Mar ch 3| Forks are Useless

Weeks pass, and I remain with the Plunkers. I cannot convince the doctor that Asher had nothing to do with my transformation, so I stop trying.

They argue over if they should report me. I belong to the Azurés. Discovery will bring harm. I can’t tell who’s on what side, but they say nothing to me about it.

Both are aware of my nightmares, though I reveal nothing of their content: days of chains and cages, needles and liquid danger.

“Did it hurt?” Mrs. Plunker asks as I help swab out the topmost cabinets. I’m short for a human but agile and good at climbing.

I do not respond, but my face gives her the answer. Transforming was agony incarnate, yet the pain did not come unaccompanied. Terror held me in a death grip, as it still does in the nightmares.

I didn’t understand what was happening or why. The subjects in the cages around mine died, some from no reason I could fathom, some from the insanity that drove them to gnaw at their changing limbs. Others took their place only to meet the same fate.

Besides myself, the only constant was Brute, a big, dumb mutt who became a big, dumb man. He listened to me practice speech, but he never tried it. He never escaped from his cage to spite the progression of intricate locks. The wardens never stabbed him with their lightning staves, leaving him sprawled on the ground, drooling. A position I held much too often. Brute did whatever they commanded.

The memory of terror on the faces of the two wardens who chased me into the Plunkers’ yard brings an ironic pleasure, and a smile breaks across my face.

“Is it a good or bad thing when I see your teeth?” Dr. Plunker asks.

I help him muck out the barn, a job full of intriguing smells, and he has tasked me with all the heavy lifting after discovering I can carry a greater ratio to my weight than he can.

“The wardens were never afraid of me before.” I grunt as I haul another bale onto the hayloft. “They have their lightning staves and guns. Why were they scared when I fell off your porch?”

“They didn’t know you were you.”

I drop the bale. “Their noses should have told them.”

“Human noses don’t work like that. Humans rely on their eyes more than anything else.”

“And intelligence. That’s what Mrs. Plunker says.”

“Humans too often rely on what they’ve been told.” The doctor leans on his broom. “I kept that mannequin on the porch to scare away troublemakers, but it didn’t scare you because you didn’t know the stories I based it on. I rigged the screaming barrel to fill a similar role, but that didn’t deter you either.”

“They thought I was from a scary story?” I wrinkle my nose.

Asher would tell horror tales sometimes. He had a running wager he could make Esperanza scream. As she listened, I would sit on her lap, and I never caught a whiff of any worry from her. Sometimes Asher would speak in a weird voice, and that disturbed me, but I was mostly unaffected as well.

“Because the stories aren’t real,” Esperanza once explained.

“Belief is a powerful thing,” the doctor tells me now. “Belief can make anything real.”

* * *

Autumn days grow shorter and colder. Mrs. Plunker insists on teaching me school lessons. They’re difficult, but not as incomprehensible as what I recall of Asher’s, and I thrive on the challenge. She says I do well for a two-and-a-half-year-old.

I like the school lessons better than the etiquette training, so when asked to pen a sample sentence, I write, “Forks are useless.”

Disapproval clouds Mrs. Plunker’s face, but this sentiment doesn’t dishearten me as it once did. In fact, I find it funny. A warm feeling expands in my chest, and a chuckle escapes. It’s somewhere between a bark and a hiccup but so much more delightful.

“Is that really what you think, Mar?”

“Humans have a lot of useless things.” My smile slips, and I scrawl my next sentence. “Humans make a lot of worthless things.”

With careful slowness, I lift my gaze to Mrs. Plunker’s and find calculation in her eyes. Before she chooses her argument, the doctor summons me outside. I heed his call, not willing to indulge the discussion Mrs. Plunker plans.

Via message bugs, someone in town has sent for the doctor to aid a wounded man. While not a rare occurrence, this is the first time he invites me along. The speckled, white mare doesn’t notice my added weight as I ride behind Dr. Plunker. My fingers dig into his shoulders, certain I’ll fall the instant my grip wavers.

Though wrapped tightly around me, Death’s cloak billows in the wind. The doctor thinks it silly I insist on wearing it, but as winter draws closer, I miss my fur. If I must don someone else’s coat, why can’t it be one the wardens fear?

I have been to town before, though I was never allowed inside the buildings. My duty was to stay outside and make a fuss if anyone came near the horses. Curiosity keeps me at the doctor’s heels now, and no one stops me as I follow him through a crooked doorway.

We leave most of the sunlight outside. My eyes adjust quickly, but my nose has already told me what I’ll see: sweat, blood, and pain.

Scent claims the man on the gurney is a relative of Esperanza’s, perhaps a cousin, but I don’t recognize him. He’s a cattle hand like his kin, though. They spend too much time with those bovines, sitting atop trained herd members called scape-steers. Too often they smell like the sitting arrangement went the other way around. I wouldn’t want to lick my wounds either if I stunk like that.

Wisdom waltzes around Dr. Plunker and exudes calm. Silent and invisible, I hand him whatever he asks for and watch as he cleans and inspects the gashes on the man’s shoulders. The doctor’s every touch elicits a gasp, grunt, or cry. Some of the wounds are deep enough to need stitching, but the doctor moves and speaks with patience. His serenity staves off the others’ panic.

“These are from a canine’s bite,” he confirms, and I think of Asher’s coyote attackers. I don’t smell them, though. So many scents compete in here, but even searching for it, I cannot detect their stench. Putrescence like that can’t be hidden.

“Not. A dog.” Frustration spurs the patient’s heart. He smells like helpless prey.

I back off.

“A coyote. A wolf,” the doctor offers. “Be rational. The sheriff won’t want to hear nonsense.”

“I know. What I saw. He was wild. He latched onto my shoulder. Dragged me across the ground. Like a dog. But a man.”

“A human didn’t maul you,” Dr. Plunker says, calm but firm.

“A gorilla?” another cattleman suggests. “A sasquatch?”

The doctor shakes his head. “Shock takes a toll on anyone’s mind. There is no such creature.” His eyes flicker to me, and I sink into a readied stance, though I don’t know what I ready myself for.

“Rest. We’ll talk again when your mind has had time to settle.” Dr. Plunker produces a vial and needle from his bag.

My eyes widen.

“It was a man beast!” The patient repeats it over and over. His shrieks soften as the liquid danger steals his consciousness. Before he’s out, I identify the smell. I know what attacked him.

I race outside and stumble down the stairs. Not so long ago, I had a similar wound on my leg. Because Brute does whatever they command.

Continued in chapter 4

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