Chapter 1View OnlineThe Real WorldChapter 1Huso flexed his hands around the steering wheel, relieving the tension in his whitened knuckles. In the moment his grip was loosened, he couldn’t help but accelerate for the thrill of it. Hearing the whine of his tinny car working for its bit of road only increased the urge. It was the danger that counted. But he quickly checked himself; he couldn’t afford a traffic fine, and he had to concentrate on whatever his co-worker was going on about over the handsfree. Easing his foot back, knuckles rewhitened. “How’s the wife doing? Is she coming to the party tomorrow?” Forming a smile before responding, he leaned forward. “Absolutely. Looking forward to it.” Goodbyes had barely finished as Huso ended the call. He was turning into his street now, and needed some time to compose himself before coming home. The bountiful trees beside the road were felling their autumn leaves as he drove. He lowered his window to hear the crunching. That short respite was over, he recognised, pulling into his driveway. Purposively looking only ahead of him to park and at the door handle to get out, his breathing nevertheless became shallower. After taking at least a minute, wherein he stood hunched over his car door, arms covering head, he suddenly shut it, locked it, and strode across his perfect lawn with eyes level to the entrance of his home. There was nothing at his front door but a small brown box, packaged with red ribbons. Someone must have had the wrong address. Wondering where his delivery was—it was supposed to have arrived by now—he considered calling the number. Or maybe there had been a mix-up, and the owner of this box must have his delivery instead. Preferring not to consider that possibility, he stooped to read the label. He got up, not having fully registered the words. It was, in fact, his delivery, addressed to him, with the logos of the service he ordered from imprinted in the cardboard. Was this how they did it? In a cardboard box? But the box was far too small. It had to be some promotional material or something. He lifted it, testing its weight. Inside, something, or someone, moved. Huso dropped the box instinctively, eyes widening as he realised what had happened. He had been mailed a child for a bride. With his coffee-fuelled heart threatening its last beats, Huso managed to fumble the key out of his pocket and jam it into the front door. He swung it open in a daze. Behind him, a moan. The box was still there—of course. He whisked around, grabbing a solid hold on it, and raced to the living room. The carpet needed a thorough cleaning, but it was the only available space. He set it down away from the shards of a broken picture frame. The box was bouncing about a bit. Gazing at it, he considered opening it. Water! How long had it been in the sun? He came back with a cup of water, not realising he had drunk it immediately after pouring. He sat on the carpet. There was nothing else to do. His hands lowered onto the cardboard, slowly sweeping over its slight ripples. Whoever was inside must have sensed this, becoming still. Mutual anticipation was on each side. For some reason, he counted his digits. Ten. He ripped the tape off. As the box was unfolding, pushed outwards from within, Huso squinted. A bright glow was exhaling like a burst of air, soft and colourful, obscuring what was inside. The entire room lit up as if in a cheer, and as it subsided Huso could make out a diminutive silhouette standing in front of him. In the fading light, eye contact was made, and the two were frozen in place. The child’s eyes were horribly disfigured yet still symmetrical, blue fur coated its face, and a portion of its rainbow coloured hair began tumbling down its neck harmlessly. But the eyes were absolutely that of a child’s, and, despite it all, Huso felt a bubbling enjoyment rising within himself, of which was reciprocated in those eyes. Until they blinked. He scrambled to his feet, reprimanding himself for his momentary lapse. This was no child. It was a joke! Someone had painted an animal. Thinking that someone was laughing right now, he could only boil. He glanced once more into the animal’s eyes, and, their intelligence piercing him, turned away immediately. “What a joke!” He said. The rampage swung into momentum, Huso directing his glare towards household objects as blood turned his face to cherry. Someone was laughing at this moment. He did not know who. Nor why so much effort would be taken for him. But it was typical, somehow. He had always had the short end of things. His hand muscles bulged, quietly seeking any target that would not damage his bones or cut his skin in the punch. Because he needed his hands for typing at the office. Breathing heavily, his concentration turned to his job. Everyone was aching to meet his wife tomorrow. The pressure was unbearable. How many stories had he told his co-workers about her, over the years? How many would they expose as lies, especially the recent ones? For nearly two months he had been divorced. He wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction of victory. Moving like a wicked spirit into the kitchen, and suppressing the feeling of being one, he swept probably a thousand unpaid bills off the counter. After cursing the bride service in all earnestness, he gripped the phone and dialled a friend. As it rang, he noticed he was sweating. What would he do with the animal in the living room? “Hello?” It took Huso a moment to collect himself. “Barry—” Huso realised he had no idea what to start the conversation with. When he thought about it, he actually knew very little about Barry. “Huso? I can’t hear you.” He could just scrunch some paper, pretend it was a bad line and be done for the night. “Sorry about that. Listen, I’m sorry for calling at this hour. I’ve come into some problems reviewing your wife’s insurance policy.” “Excuse me? You said two days ago… hang on, let me get the file.” “That won’t be necessary. These guys send out confirmations before its technically true. It’s to do with the postage. By the time it arrives usually its technically confirmed. But I got a technicality here.” Huso could hear Barry frowning. But he could rely on Barry’s illiteracy in these matters. “Anyway, it will only be a quick fix. I mean, not a shoddy fix. Just—so what I need to do is to have a meeting with your wife to confirm some details. It needs to be first thing in the morning. You’ll avoid the queue and it’ll be done.” “Are you sure you can’t just talk to her over—” “Again, many apologies. It was a personal mistake. I won’t make it again. Not that that would matter for your case, though.” The receiver was slipping in his hand. A vein was popping in his temple. It was taking everything he had to stifle his conscience. “Well, Huso. You’ve always been a trustworthy friend. It sounds a bit complicated for me, but alright. I’ll tell her when she gets home.” Tears were escaping Huso’s eyelids. “Thanks, Barry.” It was all he could manage. Setting the receiver back on its perch, he put a hand to his forehead and restrained himself from collapsing. He was not yet that devoid of pride. Automatically wandering to his bedroom, he took off his shoes and lay on his back. It had been an exhausting day, and now his body was stabilising. In a minute he was asleep, the gentle rising and falling of his chest saying nothing of the storm within.
Chapter 2View OnlineThe Real WorldChapter 2Huso felt a chill run through him, seeing himself standing at the other end of the bed. The figure was older, but not taller, and had grey hairs of wisdom. His expression was taut, with many lines, and Huso looked to where his concern was. Beside and a bit behind the old one was another; a younger Huso, by about twenty years. He remembered the awkward haircut he had had upon meeting his wife-to-be. It did not appear strange that the younger one possessed a horse’s muzzle and larger ears, yet he wished to move away. He lay paralysed on the sheets. The older was talking to Huso over the younger, who was bouncing jubilantly to get attention. The words were vague and without structure, but the message was clear and agreeable. Huso raised his ears hoping to hear more. Sticking to this message was of prime importance, but already it had seemed like a life-time listening. Trembling, he lost his concentration. At this moment the younger guest set upon him, climbing onto his bed and grabbing him by the shoulders. The intruder opened its mouth in a gaping smile, like it wanted to swallow him. Finding what little motility he could muster, he twisted his head around and around. He would do anything not to look into that mouth. The air felt dry, and the playground before him was run-down and rusty. There was no sound. The older one patted his shoulder. Turning together to leave, there came a laugh. Huso spun back round. The younger was flying down a slide, the entire playground appearing fresh and colourful. Before Huso could express interest, the older one stepped in. As he spoke, Huso was inclined to agree, and with nostrils flaring came to see the elder’s reason. It had been plainly irresponsible to risk oneself like that. Huso led the charge. He and the older tussled the younger into the back of a car. The older was wearing body armour. Birds were squawking deafeningly. He couldn’t wait to speed off. Shifting the gear and slamming the accelerator brought a wave of adrenaline that consumed him. The ecstasy was marred when he noticed the speedometer. The little needle was jittering at the maximum end of the spectrum; he could go no faster. A tremendous jolt shot through the car. Huso yelped, and blinked a few times. His necktie was strangling him. The road had traffic. His car was scraping the side of the curb. Where were the others? Trying to remember made him realise. He yanked the steering wheel to the side, correcting his course. Yes, now he was fully awake. He’d had worse mornings. The skyscraper blocked the low-hanging sun ahead of him, giving him some relief as he approached. Having been stopped at the traffic lights, he took a few seconds to see what was happening in the park. There were always a lot of runners at this hour. He saw a woman playing with her Dalmatian on the grass. The traffic resumed, Huso quickly pushing on forward anticipating the horn of the car behind him. It did not matter if the car behind actually honked the horn; there had been enough conditioning to react anyway. Making it to a parking spot, he saw Barry’s wife walking the footpath to the building’s entrance. After quickly leaning over the seats to get his party contribution—a bag of his favourite gourmet nuts—he leapt out of the car to catch her before she entered. Hooking her arm in a swoop before the revolving doors, he pulled her out of sight behind a tree. Her green eyes were quizzing him intensely. “There’s no meeting. I’m sorry, Helen, I lied. Would you like to go to a party instead?” She stepped back, gasping. Wondering why he ever thought this ridiculous scheme would work, he closed his eyes and awaited his righteous punishment. “Will you take me inside, Huso?” Huso opened his eyes, furrowing his brows deeply. Was she really up for this? “We’ll have to pretend to be partners as well. Husband and wife. Just for a bit. Are you sure?” She was holding her hand on her blouse, over her heart. “Yes,” she murmured. Good enough. Time to go! Three hours in, with the floor struggling to maintain the cheer, Huso smuggled his bowl of nuts to an unpopulated corner of the room. He had managed to do the rounds in greeting everyone, in showing his purpose to the company. Helen had been more than co-operative, routinely impressing his co-workers with her knowledge of wine. It was shaping up to be an easy day. Chatting in the corner, she had even laughed at his joke about the manager’s promotion speech. Alone for the moment, a news commentator’s monotone voice suddenly rang out over the din of festivities. They must be getting desperate if they have turned on the TV. He peeked his head around to see the screen, upon which his house was engulfed in a raging fire. Spilling his nuts, Huso raced down the emergency stairwell to his car and took off. Helen came back to their corner holding two slices of cake. When he arrived home, men from the fire department were plodding through his garden, extinguishing the last bits of flame. The charred frame of his house was still throwing smoke into the air, however the front half, which included the bedroom and entryway, seemed largely unharmed. After receiving advice from a fireman, in which he learned a gas hotplate had apparently been left on, Huso was left to his own devices. They had found no other residents in the house. Covering his mouth with a sleeve to block the choking smoke and stench, he trod hesitantly across his now scorched and spotty lawn. The temperature was rising with every step, an added heat in an already sultry day. Pulling his keys out with his free hand, he thought he may as well enter through the front door. The walls between the bedroom and the rest of the house remained intact, but the timber floorboards, blackening with distance, led into a portal of smouldering ruin; it was as if a horseman of the apocalypse had chosen to charge out of hell from beneath his house. The living room was gone. So was the kitchen. A can of baked beans lay sprawled in an explosion on the bench next to the hotplate. Stepping carefully, his weight was often enough to crush the ashened timber, occasionally leaving a lower-leg dangling through the floor. Where everything should have been deathly still, a soft banging started up. As he looked towards the fridge, a frazzled little pony came tumbling out with an oof! Following it, a box of matches. It rushed back to Huso that this was the thing that he had unboxed the previous day. The blue winged beast looked forlornly at the can of food. Huso almost thought he perceived pain in the creature. And he was half-refusing to deduce what had happened. It turned to him with a frown. “This is the worst home ever,” the animal said. Huso dropped his arm and stepped back into a searing frame. Barely rebalancing, he started coughing violently from the remnant fumes, and staggered through a destroyed corridor. This was impeding his growing desire to yell, to yell at the joker—criminal—who must have put a microphone in, and to scream to the wind what was happening, what had happened—why. Prevented in this simply from lacking oxygen, his breathing slowed and complexion hardened. He grabbed a backpack from his bedroom. Marching back into the kitchen, the animal’s eyes grew wide when it saw him. Even its fur stood up. But it did not matter. Huso had surprise on his side. Having stuffed the thing into his pack and throwing it in the car, he set out for the public library. His personal computer had been fried. Mid-day at the library was as bustling as a library could be; crowded, but slow-moving and hushed. Huso took off his backpack and pushed it under a desk, settling into a terminal. The keyboard was soft from extensive use, causing him to pay attention if what he typed had actually went through. This slight ambiguity made him depress each key with a vengeance. Setting the web browser to private mode, he entered the address for VeryStarCross; the mail-order bride service he had used. Some intense flailing was going on beneath the desk, but it was under control. Reaching the refund page, he began nodding. A year, to ‘ensure true incompatibility’, before any discussions of returns were acceptable. That about met his expectations. Why would it be easy? The next forty minutes Huso spent searching for information on the owners of the business. A phone number, even if it was international, would be better than the generic web form they provided. Enraptured by the screen, and occasionally having to turn his head from it like a good horror novel may effect, he gradually came to understand that these people were not ones to be fooled around with. Eventually, he closed the session out of fear they would notice his researching. He felt cold inside. Idly trying to recover his sanity, his floating gaze caught upon a group of young adults conferencing over a table. But for their age, it appeared as how Huso would imagine a meeting of well-to-do 1930s newspaper editors. He realised he came to this conclusion from the amount of fedoras that were in presence. A respectable looking man began unfurling with great enthusiasm a poster, and Huso sat up from his slouch upon seeing the picture in full. Blue. Wings. Rainbow hair. Others in the group began withdrawing their own collectables. All forms of equines on shirts, mugs, badges, and actual figurines. To Huso, it looked like they would spend their money on just about anything to do with the creatures. And the rainbow-haired one was among the most popular. As the table was growing louder with excitement, Huso put his hand to his chin. If he couldn’t return it… He noticed the struggling under his desk has stopped—no grunting, no vibrations through the carpet. Ducking under, the bag’s zip was open, revealing emptiness. Thrusting his head back up like a meerkat, he spotted his own, very real, equine moving slyly behind the chairs of the table of enthusiasts. Quite involuntarily, Huso’s senses became alert, entering a state which he had developed in childhood. The library was now a network of the criss-crossing visions of patrons, blocked in places by aisles and stands, of sound spheres distorted by dampeners such as objects or other sounds, of the effect of movement through the air which indicated location tactilely, and so on. He did not see this like a superhero; it had simply become necessary to emulate the animal’s movements to guess its chance of being detected, and to retrieve it without attracting attention. Ambling over to the table casually, sporadically leaping forward when nobody was looking, he stopped at the shelf next to it. He put his hand on a book at head-level, pretending to hunt for a specific volume. His eyes tracked his quarry flitting beneath a chair near him, naïve of his attendance. It started climbing up the back of the occupied chair, extending a hoof as if about to pounce from behind. Huso could discern a grin on the animal—before he grabbed it. “Look!” Said someone at the table. Huso and his animal froze, the latter being halfway stuck in a bag. “It’s my favourite artist!” Pointing to a print, the whole table leaned in. The scuffle resumed. It was over in seconds. Letting himself relax, Huso turned around only to be greeted by a boy pointing at him with his mouth agape. Don’t do it, Huso thought. The boy scampered. “Mum! I saw Dashie!” Amidst the cries for silence in the library, Huso hustled towards the exit. The bag was bulging in an oddly geometric way, and upon unzipping it just a bit he saw that it was a book on aeroplanes. The book being relented to his grip, perhaps with the intention of it being something he might want to check out, he put it back on a passing shelf. “Not today, Dashie,” Huso said. Before closing the zip, her glum face sprang into a smile. It stuck in his memory as he walked out of the library. Seeing the harried man leave, a whiskery man in a stained brown coat put a magazine down. Effortfully rising from the couch, he browsed to a particular terminal, pulled out a memory stick, and went home for the day.
Chapter 3View OnlineThe Real WorldChapter 3Bang! Bang! Bang! His eyelids were like dumbbells, but Huso was a fighter. With the picture coming into focus, he saw Dashie stirring on the other side of the bed. It was muggy, even with the recent ventilation improvements to the house. “Shouldn’t you answer that?” Dashie groaned. Closing his eyes one last time before the day began, he knew there would be no sleeping in. Kicking the tangled sheets away, he clawed himself off the bed. Then, rising from the floor like homo erectus, he pulled a deep breath through his body and launched into the morning checklist. Bang! Bang! Dashie had gone back to sleep. Changing his clothes right there, he decided he would use the bathroom at work. Startling Dashie, he fit her into his backpack. Checklist done. He left it a little unzipped so they could communicate. “This might get bumpy,” he said into the pack. Opening his front door, he dodged the fist that was to bash it. Like a football goalie, Mike, in his faded blue agency cap, was trying to prevent Huso from passing. Huso, looking with an alarmed expression towards his garden, distracted him for a second and slipped past. “You’re on your last legs, pal.” Huso was already twisting the key in the ignition. Mike’s car had blocked him in. “Little known fact for ya.” Huso was reversing over the lawn. “I was the star hitter in high school baseball!” Mike yelled. The car was zooming up the street. Dashie poked her head out from the back seat. “Who was that?” How does he expect me to pay, when all my bills are burnt? Huso wondered. By the time he exited the bathroom, having brushed his teeth and appearing sparkling for work, the office was in a chatty mood. Arriving at his desk, a paycheck was in his inbox a few days early. Not knowing what to think, a colleague pointed out to him a small group going around which seemed to have just finished congratulating the last employee. They were shaking his hands; actually, trying to leave. Huso looked towards his manager, separated by glass since yesterday, who was fidgeting with a wad of sticky notes almost uncontrollably. “Attention, please!” A senior manager was calling from the centre of the floor. “We’d like everyone to listen to this important announcement.” Amongst a hundred smiles, Huso felt the sea pulling out. Some individuals were dispersed around, touching employees to cease their activities and listen. “First off, we know there’s been some rumours going around.” The senior manager was holding his chin high, tightly pursing his lips. “Jenny’s been eating all the cheddar in the cafeteria. There were never any mice. Say sorry, Jenny.” A squeaked apology rang out from the far end. “Secondly, the company’s wrapping up. Closing down. Being put aside.” He struggled to keep the corners of his mouth from lifting. The room remaining silent, he went back to a scowl. “All accounts are being transferred to another subsidiary. We will be available for the remainder of the day to answer any questions anyone may have for whatever reason.” Huso’s empty stomach was shifting nauseously. Inhaling only weakly, a headache was creeping in. But he did not care for any of that. “Can I get paid for my vacation time that I didn’t take?” Someone asked. “Absolutely not. Any more questions?” Huso had not moved from where he was standing since the announcement. Why should he have? His desk was his place. Closing his eyes, he ran through what he had to do today. There were some accounts he was near closing. He thought of the names. He was going to get a new chair. A flying eraser pounded his cheek. Shooting his eyes open, his co-worker was trying to stifle a smile at the small misfortune; but this was made easy in a moment. Huso, towering and advancing unblinkingly, forced the man into a cower against a desk with no way out. Huso was shaking, the situation seemed familiar, and he could easily explode, harming the man. But he just stood there like a volcano, predicted to erupt yet with no discernible activity. He was no longer looking at the co-worker, who, after some time, had scrambled past him. The crimson tide was throbbing through his every organ, something preventing it from transmuting into action. Instead of bottling and inevitably bursting, it was ebbing, and although the pain was still severe Huso realised he never could have hurt the man, and felt like crying, for now even his anger was denied to him. There existed a rule where there had been none; a priority above all, of which no rationale could displace. In Huso’s sadness, where all happiness had forsaken him, still was he happier than he had been in years, for his tears were real. Wandering down to his car, he unlocked the door through the window he had left open. Placing his hands on the steering wheel, he sat looking out the windscreen at the garage. Eventually Dashie emerged from the backseat. They listened to the boom-gate raising and lowering. “Do you want to go outside?” She asked. “Yeah, okay.” Rustle. Clack. Thud. Having never been to the park at this hour, Huso observed its activities with interest. A teacher was herding some primary schoolers through, a large kid with a sash preventing them from straying. One thousand, six hundred and eighty dollars. I’ll spend it on a therapist. They were all wearing hats. Across, a family was training its dog, a Labrador. When it sat, they fed it a treat. A lake was glimmering behind them. How many weeks would that get me? Surely enough to be cured? “Let me down,” spoke the magical pony. Putting his backpack down, he unzipped it enough for a head to pop out. A bench was close-by, so he dragged the pack over and sat down. Looking at the rainbow mane of Dashie, who was witnessing the park’s happenings in innocent curiosity, Huso realised the moment would not last forever. This peaceful, birds-a-chirping moment would be a memory soon enough. From where would he be remembering? The usage of his final paycheck—his total savings as of this moment—would determine it. Sitting indifferently, however, Huso only felt like going to sleep. It could all work itself out. It could do that much for him, at least. Slowly wilting, one thing was preventing his rest. Peeking downwards out of his half-shut eyelids, he was barely willing to acknowledge it as a reality. Who would care for Dashie? By all accounts, she was definitely there. Are hallucinations this solid? Huso could see no difference in terms of existence between the park bench he was sitting on and the talking animal in his backpack. Don’t all crazy people think “I’m right”? A mother’s scream rang out from the family with the dog, and Huso turned to see an enraged Labrador bearing down towards Dashie. Huso leapt to the ground and covered her with his body, the father’s “look out!” unheeded. The impact of the hefty dog nearly toppling him, it came looking for a vulnerable point in his defence—the barking was splitting his ears. Just as the lavender-smelling mutt was managing to pry its snout through, it was pulled from behind by two large hands. Huso helped the father restrain it as a leash was threaded through its collar. A brief apology was issued, and they went away as quickly as they had come. Huso looked inside the bag for Dashie, who had popped her head in like a turtle. Placing his hand on her head and feeling the pulse, he nodded to himself. Mike’s puggy face came to mind. If Huso had no home, he could hardly try finding Dashie’s. He would need a loan, and by the end of the day too. Thankfully, there was one person who might give it—although he hated asking for so much from a friend.
Chapter 4View OnlineThe Real WorldChapter 4Barry’s office was only a short walk away by the dock. Never ceasing to be impressed by the sheer quantity of containers that travel through a warehouse that is in the import/export business, Huso was drawn from his gawking by a friendly “hello” called from a whizzing forklift. Barry and Huso had been friends for years, often visiting each other’s workplaces due to their proximity; the past few months had seen a drop in this activity, however. Huso was looking forward to seeing his pal in person again, although he was grimacing at under what circumstances. Ascending the metallic stairs to the floor manager’s office, Huso tightened the straps on his backpack. The warehouse was in full swing and noisy, so he knocked with some force. A rather heavy-built man with dishevelled hair and wearing glasses burst out, immediately looking Huso up and down. It was Barry. Perhaps nostalgia really does change the image one has of another. “Geez, Huso. You really had me there,” Barry said, exhaling. He looked at Huso, waiting for him to say something. “It’s good to—” “You know what? Come in and talk.” Waving his arm, he stepped inside the office. Huso followed, watching Barry cautiously. Shutting the door on the way, he took a seat from across the desk. He got up again instantly, removing his backpack before sitting down again. Barry wasn’t saying anything, Huso feeling the tingle of being watched in this embarrassing, but minor, antic. A kinetic ball desk ornament was clacking slowly. The mood needed lightening. Huso motioned to Barry’s face. “Barry, come on. Even a dry cleaner would have trouble ironing out that frown!” Smiling, Huso closed his eyes. He was out of practice. Nevertheless, Barry’s face lit up. “Of course, Huso! Why should I be unhappy! So what can I help you with today?” Muscles easing in the company of his good friend, Huso was hesitant to give him a reason. Leaning forward, he forced himself to retain eye contact, his hands involuntarily settling beneath his mouth. “I think I’m getting the house repossessed tomorrow. I don’t know for sure, because the notice—well, it was taken by the elements.” With Barry easing himself into his cushion chair to listen, Huso averted his eyes. Superficially perusing the documents on the desk, he continued. “All this sums up to is that I need a loan. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can,” I’ll find a way. “Just the debt collector—Mike, I think you’ve met him once or twice—wants something concrete. I… I’ll need fifteen grand.” Pausing for a moment, he raised his head. Barry appeared redder than before, and was as still as a trip-wire. Realising Huso had finished, his eyes widened and he got up. Suddenly, he was patting Huso on the back. “I’ll see what I can do.” He disappeared into a back room. Huso lowered himself back into his seat, trying to figure out how it had been so easy. Maybe he did not know Barry that well after all; maybe he had just been pessimistic. Still, he did not want to blow his chance. As he was sitting patiently, Dashie jumped onto his lap. Tilting his head slowly down, he would have liked to pretend that this was not happening. He snapped his arms up to grab her, but she was too quick, flying onto Barry’s desk. The clicking of hooves on the varnished wood sounding out, Huso, like a deer being hunted, silently motioned to Dashie to hop down. Ignoring him, she became fixated on the kinetic ball ornament. Dashie’s hoof extended to touch it as simultaneously as Huso’s hand pleaded not to. She halted, then, giving Huso a cheeky grin, pushed the ornament over. Thud. “Get back here,” Huso whispered through his teeth. Dashie righted the ornament using her mouth, leaving a slobbery shine on its steel frame. Using her nose, she nudged a ball into action. Tracking the movement, she was concentrating her entire being on that ornament. Huso thought he heard “speed”. Knocking an end-ball with a hoof and timing, she increased the force. Repeatedly so, until she was bashing it. The string broke, and Dashie stepped back totally unimpressed. Huso rushed forward to catch the run-away ball, scattering Barry’s papers in the process. He tied it back to the frame, the ball ending up a bit higher than all the others due to its cut string. Dashie had moved on to looking at a pot plant; she had taken a bite, and was spitting it back into the pot. Chasing Dashie, she took it as a game and pulled a metal bar out from the underside of Barry’s swivel chair. Waving it at Huso like a sword, he managed to get a grip on it. Dashie refusing to let go of her prize, Huso led her to the other side of the desk and bagged her in his backpack. Zipping it hastily, he heard footsteps approaching. Still holding the bar, he slid it beneath the desk and sat down. He formed a smile, scalp tingling. Barry emerged from the back room, barely managing to maintain his excitement. This was infectious for Huso, who got up expectantly. “Good news,” Barry said, his grin faltering upon seeing his desk. “Yes?” Huso asked, returning his attention. “You wanted concrete,” Barry’s eyebrow was twitching almost imperceptibly as he looked around the room. “I got it. All in cash.” Huso shot his arm forth, Barry hesitating for a moment before shaking it vigorously. The two were beaming. “Thank you for this, Barry. Seriously. I’m very grateful.” “But that’s not all.” Barry withdrew his hand. “As good faith, it’s only 2% interest. Payable whenever you’re ready.” Huso did not know how to express himself. Barry’s countenance solidified. “Five-thirty. There’s a hollowed-out oak on the south side of the park. There’ll be an unmarked sports bag in it.” They shared a parting embrace. “Don’t miss it.” Huso picked up his backpack. Thanking him again, he noticed Barry heading to his chair. Barry paused. “Before you go. My wife told me it was a very pleasant experience getting her insurance sorted out. I could hardly calm her down.” Huso made an exit. Hurrying down the stairs back to the warehouse floor, he heard a crash behind him. “He is just awfully friendly,” Huso muttered to himself. “Awfully friendly.” The smell of rust left him as Huso walked out of the shipping area. The late-morning sun was overseeing a cool change throughout the city. With the wind at his back, he kept a brisk pace on the footpath despite not knowing where he would go. There had to be some way he could return Dashie—where had the bridal service picked her from? Pedestrians were now becoming common as he wandered into a shopping district. Feeling some light kicks into his spine, he took off the backpack. Holding it to his chest so no-one could see its contents, he unzipped it. A blue leg poked out and hit his nose playfully, crushing some cartilage. “I’m hungry,” Dashie said. Huso scrunching his face, he scanned the street for a restaurant. Too expensive. The nature strip looked fine. Avoiding the cigarette butts, he tore a few tufts of grass out and hastened into a side-alley to serve them. Setting the bag down—avoiding the syringes—he allowed Dashie to half-come out of the pack. Holding her neck so she would not run away, he used his free hand to feed her. She was soft, taking care not to harm him. As she was taking her sweet time chewing, Huso asked her. “Do you know where your home is?” She stopped chewing. She shook her head. And resumed with her lunch. Was that a wince, he saw? Huso’s thighs were aching from crouching for so long. Before he could cognize all that was happening with his life, he lifted himself up, and cleaned his hand on his last remaining tissue. A red dot appeared on it. Somehow, it was an experience worth paying in blood for. Departing from the alley with Dashie in tow, he decided to take a punt. Across the street sat a decrepit two-storey building, far out of date from its flashy neighbours, that he had always tried to avoid when in the area. Maybe because it was sagging as if it could not get rid of the rain on its roof. Maybe because it sold goods to do with magic—and not the child’s kit-o’-tricks type of magic that Huso did not mind. But if there was one place that might be able to help him in this city, he was looking at it. Jogging across the road, the building appeared more intimidating up close. It was difficult to see through the windows; beyond the dolls a lace curtain was concealing the innards of the shop. He was even catching the glances of pedestrians, indicating to him he was already accursed for simply being interested. He put his hand on the golden doorknob. We accept Visa and Mastercard. Well, it can’t be that bad. Half-expecting the door to creak upon opening it, he found himself more unnerved by the complete lack of sound it made. A small click as he shut it behind him, the bustle of the crowd instantly falling away—not even a muffle. He could hear his own heart beating. The floor was bare, shelves cluttering the walls with various items known to defy description. He stepped towards the counter; it was like the first tick of a grandfather clock. Nearly sweating by the time he reached it, he put his hand over the smooth service bell. Feeling his hand suddenly pushed down, a sonorous RIIING blew his ears out as a woman’s grey-maned laughing head burst from the cobwebs behind the counter. Huso could not hear his scream over the bell, his hand still being pressed into it preventing him from escape. Facing the life-form which grew before him like a hurricane of old hair, unable to turn his head from death’s fascination, eventually he managed the first words that came to mind. “What are you? What are you?” He repeated. The hag’s grip weakened, being pulled from behind by four small hands. Huso stumbled back, recovering his own. The laughing had crumbled to wheezing. A boy and a girl popped out from around the counter. They were dressed handsomely, in a modest way, and were holding hands. “Entschuldigung für die Angst. We are sorry.” Before Huso had the wits to offer a coherent response, the old lady brought herself to the counter, recovering her breath. She beckoned over. Refusing to move any nearer, but fearing what would happen if he turned his back on her, he stayed planted. She pointed upstairs. “Run along, children.” A toothy smile spread towards Huso. “Welcome to Gullveig’s. I’m her.” Pitter-pattering up the stairs until they could no longer be heard, the children disappeared. Huso was thinking about backing up to the door when Gullveig threw out her hands. “Come on. Relax! You know, first impressions and all.” Blinking rapidly, Huso was trying to determine if she was a murderer or a doting grandmother. Having no solid ground for opinion, he was inevitably swayed by her gentle coaxing to calm down and “how can I help you”. Setting his backpack onto the counter, hardly believing himself, he reached in. “Wha—?” Mumbled Dashie. He stooped his head in and saw her waking up. Rustling the bag to spur her, he wondered how anyone could be such a heavy napper. As she stretched out, he turned to Gullveig. “This is,” Huso felt some resistance in saying it aloud. “A real magic pegasus.” “No, it’s just a painted animal.” Dashie pivoted. “Hey! Who are you calling an animal?” Receding into her thick coat, Gullveig’s ancient skin creased further. “I was joking. Of course I know it’s magic.” Huso put his hand on Dashie. “So, I don’t know whether anything else in this shop is magic,” he weathered the glare. “But I was wondering if you knew where Dashie here might have come from.” Gullveig arched down to greet Dashie. Huso could not hear her whispered words, but Dashie was shying away. Banging the counter, he put an end to it. Gullveig floated back, slowly lifting her chin. “I’ve been to places,” she began, enunciating her words slowly. “Far away…” “You mean somewhere like Siberia?” Huso asked. “No…” She paused. “Actually, yes. That is exactly what I mean.” “Well, does that have—” Gullveig cut him off, raising her voice. “This precise creature… is out of my expertise. However! You are welcome to set up a display in my emporium.” Clenching his teeth, he looked at Dashie. Her message was clear. No deal. Exhaling, “what’s the pay?” “Sixteen an hour.” “I have a degree in economics.” “Sixteen fifty.” Huso sighed. How would it look in court, if I turned down a job offer? Not that he was intending to get there, of course. Dashie was trying to capture his attention, but he could not look at her anymore. Having mapped all job openings in the city by heart during the time at his former workplace, he knew better than anybody the astronomical chances of another samey office chump finding payment elsewhere. Here he was, being offered employment, and without the luxury of refusal. And it had to be in this freaky place, too. Pacing, a flood of images came to mind. Those 1930s newspaper editors. Nobody would suspect anything strange in an occultist’s shop—the place had its own norms. A display with Dashie was plausible, and there was just the audience that would flock to visit. Jaw set in grim certainty, he returned to the counter but faltered. It was not just him anymore whom he had to look out for. Dashie had ceased signalling her pleas, seemingly recognising the inevitability. What he saw spurred something in him that had not moved for a while, years; a firm stance, resolute trust. Not wanting to let her down, he double-checked his reasoning. Gullveig’s fingers snapping beneath his nose brought him up. She would not wait any longer. As Huso faced her, so did Dashie turn. “Can we start today?” By noon, all they needed to know about the shop had been revealed (and no more). Few customers came, which was thankful because Gullveig had vanished at some point and the shop had to be locked up without her. At five twenty Huso fished his consignment from the tree; feeling less of a sap, he had dinner at a pet restaurant—he had to hide his ‘pet’. By seven he arrived home, enjoyed Mike’s astonishment, and slept soundly through the night. Arriving at Gullveig’s the following morning, there had already amounted a lengthy queue before the entrance. He continued walking, unlocking the shop from the back first. The cash register had been crammed against the wall on the edge of the counter, the new space bearing a poster of Dashie. Gullveig was unlocking the front door. “Where did you go yesterday?” Huso called. “Marketing.” Swivelling to him, she released the tide. Every one of them was heading for Huso’s new stand. Taking Dashie out of his backpack and onto the counter, he was about to offer some words of preparation. Instead, she jumped up on her own accord seeing the crowd. Gullveig appeared next to him, behind the register. Motioning in her direction, the soon-to-be customers formed a line that snaked through the whole store, new additions arriving by the minute. Huso noticed a red arrow stuck on the counter which indicated the order of matters. Of course, they had to pay for the exhibit first. A customer shuffled over, filling with glee seeing Dashie. Huso struggled to understand this, but watched the pegasus play along, stretching the customer’s smile to dangerous limits. This proved to be invaluable throughout the day; such a show of live optimism was something new to him, and he could run with it. Gullveig kept the line moving promptly along. Not having the time to see how such a feat was achieved, he could only notice the rapidity in which lingerers suddenly left the display. An enthusiast holding a tape recorder made a line request of Dashie. Neither at the counter could make sense of it. “I love flying twilight-ewe!” Dashie spoke into the recorder. Wondering if there were other species of mythical animals as well, Huso saw the customer’s dizzying elation and let it slide. Dashie seemed to be losing her lustre, however well she was keeping appearances. The continuing stream of humans was enough for Huso to handle, but it was becoming evident for Dashie that she was the only one of her kind. Many of the customers were treating their interest as their solace—where did Dashie’s reside? He tickled her in between customers. “S-stop that!” Hours later, the last customer left the shop. As Huso and Dashie were jointly collecting their breath, Gullveig closed the register with a cha-ching that bounced off all the walls. Huso remembered something he had meant to ask in the morning. “Gullveig, whatever happened to the kids?” “What kids?” Wrinkling his forehead, he thought he must have been seeing things in his fright.
Chapter 5View OnlineThe Real WorldChapter 5The autumn leaves were dancing in a small whirlwind in Huso’s street. Driving leisurely, he wondered if he could salvage a certain board game when he got home. It would be something to teach Dashie, and he had been missing having someone to play it with. Checking the rear vision mirror, he could see her napping. With no phone calls, it was quiet. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he began sounding out a long-forgotten beat. He pulled into his driveway. Bringing Dashie in her bag across to the front door, his tune subsided. A notice had been stuck on the wood; in large red print, ‘FORECLOSURE’. Cold shot through his veins. Pushing his key to rotate, the lock stayed fast. I paid on time. “Good afternoon,” came a man’s voice. Huso spun around, eyes wide and wet. “Easy now!” a policewoman said. Their faces were friendly, but in their eyes lived the hunt—Huso knew it. “What do you say about coming down to the station and having a little chat?” The policeman said, his partner nodding her head in support. A police cruiser was parked around the corner. Huso could not have seen it when coming in to the street. It had room in the back. “What do you say?” The policeman was squinting. His partner’s arm was obscured behind his body, but it was raised just slightly. “You’re being arrested for fraud.” The cash—counterfeit. Barry! They advanced a step. Huso’s legs started itching. He knew it, and he knew they knew it too. They smiled jokingly. Sliding on his backpack broke the dam. Side-stepping the lunging police, a pair of handcuffs jingled past his ears. Well-rehearsed in front-porch gymnastics, Huso launched from the stumbling policeman’s back. Sprinting all-out down the street, he stole a glance behind him—one in pursuit, the other racing to the car. There was only one exit ahead of him—predictable. Scaling a fence, he landed in a neighbour’s garden. A fountain was trickling peacefully. He used it to climb the next fence, taking one of two directions. The policeman would have a hard time guessing which house’s garden he was in, but likewise would Huso risk running into his opponent by accident; he could not stay in this grid forever. There was a treehouse in the corner. It might do; if he got desperate, he could pull up the ladder. Feeling Dashie kicking his spine, he let her down. The pack already being unzipped, she lept onto the grass. Without a word, she pelted forwards. Reaching a statue of an angel, she jumped and, pushing off from its wing, unfolded her own two and shot upwards. For the first time in his life, Huso sincerely gasped. Seeing a beast unleashed to reach its capacity, unimpeded through the strength of its determination formed in urgency, and reaching total freedom for one moment, he heard his heart’s alliance to it. Spurning the treehouse, he grabbed his bag and scaled another fence. Dashie called down, “go left!” Adrenaline flowing freely, his hands grasped the fence and pulled. Splinters rupturing his skin was met with amusement. Hitting concrete, he continued the run. A siren erupted road-side. It faded down a wrong turn. Over another fence, a kid pointing skywards with mouth agape. The library, Huso thought, zooming past. The next garden over, Dashie swooped down. “Hold on,” she said. They were at the end of the block. On the other side, footsteps were nearing rapidly. Huso’s long-neglected muscles were burning, yet so was his vigour. Waiting for the policeman to pass, he set himself like a spring-trap to sprint. Dashie was circling on the spot. Both were yearning to go. Unintelligible radio chatter came and went, and the footsteps died in the distance. Dashie flew up like a radar. “Clear!” The resulting speed was not the release of anger: it was like the opening of a lost treasure chest. The sun had set by the time they arrived at Gullveig’s. The shop had an aura that repelled the uninitiated, late-night shoppers and back-alley thugs alike. Drawing in the bitingly cool evening air, Huso endured the discomfort, forcing the breeze down to touch the bottom of his lungs. His head was throbbing, slowly subsiding. He did not think to sit down. Dashie was beside him, swaying, content in breathlessness. There was no thought of the backpack. After recovering their senses, Huso knocked on the glass. He was half-surprised none of the dolls got up. The windows on the upstairs floor were completely blacked out. It took several uncertain tries before Gullveig swung the door open. She hung in the frame motionless. Echoing down the street, laughter. “We need a place to stay.” The breeze was picking up, slowly closing the door. Maybe this was a bad idea. The door had nearly shut. “Gullveig? Are you there?” It stopped swinging. “Who is ‘we’?” She asked. “Dashie and I.” Lifeless silence. “Come in.” Following Gullveig inside, they waited as she locked the door. The place was in pitch darkness, and instead of flicking a light switch, she moseyed on towards the staircase behind the counter. Huso almost lost her, barely being able to see a single stride in front of him. Dashie was sticking close; her body heat, slowly declining, was brushing his right leg. Gullveig started ascending the stairs. Huso tentatively extended a foot onto the first step. “Stop!” Gullveig whisked around. He withdrew his foot. She plodded up the stairs, quickly vanishing. Nothing in the shop creaked. For all he could gather, nothing at all existed beyond this metre-wide radius. Standing there, he had already lost track of time. “Dashie, you still here?” He whispered. “Over here.” Her voice bounced around the room, coming from all directions. Locating her was impossible, but at least she was safe. Safe. Reaching his arms out, Huso found the counter and lowered himself onto the icy, solid floor. His kneebone shivered, striking upon a heavy metal ring that was built into the wood. Bringing his eyes near, he realised he had hit a trapdoor handle. Threading his fingers through the iron, he pulled up. It would not move. Scuttering like a crab to the other side of it, he got into a better posture for the weight. Pulling again, the door eked upwards and, suddenly becoming unstuck, flew open with a bang, nearly crushing Huso’s shins. An invisible cloud of dust engulfed him. Coughing, he thought he heard Dashie trotting behind, but a glance over his shoulder yielded nothing. Eventually, he extended a leg into the abyss. There was a short series of steps which Huso descended before hitting ground. From the crunching and unevenness, the entire level was dirt, and the lack of boundaries—only pillars—indicated it spanned the entire underside of the building. With the gentle tingle of spiderwebs amounting on his face, he espied in the dark a stack of linen. Coming closer, an army of dolls was seen to be crowding it, beneath and on shelving encircling; they were in poor condition. These were the rejected ones, the ones who had been discarded for their deteriorating looks. Grabbing as many blankets as he could carry, he could feel the insult the dolls bore in their bonnets encapsulating him—as silly as it sounds. Finding his way back to the steps, a hairy spider dropped onto his pile of linen. At eye-level, Huso saw it raising its pincers, but he shook it off. You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, Spidey. He closed the trapdoor behind him. Back at the counter, he lifted one of the blankets from the stack. It was large, scratchy, and heavy—just the kind that was needed for the night. Patting his way to the edge of the counter, he called for Dashie and unrolled the blanket across the expanse of the shop. Then, feeling a tug, he reeled it back in, having caught a pony on it. Soon mummifying themselves in linen and beginning to warm up, they lay close to each other. Although in detail they remained cloaked, seeing the other’s breathing body was all that was necessary. The space of floor began to seem as if it were between two worlds: half-dream, half-waking, and apart from everything. Here, nothing on Earth could intrude. No… distractions. “Dashie,” Huso whispered. There was no change in her movement, but he knew she was listening. “What do you remember?” Several minutes went by, without impatience. Without a measure, time had ceased to be metric, it had become relative to experience, and Dashie would respond exactly when ready—no sooner. Her eyelids opened slightly. “I couldn’t see anything,” she said. “It smelled of hay. The sack.” She continued. “It was hot, but I couldn’t punch out. My head was hurting. I kept falling over from the jerky ride.” She paused. “I don’t remember anything else.” As her words became a memory, Huso dropped a tear onto the floor. I want her to be happy. This thought stunned him, but he was starting to understand. “When I came to this country, I was a teenager, just out of school.” He saw Dashie’s ears were up. “My first friend was Barry. I looked up to him, and he taught me how to be successful. By working hard, every week he had something new to show for it: a TV, a car, a surround sound system, and one for the car, too. I was always welcome to stay when I needed somewhere to study. He was even the reference for my job application to the insurance agency. “I might have seen it if I were not so focussed on catching up to him. To cut a long story short, I found out he was involved in some nasty business. It was how he was paying for everything—not by hard work, but by cheating people. It made me angry. I knew I would never have as much as him, and, more importantly, I had lost something in the race. I didn’t know it, but I had become ambiguous, so I looked to my work for direction… I had no movement of my own. It was an addiction. “I told my wife these were the sacrifices that needed to be made to pay for everything. It was not for lack of gifts that she left me. I just couldn’t accept that I had been conned. There had to be some reward for giving myself to the company. When you arrived, Dashie, I couldn’t ignore it anymore: my lost dreams, my fantasy… the magic. I couldn’t ignore it. For all these years, I had misplaced my loyalty.” Hiding her face beneath the blanket, Dashie heard him. In a few moments, they fell asleep together. Gullveig slammed the register shut. Leaving the counter to Huso, she went upstairs for a break. The next customer hurrying along was a well-built man carrying a medicine ball. Dashie signing it for his five year-old daughter, he struggled to maintain the smile within his moustache. With the shop being entirely full, he had trouble finding his way out. The next person in line was a man buried under a collection of occultist items. The first person to buy anything unrelated to Dashie. The items clattered onto the counter in a heap, the whiskery man continuing to unload from the pockets in his stained brown coat. Glancing at the shelves, Huso saw that they were practically bare. He could smell strawberry frosting; sure enough, there was some splattered on the man’s neck. “I need a bag,” he muttered. Huso was pulling out a notepad to calculate the costs. “Please wait a moment.” Word was spreading down the queue of the man’s large order. Jotting each item’s price, Huso sensed he was being stared at. Putting the pencil down for a second, he looked the man in the face. His mouth was curved down on one side, red puffs cushioned his eyes, and he continued to stare as if Huso had not even moved. “I ordered from that site you visited,” he said. Have I met this man before? “Wasn’t a pegasus, though.” There were veins in the man’s neck that were expanding, sending red into his face. His nostrils were gaping like two amazed fish, in and out, in and out, respiration audible. Huso slowly moved both his arms up towards Dashie, keeping eye contact with the man. “How much?” “She’s not for sale.” “My runt took everything I had. It’ll happen to you too. If you won’t let me buy it, what can I do?” Lunging forward, the man grabbed Dashie by the forelegs. Shooting out her wings, she began flapping fiercely over his head, causing a gust around the store. This was enough for Huso to hook his arms around her midsection, keeping her from being taken. Some in the queue ran up to harass the man’s effort by pulling on his arms. The scuffle stumbling across the counter, varying occultist items were sent smashing to the floor. “What’s your problem?” Huso shouted. “Magic!” SCREEECH. The man lost his grip, and Huso fell back from the counter holding Dashie. On his back, he saw Gullveig positioned on the staircase. Screaming broke out on the other side of the counter. Jumping to his feet, he went pale. A large number of patrons were writhing on the floor, their bodies contorting into oversized fire ants. Several had made a run for the door but were stricken, skin turning to a brownish-red before all limbs thinned into stick-like legs and torsos reshaped into balls. Feelers and mandibles protruded from the head, and to the brain there were changes too, each prickly ant becoming aggressive to the nearest human. The man, whom Huso had been fighting not thirty seconds ago, got up and ran. Not towards the door, but towards the nearest standing fire ant. He punched it in the pincers, collapsing it to the floor. There were no patrons anymore; all had evolved. Feelers wiggling, the ants converged on the man, who was apparently in for a different destiny than the rest. Spotting an opening, Huso tightened his grip on Dashie and legged it to the door. Going around the side, Dashie began to feel heavier—she was slipping. He looked down. His arms were red. Dashie dropping with a thump, she bolted to the counter. “Not that way,” Huso said, without volume. His chest was compressing into his lungs. His teeth, rotating. The smell of burning permeated him entirely. With his blurring vision he saw a rainbow fly into Gullveig, toppling her. The relief was instant. The spell was unravelling itself. Still breathless, he scanned the room. Nobody else was reverting, and the man was hitting slower, unable to keep up with the swarm. “Stop fighting,” Huso called. “You’re only enraging them!” The man found time for a rude gesture before being overcome, tackled from behind by a large ant with a moustache. Getting the proper use of his legs back, Huso returned to the counter and found Dashie. Gullveig was lying on the staircase muttering. Under the sound of a thousand little legs, Huso lifted the trapdoor, letting Dashie in first. The ants were picking up on the new attraction, and he could see that they would not spare their creator. Clutching Gullveig by the shoulders, he pulled her down the steps and shut the trapdoor. Ant legs were sliding through the gap, trying to pull the door open. More were adding to the effort by the second. Huso started shaking Gullveig. Her eyelids fluttered open. “Gullveig, reverse the spell! What are you doing?” “What for?” She asked, sitting upright. “Isn’t this wonderful?” She raised her arms in wonder. Dashie was searching the area for a way out. So far, no luck. That man hated magic. But all Gullveig knows is magic. “I was like that customer once, the one who hated magic,” Huso said, catching Gullveig’s glare. “I existed without possibility. Gullveig, you live just in possibility. You have no regard for current existence.” Her mouth went into a scowl. Huso felt sweat on his forehead. I should have stuck to shaking her. “I thought you were on my side,” she growled. Huso did not turn his eyes from her. Without warning, a pulse of electricity ran through him, stopping his heart. Hunching over, Gullveig raised herself. She stared at him from above, walking towards the steps. Huso’s face hit the dirt. Dashie came running back. “It’s alright,” Huso said. “Listen.” The scittering sound had ceased; familiar silence had returned. Huso’s heart began beating again and strongly, making up for its brief retirement. The reverse spell had been cast—he must have been in the way. Rolling onto his back, Dashie helped him upright. He climbed the steps into sunlight. Sunlight. Gullveig had opened a window. She beckoned over. A breeze was filling the musty shop. Picking up Dashie, he indulged her request. Standing with Gullveig at the window, Huso thought he saw the corners of a smile in her crinkled features. Then, something caught his eye. A long line of red ants were exiting over the windowsill. Without a word, Huso and Dashie walked briskly out of the shop. The city roads were collecting cars for the home-time rush, and clubs were filling up for those who liked to linger. Strolling through the buzz, he was allowing Dashie to stick her head out of the pack to take in the neon nightscape. Many people saw her, but Huso did not mind. They’d all be called crazy anyway. For the last time, Huso arrived in the dock. He was hit with the stench of discarded fish; the greeting for this hour. Entering the shipping warehouse, Dashie ducking out of sight, he called up a worker who was busy sealing a package. “Oh, hey Huso!” “How are things? Listen, Barry sent me to get something from his office. It’s rather important, and he’d prefer not to drive all the way back in this traffic. You know his forgetfulness, right?” The worker laughed. “Barry sure is forgetful alright—don’t tell him I said that. Come with me to the security desk, we’ll get the keys. I’ll vouch for you.” Huso was left to be inside Barry’s office, the worker resuming his duties downstairs. A new chair was at the desk; four legs, no swivel. After letting Dashie out, he walked into the back room. Recalling the sight-he-had-rather-not-seen during Barry’s guided tour, Huso extracted a file cabinet from the lowest shelf. Flicking to the second-last file before the end, he heard the rustle of a plastic bag. In all this time, he had not moved it. He pulled out the cache of passports. Huso was still a Kenyan citizen. Cutting a photo from his wallet to size, he looked at Dashie. She was watching him, a smile on her snout. Inviting her over, she rest her head on his lap. He put the scissors down and picked up a glue stick. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find your home, Dashie.” Dashie punched his leg. The pain throbbed through muscle. “I am home.”
