The Wish Belly: Part XXI
Photo courtesy of Shane Kimberlin
June 15, 2023
By Shane Kimberlin
The Wish Belly is an original fiction serial. If you missed prior installments, you can catch up at the links below.
I woke up. Stared up at a high, rocky ceiling. Leo was still in my arms. The cave lay just as it was. Empty and quiet. The hole from where we fell still hung about in sight. It was so high up that what little light it emanated looked like a star.
“Yo,” I said to Leo. He awoke instantly.
I scratched my right leg. My back felt warm.
“We’re back,” said Leo, and hopped off me. He stretched the way all cats do, like a metal spring pulled by invisible hands with elegant grace.
“What was that?” I said. Leo shook his head.
“I don’t know. Hell? Maybe it was hell.”
“That thing.”
“A machine,” said Leo. “What?”
“It was a machine.” “How do you know that?” “Bolts. The way it moved. Made of metal. And it didn’t feel alive.”
“Didn’t feel alive?”
“No,” said Leo, “it felt dead but possessed, like a puppet. Hmm. Did you notice the hole above us?”
“That’s where we fell.”
“It isn’t covered,” Leo shuddered, “It feels strange in here, no? And look at the tree there.”
The painting of the tree stood embossed on the wall. I picked myself up from the ground, wiped away the dirt, and walked over close to the hollow of the tree. There was nothing now.
“Hoshi,” I called, expecting the mask to pop up like a puppet, like it did before. That white, eerie face. But nothing arrived. What was once an endless hole was now a small indentation. I ran my hand across and felt bumps like sandpaper and nothing more.
I sat down with the cat.
“Odd,” said the cat, “the head is gone.”
“You saw it, didn’t you?”
“Are you making a joke?” said Leo, “Yes, I was there. Hoshi must be sleeping.”
“Sleeping?”
“Or away for a while.” “How could he be away?” “Why not? A talking mask. Anything possible.”
I suddenly felt very tired. “Say,” I said, “did you have a dream or anything when we crossed through the wall back there.”
Leo laughed. “A nightmare.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” said Leo, “terrible. One of those creatures. Maybe. Talking to me.”
“What did it say?”
Leo paused for a moment. “I don’t remember. Garbled.”
With nothing to say, I looked around the cave, shrugged, and began to walk to the shore.
“Guess we should wait for the boatman.”
We both sat on the small beach of the cave and looked out at the still water, waiting. There was no movement of the lake, and I doubted there was anything alive underneath the surface.
My phone, surprisingly, had service. There were no new messages, either from Annie’s work or mine. I didn’t have social media; I was never a social person, nor did I have any reason to share parts of my life with other people. None of it, besides this situation, would be terribly interesting to anyone besides me. Being a regular Joe like myself carries with it the freedom of low expectations, of not expecting anyone to care, and being happy about that fact.
Maybe I could read. But I didn’t want to read the news; there was enough news in my life as it was. No, a game. Something fun. Solitaire.
It took me until I was thirty years old to realize why “solitaire” was called “solitaire.” Because it is a solitary game. I’ve always enjoyed solitaire through electronic means; it is a pastime perfect for smartphones, game consoles, and computers. You can play whenever and never have to clean up a card. It doesn’t require fancy graphics or even a good controller. Click, tap, and touch.
I played round and round while Leo licked his paws.
“What are you playing?” said Leo.
“Solitaire.”
“Oh,” said Leo, “I love solitaire.”
I laughed.
“How can you love solitaire? You’re a cat.”
“Cats can love all sorts of games”
“How can that be?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
I didn’t want to press further.
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “Tell me, cat is already out of the bag,” Leo smiled.
“Well, how can you like solitaire,” I chose my words carefully, “if you don’t have...opposable thumbs?” Leo laughed long and hard.
“Good point,” he said, “you can play it on the computer with mouse. Cats love mouse, eh?” I laughed.
“Sometimes I wish I could use real cards,” said Leo, “but then I bet real money you wish you could lick your hands to clean them without judgment.”
Round after round I played the game. The cave was quiet. The tinny sound effects of the cards from my phone speaker- shuffling, moving, flipping- echoed out through the cave like a small radio transmission from a distant satellite. I wondered how many people had played games in this cave and how old the cave was altogether. How long had the painting of the cherry tree been connected? And what about those symbols on the map?
The photo. I remembered, suddenly, that I took a photo. I went to my phone’s photo gallery and clicked the photo.
“Huh.” I said.
“What?”
The photo did not show a map or anything identifiable at all. Instead, it was many different blocks of colors in no identifiable pattern.
“I took a photo of that strange map,” I said, “when we were back...there...and nothing came out of it. It’s just a jumbled mess of different colors.”
“Strange.”
“It looks like nonsense. Do you remember anything about the lines? Where did they lead in the map?”
Leo shook his head.
“I tried to take a photo with my eyes, yes, but was more worried about getting out of there. Looked like a subway map. Or something.”
Another lead gone.
We didn’t say anything for a long time. I sat puzzled and confused. Leo just stared out.
“Wait,” said Leo.
“What? Do you remember something?”
“No,” said Leo, ”the water. It’s moving.”
Sure enough, the water was pushing forward.
“Do you hear that?”
A low quiet rumble of an engine crept into our listening shore. I peered out through the water in the cave and glimpsed something new: a small white light, growing larger in tandem with the sound of the motor. The boat- a small metal skiff- came into view.
Steering the skiff was a hunched-over man.
As I adjusted my eyes and he drove closer, I got a better view of the man.
He wore a great long coat with many pockets and a hunter’s cap. He had patchy rubber boots, discolored and worn beyond measure. A small yellow wire trailed up from his right coat pocket into a headphone in his ear. His face- all of it- was hairy. His eyes lacked any white, all black looking out. A prominent brow was curved into a curious expression. He grunted. His giant, hairy right hand scratched his wide side.
He was not a man at all but a large gorilla.
The boat stopped at the shore.
“Ahoy,” he growled from the bow, “ya here for a ride?”
Wish Belly Installments: