The Genocides

“Who will you have?” he asked aloud, grabbing up the axe, which he had been whetting on the palm of his hand all this while. “Give me the name, and with this same axe…”

Blossom, the phantasm whispered eagerly, not without a hint of jealousy. You’ve abandoned me for that child. You court an infant.

No! it was only that I might betray her. It was all for the sake of you.

Then betray her now. Betray her, and I will return to you. Then, only then, will I kiss you. Then, when you touch me, your hand will feel flesh. With those words she disappeared.

In the same instant he knew she had not been real, that this was, quite possibly, the inception of madness. But he did not care. Though she was not real, she was right.

Immediately he went in search of his victim. He found her standing on the edge of a group gathered about her father’s corpse. Alice Nemerov was lying bound near the corpse, and Neil Anderson was there too, raving. Orville paid no heed to any of this. Then Blossom, as though sensing his purpose, ran madly into the dark tunnels of the Plant. He followed her. This time he would do what must be done—do it neatly, expeditiously, and with an axe.

Pressing the hard, crisp pulp from the rind of the fruit between her palms, Blossom was able to squeeze out a few oily drops of water. But it was so warm at this depth— eighty degrees or more-that she could hardly hope to revive Alice with it. She began again to massage the old woman’s thin hands, her cheeks, the sagging flesh of her arms. Mechanically she repeated the same few words of comfort: “Alice dear, please…. Try to wake up, try…. Alice, it’s Blossom…. Alice?…. It’s all right now…. Oh, please!” At last the old woman seemed to be conscious, for she groaned.

“Are you all right? Alice?”

Alice made a noise verging on speech, which was terminated by a hissing intake of breath. When she did speak, when she could speak, her voice was unnaturally loud and strangely resolute. “My hip. I think… yes, it’s broken.”

“Oh no! Oh, Alice! Does it… does it hurt?”

“Like hell, my dear.”

“Why did he do it? Why did Neil—” Blossom paused; she dared not say what it was that Neil had done. Now that Alice was conscious, her own fear and agitation settled over her again. It was as though she had revived Alice only that she might be able to tell her, Blossom, that the Monster wasn’t real, just something she’d imagined.

“Why did he throw me down here? Because, my dear, the bastard murdered your father, and because I knew it and was fool enough to say so. And then, I fancy, he never has liked me very much.”

Blossom said she would not believe it, that it was absurd. She made Alice tell her how she knew, called for the evidences, refuted them. She made her, suffering as she was, repeat each detail of the story, and still she would not believe it. Her brother had faults, but he was not a murderer.

“He murdered me, didn’t he?” It was a difficult question to answer.

“But why would he do such a thing? Why kill a man who’s almost dead? It makes no sense. There was no reason.”

“It was on your account, my dear.”

Blossom could almost feel the Monster breathing down her neck. “What do you mean?” She grabbed Alice’s hand almost angrily. “Why on my account?”

“Because he must have found out that your father was intending for you and Jeremiah Orville to be married.”

“Daddy intended—I don’t understand?”

“He wanted Jeremiah to be the new leader, to take his place. He didn’t want it, but he saw that it would have to be that way. But he put off telling anyone about it. That was my doing. I told him to wait. I thought it would keep him going. I never thought…”

Alice talked on, but Blossom had stopped listening. She understood now what her father had wanted to tell her and why he had hesitated. Grief and shame flooded over her: she had misjudged him; she had left him all those days to suffer alone. And he had only wanted her happiness, the happiness she wanted for herself! If only she could return to beg his forgiveness, to thank him. It was as though Alice, by those few words, had turned on all the lights in the house and restored her father to life.

But Alice’s next words dispelled this illusion. “You’d better watch out for him,” she said grimly. “You dare not trust him. Especially you.”

“Oh no, no, you don’t understand. I love him. And I think he loves me too.”

“Not Orville. Of course he loves you. Any fool can see that. It’s Neil you’d better watch out for. He’s crazy.”

Blossom did not protest this. She knew, better than Alice, though less aware till now, how true this was.

“And part of his craziness has to do with you.”

“When the others know what he’s done, when I tell them…” Blossom did not have to say more than this. When the others knew what Neil had done, he would be killed.

“That’s why I told you. So they would find out.”

“You’ll tell them yourself. We’ve got to get back. Now. Here—put your arm around my shoulder.” Alice protested, but Blossom would not listen. The old woman was light. Blossom could carry her, if need be.

An agonized cry parted the old woman’s lips, and she tore her arm away from Blossom. “No! no, the pain… I can’t.”

“Then I’ll get help.”

“What help? Whose help? A doctor? An ambulance? I couldn’t help your father recover from a rat bite, and this is—” The sound that intruded upon her speech was more eloquent than any words she might have intended.

For a long while, Blossom bit her lip to keep silent. When she felt Alice was ready to listen, she said, “Then I’ll just sit here with you.”

“And watch me die? It will take a while. No more than two days, though, and most of the time I’ll be making these awful noises. No—that would be no comfort to me. But there is something you can do. If you’re strong enough.”

“Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

“You must promise.” Blossom’s hand tightened over hers in assurance. “You must do for me what Neil did for your father.”

“Murder you? No! Alice, you can’t ask me to—”

“My dear, I’ve done it in my time for those who have asked. Some of them had less reason than I. A hypodermic of air, and the pain is—” She did not, this time, cry out. “—gone. Blossom, I beg you.”

“Someone may come. We’ll make a stretcher.”

“Yes, someone may come. Neil may come. Can you imagine what he would do if he finds me still alive?”

“No, he wouldn’t—” But immediately she knew he would.

“You must, my dear. I’ll hold you to your promise. But kiss me first. No, not like that—on the lips.”

Blossom’s trembling lips pressed against Alice’s that were rigid with the effort to hold back the pain. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you like my very own mother.”

Then she did what Neil had done. Alice’s body twisted away in instinctive, unthinking protest, and Blossom let loose her grip.

“No!” Alice gasped. “Don’t torture me—do it!”

Blossom did not let loose this time until the old woman was dead.

The darkness grew darker, and Blossom thought she could hear someone climbing down the vines of the root overhead. There was a loud terrible noise as his body came down into the fruit pulp. Blossom knew what the Monster would look like: he would look like Neil. She screamed and screamed and screamed.