Gwen, in Green

He moved to follow, and then decided against it. This nuttiness about plants had to end sometime. Hell, he couldn’t even mow the lawn or clear the trees—rather, the small oak seedlings which had sprouted in his cleared areas. It was too much. He went to work, taking out his momentary unhappiness on the passive small growth. He had to take breaks frequently until he was soaked, and nature’s air conditioning system began functioning, sweat cooling as it evaporated. Then it was a rhythmic swing and pull as muscles loosened, and his body felt alive, healthy. He cleared a ring in which to pile the brush, then worked on the margin of the pond. Gwen did not come out. It soon became a contest of wills. He would work, cut brush, until she came out. In the end, she won. After two hours of it—hot, tired, sweaty, a huge pile of brush ready for burning, the visible result of his labor, a cleared swath alongside the pond—he stood, bent his aching back with one hand on his hip, and looked at the lowering sun.

He carried the ax and saw toward the house. The pond was green, clear and cool-­looking. He put the ax and saw on the grass, stripped off his sweat-­soaked clothing, and cooled himself. Refreshed, he sat in the shallow water and bellowed for Gwen. She was still playing coy, refusing to answer, did not show herself. He grinned. He’d show her. He was not going in until she came out.

But it was boring to sit in the shallow water with the pulpy green things wiggling against his legs when he moved. There was another project he’d been neglecting, one which could be accomplished in the cool of the pond. He went to the garage, got hoe and rake, and attacked the water plants in his swimming area, cutting them below sand with the hoe and raking them out with the rake. They were tough, surprisingly tough, but he was strong, and his energies had been restored. A pile of the green stuff grew rapidly. He halted for a brief rest. White sand was beginning to show and he would have a nice little beach and a clear bottom area soon. Then he looked at the pile of green stuff.

“Jesus Christ,” he said under his breath. The stuff was alive. It writhed. It moved. It crawled. He’d never seen anything like it. It acted almost as if it were trying to crawl back to the water, but the effect was like looking into a bucket of green worms. “Jesus,” he repeated, cutting one of the wriggling pieces with his hoe. The severed parts continued to writhe.

At first she was dreaming. She’d thrown herself across the bed, bathing suit damp. Strangely, the clearing operation did not affect her, save for a dull, sharp, dull, sharp, rather minor pain. It was nothing compared with the mass destruction of the marsh, and the giant agonies of hundred-­year-­old oaks. It was, she concluded, a price they would have to pay. She was even able to doze through it, wishing he’d stop, but unable to come up with a solution which would serve to stop him without making him think she was going crazy. He would tire. He would stop. It wouldn’t last for weeks, months, as the huge pain had lasted. It was bearable.

But this. It devastated her; this dream was more horrible, more dreadful, and more painful than anything that had been done to them before. It was the ultimate horror, the nightmare which had been feared for hundreds of thousands of years. It was so terrible she couldn’t scream, could only writhe on the bed, a sensitive being in an agony which wouldn’t stop, couldn’t be conquered, even temporarily, by fainting.

Then it wasn’t a dream. It was happening. She tried to scream out, beg it to stop. Her muscles spasmed, drew her into a knot. She fought. “Stop it, stop it,” her mind screamed, every cell on fire, every nerve tortured. She struggled to the glass doors leading onto the balcony, saw him working again, killing, maiming, striking at the central sanctuary. “Oh, God, no,” she thought, still unable to scream.

Pain jerked her to the bare boards as she struggled onto the balcony and it left her weak. She pushed herself up, held to the railing for support, made it down the stairs, her mouth working, eyes wide, streaming tears, body jerking with the horrible pain.

“No, no, stop.” It was soundless. He wouldn’t even turn around. She fell and writhed on the grass.

George had lost his awe. Hell, they were just plants. There were millions of them in the pond. What if he did cut out a few? They were eerie things, funny. He wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to find that they had something to do with the complete lack of life in the pond, no fish, no frogs. If they did, indeed, as he thought, help keep the water clear, then he’d keep them. He’d rather have a clear, clean swimming place than a muddy frog and fish pond, but it wouldn’t hurt at all to expose some wading sand near the bank. Then maybe Gwen would swim with him.