Page 10 of A Malicious Menagerie
Well. Other than the jackalopes, this is the first creature I’ve met tonight that doesn’t seem to want to kill me. Not on the surface, anyway. I’ll take that as a win.
6
The Morality
Bolstered by my interaction with the dire wolf, I muster the courage to continue, moving deeper into the woods. No creatures come to meet me at the next couple of exhibits. Instead, I’m left peering into the gloam, somewhere between disappointed and relieved. And frustrated—I’m sure John could tell me what’s in here, if he would deign to do so.
Though what I see in the next cage almost makes me long for the disappointment.
When I reach the next set of iron bars, I glance up and freeze when I realize that the resident is only scant yards away from me. His back is turned, reaching up for an apple in the boughs above his head, which allows me a few seconds to process what I’m seeing.
He’s a centaur, just like the one immortalized in the carousel. His hindquarters are those of a massive destrier, his coat white as snow and spotted with large swaths of dappled gray. Rising from where a horse’s neck would be is a man’s powerful torso, with tanned, broad shoulders narrowing to a sturdy waist. The arm he reaches upward is bound in thick muscle, his bicep reminiscent of a watermelon. A curtain of dark hair falls down his back, the color the same steel gray as his spots.
I must make some small sound because he pauses mid-reach and twists toward me, one tapered equine ear flickering from between locks of hair. His face is just as beautiful as that of his carousel effigy, hischeekbones and jawline so sharp they might have been chiseled from marble. The sight of him is like a punch to the gut, his beauty is so great.
Sadly, that beauty is quickly marred by the force of his rage. He bares his teeth, revealing incisors that are blunt but framed by two hooked canines like a stallion’s. He turns toward me, his heavy hooves pounding into the dirt, and begins talking quickly in a language I don’t recognize. Even trembling with anger, his voice is deep and melodious and threaded with a lilting accent that belongs in aLord of the Ringsmovie, not an old Amazon warehouse.
Raising my hands similarly to how I did to the wolf, I slowly back away as he advances toward me. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you!”
He stops when he reaches the bars, his hands propped on his hips. He snarls again, revealing those terrifyingly alien teeth, before pointing at my chest and growling, “Fuck. Off.”
My jaw drops. “Wow, rude,” I blurt before I can think better of it.
He snorts, the movement strikingly equine, before turning his back to me and clomping toward the trees.
For several minutes, all I can do is stand in place, mouth agape and thoughts whirling. That was a centaur! And he spoke! First in a completely unfamiliar but achingly beautiful language, and then in English. Well, two words, and not nice ones at that, but still.
He… spoke. Like a human would.
For the first time since setting foot in this odd zoological garden, I take a moment to really think about the morality of it. Normal zoos come with their own controversies about animal welfare, conservation, and dignity, but those animals don’tspeak.This… thisman—because that’s what he is, equine haunches be damned—is trapped here, in a zoo. On display.
I read an article once in an outdated nature magazine abandoned on a coffee table in my dentist’s office. The article outlined the concept of human zoos, or ethnological exhibits—how they started around the 1870s and petered out around the 1930s. How they degraded, objectified, and sexualized people that Western cultures found ‘exotic.’ And how they exploited people both while they were alive and then after their deaths, when they were dissected and displayed or taxidermied to continue the humiliation. At the time, Icould barely finish the article, only a sense of duty keeping me going until the end.
How is this centaur being here any different? And are there any other species like him here?
I stagger into a tree, catching myself on the rough bark. I force myself to take several deep breaths to settle my sudden nausea and dizziness.
How did I end up in this mess? How can I work here, knowing what I do about the person—maybe thepeople—imprisoned here?
Desperate for some answers, I backtrack down the path until I reach the carousel. Looking up at the stately structure, I can’t help but see it in a new light. The centaur is still there, tall and proud but frozen forever in time, a life-sized toy. Shuddering, I hurry past and scan the signs before each path in turn until I finally arrive at the last path on the right, this one marked ‘The Aquarium.’
As I follow the path, the garden once again gives way to a new habitat. This time, the brick road becomes a wooden boardwalk dusted with white sand. To my left is a gentle slope decorated with dunegrass, and to my right is a beach that ends in the frothy waves of a fabricated sea.
As I follow the boardwalk along the coast, a glass wall rises on my right, indicating another enclosure. Rather than excitement and curiosity, all I feel is dread as I wonder if I’m about to run into another moral quandary.
The glass box contains part of the sandy beach and then appears to continue out into the water until it meets the wall at the far end. In the middle of the sea is a large, rocky island topped with palm trees and vibrant tropical blooms. Something shiny catches the light from the top of the island, and I shield my eyes from the overhead light with one hand and peer into the distance.
There’s another shimmer. I follow it to its source… before almost choking on my spit.
It’s too far away to get a good look, but as I squint, the shimmer resolves itself into a fish tail adorned with iridescent lavender and teal scales and silvery fins. The tail belongs to a woman perched at the top of the island, and though I can’t make out her features from this distance, her skin glows as if dusted with fine silver powder.
Her face turns toward me, and she jolts as she notices me watching her. Before I can wave or call a greeting, she pushes off the edge of the island and twists into an effortless dive before disappearing into the water.
Well. Add mermaids to the list of menagerie residents.
Basically numb to the novelty by now, I continue until I reach a fork in the road separated by a steep cliff face. The right side of the fork bears a wooden sign in the shape of an arrow, the letters “HC SVNT DRACONES” carved into the wood next to an etching of a serpent wound around a ship. Even not having a clue what those words mean, I can guess that the sea serpent John went to feed lives down this way.
The gravel path follows the beach down a gradual slope until the wall of the cliff rises high above my head on my left. I keep close to the cliff so the gentle waves don’t wet my shoes until, suddenly, I reach a large opening in the wall. Above the entrance to the seaside cave is another carving of a sea serpent, and I blanch, shaking my head in denial. “No, no, no, absolutelynot,” I mutter to myself. “There is absolutelyno wayI am walking into that creepy cave to get eaten by a sea monster.”
