The insect that looks like a flower. For millennia it pretended to be a specific type of flower, lived on this flower, and awaited its prey—aphids that harmed the plant but fed the insect—and thanks to its resemblance to the flower, the insect could hide from predators. They had a symbiotic relationship. Sometimes other insects, mistaking this one for a flower, tried to collect pollen from it. It would menacingly snap its mandible and the other insects would retreat, moving over to the neighboring flower. The insect didn’t know, but guessed, that other insects helped the flower, helped it multiply and produce offspring, which would shelter the insect’s offspring. Then the plant died, went extinct, plagued at the roots by some sort of bacteria, which the plant sucked up out of the soil and to which it failed to produce an antidote. The insect became homeless. Somehow it managed to survive, though it could no longer defend itself by posing as a plant. The insect’s strange, ornate form no longer had a justification anymore and, apparently, now only existed for beauty. Is it possible that predators, birds, and small animals, upon seeing such a strange and incongruous thing, were simply puzzled and couldn’t decide what was in front of them—a plant, an insect, an inanimate object? Birds and beasts don’t like strange, unfamiliar things: for all they know, they could be poisonous. They know who their prey is from birth and are used to their familiar forms. But this ridiculous little thing didn’t look like anything. The people who first discovered and described this insect were puzzled as to why it was so strange, why it didn’t conceivably look like anything. But this was two centuries ago, and at that point some people tried to use this insect as proof of God’s existence—they thought only an omnipotent god could create something with no purpose, no function, no natural habitat, something that exists simply for beauty’s sake, because it pleases the Lord to create and behold beautiful things.
The gods who were out of their minds
Their gods were out of their minds. There were lots of them and they spent most of their time figuring out their relationships with each other and, although they created people, they were completely uninterested in the fate of humanity. In one creation myth, humans came from the gods’ dandruff. Still, there was a whole litany of rituals in which people honored the gods with meaningful offerings, but not to appease or obtain anything from them: the people in this tribe were intelligent enough to notice that the gods didn’t react at all to these gifts, that they sent blessings and afflictions regardless of whether or not they were worshipped. Doctor R. spent a long time trying to understand why on earth people performed rituals and set aside a substantial portion of their meager wealth to feed indifferent gods, and the people said: to share food with the gods is to have a hand in their higher world. A person who shares with a god is a kind of god, that’s why we perform sacrifices. Although, if the gods notice someone who thinks too much of himself and dares posture as an actual god . . . woe unto him: the gods will compete viciously to send him his share of hardships, until they grind him into dust completely; others start dissociating from people like this so they don’t suffer the same fate. That’s how it was with the gods. On their end, people wondered how things stood between the gods and the community, to which Doctor R. belonged. The doctor’s answer was evasive: he had encountered the divine only a few times and every time he had been under the influence of some sort of chemical agent, which is why he couldn’t vouch for the accuracy of his account. One time, for instance, an object appeared to him, which was simultaneously very big and vanishingly small, inordinately heavy and very light, and he knew that this object was probably a god, but he didn’t know what to do with this knowledge, and he didn’t tell anyone about it until here and now with these people. They started laughing and said: that’s a small, weak god, we don’t worship him that much, maybe once a year we bring him a yam and some peanuts.
Mushroom people
They’re kind of like mushrooms. We seem to be dealing with discrete organisms, each with its own individual facial features, its own personal preferences, and its own story. But, because they’re connected by a strong network of telepathic links, in effect they consider themselves to be a single individual. It’s hard to wrap one’s mind around: at any moment they can access their collective memory and remember anything that’s happened from a totally different point of view, even from one a thousand kilometers away. They rarely go that far from home, though: they prefer to keep to their group. They’re not so crowded as to disturb the homeostasis. Thanks to their collective memory, they don’t really need physical interactions. Some of them live in little groups, kind of like families. Although their relationships aren’t like those found in human or animal families—yet another trait that links these creatures to mushrooms. Offspring are produced only by the very old, those, as they say, whose hourglass is running out of sand. Though it’s not sand that’s falling, but their personal spores. When an elder is on its deathbed, it starts sprouting spores. It’s an unusual and rather repulsive sight. And so, while both dying and bringing forth offspring, the elders go to a secluded place. To the extent that death is inseparably tied to birth among them, the rituals are one and the same: they don’t express joy or sadness, but they allow themselves a certain solemnity, changing their scales from iridescent-rainbow to an austere tone. Besides, there’s nothing to be sad about—the collective memory preserves every individual as if it had never gone anywhere, as if for some reason it were just located outside the access zone. They don’t have men or women. Ultimately, anyone who lives to old age will release spores. They raise all their young together, which is natural, since the parent is already dead and can’t take care of anybody. They have a small range of emotions: a nurturing attitude towards the young, a cold and estranged one towards adults, and paranoid fear upon meeting outsiders. Besides “mushroom people,” other intelligent species used to live here, but the “mushroom people” vanquished them thanks to their telepathic powers and also because, since they identified as a single intelligent being, they turned out to be extraordinary in military matters and had no trouble waylaying, encircling, and destroying outsiders. They did this, it should be noted, without any hatred—they were merely concerned for the security of their territory. They don’t know how to hate—how could a mushroom feel hate? On our third expedition, when we finally managed to establish contact, we asked them why they destroyed the two previous expeditions, and with such icy cruelty, too. The mushroom people just shrugged and said: “Well, for the sake of order.” We were overcome with a feeling of gratitude and absurd euphoria. Before long, however, we realized this was the hallucinogens that the mushroom people make when they sense fear and curiosity—from back when they were prey to their ultimately not very successful competitors. When we talked to them about that, they laughed and said that they would give us a pair of young mushroom people to play with, as long as we didn’t eat them. We were surprised by such an outrageous suggestion: the mushroom people usually destroyed all outsiders ruthlessly, and now they’re offering up their children? But the mushroom people replied that a person or two doesn’t count, the important thing is protecting the collective. We took a little mushroom person to our base and began studying it. The commander strictly forbade us from frightening it, said that we were entrusted with a mission of the greatest importance, talked about our duty to humanity, basically chattered without interruption, but by evening, when they had surrounded us, all of that became completely unimportant.
Some descriptions of local fauna
Around here you can still find these winged creatures that look like dragonflies with razor-sharp mandibles. When they catch sight of prey, they fly up to them, trying to go unnoticed, although their prey have eyes that see from all sides, which is why it’s hard to ambush, catch, or kill them. Having alighted, they sink their teeth into the prey’s skin, injecting them with an agent that dulls pain and induces a happy absentmindedness. They pick apart the prey’s body, eating its flesh piece by piece. One of these creatures won’t cause much harm, but you’ve got to get away from it as fast as possible without succumbing to its drug, because otherwise, high on dragonfly dope, you’ll wander in circles, loopy, and come back all bitten up and totally crazy. And some don’t come back at all.
There are lizards that always hatch as females, but upon reaching maturity they pair off and lay eggs, after which they turn into males.
And then there are lizards who, in contrast to those who can regrow severed tails or hands, can grow a new head, a new head that spits fire. Teenaged lizards get their heads bitten off by an older lizard in order to ensure the transformation. They hunt by stalking their prey and then roasting them with their breath. If their second head gets torn off, though, these lizards die.
In the bays there are creatures—neither plants nor animals—shaped exactly like a human ear. They cling to stones, sunken boats, and sometimes even large fish and they grow there like uncanny flowers awaiting their prey: crustaceans or fry that crawl into this living, ear-shaped shell. Once the victim is inside, a flap slams down and it finds itself trapped in a small chamber, where it will be digested and absorbed. No one knows why these creatures have such a weird shape. They’ve inspired a superstitious fear in locals who go diving for clams. They say, “The sea hears everything. You can’t hide anything from the sea,” and they are wary of plucking these creatures off their dwellings, although they are edible and, in fact, delicious.
There are birds here who can imitate human speech. The locals fear them even more. When you come across this type of bird, it always says something to you, without fail. That’s why most people keep quiet in the woods. They permit themselves to speak in a whisper if they have something very important to say, but profanity is strictly forbidden in the forest. A bird will hear the word and add it to its vocabulary, repeating it not to the person who uttered it, but to outsiders, to strangers. They say, “When you’re going into the woods, leave your tongue at home,” or, instead of “Be quiet,” they say, “Pretend you’re in the woods.”
Also, they say there’s a beast there, one completely covered in tube-shaped quills. It has an elongated proboscis and sharp nails, and if you kill it and slice open its stomach, inside you’ll find a stone that enables you to read people’s and animals’ minds and make them do things. Except so far, no one has caught this beast or even seen it firsthand, either because it uses its stone to sense people coming and hides, or because it never existed at all and the ancients just made it up. But the locals are accustomed to everything and nothing surprises them anymore, so they’ve taken to making things up.
Burial rites
Their burial rights are noteworthy. When someone dies, they wash his body and bring it to a termite nest. It’s an impressive construction that looks like a burial mound, built by insects that are kind of like our ants. They lay the body near the mound and respectfully take their leave. That’s the first part of the rites. After a week or so they come back. By that time, all that’s left at the mound are smooth, flesh-free bones. No need to worry about animals tearing the corpse apart: they pass by the mounds to avoid getting swarmed and stung. And so the cleaned bones are placed in a special box and given to the deceased’s relatives, who are free to bury them at home or in a place of their choosing. That’s the second part. The third part is the most repulsive, from our perspective: the relatives go up to the termite nest and put their hands in it. The insects swarm them and then, ignoring the stinging pain, they eat the insects. Normally it’s forbidden to eat them. Even accidentally stepping on this type of insect isn’t a grievous sin, but still an unpleasant blunder that they try to avoid. Stay in your lane: everyone has places to go, humans and insects alike. Only during burial rights does this prohibition fall away. The relatives of the deceased eagerly eat these insects, feasting on the flesh of the dead person. Afterwards everyone goes home, sated and stung. From that day on, no one mourns the deceased: he’s come home. And if someone disappears without a trace or his body isn’t found, that’s bad: he’ll still be eaten by insects, just not by ones close to the people who eat the insects. How can he come home? He can’t.
The insect pretending to be bird droppings
An insect the size of a hazelnut looks and smells like a small pyramid of bird droppings. It sits there as if it happened to fall from a passing bird. Other birds, fixing their gazes on it, regard it with disdain. Birds, by the way, rarely pay attention to motionless objects. But the little insect has very few reasons to move: it’s waiting. Its whole life is one long, monotonous wait. It doesn’t sleep, though. It’s always at the ready—at any moment a slug could crawl up. Then the insect intensifies its scent. The slug has a fantastic sense of smell, the small insect—a beautifully musical ear. They’re matched against one another in a centuries-long standoff. Finally, up comes the slug, slow and dignified, dragging its elastic body, feeling the air with its stemmed eyes. The slug wants to taste the bird droppings and this wish seals its fate: as soon as it gets close to the anticipated treat, the little insect jumps and latches onto the slug’s scruff. The insect’s goal has been achieved: now it splashes the slug’s back with a special fluid that makes it inert and apathetic. Inert enough to ignore this uninvited passenger, but still aware enough to reconcile itself with the inevitability of its fate and to keep moving. Slowly, the liquid ferments the slug’s flesh, turning it into an excellent meal for the little insect. Now it’s secured food for its entire life and can start thinking about the future. It’s not a bad idea to find a mate and immortalize myself through offspring, it thinks. But this is no reason to abandon its post: if you leave a slug without a rider, it might lose its languidness and make off in a hurry while it has the chance, as fast as a slug can. The little insect has to think up a plan. It discharges another agent into the slug’s flesh that induces overpowering hunger. The slug livens up and starts frantically looking for food. It’s not very picky under normal circumstances, but now, like a pregnant woman, it’s craving one thing: another bite of bird shit. It doesn’t have to look very far—there’s another small insect pretending to be a pile of bird droppings. Hopefully it’s a female: then, perched on the back of the poor slug, she will have intercourse with the male, who has reached the end of the line. The female injects the dutiful male with a paralyzing fluid and scrapes him off the back of this mobile kitchen, which will stand at her command and serve her offspring, who will grow here, feeding off the body of the slug, who has become accustomed to anything, and merely continues to move around the area, zonked out, having lost its meaning and purpose, obeying the will of fate. It doesn’t feel anything, except, perhaps, an indistinct stirring and a faint bewilderment. But woe unto the insect if the second one turns out to be male. That will trigger a battle to the death. Every male wants a slug carcass for himself, and this second one forgets the anesthesia, focused on one thing: destroying the other, enticing him away from that territory that every insect considers his. The slug isn’t up to philosophizing: tortured by the battle unfolding on its back, it writhes, thrashes, tries to twist around and buck off the fighters. But their hind legs are equipped with special hooks that firmly dig into the slug’s body and don’t let it leave. Watching all this happen is certainly very strange: two piles of bird droppings battling to the death. It’s not uncommon for this fight between landlords to end when a bird, attracted by the fuss, descends and picks off both the slug and the insects.
Guards at the Lord’s tomb
He stared at these creatures: instead of faces they had wrinkles that made them look like leathery roses. Their joints looked like they were turned inside out, which allowed them to move with unbelievable flexibility. Their skin was pale, almost transparent, with blue veins moving and pulsing beneath it. They surrounded him, not getting too close, and nervously smelled the air, trying to determine the shape of the object before them. Later, as if feeling relieved on his account, they exchanged brief nods and left.
“Look, they decided we’re not a threat,” said Z. encouragingly. “They’re good at sensing human emotion. You can get closer.”
K. cautiously glanced at the creatures. He felt ill at ease. The creatures seemed to notice his fear, consider, and find him acceptable.
“They’re everywhere,” said Z., anticipating his question, “You’ll always be under their watchful eye, although they can’t see you in a literal sense.”
“Why not?” asked K.
“Well, to tell you the truth, earlier we gave them sight. But they quickly became depressed. Their appearance, no matter what you say, is pretty disgusting. This way, they simultaneously inspire fear and are incapable of experiencing it. Ideal guards of the tomb.
K. shivered. He wanted to go back, although that would be shameful.
“You can be completely sure of your safety here, though,” Z. reassured him. “Maybe you’ll even make friends with one of them. Although I wouldn’t recommend it. They’re horribly arrogant beasts, despite having pussies for faces.” Z. chuckled, “Here, apparently, people tolerate the Guards at the Tomb as the lesser evil.”
To eat your own flesh
They exhibited a capacity for regeneration like many terrestrial reptiles, and another capacity that’s not entirely terrestrial. During especially long winters, when their reserves were dwindling, they cast off their extremities and used them to feed the young and the sick. They would set up a stockpile of communal food or present their limbs to elders as a sign of respect. In the spring everything grew back just the same as before, so no one was especially bothered by the whole thing. When you’ve got so many feet, you don’t really notice one missing. But no one, not even the ravenous, ever ate their own flesh. That was considered strange, obscene even. They could perform a ritual exchange through a binding agreement, even when the goods weren’t needed. In olden times this was encouraged, but nowadays even that was considered a remnant of a barbaric time, though there were still quite a few supporters of ancient customs. But eating yourself—that had already drifted beyond the limits of their awareness. In fact, in their language the phrase “to go crazy” could be literally translated as “to eat your own flesh.” When we first made contact, they didn’t suspect anything right away. It didn’t even cross their minds. They considered us reasonable beings and, what’s more, considered themselves reasonable, too. After all, they were in their right minds. No one was, as it were, eating their own flesh.
