The Apocalypse was in town and, rumor had it, was ready to find a wife. Most girls stayed indoors; either betrothed, hoping to be betrothed, or pining after those already betrothed to other parties. A scant few had taken to promenading the streets, hoping to bump into the eligible party in question, to no avail. When the first black cloud had crept across the amber evening sky, I picked a book, settled myself on a first-floor balcony overlooking the street, and waited to see what all the fuss was about. Our house was a three-storey model—not the finest in the street, perhaps, and certainly not as grand as the Bransons’, but my family had lived here comfortably for five generations. I tucked my skirts around my knees and lost myself in the daring adventures of a pirate captain, who loved and discarded suitors as fast as I misplaced handkerchiefs.
Around seven, a small hurricane whirled down the road, picking up pieces of debris on the way and spooking several horses. I closed my book. The storm stopped outside my house and tilted at an angle. Evening. The word crept into my head via my eyes; images of cold, barren moons, followed by pink clouds reflecting from silent waters.
“Good evening—” I caught myself, uncertain what title to use. “Um.”
The wind resolved into a shadowed shape which at least had the correct alignment of body parts for a human, if not the correct number. Allow me to pay you my regards.
“I believe it is customary to exchange names and titles first.”
You may call me—a flash of armored legs crawling forward over deep trenches where the wounded lay screaming. The bottom of the ocean, black-blue weight pressing down on all sides, flooding my mouth. A red sky streaked with dying stars, each bursting into amber brilliance.
“I am not sure I can pronounce such a name, my lor— my lad— my, um,” I steadied myself. “I daresay I should like to make a new acquaintance.”
Acquaintance. The word was accompanied by the sound of the moon rotating, vast and pure, ascending from the pianoforte scale into the heavens. Not an unpleasant noise, once one got a steady handhold on infinite grandeur. Yes. This is acceptable. And how shall I refer to you?
“Teresina, third of her name.”
Four hundred and twenty-seventh of her name, more precisely. At least, in this world.
I smiled. Folded my hands in my lap. “I’m sure you’re right. But in my particular world and in my particular family, I am but third.”
Teresina. A reaper of harvests. A gatherer of what has been sown. The shape advanced until it was directly below my balcony. I craned my neck to keep it in view.
Your red hair is very beautiful. I reached for a stray curl and tucked it back out of the way. Before I could do more than blush, the Apocalypse added, May I call upon you tomorrow?
“You may indeed.” I answered too quickly, without the expected performative coyness and pretense. If the Apocalypse noticed, it did not seem to mind.
Until then, adieu. The shape drifted apart, the debris spinning until it once more resembled a small hurricane, and made its way down the street and out of sight.
“The Apocalypse will be by today to take me out.” I kept my tone light and airy, as if I were discussing a new dress and not a suitor whose gusts had kept me up all night.
“Why, darling, that’s wonderful!” my father exclaimed, sloshing tea over the breakfast table. “Do remember to wear a hat.”
My mother lowered her newspaper. “How much does it earn per year? Ten thousand? Fifteen?”
“I do not know, Mother. One cannot simply ask a new acquaintance straightaway how much land and fortune it holds.” I changed tack. “Anyway, does that really matter at the present time? As you surely know, in the end days it is written that the Apocalypse shall ultimately possess all land.”
She squinted at me. “All land, you say? Hmm.” The newspaper flicked back up. “That’s as may be, but Lord Branson’s boy married a stretch of coastline last year and they didn’t find out until after the wedding that it was only a section of loose shale. No solid foundation for a marriage. Besides, the Apocalypse has no familial ties that I know of.” The newspaper flicked down again. “You would not be elevating yourself, Teresina.”
“I would not be demeaning myself either,” I pointed out. “Besides, it’s only a walk.”
I tapped a boiled egg with a spoon while my parents exchanged glances; a question bounced between them like a tennis ball.
The Apocalypse, to my surprise, was right on time. A manservant lingered in the shadows of the hall while the butler opened the door, no doubt intending to report back to my mother as soon as I’d crossed the threshold. I stepped out and curtseyed, receiving a bow in return. We made our way down the street, whereupon it paid me a thoughtful compliment about my green dress. A resounding trumpet blast brought hail and fire and blood raining down upon the street, splashing the hem of my dress, which at any rate was only my second-prettiest. So much for the admiration, I thought, patting a sizzling patch until the embers died. Father would not be happy about this; he’d specifically picked the color to bring out my eyes.
I must apologize. The trumpets follow me wherever I go.
“Pray do not worry,” I picked my way around a scarlet puddle. The nearby trees blazed merrily like levitating bonfires; underneath them, the grass had withered into dry, yellowed blades. “It’s rather romantic, really.”
I have no umbrella but…if I may?
The Apocalypse extended an arm above my head, which spread out into a wide circular shape, keeping the larger droplets at bay. I rather thought that might have been the plan all along. Certainly we were walking closer together than one might have ordinarily permitted if the clouds were not pouring brimstone and thunder down upon the earth.
“Have you been in town long?”
I arrived a few days ago. I had some business to conclude with a local prophet. He owed a large debt.
“Do you meet with many prophets?”
In my line of work, it often feels as if I do little else. I had the distinct feeling the Apocalypse was smiling, although it had no discernible face or mouth. They do not always listen, though. And when they do listen, they misunderstand what has been said.
As the second trumpet sounded, a tremendous crash in the distance undercut the noise. A line slashed the sky, leaving a great white gouge white in its wake. A third trumpet blared.
That will be Wormwood, my companion supplied helpfully.
“You must excuse me, I’m not familiar with the gentleman in question.”
He is a star, fallen to earth, tasked with contaminating the water.
“An employee of yours? Marvelous.”
Men will drink the bitter poison and die in their droves.
“Oh dear. I shall have to tell the cook. What about wine?”
Wine should be unaffected.
“Thank goodness for that.”
The Apocalypse moved restlessly, and I felt, rather than saw, the buzzing of a thousand wings against my skin. You think me a little dramatic.
I saw no point in concealing the truth, but there was no reason not to be diplomatic about it. “Well, it’s not the word I would have used.” I felt my skin prickle and saw images of animals retreating into their burrows. Eager to ease the Apocalypse’s embarrassment, I pointed at the sun, which was dimming rapidly. “Are we to walk in darkness? I am not wearing particularly sturdy shoes today, nor did I think to bring any candl-”
I shall escort you safely. You need not worry.
The light blinked out. I closed my eyes, then opened them again. There was no discernible difference between the two states. “How long does this usually last?”
Something slid along the inside of my wrists. The image of green scales, rippling in lithe motion. Close up, the flank of a doe, heaving with effort. I was glad of the darkness, for my cheeks were burning up.
Forgive me, I do not wish to take liberties. The sentence trailed off, as if more might be uncouth. The Apocalypse pressed against my side. It was warmer than I might have expected. The sound of violins against the flesh of my bare forearms. The taste of rope against my tongue. Are you afraid? A question, covering a challenge. The sound of lichen growing over a tree.
“I am made of sterner stuff than that,” I scoffed. “Besides, I rather enjoy the darkness.”
And what if the darkness were to enjoy you?
I summoned my courage and tilted my head upwards until I felt feathers tickle my nose. A sharp scrape on my cheek, where the Apocalypse’s neck ought to be, made me picture a throat comprised entirely of claws. “Not on a first date, it wouldn’t.”
Of course, my lady. A smothered laugh. The Apocalypse drew me onwards, until I felt the steps of my own porch under my feet, familiar and steady. Disappointment warmed my belly.
Then perhaps I might suggest a second outing. The images were hopeful now; an ant carrying a leaf twenty times its own size. Something with a thousand legs pinwheeled across a plain. A bird unlike any I’d ever seen hooted with delight, a small dangling body clasped in curved talons.
I made my decision. “Would you like to come in for tea?”
—and the third woe trumpet—which is to say, the seventh trumpet overall— encourages voices from Heaven to herald the end of times and kingdom come. The Apocalypse shifted on the chaise longue. I feel I am talking about myself too much to be good company.
“Not at all, it’s fascinating! I had no idea there was so much work involved in the end of days.”
The Apocalypse bade me farewell at the parlor door and pressed a leathery kiss against the back of my hand while the sound of a stampede vibrated through my shoulders. The clear, high peal of desire echoed through my bones, long into the evening. Later, I searched through the tomes in our library. When I found the definition I sought—that apocalypse means “to uncover”—the shiver down my spine was surprisingly pleasurable.
Our second date was a picnic, taken under an awning on the south lawn. “I suppose traditionally,” I bit my lip, aware this courtship had been anything but traditional, “at this point, a pair might discuss their life goals. Children, hobbies, and so on.” I tucked my skirts under my knees and reached for a strawberry. “I’m not sure what your views—”
I have a trillion offspring. A dead gazelle, eyes rolled back to show the whites, while a fawn bleated helplessly at its side. A human child face-down in the dusty shoulder of a well-travelled road, a last wheeze rattling from small lungs. A tight cluster of broken eggs half-hidden by sand. Hundreds of tiny footprints leading towards the ocean.
“Aren’t most of these dead?”
The Apocalypse stilled. There is no such thing as death. Only beginnings and more beginnings.
“Well, that’s very philosophical of you, but I confess I’d prefer a live child. A human child,” I amended hastily, in case anything cloven was about to materialize in my lap. “Although they don’t have to be borne of my own body, per se. Family is made from more than blood and bone, after all.”
Connections. Bonds. A flicker of hesitation. Affection?
“Indeed.” I smiled. “I feel that we are beginning to understand one another.”
On the third day, the Apocalypse asked my mother for my hand. She gave assent while my father squealed with unabashed excitement and began to list off exacting wedding preparations.
In front of the mirror that evening, I brushed my hair with long, sweeping strokes. My mother’s reflection edged into the doorway behind me.
“Are you sure, dear?” She stared, hands on hips. “I mean, quite sure?”
“Were you?” I didn’t stop brushing. The red locks were silken under my fingers; the ends trailed like comet tails.
A protracted sigh. “Fair enough.”
The wedding ceremony was short and sweet. Afterwards, my father—always conscious of cultural expectations—served seven large empty bowls at the feast. “Fill them as you see fit,” he addressed my new spouse, and turning to the servants, added, “Pop them over on the side table, lads.”
The Apocalypse bowed. I saw a ruptured landscape, great rocks punching through the earth’s crust, and heard the blackening of soil. The first bowl contains loathsome sores.
My father took a few hurried steps backwards.
Only for those marked by the beast, my spouse corrected. Near the doorway, a gibbering guest pushed others aside in a bid to escape. His face was covered in weeping pustules, already dripping blood as he tore at his skin with scrabbling fingernails.
“Oh well, I never liked him anyway,” my father whispered. “Cheats at golf. Wasn’t even subtle about it.”
We took our seats as the servants began to bring out dishes. The second bowl filled with blood; small sea-creatures writhed and then floated, belly-up, whiskering the surface.
My father delivered a gentle elbow to my mother’s ribs as the servants ladled the mixture into soup bowls and set them down in front of us. “Isn’t that nice, dear?”
My mother automatically brought a spoon up to her mouth and then thought better of it. “Oh. Yes, lovely.” She put the spoon back down and stared into the bowl, where a single raw prawn bobbed from side to side. “Pass the rolls, please.”
The third bowl filled with blood just as a light spattering of scarlet rain gusted against the windows.
“It’s all rather blood-based, isn’t it?” My mother didn’t look directly at the glass but I could tell she was wondering if it was going to stain our freshly-painted white windowsills.
My father put a hand on her arm and muttered, “Don’t be unkind, dearest.”
The fourth bowl remained empty, as far as I could see, but the heatwave emanating from it was enough to wrinkle the wallpaper all the way to the ceiling. We endured a small period of darkness during the fifth bowl; pre-warned, the guests conversed rather than ate during this time, which reduced the likelihood of stains or cutlery-based mishaps. Three demon frogs emerged from the sixth bowl. Servants armed with brooms chased them straight into the kitchen where the chef awaited. As the door swung shut, a final desperate ribbit was followed by the clang of a cleaver against the stone floor.
The seventh bowl must be saved for the evening. It is a private affair.
“What do you-” my mother began, before my father put his lips to her ear. “Oh, I see.” She leaned over, her cheeks blooming, and embraced me in a fond farewell. “I shall be sorry to see you go, dearest.”
“All birds must fly the nest, Mother.” I smiled at my new spouse. “Besides, we shall not leave town for some weeks.”
The Apocalypse stood and swept me up in its arms. The guests applauded as I was carried out of the room and upstairs to a guest room, which our servants had prepared as the wedding chamber. Long-stemmed roses saluted us from clear vases, and the sheets were as crisp and fresh as any I’d ever had. The Apocalypse lowered its shape towards my mouth and I closed my eyes. Soft, ticklish buzzes against my lips. The deep sound of bronze, warmed by the sun. I struggled out of my dress and settled down onto the bed. The Apocalypse shifted, the shape becoming softer, the gap between the arms and legs widening. I had no idea how we were going to do this and I didn’t care. I was enjoying myself immensely and we’d only just begun. “Come here.”
The Apocalypse didn’t need to be asked twice. I tasted hoofbeats, printing U-shapes onto my chest in silver scalds. A roar, rather than a whinny. Enough foreplay, I thought, and was surprised to find myself impatient for more. It poured over me and into me; filling me up with the thick, blasts of long-gone trumpets.
Famine. Pestilence. Plague. A thousand eyes burrowing into me; a salt-crust breaking open. War. Fractal shapes. Snowflakes. Every hungry thrust brought the sound of honey. Chaos. A lance aimed at the center of my heart. A golden, flooded world, where fronds moved as if underwater.
The seventh bowl, my spouse shuddered. The seventh bowl is filling up. Now I understood; the biggest earthquake ever known. The taste of tremors, the sound of the world grinding against itself again and again until it burst.
Death. Dewdrops trembling on the spine of a narrow leaf. A single day of life measured in wings. Plunging downslope on a white stallion; I cried out, my little death followed quickly by a larger one. The Apocalypse subsided with a low hum, while a few flies thudded like raindrops against the window.
The springs creaked as I kicked back the sheets and enjoyed the feel of cooling sweat on sated skin. “What now?”
How would you like to witness the end of the world?
“All right. When is it?”
The shape was silent, puzzled. It is happening now. It has already happened. It will happen in future.
“I can’t really put that in my calendar, darling. Narrow it down a bit for me?”
A thin arm formed from wraith-thin smoke, curling over my bare torso. It shall be whenever you say, my love.
I reached for the shape again, my tongue thick and too dry in my mouth, exulting in the feel of seared bones, the sound of our body-tapestry being woven together. Between the first explosion and the last, the Apocalypse murmured perfect armageddon bride, and with these words I understood the taste of fluttering, ceased at last.
| Lindz McLeod is a queer, working-class, Scottish writer and editor who dabbles in the surreal. Her short stories have been published by Apex, Catapult, Pseudopod, and many more; her short story collection Turducken (Spaceboy, 2023) showcases the best of these. You can follow her on Twitter @lindzmcleod or find out more from her website, www.lindzmcleod.co.uk. |  |