Chromosome Quest Page 5

  By the pricking of my Thumbs,

  Something wicked this way comes:

  Open Locks, who ever knocks.

  I forgot what comes next! My brain went empty. Stuck for words, I dare not let them see my panic, so I bowed my head, to hide my face, to gather my thoughts. The audience responded with tenuous applause. Easy crowd, I reflected. Or at least polite.

  A few more lines came to me as my tortured brain began to move along a once long ago familiar path. I raised my head to continue; the audience fell silent.

  Round about the cauldron go;

  In the poison'd entrails throw.

  Toad, that under cold stone days and nights

  has thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got,

  Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.

  Double, double toil and trouble;

  Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

  Fillet of a fenny snake,

  In the cauldron boil and bake;

  Eye of newt and toe of frog,

  Wool of bat and tongue of dog,

  Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,

  Lizard's leg and owlet's wing,

  For a charm of powerful trouble,

  Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

  Petch was beaming as the words began to flow from my panicked brain cells. As the chorus came round again he jumped up and joined in:

  Double, double toil and trouble;

  Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

  I continued with the next verse, growing more confident now as the lines began to flow.

  Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,

  Witches' mummy, maw and gulf

  Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark,

  Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark,

  Liver of blaspheming Jew,

  Gall of goat, and slips of yew

  Silver'd in the moon's eclipse,

  Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips,

  Finger of birth-strangled babe

  Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,

  Make the gruel thick and slab:

  Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,

  For the ingredients of our cauldron.

  The chorus came round again, Petch waved, and the whole audience joined in, which shocked me into almost stopping.

  Double, double toil and trouble;

  Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

  Definitely, easy crowd. I decided to bring it to a close before I again found myself stuck for the lines.

  Cool it with a baboon's blood,

  Then the charm is firm and good.

  I ended by resoundingly slapping the table before me. The audience went wild!!

  Bowing to acknowledge their applause, I hoped desperately they didn't expect an encore. Unfortunately, I quickly realized that they obviously did.

  Fighting, struggling as to how to proceed, I abandoned my fractured Macbeth and wracked my brain for ANYTHING I could recite from memory. If only I had Google for 30 seconds. Only one thing would come to mind, a song I used to sing at Youth Group campfires long ago. It would have to do.

  I raised my head, held out my hands and began again, singing a capella.

  In a cavern, in a canyon,

  Excavating for a mine,

  Lived a miner, a forty-niner

  And his daughter Clementine

  As I started the Chorus, I nodded at Petchy, and without missing a beat, he joined right in, loudly, with passion, slightly off-key. It didn't matter.

  Oh my Darling, Oh my Darling,

  Oh my Darling Clementine.

  You are lost and gone forever,

  Dreadful sorry, Clementine.

  She was dainty, like a fairy,

  And her shoes were number nine

  Pretty boxes without topses

  Sandals for my Clementine.

  The next Chorus came round, and Petch waved enthusiastically to the whole table, and though the language might be incomprehensible, the crowd joined in, mangling the words with enthusiasm. The orchestra picked up the rhythm and joined in too, adding instrumental accompaniment.

  Oh my Darling, Oh my Darling,

  Oh my Darling Clementine.

  You are lost and gone forever,

  Dreadful sorry, Clementine.

  On a roll now, I waved. jumped and danced enthusiastically, not sure what any of my movements had to do with the song, but it didn't matter. Only theatrics counted.

  Drove she ducklings to the water

  Every morning just at nine,

  Stubbed her toe upon a sliver,

  Fell into the foamy brine.

  And again the Chorus comes round, and my furry audience attacks the (to them) unfamiliar syllables with gusto, ringing the rafters.

  Ruby lips above the water,

  Blowing bubbles soft and fine,

  But alas, I was no swimmer,

  So I lost my Clementine.

  Chorus comes round, and they are beginning to get the hang of the words.

  How I missed her! How I missed her!

  How I missed my Clementine,

  Till I kissed her little sister,

  And forgot my Clementine.

  Once more the Chorus comes round, and everyone is jumping and pounding the table, a fur-covered wave of enthusiasm.

  Then the miner, the forty-niner,

  Soon began to peak and pine,

  Thought he oughter join his daughter,

  Now he's with his Clementine.

  And again the Chorus comes round, and again my furry audience attacks the unfamiliar syllables with gusto, shaking the very walls with their enthusiasm. A critic might say their diction was flawed, pronunciation imperfect, words were mangled, but that didn't matter. Not in the least.

  In the church yard in the canyon

  Where the myrtle doth entwine

  There grows roses and other posies

  Fertilized by Clementine.

  This final verse I slowed and dropped my voice, lowered my hands, and bowed. The audience seemed to understand that the song was over, there was no more chorus. The last syllable died away, and silence befell the chamber for about two heartbeats. Then the audience exploded. I think my impromptu performance was a hit.

  An easy audience, indeed. Thank God they were.

  Terror

  After my performance, our host stood, figuratively took the spotlight, and spoke briefly. Again her words were meaningless, but her meaning was obvious. She was thanking the audience and winding up the evening's entertainment. Once she pointed to me and chattered enthusiastically. She waved me up, and I stood, and bowed to the crowd, once again receiving enthusiastic applause.

  I resumed my seat, and she continued only a few brief moments, winding up the evening. As she ended, the audience stood and began milling about. Many of them drifted away.

  But not my Lolita! She grabbed my arm and hung on for dear life, it seemed, as she squired me around the room, engaging remaining residents in conversation, babbling incoherently to them. Clearly, she was telling them something about me, or her plans for me, but what I had no clue. She never missed an opportunity to rub against me, so very much like a cat, or so it seemed, except she was not merely content to strop my thigh. Again and again, she targeted my sensitive alter-ego. I was continuously on-guard to twist and swerve as needed to avoid contact, to constrain her to safer territory. She seemed to take it as a personal challenge.

  I tried to accost Petchy for some guidance, but he was busy, insulated by his own furry coterie. I desperately needed help fending off this child. I like girls, and indeed it has been a long dry spell since my last serious relationship ended. That's partly why I am having so much difficulty with the inner beast. He's hungry, but I'm no child molester. If her mother wanted to play, I think I could well handle her, fur pelt and all! Mama is indeed quite the curvy dish, but her pubescent child was just too scary.

  Many a man has ruined his life over an attractive piece of jailbait, and I do not need such trouble, especially on an alien planet!

  That this was
not Earth seemed evident. I suppose someone could have built the castle somewhere in a deeply tropical environment along with all that I had seen, like an incredible stage setting in some uninhabited corner of the world, but it seemed unlikely. The park-like setting where I awoke, the exotic woods, the hot and humid climate, and the fur-people I had met with their unfamiliar language all, by Occam's Razor, suggested I was indeed on an alien world, and I had accepted the premise. That I had arrived here by way of magic seemed wholly irrelevant. I suppose no law requires interplanetary travel to use spaceships.

  When I first arrived, I had found the language of these people incomprehensible. I had been in a room full of native speakers for hours, and had endless opportunity to point, ask, and hear nouns, pantomime verbs and otherwise pick up bits and pieces here and there. In-between sexual assaults from my personal Lolita, I had picked up numerous words. The word for the bathroom was not one of them, and I was unsure of how this would play out. I was uncertain how I could communicate my need by pantomime, in polite company.

  The culture here seemed to be decidedly non-technical, veritably stone-aged. So far I have seen no evidence of anything my own culture would consider technological. No recording devices, not even the written word were in evidence. Some exquisite paintings adorned the walls, but they seemed very old. I had seen no paper, no books, no metals even. The prospect of finding American Standard plumbing seemed somewhat remote. I did not relish stone-age equivalents! With trepidation, I finally decided I must communicate more directly.

  The party was winding down, and I was getting tired. It had been a very long day, and I had experienced a lot of activity. It was unclear what sleeping arrangements they planned, and I was feeling intense pressure to unload the burdens of the day and to rest my weary body. I caught my host's eye, and pantomimed a yawn, then gave her my best questioning expression. She smiled and nodded in understanding, acknowledging the idea that it was getting late.

  She clapped her hands for attention.

  Her speech was short. As near as I could tell, she said something along the lines of “Our guests are tired; it is late, let us seek our beds.” Again, I had picked up numerous words, but at best I was able to get only the gist of her meaning.

  That must have been close because the others quickly began filing out. Many came to me and bowed slightly, some shook my hand, and others hugged me suggestively, but they all immediately said goodnight and departed.

  In scant moments we were alone. Stapleya, Williya, and myself. Petchy had vanished sometime during the after-dinner mingling and was nowhere to be found. I was on my own, sink or swim!

  The mother babbled something incoherent at me. I thought I recognized a word I had earlier interpreted as 'music.' Its usage in this context was baffling. I gave her a questioning look, and she repeated much of what she had said and indicated Williya. I was open-mouthed, uncomprehending. Then without another word, she turned and left us alone. I was being entrusted to this child. Or she to me.

  Great! Just what I needed. I have been struggling all evening to avoid being put in a compromising position by this aggressive little piranha, and now her mother walks away, leaving the fox in the hen-house.

  I was uncertain which of us was the fox!

  Williya was delighted with the arrangement, of that there was no doubt. She immediately hugged me and began sensually gyrating against my body. I gently pushed her away and motioned as if for us to go. That worked, that got us moving. She seemed eager to take me, well, somewhere. She grabbed my hand and led me out of the great room into a hall, up some stairs, and down a long corridor. We turned left, then right, and traversed another hallway, climbed stairs again and followed another hallway until we came to what could only be described as a sleeping room.

  Apparently, the child had led me to her bedroom, although it was sparsely decorated for a girl's room. Perhaps it was not her room, but it seemed she intended to stay. These people do not appear strongly inclined toward decorations though, so I could not judge.

  As she showed me the room, one thing immediately grabbed my attention. These people might be essentially stone-aged in their culture, but they did understand plumbing. Almost conventional bathroom fixtures took up a corner of the room. Almost. No vitreous china or porcelain as we might expect, but highly polished marble served the same end. The first metal I had seen was in the form of valves. The toilet bowl even incorporated a bidet. I supposed in an unclothed culture; this made a great deal of sense.

  This was the functional equivalent of plumbing I was used to, but that the fixtures were right out in the open was off-putting. I have seen plenty of en-suite bathrooms, but this was far more 'en' than 'suite.' Perhaps they understood plumbing; they seemed not to have a firm grasp of personal privacy, or at least not to give it the same priorities my culture does. I preferred to do the necessary behind a closed door!

  My guide gave me a big hug, babbled at me unleashing a small squeal in the process, then let go and hurried over to the toilet. Without prudishness or ceremony, she proceeded to make the best use, and then washed up thoroughly as I watched on, bemused. Indeed, this was not the first time I had observed a female use the toilet, but in my mind, such private moments are shared only among couples who are already intimately involved, never before with someone, I had just met.

  Definitely an alien culture!

  As she finished her washing, she looked at me quizzically. I did not wish to have an audience, but my need was urgent with no obvious alternative. Afterward, I tried to take a cue from her thorough washing example. I had been a little impressed, as we Earth humans usually seem not nearly so fastidious. I don't know whether cleanliness is indeed next to godliness as I had been taught as a child, but even if not it still seemed a good idea, especially in a culture that eschewed clothing. I heartily approved.

  Our ablutions completed, she once again came into my arms and renewed her sexual assault. I pushed her away as gently as I could, and pointed to the bed, pantomimed sleep. She seemed surprised, questioning, but she led me to the bed, and as I lay down she jumped on top of me. Again, I pushed her away.

  That's when things came wholly unstuck!

  First, she slapped me, a roundhouse blow that rattled my teeth and left me seeing stars. Then she teared up and began crying, babbling incomprehensibly. I tried to comfort her, but she pulled away and ran out of the room, apparently bawling for her mother. I was shocked, looking after her, wondering why she was so upset.

  I was still standing there dumbstruck when her mother came in, screaming, bawling, and ranting, her voice must have echoed over half the castle. I tried to communicate that I didn't understand, but she refused to buy it. She gave me a long tirade of venomous language at the top of her voice, culminating in spitting on the floor at my feet!

  Smiles

  Petchy arrived at a dead run at that moment, appearing disheveled and confused. He tried to talk to her, but she unleashed a stream of invective that scorched his bald spot and curled his thinning hair.

  Before he could get in three words, she spat on the floor at HIS feet and left in a huff, her venom echoing the halls as she stomped away. Petchy stood staring after her, mouth opening and closing in astonishment.

  He turned to me in shock. “This is bad, very bad,” he said. “If she makes good on her threat to throw us out into the night, we shall surely die.” He sat glumly. “Hopefully she will at least wait until morning. If so, we have a fighting chance to hike to the next residence before night falls, and a chance to beg admittance.”

  “What the hell happened?” he asked. “These people are the most gentle people I have ever met in all of my travels. Though their race is dying, and although they live a stone-age existence, I have never seen them anything but kind and welcoming. I can't imagine what could have been so monumental as to provoke such a reaction.”

  “I really have no clue. I had thought we were getting along fine. The little vixen was very determined though; I did everything I could to contro
l the situation.”

  He looked at me askance, suspicion in his eyes. In an oddly lowered voice, he said: “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  I told him how the pubescent child had assaulted me over and over again throughout the evening, how I had deflected her advances, tried my best not to let her create a scene, fought to resist responding to her aggression. As the tale progressed, he began to cloud up. When I got to what occurred in the bedroom, he exploded!

  “You idiot!” he ejaculated. “You god-damned triple-plated FOOL!” Invective flowed from language to language, shifting in search of virgin profanity. He jumped, gesticulating wildly, winding up for a real blow-up. Deciding I had enough, I jumped up, grabbed his arm, holding him in place, and towering over him, leaning in to within an inch of his face, I shouted with all the force I could muster, “S-STOP IT RIGHT NOW!!!”

  Pulling back slightly, but still firmly holding his arm, I continued, “I have been d-dumped into a culture I do not understand and where I don't speak the language. I have been sexually assaulted in a manner that could have earned ME hard prison time in my own culture had I not used every skill I possessed to deflect a potentially disastrous misunderstanding. I have been cursed and insulted in a language I don't understand, spat upon and given no chance even to know what is wrong, much less respond. And now you, my only friend on this whole god damned planet, the only fellow human and earth-man, you attack me too and again I have no clue what is wrong. S-Stop cursing me in languages I don’t know, and tell me what is wrong and what I can do to fix it!”

  With that he collapsed, sitting down, shoulders slumped in submission, staring at the floor. I stood over him for a moment, then sat beside him, putting my head in my hands.

  After a moment he began to shake silently. For an instant I thought he was sobbing, then I realized he was laughing. His silent laughter became vocalized and grew into almost cartoonish guffaws. Not quite feeling his humor, I giggled slightly in sympathy as I waited for him to gather himself and explain.