Thomas Sniegoski - A Hundred Words for Hate

“Guess that’s a yes.” Remy stood and stretched, then headed for the stairs, a very excited Marlowe at his heels.

As Remy was getting ready to take Marlowe on a nighttime walk, Fernita Green was dreaming.

She had fallen asleep in her living room chair, as she was wont to do these days, surrounded by the clutter of her life, Miles the cat curled tightly in her lap, also deeply asleep.

Sharing the dream of his mistress.

Fernita walked through the jungle, tall grasses and thick underbrush moving aside to allow her to pass.

Leading her.

Miles purred and chirped, enjoying the freedom of this place that could only be the world found on the other side of the window.

The big outside.

Something deep inside told Fernita that she knew this vast, primordial place, and this calmed her as she walked the path that appeared beneath her bare feet.

Where are my shoes? she wondered briefly, for there were far more important things to worry about. Although she could not remember what they were.

Only that she was the answer.

The jungle path abruptly stopped, a curtain of thorny vines blocking her way. Fernita stood before the obstruction, waiting for the vegetation to show her the way around, but the green did not react, softly rustling in the warm, gentle breeze that caressed this wild place.

The wild was awakened in Miles the cat, his large eyes scanning the grass and trees for signs of birds, or bugs, or squirrels—signs of prey.

But, disappointingly, there were none right then. There were only the plants here in the big outside.

The jungle closed in around her. Fernita watched with a growing sense of unease as the path she’d walked slowly filled in behind her, reclaimed by the abundant overgrowth. A twinge of panic struck, but she managed to keep it under control as she turned her attention to the wall of thick, spotted vines dangling before her.

She did not know why, but she was suddenly overcome with the desire to touch them. Before she could even question this nearly overpowering compulsion she reached out, then quickly withdrew her hand with a hiss as a thorn pierced the underside of two of her fingers and her palm. For a moment she stared at the dark blood pooling in her hand, then returned her attention to the thick vine before her.

At first she believed it to be a trick of her eyes. There was blood on the vines where she had touched them . . . where she had been stuck, but the blood seemed to be fading away, gradually absorbed into the body of the vines.

How odd.

And as the last of her blood was taken in, the vines began to sway and shake, slowly pulling up and away like the thick velvet curtains of the old movie palaces, to reveal not the white of a screen, but a dark, winding path beyond.

Fernita crouched at the opening, Miles cowering beside her, neither sure they wanted to go any farther, even though every fiber of Fernita’s being screamed that she should.

The high grass had again receded, forming a snaking passage through the abundant jungle to a clearing. And in the clearing was a tree; perhaps one of the largest trees Fernita had ever seen. She could just about make out the vast network of thick branches that grew out from its massive trunk, tapering upward into the velvet black sky.

How odd the stars appeared, almost as if they were too close.

Fernita’s eyes were just returning to the path . . . to the glorious tree, when something stepped out of the shadows to block her view.

It was huge, its body covered in golden armor that reflected the brightness of the burning sword it clutched in one of its massive, gauntleted hands.

Frozen in fear, she could only look up into its face, which was equal parts eagle, lion, and man.

What are you? she wanted to ask it, but the answer was upon her, floating up from the darkness from where it had been hidden.

Cherubim.

“You do not belong,” the creature shrieked, roared, and bellowed in one discordant voice that made her bones shake.

And Miles hissed, his body pressed flat to the grassy ground, fur standing on end as if electrified.

It pinned her there with its multiple sets of eyes, its large form casting a cold shadow across her naked form.

It was the first moment that she recognized she was unclothed, and it would have caused her much confusion if she hadn’t been in the presence of a looming weapon of Heaven.

The Cherubim lumbered ever closer; four sets of strangely beautiful wings unfurled from its armored back. Though terrified, she could not help but marvel at its fearsome beauty, staring up into its three faces as it lifted its sword of fire.

“You do not belong,” it announced again, prepared to strike.

And Fernita watched, unable to move as the fiery weapon descended, her mouth opening, not in a scream as she believed would pour forth from the depths of her very soul, but another sound that proved she was the answer.

That she did belong.

Fernita awakened from the dream, the answer to a question that had plagued her for so very long dancing upon the tip of her tongue.

For a moment it was there, but as the recollection of the jungle drifted away like the morning mist, it too was gone. And in a matter of seconds, she had forgotten that she had even dreamed at all.

Miles had moved from her lap to an open portion of windowsill, staring intensely out at the cold, predawn world, a strange trilling sound, as if he were excited by the sight of a bird or a squirrel, coming from his furry throat.

“What do you see out there, crazy cat?” she asked sleepily, as she reached out and stroked his back with old fingers, crooked with age.

Miles continued to stare, repeating the strange sound over and over again, answering the question that the old woman asked of him.

“ It’s coming, ” the cat told her, even though she did not understand.

“The big outside is coming.”

“Watch out for the rats,” Remy called out to Marlowe as he stuffed the dog’s leash in his back pocket and sat on a bench in Boston Common.

“ Rats?” Marlowe questioned, stopping beside an old oak tree. He looked around, his nose twitching in the cold early-morning air.

“I didn’t say there were any waiting to attack you; just be careful. You don’t want to get bitten and have to go to the vet for shots.”

“ No shots ,” Marlowe growled, nose to the frozen ground. “ No rats . . . no bite . . . no shots ,” the Labrador grumbled, a checklist to make this visit next to perfect.

Remy chuckled. It was still relatively dark in the Common, and he and Marlowe seemed the only living things willing to brave the more than chilly early morning. Still, he wanted to keep an eye on the dog; sometimes Marlowe’s enthusiasm got away from him.

“And don’t eat any garbage!” Remy called out as an afterthought, one more thing for the checklist. The dog didn’t respond, but Remy was sure he’d heard.

Remy settled in on a bench, crossing his legs and resting his arm atop the back, looking as though he were relaxing on a mild summer’s night. It was so cold that even the homeless who often frequented the Common appeared to have sought more protective shelter elsewhere.

Good for them , Remy thought. This was the kind of weather that could kill if you weren’t careful.

Looking around at his surroundings, Remy realized that it had been some time since he and Marlowe had been here, long enough for the city to put in some new, freshly painted trash barrels to replace the old rusted and dented ones. He considered pointing them out to his dog, who was pawing at a patch of frozen grass, but decided it would be better not to offer an opportunity for food. Marlowe’s appetite was voracious, occasionally getting the better of him, and Remy preferred not to deal with the consequences.