Kings of Infinite Space: A Novel (38 page)

“It’s the price we pay, Paul,” murmured Colonel. “Mind you, it’s not their steady diet, but let’s just say they’ve developed a taste for what we can provide them.” At the edge of the pool Colonel stopped and gently but firmly propelled Paul forward.
Reluctantly, Paul stepped onto the first of a series of stepping stones in the water, each a big, thick, fried egg slice of stalagmite. The water trembled with each step, and at last Paul stepped gingerly onto the slick, creamy surface at the conical base of the giant column.

“My boy!” cried a voice, and he looked up to see Stanley Tulendij stepping out from behind the column. He was wearing a frayed, faded, powder blue tuxedo with wide lapels and bell-bottom trousers. It was the sort of thing a teenaged boy might have worn to the prom twenty-five years ago, which made it simultaneously antique looking and much too young for Stanley Tulendij. Even in the garish tux he kept his spidery aspect—the trousers were too short for his long, peculiarly jointed legs, while the jacket was too big. His head wobbled on top of his long, thin neck, which didn’t even come close to filling the voluminous collar of his frilly shirt. He came to the middle of a wide ledge at the base of the column, and his flat jaw split in a wide smile. He spread his arms, his bony hands sticking out of the wide, empty cuffs of his jacket.

“We’ve been waiting for you!” he said. “You’ve been the apple of our eye.”

The murmuring of the pale men rose to a rumble, and Stanley Tulendij lifted his voice. “And now, gentlemen! Colleagues! Fellow Texans! Our lovely new queen!”

The murmuring diminished almost to silence, and just as Paul was thinking nothing else could surprise him, Olivia Haddock stepped out from behind the phallic column, wearing a faded, red velvet prom gown, with red satin gloves that ran over her elbows and a little, clear plastic tiara. The velvet was worn away in long creases down the folds of the skirt, while the bodice was a little tight on Olivia, squeezing her bosom bloodless. She wore a fraying, yellowed sash across her shoulder that read
VIKING QUEEN CWNHS HOMECOMING
197—” The rest of the date was lost around the curve of her hip. She stood next to Stanley Tulendij on the ledge, one foot placed before the other, her red satin palms pressed together before her sash. In the breathless silence she scowled down the slope at Paul.

“You’re late,” she said.

With one foot on the slope of the cone, Paul goggled at the sight before him. This dream was turning uncomfortably strange. Indeed, with the unexpected appearance of Olivia, the dream seemed to be turning into a nightmare. She had disappeared only a week ago, and now she was not only alive and well, but somehow, in the foreshortened time of Paul’s dream, she had become queen of the underworld. Paul glanced back, chilled to his spine, and immediately behind him he saw bright-eyed Colonel urging him forward with a nod, while a stricken Bob Wier wrung his hands. Behind them clustered a frighteningly large crowd of pale, homeless men in white shirts, ties, and glasses, their pale scalps gleaming through their stubbled hair, their lips pulled back from their sharpened teeth as they began to murmur again, “A man like us. Say the words.”

“Come,” said Stanley Tulendij, and the old man beckoned him up the slope, slowly curling his hand. Paul could almost hear the bones clattering in those long, pale fingers. Olivia glowered at him, and Paul nearly said something inappropriate, like, “I thought you were dead.” But he didn’t, and despite the chill he felt, he started climbing the slick slope, up a series of narrow steps cut into the living rock. Near the top he looked back once more, and beyond the crowd of homeless men he saw the two smokers radiating trembling waves of heat and breathing black smoke like a pair of idling locomotives, the door of each firebox outlined by a seam of red flame. To the right he saw the cubescape under the fluorescent lights, which were suspended by a tangled web of wires from the ceiling of the cave. Under the lights Paul saw one pale man walking through the labyrinth of cubicles, and while he couldn’t be sure from this distance, Paul thought it was Boy G. Nearly lost in the glare, the figure came to a cube at the center of the labyrinth and stooped out of sight.

At the top of the slope Stanley Tulendij hooked his fingers through Paul’s elbow and settled the younger man on the ledge between himself and Olivia Haddock. Olivia gave him a cold, sidelong glance, looking him up and down.

“You’re alright then?” Paul murmured.

“No thanks to you,” said Olivia.

“I tried,” protested Paul, struggling to keep his voice down. “Didn’t you feel me grab your ankles?”

Olivia shushed him with a red satin finger to her lips. Stanley Tulendij was stepping to the front of the ledge. He threw his arms wide. “What is the law?” he cried, his hollow voice reverberating the length and breadth of the cavern.

Next to Paul, Olivia clasped her hands before her and blew out a sigh, but below them, the crowd of homeless men swelled forward to the edge of the water, Colonel and Bob Wier at the front. The mouths of the pale men opened wide like hymn singers, their pointed teeth gleaming.

“When the going gets tough,” they chanted, “the tough get going.
That
is the law. Are we not men?”

“A quitter never wins, and a winner never quits.
That
is the law. Are we not men?”

“Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.
That
is the law. Are we not men?”

“Don’t mess with Texas.
That
is the law. Are we not men?”

The men below swayed from side to side, clapping once when they came to
“That
is the law,” and the resounding slap of their hands rang around the cavern like feedback. Colonel and Bob Wier swayed right along with the others, though Bob Wier was now openly crying. Beyond the fringes of the crowd, J.J. swayed and dipped his shoulders in place, while to Paul’s right, Stanley Tulendij waved his bony hands in the air like a conductor. To Paul’s left, Olivia blew out another sigh and rolled her eyes. Paul wasn’t sure what to do, so he just swayed feebly, pretending to clap, but not bringing his palms together.

“It ain’t over till it’s over,” chanted the men.
“That
is the law. Are we not men?”

“Never let the bastards grind you down.
That
is the law. Are we not men?”

“Remember the Alamo!
That
is the law. Are we not men?”

“Let a smile be your umbrella.
That
is the law. Are we not men?”

“And this above all!” cried Stanley Tulendij, lifting his arms higher. Under the momentum of their chant, the men continued to sway for a moment longer, but then steadied themselves at the cry of Stanley Tulendij. As the reverberation of their clapping and chanting died away in the recesses of the cavern, Paul saw Boy G returning from the cubicles bearing a large, blue sack over his shoulder.

“In the daylight world,” Stanley Tulendij called out, his voice ringing round the rocks of the cave, “the rule is, ‘To thine own self be true.’ But here,” he cried, the men below moaning in expectation, “the rule is, ‘To thine own self be . . .’ ”

There was a long, breathless pause, during which Paul heard only the
plink! ploink!
of dripping water. Boy G advanced on the crowd with a noiseless tread, bearing his burden closer. Olivia Haddock rolled her tongue around in her cheek.

“Enough!” roared the crowd of pale men. “To thine own self, be
enough! That
is the law. Are we not men?”

Stanley Tulendij threw his arms in the air, and the men cheered and whistled. They stamped their feet and shook their fists in the air.

“Finally,” breathed Olivia Haddock, restlessly tapping her foot.

As Boy G reached the back of the crowd with his burden, they parted to let him through. The closer ones reached out to stroke or caress the bundle over his shoulder as he passed. The ones at the rear of the crowd lifted themselves on tiptoe and ran their tongues over their jagged teeth. Only now, as Boy G came closer, did Paul realize that his burden wasn’t a sack, but the backside of someone’s pair of jeans. Boy G was carrying a person, doubled over at the waist, with her head and shoulders dangling behind him and Boy G clutching her legs in front. Stanley Tulendij caught Paul’s eye and winked.

“Enough, my boy! It’s a word of shattering power!” He clapped Paul on the shoulder. “Make it your battle cry!” He glanced past Paul, his eyes brightening at Olivia. “Isn’t that right, my lovely queen?”

“Whatever,” said Olivia.

Now Boy G was stepping across the pool on the flattened stalagmites, his tread making a moire of intersecting waves on the surface of the water. He bent slightly under the weight of the woman as he started up the steps carved into the rock. Suddenly Paul realized that he knew that backside, and all the breath was sucked out of him. At the same moment he heard the brisk, rhythmic scrape of metal against metal, and he looked over the heads of the crowd to see J.J. stroking a long-bladed knife against a sharpening steel. The murmur of the men below grew louder, saying a single word, and it wasn’t until Boy G had reached the ledge at the base of the column that Paul realized what they were saying.

“Meat!” they murmured. “Meat! Meat! Meat!”

Boy G stooped to one knee and tipped the woman off his shoulder onto the rock, where she stood unsteadily for a moment before sagging to her knees, her hands bound before her and her chin drooping to her breastbone. Her mouth was gagged by a handkerchief tied behind her head. Boy G backed away from her, swiveling his wide, cannibal smile past Stanley Tulendij and Paul and Olivia, and then he turned to descend the rock. Olivia glanced sidelong at the bound woman, then at Paul. Her lips were pursed, and Paul realized that she was trying hard not to smile.

“Think you’re better than us,” Olivia said, sotto voce. “We’ll just see about that.”

“Behold!” cried Stanley Tulendij, startling Paul, who turned to see the old man grasp the top of the kneeling woman’s head and tilt her face up for all to see. “See what Paul has brought us!”

At the base of the formation, the men were chanting louder, “Meat! Meat! Meat!” Colonel was chanting along with them, his eyes shining with an unholy light. Next to him Bob Wier didn’t chant but only stared into the clear cave water at his feet, lifting his hand to wipe the tears from his eyes with thumb and forefinger. Across the cave J.J. stropped his knife with a brisk, professional rhythm, faster even than the beating of Paul’s heart. Only when he had no place else to look did Paul lower his eyes
to the face of the woman at his feet. Her eyes were wide and frantic, her skin very pale. Her freckles were like flecks of ash across her cheeks; the gag cut into the corners of her mouth. Paul’s heart stuttered and he nearly fell to his knees himself, for he was looking at the face of his Oklahoma lover, Callie.

“O
KAY, I’VE HAD ENOUGH
,” said Paul in a loud voice, to no one in particular. “I want to wake up now.”

This only provoked a grumble of laughter from the crowd of men below and even a hollow chuckle from Stanley Tulendij. Olivia issued an exasperated gasp. “Very droll, Professor,” called out Colonel from the edge of the pool.

“No, seriously,” said Paul. Callie looked up at him beseechingly, and Paul looked away, unable to bear it. “This isn’t funny anymore. I’m not enjoying this.”

Stanley Tulendij, his lipless mouth fixed in a cadaverous grin, bent close to Paul. “She won’t feel a thing,” he said with an avuncular wink. “Not for long, anyway.”

The murmuring from below—“Meat! Meat! Meat!”—grew even louder, and Paul looked down to see the crowd parting for J.J., who approached the pool ceremoniously bearing the big knife across his upturned palms. At the edge of the pool, he handed it off to Bob Wier, who grimaced and handled the blade as if it were red hot, immediately passing it off to Colonel, who
took it solemnly. He held the handle with one hand and laid the gleaming blade lightly across his other palm. He stepped across the trembling pool on the stepping stones and started up the slope, his shining eyes fixed on Paul.

“Wait a minute.” Paul backed up against the base of the big, sagging pillar behind him. “Let’s just stop for a second.” Callie was trembling. The soles of her sandals were bent back as she knelt on the sweating stone. She wore the same clothes she’d had on when she’d left his apartment—jeans, a man’s old Oxford shirt—and she’d left his apartment, Paul thought, before he had started dreaming. Maybe, he thought frantically, her presence in his apartment had been part of the dream as well, and he began desperately to wonder just how far back it went. Had his affair with Callie been a dream all along? Had his wooing by Colonel and his cronies been a dream? Maybe all of it had been a dream, he thought, feeling the sweat pouring down his temples: his job at TxDoGS, his life with Kymberly in the suburban ranch house, maybe even his whole experience in Texas. None of this ever happened, he thought. I never lost my teaching job, I never got divorced. I never drowned a cat in a bathtub. This is a fantasy, a cautionary tale, and I’m fast asleep in Iowa, with Lizzie snoring beside me and Charlotte, dear, sweet Charlotte, purring happily at my feet. He glanced all around him for some definitive sign of unreality, but all he saw were the wide eyes of the pale men watching him from below and the dripping stalactites above, pointing at him like spears.

By now Colonel had reached the ledge, and he knelt on the top step and fixed Paul with his gaze and lifted the knife towards him.

“What about her?” cried Paul, pointing at Olivia. “I mean, I gave you her already, right?”

The crowd of murmuring men gasped as one, and Olivia dropped her jaw and goggled at Paul. Colonel sighed and looked exasperated, but before he could speak, Olivia had placed her clenched fists on her hips.

“Outrageous!” she cried. “
Outrageous!
” She swung her ferocious
gaze from Paul to Stanley Tulendij, who grinned weakly.

“Now, dearest,” he said, waving his wobbly palms at her.

“Stanley,” said Olivia, her lower lip trembling, “are you going to let this, this
person
speak about me in that manner?”