Clouds in your Mind

A few steps away, a lad collapses onto the ground. Even the cracks in my pilot goggles aren’t enough to spare me the sight of the peculiar mushrooms which bloom all over the head of the poor lad, in addition to those already covering his neck and shoulders.

I wouldn’t like someone to think I’m insensible for just standing here, not even willing to extend my hand to that miserable soul. Oh, I’m far from the misanthropic kind.

It’s simply that, by now, my mind is clear. Clear like the sky to whose company I’ve grown accustomed. It is so blatant by now that I can’t repress a mechanical laugh.

An illusion. Of course, that’s another of these accursed illusions so graciously offered by my Ballooner Sickness. But it won’t trap me. No, it won’t. I won’t let it get my sanity. I already survived the holes; now I’m a whole new man.

Holding my bottle of champagne, keeping under my arm the baby deer I awoke with, I turn to my old floating comrade and approach the basket, leaning over the rim. The packages are still there, and I take one of them with me.

I hoped to find help after landing to restock, maybe a knowledgeable doctor, maybe some medicine, but the villagers have all gone mad. Some places are unfortunately isolated to the point that the very few people living there lose their minds. Poor humans trapped by the sharp mountains encircling the village.

Though I’m aware of the dangers of wandering in this modest town for any longer, I step away from my balloon, walking down the wheat field towards the center of this place.

There’s one thing I have left to do. A package which has to be delivered.

I know that it might seem unreasonable, and maybe it is. But a man needs to guide himself with at least a few principles. Mine is to get my work done. It wouldn’t suit my ethics if I left with a package that isn’t mine, if I stole from one of these distracted souls a brief respite, a smile from their lips.

As I walk, the legs of the baby deer dangle back and forth at the rhythm of my steps, almost as if still able to frolic.

A displeasing smell makes the ends of my twirly moustache quiver. The closer I get to the main cluster of habitations, the more screams buzz at my ears like bothersome flies attracted by disgraceful scents.

I shall not stare at them, for they are giving shape to my fears. I try to follow this principle until a figure grows closer and closer in the corner of my eye.

Pale like death despite the hectic pace of his steps, a man pursued by a cloud of crows.

They croak, they croak.

The villager extends his hand forward, seeking escape from the tip of his nails. Vain hope. The hunt claims its prey. Once you eat, once you’re eaten.

The crows cover him soon, in the shadow of their feathers. They slither over his fingers like worms. A few fall to the ground. They run in circles. A compact mass. A complete mess.

I can’t help but take a step back as they merge into a hole, their prey falling into its repulsive depths.

My body demands to expel whatever fluids remain, but as my empty stomach is unable to fulfill  demand, I hurry to walk away.

In the distance, where the church stands, eerie chants arise. Unknown language. Screams can’t cover their whispers.

“They’re here! They’re here! Hunting the sinners!”

***

Humans only in name. Eating animals.

Eating humans. The forest knows who to blame.

The prey will be the hunter, the hunter will be the prey.

Church bells ring. Once a thought, now reality. Church bells ring.

Demons they bring.

Beg, beg, beg! Beg and pray!

HUNTING SEASON.

***

Knock, knock, knock.

Don’t overthink. Don’t. Don’t stare at the hole in the door lock. Remote house, distant whining. The hole doesn’t move, doesn’t widen. Maybe my Ballooner Sickness has finally subsided. Blessed be the air from below the clouds.

“Who’s there?” A shriveled voice squeaks as the door opens, revealing the figure of an old woman.

Standing straight and proud, I extend a package towards the respectable lady.

“Barnaby, from the International Airmail Federation. I’m here to deliver a package.”

Before answering, she takes her time to observe me, leaning in closer as if necessary to distinguish the shape of the parcel. So close that her nose hovers next to the kraft paper.

“Oh, a package for me, I see. That must be from my granddaughter.” She pauses, turning on her heels and stepping back into her modest house. “Come in, I’ll make you some tea.”

Her invitation brings a smile to my lips. The customers who invite me for a drink aren’t rare. In fact, they are grateful that I deliver their precious parcels even into the confines of the most secluded places. Of course, they’re also hungry for the tales from afar that I’m able to offer them.

Stepping in, I leave the non-existent chaos beyond the threshold.

Guided to the living room, I meekly take a place at the table, putting down the package. The old lady leaves to prepare the tea. All I hear is the ticking of the grandfather clock standing near the wall, until this sound is joined by the crescendo of boiling water.

Reaching for my tiny comb in my pocket, I pass it along my wicks, chasing the dust out of my moustache. By the time the old lady returns with two cups of tea and cake plates, a heap of brilliant particles has formed on the table. It's beautiful.

“Don’t you take off your hat, dear fellow?” She asks.

“A hat, madam? I’m not wearing one, though.”

She frowns, but says nothing at first, reaching for her parcel.

“Young ones, these days.” She mutters, nostalgic. “All men end up losing their hair, you know. You shouldn’t be ashamed.”

Still combing my moustache, I barely hide my curiosity as my host undoes the kraft paper. Oh it isn’t what is inside that captivates me. What I truly wish to see is the expression on her face as she finds out.

The clock keeps ticking.

The parcel’s surface moves.

Moving? As if something was pushing out from the inside, bulging its surface… But the old lady doesn't notice anything. Calm down. Breathe, take a sip of tea. Dusty.

Suddenly, dark masses emerge from the package, black fingers wrapping around the old woman’s silhouette. Fingers larger than the parcel. Barely does the old lady have time to scream before they drag her into the parcel. Her body twisting, twisting. Shrinking. They vanish into the void. The hands. The lady.

Empty.

The clock keeps ticking.

Empty room.

I put the bottle of champagne down on the table. I'd forgotten I was still holding it. A nervous laugh escapes my whiskers. I put down the baby deer, feeling its weight shatter the plate beneath it. Cutlery near enough for me to grab, I stare with a gulp at the fresh corpse.

How did it taste again?

Serving myself a cup of champagne, I reach for the despised meat and cut myself a piece.

And I feast. I feast on the remnants of my sanity. Over. Over with the deliveries. Over with these journeys through the sky. Just let me awake.

I want to awake.

I want to

I want

I

…

“Delivery complete.”

The words echo.

“Your task here is done. You can leave this place.”

Legs move on their own. Standing up. Body turns away from the table. A step, another, heading to the door.

***

Curses lie in our minds

Demanding to spread over the land

The first to eat isn’t the last to stand

Fungus holes, fungus rules, fungus blinds

NO HOLES.

***

The gas canister has already been replaced for me by some unseen helpful forces. I check my instruments one last time. Once more, my balloon’s curves float proudly above my head.

With a last glance at the town down the wheat fields, I let the flames grow, the basket slowly ascend. The way back was a bit of an expedition, as I had to carefully avoid stepping on mushrooms. It would have been a shame to harm any of them.

As the balloon gains height, I notice with a glance towards the mountains how close they have grown to the town. Their sharp edges seem to move slowly, to point at the trapped habitations like clawed fingers. Or, rather, seem to point at the few houses still visible among the jungle of giant fungi erupting from the ground one after the other. A few unlucky inhabitants get abducted up there, to the top of the caps. They try to grab hold of anything they can, but the caps are too slippery. it's only a matter of time. Soon enough, they will stumble.

Human rain.

Humming, I observe the silhouettes growing smaller. The ones who have managed keep themselves aloft are now seized by a mess of hands, jabbed by a cloud of birds… unless they fall into the black depths of newly grown mouths.

The jaws of the mountains devour the forest, the fields, the buildings, the earth. Soon, no trace remains of the modest, frankly insignificant town. It did not "vanish off the map", as they say, as it was never featured on it to begin with. An incongruence between reality and its representation has been fixed. It's a beautiful thing, really.

Ah, but I shouldn’t allow myself to get distracted. One distracted moment can be enough to cause an unfortunate accident. Experience has taught me at least that much, after all the years I've spent up here.

Turning to my instruments, I calibrate them to make sure we don’t deviate from our route. We wouldn’t want to miss our next destination, right?

"Setting course for Honduras. Next delivery is to be fulfilled.”