The Beast That Howls in the Night

Weird Fantasy / 2000 words

PREFACE: I was trying to write flash fiction with this one. In fact, the original version was under a thousand words. But it didn’t feel like it’d give readers enough closure, so I expanded upon it, and this is the result. Oh, and there’s a subtle reference to Roger Zelazny in there—can you spot it? Let me know in the comments!

Within the darkness, there is a place so black that black might seem bright as white. And therein live creatures blacker still that have made it their home. They come in different shapes and hues, so much so they do not think themselves black at all. In fact, that very word holds no meaning in their language—nor do ‘life,’ ‘death,’ ‘beginning,’ or ‘ending.’

Following a thread, the one known as Irrhynt floats upon the currents of space—though there be no wind here, nor space at all—and spies a passing sigh. Capturing it, It/He swallows the shapeless non-thing to absorb its essence and, in doing so, is gifted with sight.

During His absence, the war has expanded, just as He expected. Some claim it can never end (though they call it ‘change’) because if it did, it would just begin (change) again. And it is thus the nature of war to grow, and all one can hope for is to help it expand to benefit one’s clan.

A familiar howl rings in the night that is not night at all and it brings a smile to His smoke-shaped lips.

The tide had turned before He left, and Irrhynt sees it has not changed since, instead expanded in the wrong sense.

But this can change now.

He sends a sigh of His own, calling for parley.

The others are quick to respond. They are many, for they are all. Gathering around Him, the thousand masses writhe and squirm and hail. There are some He recognizes—chief among these Dharkinan, mistress of His clan. Now in the shape of a glowering ball, It/She shimmers with joy upon seeing Him.

“You have returned!”

He can only agree with the truth in Her words, and so He does.

“I have.”

Closer come the foes victorious—Uthernyl and Nhotsayn. Of different clans, the tide has turned to both. Others, too, shine, though they choose not to boast.

Uthernyl slithers as a tube of pulsing heat; Nhotsayn withstands the void as a cone of non-matter, shapeless as Irrhynt.

They, and others too, swarm around Him, thirsting for news.

“I will strike us a win,” Irrhynt says proudly.

This, of course, is met with excitement from all parties—as all change heralds continuity.

“I have traveled far,” He explains. “Further than ever before any of us has. Listen. Beyond the void that never ends, there is another void that never ends.”

Of course, He says ‘changes,’ but ‘ends’ is what He means—though He does not know this, for there is no such word in His language.

The thousand masses cannot nod (they have no heads) but He senses their approval all the same, for in their wisdom they know this to be truth. There are countless voids without end (change).

“It was there I found the beast that howls in the night. But it is not one. It is many!”

The assembly grows restless.

“Surely, that cannot be!” shouts Uthernyl.

“I have landed upon its back—”

“Is this why it howls?” asks Dharkinan.

Irrhynt pauses, giving the question thoughtful consideration. After an eternity (which to them passes in the blink of an eye—which they have none), He formulates the most appropriate answer.

“Perhaps. I was unable to ascertain the nature of its distress.”

“Go on,” urges the mistress of His clan.

“Though the beast is small, its voices are smaller still. They are issued by millions, perhaps billions of tiny mouths. Stranger still, the mouths move upon its surface.”

“Impossible!” roar the thousand masses—themselves a billion voices as one.

“Naturally, I shrunk so I could see them better.”

Despite their lack of heads, all of them nod at this obvious statement.

“The voices had strange shapes I decided to mimic, to better fit in. They were... They were...”

At a loss for words, He stops. Realizes He had not thought this through as He should have. How could one describe such horrid forms? There simply were no words. Then a brilliant idea comes to Him.

“I will show you! Though for convenience, I will maintain my proper size.”

And thus His form shifts. Immaterial becomes material. Skin appears. Underneath, bones. Long appendages—four—on each side of a trunk. A round shape at the top, resting on a short and narrow bridge. More shapes form on the round shape at the top—prompting horrified gasps from the thousand masses: what can only be described as eyes, a nose, ears, and—most horrid of all—a mouth!

Fighting repulsion and the screaming impulse to switch back, He awkwardly lifts the left appendage to point at said mouth.

“Billions of such holes make the howl.”

A long silence greets this solemn announcement. It lasts another eternity, only broken by—irony of ironies—the howling of the beast.

The thousand masses shudder and turn to Irrhynt who, mercifully, has resumed His previous shapeless form.

“Wait!” cries out Uthernyl. “How does this give you a win?”

“When one becomes as small as these mouths,” says Irrhynt, “the howl is no howl at all. For all the mouths speak different words. It is this clamor of so many we perceive as a howl.”

Confusion spreads across the masses.

“What are you saying?” asks Nhotsayn.

“Are these tiny things... sentient?”

The question, voiced by His own mistress, the venerable Dharkinan, fills Him with pride.

“That is what I say, yes.”

“Impossible!” roar the thousand masses in a billion more voices.

A flurry of shapes and hues swirls around Him, agitated by the news, unwilling to accept such an egregious truth.

“This changes everything!” wails Uthernyl, for It/He recognizes He has been dealt a mighty blow.

As do all clans, save for Dharkinan’s who glows and grows.

Nhotsayn rumbles. “I am not convinced! I call for proof.”

“You dare call my emissar a liar?”

The void expands as Dharkinan stirs, for Her rage is ever-changing.

“I do not. Nevertheless, statements have little value. Only evidence rules.”

This all know to be truth, and so She of the growing clan must relent.

Irrhynt is serene. He had expected no less. The cosm bends to His will. Chunks of nondescript matter float around the thousand masses, swirling and twirling, casting darker shades upon the darkest shapes. The crowd watches as reality breaks and tears, as if it was nothing they had not seen before—and, in fact, it was nothing they had not seen before. For each of them has this power, to mold the substance—or non-substance, as it may be—of the void that never ends/changes and those other voids that never end/change that lay beyond.

Presently, the void becomes non-void, to the extent of a circular shape, the size of a small boulder. It floats before them—a sphere of blue with swaths of white and large greenish shapes underneath. For a moment, the screaming colors blind them and all must avert their gazes. It is little trouble for them to adjust, however, and they do so within seconds. Now they can comfortably—if unpleasantly—contemplate the hideous form.

“This,” says the emissar, “is the beast that howls in the night. See how it spins and shifts in the void which is no void.”

The others nod their non-heads.

“There are lights around it,” remarks Uthernyl.

“The mouths call them stars.”

The thousand masses shift and Irrhynt can sense the unease in them. He understands, for He feels it as well. How can mouths have thoughts of their own? It is inconceivable. And yet...

With a flick of His will, the sphere expands until it is so large they all float in the skies above the beast’s surface. They see it as if they were there, though they are not. All know this for the simulation it is. And still it expands. Soon they see the skin—never fully flat, with mounds and heights, crevices and pits, streams of blue pus, and so many colors they had never even known existed.

They reel at the sensory onslaught.

“Who—?” stammers one of the thousand masses, words failing it as it gasps in horror at the sights before them.

“Who indeed!” roars Nhotsayn, throwing an accusing glare at the emissar’s mistress.

Dharkinan shudders as She pulls, with some difficulty, Her gaze from the mesmerizing scene—as horrendous as it is.

“We did not do this.” Understanding the accusation, She counters it before it is phrased more plainly. “This defies all rules of propriety!”

Even as She speaks, the surrounding decor further expands until they stand upon that non-shapeless skin. That is when they see the mouths.

It happens so suddenly, it interrupts any further arguing between the thousand masses. All fall quiet, staring at the hideous forms that walk on two legs, constantly moving their lips, blabbering an endless flow of unintelligible sounds.

“Make it stop!” screams a voice among them.

Almost instantly, the howling fades. It is still there, but almost silent, distant, unending. The mouths walk on, oblivious to their presence.

“This proves nothing!” growls Uthernyl.

Irrhynt, who had stood quiet, unfolds now. His presence looms over them all—encompassing their beings within Himself.

“Then you have seen without seeing,” He booms. “Look again! And be blessed with true sight.”

For the first time, they notice the structures. They are not part of the beast’s skin. Things of metal and wood. Looking more closely, they see mouths gathering in closed spaces, making these things. They are capable of creation. If, then, they are capable of such, then surely they must be sentient.

Once again, Uthernyl wails in anguish. Many other voices within the thousand masses join Him. The sorrow is deep, crippling.

Alone, Dharkinan remains quiet. Her gaze drifts to Her subject, and She wonders. She will not question Him here or now—it would not be proper—but question Him She must.

Still, it is victory, and She will take it regardless of form.

Later, after the massive crowd has parted, and the vision of the beast has dissolved, the two of them drift together in the comforting void. The mistress, still stunned by the experience, sifts for the right words.

“You did this, did you not?” She asks finally.

Irrhynt remains quiet a moment longer than He should have.

“Does it matter?”

“You know it does.”

The emissar sighs a sigh that signals His exhaustion. It drifts past them and dissolves in the ether.

“There cannot be nothing without something. Void without matter. Silence without howling. The war does not end, and if it does not end, then it does not change. We needed change. So I brought us change.”

He talks not of end, of course, for there is no word for this in their language. And though so much mention of change may feel confusing to others not of their kind, they perceive the variation of meaning in the subtleties of tone and pitch.

“At what price? There is no knowing what these new creations will do...”

Irrhynt shrugs His non-existent shoulders—but a wisp of smoke in the smoldering darkness.

“They are nothing. So tiny, so insignificant... You have seen them.”

“Yes. As I have seen what they can create. There is no knowing how far they will go.”

He drifts toward Her, encircles Her with care, with affection.

“Should I have let you down, then? Should I have let us fade into non-memory until the infinity of creation and non-creation?”

She sighs, and Her sigh merges with the non-substance of Her subject, tickling His senses with delight.

“No one must ever learn what you have done. They already suspect. It is a dangerous game you play. Creation is not within our purview.”

“There is no certainty,” said Irrhynt with amusement. “Perhaps the beast always was, and I merely found it because I willed to find it? Perhaps creation is pure myth. Who is to say? Not I.”

Dharkinan says nothing as the two shapeless beings merge to become one, at least for a little while.

And thus the war shifts, as all wars shift. Even one such as this, where there is no army, no victim, no blood, and no dead. A war to end all wars—or, rather, to change all wars.

Eternal and sublime.

A war of creation.

Ever expanding.

If you like my writing, please consider buying a copy of my novel, upgrading to a paid subscription, or making a Paypal or Ko-fi donation. As an independent author, any of these would help a lot!

Want to read more weird fantasy? Here are two other stories you might enjoy:

• The Waystation (a man tries to find his missing sister in a twisted version of Paris)

• Under a Violet Sky (a lost soul is thrown into a strange and messed-up world)

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Text (c) 2024 by Alex S. Garcia.

Header: royalty-free stock images, edited by me.

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