Wyrmhole

The sun is high in the sky when I meet the Wyrm. Although the shock does pale in comparison to the pain in my feet from stumbling and staggering in those awful deathtraps of shoes. The heels are thin, spindly sticks adorned with jeweled roses; my enchantment with them lasted as long as it took to get halfway down the first flight of stairs from my suite. But I refuse to cave, refuse to give in. I spent ages putting together the outfit, it was going to be worn if I died for it. I very nearly did on the third flight, but what does it matter? As long as I had enough time before I lost consciousness to arrange myself into an artistic pose, and  my hair dishevelled itself in a manner that bespoke elegance. And if the Wyrm decides to kill me, then perhaps it might tear my throat in as poetically tragic a manner as possible, and then drop me in a tasteful arrangement of limbs.

The pain in my feet pales in comparison to my bewilderment when it verbalizes: Howdy. What does one do when faced with so multifaceted an astonishment? So supreme a conundrum? So profound a moment of perspective? They gape openmouthedly, of course. In my moment of reflection, it occurs to me that a greeting must be responded to in kind, hence I attempt a “Hi”.  Given the state of my voice, however, this does not quite succeed, and I settle for a “Sup”, more suited to my voice and to my sunglasses.

I cannot help but think that you would have less trouble with your shoes if you attempted a more natural stride. 

I cannot help but notice the Wyrm’s obvious lack of feet.

The Wyrm coils itself uncomfortably. I know I have not any feet to stand upon in this matter (not to be clever), but your anatomy suggests that smaller, more natural steps might reduce your discomfort. You do not appear to be built to place all your weight on the balls of your feet. Taking occasional breaks would probably be a good idea as well. He points at a nearby bench, slightly warped from the rain.

It takes me a few tries to form, “How come you haven’t suggested that I just take them off entirely?” I don’t quite get out all the words, but the Wyrm seems to understand nonetheless. He coils some more.

Well, they are such pretty shoes. It would be a pity not to wear them. 

I decide we shall be fast friends.

                    ~*`’~

There is something so eloquently expressive about cleaving a beautiful, luxurious surface with the harsh inelegance of the hammer. So I hack away at the wall around the smashed window, a trickle of blood dripping from where a stray shard exacted its revenge. When I tire of the activity, the Wyrm snakes its tail through the window and smashes out enough of the wall to make its way inside the expansive suite. We erect silk over the carnage and settle down with champagne amidst the broken glass. His manner of imbibing does not conform to etiquette, but that is no fault of his. We nap after the bottle is gone, and I am glad to find he does not snore.

We awake after the sun has retired, keen with a sense of purpose. The kitchen is large enough that it need not be altered to accommodate us both, and we set to work. It is decidedly nice to be possessed of an elongate limb that can reach not only into the pantry but all the way up to my terrace garden; clever enough to differentiate the ripest of the produce. I cook, and we feast. The Wyrm need not eat, having eaten just a month ago, but the food smells too delicious to resist, he tells me. Before we eat, of course, I pull out my precious polaroid, and quickly capture the arrangement, pushing his tail out of the way, and then another of him posing absurdly around the chimney. After we are done, we throw out the plates in favor of washing them, and return to the suite; my shoes do not hurt me when I need only seat myself atop his head and wait to arrive. It makes me remember how much I miss the ease of elevators. When we are through the opening and have untangled ourselves from the silk, I go to the expensively lit wall, ripping from it a painting that would once have cost more than the entire suite, and sending it crashing onto the growing pile in the corner. I place in its vacancy the two photos, next to hundreds of such, except today one of the pictures has a Wyrm in it. I pause, marker in hand, after I have dated them and titled the first one “Dinner for the day”. “So, what can I call you?” I ask the scaly rope that has wound itself around an ornate pillar, examining the wall.

You know, I’ve never really liked my name. I would so adore a nickname, something that sounds, well, cool. Something that reeks of sophistication with just a touch of… gangsta. Something that screams of me. What screams of me?

“Well, I would say Blue, but that doesn’t reek of sophistication. How about Coil?”

Too obvious.

“Stretch?”

    Nope.

“Long John?”

    Too much.

“Ouroboros?”

    Only babies put their tails in their mouths.

“I know, Serpent.”

    You know, that’s not bad, but I can’t help but feel that the term often goes with a negative connotation.

“Sapphire.”

    Too mainstream, too princessy.

“True. Nefertiti.”

    I’m not even going to get started on why that is a terrible idea.

“Hiss.”

    I do not hiss.

“Ness.”

    Rhymes with mess.

“Knot.”

    I love it. 

“I’d like one too.”

    Scar.

“Too common.”

    Spoon.

“If you wanted more dinner, you should have said so.”

    Speckle.

“Let’s move away from the letter S.”

    How about Pearl?

“Reeks of elegance. It’s perfect.”

    I want a space on the wall. After a pause.

“Have that one.”

    With these nicknames, we could be pirates. Observed Knot.

“Well, do you know how to sail?”

No, but I can swim.

“I can too, but can you really be a buccaneer without a ship?”

I guess not. I suppose you can’t be a swashbuckling pirate if you can’t do any swashbuckling.

“We could ravage the oceans. Dive for treasure.”

You know that’s a terrible idea.

“Is that where they went?”

Most of them, yes.

“Perhaps someday we could go and die a grandiose death, sword in hand, fighting till the end, meet again at Valhalla.”

    An eternal feast does sound nice.

“You really haven’t had enough dinner, have you?”

    I told you, I don’t need to eat more than once every few months.

“.”

    Look, it’s more of a craving than an actual need.

“How about a midnight feast?”

                        ~*`’~

The sun is high in the sky once more when I awaken. I seem to have been crying. If my memory serves me, there was an awful lot of drinking on my part. I hope I haven’t scared Knot. 

The gentle sounds of Bach are in my ears, and Knot is curled around a chair, snout pointed at the gramophone.

This one was labeled “afternoon”, so I put it on.

“Yes, Bach for the afternoons, Beethoven for the evenings.”

    What about the mornings?

“Vivaldi, if you’re awake.”

    I get up, attempting to kick my long-asleep legs into action, when I notice a second heap of destroyed expensive paintings. On the wall whence they came are a handful of photographs, pretty views from the surrounding landscape. On the corner table lies an understandably blue polaroid.

“Been up early, huh? Didn’t know you were into nature photography.” My voice, despite the grogginess and the grog, is much better than it was yesterday.

I like the scenery. You could stare at it for hours and not get tired of it.

“Well then, let’s go on a picnic.”

    Wonderful. I’ll carry the basket.

                        ~*`’~

The wind is blowing pleasantly as we polish off the remains of our lunch and settle down to ravage the grass and watch the clouds. Between handfuls of grass from me and single blades from Knot, he speaks.

It’s because we’re lonely.

“What?”

    It’s because we’re lonely. Much more drawn out.

“I heard you, but what are you talking about?”

    Ah, I suppose you consumed enough liquor that you no longer remember your questions.

    A pause.

    You see,  you drank much, expelled much of what you drank, and became highly emotional.

        ““I don’t see why they should be the judge of who lives and who dies!

What do they know of our world after all, they can’t understand what it is to be invested in your own little world, even if it is a tiny fragment in the universe? The planet is just a lump of rock after all, just like all the other lumps of rock out there, and this one just so happens to be covered in crawlies! Where do they get their justice, why should we behave a certain way to be allowed to live? Why can’t they just leave us alone?””

You were far more incoherent about it, of course, and you also threw your shoes at me.

“The ones with the flowers?”

    The ones with the flowers.

“I’m sorry.”

    I stare ruefully at my carnage of grass.

    Well, you see, it’s a little bit of a strange story. So there is a planet, another lump of rock, and this one has life on it too, except the life doesn’t age and doesn’t multiply. We grow merely through our environment, what we take in, what we learn. We also cannot stand each other. So there were twenty four of us in all, and all of us came to the realization that we were lonely, and we certainly weren’t sufficient company for each other. So we set off, right, don’t ask how, claustrophobic loneliness is a great motivator. We explored and found twenty three other worlds that had life on them. If there is one thing we are good at, it is sensing life, and there are no more planets with life on them anywhere where we can possibly travel to within the limits of our resources. So we started on one of them, started learning, interacting, and a strange thing happened. The rest of us grew bored, apathetic, while one found home. He was happy, not lonely anymore, and it made us angry. We couldn’t bear to see another with what we longed so desperately for, so we found an excuse to destroy the planet, and him with it. We do our best not to be unreasonable, even if we are not always successful. Now take this, and picture it eight more times. It was quite clear what was happening: twenty four of us, but only twenty three playgrounds. No two of us could possibly share a playground. Musical chairs, and one person would be left standing, left alone for eternity. We were getting quite desperate each world further in. So we made a pact to leave as many alive on each world we destroyed as required to reproduce, so that perhaps a new, different world might come about from it. It doesn’t make any sense if you really think about it, but it’s not easy to think in that state. I think it was more of us hoping for more time, more time to live, if we ever managed to find that happiness. 

    You know you can continue the species if you want to, right?

“I don’t see the point in continuing a species that was too foolish to save itself when the time came. They gave us a choice, and we decided our own little bubbles were more important than staying alive. No, I won’t do it.”

    The breeze blows and I send my handful with it.

    You know, that test sets you up to fail. We are especially good at finding out what makes a species tick, how to break them. It wasn’t their fault that the others wished their destruction, hated them for not being their salvation.

“I don’t know about that. Everyone knew that you wanted us to fail, they knew the way around it too. It just so happened that when push came to shove, they didn’t make it. And I don’t think I can forgive them for that.”

    I fell for this world, as you must have guessed. It makes me regret destroying those other ones. I’m glad, at least, that I am not the one destined never to know this joy, though I might even deserve it.

“What’s the big deal, anyways? If you don’t want to live with the feeling, it can’t be hard to just escape from it all, you know?”

    Don’t think we haven’t tried that. I’m sorry to say that it was the first thing we tried. We die when that which we have found salvation in dies. If you never form the bond, then you’re forced to live with it forever.

“That sounds pretty scary.”

    Scary is a massive understatement.

The wind calms, and a cloud overhead seems to take the shape of a pretzel. We look at it for a while, longing for delicious knotted snacks.

    “So do you want to do it?”

    Do what?

“Dive into the ocean, sword in hand. Fight the last stand. Meet again in Valhalla. You only have to make sure not to give in to fear, and they’ll save you a seat.”

    Will they have pretzels?

“I’m sure they will.”

    Alright, then.