off her clothes and folded them in a neat pile
at her feet. When she was done, she stood still, looking out
toward the ocean. Nestled as I was among some large rocks
in a shady nook of the beach, she couldn’t have known I
was there. I wasn’t going to shatter her solitude by bringing
attention to myself.

From where I sat the young woman was in profile. She
had long strawberry-blond hair and a slim body, the kind
you see on magazine covers. Her cheeks were covered with
freckles, and her nose was turned in a peculiar way. I’d
be lying if I said I didn’t notice her full breasts, still firm
enough to defy gravity.

But what struck me most, so much so that I felt a painful
twinge in my chest, was the resigned loneliness broadcast
by her posture.

I had no idea who she was. I didn’t know everyone in
Singleton by name, but I rarely came across an unfamiliar
face, especially at six in the morning.

She stepped into the ocean.

There was an oily, chemical stench in the air, coming
in from the sea. She couldn’t have been going for a swim.
People knew better than to get in the water for pleasure
anymore.

There was a deliberateness, a weight, to her gait. She
was walking to her death.

I’m not one to interfere in other people’s lives. Someone
wants to kill themself, it’s their business and only their
own. Suicide isn’t a decision taken lightly. If someone
does it at a time and place in which they have a right to
believe that no-one will see them, then it’s clearly not a
cry for attention. It’s a personal choice. You interfere with
that — you try to “save” that person — and they’ll have to go
through that whole process of deciding to kill themselves.
Again. That’s cruel.