Now the newborns separate from the herd and descend upon their green planet. Its surface is rock and crystal, its caves lead into underground tunnels. Shtoma worms—the size of a human child, fat and eyeless and pink as boiled pig skin—flee into these tunnels as the tribe’s children chase after them. A storm gathers within seconds above the planet, blue and red lightning bites into its rock, the surface cracks and reveals the worms slithering underground. Hanu? lands on a worm and plunges his legs into its back. He tears through the worm’s skin and the white insides, thick and pasty like lard, spill upwards. The storm cannot be heard, and yet the wind rages on the planet’s surface, sweeps away the emptied membranes that used to be Shtoma. The Elders hum the melody of a celebration song, the storm weakens, the overfed children slowly retreat into their caves to digest. Hanu? opens his memory without limit—I become him. In this moment, as hair begins to grow on his body and for the first time he knows the gift of food, he is absolutely certain. About the universe, all of its secrets, about his place within the tribe, about his laws. I am unable to comprehend the happiness that comes with his certainty. All is as it should be until the Gorompeds of Death arrive, whether tomorrow or in two million years.
Satiated and knowing, young Hanu? rests. Not yet aware of the last secret of the universe kept from his tribe: humans, their Earth, and the horror of their fears.
I wish I could’ve been there, Hanu?. To hunt with you in the storm, to know your siblings.
Lenka and I leave the bridge, pick up boiled chestnuts and grog from a vendor cart, and sit in Old Town Square, waiting for the Orloj clock to ring in the hour as awestruck tourists gather with digital cameras in hand. I feel drowsy in the warmth, and the sweet scent of chestnuts lingers around Lenka’s lips. I kiss her, tangle my fingers in her beautifully frizzed hair, pull. She bites down on my lip.
The Orloj rings, and the Procession of the Apostles begins—the wooden figurines appear one after another in the window above the clock: Paul with a sword and a book, Matthew with an ax, the rest of the gang holding either weapons or symbols of wisdom. Fixed statues that are not part of the processional permanently stare visitors down from around the clock: Death ringing a bell, a Turk shaking his head at the infidel apostles, a Miser holding his bag of gold, and Vanity looking at himself in a mirror. The clock itself shows the position of the moon and the sun, along with the rotations of the stars. Is it art, or a piece of magnificent engineering, or a tourist trap? It’s as if the Orloj can’t decide and thus takes on the identity of all. Children squeak as the mechanical rooster crows, and the show ends with the Turk again shaking his head in disbelief at this Christian nonsense.
Lenka finishes her beer and stands up. She takes my hand and guides me through the background noise of the dispersing crowd. We approach the Orloj entrance, tug on the heavy wooden door. The attendant booth is empty, with a scribbled note stuck to the glass: Lunch break. We walk up the narrow stairwell, Lenka stumbling a bit, overpowered by warmth and alcohol. The last time I was inside the Orloj was on a school field trip, and elderly guards stood in corners to supervise the nation’s monument. Now the corners are empty—perhaps the dust and the musky smell of stale ocean so prevalent in any abandoned place swallowed them whole, or they simply died and no youths wanted to replace them, though government cuts are the likelier reason for their absence.
Lenka climbs the ladder leading to the restricted upper levels, tugs on my shirt collar when I hesitate. I follow, listening to the creak of gears, the genius design that Master Hanu? lost his eyesight for. This is the oldest working astronomical clock on the planet, yet who has need of its services? Satellites photograph the planets, the sun, the stars, the moons, Cosmic Depths Beyond Comprehension with drone-like precision; lone rovers scout the surfaces of other planets, performing alchemy within their bellies; any human can spend nights zooming above virtual continents with Google Earth. How much longer can the Orloj captivate the attention of tourists with its mystery and puppet show, how long can its entertainment value, its appeal to the retro-fetishism of the human mind, overshadow its tragic impracticality? Lenka and I reach the apostle room, where the wooden guardians rest, lined up in a circle and queued for their next show. She sits inside the window nook, dangerously close to Saint Andrew and his large wooden cross. She pulls on my chest hair and bites into my neck, and I collapse to my knees and bury my nose, eyes, chin in her underwear, rip them off and fling them across the room.
This is what we need, pleasure, abandon, not scheduled mating, not calendars and tests and doctors asking about our “sex angles.” My scalp burns from her nails digging into my skull. This is the pain we’ve been looking for. My jaw is numb, I cannot breathe, and I decide that this is how I would like to die someday, smothered in her lap, her body trembling with lust under my fingertips. Lenka pulls me up and unbuttons my jeans, encourages me with whispered begging, and in our fury we stumble to the side and bump into poor Saint Andrew. With the cross still tightly clutched to his chest, the apostle plummets from his grid, and after he crashes to the stone ground, his head rolls off into the distance. Andrew has withstood centuries featuring the Black Death, the Crusades, two world wars, termite assaults, communism, capitalism, and reality television, but he is no match for two clumsy lovers. But as Lenka spreads my cum over her inner thigh, an act of rebellion against the purpose of the cloudy substance, I do not grieve for having defaced a national treasure. We’ve made our mark on history, done what no woman or man has done before, proved that we are here to live before death, and to have a bit of fun while doing so.
They killed them all, skinny human. If I do not show you, there will be no witness left. They came to eradicate us. This is the Gorompeds’ only purpose. Our destruction.