(oops, a day late)
The Beast Wears Faces
There was a cave. A cold, wet cave. I shuddered as I walked the lonely road up twisted paths to reach it. I could hear the air coming up from the cave like vast gasping breaths. I climbed the narrow path, where few had been before.
I had a question.
The cave was a gash cut through the mountain face. An ugly underbite. Broke stones lay scattered about the opening. I looked inside and saw nothing but darkness. A rancid smell crept up the stones. The breathing of the cave grew quicker.
“Hello?” I asked.
“Hello?…hello?…hello?…hello?…hello?…Hello.” The last echo rebounded strong in the darkness. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“I need something from you. Something important. The people in the village. They said that you could help me. That you would for free.”
The cave’s breathing grew excited. I heard water trickling in the darkness. A voice answered. “Hello. Yes. I can help you, sweetie.” The voice sounded vaguely feminine. Only my mother ever called me sweetie.
I shivered. “And it’s free?”
“It is free,” the voice said. Around the voice, the cave breathed. “But just because there is no price does not mean that there is no cost.” A thick black liquid began to trickle up the rocks. The foul ichor crept towards me. I thought I saw something moving in the dark. I could hear stones moving down below. “What do you want? I will do it for you, sweetie.”
“I want to write a book, but I don’t want to spend the time writing it.”
“Oh.” The cave heaved in ecstasy. “I have written many books. I will give your book to you.” I thought the voice sounded familiar. Maybe like my mother.
There was no doubting it now. There was a thing in the cave, and it was coming for me. The ichor gathered around my feet, a sticky sludge. More came out of the cave, now flowing like a stream and filling the spaces between the rocks. Only up, against gravity.
I spoke my idea, hoping it would make the ichor fall away and set me free. “My story is about a young farmer boy who leaves home and goes on to save the world.”
“Fascinating,” the voice crooned. The figure was almost out of the cave. “That sounds so interesting. I will write your book for you an you can have it, and make money from it, and everyone will love to hear your interesting idea.”
The figure stepped from the cave. It wore the face of my mother, but I knew she was back in the village. It spoke with my mother’s voice. Tendrils of ichor attached to her back, pulsing.
“You’re not me mother,” I said, my voice weak.
“No, sweety.” It smiled my mother back at me. Tar oozed between its teeth. “She came to me last week to learn how to make lemon squares. I thought you would like me to wear her face. She paid the cost, and you will too.” The voice changed until it sounded like mine.
My mother’s face melted, reshaping until I looked back at me.
“This is the cost of your laziness. I will forever wear your face. I will forever speak with your voice. I will be you forever.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. So little? “Okay. Give me my book.” I held out an impatient hand.
“So be it,” I said to me.
I walked back to the village, thrilled at my success, as I stood in the cave mouth, watching myself walk away.
Michael Frutig 