The Caves of Gwaehr

By

Mary Fallon Fleming

Book excerpt

      The Skhyiorllahrians sat at a table together, a long table

that was reserved for them every night, right next to the

fireplace. They had a particular fondness for places that were

warm, and so there was always, as a matter of courtesy, a table

for them next to the fireplace in every tavern in the city of

Klairsteschallor. There they sat, the band of them, totally

unified now that they had completed their journey. As a race they

were nearly immortal. Almost nothing could kill them, outside of

old age. Their tissues, so exquisitely sensitive, could

reduplicate themselves over and over again, even the most

specialized organs like the kidneys and eyes. The loss of an arm

or a leg was nothing to them, for their bodies replaced them in a

matter of weeks. A train wreck was but a setback to them, the

liquefaction of infection merely slowed them down. They were full

of passions, fiercely loyal and humorous and bad tempered by turns. Their

excitement always led them into violence from which they were

doomed to emerge, broken and bleeding, only to heal themselves

and be whole once more. They were a riotous lot, but to their

adopted communities of Gwaehr their commitment was total. 

      Their clothing glittered with glass pentagrams and threads

of satin in the firelight. They were drunk, all of them, and

shamefully so. Their table rattled with boisterous laughter and

raucous good cheer. At the head of their table sat the latest

hero among them, a fellow who had managed to amputate his leg in

a nasty explosion in the diamond mines. He had it propped in

front of him now on a three-legged stool, bandaged in the finest

bleached linen. It throbbed and tingled and twitched as its

oozing fleshes migrated into the nescient limb bud.

      With steins held high they toasted themselves loudly and

gladly for the deeds they had accomplished on this day. They had

done well, yes, they had brought a ransom of wealth into the

coffers of Klairsteschallor. In the middle of their merry making

the man at the head of their table called for a brief silence in

fond memory of a humanoid, a Clatheagorian, who had lost his life

in the big explosion. All heads were bowed, not a sound was

uttered among them. What a pity that he had been so frail, his

tissues disorganized forever into clots, desiccating mirthlessly

into clay. The firelight gleamed red and gold and green,

sparkling on the beringed fingers of the folded hands.  There was

a pause among them, a momentary silence, and a vapor of empathy

rose from their exuberant Skhyiorllahrian persons to bid the poor

unfortunate farewell.