Small Monsters Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  Tom Doherty Associates ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  The small monster, whelped, slipped out of its caul and onto the pebbly floor of the den.

  Its emerald scales flexed. Its soft tail swept the earth. The small monster stretched out its new limbs, shuddering. It smelled raw white roots and mud and dried ichor.

  The den was an egg-shaped void under a hill. A roof of rocks and matted roots hid the small soft monster and its parent from the moon’s white gaze.

  The small monster unstuck each gluey eye and saw the ruby scales of its parent, whose side heaved with long and labored breaths. The birthing of monsters is hungry work, a labor of a week or more. And as the small monster looked upon the world, still damp from birth, its parent lowered its great golden beak and bit off a tender limb.

  Humming with relief and satisfaction, the parent shifted its gleaming bulk to the rear of the den and settled down to sleep.

  The small monster bled, and bled, and wailed.

  * * *

  Like gecko tails and starfish arms, the small monster’s lost limb scabbed, healed, and regrew. Its parent left the den and returned with bloodied lumps of deer, bear, rabbit, and hawk. Over time, the small monster sprouted two rows of serried teeth; six hard, ridged horns; and stubby claws.

  Occasionally the gold-beaked monster did not return to the den for days, finally dragging in a much-mauled haunch of deer.

  Sometimes it returned without anything at all.

  Those mornings, when the small monster felt its parent’s footfalls through the packed earth, it fled cowering to the steep curved back of the den, though that was of course no hiding place at all. And by noon the small monster would be diminished by a leg or a tail or a bite from its side, too wise and afraid now, as its parent slept, to make a sound.

  Though beak, fang, and claw speak more directly, monsters have their own harsh and sibilant language. Now and then the parent spoke, either to itself or in challenge to another monster whose shadow crossed the mouth of the den, and syllable by hiss, the small monster learned.

  One morning, after they had devoured the remnants of a mountain lion, the small monster spoke.

  Why do you eat me? it said.

  Its parent lolled onto one side, spines bristling. Gobbets of meat warmed its belly and weighed it down, and it felt pleasant toward the world and its whelp. Because I am hungry.

  But why not eat—the small monster took a breath—your own leg?

  Silly. I am your parent. I birthed you. You are mine.

  But it hurts.

  It grows back.

  And neither said a word more.

  * * *

  In time the parent waxed gibbous like the moon, growing too ponderous to hunt. It tore off and ate all four of the small monster’s limbs over the course of a week, writhing and hissing as it did so, without the slightest sign of enjoyment.

  At the end of the week, another, smaller monster was expelled in a pool of foul-smelling birth fluid, and the den rang with three cries of pain, snappishness, and distress.

  After that, the small monster learned the trick of being farthest from the den’s entrance when their parent returned unfed. It was not as helpless as the smallest monster, and so on most occasions, apart from ill-timed naps, the matter was decided in the small monster’s favor.

  The snapping, crunching, and sobbing were terrible to hear. The small monster quickly learned not to listen.

  * * *

  While its parent hunted, the small monster played. In the evenings, starlight washed the opening of the den. The small monster rushed up to the brink of a world that smelled like wilderness and pine forest, from which the small and smallest monsters were both forbidden, then backed away.

  When can I go out? the small monster had asked.

  Never, came the reply. You will remain here always. With me.

  While it was not brave enough to disobey, the small monster was clever enough to consider one claw within the den a perfect observance of the law.

  Now a damp wind blew over the small monster, smelling of blackberries and yellow-pored boletes. Night birds hooted and sawed in the trees. Deep in the den, the smallest monster whimpered in its sleep.

  Something slunk, lithe and stealthy, through the red-berried brush. It sounded larger than the foxes the small monster had seen, less twitchy than the rabbits the foxes hunted. The unseen thing paced back and forth, whuffing, and the small monster went as still as stone.

  It was too late. A step, a spring, and then three slitted yellow eyes looked down upon the small monster.

  Where the gold-beaked monster was clad in ruby scales, this monster was all tawny, wiry fur.

  Poor thing, it said. Who ate your leg?

  For the small monster had been unlucky not long ago, though the stump had scabbed.

  Parent, said the small monster. But it grows back.

  I remember being small, the tawny thing said. Every month the tearing teeth.

  Every week, the small monster said.

  If you came with me, the tawny thing said, I would not bite you more than once a month. And only if I had to.

  This sounded like heaven to the small monster. It quivered its horns and clattered its scales. Then it paused.

  I can’t run as fast as you, it said. With only three legs.

  No matter, the tawny thing said, lowering its head. It mouthed the small monster like a cat with a kitten. Then it tensed its muscles and bounded into the forest.

  Its great paws struck the earth with such force that the small monster’s teeth clicked against each other. Trees rushed past them, dark and blurred.

  By the time they stopped, the stars had dimmed and sunk into dawn. The forest was gone, and the world smelled new. They were a long way from the den beneath the hill where the smallest monster waited alone.

  The tawny thing had scented something; its three yellow eyes grew black and wide. It dropped the small monster and hove into the wheatfields shivering around them, the long stalks pale under the rosy sky.

  From the far side of the field came a stifled shout.

  A few minutes later, the wheat parted, and the tawny thing dragged out the body of a man. His throat was open, wet, and red. His old, patched clothes ripped easily.

  They ate, the steam from the man’s entrails wreathing them. The small monster gnawed on knuckles and spat out the little finger bones. The tawny thing crunched the femurs for their marrow. They licked themselves clean of the sweet blood, then went on.

  Around them, plains billowed and shook loose their folds of gold. The tawny thing and the small monster did not converse. Their pace was leisurely at first, while the small monster hopped and hobbled on the three legs. The tawny thing often carried it. After its fourth leg budde
d and regrew, though the limb was soft and tender for a time, the small monster kept up as well as it could.

  The tawny thing was swift and lethal, and for a long time, as the moon filled and emptied and filled, the small monster kept all its limbs, and ate well. It learned to catch crickets while the tawny thing hunted.

  Then one too many deer slipped the tawny thing’s jaws. It did not particularly matter why. An old injury in one whip-muscled leg might have flared, or perhaps the canniness of all living beings in autumn had pricked the velvet ears of the deer. Whatever the reason, balked of its prey, the tawny thing bridled and gnashed its teeth. It returned to where the small monster was pouncing at insects.

  When the small monster felt the earth shudder, it leapt up to flee, but too slowly.

  A moment later, it was lying in its own green ichor, keening.

  The tawny thing said, astonished, You are delicious.

  The small monster moaned.

  Bones cracked. Emerald scales dropped like leaves. The tawny thing swallowed what had been the small monster’s foreleg, snuffled, and curled up to sleep.

  You can still walk on three legs, the tawny thing said, yawning. Two of its yellow eyes shut. The third watched the small monster.

  From then on, the tawny thing ate of the small monster regularly, finding itself partial to the taste. For fairness—even the small monster admitted this—it took care to leave the small monster with three legs to walk on, though not always a fine and lashing tail.

  Bit by bite, though, even that changed.

  The tawny thing hunted less frequently. More and more, its three eyes settled upon the small monster, who shrank from the hunger glowing there. Before long the eating was more than monthly.

  There was nothing the small monster could do about it besides weeping and raging as the tawny thing slept. With two legs, it could go no distance at all.

  No good, said a razor bird in the tree above them. It lashed its three barbed tails and craned its neck. Better to eat you all at once. Less moaning. Less waste.

  Is that what you’ll do? the small monster said, baring its teeth through its tears.

  Only if you want, the razor bird said.

  No, thank you, the small monster said.

  Or, if you like, I could carry you away. For one of your legs and your talkative tongue. For you are heavy, the way is long, and my wings will tire.

  You’ll take me to your nest, to feed your own small monsters.

  The razor bird laughed a red, raspy laugh. A good idea! If I had them, I would. But I mean a fair bargain.

  Where would you take me?

  There is a hollow tree in a distant wood where no monsters go, wormy with beetle grubs and wet with rain. I will leave you there. For a leg and a tongue.

  They’re yours, the small monster said, resigned.

  Faster than thought, the razor bird stooped from the tree, and its claws closed on the small monster. The tawny thing slept mumbling on, even as the small monster’s stumps spotted its pelt with ichor.

  Have to do something about that, the razor bird said. It spread its wings wider than any eagle’s, wide enough to blot out the moon.

  They flew north until they reached a glacier-fed lake. There, the razor bird dropped the small monster in. Several times it snatched up and dropped the small monster, until the small monster was half drowned but no longer bleeding.

  There, said the razor bird. Let’s see them track you now.

  Mountains passed beneath them, then rivers and woods. Stars glistened icily above them. A two-tailed comet shone in the sky.

  But the small monster was too cold to notice, hanging mute and miserable from the razor bird’s claws.

  The wild flight ended with an angled descent through the canopy of an old beech wood. They landed upon a bare white snag.

  There, the razor bird said, its crimson eyes bright. Now open your mouth.

  Payment was settled with merciful swiftness. When that was finished, the razor bird lowered the small monster into the snag’s hollow heart, which was barely big enough for its remaining limbs. The wood had gone spongy with insects and rot.

  Mind you, the razor bird said, I am what I am. I know where you are. If I hatch chicks, I’ll look where I stashed you. Don’t hide here too long.

  It flicked its three tails and soared away.

  The snag was far from comfortable. When it rained, the monster licked at the trickles that ran down the wood and drank from the puddle that formed at its feet. For food, it had watery white wriggling grubs. On a day it remembered ever after with pleasure, it caught and ate an incautious squirrel. On that diet more fit for woodpeckers, the small monster’s lost limbs returned with painful slowness. Its plump sides slumped, and its glossy scales dulled. But there were no severing teeth or beaks in the snag, apart from its own.

  Bud by bone, claws and tail and all, the small monster grew into itself again.

  When all its pieces were present, the small monster clambered out of the snag and fell snout-first into the grass.

  When it had warmed itself in the sun awhile, motionless as moss, it caught a vole by surprise and devoured it, as well as the beetle the vole had been nibbling on. Then the razor bird’s parting words came to mind. The small monster shuddered and headed in the direction of the snag’s shadow. It snapped at grasshoppers as it went.

  Now and then the small monster crouched behind a tree as something larger snorted and shuffled in the brush. Once, it froze under a whorl of ferns as the three-tailed shadow of a bird passed over. The small monster liked its legs and tail, and it wanted no more of monstrous bargains.

  As it scrambled and slid down a slope of scree, the small monster chanced upon a gashed and broken thing. Deep gouges in its side showed the white of bone. Its pointed snout lolled in a pool of gore.

  One scratched silver eye opened.

  Please, the rat-nosed thing said. Come closer.

  The small monster sat back on its haunches and sized up the battered bulk of the thing. Among the feathery grasses at the bottom of the slope, it caught a speckled frog, which it brought back and dropped near—but not too near—the creature’s snout.

  The rat-nosed thing licked up the frog and swallowed it, then shut its eyes. Its breathing was shallow.

  In the meadows around them, the small monster searched for slithering, skittering creatures, garter snakes and earthworms, thrush eggs and wrens, to feed both itself and the broken monster.

  Time trickled past, and the wounds on the rat-nosed thing scabbed. Its scarred eyes followed the small monster.

  One day, as the small monster left a lizard by its snout, the rat-nosed thing lunged.

  Why? the small monster cried, scrabbling backward, bleeding.

  The rat-nosed thing made wet, happy noises. Better than worms and slugs and grubs.

  Flinching with pain, the small monster fled. Behind it, claws scraped stone as the rat-nosed thing stood. It snuffed the ground and chuckled like boulders breaking. At this, the small monster turned and saw that its own dribbling ichor had painted a path.

  Down that path, snout to earth, the rat-nosed thing hunted.

  The small monster lashed its tail. Though the wound in its side was a white-hot knife, it scaled the nearest fir and crept out upon a bough. And as the rat-nosed thing came sniffling beneath, the small monster let go and fell.

  Its claws clamped onto its pursuer’s skull. And as the rat-nosed thing swung its head and shrilled, the small monster bit out one silver eye and slit the jelly of the other. Then it leapt down and tore at the taut, thin skin where the rat-nosed thing’s wounds had barely healed. The small monster scratched until the tender flesh parted and showed again the stark white bones. It bit and squirmed into the rat-nosed thing, crawling inside the warm, plush cage of its ribs.

  The small monster ate what it found there: bitter, bilious, savory, sweet.

  When it had swallowed most of the rat-nosed thing, enough to push apart the ribs and emerge, there was a new shar
pness to its face and a silver tinge to its scales.

  It kicked a scatter of gravel over the raw red bones and prowled on, wary but unafraid.

  A strange scent blew across the small monster’s way, one it had never smelled before, and it turned and went into the wind. Days and nights it chased the scent, through forest and scrub, over salt marsh and fen, until the small monster stood at the edge of the sea.

  Brown waves roared like dragons along the shore. The small monster lowered its head to drink and found that the water was bitter, and burned.

  I see, the small monster said. This is the end of the world.

  It crouched in the surf and stared at the sharp straight limit of the sea.

  After a while, it noticed a little clawed creature beside it, no bigger than one of the small monster’s teeth. Its tiny claws worked upon a shard of sea glass.

  What are you doing? the small monster said.

  Adding to you, the clawed creature said. Not that you aren’t already excellent. But anyone can be improved.

  Several flowery tufts sprouted from the creature’s shell. Every now and then the creature tickled one of them and applied an invisibly slight secretion to the sea glass it was pressing against the small monster’s scale.

  At length it rested, sighing in satisfaction.

  Ah, it said. Art!

  Sorry?

  Do forgive me. What I should ask is: Do you like what I’ve done?

  The small monster studied the addition to its side.

  You disapprove. I can remove it! the clawed creature said. It reached for the shard.

  Don’t.

  Then will you let me add more?

  If that’s what you want, the small monster said.

  The tide whisked in, rolling a fat seal onto the shore. The small monster took a few neat bites, then offered some to the laboring creature.

  In a minute—in a minute—

  By the time the tide whispered out, the small monster had been adorned with six chips of sea glass, blue and brown.

  Now I have earned my supper, the clawed creature declared, extending its pincers to receive a morsel of seal. It ate with sounds of satisfaction. Every so often, it passed a crumb to the tufts on its back, which grasped hungrily at the flecks of food.