Greta of Narbethby Don Swaim

apologies to J. R. R. Tolkien, Richard Adams, C. S. Lewis, Ursula K. Le Guin, & especially John Schoffstall

Greta, desperate, weary, and footsore, had been on the seldom-trod road for six days when she

encountered the swollen pustule. It was her fourteenth birthday and she was lost, sobbing like a

piglet separated from her mother. It was no way to celebrate a milestone, and Greta was aware

she had to put her emotions aside—although since she was a tot her mind had been a

polychromatic mélange of unfocused reflections and imponderable sensations. She knew she was

different from the other girls in her village, but precisely how eluded her.

The swollen pustule feigned concern, disguising the possibility that the loathsome deformity

may have had ulterior motives. Pustules were pustules, after all, and were as impossible to

predict as they were unsightly.

“Why are you crying, young lady?” The tone of the swollen pustule was one of sympathy.

Swaim/Greta p. 2

Greta, a slight girl, hips narrow, boobs but little knobs, wiped her eyes with her fist. Rarely

did she weep, but now, in anger and frustration, she was unable to constrain herself.

“I’m searching for the picaroons who abducted my little sister. They’re vile, and may be

ravaging her even as we speak. But time’s running out and I’ve lost my way.”

“My, my…”

“I’ve got to find a place named Unnamable here in the Nation of Narbeth.”

“You’re in luck. I know Unnamable well, a lovely habitat, so perchance I may assist you.”

Its voice was unctuous in the way of swollen pustules. Invariably, pustules were loathed, and

even their few admirers saw them as disgusting. 1

“Allow me to—”

Greta took a defensive step back, withdrawing the jewel-encrusted dagger from the scabbard

at her side.

“No closer, you foul abscess.”

“Oh, a feisty little girl, are you?” said the swollen pustule, keeping its distance.

“I was taught to defend myself. My genitor, may he rest in peace, coached me well, and he

left me this magic dagger. Anyway, I know all about you pustules.”

“In that case, my dear, perhaps I might simply give you proper directions so you may be

safely on your way. You don’t want to wind up in the Caliphate of Kansas, do you? It’s chaos

down there.”

She paused, thinking.

“Well… I was headed east, but now I’m confused as to where I am. While the sun appears to

be coming up, it’s actually going down.”

1 Pustules have played a unique role in human history, first identified by the Greek healer Castricius Cohen in the fourth century, BC. Since that time, several breeds of pustules have been ascertained, but the dominant species is found today in Lesotho, Mississippi, Arkansas, and parts of Louisiana. Generally sexless, the pustule reproduces parasitically.

Swaim/Greta p. 3

“That’s because east is no longer considered east, but west. If you’ll simply reverse your

position…”

“You mean…”

“Indeed, if you walk east you’re traveling west. And if you head west you’re going east. It’s

that straightforward. The Nawab of Narbeth has so decreed in order to allay any confusion.”

Greta relaxed, although remaining cautious, and returned her dagger to its sheath.

“Well… perhaps I’ve misjudged you, whatever your name is.”

“Just call me Pust. Say, let’s be chums. I’ll sing to you songs of youth and love, loneliness

and contentment. I know something about young flesh. I’ve been attached to it many times.”

Greta built a campfire by the side of the empty road. The swollen pustule watched as she

crushed mushrooms and mixed them with enanthema and dandelions, and on sticks roasted sweet

berries. As she ate, she explained that, orphaned, she and her younger sister, Jenna, were in the

briarwoods near their cottage gathering the jimsonweeds the two sold in their village for

sustenance. When they were set upon by the odious, bearded picaroons, their male organs solidly

erect, Greta fought them off with her parental dagger and escaped, but Jenna was hauled away

screaming in terror.

Powerless, outnumbered, Greta sought help from the cowardly village constable, Ralph, who

begged off claiming he was about to officiate at the wedding of two homunculi and therefore was

too busy. However, he shared a rumor that the picaroons maintained a sanctum many medicks to

the north of Nudge, the capital, by which he meant south, in a swamp named Unnamable.

“But don’t go there,” Ralph warned. “Or you’ll never return.”

Greta was not one to be intimidated, so, armed with her poniard, she set out to right the

wrong, although fearful of the carnal indignities the picaroons might have already inflicted on

her sister. Her genitor, making reference to a man named Magus, had told her the dagger was of

Swaim/Greta p. 4

magical properties, but Genitor passed on, an apparent heart seizure, to the Great Enchantment

before he could fully explain, suggesting that she would learn only when she… she… But that

was as much as she knew. For now, the dagger’s only necromancy was a blade so keen it could

split a chupacabra’s hair into quarters.

By firelight, Pust, true to its word, sang of the invincibility of the young, of adoration, of

sweet passion, and of a mother’s touch, nearly lulling Greta to sleep—yet she remained wary, her

fingers never straying far from the dagger’s grip. Thoughts of Jenna, sweet, dear Jenna, kept

intruding. So innocent, so trusting.

As dawn broke, the sun rising in the west, a great storm unexpectedly arose, the wind fierce,

its force engulfing every object in its path: cowpunks, little dojos, large dojos, oaks, steeples,

dollhouses, clock towers, gerenuks, and homunculi.

“This accursed storm and I go way back,” screamed Pust against the din of the swirling gale.

“Tempest Terribilis carries away its enemies. I, a simple, innocent pustule, been attacked by it

many times. Tempest has an evil, cunning mind with a grudge against me.” 2

“But why?” Greta yelled over the bedlam.

“As soon as Tempest thinks its gotten rid of me, I keep popping up somewhere else. Tempest

is a nasty, overblown fart.”

Caught up in the fury, Greta and Pust were hoisted above the earth, swirled far into the air.

Yet the higher they were lofted, the more serene the troposphere became until Greta found

herself less concerned about where they were being whirled but how they would land. Then she

became aware of the voice of Tempest Terribilis, not an actual wind-blown utterance, but an

2 Tempest Terribilis was recorded by bipedal apes on the walls of caves in what become known as the Kingdom of Amphicleocles in the south of the former continent of Knot. In the seventeenth century, scientific studies initiated by Professor Nigel Nithercott Kirk, OBE, member of the British Royal Society, adopted the premise that, lacking any astrophysical or aerological explanation, the tempest must therefore be motivated by a form of intelligent thought.

Swaim/Greta p. 5

inference within her consciousness. Perhaps Pust was right, that Tempest wasn’t merely a clash

between high and low pressures, but did have a spiteful intelligence.

Hear me, my girl. I intend to abandon you on some desolate, uninhabited isle.

“Oh, no.”

Would you care to know why?

“Please, sir, yes.”

You are being reproved.

“But I’ve done nothing. Not to anyone. I’m only searching for my stolen sister.”

She is none of my concern. It’s the lousy company you keep.

“What company?”

Pust’s.

“I barely know him. We met on the highway by accident. He gave me directions.”

Your friend Pust is not to be trusted. With directions or anything else.

“Sir, please, he’s not my friend.”

Every time I’ve burst his bubble he returns for more in open defiance. In any event, why

should I believe a virgin like you?

“Virgin? That’s none of your business.”

Indignant, Greta thought of the baker’s son, Tom, who was useless except for concocting the

most succulent wattleseed baguettes in the Nation of Narbeth, although yeast was not the only

thing he made rise.

“Why would a girl like me wish to associate with a pustule of any kind? Pustules and girls

don’t go together at any time. They’re the bane of our existence.”

Hmmm. As I think about it, I’m more inclined to believe you than not, especially with Pust

being as disreputable as it is.

Swaim/Greta p. 6

Pust, aware of the conversation, objected vehemently.

“What are you saying, you big bag of wind? I’m being slandered.”

Silence, you worthless carbuncle. Tempest said to Greta, Upon reflection, I’ve decided to

deposit you in the Demesne of Donecker, which happens to be conveniently below us, while I

continue on to the Isle of Odes to jettison Pust.

“The Isle of Odes?” Pust cried. “You can’t just abandon me on some island in the middle of

the desert. It might be years before I attach onto some stray Mubeesha on a camel and escape.”

Try me.

“Dammit, you fountain of flatulence, I had plans for that girl. She has beautiful flesh, perfect

for pustulation.”

Enough of your nauseating, perverted fantasies.

Pust moaned in self-pity while Greta, gently, was wafted downward until she felt herself

snared in the upper branches of a bondaloo tree. But as Tempest Terribilis whorled off with its

vesicated captive, Greta saw that she may not have received any favors. The ground below was

crawling, slithering, with quadrupedal, paraphyletic, squamate reptiles, which she recognized

from her first grade reader. Most, she observed, were harmless, but a few were venomous,

notably a squamatakomodo, a mortiferous species that not only bit but had the ability to speak,

although primordially. 3

The squamatakomodo stood on its hind legs and shouted up to Greta, “You’re a trespasser in

the Demesne of Donecker, and you must accept the consequences.”

3 The squamatakomodo, a venomous lizard as long as three meters, is carnivorous and powerful enough to drop a male gaur weighing up to 3,000 pounds. While the squamatakomodo is cited in Greek mythology, its biological roots date to the Blovian stage of the Triassic period, about 220 million years ago. This according to the world’s foremost herpetological scholar, Professor Henri Donahue Dausset of the Muséum des Sciences Naturelles et de la Préhistoire de Chartres. Professor Dausset himself was bitten by a squamatakomodo, which prematurely concluded his studies.

Swaim/Greta p. 7

While the squamatakomodo spoke with an ill-defined accent, Greta, her clever mind ever

churning, was adept at interpreting words and languages indecipherable to others.

“I was brought here by Tempest Terribilis,” she yelled back. “That must mean something

around here. Tempest is the biggest of all winds, a close, personal friend of mine, and will be

mighty angry if anything happens to me.”

“Ohhh, nooo, I am sooo scared,” the squamatakomodo said, wringing his foreclaws.

“Tempest will blow you and your lizard pals to the Great Beyond.”

“Tempest has no power here. All it can do is to pipe a wee, little breeze, nary enough to play

a flute. I, Charmandero, am lizard in charge because my jaws are the most powerful and my

venom second to none. Girlie, I order you to climb down so you may ingest my ejaculate.”

“I won’t taste a drop from your nauseating body,” Greta said, flourishing her dagger. “Not

without a set-to, so come and get me.”

“Ho, ho, I’m laughing my gut. I order my minions to climb your bondaloo and bring you to

earth, where you shall meet your fate.”

By the hundreds, thousands, lizards of every breed, color, and size scurried up the trunk, each

branch, each limb, and, as much as Greta flailed with her dagger, she was overpowered and

hauled to the ground. There, she was nearly smothered by the lizards atop her, unable to move,

only her face exposed, the hand holding the dagger immobilized.

Jaws wide, fangs exposed, Charmandero stood over her, poised to pounce.

“I hope you’ll enjoy my discharge as much as I. And that your convulsions are many.”

Suddenly, Greta heard the snap of a whip, then another and another. She was familiar with

the sound as her genitor would use a whip to round up the family’s trifling herd of dipsheep,

which had to be sold off to pay for his funeral expenses. 4

4 Despite their name, dipsheep are only distantly related to the domesticated, ruminant animals with the woolly coats. Hairless, dipsheep are associated with bovines, although smaller and more agile, and with an irritable disposition. Useless as pets, too stringy for consumption, and unmilkable, dipsheep are bred for their intestines,

Swaim/Greta p. 8

“Fall back, you surly bastards,” came a voice, not that of Charmandero. Another snap. “Now

line up in formation, and no noise. That includes you, Charmandero. Especially you.”

Instantly, the lizards withdrew from atop Greta’s body, freeing her. As she sat up, she saw a

man garbed as a ringmaster, top hat, red tailcoat, gold vest, banjarmasin, riding britches, and, of

course, wielding a whip.

“Greetings, little lady, and welcome to my demesne. I’m Aristide-Pierre Loyal, territorial

ringmaster, named after the first ringmaster Loyal, although I am much the superior. I hope my

lizard troupe didn’t inconvenience you.” 5

“I’m confused,” Greta said. “Charmandero told me he was in charge.”

Aristide-Pierre snapped his whip in the direction of Charmandero, looking glum and

embarrassed, standing docilely on hind legs in line with the other, smaller lizards.

“He’s in charge of nothing. One reptile among many.”

“He was going to inject me with his venom.”

“What venom? Charmandero’s been impotent for the past twenty years. He talks big, but

inside he’s nothing but a gerbil.”

“How do you keep all these lizards under control?”

“It’s in my ancestral blood, little lady, and not just lizards. I also train fleas, houseflies,

termites, maggots, and flowerpeckers. But I’ve never had much success with humans, in

particular my ex-wife, who’s now one of my roustabouts.”

which are dried and used for telephone wire and ukulele strings. Additional details may be found in the handbook The Dipsheep and You, by Percival M. Shils, MD, DDS, BME.

5 A ringmaster’s authority dates to antiquity. Professor Kempner Ling Yuen of Peking University published a groundbreaking paper showing that the ringmaster is mentioned in the Chu Silk Manuscript, dating to the Tang Dynasty, an invaluable document discovered in a copper tube at a pizza parlor in Kittery, Maine. Ingenerated with mythic qualities, the ringmaster’s predominance over all the creatures of the earth is said to be unchallenged, and in Biblical times was occasionally called upon to exterminate plagues of locusts.

Swaim/Greta p. 9

Greta said, “Sir, I was wandering, lost, somewhere in the Nation of Narbeth until I was

suddenly blown here by Tempest Terribilis. I’ve got to return at once.”

“What’s the rush?”

“To rescue my sister who was kidnapped by phallus-erect picaroons.”

“Phallus-erectors? It must be very hard on her. Little lady, I shall return you to Narbeth

tomorrow. But it’s sooo late. You must stay with us until the sun rises in the west.”

With another snap of his whip, Aristide-Pierre dismissed the lizards, which scattered to their

reptilian hideaways.

“I keep them on call twenty-four-seven,” he explained.

In a clinquant coach pulled by a team of Clydesdales, heralded by trumpets and a resplendent

honor guard of gnostics, Greta was ushered to Aristide-Pierre’s abode, an enormous circus with

midway, pit shows, pitchmen, freaks, bally girls, rides, and a big top, inside of which, as the

calliope churned, she dined on curried champak, carrot crumbs, jing leeds, wasp crackers, and

mopane worms, washed down with stag semen and seagull wine. Greta found comfort in eating

those familiar foods of her childhood, although she felt a growing anxiety, her mission still

incomplete. After her nutritive meal, she was entertained by belly dancers, a choir of eunuchs,

funambulists, flyers, hair hangers, iron jaw performers, mixed couples of bathtub copulators, and

a squad of thaumaturgists who transformed hairy-nosed wombats into sailfin catfish and

malachite kingfishers into three-toed sloths.

Greta was particularly impressed by the bathtub artistes.

“I’ve never even seen a bathtub before, much less one with naked people in it,” she told

Aristide-Pierre, her eyes full of gratitude. “You’re so kind to me, yet I’m just a stranger.”

“We don’t get many outsiders in Tarn, so we love showing off. Our circus motto is: There is

No Sore We Cannot Cure.”

Swaim/Greta p. 10

For Greta, while the food was palliative, suggesting the communion of home, the colossal

circus tent and the excessive merrymaking drove her to exhaustion. Aristide-Pierre’s squad of

gnomes made up a cozy bed for her in the Nemean lions’ den, where the big cats purred like

calicos, although their breaths, scented with raw meat, was heavy.

“Fret not, little lady,” Aristide-Pierre said. “Nemean lions rarely bite—except when hungry

or in a bad mood.”

Greta’s sleep was far from dreamless. Initially, it was like cuddling with Jenna or Tom, but

then she tossed, moaned, broke out in sweats, felt the urge to pee, pictured images of her sister

being violated by the picaroons. Suddenly, she felt a nudge on her shoulder, which she first

thought was part of her nightmare, but as she sat up in the half-light, she was startled to see it

was the squamatakomodo.

She fumbled for her dagger, but it was lost in the bedding.

“Shhh,” Charmandero said, “Ain’t gonna hurt you, girlie. I’m here to help.”

“You were going to bite me, poison me with your disgusting venom.”

“Jeez, that was only for show. Somethin’ to keep the other lizards in line, make ’em look up

to me. It was never me that was gonna hurt you, but Aristide-Pierre Loyal. And he lied when he

said my venom was drained out. I got enough for one more bite. It’ll kill me, but what the heck.”

“Ringmaster Loyal saved me from you, fed me, entertained me, made up this comfortable

bunk for me, and the Nemean lions are keeping me warm. He promises to get me home.”

“That was just to throw you off. He intends to exhibit you in his freak show.”

“That’s kooky. I’m no freak. Look at me. I’m just a girl. We don’t have freaks in the Nation

of Narbeth, so I’d know a freak if I saw one.”

“Listen, girlie, you will be a freak when Aristide-Pierre gets done with you. He’s already sent

for Doctor O, who’s off on a scouting mission to Narbeth.”

Swaim/Greta p. 11

“Who’s Doctor O?”

“A quack Aristide-Pierre keeps on retainer. Doctor O will elongate your body, widen your

jaw, flatten your head, splay your feet, enlarge your ears, cross your eyes, gnarl your fingers,

replant hair in inappropriate parts of your flesh, and transpose you into a hideous creature

looking as though it had just crawled from the bowels of the earth. But all the girls—and a few

boys—who are turned into monstrosities by Aristide-Pierre die within months. To stay popular

with the Demeritorious, the ruling party, he must keep replacing his geeks. It’s the only way he

remains in power.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“I’ll prove it, girlie. Follow me, but keep your trap shut and your step light so we don’t wake

the cats.”

“Well…”

She found her dagger and strapped it to her waist.

They moved silently, unobserved, through the labyrinthian expanse of the shadowy circus

tent to the dark midway until they reached a wagon with a sign reading, Stay the Hell Out. Inside

the car, illuminated by lantern, Charmandero opened a cabinet overflowing with posters of

freaks, along with before and after pictures.

Greta shuddered, horrified, as she viewed the grotesqueries.

“Look at this one,” Charmandero said. “This was once a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy. Doctor

O turned him into a giant head with legs like a frog. And this one… Notice where the hands

were, there are now feet. Here’s another of a once beautiful child whose head is now literally the

size of a pin. And—”

“Stop!” Greta said. “I can’t bear to look at any more.”

“Time’s runnin’ out. You gotta leave now.”

Swaim/Greta p. 12

“How do we escape?”

“Not we, you. I stay on account of I got obligations. There’s a team of locusts ready to fly

you out.”

“Locusts? That’s silly.”

“Millions of ’em. When they flap their wings in unison there’s enough momentum to lift you

to safety. I got no love for ’em. They eat up the kinds of shit I like to eat, but, more important,

the locusts have no love for Aristide-Pierre. Ringmasters sprayed canisters of

dichlorodiphenylethanes to murder their forebears—just because the locusts were a little hungry.

They’re waitin’ at the far end of the midway, so let’s scram.”

Charmandero and Greta managed no more than a few paces when they encountered Aristide-

Pierre, toying with his bullwhip.

“Surprised to see me, Charmandero? So you had to go and spill the grits to this outsider. I

should have done away with you a long time ago for impeding my circus.” He cracked his whip.

“You are lizard toast, and as for you, young lady, it’s back to the Nemean lions cage—before I

order them to cavort with your cadaver.”

Greta flourished her dagger.

“Keep away from me,” she said, “or I’ll…”

“Ah, that ludicrous little knife,” he said, mocking her.

Aristide-Pierre again snapped his whip, but this time it hooked the blade, sending it airborne.

“Not so plucky now that you’ve been pacified, eh?” Turning to Charmandero, he said, “As

for you, lizard breath—”

Unexpectedly, Charmandero sprang and with his jaws caught Aristide-Pierre by the neck, the

lizard’s old, brittle fangs sinking into the flesh.

Swaim/Greta p. 13

Although caught by surprise, Aristide-Pierre plucked Charmandero away, flung him to the

ground, and stomped with his heavy boot until reptilian pulp exuded through the orifices.

“So you managed to give me a teensy bite on my neck, did you?” Aristide-Pierre rubbed his

wound. “What’s a couple of tiny punctures? I observe you, Charmandero, with your guts oozing

out, and see that you’re farcical—as if your venom… your venom… your… venom… ven…”

Charmandero managed an enfeebled smile, difficult for a lizard even when not dying.

“I had a smidgen of toxin left in me, Aristide-Pierre, just enough for you. And now I can

croak, knowing that I’m takin’ you with me.” Charmandero said to Greta, “Girlie, find your

dagger and run like hell before he uses his last breath to unleash the trained seals. Remember,

locusts can fly only so far. After that, you’re on your own.”

Then Charmandero and Aristide-Pierre collapsed into each other’s appendages and faded

permanently into the Ultimate Dimension.

At the end of the midway, the locusts had assembled into a flying wedge on which Greta

threw herself, and was lifted into the air, above the treetops, leaving behind Aristide-Pierre

Loyal’s sinister circus. She had no idea where she was headed, but the landscape below of

undulating hills, verdurous valleys, forests of mung, covellitum cropland, and occasional

thatched-roof villages passed by hypnotically, with the buzzing sound of locust wings lulling her

into a silken sleep. Then she felt a slight bump, opened her eyes, and saw that she was safely on

the ground.

As the locusts flew off, dipping their tiny wings in a farewell salute, Greta found herself

staring into the eyes of a star-faced donkey, which seemed docile enough, certainly not

threatening. But in a land of antipodean postulations, where the familiar was assumption and the

imagined real, anything was possible.

“My, my, you’re a little creature,” Greta said. “What’s your name?”

Swaim/Greta p. 14

“It’s Jack, sister.”

“A talking donkey?”

“Of course. I’m a descendant of Balaam’s ass, actually a black-sheep cousin—if I may use

sheep in the same breath with ass. What’s your name?”

“Greta, and I’m impressed with your speaking ability.”

“It’s nothing. I sing opera as well. Both soprano and bass—at the same time. You should

hear the duets I perform with myself. Loads of music come out of this ass.” 6

She looked around her and saw an ordinary, purplish landscape, mung and plate trees,

gainsay bushes, although no homunculi were in sight.

“Since you’re a talking ass,” she said, “perhaps you can tell me where we are.”

“The eastern edge of Territory of Tarn, by which I mean the western.”

“So we’re nowhere near the Nation of Narbeth?”

“Who’d want to be?”

“It’s where my sister was kidnapped, and I must find her before it’s too late.”

“That’s abhorrent, loathsome, egregious—and plain not okay.”

“The locusts deposited me here and flew off without telling me where I was.”

“Those damned flying bugs. Their transport business is for shit. And they shoulda warned

you on account of you’re in mortal danger here.”

“Danger? It’s so quiet.”

“It won’t be once the Mubeesha return. Desert pyromaniacs, they are.”

“It doesn’t look like we’re anywhere near the desert.”

6 Biblical mythology asserts that the Lord’s angel spoke to Balaam through his ass ordering him to bless the Israelis. Modern historians maintain that this interpretation is incorrect, that no mystical verbiage came from Balaam’s or any other ass. Current research suggests that Balaam’s ass was a self-taught linguist and musician who studied the cuneiform script devised by the Sumerians, and who learned to speak phonetically. This is detailed in The Making of Sense by Kevin J. Knabe.

Swaim/Greta p. 15

“The Mubeesha have expanded their range, and they’ve been rounding up all the women and

girls, donkeys, broad-faced potoroos, and bandicoots to take back to their home turf to serve as

wildebeests of burden. I’ll spare you details about what they’ve done to the men. Me? I’ve been

in hiding. Only the wapsipinicon water buffalo are safe because they’ve gathered in one great

herd to protect themselves. The Mubeesha will be back at any moment to ferret out any victims

they missed, so, sister, you need to climb on my back so we can beat it outta here now. All I need

is a sizzling poker shoved in my yap. If that happens, no words will ever come out of this ass

again.” 7

“Why do the Mubeesha behave so appallingly?”

“They got tired of hearing their women jabber day and night, so they began burning female

tongues with scorching spatulas. The idea caught on, and now they do it to everyone who’s not a

male Mubeesha over twenty-one. Which means me and you are at great risk.”

Greta shuddered as she mounted the donkey’s back.

“Hit the road, Jack. Where to?”

“To find that herd of wapsipinicon water buffalo. They ain’t too bright, but we’ll be safer

with them. However, I gotta warn you that they’re better at gin rummy than they look.”

Jack was so short, Greta’s feet dragged on the ground as they moved.

The land around them had been desecrated, the villages ransacked, livestock slaughtered,

crops burned, grave markers toppled.

Greta said to Jack, “Did the Mubeesha do all this?”

“They pillage for fun and profit.”

7 The Mubeesha are often confused with the Mubeysha, as both are warring factions primarily on the Great Denudation Peninsula. While the Mubeysha are ritualistic fire eaters in which they insert red hot metallic objects into their own mouths to prove their devotion to the Universal Life Force, the Mubeesha do the opposite. They embed red hot metallic objects into the mouths of others in order to demonstrate their disbelief and to ensure total silence. This practice is not exclusive to the Denudation, but can also be found in areas of Utah and Saskatchewan.

Swaim/Greta p. 16

Greta and Jack clopped for hours as the ground became hillier, more rocky, until at last they

came to a halt.

“Are we there, Jack?”

“Sit tight, sister.”

Soon, a calf appeared, tentatively, but without apparent fear.

Jack said, “It’s Richard, nephew of Bob, the wapsipinicon’s head bull. Richard was sent to

make sure we’re not the bad guys.”

“Does he talk like you?”

“Wapsipinicon don’t speak in our language, but they often communicate better.” 8

Jack and the calf nuzzled foreheads.

“It’s okay,” Jack told Greta. “Richard’s going to lead us through the pass into Wapsipinicon

Valley.”

It was a joyous reunion as Jack and Greta were welcomed with happy moos, grunts, and

bawls by the enormous wapsipinicon herd, and Greta saw immediately that Jack felt at home—

unlike herself. Out of place in this bovine lowland, she huddled under the shade of a trabecula

tree at the valley’s edge, sipping from a nearby spavin spring and eating wild tubers, amaranth,

burdock, and clovers. But she knew she couldn’t stay. The longer she was away from Narbeth,

the more fearful she was about Jenna’s fate. In any event, she needed to exact retribution from

the abductors.

Finally, she told Jack of her distress.

8 The wapsipinicon water buffalo is not to be confused with the Asiatic water buffalo or the American bison. Even before the rise of the Cro-Magnon, the wapsipinicon had developed firefighting skills, and ancient stick figures in the Cave of Altamira, Spain, clearly show the wapsipinicon dousing brush and forest fires. In the German states of Lower Saxony and Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, the wapsipinicon are considered full-fledged firefighters, and provided with complete honors including medical benefits and pensions.

Swaim/Greta p. 17

“I must find a place named Unnamed in Narbeth. Can you take me there? The Mubeesha

must have gone by now.”

“We can’t be sure, sister. Also, Narbeth is on the other side of the Nocuous Mountains, too

perilous to cross, even for me. But…”

“Yes?”

“There is a train.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“It only leaves twice a week from Trachea, the capital.”

“Why didn’t we go to Trachea instead of here?”

“With the Mubeesha on the rampage? You wanna hot poker on your tongue? Anyway,

Trachea was evacuated. Also, the train runs on electric, and the entire power grid was cut.”

But in an instant Greta’s dilemma was made moot.

From the mouth of the valley came an explosion of thunder and bedlam, calves bleating,

cows bawling, while the entire herd of water buffalo shifted into a single, stupendous, hose-like

mass.

“Damn, it’s the Mubeesha!” Jack said. “They found their way into the valley.”

“We’ve got to run, Jack.”

“No can do. There’s one way in and the same way out.”

The Mubeesha poured in on their three-hump camels, sabers raised to the heavens, rejoicing

in their capacity to slaughter and maim. Wearing ankle-length black robes, their faces obscured

by keffiyeh drawn over their heads, leaving only slits for their eyes, they expelled blood-curdling

screams and locutions of glee. Riding fiercely, the Mubeesha encircled the herd in ever

narrowing arcs, closing in for the kill.

Swaim/Greta p. 18

“Just stay under your tree,” Jack told Greta. “The wapsipinicon are on the case. Trust me.

Bob’s thought it out in advance. They ain’t called water buffalo for nothing.”

In unison, the bulls raised their back legs, the cows elevated their rears while squatting, even

the calves joined in, and all opened fire simultaneously like a gargantuan water canon. The water

hit the Mubeesha directly, knocking them off their mounts. More water discharged in vicious

torrents on their heads. Not a centimeter of space was safe for them. Some of the raiders, mired

in the muck, were struck so forcibly by the streams they were liquidated—so to speak—while

others drowned under the deluge. By the time the water slowed to occasional leaks and spurts, all

was quiet save for the random bubbled moan of a submerged Mubeesha.

On Bob’s secret signal, the herd regrouped, formed a column, and traipsed through the

passage leading from the valley, lowing as they did, trampling the stilled Mubeesha, whose

corpses were left for the ravens, vultures, and habdalahs to squabble over.

The valley was overwhelmed by the stench of urine, but to the wapsipinicon it was the smell

of victory.

“They’re goin’ home,” Jack told Greta, “which means it’s time for us to haul ass. We got a

train to catch.”

Three days later, as the two reached the outskirts of Trachea, a certain reality set in.

“Jack, I’ll look like an urchin when we get into the city. My clothes, the only ones I’ve worn

since leaving Narberth, are torn and ragged. And we have no money to buy train tickets.”

“Ka-chings are the only currency used in Tarn, and I don’t have a single ka-ching to my

name. Of course, I’m a donkey, so that’s to be expected. I was hoping my adorability would pay

our way.”

Swaim/Greta p. 19

“Wait, I saw something growing by the side of road that might solve our ka-ching shortage.

Jimsonweeds. Most people think they’re ordinary creepers and pass them by, but they’re how my

sister and I made our living in Narbeth. Let’s pluck them and sell them on the street.”

“You’re on to something, sister.”

Jack and Greta, despite her ragged clothes, set up shop in Trachea’s bustling main square.

With the Mubeesha vanquished, the bazaar now teemed with wandering uhlan and cull horn

players, three-legged acrobats, fire suckers, and transfixers of two-headed tiberi, while the stalls

overflowed with olives, cuadrillum, swabian, pachytene, wildishi, and oriental lamps complete

with genie. It was dizzying, nothing like the trifling market in Greta’s village.

She spread her jimsonweed on the cobblestones as Jack attracted crowds by singing the love

duet from Puccini’s Madame Butterfly, performing the roles of Cio-Cio-san and Lieutenant B. F.

Pinkerton in unison. Few had ever heard a singing ass before, and as a result Greta’s jimsonweed

sold faster than she could count ka-chings.

At dusk, the bazaar emptying out, Greta and Jack huddled in the doorway of a boarded up

Universal Life Force sanctuary to assess their situation.

She said, “All our jimsonweed sold out, and we have more than two-hundred ka-chings.”

“Two hundred? We could live like kings for a year on that. What is this jimsonweed,

anyway?”

“They call it a hallucinogen. I’m not exactly sure what that means, and I’ve never used it

myself. But it’s very popular. Would you like some, Jack? I kept a few sprigs in reserve. No?

Now that I’m fourteen, maybe I’ll try a little. Just to celebrate.”

Greta bit off a leaf and chewed meditatively. Slowly, heedlessly, she felt herself being

removed to far latitudes, unknown habitats, impossible contours with unimaginable colors, and

strange terrains bearing such exotic names as Rochester, El Paso, Scranton. Engulfed by clouds,

Swaim/Greta p. 20

she heard discordant melodies, chimes, and a thousand carillons. Just before she returned to

earth, she saw her sister, helpless, crying for help. Greta called to her, reached out for her, but

was abruptly swirled off within torrents of light and vivid iridescences.

When she awoke, her body releasing pools of perspiration, she realized Jack was licking her

face with his foot-long tongue. They were still in the doorway where she had fallen asleep.

“Almost train time, sister. Say, you musta dreamed all night because you did plenty of

tossing and turning. What was that all about?”

“I wish I could explain it, Jack. Maybe someday I’ll learn.”

They had more than enough ka-chings for Greta to buy a bright blue dress and saddle shoes,

Jack a jewel-studded collar and a bag of oats, plus two first-class tickets on the express to Nudge,

capital of the Nation of Narbeth, Jack admitted as her service animal.

“What’s this service animal shit?” he complained. “Just because I’m an ass don’t mean I

should get second-rate treatment. It’s discrimination.”

First-class entitled them to prime standing room in a car that otherwise was filled with

itinerant migrants headed for labor in the seasonal kohobba bean fields of Narbeth, where, after

harvesting, they would use their shoeless feet to grind the beans into a coarse powder. Greta gave

up her place to a muliebrous who was profoundly enceinte, while Jack yielded his to a legless,

armless veteran of the Pabla Nebulium Wars. In spite of his ancestry, Jack was treated well,

especially after entertaining the passengers by singing the love duet from Act Two of Wagner’s

Tristan und Isolde.

Butchers roamed the crowded car hawking lough, mucin, pramms, and raman. As Greta

munched her mucin, her mind drifted to those dear, dead days when her parents were loving and

she and her sister frolicked in the focaccia fields, wandered in the groves, and picnicked on

olecranon and eggs by the old granulocyte mill. So much had happened since then.

Swaim/Greta p. 21

The train came to a halt just before the Ultimate Chasm Bridge linking Tarn and Narbeth. It

was there the power ended and where the train was harnessed to a team of eighty mules to pull

the cars over the Nocuous Mountains to the Narbethian capital of Nudge. For budgetary reasons,

Narbeth had yet to electrify its portion of the track. 9

Jack shook his head.

“Those mules are my cousins, and they’re being worked like dogs. It’s slave labor.”

Greta had been to Nudge once before when her genitor took her with him to visit a certain

Magus, who ran a tiny bookshop in an alley off Baal Shem Boulevard, the main drag. Genitor

and Magus spoke in whispers as Greta moseyed about the store, leafing through the arenaceous,

old tomes, which had little or no meaning to her. Greta had no idea what her genitor and Magus

conferred about, but afterward she was treated to a succulent chocolate dragon fruit parfait in a

nectarous shop overlooking the center square, the first and last time she’d ever eaten such a

delight.

On that first visit to Nudge, Greta, as a child, had been overwhelmed by its size, frantic

activity, and multitudes. She felt much the same now after she and Jack stepped off the train,

bewildered. The only thing she was certain of was that she was reasonably presentable in her

seraphic dress as was Jack in his glitzy collar. She’d been fearful the city’s uniformed bulwarks

might remand her to the Child Labor Bureau or, worse, throw her out on her ass.

“Okay, sister, it’s your call,” Jack said. “What’s the deal?”

“I suppose we should trade our ka-chings for Narbeth naiads, then perhaps check in to a

hostel.”

9 The express train between Trachea and Nudge began as a joint project by the realms of Tarn and Narbeth, and impoverished, female-only laborers were imported from the canton of New Jersey to split the rails. However, the Pabla Nebulium Wars disrupted construction, and the laborers, deprived of male companionship and the lack of chocolate, rebelled violently. Both Tarn and Narbeth dispute the genocide that followed, but agreed to make reparations to the survivors.

Swaim/Greta p. 22

“You’re kiddin’ me. What hostel’s gonna rent a room to an ass, no matter how good I sing

Puccini. Means me goin’ to a stable, and there I’ll have nobody to bitch to but the stable hand.”

Homunculi in its multifarious forms swarmed about them, the streets were suffused with

jinrikshas, woolloomooloos, subdurals, velocipedes, and steam powered cabildos, and the din

was earsplitting.

They took refuge under the fronds in a leafy park where live, nude nymphs cavorted in and

around a gilded fountain.

“I have an idea,” Greta told Jack. “My genitor introduced me to someone here a long time

ago. Maybe he could help us.”

“Lead on.”

“But I can’t remember where he was. I know he ran a bookstore. And it was off a great

square with a nectarous shop where I ate a chocolate dragon fruit parfait.”

That narrowed the logistics, and by finding the square, on which soared the palace of the

Nawab of Narbeth, and repeatedly asking passersby, they located the alley and the storefront

Greta was sure was Magus’s. Only it was closed, locked, and peering through the dusty windows

she saw only empty shelves. In frustration, she kicked the door.

Jack said, “Say, let me do that for you.”

“Hey, missy, are you looking for Simon Magus?” It was a war-decorated velaman passing by

on a five-wheeled yudhoyono. “Won’t find him there. He’s moved up the way, less than one

kobach on the right.” Relief flooded over her, and when she and Jack came to Magus’s new

address, he was sitting behind the counter reading an ancient quarto and smoking a medicinal

cheroot. 10

10 Simon Magus was a direct descendant of the same-named Magus who, in 1692, was hanged as a witch in what was once Salem, Massachusetts. The Magus of old went to the gallows denying the accusations, but recent evidence by Oberlin historian Henré Lewis O’Toole III, author of The Top Ten Witches of History, shows that not only was he the first Magus intimately involved with the occult, but that all of his lineage carried on the tradition.

Swaim/Greta p. 23

Tentatively, she said, “Mr. Magus, you won’t remember me, but—”

“Of course, I remember you. You’re Greta. I knew your late genitor well.”

In a rush, Greta poured out her story of how her sister was kidnapped by picaroons and how

she struck up an acquaintance with a swollen pustule and how Tempest Terribilis blew her into

the Demesne of Donecker and how she was captured by lizards and how she was almost turned

into a sideshow freak and how she was ferried by locusts to the Territory of Tarn and how she

met Jack and how she came close to having her tongue incinerated with a hot poker by evil

Mubeesha and how… and…

“And you came to me because…?”

She caught her breath.

“I must find my sister. Jenna was abducted to a place named Unnamable.”

“Are you referring to the swamp with no name?”

“Swamp, yes, swamp. Ralph, our constable, told me the picaroons have a sanctum there.”

“And you feel you’re a match for these picaroons?”

“Yes. No. Well, I’ve got Jack here.”

“Anything else?”

“Only the dagger my genitor left me. I was able to fend the picaroons off when they tried to

take me, cut one of them too, but I couldn’t protect Jenna.” She paused, thinking. “So, I guess

that’s not enough, is it?”

“Aren’t you aware of the thaumaturgic properties of your dagger?”

“Genitor tried to tell me something about it, but it was too late.”

“Perhaps now’s the time for you to know about your dagger.”

“Which is?”

“You don’t know what I am, do you, Greta?”

Swaim/Greta p. 24

“I know you were a friend of Genitor’s and that you sell books.”

“What sort of books?”

“Old ones.”

“Why don’t you look around? Check the titles. Read a few pages.”

She did.

Greta saw Sorcery in Three Easy Sessions, The Necromancer’s Travel Guide, Spells and

Potents You Can Make at Home, Sorcerers Handbook for Dummies, The Summon And Control

of Demons, The Calendarium Naturale Magicum Perpetuum, Casting Spells for Delight and

Dollars. Some of the books seemed simple and direct, others esoteric, many in Latin, a few

confounding.

She told Magus, “I understand now. Was my… my genitor… like you?”

“He was in training, having gotten off to a late start. It’s a shame he left us so soon. He might

have become a fine wizard. Greta, my dear, it’s in your genes.”

“Is that why my mind often sees shadows and distortions, and images that aren’t images but

unknowable sensations and impressions? Sometimes I think I’m bonkers.”

“They’ll become clear to you once you learn to control and administer them. And, no, you’re

not bonkers.”

“And the dagger?”

“It must be animated by both a sacrifice and a spell.”

“What sort of sacrifice?”

“A young ass.”

“What?”

Jack said, “What?”

Swaim/Greta p. 25

“It’s very clear in The Book of Soyga, the vade mecum I always keep at hand. Thy must bleed

the nearest young ass, and render said blood to the gods of strength and might, quartering the

remnants of said ass, the meat of which shall be cooked and consumed at a great feast, and the

skin of said ass dried and utilized as eternal amulets.”

Jack said, “Hey, guys, this young ass is outta here.”

Greta said, “Mr. Magus, there must be another way. Jack’s not only my traveling companion

but my best friend.”

“Hmmm. The book also suggests that if no ass is available, four chickens may be sacrificed

as a substitute, although a poor one because the spell is weakened. But, of course, amulets can be

made of feathers. However, I don’t recommend it.”

Nevertheless…

Jack was spared.

With a flurry of clucks and feathers, the deed was done.

And with the proper proportion of gore.

The feast, however, would have to wait.

Magus presided over the spellcasting phase: sensory stimulation, candles marking a five-

pointed star, the invocation of sol and luna, the anointing of oils, incense, and rhyming

incantations. Greta and Jack followed Magus’s lead, and, if the dagger’s blade turning into a

bluish glow was any indication, the necromancy appeared to be fruitful.

“But how do I know what it actually does?” she asked Magus.

“When you first put it into play. But you must be very, very selective. It has enough power to

smite a platoon of conscripts, although if an actual ass had been sacrificed instead of chickens it

could lacerate a brigade.”

“Mr. Magus, if you could give me directions I’ll be on my way to Unnamable.”

Swaim/Greta p. 26

“I’m goin’ too,” Jack said. “Sister, you and me have been through a shitload, so I ain’t

backin’ down now.”

Magus said, “There’s only one way to get there, many kobachs distant. Few roads exist in

that corner of Narbeth, and they’re impassable this time of year, what with the torrential rains

and relentless drought. A Flatibus Canal barge can take you to Tenebrous, which is at the edge of

the Unnamed Swamp, but use caution, my dear, and good luck. You’ll need it.”

The barge captain, a fierce bull of a man named Atomus, with a stub of a stogie at the side of

his mouth, happily accepted Greta’s naiads, lots of them, to take her as a passenger, but he

charged double for Jack.

“Last time I had an ass on my boat I had to throw him overboard, so he’d best clean up after

himself.”

Jack whispered, “Hey, sister, I’m just a donkey. We can’t help ourselves, so what am I

supposed to do?”

“Don’t worry about it, Jack. I’ll clean up after you.”

The barge, the Thwackum, towed by a team of six-toed mambres, was loaded with supplies to

take to Tenebrous and other villages along the canal. On the return to Nudge, it would be filled

with oysters, hoar, clams, and silver-necked zhang, the tiny crayfish-like edibles unique to the

swamp and considered a delicacy to the moneyed classes of Tarn.

The voyage north, previously south, on the Flatibus Canal was hardly uneventful. On three

occasions, stoned canal pirates stormed the barge but each time were repelled by the crew, armed

with crossbow, blunderbuss, and tanegashima. Greta helped to dress the wounds of the injured

deckhands and to dump the corpses of the marauders overboard. At night, under the

constellations, a sensitive young crewman, pining for his lover, finessed his violin and crooned

Swaim/Greta p. 27

songs of yearning and tenderness, prompting Jack to accompany him, at one point singing “Che

Gelida Manina” from La Boheme.

In my carefree poverty / I squander rhymes / and love songs like a lord.

No spectators greeted the Thwackum when it reached the quay, end of the line, Tenebrous

being a virtual ghost village of rickety lean-tos and shacks.

“Where are the people?” Greta asked Captain Atomus.

“They go into hiding whenever outsiders come, lassie. I don’t like to call ’em feeble-minded,

but you get the idea. You won’t get no help from them.”

Atomus’s crew unloaded the provisions they had conveyed, then cargoed the waiting barrels

of silver-necked zhang. Greta hugged each deckhand, giving the captain a peck on his whiskery

cheek.

“Thank you for not throwing Jack overboard.”

“Hell, he’s an ass with a pretty fair voice, but he could benefit from singing lessons. And

speaking of asses, lassie, watch yours. This area’s infested with picaroons, and they’re always

with full-blown stiffies. We’ll be back in two weeks, and I expect to see y’uns alive and perky.”

“Aye, captain.”

The inhabitants of Tenebrous peered out from cracks in the closed shutters of their hovels as

Greta, riding Jack, followed the lone path leading from the village into the swale, infiltrating a

dark, marshy landscape where the passage vanished altogether and Jack treaded in mud up to his

fetlocks in the algae-tainted water. Sinister cypress, prahu, and tupelo hung above them, blotting

the sky, while thick rows of gloomy bulrushes towered over their heads. A loathsome odor of

decay permeated the air, which swarmed with clouds of gnats. The buzz of flies and the croak of

bullfrogs were more like dirges than songs.

Jack said, “If this sludge gets any deeper we’ll lose our way.”

Swaim/Greta p. 28

It was then that Greta spotted the first picaroon, a quick movement in the tall weeds that she

first ascribed to a bird or animal. But when she saw it again, she was certain it was a picaroon by

the flash of red. All picaroons wore red kerchiefs to mark their tribe. 11

“Stay alert, Jack.”

She sensed more movement behind them as the ground began to rise subtly and they emerged

from the shallow, brackish water onto what appeared to be a low-slung cay. The picaroons made

themselves known by their voices, a demonic humming reminiscent of screeching violins.

“What fresh hell is this?” Jack said.

“They’re just trying to scare us.”

“If that’s true, sister, they’re doin’ it.”

Then the picaroons began exposing themselves, one by one, on all sides until Greta and Jack

were surrounded by hundreds of them. They were, of course, entirely male, as she could clearly

see by their uncloaked appendages.

One of them, apparently the leader, said, “How nice, a sweet young thing actually coming

here instead of us leavin’ our comfortable fen to find her.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“They calls me Toxiferum.”

“Well, Mr. Toxiferum, I’m here for my sister. You people kidnapped her from my village

and I want her back.”

“Say, I remember you, the scrappy tootsie who slashed me with that little jeweled dagger I

see you’re still packin’. I’ll have a scar across my cheek for life because of you. We was just a

11 The picaroon, masculum novitiatus erectio, were a mysterious tribe, exclusively male, now extinct, who inhabited certain quaggy locales of North America, Iceland, and Indonesia. While they spoke in various indigenous tongues, they possessed no written language of their own. Anatomically, they were unique in that their primary genitalia were constantly erect without artificial stimulation. The conventional theory that their lack of female counterparts, and their inability to reproduce, led to their extinction has been fully discredited by the prominent clinical psychologist Barrett Nallimcam Holland

Swaim/Greta p. 29

small raiding party up in your neck of the woods, but now things is different. I’m gonna take

special pleasure in what we’re about to do to you, and every man jack of us will get his due.”

“Piffle. Where’s Jenna? What have you done to her?”

“What we’ve always done, tootsie. Turned her over to Doctor O. He pays us real good in

genuine gold naiads to supply him with young flesh.”

Greta’s stomach sank. Doctor O was an operative for Aristide-Pierre Loyal in the Demesne

of Donecker transforming young girls into circus freaks. Greta’s blood began to bubble.

Toxiferum said, “Doctor O’s lab is just down the way, but we ain’t givin’ you to him. You’re

ours, and you’ll pay dearly for cuttin’ and runnin’. You gotta lot of spunk, tootsie, but we’re up

and ready now. Bring ’em out, boys.”

The picaroons produced heavy fishnets, strong enough to snag crocks, black bears, and four-

armed macerate.

“Once we got you netted and tied down, we’re havin’ our way with you and your ass, and for

that, as you can see, us picaroons is always prepared. Let ’er rip, boys.”

The nets flew overhead and then floated down, enveloping Greta and Jack, who kicked at the

netting with his hind legs, but to no avail.

“Relax, Jack,” Greta said, pulling her telestic dagger. “I’ve got this.”

Toxiferum chortled. “Your worthless, little blade won’t help you now, tootsie. Too many

nets, too many picaroons.”

“Think again, motherfucker.”

Before the picaroons could tighten their nets, Greta conjured the alchemy Simon Magus had

taught her as the blade turned blue, pulsating with its magical power. By the mere flashing of the

blade, the nets began ablating like margarine on a hot stove. Melted free of the constraints, Greta

eye-leveled the dagger at Toxiferum.

Swaim/Greta p. 30

“Nice, tootsie, but it still won’t work,” he snickered. “You’re outnumbered five hundred to

one.”

“Then I’d say the odds are on my side. My worthless, little blade, as you put it, runs from hot

to cold.”

“Huh?”

From the blade’s point came an unearthly light that looked as though it was breathing heat,

but it had the sorcery to do the opposite.

Toxiferum was the first to find himself turned into a body of ice, down to his ridged male

organ. Simply by pointing the dagger as she slowly turned, Greta transformed the picaroons into

frozen statues, every one of them.

“Holy mackerel,” Jack said, “it’s like we’re standing in the middle of a garden of ice

sculptures, all with hard-ons.”

“Why don’t you chip off a little ice?” Greta suggested.

“Good idea.”

With his hind legs, Jack kicked Toxiferum’s appurtenance, which broke apart into irregularly

shaped cubes.

“Hey, a few pieces of him are just about right for my gin and tonic. Let’s break a few more.”

“No time. We have to find Jenna. Leave the picaroons to melt into water. It’ll be good for the

ecosystem.”

Riding Jack and wielding her ensorcelled dagger, Greta abandoned the frosted picaroons and

found her way to Doctor O’s lair, a house on stilts with a roof of tin. She climbed a rope ladder

to the porch and banged on the locked door.

“Jenna, are you in there? Come out. It’s your sister.”

Swaim/Greta p. 31

The door opened a crack and a gray-haired man wearing rimless eyeglasses peered out,

sufficiently benign in appearance to disguise his malevolence.

Greta said, “Who are you, and where’s my sister?”

He said, “So you’re Greta.”

“You know my name?”

“From Jenna. I’m Doctor O.”

“Yes, Doctor O, I know all about you. You and Aristide-Pierre alter innocent young girls and

boys into circus freaks.”

“No, no, I—”

Greta put her dagger to his throat.

“What did you do to Jenna?”

She heard a small voice from inside.

“Greta, is that really you?”

Greta said, “Out of my way, shithead,” and pushed past Doctor O into the sparsely furnished

room, a few mats on the floor, rotting leftover food, and trays full of surgical instruments,

illuminated by a single kerosene lantern.

Joyously, the two sisters clung together. Then Greta took a step back.

“Jenna, you look okay, but I need to know. Did Doctor O do anything to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ravish you, of course. Or worse.”

“No, no, he saved me. I love him.”

“You what?”

“He’s like the genitor I never really knew.”

“Doctor O’s evil. He maims young girls.”

Swaim/Greta p. 32

Doctor O protested, “Once, but no longer. I’m not the miscreant I was. When the picaroons

brought Jenna to me for, ah, alteration, she was suffering from a fever. I nursed her back to

health. She reminded me of my own little daughter, who died of fever when she was only three.

Believe me when I say I repudiate all I did for Aristide-Pierre’s freak show. Now, I’m strictly in

the healing business.”

Greta said, “Screw you, doctor. Jenna, you’re leaving now and coming home with me.”

“No, Greta, I must stay. With him.”

“Him?”

Doctor O said, “You heard what Jenna said. She’s staying with me in the Unnamable

Swamp. I’m raising her like my own. I care for her. And once she comes of age we plan to wed

and raise a family.”

“If you really cared for her,” Greta said, “you would have returned her to her real family, me,

not making her survive in a fetid slough in a shanty on stilts in the midst of a colony of horny

picaroons.”

“But—”

“Better drop plans for wedding bells, fuckface.”

With that, Greta directed her dagger, entreated the preternatural forces, and turned Doctor O

into a statue of ice, albeit one without a tent pole.

“He’s in no pain,” she reassured Jenna. “After he melts there’ll be nothing but water and

some damp surgical clothes.”

Jenna burst into sobs.

Greta said, “Don’t you understand that nothing he’s done now, even curing you of the fever,

will ever compensate for his behavior in the past?”

“You were always a bitch, Greta.”

Swaim/Greta p. 33

Long after leaving the shack on stilts and the trauma of seeing her genitor figure transformed

into a chunk of ice, Jenna remained bereft. Not even Jack could cheer her up by singing songs

from H. M. S. Pinafore.

When Captain Atomus and his crew returned to the quay, the inhabitants of Tenebrous, all

inbred and bearing the same last name—Tenebrous—gathered in delirium to welcome the

Thwackum. The melting of the picaroons meant liberation for the long suffering, swamp-edge

denizens. After exchanging kisses and hugs with the exuberant clan, Greta, Jack, and a surly

Jenna boarded the barge for the arduous haul up the Flatibus Canal to Nudge.

It was an unpalatable return voyage, although at one point, where the lines were open, Greta,

hopeful, wired ahead to Tom, the baker’s son, who responded that he’d be on the quay in Nudge

waiting for her with a freshly baked tin of wattleseed baguettes. It was her dream that one day

she and Tom might settle down in a place of their own, perhaps on a pig farm. 12

One night, Greta, after playing quoits with Captain Atomus, observed Jenna huddling

suspiciously under the bedding in the Thwackum’s stern, but Greta wasn’t fooled and threw aside

the coverlet to expose her sister consorting with the swollen pustule.

“Caught us,” Pust said, gloating with no shame. “Yeah, I’m back. Tempest Terribilis will

never be able to blow me off.”

Jenna said, “Don’t be pissed, sis. Pust and I are in love.”

Greta wasted no time in applying to Pust her telekinetic dagger, which did more for

blemished flesh than either Tempest or any dermatological consultant could ever do.

12 Historically, swine played a major role in the later life of Greta of Narbeth, although her own autobiographical novel, The Romance of Pig Farming, published by a private press in her final years, is considered farfetched and unreliable. A far better source is Garrett McBauer’s Narbeth: Breeding Pork for Fun and Fortune, which won the coveted Porcus Prize.

Swaim/Greta p. 34

Again disconsolate, Jenna refused to eat or even to speak to Greta, who, however her

youthful age, was wise enough to know that time was the only cure for bitterness—although

sometimes not even an eternity was long enough.