WE ARE SUCH STUFF…
By Lucius Appaloosius
1. Rude Awakening
The show was about to start, and Ben couldn’t find his script. His family were in the audience, including his brother (he thought Kane was supposed to be dead; but there must have been a mistake?) He might have left the script in the car; but he couldn’t find his car, either.
He could remember a few lines: something about the Duke and the clown , and “Aye, that thou were in thine own company”; but the rest was a fog. Well, he’d wing it as best he could. He walked back down the path to the stage, floating a part of the way. It was a special talent, and he was proud of it; but nobody ever seemed to notice.
A dark figure stood in his path: had a deer got into the park?
No, it looked more like a unicorn, but with wings: it was a deep blue, its mane and tail flowing with stars. He felt somehow he should know her, but he’d forgotten …
The figure merely nodded gravely, and then was no more.
Inside his costume - some sort of cloak or toga - Ben felt a bulk that hadn’t been there before; he fumbled around, and closed his hand on a sheaf of paper. The script! He opened it eagerly, to check his lines; but a sudden wind tore it from him. He snatched at it desperately -
He wasn’t in bed. Too scratchy, and somewhat damp: and where were the sheets? The sunlight against his tight-shut eyes was too bright to be coming through a window; and the birdsong was too loud to be inside: a loud, triumphant caw annoyed his twitching ears. He rolled over on his back: that was a mistake. There was something irritating straining against his T-shirt underneath; meanwhile, he felt that his shorts had slipped down, and something was flopping around down there. And why couldn’t he feel his fingers?
Open your eyes, you damn fool. Reluctantly, he did so. The afternoon sun nearly blinded him; but a dark blur blocked his lower vision , however he turned his head. He tried to brush it away, but another dark blur obscured his hand.
There is perhaps no greater spur to wakefulness than physical discomfort. With a start, he roused himself, rolled himself back to his stomach, and opened his eyes. He was lying in a shallow, grassy depression, surrounded by trees: in a nearby beech, a single crow chuckled, and flaunted something white and flag-like in its beak.
He looked down: his arms were covered in some sort of grey fur, and ended in solid hooves. Okay, okay, I’m still dreaming. Try levitating, then. He tensed his legs, and tried to push off.
Nothing. Still stuck solidly to the ground. He strained again, gritting his teeth: either he’d float or wake up…
Instead, he felt his T-shirt rip, and a pair of extra limbs unfolded. He started up in panic, and flopped down hard again.
Ouch! He bit his lip when his head hit the ground. Exploring with his tongue, he felt two sharp canines protruding from his upper jaw, almost like - fangs. Dreams didn’t hurt like this; besides, the sun was too damn bright. He looked up, almost blinded; but something stretched from his back and, almost reflexively, shaded his eyes. Something black and leathery, with bony ribs. Something like - wings. Bat wings.
This time, he rose slowly and carefully to all fours. Don’t panic, don’t panic… He looked about hesitantly: the landscape looked perfectly normal, even vaguely familiar. But he didn’t.
From what he could see, his entire body was covered with grey fur, and two black wings drooped at his sides. A black horsetail, streaked with white, flicked behind him: he shivered at the sensation when it touched his flank. I’m Batpony. Either I have gone completely out of my mind , or I’m goddamn Batpony.
He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. No: you’re not Batpony. You’re Benjamin freaking Hengst, you lazy, blithering idiot. You better get your ass in gear, or you’re going to die here. With an effort, he managed to fold those clumsy wings up on his back. He kicked off the encumbering remains of his shorts, and, stepping gingerly, he started out of the hollow. A scrap of white caught his eye, in the grass where he had lain: a torn bit of paper, with the printed words,
PRINCIPIA SOM
Being, A Thest
to Drea
What they meant, what was missing, puzzled him; but there were more important matters now. He had to get out and find some sign of civilization - something. Somebody. He seemed to be on a small island, surrounded by marsh: he’d have to wade through that to get anywhere. He wasn’t about to try flying with wings he could barely control.
The next patch of dry land was about thirty yards away: one straight ravine led to the top of a hill, with another intersecting it halfway up. Fortunately, the mud was not too deep to cross, although his wings instinctively started flapping to keep him from sinking. At the top, he paused to take in his surroundings: more marsh on either side, and open water before him. He knew where he was: his hometown. The shoreline was much closer than before, though: the sea level must have risen since - how long ago?
Ben considered his options: west would lead him downtown - at least, where downtown used to be - and to the river. There seemed to be a causeway of some sort, or at least a chain of dry patches. East was deep marsh, probably impassable. South was Long Island Sound. West it was, then.
A song came to his memory: an ancient, scratchy record, from a collection he would never see again. Might as well have some traveling music…
“Rip van Winkle was a lucky man:
Rip van Winkle went away,
And slept for twenty happy years
In the mountains, so they say - how lucky!
Rip van Winkle had a lovely sleep,
Deny it if you can:
While his loss they were deploring,
He was in the mountains snoring:
Rip van Winkle was a lucky man!” *
*”Rip van Winkle Was a Lucky Man” (Jean Schwartz - Wm. Jerome [1901])