“Hey, Bridge?” Dom calls. One thing’s off of their voice, like perhaps they did discover a rattling corpse in any case.
“Is it sentient mould?” She heads again to the kitchen. Dom has taken off the masks and is sporting their greatest what-the-hell-is-this-shit face, which, to be honest, they use very often. Within the sink, a number of lately decontaminated Tupperware containers are piled up. One is laid out on the desk, though even from right here, Bridge can inform these tomato stains on the aspect are by no means popping out. Like blood, she thinks, however in fact it’s not. It’s her mother’s ratatouille. Zucchini and eggplant and onion and vegan chorizo and a shit-ton of tomato and garlic. Her favourite when she was a child.
There’s one thing inside it. You may see the form by the stained plastic, and it’s someway off. In regards to the dimension of an avocado, however saggy, malformed. Acquainted. Foreboding.
“What’s it?” she says.
“Fucked if I do know. It was buried below the leftovers, emerged like historical anthrax from the melting permafrost.” “Frozen property,” Bridge says, realizing. How cryptic, how pointless, how freaking typical of her mother. A breeze by the damaged window tugs on the candle flame, wafting vanilla and unease throughout the room.
Dom comes to face beside her, rubber gloves drip-drip-dripping soiled dishwater onto the ground. Bridge’s fingers attain for the lid though she doesn’t need to open it, would actually a lot quite do all of the paper sorting on the planet proper now, cope with all of the accounts in arrears.
She lifts away the lid. No ceremony. Get it over with. Reveals a lumpen yarn-y cocoon. It’s grayish yellow, bulbous, and striated, like a spindle wrapped in rotting elastic bands.
Dom leans over her shoulder. “Some type of disgusting German delicacy? Schmorgenborst?”
However Bridge is aware of. She acknowledges it. From a lifetime in the past. From a witch girl in New Orleans. From sitting on the mattress in her room whereas Daddy was at work and her mother strummed dreamy chords on that sitar, they usually watched the spinning toy, round and round, and Jo kissed the highest of her head and stated, Don’t neglect to return house.
She’d forgotten. Willfully repressed it, burned by the reminiscence, curled black edges across the gap. Didn’t need to cope with the implications. Which she is reeling away from now, thanks. A fantasy. Make-believe.
“What’s it?” Dom says once more.
“The dreamworm,” Bridge says and eases her fingers beneath the finely sure mesh of the carapace. It’s brittle and someway heat, and a strand comes proper off in her hand, as simple as if it belonged there — and perhaps it does. Gold within the mild, not moldy yellow. That is additionally acquainted.
“Am I alleged to know what that’s?” Dom asks.
“It opens doorways to different worlds.” And earlier than she will give it some thought, earlier than Dom can cease her, Bridge places the strand in her mouth — child fowl — and swallows it complete.
Extract taken from Bridge by Lauren Beukes (Michael Joseph, out now), the newest decide for the New Scientist Guide Membership. Join and skim together with us right here