Spoiler! :
Smoke erupted from the fire dog’s mouth. Its jaw split open vertically when it reared its head back, chugging and puffing like a congested chimney. ‘Yeees,’ it wheezed. ‘Here to collect. Do you have a reply?’ Mr Bhool placed both his paws on Rén’s desk; he heard an audible ‘crunch’ and winced. Bits and pieces of wire and spring had embedded themselves in the pads of Mr Bhool’s feet.
Rén eyed him nervously, but Mr Bhool seemed unperturbed, simply dragging the base of his foot against the windowpane. ‘Clumsy,’ he grunted. In between tugging fragments of alarm clock from his feet, he said, ‘Do you have, or not have, a reply to give?’
‘Er.’ Rén stood up and dusted himself off, looking around for the envelope. ‘Just a second…’ He scanned the room for it, quickly spotting it being blown around with the rest of his loose sheets on the floor. ‘Could you—close the window behind you please?’ he asked Mr Bhool. The fire dog grunted in acquiescence, spitting a hunk of steel into a corner. A smoke-laced hand extended from the back of his head and the window snapped shut, an uneasy silence weighing in to take place instead of the wind and chill.
Rén handed placed the letter at Mr Bhool’s feet. ‘Do you need help with that? Or, uh, anything else?’ he asked, trying to ignore the mad thumping of his heart. It was as though fear had momentarily vacated him, as though the sheer impossibility of what was before him was a trick of the senses, and he could convince himself easily that the fire dog—that Mr Bhool was, in fact, just a dream.
But Rén knew, of course, that he was not.
Mr Bhool had curled himself up quite comfortably next to the window. Flames erupted out of the side of what Rén figured was probably his head. Blood—a strange, viscous sort that reminded Rén of hot gelatin—trickled from the fire dog’s paw. An odd sound resonated from within his throat, a cross between a ‘grr’ and the distant hum of a speeding motorbike.
‘Bandages, if you have them,’ he said. ‘And a cup of tea.’
‘Tea?’ Rén said.
‘Any kind will do.’ Mr Bhool turned over on—his back? His smoke-ensconced body seemed to hum as it changed form, turning more and more humanlike. The sight evoked fascination and disgust simultaneously. Rén watched, entranced.
‘It’s rude to stare.’ Mr Bhool’s eyeballs sloshed in his sockets, limbs contorting impossibly amid the smoke. Odd, squelching noises issued from his mouth as he yawned. Rén hurried to stuff his fist in his mouth as bile rose up his throat.
‘Sorry,’ he said, walking backwards to the door. ‘I’ll be back,’ he called anxiously, through the crack. ‘In a minute.’
‘Do.’ Mr Bhool unravelled his limbs. ‘It’s been a long day.’
Rén clattered up the stairs five minutes later. Huā and Abalone had been drinking chicken broth in the kitchen when he had rushed inside to make the fastest cup of tea he had ever made. Abalone had been so startled when Rén banged the door open that he spilled ink and broth all over Yesim’s torched wood table. He was still swabbing at the gold and black puddle by the time Rén was done, muttering darkly all the while.
‘What’re you in a hurry for?’ he asked.
‘Nothing!’ Rén half-yelled as he left the kitchen, balancing a ream of bandages precariously on top of a close-lidded bowl of broth and hot herbal tea. Abalone must not know, he thought, clenching his teeth as tried to twist the door handle with his elbow. I’ll be damned if he finds out.
A cold burst of air struck Rén in the face the moment the door swung open. Mr Bhool sat on the windowledge, twirling his hat between his hands. Rén was relieved to see that he was now fully human, nothing of the creature he had been present in his visage. In fact, if Rén hadn’t seen him for what he was, he would have assumed the man perched on his windowledge was a young traveler, probably in his thirties at most.
‘Here.’ Rén placed the tray on the ledge. He blinked his hair out of his eyes; they must have come loose as he ran up the stairs. Mr Bhool nodded at Rén and lifted the lid off the broth. ‘This was unnecessary,’ he said. ‘Just tea will do.’ He looked up sharply. His pupils were still larger than normal, his gaze unsettling. ‘Thank you for the bandages.’ His right hand, Rén saw, was probably the paw that had gotten injured. Blood trickled down his pale, almost-translucent wrists, a cobwebby network of veins and arteries visible under his skin.
How can it look so human, Rén wondered, when it’s not? Or at least, less human than me, anyway… He shook his head, turning away to attend to the paraphernalia that littered the floor—stacking magazines and books in a small slide-open cupboard, dumping the rest in a small pile near it, gingerly picking up the saliva-slathered bits of broken alarm clock and tossing them into a bag to throw out. If Rén’s disgust offended Mr Bhool in any way, he did not show it, but hummed softly as Rén worked.
Once Mr Bhool had finished bandaging his cut, he leaned back against the windowframe with his cup of tea. Rén sat with his back against the door, exhausted, but still ventured to ask:
‘Are you formless?’
Mr Bhool paused, teacup still partially raised to his lips. ‘Essentially, yes. And no. Conceptually, I am several forms, but what I am differs slightly from what I choose to become, in certain situations.’ He took a sip of tea, his mouth—the same mouth that Rén had seen split open like a chrysalis, with its larvae-like tongue—forming into a smile. ‘I have a form suitable for travel, but also come in such shapes and sizes as to befit birthday parties and local events, such as riots, uprisings, and wars. I have also gone drinking, occasionally, for work reasons. Always a fun experience. I am also, as you may have noticed’—Mr Bhool rolled his hat over his shoulder and onto his head in a single fluid motion—‘more of a conversationalist in certain forms, provided I am not too travel-weary.’
Rén eyed him nervously, but Mr Bhool seemed unperturbed, simply dragging the base of his foot against the windowpane. ‘Clumsy,’ he grunted. In between tugging fragments of alarm clock from his feet, he said, ‘Do you have, or not have, a reply to give?’
‘Er.’ Rén stood up and dusted himself off, looking around for the envelope. ‘Just a second…’ He scanned the room for it, quickly spotting it being blown around with the rest of his loose sheets on the floor. ‘Could you—close the window behind you please?’ he asked Mr Bhool. The fire dog grunted in acquiescence, spitting a hunk of steel into a corner. A smoke-laced hand extended from the back of his head and the window snapped shut, an uneasy silence weighing in to take place instead of the wind and chill.
Rén handed placed the letter at Mr Bhool’s feet. ‘Do you need help with that? Or, uh, anything else?’ he asked, trying to ignore the mad thumping of his heart. It was as though fear had momentarily vacated him, as though the sheer impossibility of what was before him was a trick of the senses, and he could convince himself easily that the fire dog—that Mr Bhool was, in fact, just a dream.
But Rén knew, of course, that he was not.
Mr Bhool had curled himself up quite comfortably next to the window. Flames erupted out of the side of what Rén figured was probably his head. Blood—a strange, viscous sort that reminded Rén of hot gelatin—trickled from the fire dog’s paw. An odd sound resonated from within his throat, a cross between a ‘grr’ and the distant hum of a speeding motorbike.
‘Bandages, if you have them,’ he said. ‘And a cup of tea.’
‘Tea?’ Rén said.
‘Any kind will do.’ Mr Bhool turned over on—his back? His smoke-ensconced body seemed to hum as it changed form, turning more and more humanlike. The sight evoked fascination and disgust simultaneously. Rén watched, entranced.
‘It’s rude to stare.’ Mr Bhool’s eyeballs sloshed in his sockets, limbs contorting impossibly amid the smoke. Odd, squelching noises issued from his mouth as he yawned. Rén hurried to stuff his fist in his mouth as bile rose up his throat.
‘Sorry,’ he said, walking backwards to the door. ‘I’ll be back,’ he called anxiously, through the crack. ‘In a minute.’
‘Do.’ Mr Bhool unravelled his limbs. ‘It’s been a long day.’
Rén clattered up the stairs five minutes later. Huā and Abalone had been drinking chicken broth in the kitchen when he had rushed inside to make the fastest cup of tea he had ever made. Abalone had been so startled when Rén banged the door open that he spilled ink and broth all over Yesim’s torched wood table. He was still swabbing at the gold and black puddle by the time Rén was done, muttering darkly all the while.
‘What’re you in a hurry for?’ he asked.
‘Nothing!’ Rén half-yelled as he left the kitchen, balancing a ream of bandages precariously on top of a close-lidded bowl of broth and hot herbal tea. Abalone must not know, he thought, clenching his teeth as tried to twist the door handle with his elbow. I’ll be damned if he finds out.
A cold burst of air struck Rén in the face the moment the door swung open. Mr Bhool sat on the windowledge, twirling his hat between his hands. Rén was relieved to see that he was now fully human, nothing of the creature he had been present in his visage. In fact, if Rén hadn’t seen him for what he was, he would have assumed the man perched on his windowledge was a young traveler, probably in his thirties at most.
‘Here.’ Rén placed the tray on the ledge. He blinked his hair out of his eyes; they must have come loose as he ran up the stairs. Mr Bhool nodded at Rén and lifted the lid off the broth. ‘This was unnecessary,’ he said. ‘Just tea will do.’ He looked up sharply. His pupils were still larger than normal, his gaze unsettling. ‘Thank you for the bandages.’ His right hand, Rén saw, was probably the paw that had gotten injured. Blood trickled down his pale, almost-translucent wrists, a cobwebby network of veins and arteries visible under his skin.
How can it look so human, Rén wondered, when it’s not? Or at least, less human than me, anyway… He shook his head, turning away to attend to the paraphernalia that littered the floor—stacking magazines and books in a small slide-open cupboard, dumping the rest in a small pile near it, gingerly picking up the saliva-slathered bits of broken alarm clock and tossing them into a bag to throw out. If Rén’s disgust offended Mr Bhool in any way, he did not show it, but hummed softly as Rén worked.
Once Mr Bhool had finished bandaging his cut, he leaned back against the windowframe with his cup of tea. Rén sat with his back against the door, exhausted, but still ventured to ask:
‘Are you formless?’
Mr Bhool paused, teacup still partially raised to his lips. ‘Essentially, yes. And no. Conceptually, I am several forms, but what I am differs slightly from what I choose to become, in certain situations.’ He took a sip of tea, his mouth—the same mouth that Rén had seen split open like a chrysalis, with its larvae-like tongue—forming into a smile. ‘I have a form suitable for travel, but also come in such shapes and sizes as to befit birthday parties and local events, such as riots, uprisings, and wars. I have also gone drinking, occasionally, for work reasons. Always a fun experience. I am also, as you may have noticed’—Mr Bhool rolled his hat over his shoulder and onto his head in a single fluid motion—‘more of a conversationalist in certain forms, provided I am not too travel-weary.’
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