Fungus of the Heart, page 13
“Thank you,” I say.
And all the way back to my tent, I search myself for the heartbreak warden Rose spoke of.
Sure, I find annoyance, outrage.
But I don’t feel any sorrow.
In fact, I can’t even picture my son’s face.
*
The Guardian tries to stand, fails.
So I help him to his feet. “What happened?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” he says. “It ate my gun, knocked me unconscious. I’m sorry.”
I check the tent.
Empty.
And still, I don’t feel anything but anger.
Anger at the monster, of course.
Anger at this pathetic excuse for a Guardian.
And more than that, anger at myself. Because what kind of man doesn’t protect his own family?
A man like my father, that’s who.
I punch my forehead, hard.
And a few hours later, I’m lost among the trees. This isn’t easy to accomplish, due to my impeccable sense of direction. But I manage, somehow.
Once again, the natural world makes me feel small, connected.
Calm.
And I realize, I’m not even looking for my wife and son anymore.
Because without my fury, I’m numb.
Empty.
Or maybe not.
Maybe the words on Log Rock were meant for me.
Maybe there’s a monster inside me.
I laugh at the thought, and then feel an aggressive desire to return to my tent.
But I ignore the emotion.
Eventually, I find myself staring at a patch of thirty two luminescent flowers, and part of me hopes that my Filter will malfunction again.
Then my wish comes true.
And there are thirty two men and women sitting on blackened circles of earth, weeping, screaming, the hairs on their bodies sticking straight out.
They look ridiculous.
I search their faces, looking for my father.
He was caught four years ago, so there’s a chance he’s serving his time here.
I used to tell myself that I didn’t want to confront my father, but right now I feel eager, desperate.
And I don’t know if I want to hug him or kill him.
Probably the latter.
But I don’t find out, because he’s not one of the men.
As I sit there, watching them shake and jerk in agony, I begin to feel a faint cramp in my chest.
Empathy.
I feel sorry for these insurrectionary bastards, when I can’t even muster the same sentiment for my own missing family.
There must be something truly wrong with me.
“You deserve this,” I whisper.
These people are political prisoners of the worst kind. And if the Guardians didn’t force these traitors onto the anomalies, the unhampered energy would erupt and find another human body to bind with. Man, woman, or child.
The energy doesn’t discriminate.
So if someone has to suffer, better the guilty than the innocent.
Better them than me.
*
According to Warden Rose, criminals are like coal. If you press them hard enough, they’ll eventually become diamonds. But once in a great while, the Guardians find themselves clashing with an unfortunate soul beyond help, beyond hope.
Hunter Hill is one such devil.
“I can’t give you back your family,” the warden says. “But I can give you Hunter.”
So about thirty minutes later, I’m underground, in a white room, holding the warden’s gift, tight.
Hunter struggles against the ropes.
Useless.
I let out a primal roar, and judging by Hunter’s expression, I’m a monster in his altered vision.
A monster with black matted fur and metallic fangs.
Just like the warden promised.
“Beg,” I say. “Beg for your life.”
Hunter trembles. “I ain’t playin’ your games no more, Rose.”
“I’m not the warden.”
“Whoever. Just do what you come to do, and let me back in my cage.”
“You’re not going anywhere until you beg.”
“No.”
I growl and slash his face with my claw.
“Fuck you, Rose,” Hunter says.
“My name is Samson Carter,” I say.
“Don’t ring no bells.”
“You killed my family.” I take the gun out of my pocket.
And how this looks to Hunter, I don’t know. Maybe I’m ripping the weapon out of my flesh.
“I knew you was Rose,” Hunter says.
“Will you stop saying that?” I say. “I’m Samson Carter.”
“You got the warden’s gun.”
“He let me borrow it.”
“Nah, you wouldn’t never let anybody touch your pistol.”
After a deep breath, I point the gun at his face. “You killed my family, and now you’re going to die.”
“I ain’t no killer. That’s why I got sent here in the first place.”
“Shut up.” I cock the hammer.
A tear rolls down the bastard’s cheek, and he closes his eyes. “Goodbye, Earl.”
I lower the gun. “Who’s Earl?”
“I weren’t talkin’ to you.”
Again, I point the gun between his eyes. “Who’s Earl?”
“A better man than you.”
And I consider pressing the matter further, because I see love and respect for this man swarming in Hunter’s eyes. And if this Earl is a prisoner in this facility, maybe I could torture him in front of Hunter.
The warden would probably permit me that right.
But I’m feeling more than a little tired.
So I pull the trigger.
And Hunter’s skull bursts with fall colors, dazzling my eyes.
I laugh.
Then metallic fangs gnaw on my innards, and I double over and vomit.
I’ve killed men like Hunter many times before.
But somehow, this feels different.
I feel different.
And maybe the warden was wrong about me.
Maybe I’m not brokenhearted.
Maybe I’m just broken.
*
I try to stand, fail.
The audience laughs.
I’m in a cave, and Guardians fill the amphitheater risers, and Warden Rose approaches me, smiling.
“What am I doing here?” I say.
“You’re here for the show,” the warden says. “You’re going to entertain us with your comedy.”
“What?”
Warden Rose helps me to my feet, then points his pistol at my face. “Get on your knees.”
I obey.
“Beg for mercy,” he says.
“Why are you—”
“Beg!”
“Please. Don’t shoot me.”
“You can do better than that.”
I force my hands together. “Don’t shoot me!”
The Guardians laugh.
Warden Rose lowers his weapon, and smirks. “You’re pathetic. You know that, don’t you?”
I don’t move a muscle.
“I asked you a question, Earl,” the warden says, looking right at me.
“What?” I say.
“I said you know you’re pathetic, don’t you, Earl?”
I don’t know why he’s calling me that, but I nod anyway. “Yes.”
“Good. Now we can start the second act.” He presses a button on a remote.
And my mind surges with fear, and I imagine my body filled with TNT.
But, of course, I don’t explode.
Instead, my Filter hums and drops off the back of my head.
“I have some questions for you,” the warden says. “They should be easy enough for an intelligent young man such as yourself. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” I say, because he’s still holding the gun.
“Who are you?”
“Samson Carter.”
“Wrong.” And he shoots my leg.
I collapse, screaming.
The audience cheers.
“Let’s try that again.” The warden points his gun at my other leg. “What’s your name?”
But I don’t answer, consumed by my hatred for this man.
“Hurry now,” the warden says. “Before your time runs out. What’s your name?”
“Earl,” I say.
The warden nods. “Now tell me the names of your wife and son.”
I grasp at shadows. “I don’t know.”
And in fact, I don’t think I ever knew.
“One last question, Earl,” the warden says. “What’s your last name?”
I open my mouth to say, “Carter.”
Then the fog clears.
And I know myself again.
“Hill,” I say.
That’s the right answer, but he shoots my leg anyway.
Just like I knowed he would.
“Enough questions.” The bastard points at a space behind me. “Let’s begin act three.”
I look back.
And John Miller, the Curator, winks at me, standin’ beside a small glass box.
“Fuck you, Miller,” I say, and turn back. “Fuck you, Rose.”
Rose chuckles, then flicks his hand. “Put him in.”
I struggle against his foot soldiers.
Useless.
So they get to work.
And I think about what they done to me.
Raped my mind with their fuckin’ machine.
Made me act like ’em.
Think like ’em.
Even tricked me into killin’ the man I love.
I shake and jerk with sorrow.
And when they’re done with me, I’m naked, trapped in a much smaller cage than I’m used to, tubes jammed in my holes and flesh.
Rose faces his men.
Gives a big thumbs up.
Applause, applause, applause.
*
I thought I knowed every nook and cranny in these fuckin’ mines, but this here room is new. And I thought Angelica was dead, but there’s her rabbit tattoo on the squashed body in front of me. I reckon there’s at least a hundred men and women boxed up in here, stacked on a giant circle of black stone.
And I know Rose wants to keep us here for the rest of our lives.
Because we’re troublemakers, the whole lot of us.
Unfortunate souls deemed beyond help, beyond hope.
I added my name to Rose’s shit list the day I escaped the mines. I knowed I wouldn’t get far, of course, but I wanted a victory. Even a small one.
And after I broke out, I had just enough time to write on that log.
THE MONSTER IS INSIDE.
I reckon Rose thinks I’m referrin’ to him in that message, callin’ him a monster for all the fucked up stuff he’s done.
But that ain’t it.
The monster’s inside me. Inside all us captives.
Rose and his men don’t know that, of course. They don’t know nothing about the monster and the so-called anomalies.
They don’t know the anguish we feel with this energy gushin’ inside.
They don’t know how eventually, if we remain in this state long enough, we transcend the pain.
And when that happens, a monster transcends the earth.
And fills us.
Sure, the beast don’t have black matted fur and metallic fangs.
But she’s dangerous.
And as her electric fingers caress the curves of my tormented body, trying to work her way inside me, I think about my childhood hell. With walls and guns and sentinels. Even then, I knowed hell was a prison built to keep certain folks out of heaven.
I was a smart kid.
And in my hopeful mind, I imagined myself breakin’ my mama out of hell, and takin’ her to a cabin in the woods, where we could live in peace.
Back then, my mama was the world to me. Even after she died.
Sure, I knowed she was a traitor. I knowed she defied the will of the government. And I knowed she was the worst kind of woman, because that’s what my foster parents told me. But that only made me love her more.
I loved her, and when I growed older, I did everything I could to honor her memory.
So when my government demanded that I fight in their war, I refused.
They throwed me in prison, and I’m sure they reckon I’m a coward. But what they don’t understand is that I’m a warrior at heart.
And one day, the Monster, she’ll grow strong enough to free us from these cages.
And then the War will finally begin.
How to Make a Clown
The blurry clown in my attic looks a little like my father, and maybe that’s why I hear him out. Maybe that’s why I don’t smash the walnut wall mirror where he resides. Or maybe I’m just lonely.
“Where’d you get that scar?” I say, pointing to the puff of pink under his left eye.
And the clown says, “I crashed my moped into a forklift.”
“Just like my dad.”
The clown chortles. “What a coincidence.”
“Tell me again why you’re here?”
And he does.
And for the next hour, day, week, month, the clown tries to convince me to cross the threshold into the mirror.
He tells me he needs me. His world needs me.
Ordinarily, I shy away from sober conversations like this. I don’t even talk politics with my co-workers. But the guy in the mirror is a clown, and I can’t for the life of me take him too seriously. In fact, most of the time, I’m laughing on the inside.
For the sake of my sanity, I pretend that I’m completely and utterly shocked by this whole situation. Sometimes, when I’m alone on the toilet or the loveseat, I look at the ceiling and I whisper, “What the hell is going on up there?”
But, to be honest, my life has never made more sense to me.
Ever since I locked eyes on the mirror at that old fighter pilot’s yard sale, I knew where my life was headed, the way someone takes one look at a stranger and thinks, “This is the love of my life.” Or the way a child realizes, for the first time, “I’m going to die someday.”
So every morning, I climb the stairs into the attic. And every morning, the clown lies to me.
“You’re the chosen one,” he says.
“You have a destiny,” he says.
He says, “Without you, my world will be torn in two.”
And while I know I’m nothing special, I do enjoy the fantasy. So I spend my days feeding my aching body with DiGiorno pizza, feeding my aching heart with cheesy romance novels, and feeding my aching ego with the mirror.
On my birthday, the clown blesses me with a particularly beautiful lie.
He says, “You’re stronger than you think you are, Fergus. Stronger than your father.”
“What do you know about my father?” I say.
“Not much. But I know he was a coward.”
“Well. If you can call a war hero a coward.”
“I can.”
And so, it’s out of gratitude that I say, “I’ll do it. I’ll save your world.”
The clown wipes his sweaty forehead with a violet handkerchief. He laughs. He smiles his second smile. He says, “My hero.”
And before I can change my mind, I press my trembling hands against the mirror and I tumble into the world beyond.
*
My wonderland reminds me of my mother’s favorite painting. I don’t see any weeping willows or weeping schoolgirls here, but I feel lost and happy and alone, the way I imagine my mother felt when she stared, smiling at the work of art in the hallway.
As a child, I always wanted to ask my mother what she saw beyond the paint. But of course I never did.
I didn’t want to taint her happiness with my involvement. My existence.
About two weeks before my mother passed away, I almost asked her for the painting. But instead, I held her hand and said, “I’ll never forget you.”
And she said, “I’m sorry.”
Now, I pretend that my mother can hear me, and maybe she can. I say, “At least you never beat me.”
Hours later, I’m wandering the onyx ruins, searching for water, when a giant scarab charges me.
So I do my best impression of my father, and kick the beetle in the face.
The scarab twitches. Then stops twitching.
And a tiny man in a violet tunic charges me with a knife.
The spirit of my father leaves my body, and I collapse, trembling, myself again. I say, “Please don’t hurt me.”
“Why did you kill her?” the man says, his blade pointed at my stomach.
“I didn’t want to die.”
The man drops the knife. He cries. He says, “She was harmless.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Mary was my friend.”
“I’m so sorry.” I look the stranger in the eye for the first time and I think, “This is the love of my life.” I think, “I’m going to die someday.”
So I’d better start living.
Part of me doesn’t want to taint this man’s sorrow with my involvement, but I hug him anyway. I say, “I’m sorry.” Again and again.
Finally, he says, “It was an accident,” and he wipes his face with a violet handkerchief.
“Do you know any clowns?” I say.
“What? Why?”
“Never mind.”
*
Two weeks after we meet, Moore forgives me for killing Mary by leaving a blood rose under my pillow. The first thing I do is smell the rose and forgive my mother. Then, I walk the five miles to my soul tree, and I dig a hole with my hands, and I bury the rose.
Months later, I’m in our honeymoon tent, crying.
“What’s wrong?” Moore says, and kisses away my tears.
“Your family doesn’t like me,” I say.
“My sweet giant. You need to stop mistaking love for loathing.”
“They do loathe me.”
Moore rubs my back. “They don’t.”
Minutes later, Moore’s father, Aiden, enters the tent carrying a gift wrapped in mauve bear fur. I know it’s a gift because of the water rose on top.
Aiden kisses me between the eyes. He takes my hands. He says, “You’re a good man, Fergus. Good for my son, and good for the tribe. I would love for you to stay with us until time’s end.”
