When The Monsters Come

Were they really monsters? From everything I knew, monsters would simply eat to stave off their hunger. They didn’t waste an inordinate amount of time arranging it before they ate it. Finished with the red cylinders, the Artist moved to the cubes. Its tool slowed when slicing into them, clanging against the table with each stroke. The slices stuck to the side of its tool, toppling into the pile when it cut the next one.

A small window I hadn’t noticed opened up behind the Artist and the ugly face of another monster appeared on the other side. It grunted something at the Artist who jerked, obviously startled by the interruption. The Artist’s eyes narrowed and the pale skin tightly wrapping its face shifted to blotchy red before it turned and bellowed in the grating monster language I still couldn’t believe existed.

The scenery might have been alien to me, the players monsters I could barely stand to look at without flooding my fear into the air, but I understood their actions. I loved my son more than anything in existence, even the Standing Ones, not that I’d admit it. That said, he’d interrupted me during my other duties a few times and once, I’d reacted exactly like the Artist: with anger. These monsters found us in the dark, away from the su

n’s light. They had language and captured us. The Artist had spent the last half hour chopping and arranging a platter of food. I’d been denying it, thinking it such a ridiculous notion, but I had to admit these…things were more than just monsters.

The platter rose from the table in the Artist’s paw. With a shake of its head, it turned and slammed the platter down in the window, causing the thing on the other side to flinch back. The window thudded shut and the Artist’s shoulders slumped. It stood there, muttering in its language. Before, merely the sounds one of these things produced turned my innards, but now I almost empathized with it.

I understood what it felt. The annoyance of being interrupted while working on something, its anger at whatever the other thing said to it and now, the mix of guilt at its outburst and resentment aimed at the one that pushed it to blow up.

After a few moments of more muttering, the Artist’s shoulders dropped and it returned to the large box. The scents of death and rot billowed out as before. They didn’t turn my senses as much this time. Had I grown accustomed to them or had my realization lessened the sense of disgust and otherness these animals gave me?

The artist’s shoulders strained when it pulled out a black bucket as wide as its shoulders. It moved slowly while turning, taking great care to keep the bucket level. When it slammed against the table, water sloshed out of its open top.

This didn’t smell of death, but of the ocean and its life. Not clean by any sense. Life was messy after all: living, vibrant and growing. While I took in this new smell, the Artist grabbed another bucket, this one silver with a black handle. It filled the new bucket with water using one of the many tools I’d not recognized.

This water didn’t smell like the ocean. It held an acrid tang I’d never encountered from water but without any of the other things I expected to smell. Water was life and it teemed with millions of tiny living things. This water didn’t smell of death, but it certainly didn’t smell like life, either. The Artist moved this container to the table. After a few seconds, vapor rose from it, the temperature in the chamber rising slightly.

I'd visited the volcanic springs near my home on Achila once and watched the scalding water bubble, deadly yet oddly beautiful. It didn’t smell like life, either, though the water the Artist poured lacked the spring's sulfur smell. I did not understand what this had to do with their food.

As if reading my mind, the Artist gave a demonstration. Its paw disappeared into the wide black box full of seawater with a small splash. It emerged holding a an animal with a sky colored shell, some giant insect. The Artist’s paw covered its wide body and three spindly legs poked out of each side of it. They flailed erratically, trying to find purchase in the air. Along with these legs, two large claws, held closed with silver bands, tried in vain to pinch the Artist’s skin and free itself.

The Artist ignored these attempts and tossed the creature into the pot of bubbling water. The water hissed while the creature died and I flinched in on myself. I’d almost emphasized with one of these monsters, thought them more than simple animals, yet for all their advances, that was what they were: animals. Only animals killed their own, murdered other animals for food.

No wonder the Poker’s breath smelled like death. The other food the Artist prepared smelled the same along with rot. I should have realized it sooner. While I contemplated my horror, the Artist used tongs made of the gray material to grasp the dead animal from its boiling grave.

The now deep-clay-colored creature dropped to the table with a wet thunk, unmoving as steam rose from its curled-in legs. The Artist tentatively touched one of the claws with the tip of its finger and a smile that reminded me so much of the Poker’s predatory grin grew on its face. It latched its paw around the claw and yanked it away with an audible crack.

It brought the dismembered claw to its worm-like lips and slurped its contents. I couldn’t keep my disgust and horror from flooding the chamber. The Artist sniffed and looked around. The monster might not have understood what it smelled, but it dropped the half-eaten claw and peered toward my side of the chamber.

I couldn’t wait any longer so I slinked down behind the shelf and moved to the door. It slid open and I crawled into the empty hallway. I relaxed the moment the door closed behind me but my relief was short-lived. Several of the monsters’ hooves sounded around the corner of the hall. I wouldn’t be alone for long.

Seeing as much as I had of the Artist at its work, I wanted nothing to do with any of these doors. Despite not knowing what the monsters used the tables for, I chose that as the best option. I folded in on myself and huddled under the table, replacing the coverings.

The sound of their hooves grew louder and louder, their guttural voices turning into a cacophony. Shadows appeared through the table’s covering, the only thing keeping me from discovery by the herd of monsters. The weight of the Poker’s Lightning Stick comforted me even though the sheer number in the hallway would likely overwhelm me were I spotted.

As quickly as the group of monsters came, they left, moving down the hall. Silence reigned, leaving only the ever-present buzzes. I waited, safe in my hiding space before extending my senses, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

Hearing and smelling nothing unexpected, I lifted the covering and slipped out from under the table. A high-pitched gasp sounded behind me. A monster stood in one of the doorways down the hallway, one paw over its mouth and another pointing my way. Shorter than either the Poker or the Artist, this monster had long clay-colored hair but shared the same silver hide as the Poker, from its long black hooves to its neck. Its trunk curved in at the sides, widening above its legs before narrowing, widening again toward the shoulders. Despite the other differences, seeing its pelt color sent me into action.

The Standing Ones didn’t breed me with speed in mind, but when in need, I could move. The monster’s eyes widened when I rushed it, the Poker’s Lightning Stick cracking at the ready. A piercing scream escaped its mouth just before I hit it with the Poker’s weapon.

The scream warbled and fell silent. The monster froze, its arm trembling before its eyes rolled into the back of its head. It crumpled to the floor in a heap. Thunder rumbled down the hall, so many pairs of monster hooves. Time to see just how fast I could move.

Chapter 3: The Dream Hall

I scurried down the hallway as fast as possible, unable to keep from clattering against the hard floor in my haste. My desire to get away from the monster I knocked out beat my desire for stealth. Once I got far enough away, I’d worry about hiding again.

The end of the hallway approached, and I opened my senses. Other than the constant background buzz, nothing sounded down the new hall. No thudding hooves against the floor or the monster’s braying guttural voices assaulted my hearing. That was good enough for me. I kept going.

Remembering a game of hide and seek I played with my son, I darted down the next hallway. We’d spent the day in the petrified forest near our home in the highlands. The first time he hid, he simply rushed down the nearest line of trees and huddled behind the first stump. I told him the best way to hide in a place like that was to get lost yourself. If he kept to a random pattern, darting in different directions through the trees, he would be harder to find. It took me almost half an hour to find him after that. I actually began to worry before I finally sighted him.

The monster’s ship might not have had the same layout as the petrified forest but the same idea would work. If I took a random route, they would have a much harder time following me. It wasn’t like I could get more lost than I already was.

This hallway differed from the others. Colorful panels of sky and dandelion covered the gray walls, and the lighting warmed. It reminded me of the rays of the sun back home. I didn’t have time to study the differences further or reason out why in my hurry.

Moving in front of a large door on the side of the new hallway, it opened automatically, silently sliding into the walls to its sides. The low lighting in the hallway beyond it