The Worldly Monster

In the deserts of Lytheria live the sandworm. At most only five meters long and ten centimeters wide in its adult form, the sandworms feast on any organic material and small creatures in its path. Their diet includes fecal matter and cactus petals. However, they may also ingest lizards, snakes, mosquitoes, and even the unfortunate human child. All that lands atop the sand are food to the sandworm. Their only natural predators are the Dune Hawks.

As the word "worm" suggests, sandworms have no limbs and eyes. Instead, sandworms are adept at sensing motion in the sand. On communication, some scholars have noted a distinct clicking sound elicited by their digestive tracts. Still, no communicative pattern has yet to be observed.

The fecal matter of sandworms is a psychoactive material that the desert people prize. Its effects are like that of the medicinal weed of the West. On extremely rare occasions, their fecal matter may clump together in the rain. When this grouping is digested by another creature, the excreted result may unintentionally be ingested by another sandworm. The poison in this form of reingestion is the subject of many research papers.

On one trip through the dunes, I happen across a young sandworm whose mutation must have surfaced by ingesting the mentioned concentrate. Its telepathy skills are quite uncontrolled, eliciting a blistering wail to all who are sensitive in its proximity. I trap it in a spare rucksack.

It seems to grow control over its telepathy with reinforcement. If it wails, I refuse to feed it. If it keeps quiet, I feed it a dead cricket. At some point, I begin to teach it word association: "food" for cricket; "meat" for beef or pork; "sand" for, well, sand. The sandworm is then able to intrude in my thoughts and conduct its own learning. And, finally, it speaks to me.

"Man."

But I am not human, no. The sandworm desires a human.

"What for?" I ask.

"Eat."

A merchant and his caravan are coincidentally passing in the horizon. The caravan hosts some guards, a spouse, and a child. Out of sight, I slip the sandworm into one of their pack camels. Then, I sprint further on ahead of the caravan and wait in its path.

At nightfall, a young girl pops into my sight. As she stumbles closer, the scent of blood grows heavier downwind until, at least, she stands before me.

"You're the sandworm," I say.

"Yes," it croaked.

The sandworm is adept with its new limbs. Quite amazing, considering how uncomplicated the typical worm brain is. After a couple hours, it begins to recall memories that belonged to the girl. It can sing and dance. It can use cutlery when eating. It even names itself Giselle. All without any encouragement on my part.

"Where are we headed to, master?"

"At the edge of this desert is a port city. If you'd like to come with me, I'm on a trip to visit an old friend across the sea."

"I'll go with you."

"Is there any reason why you wouldn't want to just stay in the desert or at the city? It's already remarkable that you're indistinguishable from a human child. Maybe you could survive on your own."

"I'd like to consider my options during my travels with you, master."

"So be it. Oh, and by the way, did you need any water? I should still have some remaining from the last downpour."

"I'm fine. I still have some stored here." It places a palm on its stomach and smiles.

"One more thing."

"Yes?"

"Don't call me master."

"My lady."

On another day of our walk through the desert, I wondered how the sandworm thought of its new body.

"What do you think of being human?" I ask.

"It feels good." A curt and simplistic answer. I expected more.

"Tell me more. Have you always wanted to be human?"

"No. But I have wished to kill one for so long. I never had the chance until you came along."

"And now that you've fulfilled your wish?"

"I struggle with having become what I killed. These things," it swings its limbs, "they are annoying."

"They are that of a child's."

"They are flimsy."

"But of course. You are young."

"No. I am old. I have lived here for centuries, though still considered far from death amongst my kind. These humans, these annoying creatures, have always disrupted our lives with their footsteps. And now that I am one of them, I feed into that same disruption."

"But think not of the past. Think of what you are now. Is there anything you might look forward to?"

"Hm... The child has memories of fish and pork, grape juice and puree. Eat. I want to eat."

"We'll have good food near the port." I smile warmly at it. The child is but a child.

"My lady, I have glimpsed your thoughts. But I cannot see all, nor can I feel your emotions. Can you tell me why people eat?"

"That is an interesting question, isn't it? Eons ago, we would eat only to survive, much as all simpler-minded creatures still do. Yet, the advent of fire opened us to the culinary arts. Meanwhile, our collective ability to cultivate wheat, harvest spices, and breed animals have opened the world to a plentitude of dishes. Now, we eat less so to live than to entertain ourselves. We eat to feel the weight of seared beef. We eat to taste the tinge of rosemary. We eat to savor the sound of chewed celery. Still, we eat to survive."

"I hope to eat as you have," dreams the sandworm.

When next we come across a herd of camels, the child's head splits open. The sandworm stretches its neck from the gaping chasm. Grappling onto a camels head, it swings its body against the ground, beating the camel to death. Blood seeps into the grains below. The sandworm feels satisfied and cleanly severs the camels head from its long neck. Then, it retreats into its shell and sews up its human form.

"I have swallowed," it says.

"So I see. How did it taste?"

"It tasted good."

At the oasis, it likes looking at its reflection in the water. It touches her cheek, her hair, her nails. Impulsively, it bends down into the water and bites at its reflection. When that fails, it exposes its true form and stabs the waters. Of course, nothing else happens. Some say a true measure of intelligence is the ability to recognize one's own reflection. I char some camel meat with fire; I lure in the sandworm before it can drown itself.

We reach the port city around two weeks after I first meet the sandworm. The sun has, by then, baked the scent of camel flesh into our skin. The Grande's receptionist provides us a dingy room on one of their lower floors. When in the bathtub together, I remind it how to lather her shell with soap. It sings a mellow tune from her caravan days.

The port of Al-Faw is a rashly developed area. The scintillating sun sees all with rarely a tree or shade on the streets. Mud and brick houses lay stacked atop one another with no prior planning whatsoever. Still, there is good food on the streetside. We duck under a green canopy and for dishes with fava beans, pita bread, and soft-boiled eggs still yolky in the center. The sandworm gobbles its meal until there remains only the brushed steel plate. After lunch, we browse the streets for supplies. I sell my old rucksack for a cowhide duffel bag and gather some ratios fit for the trip out.

At the lonesome ticket stall by the street, I buy two tickets toward La Grona. It's a three-week ride on one of their cheaper vessels. I tell the sandworm to stock up on fresh water in its belly. I also bring it around to shop for some plain rags in exchange for its now dust-ridden flannel. I think it enjoys its time in human civilization. Yet, sometimes, I catch it demure. We stand now on concrete streets where it looks back toward the shifting and flowing sands behind. It touches its face. Certainly, beneath its skinsuit, its faux human ears catch the paths of the desert wind, and its eyes find glimmer in that bed of reflective grains.

Two days have passed since we arrived at Al-Faw. Typically, the sandworm and I would share the single bed in our hotel room. I sleep facing the window to the right. It's a pain as the ragged curtains barely keep out the orange hue of a rising sun. Our small room does not have any walls, either. A wood bucket sits in one corner. A stone bathtub and a rusty sink sit in the opposite corner. Cobwebs line the upper corners, whose inhabitants I'd had the sandworm clear out.

"Giselle?" I whisper.

"I'm here," it whispers.

I turn around in the bed to face her. "We'll need to check out in a bit."

It nods and hugs me, breathing into my nape.

I stand up away from her grasp and remove my nightgown. The horn of an inbound ship enters the room. When I turn again towards the bed, the sandworm is gone.

After I check-out, I leave our luggage with the receptionist and wander to The Grande's rooftop outlook. A steel door at the top of the staircase opens to rows of clotheslines. I sit on a ledge beyond the towels and robes. Sunlight refracts upon calm waves littered with barges. Far to the left, a child runs down the seafront and passes by the hotel, giggling all the while with a high-pitched squeak. A crowd of well-dressed foreign soldiers are giving chase. After a time running to the North, she briefly heads inward, with closely trailing soldiers, toward the city center. I try to look over the apartment buildings as she's now out of sight. She soon comes back out bloodied, anyway. She ambles to the far-end of the harbor. After facing me for one last look, she eviscerates her skinsuit and falls back-first into the sea. She writhes, now a speck in the distance, blown in from the desert.

At The Grande's lobby, I find a single soldier approaching each guest with a paper. When he reaches me, he shows a picture of the girl. He asks me if I know her. I tell him I do not. By the sea, I intend to drop one of our tickets into the murky green waters below, though the breeze whips it on its path away from my hands.