The Third Bear (50 page)

My real name was Kamilah and my sister's real name was Anbar, but our father used Eczema and Psoriasis so much that around the house in Tashkent we learned to give up those names.

We had come to Tashkent because of our father's skill as a surgeon; despite the repressive regime, the medical facilities there were "second to none," as he liked to say. And it was at a dinner party our parents hosted for colleagues from the medical school that someone called me "Kamilah" and, for the first time, I did not respond. Who was "Kamilah"? I was Eczema. I did not realize then that I might have a third name, one I could choose myself. I was ten.

After everyone had left the house that night, our mother berated our father for his cruelty. She was a beautiful, intelligent, tough woman who loved us too much.

"How can you continue to call them that?" she asked him as he sat drinking scotch in the living room. "Haven't they been through enough?"

At the time, we were having terrible trouble in school. We didn't fit in. We would never fit in.

Our father replied, "When I was growing up, I gave myself horrible nicknames. That way nothing the other boys said could be worse."

It was true that our father never treated anyone worse than he treated himself. A childhood disease had crippled his left arm: it was smaller and paler than his right arm. Because of it, our father was a kind of genius when he held the scalpel.

He never told us the names he'd given himself in school. Instead, he would tell us that he had used his skills and a green powder given to him by a Smaragdinean priest to reanimate a dead woman's arm, which he then used to replace his own, "the better to perform surgery." This tall tale wasn't funny the first time he told it, let alone the twentieth, but he didn't notice our reaction.

Another time - we must have been seventeen - we were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee with our mother, when he walked out of his study in his bathrobe.

He smiled at us and said, "The real reason I call you what I do is that neither of you is comfortable. You never have been. Your brains are itchy - restless and curious - and there is no cure for that other than death. Never forget that."

Then he retreated into his study, padding along in the silly mouse slippers that he'd worn for as long as I could remember.

I would like to think that he already knew our plans and had forgiven us.

A month later, we ran away on the train, desperate to change the reality that had been imposed on us by the world.

A year later we found the Green in the form of the ringmaster who called himself Hermes Trismegistus and talked like a silk ribbon tied slowly around the wrist.

Two years and we came up with our first act for the Babilim Traveling Circus.

Four years and we began to have a sense of what our third, our self-chosen names might be, and how we might best serve the Green and thus ourselves.

Five years later our father died without either of us ever having had a chance to tell him any of this.

Insouciant

- boots smashing through brambles to the soft pine needle floor, left hand lacerated by branches from reaching out for support at the wrong moment, heart beat rapid, blood on the grip of his Glock, sharp pain in the shoulders as he whipped around long enough to get a few rounds off at an enemy that shattered in his vision because of the recoil, Lake Baikal behind him and more forest ahead and no hope in hell now of staking out the cabin where he suspected the girl was being held by the Russian toughs that had flushed him out, although he wondered as a bullet flecked a pine tree to his left and the bark exploded against his arm was the girl really there, how could he be sure and why the hell did his watch itch so badly against his sweating wrist and all the time trying not to fall, when he heard a bellowing behind him and the sound of his pursuers brought up short, followed by a cry of surprise, and he just kept running because he'd caught a hint of something green that reminded him of a painting he'd bought but didn't connect to his idea of reality, or anybody's idea of reality, and it wasn't until that moment that he realized all through the chase, until the sight of the smudge of green, that he'd been as carefree as he could ever hope to be in his line of work and how strange that was and yet so true, then tripped over something large and fleshy, fell on his side against some tree roots and, dazed, gasping for air, raised his head to find the smudge of green resolved into something so improbable that he lay there staring at it for far too long, knowing instinctively that this was part of some great mystery, a mystery he might pursue for years and never solve and yet must pursue anyway, and realizing too that because of it he would rarely know any kind of peace for the rest of his life -

Logorrhea

(Excerpted from "Yetis, Loch Ness, and Talking Fish?" in the English magazine Strange Phenomenon, April 1935)

"There is really no sight that stirs the blood more than witnessing a giant Logorrheic Coelacanth plowing its way across the floor of old-growth Siberian forest, bellowing for all it's worth. "Dr. G. Merrill Smith

The freshwater walking fish called by some the "Logorrheic Coelacanth" has again been sighted in and around Siberia's Lake Baikal, as it has at regular intervals for hundreds of years. Most sightings occur miles from any water source, the fish reported to crawl awkwardly on its thick pectoral fins. Speculation leads this reporter to the conclusion that the Logorrheic Coelacanth must have a remarkable capacity to store water in pouches concealed by its gills. Third-hand accounts tell of hunters encountering the voice of this fish before ever sighting it. (This reporter believes that the force of cycling water through the gills creates the sibilant yet throaty noise.)

In August 1934, the Logorrheic Coelacanth's gill mutterings came under rigorous observation by Dr. G. Merrill Smith's zoological expedition to track and tag Lake Baikal's freshwater seals. Dr. Smith told this reporter that he saw "what looked like a squadron of raucous walking fish ugly as bulldogs at the edge of a clearing. Imagine my surprise when I realized they were speaking in an ancient shamanistic language associated with a lost race once close kin to the Smaragdineans." Independent analysis of the field recordings made by Dr. Smith confirms the resemblance to certain rare languages. Some scientists have postulated a kind of inadvertent mimicry to explain the phenomenon. (Dr. Smith has stated, "I think it might be as coincidental as a cat coughing up a hairball sounding like speech.") Others have proposed more outre theories, such as symbiosis between Neanderthals and the fish. Although no serious scientist accepts this theory, no one can explain the fish's wanderings, the long intervals between sightings, nor give any reason for the fish to have developed this "adaptation."

Lyceum

From the Book ofSmaragdine, 543rd Edition:

The Lyceum at Smaragdine began as a convalescence retreat for the children of the wealthy, often prescribed by court physicians. It also served as a center for teaching about medicine and philosophy, but during the Rule Without Kings, the Lyceum fell into disrepair. When finally refurbished by the insane Reformer King Jankamora, the Lyceum took on ever more mystical undertones. King Jankamora had secret doors and tunnels added to the interior and made of the exterior a complex illusion. A facade created by skilled painters made it appear that it was always dusk inside. A certain organic quality began to permeate the architecture. Water features began to dominate the exterior gardens. Inside, King Jankamora had trees planted and knocked holes in the ceiling to accommodate them. Wherever possible, he lengthened the corridors and made them more difficult. Soon, it was nearly impossible to find the way from one room to another. The king also created what he called a "circus that is not a circus" and had it train and perform solely inside of the Lyceum, often to an audience of dead insects he had collected during his travels. Members of the court began to complain that the Lyceum had become "a hideaway for the uncanny and the unseemly." When King Jankamora disappeared, it was rumored that he had become trapped in the Lyceum. Sadly, when Smaragdine was taken during World War I by the British, the Lyceum was lost. Some claimed it had spontaneously sucked itself into the earth. Others, that King Jankamora reappeared and, with the help of his secret followers, disassembled the Lyceum and reassembled it far away, in the mountains. Claims that the Lyceum and all of its elements had been created by Jankamora to somehow assist in the search for the Green Tablet cannot be substantiated. Regardless, ever since that time there have been only hints of the Lyceum in the form of the brilliant green shards and wooden beams today found in the museums of other countries.

Macerate

To: The President of Emerald Delta River Cruises

Dear Sir or Madam:

I am writing to complain in no uncertain terms.

My wife and I are not rich people, nor extravagant. I, for example, work part-time at a grocery store since my retirement. But this past summer, we decided to treat ourselves to a river cruise. We chose your service because it had come highly recommended by one of our cousins and because the rates were reasonable. Five days on a river cruise! Nothing could have delighted us more, and my poor Macha, who works twelve-hour days in a factory, deserved it. Besides, the name of the boat seemed rather romantic: The Light of the Moon.

We departed in late August with the river calm and swallows skimming over the water. Our cabin seemed nice if cramped and the people on board were pleasant. It was a surprise to find that a number of pigs had been brought on board by another traveler, but they were kept below deck and made surprisingly little sound. We looked forward to a relaxing experience.

All was well until the second night, when, as you know, river pirates tried to board The Light of the Moon, under, well I must say it, the light of the moon. We were horrified, of course, but stayed in our cabin as the crew commanded. We heard all kinds of terrible noises and what sounded like shots fired, as well as a great uproar among the pigs. But this settled down and we were reassured by some new crew members in the morning that the pirates had been repelled and would no longer be a problem. Being a war veteran, I had remained calm and my poor Macha had been calm, too, although I made her take a sleeping tablet after.