Jagannath Part 10

Nutrient and DNA deficiency, Mother hummed. I need food.

"But you can move everywhere, Mother. Why are you not finding food?"

Guidance systems malfunction. Food sources in the current area are depleted.

"Can I help, Mother?"

The way ahead bent slightly to the right. Mother was running in a circle.

There is an obstruction in my mainframe. Please remove the obstruction.

Behind Rak, something clanged. The tube slithered out of her nostril and she could see the room around her again. She turned her head. Behind the hammock a hatch had opened in the ceiling, the lid hanging down, rungs lining the inside. The hammock let Rak go with a sucking noise and she climbed up the rungs.

Inside, gently lit in red, was Mother's brain: a small s.p.a.ce surrounded by cables winding into flesh. A slow pulse beat through the walls. Half sitting against the wall was the emaciated body of a male. Its head and right shoulder were resting on a tangle of delicate tubes, bloated and stiff where they ran in under the dead male's body, thin and atrophied on the other. Rak pulled at an arm. Mother had started to absorb the corpse; it was partly fused to the wall. She tugged harder, and the upper body finally tore away and fell sideways. There was a rushing sound as pressure in the tubes evened out. The body was no longer in the way of any wires or tubes that Rak could see. She left it on the floor and climbed back down the hatch. Back in the hammock, the tube snuck into her nostril, and Mother's voice was in her head again.

Thank you, said Mother. Obstruction has been removed. Guidance system recalibrating.

"It was Ziz, I think," said Rak. "He was dead."

Yes. He was performing maintenance when he expired.

"Aren't there any more pilots?"

You can be my pilot.

"But I'm female," Rak said.

That is all right. Your brain gives me sufficient processing power for calculating a new itinerary.

"What?"

You don't have to do anything. Just sit here with me.

Rak watched as Mother changed course, climbing the wall of the canyon and up onto a soft yellow expanse: gra.s.sland, whispered. The sky sat heavy and blue over the gra.s.s. Mother slowed down, her mouthpieces scooping up plants from the ground.

Angular silhouettes stood against the horizon.

"What is that?" said Rak.

Cities, Mother replied. Your ancestors used to live there. But then the cities died, and they came to me. We entered an agreement. You would keep me company, and in exchange I would protect you until the world was a better place.

"Where are we going?"

Looking for a mate. I need fresh genetic material. My system is not completely self-sufficient.

"Oh." Rak's mouth fell open. "Are there... more of you?"

Of sorts. There are none like me, but I have cousins that roam the steppes. A sigh. None of them are good company. Not like my children.

Mother trundled over the gra.s.sland, eating and eating. Rak panicked the first time the sun disappeared, until Mother wrapped the hammock tight around her and told her to look up. Rak quieted at the sight of the glowing band laid across the sky. Other suns, Mother said, but Rak could not grasp it. She settled for thinking of it like lights in the ceiling of a great room.

They pa.s.sed more of the cities: jagged spires and broken domes, bright surfaces criss-crossed with cracks and curling green. Occasionally flocks of other living creatures ran across the gra.s.s. Mother would name them all. Each time a new animal appeared Rak asked if that was her mate. The answer was always no.

"Are you feeling better?" Rak said eventually.

No. A sighing sound. I am sorry. My system is degraded past the point of repair.

"What does that mean?"

Goodbye, my daughter. Please use the exit with green lights.

Something shot up Rak's nostril through the tube. A sting of pain blossomed inside her forehead, and she tore the tube out. A thin stream of blood trailed from her nose. She wiped at it with her arm. A shudder shook the hammock. The luminescence in the walls faded. It was suddenly very quiet.

"Mother?" Rak said into the gloom. Outside, something was different. She peered out through one of the eyes. The world wasn't moving.

"Mother!" Rak put the tube in her nose again, but it fell out and lay limp in her lap. She slid out of the hammock, standing up on stiff legs. The hatch to Mother's brain was still open. Rak pulled herself up into the little s.p.a.ce. It was pitch dark and still. No pulse moved through the walls.

Rak left Mother's head and started down the long corridors, down toward the Nursery and the Belly. She scooped some mucus from the wall to eat, but it tasted rank. It was getting darker. Only the growths around the round plate between the Head and the rest of the body were still glowing brightly. They had changed to green.

In the Nursery, Papa was lying on his cot, chest rising and falling faintly.

"There you are," he said when Rak approached. "You were gone for so long."

"What happened?" said Rak.

Papa shook his head. "Nothing happened. Nothing at all."

"Mother isn't moving," said Rak. "I found Her head, and She talked to me, and I helped Her find her way to food, but she says she can't be repaired, and now she's not moving. I don't know what to do."

Papa closed his eyes. "Our Mother is dead," he whispered. "And we will go with Her."

He turned away, spreading his arms against the wall, hugging the tangle of cabling and flesh. Rak left him there.

In the Belly, the air was thick and rancid. The peristaltic engine was still. Rak's feet slapping against the floor made a very loud noise. Around the chamber, workers were lying along the walls, half-melted into Mother's flesh. The Leg accesses along the walls were all open; here and there an arm or a head poked out. Hap lay close to the entrance, resting on her side. Her body was gaunt, her ribs fully visible through the skin. She had begun sinking into the floor; Rak could still see part of her face. Her eyes were half-closed, as if she were just very tired.

Rak backed out into the corridor, turning back toward the Head. The sphincters were all relaxing, sending the foul air from the Belly toward her, forcing her to crawl forward. The last of the luminescence faded. She crawled in darkness until she saw a green shimmer up ahead. The round plate was still there. It swung aside at her touch.

The air coming in was cold and sharp, painful on the skin, but fresh. Rak breathed in deep. The hot air from Mother's insides streamed out above her in a cloud. The sun hung low on the horizon, its light far more blinding than Mother's eyes had seen it. One hand in front of her eyes, Rak swung her legs out over the rim of the opening and cried out in surprise when her feet landed on gra.s.s. The myriad blades p.r.i.c.kled the soles of her feet. She sat there, gripping at the gra.s.s with her toes, eyes squeezed shut. When the light was less painful, she opened her eyes a little and stood up.

The aperture opened out between two of Mother's jointed legs. They rested on the gra.s.s, each leg thicker around than Rak could reach with her arms. Beyond them, she could glimpse more legs to either side. She looked up. Behind her, the wall of Mother's body rose up, more than twice Rak's own height. Beyond the top there was sky, a blue nothing, not flat like seen through Mother's eyes but deep and endless. In front of her, the gra.s.sland, stretching on and on. Rak held on to the ma.s.sive leg next to her. Her stomach clenched, and she bent over and spat bile. There was a hot lump in her chest that wouldn't go away. She spat again and kneeled on the gra.s.s.

"Mother," she whispered in the thin air. She leaned against the leg. It was cold and smooth. "Mother, please." She crawled in under Mother's legs, curling up against Her body, breathing in Her familiar musk. A sweet hint of rot lurked below. The knot in Rak's chest forced itself up through her throat in a howl.

Rak eventually fell asleep. She dreamed of legs sprouting from her sides, her body elongating and dividing into sections, taking a sinuous shape. She ran over the gra.s.s, legs in perfect unison, muscles and vertebrae stretching and becoming powerful. The sky was no longer terrible. Warm light caressed the length of her scales.

A pattering noise in the distance woke her up. Rak stretched and rubbed her eyes. Her cheeks were crusted with salt. She scratched at her side. An itching line of nubs ran along her ribs. Beside her, Mother's body no longer smelled of musk; the smell of rot was stronger. She crawled out onto the gra.s.s and rose to her feet. The sky had darkened, and a pale orb hung in the void, painting the landscape in stark grey and white. Mother lay quiet, stretched out into the distance. Rak saw now that Mother's carapace was grey and pitted, some of the many legs cracked or missing.

In the bleak light, a long shape on many legs approached. When it came close, Rak saw it was much smaller than Mother perhaps three or four times Rak's length. She stood very still. The other paused a few feet away. It reared up, forebody and legs waving back and forth. Its mandibles clattered. Something about its movement caused a warm stirring in Rak's belly. After a while, it turned around, depositing a gelatinous sac on the ground. It slowly backed away.

Rak approached the sac. It was the size of her head. Inside, a host of little shapes wriggled around. Her belly rumbled. The other departed, mandibles clattering, as Rak ripped the sac open with her teeth. The wriggling little things were tangy on her tongue. She swallowed them whole.

She ate until she was sated, then crouched down on the ground, scratching at her sides. Her arms and legs tingled. She had a growing urge to run and stretch her muscles: to run and never stop.

AFTERWORD.

Transposing Worlds.

The decision to translate my own work was born out of an old dream. When I first got serious about writing, I fantasized about becoming so well-known in Sweden that someone would translate my work into other languages. I put the thought out of my mind-I wasn't even published in Swedish yet-and ten years pa.s.sed.

My country has a long and solid tradition when it comes to short stories and speculative fiction, but it proved difficult to publish either. Among the handful of Swedish magazines that published short stories, few were interested in the fantastic, and those that were died off one by one. Abroad, on the other hand, Weird Tales beckoned. And Interzone, Asimov's, Strange Horizons. Scores of magazines, just out of reach.

I was by no means sure my English was good enough. I pretended it was, figured I'd need some immersive practice, and applied to the Clarion SF & Fantasy Writers' Workshop on a lark. I got in, and ever since I've been writing stories in both Swedish and English, creating translations in both languages.

My experience of English reflects that of most Swedes of my generation. I studied British English from the fourth grade, learning through songs by The Beatles and the rituals of tea time. American English was the language of MTV and the movies, and, later, science fiction paperbacks. Being so exposed to both varieties, neither of which is your own, makes it difficult if not impossible to keep track of what word (and often, p.r.o.nunciation) belongs where. You make do with the resulting composite. This collection may reflect that wonderful confluence and confusion.

Writing in Swedish and English are two very different experiences. Your native language resonates in your bones. Each spoken word reaffirms or changes the world as you see it, intellectually and emotionally. Because Swedish is my mother tongue, I can take enormous liberties with it because I know exactly and instinctively how it works. English doesn't quite allow itself to be grabbed by the scruff of its neck in the same way. As a result, I'm more careful with the prose, perhaps less adventurous, because without that gut reaction it's hard to know exactly how something will resonate with an English-speaking reader. On the other, I may find paths into English that a native speaker might not, because there are aspects of your native tongue that you just don't see since you are standing in the middle of it. I am reminded of those times I've been amazed by how a non-native speaker can bend my own language in unexpected directions, or just approach it with an ear that makes it seem like a new creation.

Concepts and stories definitely work in different ways depending on language. For example, "Jagannath" and "Aunts" taste different, partly because of the sound of words a.s.sociated with the stories. They are both concerned with anatomy, and the English terms I found appropriate were often softer and less abrupt. The word flesh, for example, can be drawn out and rolls around in the mouth; the Swedish a.n.a.logue kott (sounds similar to the English shut) is hard and brutal in comparison, and also means "meat," which is not the feel I wanted. The same goes for intestine versus tarm, blubber versus s.p.a.ck and so on, with the exception of slemhinna which sounds far better than mucous membrane.

Some concepts and cultural overtones refuse translation, but that's the case with any language. If I say something has a "dansband" atmosphere, a Swede will immediately know what I'm talking about and probably cringe. Few people outside Scandinavia will be familiar with the sickly sweet faux-country music played by men in identical frilly pastel suits, and the claustrophobic image of small-town monoculture that comes with it (whether that culture actually exists is uncertain, but the cliche certainly does). So in these stories I've left in some words that could technically be translated but would completely lose their meaning. On the other hand, some small details have to be translated-even if some nuance is lost-because they aren't vital to the story and would just trip up the reader. In "Rebecka," there's a group of kids dressed in ski overalls that in Swedish would have been bavernylon: beaver nylon, a fabric so strong that you could be dragged behind a car without getting a scratch. The image of kids in beaver nylon overalls is a sort of shorthand for innocent childhood and everyday Sweden. Figuring out which of these concepts require translation and which do not has been a great exercise for understanding my own language. Cultural shorthand is convenient but can also make you a little sloppy, so being forced to think about what a throwaway phrase really means jolts you out of writing on autopilot.

It's inevitable, I suppose, that I've been told that my stories in English have a distinctly Nordic feel. It's not something I set out to achieve, but there are concepts that I do like to examine and play with and that I suppose are very Swedish-or Nordic, really. National ident.i.ty is an artificial exercise, and the borders between the Nordic countries blur. But accepting the notion for a moment: "Some Letters for Ove Lindstrom" deals with being a child of the prog generation: the intellectual left of the 70's for whom the personal was political, who idealized a working cla.s.s they didn't belong to, and who founded the image of the soft Swedish dad. The ultra-stereotypical rituals of "Aunt Brita's Holiday Village" is another: the Midsummer feast, dansband, the summer dress-and-knitted cardigan outfits of chilly Swedish summer. Both stories, I suppose, are about cultural ident.i.ty.

This quality also comes through in the atmosphere of the stories. One sensation peculiar to the Nordic culture of my upbringing is that we really do live on the edge of fairy country. With a small population that's mostly gathered in towns, vast stretches of countryside could contain any number of critters. Many folktales, and other stories I grew up with, such as the ones by Finno-Swedish author Tove Jansson, show reality as a thin veneer behind which strange creatures move. I learned to be aware of things lurking in dark corners, of the huldra that looks human from the front but is a rotten tree at the back; of the hattifatteners gathering on hills to feed on thunderstorms. Weird fiction, when I discovered it, fit right into this worldview. Maybe a bit too much so, at the beginning: I was fifteen years old when I devoured all of H.P. Lovecraft's translated works in two weeks and had a short but near-psychotic revelation that all of it was true. I recovered, but reality still has a bit of a wobble.

And then there's the melancholy. The beloved Swedish word svrmod translates into"hardship mood," which translates into a sort of despairing acceptance of the facts of one's existence (a popular Bible quote for wall hangings is a paraphrase of Matthew 6.24: "Do not worry about tomorrow. Each day has enough trouble of its own."). But it also translates as what a friend of mine called "smiling through tears." It defies concrete description, but it shines through in much of our culture, a moody Bergman sibling in the back seat of the Volvo, sighing at the sunset.

I have tried to convey all of these things, and more. Hopefully some of them made it across to you.

Karin Tidbeck, August 2012 Author's Note Born in 1977 in Stockholm, Sweden, Karin Tidbeck lives and works in Malmo. An alumna of the 2010 Clarion San Diego writers' workshop, she has studied comparative religion and social anthropology at the University of Stockholm, and creative writing at Skurups folkhogskola where she also trained as a creative writing instructor. She has worked as a freelance writer for role-playing productions in schools and theatres, written articles and essays on gaming and interactive arts theory.

She has published short stories and poetry in Swedish since 2002, and in English since 2010. Her 2010 book debut, the short story collection Vem ar Arvid Pekon?, awarded her the coveted one-year working grant from the Swedish Authors' Fund. Her English publication history includes Weird Tales, Shimmer Magazine, Unstuck Annual and the anthology Odd?. She recently sold her first novel to Sweden's largest publisher.

Acknowledgments.

No writer works in a vacuum. These stories were written over the course of ten years, with the help and support from my family, friends, editors, fellow writers, critique groups and teachers. Putting together Jagannath, I owe thanks to my husband, Robin, for his unwavering support and willingness to read anything I put in front of him at a moment's notice; to my fellow insane and wonderful alumni of Clarion UCSD 2010; and to Jeff & Ann, Jeremy & Teri for all their hard work producing this book. I am profoundly grateful to you all.

Extended Copyright Page.

(in story order).

Beatrice.

-Swedish t.i.tle "Beatrice," originally published in the collection Vem ar Arvid Pekon?, Man av Skugga forlag (2010) -English translation published in Steampunk Revolution (2012) Some Letters for Ove Lindstrom.

-Swedish t.i.tle "Ngra brev till Ove Lindstrom," originally published in the collection Vem ar Arvid Pekon?, Man av Skugga forlag 2010 -English translation published in Shimmer Magazine #14 (2010) Miss Nyberg and I.

-Swedish t.i.tle "Froken Nyberg och jag," originally published in the collection Vem ar Arvid Pekon?, Man av Skugga forlag (2010) -Previously unpublished in English.

Rebecka.

-Swedish t.i.tle "Rebecka," collected in Vem ar Arvid Pekon?, Man av Skugga forlag (2010) -First published on Sourze.se (2002) under the t.i.tle "Samtal med Rebecka"

-Previously unpublished in English Herr Cederberg -Swedish t.i.tle "Herr Cederberg," collected in Vem ar Arvid Pekon?, Man av Skugga forlag (2010) -First published in Ordkonst #1 (2007), under the t.i.tle "Att vara en humla"

-Previously unpublished in English Who is Arvid Pekon?

-Swedish t.i.tle "Arvid Pekon," collected in Vem ar Arvid Pekon?, Man av Skugga forlag (2010) -First published in Jules Verne-Magasinet #513 (2002) under the t.i.tle "Vem ar Arvid Pekon?"

-Previously unpublished in English Brita's Holiday Village -Original t.i.tle "Tant Britas stugby," published in the collection Vem ar Arvid Pekon?, Man av Skugga forlag (2010) -Previously unpublished in English Reindeer Mountain -Previously unpublished in Swedish or English Cloudberry Jam -Originally published in English in Unstuck Journal #1 (2011) -Swedish translation published by published by Mix Forlag (2011) under the t.i.tle "Blodsband"

Pyret -Previously unpublished in Swedish or English Augusta Prima -Swedish t.i.tle: "Augusta Prima," originally published in Mitrania #3 (2009) -English translation published in Weird Tales #357 (2011).

Aunts.

-Swedish t.i.tle: "Tanterna" Insulae, ed. Skurups folkhogskola(2007).

-English translation published in ODD?. (2011).

Jagannath.

-Originally published in English in Weird Tales #358 (2011).

-Swedish translation published by Mix Forlag (2011) under the same t.i.tle.

Footnotes.

1. Like G.o.ds and spirits, predators were often called by euphemisms to avoid bad luck or visits from said creatures. In some cases the euphemisms have replaced the taboo name in common usage. The Swedish word for wolf, varg (killer, strangler), was originally a euphemism for the taboo ulv; similarly, the euphemism for magpie, skata (the elongated one), has replaced the original skjora. The word for bear shared by all Germanic languages, (in Swedish bjorn), simply means "brown," a euphemism so old that it has acquired euphemisms of its own and the original name has been lost (although linguists through comparative studies have constructed a hypothetical root word in Proto-Indo-European).

2. Old Norse form of the word "pyre," still in use in Norwegian.

3. Finnish: "tyke"

4. The most common witchcraft-related crime was "illegal mingling": young men consorting with female trolls and vittra.