Mat Johnson - Pym

Regardless of his plans for the future, it seemed that, in addition to suffering his sprain, Nathaniel was not doing much better on food than I was. I had little hope that I would be able to remedy the situation, but out of pity I asked him to travel with me on my quest to find something to eat. When I pulled Nathaniel’s arm around my neck, through the frigid air I received a good whiff of him. His musk was pretty bad, but it couldn’t have been much worse than mine, it having been weeks since either of us had had the supreme pleasure of a hot shower. As he limped and I dragged, we made our way through the midday village traffic, past pale stares, their hostility obvious regardless of their alien, simian nature.

Fortunately, the location I had in mind was not far along the path. This was good because I don’t believe that I could have carried Nathaniel much farther, and it was only the guilt of sleeping with his wife (albeit only literally) that let me heave his burden as far as I did. The spot was an ice cave like most in the main center, carved into a wall away from the village’s primary action. What set this one ice cave apart was that a long window had been cut out of the wall separating the room from the outside, and the open rectangle was a bar for those Tekelians inclined to consume its liquids, served in thick goblets of opaque ice whose blue tint turned dark yellow when filled up. I didn’t see Augustus with the crowd of patrons. (Tekelians, I believe, were genetically predisposed to the drink, and seemed to make its consumption a part of their daily rituals.) Who I did see, however, surrounded as he was by his frozen cups, was the only other human in this subterranean community. The one whose ancestors came not from the Tekelian caves but from the caves so far away in the Caucacus Mountains.

“Arthur Gordon Pym,” I said to him. At the moment, the white man was pulled into the far corner of the bar’s wall, surrounded by cast-off cups of past customers. Bent over, walking among them, Pym was gathering up the mugs that lay discarded, picking up a fresh one as a particularly tall Tekelian lobbed one in Pym’s basic direction. From his custodial actions, it appeared that I had interrupted Pym at his job, that he was perhaps the pub’s owner, or at least one of its stewards. However, I then saw Pym find a cup with a little drink still frozen solid to its inside. He immediately dropped all the other cups again and began scraping out the prized remainders of the one with his pink hand, shoving the garbage into his mouth.

Nathaniel, seeing this process, let go of me, limping heavily until he reached the pile Pym had dropped, and scooped his own brown fingers in search of leftovers as well.

“This tastes like fermented whale piss” was his critique of the now frozen beverage, as he scooped a bit from an ice glass with his pinkie.

“Close” was Pym’s response, and as soon as he had licked the last remnants of the stuff off his fingers, Pym dropped the glass in hand straight to the floor, turning to look for another one. I don’t know if Nathaniel didn’t hear Pym’s confirmation of the drink’s ingredients or if Nathaniel’s own hunger was simply too great for him to object, but he kept eating from the discarded receptacle regardless. I too was tempted: if this was all there was left of the world, what else would there be for me to dine on?

“I say to you that good liquor is not light on the tongue,” Pym continued, lips smacking. “And this is the drink of the Gods. It is the elixir of life, keeping me alive longer than I’m sure I have a right to live.” Swallowing down another bite of his frozen spirit, the clearly inebriated man took a good look at me.

“This is how you survived two hundred years, huh?” Nathaniel perked up. It was clear that he didn’t believe the Caucasian but just as clear that he knew he didn’t need to believe him in order to sell this dreck by the barrel back on the mainland. The optimism intrinsic in this speculation, that there might still be a mainland to return to, put a little pep in Nathaniel’s limp as he searched through the pile for other samples.

As Pym chewed, his mustache bounced up and down over his top lip like a caterpillar in a circus. He was taking me in now, really looking at me for the first time since he’d realized I was not a fellow white man. “You look awful. Or like offal. One or the other; I care not,” he told me.

“Of course I look awful, these creatures have me living like a fucking slave. What the hell am I supposed to look like?” To this, Pym raised his eyebrows in disapproval before continuing with his binge. His manner seemed to imply that he found my reply not only boorish but pathetic.

“That is not what I have heard. Your master Krakeer was just over there—”

“Who, Augustus?” I asked in disbelief. The idea that Augustus, even with his considerable strength, could ever be the master of me was ridiculous.

“Do not interrupt me. As I was saying, I heard from the very source that in fact you were being put up for sale. I suspect in mere weeks your indolent character has revealed itself.”

“He’s not feeding me, Pym, he doesn’t have any food. I’m starving. I’m not working around the house because I’m so starved I can barely move.”

“Well, you managed to walk all the way into town, didn’t you?” Pym replied smugly, very impressed with his own impish wit. “I suspect your master will have food enough shortly, for that is him addressing the great warrior Barro. In fact, I imagine your price is being paid as we speak. You know, when the Gods found you, they believed your people would make fine additions to their lives. Tis sad; you are shaming their generosity.”

I followed Pym’s pointing hand in the direction of the interior of the public house, and there, in the shadows, was Augustus, talking to another, taller figure I couldn’t see from where I was standing.

“He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t sell me,” I told Pym or myself. For the most part I thought all the Tekelians were the same, but I realized then that I had grown soft on my Augustus, as damaged as he clearly was. And in comparison, he was good to me. When he noticed my presence, Augustus pointed me out to the other man, and I could tell he was speaking of me in high regard from his expression and his hand motions. This began to make me nervous until, to my relief, Augustus’s conversation came to a seemingly uneventful end, and soon my Tekelian roommate was joining me. In Augustus’s hands were two great frozen cups of the pub’s fermented liquid. One of those he held out to me. I drank that mess down too.

“Katow Knee Cracto Khee!” Augustus declared joyously.

“He says he sold you to Barro for two full glasses of khrud. Says it will be better for you — Barro has a fur-padded bed and can feed you,” Pym instantly translated for me, not even giving me a chance to take my drink from my lips.

“You eat!” a grinning Augustus offered, tapping his frozen mug against my own, clearly proud of himself.

“Who the hell is Barro?” I got out after my first swallow. Khrud did taste like fermented whale piss, along with less pleasant fluids of the whale as well. Or Ballantine malt liquor. Either one. “Barro.” Augustus shrugged sheepishly, acknowledging the minor drawback of his victory. Before more words could answer me, actions did, and behind Augustus his trading partner emerged from the bar. They all looked the same, but this one looked a lot like the one that had poked Jeffree’s eye out. I was now in the possession of Mr. Sausage Nose, I shuddered to realize. When he passed me and smacked me upside my head without breaking his stride, I was sure my identification was correct.

“He said, ‘Come to me tonight.’ ” Pym translated. “If I were you, octoroon, I would heed that beckon.”