possum queen

2020-11-02

You’re not supposed to go into the sewers. Everybody knows that. It is the domain of the terrible Possum Queen. But she shows up so rarely that most consider it an acceptable risk. Travel through the sewers is so fast and convenient and safe that in practice, people did it all the time.

The last time I went into the sewers, I was passing through a brightly lit, cavernous room with open pipes of rushing water.

I heard them before I saw them: the sound of dry leaves rustling.

And then from one of the adjacent tunnels came the retinue of ghostly possums. Abstract shapes, each about the size and shape of football, they floated a foot off the floor. No straight lines or angles, more like a shapeless amoeba. And they warped and collapsed and tessellated constantly.

Five abreast and countless ranks deep, they marched.

I froze. I didn’t try to run. There was no point.

Then I saw her. The disembodied head of the Possum Queen floating above the sea of possums. Fat and soft with jowly cheeks, a big mottled grin, wild eyes that rolled around seeing all, and short hacked hair.

She saw me and grinned wider, and the possums advanced on me, pressing in tightly from all sides. The possums were her embrace and they squeezed me tight. The only thing I could think to do that wasn’t complete surrender was to return the embrace. So I reached out my arms and received her and suddenly I was holding her large, soft body, the actual existence of which is matter of constant debate.