Derek had been quiet for most of the Bunyine’s continued story. There had been moments, as the tale grew far worse, when the bricks of the boy’s dam seemed paused in a hushed silence, poised to be overwhelmed. With every new horror the beast relayed Derek’s fists clenched, his teeth ground, a testament to an unwieldy compassion that was infused with righteousness.
“Why did you stop?” the boy asked.
The Bunyine puffed a hot cloud through his gigantic nostrils. “Do you wish to continue? I ask out of courtesy.”
Derek straightened his back and crossed his arms, holding back something. It had been many hours. Four? Five? Longer? The Bunyine spoke in a way that seemed deliberately slow. “I am fine,” the boy said. Derek knew, however, that it was the teller of this tale who did not want to go on.
The Bunyine might have made a shrug, right then, if he did such things. “If you say so. As I said, it was merely a courtesy. No concern of mine.”
I fell. Down I went, and for an utterly horrifying moment, I was nowhere. My body was in touch with nothing. I was in the air. I was in the sky. I was not of this earth. It was so strange, such confusion, such insanity, that it seemed like eternity. In truth, it was the blink of an eye. Then I hit. I hit the bottom, and was consumed. The shaft, which could not have been man-made, was filled with cold, dirty water. I struggled as I sank, lashing with four useless limbs, stripped of flesh and muscle like the bones of an eaten fish. My screaming was as nothing, for my mouth was quickly filled with this horrid water, which was thick with grime, dust and soot. Soon, the air was gone, my lungs shrieked and twisted. The darkness was absolute. My remaining eye, open wide, saw nothing in any direction. Oh, the terror. The pain and the terror.
Down there were the diminutive remains of men’s children. I felt them beneath me. What deranged god had been worshiped in this place? What ritual had consecrated this hole in the world? This dankest of pits.
How can I describe that moment at the bottom? I was lost in a place so black, so cold, that the sheer fear made me cackle. It was so terrible, as had all these long days been, that I found it ludicrous. Bubbles from laughter, from madness, poured from my mouth and rose up into the darkness. This was impossible. This could not be. I don’t know what I thought when the first stone hit the jagged bottom of the pit, right alongside me, but I know what my second thought was. I began to holler, quite pointlessly, for help, down there in the lonesome cold. Holler like I’d never done. I screamed for my fathers, for my mother, for my king and queen to forgive me for my wickedness and deformity. I knew that nobody heard me.
The next rock landed on my skeleton tail, and fear exploded within me. The muscles at the end of my arms and legs were torn, scraped away, and the claws no longer flexed. There at the bottom of this black, silent Tartarus, I hollered in the darkness and struggled to drag my body away from it, as if it were the devil himself. The next rock, a boulder that might have been nearly as big as my own body, caught me right in the center and drove deep. I felt my ribs collapse under the weight, bending inward, like iron, but never breaking, for they could not. The weight of the stone ground up my organs and twisted my limbs every which way. My head was crushed, driven by stone into stone. The pain was so enormous, so untenable, every part of me shattered, even those parts that did not give.
They must have filled the shaft in with every nearby boulder, piling them in on top of me until the hole was filled. Enough of them to bury me a hundred times over. And I felt every one, every jagged edge that pressed and tore me asunder. They closed up the entrance to the mine when they were done. They did it so that I should have never been found, until the end of the world. And there I remained, enduring the pain of death, every incredible moment. Not a scrap of flesh or bone was free from the crushing tonnage, as if a mountain had been laid there upon me. If there was ever a moment in which my lungs could flex for air, it would have been denied them. A hell, within a hell, within a hell. The pain was complete. It was always. It was everywhere. It was everything.
How long did I remain there dying yet never achieving death? How long? How long did my heart cry out in the darkness? How long? I shall never know for certain. For every moment of eternity men condemned me, God ignored me, until that heart of mine, so big, so full of need, began to pump venom through my twisted veins. How much time passed before my cries for mercy became pleas for vengeance. I begged God for the blood of men. To have at the throats of their children. To revel in the screams of the ones they loved. My soul howled, beneath stone and foul water, for a moment when I could repay men for the infernal contempt they have for innocence.
Oh, how I returned that contempt when I emerged, all those epochs of pain later. I returned it, by tooth and nail, to those hideous creatures that sired me. For this demon that I am. For this evil that men called the Bunyine.
After the presentation ended, Peter waited, but nothing more occurred in the moon window. With slouching shoulders and an exhausted look, Peter turned around and limped to the second-story window on his left. He bent down and squinted at the glass. There was nothing going on inside. Instead of testing it, he just turned away, crossed the roof, and looked in the next one. At first, he could see very little. There was a strange, unnatural glint on the glass. It seemed to come from no apparent direction, as if it were emanating from the window itself. It made the room hard to see. It took a while. Soon he could make out individual objects inside. There was a lot of clutter. It looked like furniture, but the primary palette, coupled with the strange glare, made details almost impossible to discern. When something in there moved, he was startled with a jolt and took a step back.
Standing perpendicular to Peter in the window, almost like a shadow, was a skinny, chalky-white figure and arms that looked like a chimpanzee’s. Peter tapped on the glass with the toe of his old shoe but the figure didn’t make any kind of response. Peter tapped out ‘Shave and a Haircut’, leaving out the ‘two bits’, hoping the figure would finish it. Nothing, again. Was any noise penetrating the glass? A bit annoyed, Peter started to poke at the window with the spade. After a couple of very hard strikes failed to incite a response, Peter realized he was, as usual, getting nowhere.
“Dammit!” he yelled, stomping his feet. He started to hop on the window, which didn’t seem to bother the white figure. When it turned away, it was possibly from boredom. “Wait a minute! How do I get in! How did you get in! What the hell am I doing?” Wait a minute. Why doesn’t this window do anything? Some of the other ones did things. Does the other one do anything? He ran back to the first window and started to jab and stomp on it, too, but nothing was happening inside. Soon, Peter was tuckered out and more than his share of frustrated. He dropped to the window and just sat there, trembling with agitation. Obviously, he was doing this wrong. He needed a new strategy. Okay. Think. Douglas said I had to make some effort. Something specific to me, not breaking the window like some home invader.
If the way in was specific to Peter, then what about Peter would be relevant? Douglas spoke of some kind of new product line. Affinity. Peter would have to use it. That meant stopping and thinking. I’m not that complicated a person, really. I’m, actually, pretty simple. In a good way, of course. I’m funny. I think I am, anyway. I’m clever. I’m fairly smart. No! Those things are far too general. That could be any one of five-hundred million people on Earth. I may as well include being male in that equation, only one out of every two people that ever lived can claim that distinction. More specific, then. Well, what makes me, me? Let’s see. I love movies, I love video games, and I love my wife. That’s it, pretty much. Those are the big three. Not in that order of importance, of course. Alyssa comes first. That’s not me being hokey, it’s just the truth. She is the only one of those that I can’t do without. Those other things are great, but only Alyssa loves me back.
This didn’t feel like the right track to Peter. Actually, it did feel kind of hokey. Sincerity is often unbearably tawdry. Let’s stick to the first two things. Who I was before Alyssa came along. Those things are still the same, even if I’m not, exactly. Peter sat down, pulled his legs to his chest, and rested his chin on his knees. Of those two things, video games have to claim a decisive victory. I mean, I love games so much that I got into the industry. Yes, video games would win by a full body length, but that’s ignoring how important movies are. They are pretty damn important, too. I mean, I think about them all the time. I’ve practically modeled my whole life around their lessons and ethics. So, maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way. I spent more time playing games, but does that make them more important?
Peter was exhausted, and that made it hard to think. Even if he wasn't in his real body, he still felt some of the weariness of the day. My favorite movie is “The Jerk”. Hands down. I’d love it if I could give one of the standard answers, because everyone I know says their favorite movie is “Star Wars”, or “The Godfather” or “The Matrix”, or “Raiders of the Lost Ark”, or “Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan” Those are the number one answer for ninety percent of everyone who’s ever mattered to me. Alyssa likes “The Wall”, that’s just an extension of her “Pink Floyd” obsession. Whenever you mentioned any of those other films, though, somebody standing within ten feet of you lights up like a whole field of Christmas trees. When you say “The Jerk”, people just nod blankly and assume you are some kind of hipster who detests the mainstream. You have to describe it to them, saying things like ‘you know, the one with the guy who…’. No, I stopped answering that question honestly years ago. What do I like so much about it, though?
Perhaps, it was merely his sense of humor. His favorite scene, however, wasn’t one of the funnier ones. It was the scene after Navin Johnson, the eponymous jerk, has lost all of his money and is proclaiming not to need it, that he does not, in fact, need anything. He repeats this as he lurches out of his mansion with nothing to his name but the clothes on his back. On his way out, however, he changes his mind, over and over, grabbing things that he seems certain he’ll need. The scene ends with him limping off with his pants down around his ankles, carrying a bunch of junk in his arms, continually amending his growing list of necessities. Most of them are material possessions that are of no use. Peter couldn’t even estimate how many times he’d walked out of friends’ houses acting out that scene, voice and everything, grabbing little items off of shelves and tables. Sometimes he even left with the items. He did it so much that people started doing it when they were leaving his place. Even Alyssa did it, once.
It’s probably the least amusing scene in The Jerk, actually. It’s kind of a downer, now that I think about it. It very much spoke to Peter, though. It says that, perhaps, though the best things in life are free, you can’t always have those things, and if you need to cling to material possessions that bring you comfort, why not do so? No doubt Peter was imposing this meaning on the film. Nevertheless, he related to it that way. What kind of life would I be living now if I didn’t have Alyssa? I don’t even want to think about it. He’d been like Navin, once, when possessions had a greater importance to him. He supposed he loved that scene even more now that he was no longer like Navin Johnson.
So, was this the right track? How could it be? It didn’t make a bit of sense. His favorite scene in his favorite movie? He’d been sitting for nearly ten minutes, lost in his thoughts, but he wasn’t any more real than he had been. Looking around him, it was obvious nothing had changed. Douglas mentioned something about creating a great deal of energy when I become real. It will happen right at the moment I came to some kind of…what? I’m still not sure. Do I need to have a revelation? That certainly hasn’t happened. What did any of this have to do with The Jerk? Is this the dumbest idea I’ve ever had? No, probably not.
Peter scratched his head and decided to just move on as if he’d actually made some progress. So, his favorite movie was easy. His favorite game? Hmm. If I had a gun to my head I’d have to say Skyrim. Most of my friends said their favorite games were Ocarina of Time, Final Fantasy 7, or Half Life 2. Skyrim is it, for me, though. A free-roaming fantasy world? What could be more engrossing to a daydreamer like Peter Huffy? Starting the day he brought that game home he did little else but play it for a month.
Peter knew people who’d had real computer and game addictions far worse than his. Even though he knew he had a relatively minor case, now that he was in a relationship he tended to feel a little bad about it. So, he promised himself he wouldn’t let it get out of hand, again. He hoped he could keep that promise. After he switched off the game for the last time, after hours and hours of continuous play in the contiguous realm of Skyrim, Alyssa acted like she didn’t recognize him in the hallway. She said that the Peter she knew had disappeared several years ago, so she’d moved on and had nine kids with a man named Chuck. More than once, Peter wondered if there really was a Chuck.
Peter had hated himself for a long time. Even though Alyssa had teased him for a while afterward, she didn’t dwell on it. He did, though. I took her for granted. It was shameful. That was still early in our relationship. She had still seemed too good to be true. I know better, now. I know it better than anything. He still played games, of course, but never so much that it affected her. It hadn’t been easy, it’s just so simple, falling back into those unhealthy behavioral patterns. They develop, after all, because they’re easy. It’s easier to eat junk than to take the time and prepare an actual meal. It’s easier to be neglectful of others than give them the attention they deserved. It’s easier to not exercise, too. Boy, is that one easier.
Peter couldn’t see a parallel between The Jerk and Skyrim, though. Dammit! There isn’t one! Even if I could think of one, what could I do about it? All I have is that useless spade. He’d pitched it over his shoulder when he sat down. It hadn’t been of any use getting him in the house. But here? In this Place? It’s about as useful to me here as a subscription to Men’s Fitness is in the real world.
What about spades? Something about spades prodded Peter like the devil’s trident. Wait a minute. Spades. What about spades and Skyrim? Something is bugging me. As far as I can remember, spades were useless in the game. That’s right! I carried around a spade for most of the game and only found out later that you never use it. In the multitude of adventures he’d had in that world, there was never a call for a spade. He recalled wondering why they’d even included spades in the game to begin with. For atmosphere? What a waste of time! But wait, what do spades have to do with The Jerk? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Why was Alyssa’s spade here? Why did the Onk wave one at me? What's the message that I’m missing here? Maybe spades aren’t useless? Was that it? Is this whole world just a big ad for spades?
He knew that movie backwards and forwards. He turned it over and over in his mind. Navin never grabbed a spade and yelled ‘I need this!’. It never happened. He picked up an ashtray, a paddle-ball, a remote control, a book of matches, a chair, but no spade. Damn you Navin! Wait a second…wait. Pants around the ankles. Peter remembered, quite clearly, that Navin walked out of his mansion with his pants around his ankles. Something about that was nibbling at him.
Peter, suddenly, had the dumbest idea he’d ever had in his life, which was no little feat. This was, after all, the man who’d invented General Tso’s Pancakes. He had to take a long breath before taking to action. It’s a longshot. Is there something beyond a longshot? Dumb. That’s what this is. It’s a dumbshot.
Peter climbed to his feet and sluggishly went about the business of undoing his trousers. He unclasped the suspenders and left both dangling over his rear-end. He undid the button fly, too, then he dropped the trouser legs at a heap around his ankles. It felt more than a little foolish. It’s one thing to be caught with your pants down while in your boxer shorts, or your embarrassing tighty-whities, but this…in this day and age, nobody ever forgets seeing a man in a pair of 19th century woolen long johns. It was, especially, awkward when he had to inch like a penguin over to where he’d left the spade, because he hadn’t thought to pick it up first before dropping his trousers.
When he was, finally, standing on the window, looking at his faint image reflected back at him, he hoped, right then, with all his heart, that Douglas Windward was a discreet man. I know the guy is watching from somewhere. I just know it. Somebody always seemed to be watching when Peter did something very stupid. Peter took a deep breath, cocked back the spade, and struck the window with all his strength. Cracks appeared underneath him. Real cracks. The window shattered and gave way. Peter fell through, screaming in his undergarments. The scream ended with a loud THUMP.
There was a long pause in the creature’s narration. It had become lost in itself, once more. Everything was quiet and still. After a short while, Derek looked up at the Bunyine, who was staring off into the night, as if there were something there to be seen. The boy understood what the beast had been describing. He understood, logically, but it took a while before he fully understood. The extent of what the beast was saying hit Derek like a fist. His eyes opened so wide, they nearly split his head into halves.
The Bunyine looked off into the sky, memories rankling. “What a sight I must have been upon my emergence from that cave. Vengeful and insane. Longing to return the pain that had birthed me anew. I killed and killed, man and beast, alike. I swept through the villages of that cold land. I made meat of whatever I found in those huts of sticks and mud. I imagine there was not a living thing around that did not feel my wrath. Not a deer, rabbit, or child at play that did not spill its blood and bless my resurrection with its pitiful screaming. In time, I returned to my senses. Even then, I was not the same. I am not the same.”
“Oh, no. No,” said Derek. The words just came out, almost on their own. Something was starting to overtake the boy. The beast turned its head. The boy could hear its breaths pick up speed, matching its own heartbeat. It was the sound of growing rage. The Bunyine had never spoken of these things before, and the experience was arousing something terrible within him. Something that hated.
“I…” Derek stammered, then he stopped himself. It was so terrible. So hideous. So absurd. He did not, could not, believe it.
The Bunyine’s head spun his way and it looked at him intently. Its eyes were murderous. “What were you going to say to me, boy?” it asked.
Derek shook his head. “Nothing.”
“What were you going to say, Derek?” it insisted, its temper growing hotter.
The boy was, now, very anxious. It was not the Bunyine that frightened him, however, it was the story. He hugged himself, pulled everything in tight. The beast’s gaze was now fixed on the boy, who diminished before his eyes. “How long? How long were you down there?”
The question stung the darkness. At first, the creature did not answer, but his eyes continued to pierce Derek. They quivered like the poles of two lances, newly struck. What was happening? Had the Bunyine’s patience run thin? And was there anything else keeping him from devouring Derek? “Eight-hundred years? A thousand? I did not keep time in that way. I cannot give you a better answer than this.”
Derek gasped. “What! No!” The very idea of it, that pain. Even for a moment, such suffering had to be impossible. How could God allow it? “It’s impossible!” Derek insisted, desperately. His emotions were winning. Derek always had problems with compassion. Sometimes, it was severe. But it had never been like this.
“It is anything but impossible.”
“No!
“Yes, Derek.”
“It just couldn’t have happened. It couldn’t! It’s too…”
“It could happen. It did happen. To me and me alone,” the Bunyine insisted with growing wildness. “No one came to my rescue. There was only myself. For a thousand years I scraped and twitched myself to freedom. Never did a single lungful of air make its way down through that mountain of stones, never for a moment did the weight cease to smash my very being into oblivion. I am the only thing living that has truly been in hell, and returned from it. What you see before you...”
The boy’s face twisted with bewilderment. Derek, already compassionate to a fault, couldn’t bear the thought of all of that pain. Horror boiled inside of him, rejecting the very concept. Who could ever contrive such a thing? Who could be so horrible? “It can’t be true! Say it isn’t true! Please, say it!” the boy begged. He was overcome in a way most people would not be. It was his nature, his burden, his affinity.
“It is the truth.”
“It’s not true!” Derek jumped to his feet. He turned several times, as if confused, and he ran away. The Bunyine watched him going, then he stood up, his huge body uncurling in a single motion. With a leap he was after the boy. Derek, flustered, did not hear him coming as he crossed the bridge, but when he found his path blocked, a huge figure rising, suddenly, before him, the boy cowered back from it. The beast growled, and the noise lingered, as if having to be beaten down. “I want to go!” Derek hollered.
The Bunyine snorted, and calmed down. “You shall not go running from me. I may succumb to the urge to give chase, and I do that for one reason only. I often lose my senses while in pursuit. I see but one thing. So do not run from me.”
Derek hung his head, he was trembling terribly, for too many reasons to count. “It’s the story!”
“You think it’s impossible? I am lying?”
A pause. Derek was considerably meeker, now. “No. Not lying.”
“Not lying? Yet, not speaking the truth?” said the Bunyine. He settled his giant body down, blocking the boy’s path. “And why would I lie to you, boy? For what purpose?”
The boy did not meet the giant’s eyes this time. “I can’t believe it. I won’t.”
“But you do. You do. You cannot hide that from me. Your soul is wide open. As bare as a newborn.” The Bunyine's eyes bore into Derek. They seemed as deep as wells. The effect made was mesmerizing with terror.
“But…” Derek uttered.
Derek had felt the Bunyine starting to get angry, again. Starting to lose control. Derek knew that rage might make it do terrible things. “You would rejoice if men came for me, again. Came to send me back to that...that place,” it spat, then halted. The beast suddenly pricked up his ears. His eyes darted all around, as if he’d heard the clarion call of an enemy. The beast swiveled its head back around, it met Derek’s gaze with his own ancient stare. “Did you…?” the Bunyine snarled. “Are you…!”
“What?” Derek pleaded. He was terrified. The beast was becoming livid. “What is it?”
The Bunyine snapped and it looked Derek up and down, hovering there as if not certain what to do with the boy - tear him to pieces or set him free. The beast’s huge body spun around several times, as if confused which way to go. Its claws plowed huge furrows into the grass. Derek cried and jumped out of the way. Then it was gone, bounding away in soft thumps. Derek watched breathlessly as it went, his arms squeezing himself in defense. As much as a minute later, he still could not stop shaking. Something else was here, something evil was hiding nearby. A voice, a raspy one, rose out from the darkness behind him.
“Goodbye, old one,” it said. Derek looked. Standing there was that thing called Tibb coming out of the trees. He smiled at Derek, his vicious teeth apparent in the bright night. Derek stumbled back. Watching him fearfully, he turned and ran.