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SHORT FICTION: The Limb Knitter
With a spade in one hand and a burlap sack in the other, the Limb Knitter dug for trench tubers in the Beaten Zone as the early morning rain gave way to a foggy Western dawn. Down on her belly in the mud between the Invaders to her South and Forces Velaysia to her North, she found the pickings pretty slim. She gave up poking at the mud for a moment and looked toward her lines.
Spring filled the lower elevations on the southern face of the Canarus Ranges, sowing the valleys and slopes behind the trenches in emerald foliage. From the gates of the mountain redoubts of Forces Velaysia, the Limb Knitter caught sight of the Brigades Invalid, on the march with their machines to stiffen the mere flesh and bone Frontists of the Brigades Defender along the Southern Front. Mixed in amid the rusty, black bipeds were the Invalid Harvesters, their bodies whitewashed to prevent friendly fire and their backs burdened with empty harvest drums.
No more trench tubers for a while, the Knitter told herself. Her two stomachs rumbled in agreement. She was sick of digging for the tasteless, decayed bits anyway.
The Knitter could see all of this through the morning fog, but her true prey, Frontist Delauchen Severis was only human. Shivering under his poncho, he could see no further than the insectile, maggot-blown corpses of crucified Invaders on the reserve slope of the trenches.
You look miserable, Delauchen, the Limb Knitter thought.
He was jittery too. The Limb Knitter’s prey jumped every time he heard her spade bite into the soil.
She watched him collect his weapon and begin the long crawl out of the Beaten Zone toward the forward trenches of the Southern Front. The Knitter put her spade away, still hungry, and crawled behind him, slow and steady.
Only when he was safe in the flooded trenches did he remove his rusty brain bucket and scratch madly at his greasy, matted hair. The Limb Knitter eased up to the trench with envy deep in her chest. She could just hear their conversation.
“Morning, grouch,” his conflict spouse, Thalia Vetraslev said. She gave him a peck on the lips. “See anything out there?”
“No,” he said, avoiding her eyes, as was his nature. “Not a damned thing. Just thought I heard some Knitters digging about.”
“I’ll get chow,” the Knitter heard Thalia say.
Delauchen started to snore while still on his feet.
Thalia thumped him in the shoulder. “Hey, did you hear me, Delauchen? I’m going for chow.”
He jerked awake, “Yes, sorry. I think I need sleep more than food.”
“You’ll want your tea,” she said. “I know how you are.”
It must be nice to have someone, the Knitter thought. She watched Thalia head eastward to join a line of male and female Frontists headed for the bombproof kitchens. Thalia was big-boned and had wide hips which formed her short, pear-shaped frame. When the Frontist waved back at Delauchen, it was possible to see the vanilla-scented ointment that covered the albino patches of skin on the right side of her face.
The Knitter’s Mark.
Delauchen waved back to Thalia and plopped himself down on a pinewood ammo box. Her peers avoided her and others with the same albino patches as if they might catch something. It was just a lack of melanin that caused the discoloration. The Master Knitter still hadn’t solved that problem. But it didn’t matter if they stayed away from the likes of her.
Thing is, Knitter’s Mark or not, Delauchen didn’t let anyone get too close to him either.
When he was sure she was out of sight, Delauchen reached for a tar canvas satchel and pulled out a worn spiral pad of rice paper. He settled into his spot, kicking loose a few rocks, which rolled down into a brackish shell hole.
Draw something beautiful, the Knitter thought, sliding forward a bit closer.
Here is why the Knitter waited all night: she enjoyed this part the most, the mornings when Delauchen would draw something. Maybe he would sketch a collection of empty ration canisters or barring that, he might do his dirty left hand again. Sometimes, as a joke, he liked to hold his thumb out and sketch that. And every so often, on good mornings when both were in high spirits, Thalia would let Delauchen sketch her face in the hopes that perhaps she could finally catch those evasive brown eyes of his.
The Limb Knitter eased up closer still, almost to the point where the top of her slouch hat was visible. But Delauchen didn’t pick up a charcoal stick or turn to a smooth, crème sheet of nude paper. Instead, he turned to an old sketch and stared at it.
No, she thought. Draw something. You don’t have much time. The rank, randy scent of the Invaders grew in the hours before an attack. It was enough to make the Knitter gag. Humans were spared due to their own limited senses, perhaps for the better, or maybe for the worse.
The Knitter moved closer, shifting loose a few bits of dirt and rock.
Charcoal rubbings and lines gave the woman in the sketch a pudgy nose. Dark curls brushed against her bare shoulders, pulled back to show off her ears. Sharp dimples flanked her close-lipped smile. Her eyebrows were feather-fine yet overemphasized above a pair of flat, almond-shaped eyes.
One look at those imperfect eyes was all it took for the sobs to come in shoulder racking bursts. If the other Frontists noticed his pain, they left him be, busied with the tasks of getting on in the trenches for another day.
The Knitter brought out a gold plated oval locket and opened it. Inside, Delauchen looked back at her from the small heliotype image. He appeared startled, frightened, but it was the only time he had ever made eye contact with her, through the heliotype maker.
The Knitter sighed. You never change, Delauchen.
The soil beneath her heavy frame shifted and dumped the Limb Knitter down into the puddle next to Delauchen’s boot.
Whoever threw something into the shell hole managed to do so in such a way that it splattered urine-fouled water all over Delauchen. A white haze fell over him when he saw his sketch of Yvette Mobori, preserved for two years since her death, was soaked with mud and feces from the shell hole. He threw the pad down and stood up, looking for the jackass that had thrown the rock into the puddle.
“Who did it this time?” The telltale smirk always gave someone away, or at least a cluster of Frontists, but there were only pale, fearful faces instead. Delauchen’s peers skittered, cowered and backed away, staring at something behind him.
Maybe I’ve finally beaten enough sense into them, he thought.
Water sloshed around in the shell hole behind Delauchen. He turned to see.
An overcoat patched in places with tar canvas and burlap rose from the muck, first to its knees, then one leg at a time, until it stood at a full two meters. It bent over to retrieve its slouch hat, floating on the surface, and replaced it upon its burlap-bag-covered head. Through two ragged holes, its yellow eyes watched Delauchen Severis with great care.
“Look at this!” Delauchen pointed at his ruined pad and forgot that he was supposed to be afraid of the Limb Knitter. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
The Limb Knitter held its jointed, ceramic hands out, palms up, cowering ever so slightly.
He retrieved the pad, stepped forward and held it up. When he did, he noticed a tarnished, gold-plated oval locket around the Knitter’s neck. It was still open and in it, he saw a heliotype of himself staring back.
Delauchen knew who it belonged to and she was supposed to be dead.
He pointed at the locket. “Where did you get that, you freak?”
The Knitter took another step back. It stumbled on something in the hole, almost falling back into the muck. Its robe quivered and rippled along the torso, which made the patched fabric flap back and forth.
He thrust the sketchpad at the Knitter. “You recognize her, don’t you? Where is she?”
The Knitter’s shoulders heaved and shook. It made a high pitched scraping sound akin to nails being dragged down a slate board in a lecture hall. Other Frontists scrambled into their bomb-proofs, not sure what would come next when the Knitter fell to its knees, wringing its hands. The ceramic fingers tinkled like a china tea set, the scraping sound grew louder and began to warble.
“Take a good look!” He threw his pad at the Knitter. It landed on the ground at the edge of the puddle. “Why don’t you answer me? Where is she?”
“Step back from that thing!” Out of breath, Thalia took Delauchen by the shoulders and made eye contact with him. “Look at me. No, at me, Delauchen. Sit down over there and take a deep breath. Okay?”
He nodded numbly, his anger spent, and did as he was told.
Thalia murmured words to the effect that the Limb Knitter had best leave and rejoined Delauchen on her own ammo crate. A whining sound in the background made it hard to hear her. She dropped the ruined sketch pad at Delauchen’s muddy brogans and sighed.
“I’m not sure,” she said, “but I think you made it cry.”
Microturbines heralded the arrival of a pair of Invalid machines, their two-meter tall bodies slid down into the trenches, bringing one of the crucified Invader’s corpses down with them. Thalia and Delauchen watched the machines watch them before they turned and made their way down the trench to the West. Silver buzzsaws on the whitewashed machine caught the sunlight with a flash before they rounded a turn in the trench and moved out of sight.
Delauchen pulled Thalia’s hand, her Knitter hand, to his lips and kissed the albino skin. She squeezed back, but her right wasn’t as strong as her left. He tried to look into Thalia’s eyes. It was hard, not because one was red and the other was blue. It was hard to open himself up, to get his head up and look at her, really look at her.
Once the whining turbines faded away, he let go of her hand.
Thalia kicked Delauchen’s foot. “Two years we’ve been together and you still keep things from me.”
“Sorry,” Delauchen said. He put the pad aside, out of Thalia’s sight. He hoped the sun would dry out the pages enough for him to salvage something.
“Why? I’ve got a fairly thick skin. I think I can face her.”
19 Comments
I enjoyed this. A really interesting concept. I liked that there were just three characters. The descriptive elements were well wrought and the kick at the end was nicely executed.
I look forward to reading more from this writer.
Nice work. I enjoyed the story arc, refreshing to see a short story that doesnt feel short. More from this author please.
Thanks, Therbs. Glad you liked it.
I think there just might be some more stuff here in the future.
Respects,
S. F. Murphy
I really liked the alternate-WWI-like feel to this, and the emotional dynamics underpinning it all. I look forward to reading more from S.F. Murphy in the future!
Hey, Mike and Brian. Thanks for the feedback. Glad you both liked it.
Yeah, per the WW-One bit, I like that too.
Respects,
S. F. Murphy
Hey, Murph.
So say we all on the WWI comments. I had some Johhny Got His Gun flashbacks, and that’s one of my compliments flung in your general directions. Though comparing this story to TDT (apples and oranges, but GOOD apples and oranges nevertheless), I get three distinct impressions from your style/voice: finely tuned dialogue, striking imagerys, solid plotting.
Oh, and let’s not forget a double-dose of pathos for the resonance, bub.
Keep hammerin’, Murph. Please, Sir, can we have some more?
Berry, you nailed me. Johnny Got His Gun was one inspiration for TLK. That novel, the movie and the Metalica video are hardwired into my brain.
As for having more? Well, that all depends on the Editors. :)
Thanks.
Respects,
S. F. Murphy
Talk about memories . . . I was nine when I read JGHG. Why? I emulated my older brother’s reading habits. He read a ton of war-related and men’s adventure (Mack Bolan, Able Team, etc.) at that time. So, I would snurch books from his bookshelves.
And, yes, JGHG at nine scared and scarred me. Took me until I was in my mid-twenties to come back to it. And that movie. And the Metallica video. I saw them live in concert in ‘98 in Atlanta, and their live performance of “One” is my fondest memory of that experience.
Best of luck with future stories with the Eds.
b
It might be spoiling it but the horror of soldiers deployed to our current wars drove The Limb Knitter to a certain degree. It was a little too easy, having been to one myself, to imagine one or more of mine gone. Most limb replacement gizmos in SF are fairly benign, either bionics or some sort of vat/tube that grows it back for you. I wanted something a bit different. Something stranger yet closer to our current reality (replacement parts today are never close to even 50% functionality).
Berry, isn’t it strange that your brother would have both Johnny Got his Gun and Men’s Adventure books on his shelves? Some folks might wonder if Johnny got through to him or not.
What do you think? Why the variety?
Respects,
S. F. Murphy
Well, RE: my brother’s reading habits from a quarter century gone . . . at that time he already knew he’d join the Corp. He read everything military related–even vaguely or romanticized–he could get his hands on. Lots of history books, too. His tastes were as eclectic as mine, but I think, looking back, the issue was a phase just as I’d read anything martial arts related when I started classes in junior high. He did his six years, as he put it, thanks kindly. Never made it to Operation Desert Storm–Yokosuka, Japan heading security detail and instructing CQC classes. And loathed, absolutely loathed, anything remotely romanticizing the military after that.
That story was fantastic, I wanted to say. It helped me with my own writing as I still find myself dancing in between the worlds of thick and memorable atmosphere and too much description that spoils the impact of those few, right words to use.
Don’t know if that made any sense, but it’s something I’ve been working on for awhile. Too descriptive, feels like reading a thesis, too simple, feels like a young adult fantasy novel… I wanted to compliment you on that especially, being able to create a scene with just a few lines that plays with the readers’ imagination. Excellent.
No, Josh, that makes plenty of sense. There is a balance to be found with description. I find that I tend to run toward the minimal, which is not really the accepted style these days. I also like letting the Reader fill in some of the blanks themselves. That is about having some faith in them.
I had a little help with this one. The Apex Editors were first class in helping me with edits. I normally bash editors with a brick stick for a number of reasons but that was not the experience with Jason Sizemore and his team. They took a good piece and put an extra coat of excellence on it. For that, I’m grateful.
You might try reading some Hemingway (who is a bit too minimal for me but there are lessons to be learned there) and combine what you glean with a favorite descriptive writer, Josh.
Berry, everyone has different reactions to service. I got out and found I wanted to read more, but not the Mack Bolan stuff, which I found rather weak even before I signed up.
I also do not think romanticizing the military is a good thing (I’m sure some detractors will be shocked that I wrote that). I think it is incumbent upon any writer who examines the material to be honest. That is what makes writers such as Joe Haldeman (who I disagree with politically yet respect as a writer and a veteran) and Erich Remarque first class comentators on war.
A true piece of military fiction will always be, at it’s heart, an antiwar piece. How can it not be? But my feeling is that it should never be anti soldier.
Anyway.
Respects,
S. F. Murphy
RE: “. . . Erich Remarque first class comentators on war.
A true piece of military fiction will always be, at it’s heart, an antiwar piece. How can it not be? But my feeling is that it should never be anti soldier”
1. agreed on Remarque
2. doubly so on the anti-war, not anti-soldier bit
Another author I think you’ve mentioned at the forum before, mebbe your journalspace, is O’Brien’s The Things They Carried and Jarhead. Good stuff. I recommend Joseph T. Ward’s Dear Mom: A Sniper’s Vietnam.
I’ll have to check out Haldeman.
Here is something you never see in science fiction. A science fiction writer typing a response over wifi while waiting for someone to fix his car, because the battery died. Why don’t we see more of that in SF?
Tim O’Brien’s Things They Carried is definitely worth a read. Antony Swafford wrote Jarhead and I suspect he has said everything that needs to be said about the Gulf War, though I found his repentant veteran bit somewhat contrived.
Haldeman’s The Forever War is definitely the gold standard in terms of literary quality and truthfulness.
BTW, I attended a local lit fest today and plugged Apex the best I could. If the local network had been up, I’d have shown the website.
Respects,
S. F. Murphy
RE: “A science fiction writer typing a response over wifi while waiting for someone to fix his car, because the battery died.”
That’s some good stuff, Maynard.
FurtherRE: “Antony Swafford wrote Jarhead and I suspect he has said everything that needs to be said about the Gulf War, though I found his repentant veteran bit somewhat contrived.”
Part of me wonders if that’s the tweak that opened some publishing doors, if tweak it were. Similar to the Bob Lee Swagger repentant Vietnam War sniper in the Stephen Hunter books. A colleague and I have discussed such at length.
Berry, I’m sure that if you are a properly repentant veteran that it helps a great deal. I have been repeatedly told this is not true, but when you look at what is out there, I think the evidence speaks for itself.
The only problem, there are are repentant veterans aplenty, is that not EVERY veteran is that way. Some just don’t care about their service and walk away from it. Others are angry about it. Some are proud of it even though they aren’t recruiters for service. Students ask me ever so often if I think the military is the right choice and I find the best thing to tell them is that I can’t give them a good answer.
There has to be a calling in them, in their heart. Maybe it is family history or maybe they are actually patriotic (a horrible word these days) or something else. But if they don’t have that, no amount of money will make it worth the effort.
Delauchen, for his part, would probably rather be somewhere else. He knows he is not soldier material. But then again, his situation is markedly different from what we have today.
Respects,
S. F. Murphy
RE: “Delauchen, for his part, would probably rather be somewhere else. He knows he is not soldier material. But then again, his situation is markedly different from what we have today.”
That’s implicit enough and, I think, more pragmatic a way to build sympathy through a character. How many people in any field, occupation, college, etc. would rather be somewhere else? Instant connect.
Nice piece.
Thanks, Soon.
Respects,
S. F. Murphy