Sunday, 11 January 2015

A page from 'Goose' - how Marowit and Kay first meet (when he is sent to rid of her)

“Which one?”
“Which of the souls? It’s an old fable Lord Morphei had three souls, three dream faces. Which one of the three fathered you? Was it his centre? Or was it Phantasos? No, wait. I get it. The screams and the rapes. You’re the nightmare. Phoebetor’s boy.”
During the confrontation, the world around us became more solid and gradually bright. In the middle of the shapes and shadows, he became more substantial. For a moment I thought he doesn’t look so ugly at all. Now as he was leaning in closer (as he dared so), I could also see the texture of his skin and the veins on his wrists, the earrings and the needlework on his clothes and the shape of his toenails. A handsome little thing, to be sure, but he didn’t worry me. Not even when he grabbed me and threw me on the ground, nor when he choked me and shook me and hissed he will show me how a woman is handled, before she is ended. He sounded rehearsed.
“Is this how you killed lord Morphei’s wife?” I croaked. It was difficult to talk, because his grip on my throat was hard, but he heard me. He’s stopped trying to rape me altogether.
The grip loosened ever so briefly. If he knew what he was doing, he’d be digging thumbs to in to break the oesophagus. This was he was just slowly cutting off the flow of blood to my brain and I was getting warm and fuzzy.
“What did you say?”
“Did you rape her first, too? … Did you rip out her heart and whispered it how her husband and son are dead?”
                “I didn’t kill Amis! What are you talking about?! …”
“Who, then?”
The grip loosened entirely.
“Do you even know?” I pressed on.
The thing moved away from me, kneeling above me. I didn’t try to sit up, I just wiped the tear that ran down my eye due to pain. It was a reflex, not weeping. Perhaps angry weeping. But I felt good otherwise. Extremely so. Valdemar would be proud of me, I was certain. ‘Tis may be how I die, but I wasn’t going to let the little shit farce relish in it.
I could see the rigid upbringing kick in every time the threshold of panic and emotion was growing too much. He snarled aloofly, nostrils flaring: “It is not your wit to know who governs worlds that bleed pity and shadows on the earth you thread! My family is so above you I couldn’t even begin to beat their majesty into you.”
“Oh, so it was your family? We’ve been wondering about that. Why did they do it?”
“Why? Why do suns burn madly when there’s no one watching, why do sons put spears into their eyes for their fathers’ sins?”
“Why does a tiny nightmare inherit the throne of dreams, even when it neither deserves, wants nor handles it? Could it be because he’s but a puppet’?”
He pushed away like I was something frightfully disgusting and stood up. “I am not a nightmare!”
I actually expected him to snarl: I am not a puppet.
“Your job is to murder people in their sleep using night terrors! You were about to rape and murder ME and I’m awake! How are you not a nightmare?”
“It is my honest joy to kill you! All of you. Lord Morphei must never …!”
 “What’s it to you? He is dead. He’s not a king anymore; he’s just some scabs and brittle bones, rattling death from his scratched lips, not poetry. He will never be a God again. Even he doesn’t know if he even wants to be a human. Nobody can argue for him, because his voice is too long lost. We were just a bunch of old fools, trying to right a cosmic wrong. It has nothing to do with you. You go do your job. Blow some sand around. Manage your estates. Try to build some nice buildings in the memory of your cousins that got killed. Write a poem. You needn’t worry about us. We couldn’t threaten you even if we tried. And we won’t try. We used to like your people.”
If he heard any of this and understood half, good, but the time it took to vomit such a speech gave me enough opportunity to shake the strangulation haze and sit up, pushing from my elbows. He frowned a sad, angry child’s frown and hissed, under his breath, without looking at me: “Makes no difference.”
“Course it does. Does to us.”
“You all must perish.”
“Pull your head out of your arse and create something beautiful! I’ve not had a dream for weeks and trust me, little princeling, I know when a dream is void.”
“T’was wasted words on non-existent ears. I cannot let you leave here alive. I will not.”
“We’re in dreamscape, you idiot. My body’s on the floor in a small room in London.”
“Nobody can survive a death in dreams!”
“I’m a trained fantasist, you daft cunt, the first thing they teach you is how to combat a myoclonic twitch! I will just wake up!”
It was actually sad to see how naïve and lost he was. He just stood there, realizing he’s fucked up. He should have done some research at least, his face said. This was all wrong. I should have been a defeated thing by now. But I have gotten on my feet and started to fix my clothes back to where they were supposed to compliment my modesty.
“Just leave me alone and go do whatever it is you are supposed to be doing, reigning,” I muttered, tucking in my shirt. “I’ll go home and go make some breakfast. Not that you’d know what that is.”
He gave me a tired, warning look. “I can make better pancakes than you.”
“Now you’re just being delusional. You can’t even make a better speech. And your kissing is pathetic.”
“I wasn’t trying to kiss you nicely.”
“You weren’t trying to murder me nicely either and you frakked that part up like a pro.”
What do they call your around here, anyway? was my last question to him, before, after an eon of deafness and darkness, I woke up in my bed (where it looks like I’ve been purposefully moved so that I wasn’t in the way of the nurses.) in Notting Hill. Rhyannon checked me, checked the damage and my vitals, then gave me a ‘you certainly can bullshit your way out from underneath the gallows, boss’ look. I needed coffee, though, surprisingly enough, I didn’t feel any particular need for a good cry.
They call me Morpheus, actually, he sighed. But I think that’s their idea of a joke.