Omigaa

by Chip Houser

Down the hill from the Mini Mart, past the grass border surrounding an electrical substation, the twisted roots of a honeysuckle cradle a crumbling brick manhole, its lid long lost. Through the decades, myriad liquids have saturated the ground, seeping through earth and masonry to collect in a shallow, oily pool at the bottom of the shaft. Runoff from the Mini Mart’s parking lot, dielectric fluid from the substation, hormone-saturated water from the surrounding subdivisions, the bones of hapless rodents, all steeping in a toxic stew. When it rains, microplastic-rich droplets swell and fall from rusted rungs, rippling the pool’s unctuous surface. Recently, even when it hasn’t rained and the air is still, the pool occasionally ripples, lapping against a sodden shore of mushroom-studded muck and clotted brick tailings.

One day, a curly-haired girl crawls into the honeysuckle thicket, the last unfound player in a game of hide-and-seek. She squats among gnarled roots, listening to the taunting calls of the seekers, and nearly falls into the sewer. She’s played in this little patch of forest her whole life, exploring, building forts, adventuring with her neighborhood friends, sometimes hiding from them, or from homework, but this is the first time she’s seen the sewer. It feels like a glorious secret, a key that will unlock many mysteries.

She looks around to make sure she hasn’t been spotted and clambers down the rusty rungs. She hops onto the soft ground, careful to avoid the rainbow-streaked pool.

In the dim light, the girl fist pumps. “Yes!” Her voice echoes down the tunnel. They’ll never find her down here. She hunches below stringy tendrils hanging from the slick brick vault, wishing for a flashlight. She takes a few steps down the partially collapsed tunnel, her sneakers sinking into crunchy loam.

“Yes!” She hears a late echo of her voice behind her. She turns. An oily, translucent spire has risen from the pool. The tip bulges and distorts, swelling into the rough shape of her face.

“Yes!” it repeats.

The girl screams— “Omigaa!” — as a half-formed hand extends toward her. She leans away, but it stretches and touches her. Electricity surges through her body and she jolts, back arching as she falls. Her head strikes a jagged pile of bricks. The dull crunch echoes along the tunnel.

The pool flows around the girl. It has seen many other creatures, down here and in the world above, but never one like this. It’s fascinated by the creature’s long fingers, its soft, salty shell, the springy coils of the dark fur on its head. The other creatures were much smaller, with tails and claws, furry all over, not just on their heads. When it took their shape, they always ran away. The pool followed them, which was fun, but when it caught them, they always stopped moving. It doesn’t understand why.

The pool draws itself up, over and over, trying to mimic the creatures shape. It also practices the sound it made:

“O. Mi. Gaa.”

The other creatures made short, sharp screeches and hisses, sounds with a single shape. Easy for the pool to repeat. This is three different sounds, three different shapes, put together.

“O-mi-gaa.”

“Omigaa!”

“Omigaa!”

Once the pool can repeat it flawlessly, it practices walking the creature’s shape around the tunnel, climbing up and down the ladder. Its movements were complicated, but the pool remembers them clearly, and soon imitates them precisely.

Eventually, it grows tired. It settles back into its soft shores, gently lapping against the creature’s feet, which are covered in a grooved, flexible material that smells of the things it has pressed against.

*

When it rises again, the pool takes the creature’s shape, which it thinks of by the sounds it made, as Omigaa.

Omigaa climbs the ladder and emerges into the dappled sunlight. Beyond the honeysuckle, across a stretch of grass, is the great thrumming contraption of cylinders and coils. It has visited it many times, in many forms, drawn by its power. Intoxicating waves pump along lines arcing through the sky to wood poles with more wires draped between them.

The chain link is warm as it passes through the fence.

Omigaa touches one of the cylinders, feels its tickling promise. It elongates fingers into tendrils, sliding them through the metal louvers into the pulsing core. A feeling like a hundred thunderstorms surges through it.

“Omigaa!” it cries, and slumps to the ground in a senseless puddle. 

*

Lights popping and flickering on around the building up the hill wake Omigaa. Creatures shaped like Omigaa are moving around up there. Pulsing with enough energy to make a thousand shapes, it passes through the fence and walks up the hill.

Two creatures lean against a shiny machine under the lights. One is tall with colorful designs on its smooth head. The other is shorter with long purple fur and shiny metal bits in its face.

It walks over to them and says, “Omigaa!”

They don’t run away. Instead, their faces wrinkle up around their eyes. The one with purple fur says, “What’s up, kid?”

“Kid?” Omigaa says. That’s an easy one.

The creatures look at each other.

“She sounds just like you, Cass.”

“I do not sound like that,” the purple-furred creature says.

“Um, yeah you do.” The taller one stands, pushing itself off the shiny machine. “I’ll go pay. Want me to grab you a Monster?”

Omigaa says, “Monster?” They aren’t running away.

“That’s creepy.” The taller creature walks toward the building.

“Yeah well, that is what you sound like,” the purple-furred one says softly. It kneels and shows its teeth to Omigaa. But it doesn’t hiss or back away like the smaller creatures did when they showed their teeth. “Are you lost?”

Omigaa is excited, hopeful. “Lost?”

The purple-furred creature leans close to Omigaa, its eyes narrowing. “Something’s not right.” It holds out a hand to Omigaa. “Are you in shock?”

“Shock!” Omigaa says, reaching for the outstretched hand.