The monstrumologist gave in to Lilly’s suggestion, accepting her offer—and her arm—to help him up the stairs. “You have failed me,” he said to me. “Once again.”
I might have pointed out that my “failure” had resulted in the continuation of his disagreeable existence, but I held my tongue—as I so often did. Such retorts only led to an escalation of counter-retorts and counter-counter-retorts ad nauseam, and lately it had struck me how embarrassingly like an old married couple we had become in our discourse. It also occurred to me that the continuation of his disagreeable existence might be the very failure to which he referred.
Pellinore Warthrop had always been a little in love with death.
FOUR
Plop. Thwack! Plop. Thwack!
In the basement on Harrington Lane.
Plop. Thwack! Plop. Thwack!
The motion is fluid and quick, the grace of the practiced hand grasping the thin hairless tail firmly between the thumb and forefinger, lifting the rodent from the cage, plopping it down on the wooden board, and the glint of light off the ball-peen hammer as it rises, and the muffled thwack! of the deathblow to the rat’s head.
Plop. Thwack! Plop. Thwack!
And the tiny claws scratching at empty air and the soundlessly moving mouth and the silkiness of gray fur in the blare of light.
“The first few days of life depend on scavenging,” he explains. “Until it’s large and quick enough to hunt living prey.”
Plop. Thwack! Hard enough to kill instantly, but not so hard to produce a drop of blood. A delicate wallop, a gentle smash. And a line of corpses, plump bodies, flattened heads.
It would hatch before dawn, and like any good mother the monstrumologist knew his newborn would be hungry.
“With the proper diet, we should expect exponential growth,” he goes on. “One foot a week—it will be longer than you are tall by the time I present it to the Society.”
“And how large at full maturity?”
His eyes glitter in the glow of the heat lamp. His face shines with perspiration—and monstrumological exultation.
“Well now, that is one of the great unanswered questions of aberrant biology. The largest specimen ever recorded measured fifty-four feet long and weighed close to two tons, and it was determined to be only a year old! There are some who have seriously argued that there is no maximum length to which T. cerrejonensis grows. It continues to grow throughout its life span, and so, if not for predators and constrictions of habitat and food supply, it could conceivably dwarf every living thing on earth, including the blue whale.”
“Predators? What preys on something that size?”
He rolls his eyes. “Homo sapiens. Us.”
Plop. Thwack! Like blowing out a candle with your fist.
“Thus, if unchecked, our new arrival could grow large enough to consume the world itself?”
He chuckles. “It may come down to that—to who consumes it, us or them or some other species, I mean. That something will consume it one day I have little doubt. It must have occurred to you by this point that life is a self-defeating proposition.
Plop. Thwack!
And the monstrumologist, with quick, sure hands, warm in the glow of the artificial sun, quotes from one of his favorite books:
“ ‘Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life.’ ”
He laughs. “Not to mention your fill of mice and men!”
FIVE
And the carapace split apart, a thick yellowish liquid oozed from the crack, then the ruby red mouth and the round black head the size of my knuckle emerged, and then teeth the colorless white of bleached-out bone: life inexorable and self-defeating, ends contained in beginnings, and the pungent odor like fresh-tilled earth and the amber eye unblinking.
Beside me the monstrumologist let out a long-held breath.
“Behold: the awful grace of God, from which wisdom comes!”
SIX
Behold the awful grace of God.
The lambs in the old stable bleated plaintively, and their blank black eyes twinkled in the washed-out winter light. It wasn’t hunger that drove their cries; they were well fed, flawlessly plump; each head appeared too small for its round body. They weren’t hungry; they were frightened. I was a stranger. An interloper. Their nostrils flared, offended by my foreign scent. I wasn’t the thin, stoop-shouldered man in the dingy white coat who brought the fresh hay and oats and water. The one who cleaned the stall and spread the warm straw. The one who cared for them, protected them, fed them until their sides were sore.
I grabbed the shovel from the hook and went back outside.
The ground was hard; my hands were soft. I was unaccustomed to physical labor. My shoulders ached; my palms burned. My feet and heart were numb.
What awful grace drove you, Warthrop? Was Beatrice a lamb like the ones in the stable or did she see too much? The mercy of monstrumologists is as cold as God’s—did you kill her to spare her a more unspeakable end?
The dry wind swirled in the smoldering ashes, and a loose shutter knocked against the peeling siding, and I still had nearly two cans of kerosene, stacks of lumber and nails, and it could be done: Board up the doors, seal him inside; the rotten old house would be engulfed in minutes.
Run, Willy, run! from the fire my mother cried.
There is no room for pity or grief or any sentimental human thing, but justice is not sentimental. Justice is as cold and immutable as the ice of Judecca.
Tell me, Father; tell me what you have seen.
Canto 3
ONE
Abram von Helrung sighed deeply around his cigar, stocky legs spread wide, pudgy hands worrying behind his back, as he stared out the window of his Fifth Avenue brownstone to the early-morning bustle below. The light cut deep shadows into the craggy landscape of his face. His eyes, normally so bright and birdlike, were the washed-out blue of a winter sky.
“Calamity,” he murmured. “Calamity!”
“Calamity implies an unforeseen disaster,” Hiram Walker piped up from the sofa behind him. “I, for one, have said from the beginning that housing the T. cerrejonensis in the Monstrumarium was—”
“Walker,” the monstrumologist said through gritted teeth. He was standing by the mantel, a study in barely contained fury. “Shut up.”
The Englishman sniffed noisily. Beside him his apprentice, Samuel the mediocrity, was glaring at me. The entire left side of his face was swollen. Perhaps I had broken his jaw; I hoped so. There are some we cannot help but take an instant dislike to. I think I would have hated him even if he hadn’t refused to yield on the dance floor.