Someone You Can Build a Nest In

by John Wiswell

In that warmth, they were fed raw life. Her father’s ribs, rich in marrow, cracking delicately in their mouths, and providing the first feast of their lives. His fat deposits were generous, and his entrails sheltered them from the cruel winter elements. If Shesheshen could have spent her entire life inside the nest of his remains, she would have.

The name “Wulfyre” was familiar, too—a family who claimed some ownership over her lair and occasionally sent killers after her.

She kept her own voice soft, since a whisper was easier to fake than a full-throated human voice. It took quite some concentration to keep a vocal passage open and functional like this. It would be easier once she consumed one from a person. Perhaps one of the hunters would donate.

“Tie her up? She’s an innocent.” “She’s one of those virgins that wyrms love eating so much. On top of that, we know the monster likes her voice. It’ll crawl out of its shithole if we have the right bait.

But humans never stood up for the right thing. They stood around feeling uncomfortable, and later pretended that feeling uncomfortable meant they were virtuous.

It was the older families that clutched most of the wealth, even though it was harvested by the laborers. What the laborers got out of it that kept them from eating the rich, Shesheshen didn’t understand. She was a mere monster.

This revelry was a kind of fear, for hatred was the fear people let themselves enjoy.

“Fire! Fire is the wyrm’s one weakness!” Being burned was a weakness of hers, insofar as it was a weakness of every living thing she’d met. You could roast a sheep or a human on a fire and nobody called that their “weakness.” Having fire thrust into their eye sockets was a threat to them. Weaknesses were a human invention. They called it your weakness if they fantasized about murdering you with it.

It made no sense to fight now, at her weakest. She would kill this woman tomorrow instead.

Nobody actually helped each other. That’s why people had religions, hoping gods would provide help where people refused.

“One of two things is going to happen tonight. I could eat every piece of you that you don’t need to stay alive, until there is nothing but a fleshless bundle of organs and prime bones. Then I will swallow your still-sobbing self inside of my flesh, and keep you alive, and make your mouth my own. I will hunt your family down and work your jaw such that I eat them with your own mouth. Only when there is nothing left of you will I swallow you and let you weep in an oblivion of stomachs.

Her generosity. Her medical knowledge. She even came with a pair of oxen that their young would love devouring. It all made so much sudden sense. Homily would make a beautiful nest. Shesheshen’s insides churned as she imagined laying eggs in Homily’s lungs. Every breath she took would bathe them in oxygen, until they were strong enough to burrow out. They would be born from the love of this generous woman’s flesh. Surely, this was how love felt to everyone.

Homily had another way of sidestepping humanity’s penchant for complaining: enjoying herself. People could simply choose not to hate things.

The only thing that broke up the outfit was that green scarf, trailing down her back. The woman never seemed to remove it.

The Baroness Wulfyre brought a fingertip down to caress one of the triangular points on her necklace. “These? My daughter should’ve told you. They are all that remains of the last Wyrm of Underlook. It had metal jaws, which it used to pierce and bury its eggs in my late husband. Its young killed him, and so I killed it in kind.

It was such a cave-in of emotion that Shesheshen doubted herself. She had never mourned her siblings; they had tried to eat her, so she had eaten them. Watching Homily, for the first time she doubted if she’d been right. Should she have been hurt? Should she have wept when they slid down her gullet?

And she’d told such terrible lies about Shesheshen’s father. That he hadn’t been her father at all, but was a brief victim? No. He had been a generous, giving man. Her mother hadn’t kidnapped him and forced her eggs inside him. That couldn’t be true. He had been a splendid nest, giving all his kindness and flesh to his young.

She wasn’t kind because of some angelic virtue. It was insecurity. It was an adaptation to cruelty. Shesheshen wrapped her arms around Homily and held her to her chest for a moment, mourning the realization that she’d fallen in love with someone’s pain.

The gentlest of these humans sat back and listened to a bear be tortured by a spoiled child. How badly did she feel like feeling for them?

This was the same mistake so many humans made: believing someone would leap over trauma when it hurt them badly enough. That wasn’t how it worked, and the monster knew it. All Shesheshen could do for Homily was be patient with her, and make space for her, and eventually, one day behind her back, eat her mother.

This was not like those descriptions. It was another moist orifice pressing into her. A sort of mutually failed cannibalism.

Once again, she asked, “What? Are? You?” This gray mimic blinked owlishly at her. “You’re serious? You wretched, ignorant speck of a thing. I created you. Years ago, I planted you in that shit-heel Baron. An ignorant person would call me your mother.”

I do not like being near anyone most of the time. Because of the harm they can do. Whereas you were worth being harmed for. Does that make sense?”

Above her, the Baroness’s voice taunted. “Epigram has known my little secret for years. She thought it was priceless comedy. Wouldn’t shut up about it if she thought we were clear of eavesdroppers. But you wouldn’t know that. You’re not family.” Shesheshen tried to answer, “You. Made me.”

Homily said, “See how it’s round? That’s an ‘O.’ Your lips make the same shape when you say the letter. ‘O.’ See?” “No. They do not look like that.” “Try it.” “No.” “Did you feel how your mouth moved when you said no? At the end, it was a circle.” Shesheshen did not notice that.

Homily said, “This letter here is an ‘O.’ Can you see other Os on the page?” A quarter of the page was covered in the insipid circles.

“You have a lot to catch up on. Epilogue will keep you up all night showing you her writing.” “My offspring . . . writes?”