The Hammer and the Goat. Peter Newman
the room.
‘Goat, no!’ she says again.
But the goat is gone.
The Hammer sits back, suddenly too tired to argue, too tired to fight. Eyes close and though she does not sleep, the image of the Usurper’s face is waiting for her, as always, with knife-edged memories, keen to cut.
She is a child again, hiding in the basement. It is not like before. Normally there are only a few of them, given work when it suits the owners.
The owners do not like her. They call her names, saying she is stubborn and stupid. Then they beat her. But the child knows she is not stupid. In fact, it is her intelligence they try to smother with their threats. They have a role prepared for her that demands she not think too much.
She is stubborn however, undeniably stubborn.
So when the other children, the ones with the colourful clothes come to join them, she says, ‘Why?’
And when the owners shush her and tell her to keep quiet, she asks, ‘Why?’
And when they slap her face: ‘Why?’
Even when they give up, worried looks going to the ceiling, she asks them.
No answers are given, most of the owners vanishing into the world where two suns light the sky, the red and gold far more preferable to the dusty lamp and its weak yellow pallor.
She watches the adults go, leaving the two groups of children behind, and considers their flight a victory.
Time passes, the new arrivals bringing a sense of novelty as they cluster together, the older ones hugging the younger.
She folds her arms, making it clear that she does not need any hugs. She is four years old for suns’ sake. Pride tilts her chin, taking her gaze above the ones huddling, rabbit-like, to the older children. They are of far more interest than the little ones. Soon, she thinks, they will see her bravery and come and talk to her.
The pose is held for a while, the desire to not be lonely outweighing the need to sit down.
Nobody comes but being ignored has its advantages. The older children talk of things above, interesting things. Many of the words are unknown to her but she savours the sound of them nonetheless: ‘Breach … Enlisting … Contact … Catastrophic … Annihilation … Mutation …’
The next part she understands too well.
‘What are you staring at?’
The question comes from a boy with wide-set eyes and a nose like a blob of glue. He is large: she thinks he must have reached nine years at least, possibly even twenty-seven. Never one for messing around, she answers truthfully. ‘You.’
‘Well stop it, alright? I got enough to worry about without a stupid kid like you getting in my face.’
‘No.’
‘No?’ He pushes her backwards, making arms fly out to either side, an impotent flap that does nothing to stop bottom hitting floor, hard.
Her face creases, not in tears, she has not shed any of those since she was three, but in anger. She gets up to find the boy has already turned his back to her, saying something to another boy about a fire.
‘No,’ she says, pushing him. He does not go far but the one step bumps two heads together, making both boys call out in pain.
The child shakes her head at him as he whirls round.
‘Right,’ he says, rubbing at an already swelling lip. ‘That’s it!’
She is pushed over a second time, then kicked. The boy seems keen to do more but the second boy intervenes. ‘Don’t mark her, dad’ll be angry if you mark her.’
‘Who’s going to notice one girl with what’s going on?’
The second boy grabs the first, looking very serious. ‘My dad.’
‘Fine,’ mutters the first, spitting at her instead of kicking, before allowing himself to be led away.
She waits on the ground a while this time, hugging the hurt in her belly until the raging fades to a dull ache. A few tears are blinked away and the child is happy none spill onto her cheeks. It only counts as crying when other people can see, this she knows.
Something thuds on the ceiling above, something heavy. Several of the babies start to wail, the children looking after them covering their mouths, hurried. A couple cry out in surprise, only to be hissed quiet by the others.
Sure that nobody is looking at her anymore, the child gets up.
A few seconds pass and the room begins to relax, relieved looks passing from one young face to another.
Then, as if waiting for them to let their guard down, there comes a sound from above, a rending shriek of metal. Massive hands punch through the ceiling, swollen silver fingers tipped with hooked claws, glistening, green.
This time, everyone screams.
The hands withdraw and a face appears. Once a thing of awe and beauty, it has been stretched monstrous by the Usurper’s presence. The possessing infernal forcing Gamma’s body into new shapes to accommodate its essence.
The face pulls back and the hands return, widening the hole.
With nowhere to go, children run in pointless circles, screaming at the walls, at each other.
Except for one child. She does not run. Unlike the others, she already understands that running will not help.
The Usurper drops into the basement and wastes no time, reaching out with a long arm to grab a girl by her head. It would be a small matter for it to squeeze, ending the girl instantly but it does not. Instead the massive infernal, the Usurper, known also as Ammag and Green Sun, tilts its horned head, watching.
The child also watches.
And soon there is something to see. For an invisible aura wafts constant from the Usurper, called the taint. While the taint itself cannot be seen, it changes anything it comes into contact with, twisting and mutating. In seconds, the girl dangling from the end of its arm begins to shift, skin going pale, then green, veins rising over her body. Muscles swell like balloons, tearing where the strain is too much, and bones stretch to adult size and beyond.
When the Usurper lets her go, there is no girl that the child recognises, a newborn monster in her place.
The screaming of the other children changes pitch in appreciation of the spectacle, becoming frenzied, frantic.
Around and around the Usurper goes, tagging children, making them into half-breeds, their souls no longer fully human. The transformation takes a harder toll on some than others, but all survive, a growing gaggle of Usurperkin.
Through it all, the child does not run. Despite the strangeness of it, she recognises this for what it is, that she is changing one set of owners for another. And when her turn comes, she is waiting, and she is angry.
The Usurper looms over her, its small wings flickering with pleasure.
She glares up at it, hands on hips and asks a question: ‘Why?’
The Usurper’s clawed hand catches her face, puncturing it under the chin and behind one ear. Essence flares like a thin mist from its nostrils, reaching out, infecting, an answer of sorts.
The child begins to change.
Forcing her eyes open again, the Hammer picks up the coin, tossing it repeatedly until breath becomes regular. She squeezes it in a massive fist, focusing on the reassuring feel of metal.
Calm again, it becomes clear that something is wrong. ‘Goat?’
A quick study of the room reveals nothing. She calls louder this time but there is no answering bleat. This in itself does not mean anything, as the goat does not always deign to answer, but the Hammer’s face folds into a scowl.
She