Was it guilt, then, that launched her upon his back? That sank teeth into his shoulder, striving towards his throat? The mouth-fuls of spurting flesh she gobbled down, even as he shrieked and thrashed? And what of Nifty Gum? That he should twist round and bite her in turn, fatally as it transpired, snipping through her jugular, whereupon he bathed and did drink deep. Even as she died, she gnawed upon his right calf, and so was left in a pose of blessed defiance.
I caught him twenty paces down from this final atrocity, limping and streaming crimson. Oh yes, all of you set eyes upon him now. This poet of appetites. Study him in your arrayed expressions of horror and disgust. Hypocrites one and all. You. Me. The wretched gods, too. Aye, I should have killed him then and there. A quarrel through the back of his head. I should have. But no. Why should the blood stain my hands alone? I give him to you, pilgrims. He is the end of this path, the one we have all chosen. I give him to you all. My gift.
As his last words drifted and sank into earth and flesh, Brash Phluster licked his lips and said, “But, where is she? Can’t we still-”
“No,” growled Mister Must, in a tone that stirred awake his soldier days, “we cannot, Phluster.”
“But I don’t want to die!”
And at that, Steck Marynd did weep.
For myself, I admit to a certain satisfaction. Oh, don’t look at me like that! Given the chance, what artist wouldn’t eat his fans? Think of the satisfaction! Far preferable than the opposite, I fervently assert. But let us skip and dance from such admissions, lest they unveil things even more unsightly.
Sellup crawled from the ditch, her split lips stretched back in a ghastly smile, her eyes fixing upon Nifty Gum. “All for me!” she cackled, dragging herself closer. “I won’t eat you, darling! I’m not even hungry!”
The wretched poet, thrice named Artist of the Century, lifted his bedraggled head. The modest balance of his features was gone, each detail inexpertly reassembled into a pastiche of Gumdom. Old blood stained his chin, flaked the edges of his tunneled mouth. Flanking the ill-ruddered nose, each eye struggled with the other, fighting over proper alignment, which neither could quite manage. And if a lockbox waited behind those orbs, it was kicked over, contents strewn in tangled heaps. From the weep of his crusted nostrils to the coagulated clumps in his stringy hair, he was indeed a man bereft of his Entourage, barring one dead hag avowing undying servitude.
“It was the eggs,” he whispered.
At this even Sellup paused.
“I was so hungry. All I could think of was… was eggs! Sunny side up, scrambled, poached.” Trembling fingertips touched his mouth and he flinched, as if those fingers did not belong to him at all. “Those tales. A dragon spawn trapped in a giant egg- that’s just stupid. I-I don’t even like meat! Not real meat. But eggs, that’s different. Like an idea not yet born, I could eat those.
I so want to! It was the maiden he stole. The Egg Demon, I mean. Stole-stole away in the night! I tried to warn them, you see, I really did. But they wouldn’t listen!” He stabbed a finger at Sellup. “You! You wouldn’t listen! I’m out of ideas, don’t you see that!? Why do you think I plundered every fairy tale I could find? It’s- it’s-all gone!”
“I’ll be your egg, sweetie!” She picked up a rock and rapped it against the side of her head, eliciting a strange muted thump. “Crack me open, darling! See? It’s easy!”
As one might imagine, we stared in morbid fascination at this tableau and all its bizarre logic, and I was reminded of that cabal of poets from Aren a few centuries back, the ones who imbibed all manner of hallucinogens in a misplaced search for enlightenment, only to get lost in the private weirdness that is the artist’s mortal brain when it can discern nothing but its own navel (and who needs hallucinogens for that?).
“Get away from me.”
“Sweetie!” Thump-thump. “Here take my rock!” Thump! “You can do it too!” Thump! “It’s easy!”
As it turned out, even Nifty Gum was of no mind to discover what hid inside the skull of one of his fans. Instead, he whispered, “Someone end it. Please. Someone. Plea-”
I would hazard the notion that this heartfelt utterance referred to a wholly natural desire to see Sellup expunged from his (and everyone else’s) sight, and in that regard Nifty won my sympathies entire. For reasons unknown, however (oh how I lie, don’t I?), Tulgord Vise misinterpreted the Great Artist and in answer he thrust his sword between the poet’s shoulder blades. The point burst from Nifty’s chest in a welter of blood and splintered bone.
Nifty’s eyes gave up the struggle, and he sagged, leaning heavily on the sword blade before, with a grunt, Tulgord heaved the weapon free. The poet fell back in a puff of dust.
Sellup moaned. “Thumbsy?”
Seeing the man’s lips moving, I edged closer-after a wary glance Tulgord’s way, but he was already cleaning his blade in the sand beside the trail-and then I leaned close. “Nifty? It is me, Flicker.”
Sudden horror lit up Nifty’s eyes. “The eggs,” he breathed. “The eggs!”
Whereupon, with a strange, blissful smile, he died.
Is this the fate for all artists who wantonly steal inspiration? Certainly not, and shame on you for even suggesting it.
Our family was indeed in tatters. But this morning was yet to give up the last of its shocking revelations, for at that moment Well Knight Arpo Relent sat up, blinking the gobs of mucous from his eyes. The crack in his head dripped pink tears, but he seemed unmindful of that.
“Who dressed me?” he demanded in an odd voice.
Apto Canavalian lifted his gaze, and a most forlorn and dejected gaze it was. “Your mother?”
Arpo stood, somewhat unsteadily, and tugged clumsily at the straps of his armour. “I don’t need this.”
Poor Sellup had resumed her crawling and was now curled up on Nifty’s sundered chest, tentatively licking at the blood. “Look at this,” she muttered, “I have no taste at all.”
“Well Knight,” said Tulgord Vise, “do you recall what happened to you?”
At that Apto Canavalian started, and then stared up at the Mortal Sword in horror commingled with blistering hatred.
“The blood dried up,” Arpo answered. “Miserable shits, after all I did for them. Open the flood gates! Who pissed on that altar? Was that a demon did that? I hate demons. Death to all demons!” He succeeded in shucking off his coat of mail and it fell to one side with a golden rustle. “All dogs must hereafter walk backwards. That’s my decree and make of it what you will. Pluck one eye from every cat, bring them in buckets-of course I’m serious! No, not the cats, the eyes. It’s tragic the dogs can’t see where they’re going. So, we take those eyes and we-”
“Well Knight!”
Arpo glared at Tulgord Vise. “Who in Farl’s name are you?”
“Wrong question!” the Mortal Sword snapped. “Who are you?”
“Well now, what’s this?”
We all stared at what Relent now gripped in one hand.
“That’s your penis,” said Apto Canavalian. “And I say that advisedly.”
Arpo stared down at it. “Kind of explains everything, doesn’t it?”
Personally, I see no humour in that statement whatsoever. In any case, Arpo Relent (or whoever happened to be inhabiting his body at that time) now focused his entire attention upon his discovery, and moments later made a mess of things. His brows lifted, and then he smiled and started over again. “I could do this all day. In fact, I think I will.”
With a disgusted grunt Tulgord Vise turned to saddle his horse.
Sardic Thew clapped his hands. “Well! I think today’s the day!”
Tiny Chanter belched. “Better not be. Flicker’s got stories to finish and he ain’t getting away with not finishing them.”
“Dear sir,” said I, “we have the breadth of the sun’s passage, if our host’s assessment is correct and why would we doubt it? Fear not, resolutions abound.”
“If I don’t like what I hear you’re a dead man.”
“Yeah,” said Fl-oh, never mind.
Studiously, I avoided Purse Snippet’s piercing regard, only to be speared by Relish’s. The maddening expectations of women!
As if chilled, Apto Canavalian drew tighter his cloak. He rose to stand close to me. “Flicker, a word if you please.”