The Composer
by Wiebo Grobler
She scrambles up the scree towards the larger boulders, only stopping to rest for a minute near a break between the trees. The crisp air carries the scent of pine and the sound of cascading water. She stretches, her eyes drinking in the undulating brown, orange, and red carpet of leaves, far below in the distance. The snowcapped peaks draw jagged lines of white in the blue sky. Autumn is in full swing. The hessian bag slung over her shoulder groans and she continues her journey upwards.
Her cave entrance is well-hidden and one of many dotting her lands. Brushing a curtain of creepers with purple flowers aside, she enters the darkness. The smell brings back memories of when they were legion, when they went and did as they pleased, before the noise and smoke of the sprawling cities drove them below ground.
At first, they watched with amusement and disdain, scoffing as the tiny humans gathered together, planting and building with their primitive attempts at cohesion. They left the little ants to play, ignorant of the fact that even the largest of animals can be overcome by sheer numbers. And one thing humans do well is breed without conscience.
She had one night each year when she would venture down into civilization and grab a human without too much of a fuss, when everything smelt of cinnamon, nutmeg, and pumpkin spice, all anathema to her senses. They liked to dress like monsters on this hallowed eve and very rarely saw the real monsters lurking amongst them. She certainly wasn’t the only one.
She can still feel her kin, but decade after decade their presence dulls. Most entering a state of hibernation, they wait for the humans to burn themselves out.
Her eyes pierce the dark, turning everything a silver monochrome. The scurry of tiny rodents scampering to safety brings a satisfied huff. She scuttles down several tunnels before slipping behind a rock on the side of the wall, leading to a large antechamber. Her music room. The soaring roof holds a multitude of stalactites, hollowed out with carefully cut holes like the pipes of a church organ. The pipes weep droplets of condensation, and alkaline tears for the soul about to be lost.
She straps the struggling human to the table and peers into its tiny terrified eyes which are frantically scanning the dark. She snorts and shakes her head, its eyes darting towards her, widening slightly, but unable to discern anything in the gloom. She hates these creatures. They can’t see in the dark, they have no armor, and they bruise and bleed at the slightest touch. How are these things now the top of the food chain?
Leaning over her victim, she studies its mouth, her large yellow eyes narrowing. It won’t do. Her claw clamps over the man’s forehead, and with the other, she presses his lips together. Her third arm emerges from one of her many pouches holding a sharp bone needle. With her fourth claw, she tugs a single strand of hair from her head, and it writhes between her fingers for a second before dying and turning from ink blue to white. She carefully threads it through the needle’s eye and then starts to sew. She’s quick, she’s done this countless times before. One side of the mouth is sewed tight before the human’s pain hits.
She studies the tiny hole that’s left. Perfect.
She pushes a thin pipe made from dried intestine through the hole and rubs pine gum around it so no air can escape.
She sets to work carefully drilling smaller holes into the chest and between the ribs, mindful of the soft sacks inside the chest cavity that are vital to her machine. She connects more pipes, which all lead to the stalactites above.
The human body is an instrument that can be played just like any other, and after centuries of trial and error, she has nearly perfected the practice. You can get deep bass notes from crushing the stomach or constricting the chest cavity in a bespoke vice, which she now tightens.
She used to rely on underlings, but if just one of them wasn’t paying attention or was a fraction late to respond, everything was ruined. The instrument is only usable for one precious solo performance.
It has taken decades of work to try and automate her biological orchestra. She has painstakingly claw-crafted an intricate brass cog and rope pulley system. Satisfied, she stands back to admire her living bagpipe. She pulls a lever, which starts a sequence of actions, and like a giant mechanical music box, her machine springs to life. Across the floor, several others she has strung up over the last few days stir.
Human music pitches perfectly as the device pushes, pulls, and squeezes. The body’s internal resonance vibrates in beautiful harmony like the hum of a tuning fork.
In the darkness, stench, and despair of her macabre arena, her song takes flight across her lands. Mountains groan, trees sway, leaves dance, and the river bubbles with joy. Her mocha skin, the texture of crushed velvet, ripples in ecstasy.
She feels the others stir in the back of her head and senses heir approval. It is time to take back what’s theirs. Her symphony grows, carrying its woeful mourn down crags, crevices, and into the streets of the towns below.
Parents out trick-or-treating with their children grab their little hands tighter and pull up their collars, shivering against the sudden chill in the plangent wind sweeping down from the mountains.
The Molotov Cocktail 