Kafka's Uncle and Other Strange Tales by Bruce Taylor

Author:Bruce Taylor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: literature, magical realism, kafka, spiders, metamorphosis
Publisher: ReAnimus Press

In Thy Name, Revenge

“T’was brillig—” Lewis Carroll

The princess wakens and lovelooks to her prince, sleeping stilly near. “Sha-ta, sha-ta,” chimes the princess to her prince. “Sha-ta, sha-ta,” and toyily she dances fingers across his dawn smooth brow, her fingers foresting through his hair, the curls licking around about like a bamblecat’s, curly as the hair in a hooloboot’s ear.

But the prince wakens not and trambles on within his dream—oh, the paindream once again—the explosion, then a long and dumbfoondious darkness. A vision: the princess looking tendcarely upon him; and all before that vision? Obliterased. And try as he will, he cannot rememcall past the intensearing heat and light.

And in his dream, he feels frusasperated as he again seeks yet cannot find the answers of what was before.

Then quite sudbruptly, a vision new. He sees himself riding a vast and heat-eyed Sayerbeast. They drakraggle over the mummel of the marthdale, through the forest dark and dwill. “Ah, sweet and nasty beast,” says the prince with grin darsk and feverbright, “how you carry your meanhead high, high as lifepride gathering form before the sun!”

“Ska-toe! Ska-toe!” yabbles Sayerbeast, yaddling heaftily to and fro, the marthdale passing drakly-swort beneath paggling, haggled hoof.

“As sure as the invaders swet their breath on damsy-erbs, as sure as the moons banter yes and banter no in their wamsy-wurvy light, we shall quassle, we shall work for the death of the invaders!”

“Ska-toe!” says the Sayerbeast; oh, the nostrils yorst and beige in Sayerbeasts’s clawhate of the evil from the sky. “Ska-toe! Ska-toe!”

The prince hangs on, tight as malintent, clinging like hurt to a heart, clinging like madness; riding, riding the huge and mulky Sayerbeast, it with head so borst and bost, it with body lodoriously vord and vast and vill!

“These invaders, whoever they might be,” says the prince, “I shall destroy them—for my pride, for my princess and the kingdom! Revenge-god Gal-Trosto! I come to you as strong as pulse-burst of blood, bulding, durking in my veins! Yes and yes; the ancient wrongs to be revengectified!”

And the prince whispfervents in fierce sleep, “Gal-Trosto!” and his hands are claws as though grabbing truth.

The princess is swuptly startled; her eyes go ohsoround. “My prince,” she whispers, “what searthought burns in your mind?”

She sits, her head alert, the sweetlight of rising double sun whimms doftly, doftly, through the glass, illuminating her hair browndly-long and curling like shyness transtendled with openness and therefore strong.

But the prince wakens not and in the dream hears mindvoice swive and strong: “I am Shastau, humilumble creature-servant of this revenge-god Gal-Trosto! Gal-Trosto wakens, wakens. It is time. Long enough has he slept in his kravven anger. I, Shastau, mindgive his message to sons, to daughters of the ancient blaspucklid horror of the invasion which drove our spirit down until the hurt-anger of the race fused, melted with the rock itself and gave Gal-Trosto birth. And he who responds first shall carry us again to the magnigrand peak of the greatness we once knew. Now I mindgive to you the ancient horror that is Gal-Trosto.

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