Read Online Secret Lives by Jeff VanderMeer - Free Book Online Page B

it, although also ensuring that each newsletter is hundreds of pages long, for not only is cuneiform somewhat cumbersome in execution, but many members of the sect are ancient and insist on the use of large letters for their aged eyes.)
    As Demars looks out over the landfill, when he realizes what he has hidden under all of that waste, and what it will one day do . . . a glimmer of a gleam comes into his eyes. He has a well-defined sense of imagination. He can already see the transformation. For, when the sect’s work is complete, a vortex in time will open and the Mesopotamian past will seep into the American present, devouring it whole. The mighty Euphrates, twined to its twin, will barrel through and flood the land. What will happen to Demars then, he neither knows nor cares. Let the elders of that ancient river valley decide his fate, along with all the rest. It is entirely possible he will remain on as the editor of the newsletter, at the very least.

THE SECRET LIFE OF
    TERRY TIDWELL
    Terry Tidwell is a builder, a bookworm, and a beer drinker. Of late, however, he has become obsessed with 18th-century automata.
    One night, out with friends, he bumped into a homeless man. A miasma of sweat, funk, and mustiness blew over Tidwell as he held the man in his arms, in one of those unplanned moments that permeate every life, one that to an observer might even look like a reunion of old friends.
    The man’s face, hidden by salt-and-pepper whiskers, imploded in an unmistakable grimace as he flailed to get free and as Tidwell held on long enough to make sure the man would not gain his freedom by falling.
    Released, the man stumbled to the curb as cars passed behind him, and glared at Tidwell.
    “Watch yourself,” he growled.
    As he took a step back, Tidwell noticed something peculiar about the man’s left eye. It was completely black, without a hint of white, and when the man blinked, Tidwell swore he could see ridges in his eyelid, as if the object lodged in the orbit was not an eye at all, but something entirely more mechanical.
    “Sorry,” Tidwell said, taking another step back, his friends waiting for him up ahead.
    He turned to go, a shiver of fear making him hurry, but the man came up behind him and caught him by the arm. His grip was as strong and implacable as that of a robot arm.
    “Vaucanson had a duck you know,” the man hissed in Tidwell’s ear. “He had a duck, and it broke. But it wasn’t my fault. You’d think they’d know that by now. Vaucanson. Vaucanson has a lot to answer for.”
    The man released Tidwell.
    Tidwell whirled around, stared at the man, opened his mouth to speak, but found he had nothing to say. He simply wanted to get away from the man as quickly as possible.
    One of his friends had walked back to help Tidwell and now said, “Do you want me to call the police?”
    Tidwell stared at the man with the impossible eye and the man with the impossible eye stared back.
    “No,” Tidwell said, “but let’s get the hell out of here.”
    “Vaucanson’s duck. Find it,” the man said, “and you’ll find a whole lot more. My time is done. I’ve nothing left to find it with.” A look of unexpected sympathy on the man’s face. “Good luck,” he said softly—and then as Tidwell and his friend looked on with bewilderment, the man ran down the sidewalk with almost preternatural speed and into the night.
    Much later, when he got home, he could still feel the man’s grip on his arm. That grip had left two uniform welts that took a fortnight to heal.
    As might be expected, Tidwell could not forget his encounter with the homeless man. He played it over and over in his mind. For one thing, the more he thought about the man, the more the man seemed familiar to him, as if he had once known him, but no matter how long or hard he tried to penetrate the fog surrounding that particular mystery, it remained a mystery for quite some time.
    So, instead, in his free time, Tidwell decided to find out