In a fever The Beast swims up and then back down the southern stretch of the Northern Leg, his fins numb from overflapping, his neck bent and contorted like a knotty piece of driftwood. For four cycles now the buzzing of The Dome has commanded his every move, his every breath, every thought to boom and rattle through his reptilian head. The Beast did not ask to be abducted, to be stolen from his life, to be ripped callously from his family, to be plucked from his oceanic environment like an eel from a river, but he was, aye, he was taken haphazardly, grabbed by that effervescent shining light, consumed by it only to be reborn in different waters altogether, and the buzz has stalked him ever since, the infernal buzz, the hellish black noise that drives cracks in his skull, that grinds his jaws in such a way that his teeth may crack and shatter. The buzz has reduced the once proud and spirited and zestful for life Beast into an unhinged killing machine, into a lost soul damned to toil forevermore in this crescent moon Reservoir, to live until he dies, never reaching his full size, like a goldfish stolen from its massive pond and trapped in a glass prison fastened by giants.
Yes, The Dome’s infernal buzzing haunts The Beast, it drags him up and down the Northern Leg, it commands him to stay imprisoned in the submerged jungle where he must buck and weave through waterlogged trees, lest he wishes to level them all. But there is something else in the water now, something similar to The Dome’s buzz but of a different wavelength entirely, something more serene, a vibration which invites him rather than commands – a vibration emitted from the Southern Expanse where The Beast is made to toil from the onset of spring until the cool end of autumn when Monksville’s waters are still heated from the hot days of the summer.
As you well know (if I’ve done my job at all), The Beast is not a denizen of the Mighty Mother Monksville; he was not born here but brought here from a time and space far off from what we know as the here and now; like the two beings who inhabit The Dome, The Beast knows nothing of the channel; it cannot send thought, nor can it receive. However, unlike those who inhabit The Dome and use all the many instruments constantly at work inside its thick and tinted glass shells, The Beast can sense the channel, so long as it is opened by those who share in the breathing of lake.
There is a reason, I say, that no lakebreather dares to open the channel beneath the surface of the Monksville Reservoir – though thoughts are sent over a wavelength so benign, The Beast knows nothing except slaughter. It’s been forced to murder and consume ever since it howled forth from ocean to Reservoir, its brain has been washed and all the color has seeped out, leaving only a void, a void so unfillable no matter how many fall to the ungodly snap of its jagged, toothy maw. While the buzz causes pain, the channel causes pleasure, and fear can only rule over the mind of a living being for so long. Even if The Beast shall only be further bent under the will of The Dome when the serene vibration is silenced, it will gladly take its reprieve when such is offered.
As The Beast tears past The Dome the buzzing only intensifies, but the creature pays it no mind. The channel has been opened in the waters of Mother Monksville and it is shared by two lakebreathers, a duo soon to be a trio, a trio which shall sadly reduce to a single tortured monster of a maw most terrible and jagged.
This has been the thirteenth subchapter of the third chapter of the book The Monksville Chronicles. Here is everything you need to know about it:
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