You Can Drive a Horse to Water, but a Pencil Must Be Lead
Snow is falling in thick white flakes from a dark gray sky. It is crisp and deep in the ground, smothering the frozen soil. There are tall evergreens all around — their trunks are straight and vertical, like the bars of a cage. No tracks are visible in the snow, but wet black patches on the lower branches of the white-cloaked trees testify to the recent passage of some fairly large creature. I think I can see it, not far off, standing stock-still amid the shadows, but my vision is confused by the diagonally sweeping snow, and I cannot be sure.
As I strive to determine which of several shadows might possibly be alive, other living beings tramp into view from the opposite direction. They are men, wrapped up tightly in thick woolen clothes, wearing tight-fitting caps and earmuffs. At each step their furry, knee-length boots sink several inches into the snow. There are five of them, marching in single file. Four are carrying guns; the fifth has a stout wooden pole some seven feet long.
All are looking quickly from side to side as they walk, as if they think each shadow might be a man or monster in disguise. At a signal from their leader they stop. Silently, he motions one man to the right, another to the left, urgently indicating a spot where he has — or thinks he has — seen something.
The leader raises his hand and pauses to wait for his men to reach their positions. The men raise their guns and aim them. Still there is nothing I can see that I can be sure of. But their quarry, realizing that he/it is discovered, bursts like a black thunderbolt from its hiding place in the crowd of shadows.
At first glance I think that it is a man, unclothed above the waist despite the bitter cold. Then I perceive that the creature is naked below the waist as well, but unhuman. His abdomen sweeps from pale flesh to thick bay fur, short and straight. Where a man would have possessed stocky, heavily muscled legs, he had long, graceful ones tapering to small hooves. Behind, there is a second abdomen, supported by powerful hind legs. A long tail swirls out at the base of the spine.
It is a centaur.
Soundlessly, the guns go off, their operation betrayed only by the livid splashes of color accompanying the explosions. The centaur zigzags madly through the trees, apparently unhurt by the first blast. It finds a lone human blocking its way and careers away to its right, charging straight into the sights of the main party of three. The leader aims his rifle, but it is kicked away by flying hooves as the centaur rears to an awesome height. The gun flies away, and the hunter falls back, his arms protecting his face. The second gunman drops to his knees, and the man with the staff thrusts it fiercely into the human solar plexus. The man-beast collapses to one knee, and the kneeling man lets loose a blast of fire. The pole is raised to strike again, but the creature, blood pouring from a shoulder wound, stumbles away from the men.
The other two draw in, firing twice each, quickly. The centaur falls, its skull shattered and its body bleeding from two or three more wounds.
The leader staggers to his feet, brushing off the snow, while the others tie the centaur’s feet together and thread the pole under the knots so that it can be carried. They set off clumsily, boots sinking deep into the soft surface, four supporting the pole and the dead beast, the erstwhile leader bringing up the rear, carrying two of the guns. Their faces are averted from the direction of the driving snow, and for a moment I think they will not see me.
But one looks up, and they stop. Sudden shock registers on their faces. Their eyes grow wide, and their foreheads crease, with surprise, disbelief, and fear . . . and something else. I think it must be guilt. I watch the shock die away, and all that remains is the savage hunger and perhaps a hint, no more, of guilt.
The leader opens his mouth to speak to me.
this is titan base calling harker lee. come in harker lee. acknowledge please. acknowledge, harker lee.
But no sound comes out.
As I pass by a rock-surrounded pool, which is replenished at every tide by gray salt water, I hear the voices of the Medusae. I pause to listen, but I do not dare look over the rocks to taste the horror of their snake-limbed features.
harker lee
“Sister,” wail the two who guide the third (for she is blind, with eyes of black jet), “do not look into our faces. Already they are frozen into terrible masks.”
“Where are you
harker lee
?” asks the blind one, and I can imagine her head turning as her black eyes wander in their futile quest.
“Sister,” they implore, “turn not your head.”
“I cannot see you,” she complains in anguish.
acknowledge
“Sister, look out
harker lee
to sea!”
“I am
harker lee
lonely,” says the blind one, and she weeps. As the sea waves beat around her crab-clawed feet, her tears dissolve the jagged spurs of stone around the pool and envenom the sea.
this is titan base
and envenom the sea.
this is titan base
and envenom the sea. . . .
calling
calling
calling