Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

“World falling down,” he manages to utter.

This remark has a bizarre effect on the others sitting in the tent. The fireflies constituting their faces begin to roil and swarm furiously, reflecting complex and strong emotions. And then Smoker's fears come true. Everything shatters. Tabaqui's face holds on the longest, but it too crumbles, leaving behind only two inky blots—the dark lenses of his sunglasses. The black spots hang in the void for a moment and then, just as Smoker is on the verge of losing his mind, become the center of another world as it assembles quickly around them.

A very bright, very sunny, very smelly one.

The sun strokes Smoker's back, pressing him down to the ground. It's a pleasant sensation. Except there's no ground visible. It's covered with a thick layer of trash, greasy and loose to the touch. Yet, somehow, incredibly alluring. Smoker longs to dive in it, take in more and more of its smell, separating the layers of new scents until there, in the midst of it, a truly astounding aroma opens. Something is preventing him from giving in to this temptation. Must be the black glasses floating in midair. The sun turned them into two blinding flashes, but when Smoker approaches them he sees himself reflected: a pair of black white-breasted cats, one in each lens. He opens his mouth in astonishment and lets out a loud yelp. His reflections cry back at him mutely.

“There he is!”

One of the hunters stumbles. From high up in a tree, where the branches are thickest, someone's fiery eyes are looking at them.

“There he is! Up there!”

The hunters, jostling each other, surround the tree.

“Burn it? Or chop it down? Or maybe ...”

The creature hisses, feeling its way along the trunk. The hunters rattle the tree with the butts of their rifles. The tree groans. One of them passes his rifle to another and tries to climb up. The creature in the branches hisses even louder and then spits at him. The hunter crashes down, swearing. The creature giggles and coughs. Suddenly it cuts the laughter short and slithers down into the high grass.

The hunters dash after it, screaming. The hard carapace and the fiery hair of their quarry recede in the distance.

“After him!” the hunters yell, their boots thundering and splashing mud.

The grass snails tumble down as they run past.

“Get him! Tally-ho!”

The one who got the acid in the eye shouts the loudest. The entire Forest seems to shake from their screams.

Someone who has spent his whole life hiding in the hollow of a tree has been frightened by the commotion and the knocking. He digs in deeper into the rotted wood of his hideaway and uses the hook on the end of a stick to pull the food pouches closer, one by one. Each pouch, three layers of silky leaves cemented with his saliva, and the food in the middle, is priceless. It won't do to leave them to chance. He allows one of them, the smallest, to remain exposed and even nudges it toward the opening, hoping that the invader finds it easily and goes away, satisfied, without trying to sniff out the rest.

Crookshank jumps up and down excitedly, peering into the river. “Please don't let it be a dead dog, oh, please,” he begs, casting the net. The object is heavy and unwieldy. Huffing and sniffling from the effort, Crookshank pulls and pulls, until he manages to haul it completely out. He studies the river's gift intently, then bounds up with a shout of joy. It's a sleeping bag. A splendid sleeping bag, completely intact! It's blue with yellow dots. Crookshank wrings the water out of it and hauls it away to dry in his safe place.

White-lipped Saara winds down his song and lies in wait. Bare legs squelching in the mud. Closer. Closer. He stretches his neck.

A human. Dirty white pants, dirty white sweater. Long hair the color of soot. Quite young. Not a youngling, but not an adult either. Saara crawls closer and jumps. His own scream catches up with him in the air as he twists and flops limply before his prey. Prey? Ha!

Hoist with his own petard, how sad. Saara complains until the changeling interrupts.

“Now cut it out.”

Then he stops scratching at the ground and sits down in the middle of the mandala he scored into the pliant dirt with his claws.

“Why,” he says, “do you walk into the trap like some common prey?”

“Curious,” the changeling explains. “And beautiful. Sing another one.”

Saara fumes silently. Singing for nothing? Not luring, not yearning? Shame, shame for evermore!

“All right,” he says finally. “But only if you come down with me. And give me something valuable in return.”

“Deal.”

The changeling rises. His hair is dripping mud on his shoulders and down the back, making it look painted. And he already stinks of the swamp.

“Let's go,” Saara says, backing into the narrow opening of the burrow. “It's right here.”

In the Dogheads' cave, with the condensation of their breath dripping from the ceiling, torches sputtering, and the Chinese lanterns melting from the heat, Spotted Face addresses the throng.

“Tighten the collar on him! Four more holes! Who's with me?”

They whine and shuffle their paws.

“Two more! Four! No, one! All of them!”

“Casting of lots!” someone shouts, springing up and knocking the torch out of the bracket with his head. “The lot shall decide!”

They put out the torch, spraying the burning crumbs around.

The tin can lands on the floor. They impatiently bump their heads trying to distinguish the number on top of it.

“Four,” the youngest one giggles. He's no more than a puppy.

Dogheads exchange confused glances. The fat white-and-tan breathes loudly, tongue hanging out. His collar is already tightened so much that there is precious little breathing room. Four more holes will rob him of it completely. They look at him ravenously and start advancing. He drops in a faint, with very little effort. They bark at him with disdain.

In the cramped burrow encrusted lovingly with shells, Saara sleeps blissfully, having had his fill of the visitor's blood. The visitor gave it up voluntarily, so it cannot be said that Saara breached the code of hospitality. The guest sits next to him, drunk with the songs.

He touches sleeping Saara and says, “Hey, wake up ...”

But the owner of the burrow sleeps. The guest gets on all fours and scrambles out. His frozen eyes reflect the light of the moon. He heads back through the swamp and through the Forest, he walks on and on until he's tired. Then he finds a hole dug up by someone and lies down in it, hiding from the prying eyes under some branches and leaves. Once inside he starts remembering the songs he bought with his blood. He needs to repeat them before he forgets. His back is caked in drying mud. He sits up and puts his arms around his knees. The long white stems of his fingers intertwine. He recalls all the songs, from the first words to the very last ones, and falls asleep, satisfied. The Forest waves its dark branches over him.

Shielded by the darkness, the lovers kiss with wounded mouths. They have their own songs. The Forest, invisible, rustles over them too.

The short, squat creature reaches the locked door and scratches at it, whining pitifully.

The cat that is Smoker screams. Loudly and hopelessly. The dark glasses hanging in the air tremble slightly from his yells.

“Oh, come on,” a voice says testily. “Not another one. Is it ever going to end? I'm so tired of this!”

Smoker closes his mouth. At the edge of the trash bin he sees two large gray cats. They look dangerous, for some reason. He tries to say “Here, kitty, kitty,” but doesn't seem to manage it. The cats look at him with obvious loathing. Smoker has never been able to discern cat emotions before, but now they are crystal clear to him. The trash smells more and more beguiling, but it appears that a good rummage in it is out of the question. Too many gawkers. He tries to put his thoughts into words once more.