Perfect Little Stitches and Other Stories Read online

  She turned to him. Over his shoulder, she noticed the tree trunk. It was not disease that had turned it white, black and grey, but excrement; litres and litres of what seemed to be bird shit. In fact, more bird shit than she’d ever seen in her life. From the ravens, perhaps? She looked up through the befouled branches, searching for the rest of the flock, for birds that must number in the hundreds, but the tree was empty. The only ravens were the three still pecking at the carcass. She looked about for a stone or rock. Instead, she found a bloodied rib bone next to her in the grass. She threw the bone at the ravens. They startled, flapped their dark glossy wings, and settled back down again.

  “Some time ago,” the man said, “I worked as a day labourer on a farm.”

  Philantha cut her eyes at him. “In a time of war, farming is the job of the very young and the very old. You don’t appear to be either.”

  He huffed out an impatient breath. “Anyway, one particular day, my mistresses came along and removed me from the farm. We’ve been together ever since. One of them likes to have sexual relations with me. It’s a singularly bizarre kind of coupling. Shall I tell you about that? Considering you don’t seem interested in my chain.”

  “I’ll break your chain with my spear. Then you can return to the farm.”

  The man snickered. Lifting his leg, he slipped off the chain, waggled his free foot, and put the chain back on again. Philantha did not know what to make of that. Puzzled, she stared at him.

  “So? I don’t like farming.” As if discomfited, the man started to pout. “You’ve got no right to judge me,” he continued. “I’ve lived a difficult life until now.”

  The more Philantha learned about the ways of men, the less she liked them. Unexpectedly, her heart gave a savage twist for Thermiskyra, for the mountains of the Thermodon nation, the sight of the Black Sea at dusk shining like a rippling skin of molten silver. By Ares, she longed to be home again in the company of women. The wound throbbed. The gods alone would decide whether she made it back in time. She concentrated on watching the road for the horse and trap. In the distant sky, two large birds were flying in from the south. The slow and ponderous action of their wings and frequent gliding identified them as vultures. They carried objects in their claws: parts of dead soldiers from Troy, no doubt.

  The man began to chuckle and tut-tut. Philantha ignored him. The dirt road stayed empty. Her brow sweated with fever. How much longer before the trap appeared? She felt weary and ill, in need of rest. The ravens abandoned their meal and took off. The horses jostled and whinnied. The man laughed out loud. Wary, but not sure why, Philantha stood. She scrutinised the road, the woods, all directions: nothing.

  “You’ve only yourself to blame,” the man said, stretching out on his back and lacing his fingers behind his head. “I told you to leave. More than once, actually.”

  The horses began to crowd each other, stamping, bumping against the walls of the corral in a sudden panic. The vultures were close. How had they crossed such a great distance so quickly? The horror of it became clear. They were not vultures but harpies.

  Harpies.

  She would rather face a squad of Greeks.

  The hairs rose on the back of Philantha’s neck, and her breath quickened. She grabbed the spear and shield. Harpies were evil creatures, half-hag and half-bird, voracious carnivores and killers of lone travellers. At certain times of the year, flocks of them infested the shores of the Black Sea. Naturally, they knew better than to harass Thermodon, but every Amazon had at least a basic knowledge of the dangers that harpies posed. By Ares, how had Philantha not recognised the diarrhoetic dung slathering the tree? The nest-like construction of the corral? Because of sickness and fatigue, of course, but it was too late, far too late now, to worry about anything else but survival.

  The thick, cloying stink typical of the harpy choked the air. Philantha dug her toes into the ground and lifted her spear. As the creatures came in to land, they dropped their cargo: bloated goatskins containing either wine or water. Philantha felt the dizzying strength of her thirst.

  “They’ll eat you alive,” the man said, “and take your soft parts first: tongue, guts; the flesh between your legs. The pain will make you scream in a hundred new ways. Don’t be ashamed. They don’t give anybody, not even a soldier such as you, an honourable death.”

  The harpies landed awkwardly in the manner of bats, overbalancing, bracing themselves on the knuckles of their huge leathery wings and tottering forward a few steps on clawed feet. Philantha had never seen a harpy this close before. They were about a metre high, hunched, and bony. Their small eyes glittered. While breasts and arms were reminiscent of a human woman, their faces shone like flayed skulls, the lipless mouths sporadically flexing open and shut, sphincter-like, revealing yellowed fangs.

  One harpy poured a stream of shit onto the ground. A second later, the other one followed suit. The stench momentarily closed Philantha’s throat. She focused. There were differences between the harpies. One was smaller, thinner; lame in one leg with missing toes. Philantha would attack this harpy first.

  Walking to the end of his chain, the man approached the lame harpy and put his arm about her filthy neck. Her wing on that side fluttered, stretched to enclose him.

  “This is Elae, my lover,” the man said. “Like a bird, she has but one hole down there for everything, so in effect, I screw her in the arse. What do you think of that?”

  He laughed. Philantha didn’t reply. Elae raised her yellowed teeth at the man. In response, he ran his tongue over them in a long, single lick.

  “And this is Odarg,” he added, gesturing towards the bigger harpy, “Elae’s sister.”

  “Which one is in charge?” Philantha said.

  “I am.” Odarg’s voice sounded raspy and dry as if seldom used.

  Philantha struck her shield with the spear, once, and said, “Give me a goatskin of water and the palomino. Comply, and I will go on my way without incident.”

  The man giggled. Odarg approached on the knuckles of her wings, her scaly legs following behind in a slithering waddle. Philantha took a step back and lifted her shield, putting her weight into her front foot.

  “Stranger, you look like Antianeirai,” Odarg said, using the insult that translates as those who fight like men. “You need to make peace with your gods.”

  “My advice to you is the same,” Philantha said.

  The harpies exchanged glances.

  The man snickered into his hand. “Oh, she’s very bold.”

  “Bold for no reason,” Odarg said. “Amazon, your queen’s blind deference to Priam was the death of you all. The Greeks wiped out your regiment in Troy.”

  Philantha tightened her grip on the spear. “There is still Aeneas.”

  “Not for long. A force of our harpy sisters is attacking the once-mighty Aeneas and his troops as they flee the city of Troy, tails between their buttocks. This is the truth. You see, there is no hope. Drop your spear.”

  “Come and take it from me.”

  Odarg angled her head from side to side, gazing at Philantha with one eye and then the other, in the manner of a bird. “My talons are poisoned,” she said. “One scratch and you will die within days.”

  “My aim is true. I will kill you outright with my spear.”

  “Hah. There are two of us.”

  “But I am a warrior, not an old man or a child, you cowards.”

  Odarg leaned back on her dirty wings and curled her body, aiming her wet and winking cloaca at Philantha. “I’ll shit on you directly,” Odarg said. “While you vomit, I’ll gouge your face to shreds.”

  Philantha smiled. “I have disembowelled countless Greeks, felt the spray of their shit and blood across my face in every battle. Rotting bodies offended my nose every day. Come on, you devil. Give it a try. I’ll spear you through your arse.”

  Sighing, Odarg at last sat down, t
ucking her legs beneath her like a broody hen. Finally, she said, “I’m curious. Where is your armour?”

  “After the battle of Troy, a dozen Greeks captured me, and removed it.”

  “I see,” Odarg said. “Then they took turns on you, no doubt.”

  “They tried.”

  The harpy skewed a piggish eye. “Meaning what? That you killed them?”

  “To the last man.”

  With a nod, Odarg said, “Stand down, Amazon. Leave us in peace.”

  “Agreed.” Philantha lowered the spear and shield. “I want the palomino.”

  “It’s yours.”

  “And a goatskin of water.”

  “Go ahead. That’s yours too.”

  Philantha picked up one of the sewn goatskins, walked to the corral, draped the goatskin over the palomino’s back and began to dismantle one side of the corral. The palomino waited patiently, watching her with its calm, apple-sized eye.

  “You’re letting her go?” The man ducked out from under the wing of the lame harpy. “Wait a minute. She deserves to be punished. Listen, she tried to screw me.”

  “Amazons screw to reproduce,” Odarg said. “She wouldn’t reproduce with the pitiful likes of you if her remaining tit depended on it.”

  “No, I’m telling you, she grabbed my sack, told me to get it up or else.”

  Sniffing, Odarg rose slightly on one leg to dribble a puddle of shit.

  The man added, “She also tried to break my chain and steal me away.”

  The man’s lover, Elae, showed her fangs. “Bitch, I’ll kill you.”

  “Now that’s more like it,” the man said, and laughed into his fists.

  Elae awkwardly approached on wing and foot. Philantha put down the corral branch and grasped her spear, holding it loosely in one hand. Elae stopped and looked behind at her sister, who had not moved.

  Odarg shrugged. “If you fight the Amazon, you’ll fight her alone.”

  Philantha said, “Odarg, call off your sister before I slaughter her.”

  Odarg shrugged again. “She has her own mind.”

  “Will you keep out of it?”

  “You have my word.”

  Sick as she was, Philantha knew she could manage a single, crippled harpy. Two harpies, however, would be a different story. In tandem, they would attack her from the air, moving as fast as lightning streaks, one assailing her front and the other her back, talons slashing and threshing down to the bone. Philantha swiped the perspiration from her forehead. She hefted the spear into her dominant hand, lifted the shield.

  Elae was already upon her with claws outstretched.

  Philantha struck blindly. It was a lucky blow, and she knew it. The spear found Elae’s breast. The impetus of the harpy’s attack drove the spear all the way through the creature’s body. There was little resistance, the bones light and brittle, the meat stringy. Elae gave a startled gasp. Then she went limp, and fell to the ground. Philantha put her foot against the harpy and wrenched out the spear in a fountain of guts and blood.

  With an agonised howl, the man fell upon Elae, crying and clutching at her corpse. The intensity of his grief turned Philantha’s stomach.

  “I should kill you,” she said to Odarg, “and your pet human, too.”

  “But you’re injured.”

  “No. The harpy cripple never touched me.”

  Odarg offered a sly grin. “I mean the injury on your forearm, the one that speaks of infection. The Greeks must have given it to you as their parting gift.”

  Philantha removed the last tree branch from the corral and led the palomino free. Then she reconstructed the corral to keep the other animals inside. The palomino stood tall, snorting gently through its nostrils, shaking its head. Philantha arranged her spear and shield in one arm. Grasping the mane, she tried to mount the horse and somehow failed, a swoon of vertigo tilting the earth beneath her feet.

  “Tell me,” Odarg said, “can you feel the exhalation of Thanatos on your neck?”

  Philantha managed to climb onto the horse. “Our business here is done.”

  “Is it? You killed my sister.”

  Philantha considered. Evidently, Odarg planned to attack at a later point. There was only one road to Thermodon. Unless Philantha wasted precious time slogging through woodland—time which she could not afford—Odarg would find her simply by flying over the road. And harpies travelled as quietly as owls, as quickly as sound. Odarg would close in when Philantha, exhausted, might be dozing on horseback.

  “Don’t come after me,” Philantha said. “I’ll kill you like I killed your sister.”

  Odarg stood up from her squat, tottered side to side on scaly feet, and fann

  ed her wings. The ghoulish skull-mask of her face stretching into a rictus, she said, “You think I’d attack you alone? Unlike Elae, I’m not insane. No, I’ll ask the flock currently spiting Aeneas if they can spare a few sisters.”

  “Understood. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  Odarg gave a screeching laugh. “Let’s be honest. You won’t make Thermodon.”

  The harpy released a stream of shit and trod into it, joyfully, as if in celebration. The weeping of the man over the fallen Elae went on and on. With a cluck of Philantha’s tongue, the palomino began to trot through the meadow.

  Odarg called, “Amazon, last of the Antianeirai fighters of Troy, you are already dead, one way or another, by a Greek’s hand or my own.”

  Philantha kept the shield on her lap, the spear in her fist. Once at the dirt road, she used the gentle pressure of her knees to urge the palomino into a steady, three-beat canter. The meadow soon fell behind. After a while, she broke a stitch on the goatskin, sucked at the flesh, and tasted wine instead of water. The gods had again abandoned her.

  No matter, she would continue to journey without them.

  The afternoon sun bore down, hot as fire stones. Spangles affected her vision. To keep focus, Philantha recalled the Black Sea and its rolling waves, its spume foaming across the beach, its water that had cooled her feet ever since she was old enough to walk, the boats working their fishing nets on its horizon.

  Across The White Desert

  Both of them were going to die. John knew this to be true. Every time he tried to mentally prepare, however, the goddamned soldier next to him on the dogsled kept arguing the impossible.

  “Circle back,” the soldier said again. “Seven downed men: that equals seven field-packs with food, weapons and ammo. We need those supplies.”

  John said, “Circle back? How? This is Antarctica, dickhead. No cover.”

  The dogs sprinted over the snow, kicking up powder. John felt the muscular strength of each Siberian husky through the reins. His two other dog teams, their sleds now empty, kept pace alongside. Run, he thought; for the love of Christ, run. Those things still tracked close behind. Circle back? My arse. Didn’t the soldier understand? Hadn’t the dumb bastard witnessed that ambush out of nowhere? Seen the massacre himself?

  John yelled, “Hike!”

  His lead dog, Nikita, picked up the pace. The four dogs in her chain followed suit. The dogs were gasping, their breaths freezing overhead and raining plumes of ice crystals along their backs. The sled flew over the wasteland. Ice sheared up in dual waves. John ducked his head into the wind. The blue sky sat over them like a glass dome. We’re trapped, John realised, a few insignificant figures in a snow globe.

  “I can’t protect you,” the soldier said, “without weapons and ammo.”

  John sneered. “Protect me?”

  “Hey, I’m your only means of defence.”

  What arrogance, what stupidity. On the plane ride here, the machismo of the eight army soldiers had made John uneasy. Their boundless enthusiasm suggested greenness. John was a Vietnam vet. When approaching a drop zone, experienced soldiers tend to be quiet, focused,
usually a little frightened. In hindsight, the stupendous amount of cash the Defence Force had offered should have warned him away, but mortgage payments, bills, the hope for one last hurrah backpacking through Asia before his arthritis got too bad…

  John glanced back. The things had dropped away. Thank God for the speed of his dogs. For the first time since John and the soldiers had approached the craft, the clutch of panic around his throat loosened off. Maybe we’ll make it, he thought. Maybe we’ll get to one of the research stations.

  The wind felt cold enough to strip the skin from his face, despite his layers of balaclava. It had been many years since he’d run a dogsled in Antarctica; not since 1994, when politicians had introduced the ban for fear of dogs passing distemper to the fucking seals, for Christ’s sake. Ever since, stranded back home in Australia, he had offered a tourist show in the Victorian Alps for five hundred bucks per dogsled ride; wasting his life whisking red-cheeked and excitable families through meagre snow, growing old at an exponential rate, sixty-seven yet feeling infinitely more decrepit with boredom, restlessness, depression…

  Until the knock on his door yesterday.

  The man and woman were military. John could tell from their posture, their attitude, the way they wore their suits.

  “John Lansky?” the woman said. “Can we talk, sir?”

  They walked inside. Before he shut the door, John noted three black sedans parked out front, windows tinted. Why would the military give a rat’s arse about him? There was a sofa and a couple of kitchen chairs in his cabin, but the visitors chose to stand. John sat down and lit a cigarette.

  Without any preliminaries, the woman said, “We’re from the Australian Defence Force, here under direct orders from the Minister of Defence. We want you and your dogs to take eight soldiers into Antarctica.”

  Surprised, John smiled. “The Antarctic Treaty bans military manoeuvres.”

  “We have to leave tonight,” the man said.

  John laughed. “Tonight? I can’t get ready that fast.”