Carol Emshwiller - Creature

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CREATURE

By Carol Emshwiller

Carol Emshwiller is the author of such novels as Ledoyt, Carmen Dog, and Leaping Man Hill. She is probably

best known for her witty and unusual short stories, collections of which include Joy in Our Cause, Verging on

the Pertinent, and the World Fantasy Award-winner The Start of the End of It All. This lovely new story is

actually a sequel to "Foster Mother," which ran in our [F&SF's] February issue this year [2001]. If it doesn't

seem at first to be a follow, up, ask yourself: how easy would it be to identify the gender of a dinosaur?

THIS CREATURE LOOKS more scared than I am. Come knocking...pawing.., scratching at my door. Come,

maybe in search of me (I'm easy prey for the weak and scared and hungry), or maybe in search of help and

shelter .... (I'm peering out my window, hoping it won't see me.) It's been snowing -- seems like three or four

days now. The first really bad weather of the year so far.

It looks so draggled and cold. ... I open the door. I welcome it. I say, "Hello new and dangerous friend." My

door's a normal size, but too small for it. It pushes and groans and squeezes itself in. Then collapses on the

floor in my one and only room, its big green head facing the stove. It take., up all the space and makes

puddles.

There's a tag stapled in its ear -- rather tattered (both ear and tag), green (both ear and tag), with a number so

faded I can hardly make it out. It might be zero seven. Strange that it has ears at all considering what it

(mostly) looks like. But they're small -- tiny vestigial...no, the opposite, evolving ears. They look as if made

purely as place to put a tag.

It's wearing a large handmade camouflage vest with lots of pockets. Now, while it's still out of breath and

collapsed, I check for weapons, though with those claws, why would it need any? What it has is old dried

crumbs of pennyroyal, left over from some warmer season and some higher mountain, a few interesting

stones, one streaked green with copper and one that glitters with fool's gold, two books, one of poetry (100

Best Loved Poems) and one on plants of the area. Both well worn. A creature of my own heart. Perhaps.

It looks half starved -- more than half. I have broth. I help it raise its heavy head. It sips, nods as if in thanks,

but then shows its teeth, blinks its glittery eyes. I jump back. Try to, that is, but I bump into my table. There's

no room with it in here. It shakes its head, no, no, no. Seems to say it. "Mmmnno."

But how can such a creature talk at all with such a mouth? But then come words, or parts of words. "Thang...

kh... mmmyou... kind. Kindly. Thang you." Then it seems to faint, or collapses, or sleeps -- instantly snow

melting from its eyelashes (it has eyelashes) and rolling off its back, icy mud drying between its claws. The

tiny arms look as if made for nothing but hugging.

While it seems in such an exhausted sleep, or maybe passed out, I take pliers and carefully remove the

staple that holds the zero seven ear tag. I notice several claw marks along its back and it's lost a large chunk

off the end of its tail.

Now where in the world did this thing come from?

I've heard tales. I thought they were the usual nonsense...like sasquatch, yeti, and so forth, abominable this

or that. (And here, for sure, the most abominable of all.) But I've heard tales of secret weapons, too. I've heard

there are creatures made specifically to patrol this empty border land. Supposed to be indestructible in so far

as a living breathing creature can ever be. Supposed to attack everything that moves in this no-man's-land

where nothing is supposed to be but another of its own kind.

I'd probably help even a suffering weapon, I probably wouldn't be able to keep myself from it, but this one

seems odd for a weapon, too polite, and with vest pockets full of dried bits of flowers, that book of poetry ....

I drink the rest of the broth myself and stare at the creature for a while. No sense in trying to mop up with this

thing in the way and still dripping. I can't even get across the room without leaning against a wall or climbing

over my chair or cot. I step over its legs. I squinch over to my front door. I take my jacket. I'm not worried

about leaving the thing alone. It doesn't seem the sort to do any harm -- unless by mistake.

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