Read Online Myths of Origin by Catherynne M. Valente - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Catherynne M. Valente
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Monkey was off on another fit of hooting acrobatics. “But you,” his voice calmed, became grave, “are in trouble. I would like to help you, very much, very much. But I can’t. My Medicine is not for you.”
And so I was falling again, lost in the newness-which-was-not, lost in waves of golden fur and shining eyes, winks of I-know-what-you-don’t and shrugs of self-satisfaction. Lost, not just strange and Wandering, but diseased and poisoned, asps worming towards my great indigo heart that very, very moment. My voice cracked like a clay pitcher: “Is there nothing to be done?”
The Monkey flicked at a gnat on his saffron pelt. “Oh, please, woman. Of course there is or I would have stayed in my cozy little Temple and let you blather on your way. I merely said I cannot help you. Hoo! I can’t do everything, you know. We must find Her again, the Angel. And you must be entirely mad before we do, wholly Devoured, or there will be nothing to give her.”
“It is a Quest,” I said doubtfully.
“No, it is a sequence of events. You will not defeat Her with some Vorpal Blade, or win anything at all from Her. It is not the End, nor can we truly Seek her, as the Labyrinth carries us where it wishes, if it can wish. Will has no meaning here, like everything else. There is no meaning. There is no pagination. There is no index, no glossary. There is no first edition, no reprinting, there is only this battered, dog-eared now . There is no gallery, there is no photographic record, there is no grand entrance or dramatic exit. There is only the great nowbody roasted in its sapphire hide, and your great seaside eyes, widening in ineffably slow understanding, rolling weakly into darkness as you are eaten, piece by piece.
It is not a Quest merely because it has a beginning with me and an ending with Her. You are not going to fight, or act, or plead. You can get nothing from Her. She may not heal you, and you cannot force Her. But you must make a circle. You may never find Her. A Quest is Heroic, you are not. You are selfish: you wish only to Survive and Devour. It will not change the Labyrinth, or the fate of a fair-armed damosel. You are the damsel and the dragon, you are the prince and the witch, you are the captain and the whale. ‘Quest’ has no meaning for you, who Seek only the delectable end of your own rattling tail. You are the Seeker-After, so get on with it and Seek.” He folded his arms across his chest.
“It is, really. You are tricking me into it, but it is a Quest, a Journey. I do not want it.”
“Nothing here is precisely what it is.”
“And I shall die otherwise?”
“Yes. You may die, anyway.”
“And it will be quite awful?”
“Yes.”
“And there is no other Road but this?”
“Has there ever been another Road for you?”
I paused. “But we cannot Strike Out and hunt her.”
“No.”
“Then how do the Doors hunt me?”
Again the slow butter-spread of a smile. “So clever, Darlingblue, so precise. How indeed? They are not like us, not our kind.”
“They Devour,” I remarked.
“How would you know? Hoo! You, the great Labyrinth-Navigator, the great Walker, escaping every Door like bread from the oven! Yes, they do, but not like us. The Doors are part of the Maze, not within. They can hunt you, and me for that matter, because they are conscious of you as the Road is; you are within them/it/all. It is all one. Such the terrible instinct to run, suspecting darkness and dread on the other side. But if you will not believe in a Monster or a Castle, why do you cling to your faith in that terrifically humanological fear of fire and black on the windward side of the Door? You do not really engage the Maze at all.”
“You do not go diving into Doors, you flee, too!” I protested.
“Yes, because I do not wish to be Devoured in any fashion, and I prefer a Singularity of Possibles. I run because I know their danger. You run because you do not, because you are good at being hunted.
And so I was falling again, lost in the newness-which-was-not, lost in waves of golden fur and shining eyes, winks of I-know-what-you-don’t and shrugs of self-satisfaction. Lost, not just strange and Wandering, but diseased and poisoned, asps worming towards my great indigo heart that very, very moment. My voice cracked like a clay pitcher: “Is there nothing to be done?”
The Monkey flicked at a gnat on his saffron pelt. “Oh, please, woman. Of course there is or I would have stayed in my cozy little Temple and let you blather on your way. I merely said I cannot help you. Hoo! I can’t do everything, you know. We must find Her again, the Angel. And you must be entirely mad before we do, wholly Devoured, or there will be nothing to give her.”
“It is a Quest,” I said doubtfully.
“No, it is a sequence of events. You will not defeat Her with some Vorpal Blade, or win anything at all from Her. It is not the End, nor can we truly Seek her, as the Labyrinth carries us where it wishes, if it can wish. Will has no meaning here, like everything else. There is no meaning. There is no pagination. There is no index, no glossary. There is no first edition, no reprinting, there is only this battered, dog-eared now . There is no gallery, there is no photographic record, there is no grand entrance or dramatic exit. There is only the great nowbody roasted in its sapphire hide, and your great seaside eyes, widening in ineffably slow understanding, rolling weakly into darkness as you are eaten, piece by piece.
It is not a Quest merely because it has a beginning with me and an ending with Her. You are not going to fight, or act, or plead. You can get nothing from Her. She may not heal you, and you cannot force Her. But you must make a circle. You may never find Her. A Quest is Heroic, you are not. You are selfish: you wish only to Survive and Devour. It will not change the Labyrinth, or the fate of a fair-armed damosel. You are the damsel and the dragon, you are the prince and the witch, you are the captain and the whale. ‘Quest’ has no meaning for you, who Seek only the delectable end of your own rattling tail. You are the Seeker-After, so get on with it and Seek.” He folded his arms across his chest.
“It is, really. You are tricking me into it, but it is a Quest, a Journey. I do not want it.”
“Nothing here is precisely what it is.”
“And I shall die otherwise?”
“Yes. You may die, anyway.”
“And it will be quite awful?”
“Yes.”
“And there is no other Road but this?”
“Has there ever been another Road for you?”
I paused. “But we cannot Strike Out and hunt her.”
“No.”
“Then how do the Doors hunt me?”
Again the slow butter-spread of a smile. “So clever, Darlingblue, so precise. How indeed? They are not like us, not our kind.”
“They Devour,” I remarked.
“How would you know? Hoo! You, the great Labyrinth-Navigator, the great Walker, escaping every Door like bread from the oven! Yes, they do, but not like us. The Doors are part of the Maze, not within. They can hunt you, and me for that matter, because they are conscious of you as the Road is; you are within them/it/all. It is all one. Such the terrible instinct to run, suspecting darkness and dread on the other side. But if you will not believe in a Monster or a Castle, why do you cling to your faith in that terrifically humanological fear of fire and black on the windward side of the Door? You do not really engage the Maze at all.”
“You do not go diving into Doors, you flee, too!” I protested.
“Yes, because I do not wish to be Devoured in any fashion, and I prefer a Singularity of Possibles. I run because I know their danger. You run because you do not, because you are good at being hunted.
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