Chapter Seven

I woke to chaos—loud echoing shouts, air like too close to goers, rapid you-men speech, a sense of panic, much rushing hither and yon. Momma was freeing her baby from the monstrous contraption, Dabby unstrabbing dear Inga, who slung her legs sideways, swung herself out into the stinking air, never letting go of me and the other stuffees in our special conveyance, wouldn’t let Dabby touch it.

We hadn’t crossed the infernal trail at all but seemed to be in the middle of it.

In the back end of the carr under a kind of caudal flap, Dabby had sequestered a number of colorful boxes, which he called soupcases. Another male you-men approached, his wrappings all red and spangles, clearly a chieftain, clearly dangerous. But there was no altercation, just a tribal touch of knuckles, Dabby secretly passing something to the other Alpha—an offering of some kind, a crinkling as of old leaves. And then, more mysteries, the chieftain helped Dabby wrestle all of the colorful soupcases from the machine, rolled them away on their clever whilzz to a small but waterless river, upon which they floated into a voracious meddle mouth. Offerings! Of course! Even the gods were automated in this world! What could I be but next, some kind of coin. Had I been duped?

But no—I smelled stress on Dabby, too—for the sake of his tiny troupe he must pretend, but this crossing terrified him. Inga lifted the carrier with me and my fellow stuffees—no effort at all, stronger even than the enormous males. Her mother, another power, lifted the large baby, who was as happy as my hateful own baby sister had been.

“I’ll return the carr,” Dabby said clearly. “You all go cheggin. You’re going to be alright, Christima?” He meant the adult female.

“If he’s all right, I’m all right,” Christima said, meaning the baby, who was agog at all the action, his idea of a good time.

I’d begun to imagine some kind of reality among my carrier mates—particularly the whale, biggest and softest, and very quietly I hugged my arms around him, pulled him close, little sigh from inzide him—yes, yes, there was some kind of life! I hugged him all the harder. Yes, a sigh, a sigh: life! My fellow prizzoners? My fellow questers? Whatever the explanation, they were very passive, apparently a successful strategy, and one I’d best emulate.

We were not fed into the maw.

And then suddenly we were inzide an enormous you-men space, pretend atmosphere, strange mechanical whistling and bizzing, you-men hubbub, shiny inventions of every description, long lines of submissive you-mens handing over their stuffee carriers to still more royalty behind meddle barriers, many you-men words said, crinkling sheets of thinnest wood shavings exchanged, why? I smelled canid. I smelled feline. I smelled gecko, yucko. Ubb in the artificial heights (as if the very sky had been imprizzoned!), a few birds flew. I couldn’t call to them for advice lest I blow my cover and the cover of my mates. I noted other you-men juveniles and that many of them hugged stuffees to their chests, and further, that many carried fake you-men juveniles, squeezed so tight their heads flopped. Momma exchanged fistfuls of shavings with the mild male royal behind his counter, and though he seemed satisfied, we waited interminably. A monkey is not used to holding his pee! But I did, as did my you-men troupe, except the baby, judging from the sudden scent, the only one keeping himself marked. I was in Inga’s hands. There was a trail to cross, a mission, and we shared it.

“Bathrooom?” Mommy Christima said.

Ritual baths?

But we only walked, and walked some more, then into an echoing chamber with walls of shining stone and reflections, that pernicious chemical smell of not-quite flowers and not-quite fruits, also filth, a broken old female in the corner, a sad elder left to die with her bales of what smelled like the wrappings humans wore, all folded onto a meddle cart, jars filled with fluids, pretend lemon sniff competing with flowers unknown. In front of reflective walls female you-mens rubbed old clay on their faces, smeared blood on their lips, charcoal on their eyes, ran ritual water over their hands. Some had small birds in their ears that sang. I was beginning to understand: you-mens brought companions with them, pets and talismans and effigies to help effect the awful crossing, assuage fear.

I, Beep, saw that I had a job and not only a quest.

The chamber was divided into smaller chambers and Inga brought me into one, dead end, small bathing pool, more real water. She flipped ubb her bright general wrapping and tugged a smaller wrapping off her bottom, sat on the very lip of the pool! In the next chamber we heard Momma cooing to the baby, the splashing of urine. And Inga followed suit: peed. Then pulled a receipt or ticket from a dispenser and with brilliant contempt wiped it across her nether parts, dumped it in the water! I felt fear: those royals would be angry, would they not? Treating their scrip like that? But no one was there to see. Brave Inga! She fixed her wrappings, then bid me pee, too, with hand gestures, and so with relief I did, standing on the lip of the bowl and assiduously keeping the urine off myself as this was not my territory but that of the royal you-mens. Let Inga be the radical!

She lifted me under the arms when I was done, put her lips to my forehead, ritual, ritual, then slipped me back into the carrier with my whale friend and a torpid wolf, both lost like sloths in hypo-metabolic states, wise.

“You’re so good,” Inga said to me before closing me in.

I put a finger to my lips.

Then she to hers.

We were communicating as animals.

Plus, poor whale, another sigh.