Fiction

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Once Brutus knew what happened to Angus and Mary and where the children were, he had no more use for Bortamus. He abruptly ended the conversation and excused himself saying it was getting late; that he promised his mom and dad to be back before 6:00 PM. Bortamus wished him well and said he hoped to see Brutus around again, to which Brutus lied, “I’ll stop in if I’m ever back in town again.” Of course, Brutus had no intention of ever meeting up with Bortamus if he could help it. Bortamus was such a bore.

Brutus picked up his walking stick and decided against trying to leave without paying for his meal. However, paying for the sandwich was a little tricky. He made sure Bortamus wasn’t watching before he walked up to the clerk. The sandwich and drink (with the refill) were seven grankels and forty-eight ponks. He first offered a green bill, but the clerk said one hundred grankels was more than he could handle at the time and asked if he had anything smaller. Brutus chanced a guess and offered a blue bill. The clerk accepted this and gave Brutus a yellow bill, two white bills, two silver coins that had a star stamped on them, and two smaller white coins that were stamped with an eagle or hawk or some kind of a bird. From this, Brutus figured that the yellow bill was worth ten grankels and the white bills were worth one grankel each.

Once he left the beef and yank shop, Brutus wasted no time. In just one hour, he had stolen a pair of pants and shirt from a small store two blocks away on a side street. It was easy. He took the clothes off the rack and went to a dressing room where he exchanged them for the clothes on his back. Then he stole a billfold that was a display and boldly but very discretely helped himself to the cash register before he finally made it out through a side door. He spent the next two hours mingling with the townsfolk and learning how to blend in.

It almost didn’t matter, most walked by with a smile or a friendly nod. Even so, there were several who were intrigued by the stick he carried and asked if he was out of town and needed help, to which he responded, “I’m hiking and this is my walking stick.” This usually brought a smile and an inquiry as to where he came from and where he was going. By the end of the fourth episode of these encounters, Brutus’s confidence was soaring. He was able to talk his way in and out of most any questions that came up during the banter.

In between these meetings with the townsfolk, Brutus had a chance to think things over. He was certain he had enough money. From the way Bortamus talked, the red bills were worth quite a bit, and he had collected twelve of them. He also had quite a fistful of the other colored bills as well. These were all neatly tucked away in the billfold and safely stashed in a back pocket. He decided that, if possible, he would not steal anything more, except perhaps food and drink. He didn’t want to stretch his luck too far.

He also had to decide if it was going to be safe to travel by train, or whatever the magnerail was. He thought about hitchhiking but that would require too much interaction with others. He thought about stowing away on a truck (he had no idea what they might look like) and ride it to Kittanning. But it would be difficult to locate one without asking too many dubious questions. He even thought about making the trip by foot or bicycle. But he would have to steal the bicycle, and he wanted to stick to his plan not to steal anymore. To go by foot would just take too long even if he knew exactly where he was going. It was undeniable that the only choice he really had was to use the magnerail.

Once he decided on the magnerail, he stopped a passerby and explained that he was new in town and wanted to know where he could pick up the magnerail. Brutus was fortunate he had not introduced himself as a hiker from Puddle Bottom West - that was the closest town, so he was told, that had a magnerail station.

Another problem he had to face was one that had been nagging him since he arrived in this new world. His body was on a twenty-four hour clock and he became very weary hours before anyone contemplated retiring for the night. Brutus was having an extremely difficult time adjusting. He wondered how Chester and Clara had handled it. He remembered no tales in which they mentioned anything about it.

Puddle Bottom West was only two miles away. He could walk there in thirty minutes, forty at most. But he was very wary of the road, and wanted to stay off it if at all possible. Hopefully, he would find a walking trail. The lady with the red hair in the pink autobox (Brutus could not think of any other term by which to call it) was a warning that traveling by foot along the roadways was very unusual.

Brutus wanted to stay out of sight leaving town. So he decided to get off of Puddle Avenue, which was the main street. He walked a couple of blocks south to Muddy Street and turned right to head west until he came to Jacamaw Street. This was the street that cut across Puddle Avenue and formed the intersection he encountered when he first arrived in town. Brutus took Jacamaw to Puddle Avenue. Because he was now on the edge of town there were fewer pedestrians. With a little patience and right timing, he would be able to leave unnoticed.

At precisely the right moment Brutus made his move and began to trudge back to Yellow House Road. He had traveled a short distance when he came upon a sign on the far side of the road that would have been an answer to his prayers if he believed in such a thing. The sign read:

Puddle Bottom Walking Trail
Puddle Bottom West, 1 1/2 miles

He didn’t remember seeing it on the way in. This was good news. The walk would not only be shorter, but it would keep him from suspicion as a hiker. It was about 7:00 in the afternoon (which was roughly equivalent to 5:15 PM on Earth). This would hopefully get him to his destination before the last magnerail out of Puddle Bottom West. He hoped not to run into any other hikers and especially anyone that might be looking for him. He was relatively confident that he would not. All the same, he would stay alert. Brutus crossed the road to the sign and entered the trail.

Brutus was making good time. The trail was easily traversed and at the pace he was keeping he would be in Puddle Bottom West in thirty minutes or less. He met no one coming or going. After ten minutes he came by a pool of water about thirty feet across which was remarkably clear and clean. Brutus tossed in a stone, and it fell to the bottom so quickly that the pool appeared to be only a few feet deep.

Brutus thrust in his walking stick and indeed it struck the bottom with only half the stick submerged. The bottom of the pool was not at all muddy but hard like stone and blue like the sky. There were a few large rocks jutting out of the water near the center of the pool. Lily pads idly floated here and there and the grassy banks came down to the edge of the water. Except for these, Brutus might have thought the pool was built by the city or perhaps by those who sponsored the walking trail.

He squatted down and put his hand in the water. It was cool but not chilly. Brutus took a handful of water and splashed it over his face. It felt very good. He reached in again scooping out enough with both hands to refresh himself with a few swallows. Brutus reached in a third time and was startled by a disturbance of the water near the bank on the far side. Something had clambered out of the pool and was slowly dragging itself up the bank. It was a large reddish-brown lizard.

Brutus quickly pulled his hand out of the water and fell backward. With dread, he glanced to his left and right to spot anything along the water’s edge that might resemble the creature on the far bank.

A shadow passed over the pool. Brutus looked up and in the expanse above that little body of water he saw a dark, gloomy sky that harbored pale, gray clouds. To be sure, the sun was soon to set but this should have made the sky, if anything, pink. Brutus lowered his gaze back to the water. The pond had changed.

A chill swept over Brutus. The air was considerably cooler; actually, it was chilled, as if the door of a deep freezer the size of the sky opened from above. There was no wind, no rustling of leaves or branches. Just stillness, like a cold wintry forest plunged into deep silence where no living animal moved or bird took flight.

Brutus began to shiver. The air frosted his breath as it billowed from his nose and mouth. Only the pond escaped the freeze. It sloshed with a repulsive, muddy liquid at the bottom of which Brutus imagined nasty, slimy creatures. Here and there a bubble rose to the surface and ejected a stinking vaporous fume into the air.

Brutus sat on the bank surrounded by stench and gloom. There was no place to go, no rock to hide under, no hole to climb into. Brutus earnestly wanted to get to his feet and run from that cursed place, but he couldn’t.

Then, without warning, a suggestion formed in Brutus’s mind. He was urged, as if by an inner voice, to move closer to the lizard. This fancy, so utterly illogical, and yet unexplainably logical, grew stronger and stronger until it gave way to desire.

Brutus got to his hands and knees and began to crawl slowly along the bank above the murky pool. The lizard continued to fix its gaze on Brutus as it gradually turned its head and eyes to follow his movement. Brutus crawled a dozen feet or so when the reptile unexpectedly began to push itself slowly along the top of the bank toward him. A fearful chill struck Brutus making the back of his neck prickle. He halted his movement but the lizard continued to edge closer, slowly, smoothly, ever keeping its eyes fixed on Brutus.

The lizard had moved to within a few yards and stopped. Over the barren, frosty, tundra of the pond’s bank, no sound was heard except the soft cracking sound of the willowy tongue whipping in and out of the lizard’s mouth.

Brutus extended his hand toward the lizard. The beast stood still for a moment and then pushed itself once more. It moved now to within inches of Brutus’s hand. It edged closer and closer, the snaky tongue all the while softly slapping the air. Brutus stretched out the back of his hand to within an inch of the creature’s slippery tongue. Without breath, he continued to stretch it closer and closer until he came to feel the disturbance of the air against his skin.

Then the tongue struck. The moment contact was made, a loud, snapping, cracking noise like an electric spark pierced the air. A fiery, stinging sensation seared the back of his hand. Brutus involuntarily jerked it away and fell on his side. With his eyes closed and knees curled to his chest, Brutus cradled his hand and wailed. The stinging was intense. The pain deepened and his hand swelled as Brutus writhed on the ground. Out of desperation he dragged himself to the edge of the pool and plunged his arm deep into the foul water.

Astonishingly, there was relief. Not complete relief, but relief nonetheless. Brutus did not dare pull out his arm and held the wounded flesh there for a considerable while. After a time, the pain became bearable and Brutus ventured to withdraw his hand and arm.

Water dripped in big, stinking, gray drops. The hand itself was only slightly swollen now. Brutus held it up in front of his face, and he saw a red circular welt about the size of a dime. The red spot was extremely sensitive and Brutus dared not to touch it.

In all of his pain and bellowing Brutus had clean forgotten about the creature. He was facing away from the spot where the wretched beast had lain when it stung him. Brutus reeled around with his fists clenched, but the reptile was gone. He surveyed the immediate area, but there was no sign of it. The little beast had stung him and lumbered away. Brutus hastily judged that when he had made such a stir over the sting, the lizard was frightened and simply clambered away as fast as it could.

And yet, Brutus pondered the episode. He played it back in his mind. Certainly he was a fool for even thinking that the thing was friendly. The recollection of those eyes and that tongue began to make Brutus feel sick in the pit of his stomach. Especially that tongue. It was fascinating! Enthralling! But dreadful. Brutus shivered. It was a very, very dreadful thing, a scary thing, a thing of pitch black horror.

Brutus felt absolutely nauseous. The tongue was so beautiful and yet so repulsive at the same time. He knew deep in his heart that he was not a nice person. He knew that he cared little for anyone but himself. That never bothered him and didn’t bother him even at that moment. But this was as if he had an encounter with pure evil; as if the epitome of all that was contrary to good resided in that beast with the yellow-orange eyes and the slippery, whipping tongue. He had come face to face with it and was drawn to it.

Brutus became sick. He stepped away from the pool, fell to his knees and vomited. He hated himself. How could even he have given in to such wicked beauty? He held up his hand. In clear view, on the back of his hand, was the mark of that little beast.

Brutus’s mind began to thrash around with terrifying thoughts. What was the meaning of that mark, if it had any? He studied it closely. He could give no explanation, but there was a menacing thought that kept coming back to him; that the mark had somehow affected him, changed him, and would force the worst of all that he was to come out.

The presence of the mark was, as it were, a seal of ownership and possession, like the branding of a cow. Brutus firmly believed that the cursed creature had deceived him and laid claim to him by marking him exclusively for its own pleasure. And after it saw with satisfaction the pain it had caused, it deemed its work for the moment to be finished and simply left Brutus to ponder the consequences.

And yet, how absurd that notion was; a dumb cold-blooded animal purposely setting him apart, making him the target of an evil ambition. Brutus held up his hand once again. He feared that that stinging red mark would give him away, that he would have to conceal it or else he would be known truly for the foolish person he must be to allow such a ghastly thing to happen.

Reason. Common sense. Those words burst into Brutus’s mind like an explosion. He had to be reasonable. The red mark could be explained away. He had no reason to fear it or fear that anyone would be suspicious of it. It would be gone in a few days, a week or two at most. He was a fast healer. Many a bruise or scrape or burn had marked him, and they were all gone except for the faintest evidence of an unnoticeable scar or discoloration of the skin.

Brutus forced himself to be reasonable. The lizard was probably one that was commonly avoided and for good reason. This taught Brutus a lesson. Trust no one and no animal; trust no living creature. There was much about this world he had yet to learn. He had to guard himself not to be so careless.

Brutus shook himself as if from a trance. He took a deep breath. The frozen chill of the air was gone; the winter barrenness of the wood had returned to its summer plentitude, and the stinking pool now sloshed with crisp, clear water. He took another deep breath and held it for a few seconds before he let it out slowly.

He felt much better now and his mind was clearer. The pain in his hand was little more than a dull pinch. The more he thought about it the more it seemed to be a trivial matter after all. He hastily concluded that his imagination had run wild and exaggerated the whole encounter. He had to put this behind him. He probably wasted a good half-hour, and he wanted to make it to Puddle Bottom West before that last departure of the magnerail. He was going to have to get back on the trail and get moving again. Brutus took one last look at the pool before he turned and made his way back to the walking trail. It was getting late. There was no time to lose. With a new sense of purpose, Brutus pressed on. He must make it in time. He must...“or someone will pay for this,” he muttered.

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