Invisible Beasts by Sharona Muir Read Free Book Online

decorated the Worm’s pump to resemble the dragon’s head in a Chinese New Year parade; its red tongue lolled at Evie, tipping slurry down its throat, like the Hound of the Baskervilles being shown a T-bone steak.
    â€œSuppose,” I resumed painfully, “suppose I were to trap some invisible bees and bring them here? What wouldhappen?” Evie unhooked the emptied retort, smiling, her four feelings prettily displayed together.
    â€œOkay—so, like, your invisible bees build a beehive in my office and sting my students. What does that prove?” Evie answered herself. “It proves nothing. Scientists study a huge amount of phenomena that we don’t directly see. Like soil gases.” She nodded at the Worm, its scales rippling from its lunch. “There are theories that explain what soil gases are, and predict their effects. I work with those theories. If I find the right effects and my work is reproducible—great, I get an article in Science . Here’s the long answer to your question, Soph. There isn’t any theory that explains, or predicts, like, invisible bees. If I tried to work on that problem, I’d be a joke. People would totally start calling my lab, like, ‘Ghostbusters Lab’ and ‘Uri Geller Lab,’ and my career would be trashed. I’m not saying your invisibles don’t exist. Just, nobody’s going to touch them. The Keen-Ears are safe! Isn’t that what you want?” She cocked her head. Then a deep, reverberant, bass belch boomed out of the Worm’s speakers, and I gave a startled cry.
    â€œMy students,” said Evie, faintly embarrassed. “They program the Worm’s sound. They call it ‘Smaug.’”
    T HE DAY AFTER I’ D TALKED to Evie, it rained. I visited Helen in her studio, a barn scented with lanolin from racks of yarn. Baskets dangled from the rafters, containingeverything from Japanese ribbons to stacks of felt. Her worktables were crowded with Swiss sewing computers. The kettle was whistling in a corner, and I made mint tea, waiting for Helen to emerge from her partitioned-off “loom room.” The racket from the loom room drowned out the hush of rain. Helen came out, saw me, and arched her back; then she spilled forward to rest her palms and braids on the floor. The backs of weavers always hurt. She rolled her spine straight again with care. We took our teacups and sat on pillows beside a work-in-progress spread on the floor; at first glance, it looked like the reverse side of a scatter rug. Bending closer, I drew an awed breath. Hundreds of small knots formed the fabric, each knot embroidered with an individual face: a yawning baby, a thoughtful old man, a laughing schoolgirl, a glamorous rapper, a tired workman in a blue cap, a worried woman with an eye patch . . . I wanted to lie down on it and join my intractable story to all the others.
    â€œI thought you’d ask, ‘Where are the animals?’” Helen said. “Then I was going to say, ‘They’re invisible.’” I gazed at her, speechless. “How are your Truth Bats? What? Oh, no.”
    I folded my arms on my knees, dropped my head, and began nodding in despair. “Don’t do that,” Helen admonished. “You have to think. I’ll help you. Try to remember what you said, and what your sister said.” I related my conversation with Evie, ears cringing from the false tone of my voice. “Huh,” Helen murmured. “That’s interesting.”
    â€œI’m glad you think so.” Even my bitchiness sounded canned. Helen stretched out her right hand and pulled back on it with her left, wincing; then she repeated the stretch on her left hand.
    â€œIsn’t that what you want?” she asked. “For the Keen-Ears to be left alone? Why are you let down?”
    â€œBecause my bats are still gone. I told Evie the whole truth, and my bats are still gone. I’ve done