Free Kalifornia by Marc Laidlaw

lotus-eaters has felt the force and cunning
of Her wrath. While California sings and laughs, her golden hair is gripped in
the black fist of the Goddess!”
    “Kali-Kali-Kali-ma!”
    Shadows crept like inky smoke into the convolutions of the
Official Crone’s brain, rooting out her secrets and her sins, feeding on her
shame. They poked and prodded till she knew she must vomit out her guilt. Still
she held her tongue, choking down the bile of her blasphemy.
    “Truly, Daughters, the long night is falling. Kali’s age is upon
us. We live in the center of the storm, in Kali’s eye. Our mother will preserve
us when she brings the black balm of total annihilation.”
    “Kali spare me!” the Official Crone shrieked, unable to bear any
longer the raking of black claws. “I have sinned! I have touched a man!”
    Silence.
    At her words, even the High Priestess fell silent. The darkness
felt more ordinary now, though it remained ominous. A few candles sprang to
life and the mother flame was rekindled in the high window of the most holy
fane.
    The Official Crone began to tear at her hair, begging silently
for mercy. Oh, how the Goddess would punish her. Now she might never die. She
would live forever beneath a searing noonday sun, in a California of chrome and
plastic, enduring the smiles of young men with skin of bronze.
    Suddenly the High Priestess, appearing out of nowhere, clutched
her shoulder and dragged her to her feet.
    “How have you sinned, old woman? Did you fail in your mission? Why
didn’t you come to me directly? How did you fail? When did you get back? What
man distracted you? Can’t we trust you on your own anymore, or are you
determined to disgrace this temple with your vile hag-lust?”
    “Please, please,” the Official Crone gasped. “In the wagon, it was
there I touched. Oh, forgive me, Kali. Forgive me, Priestess.”
    The High Priestess shoved her through the door, into the alley.
“Stop your wailing. The pain you feel is nothing compared to what will come as
your punishment.”
    The wagon sat silent in the alley. The child made no sound.
Perhaps he had bounced out after all. Would that make the High Priestess any
more merciful? Allow the Official Crone to doubt it.
    “A man, you said. Where?”
    The crone pointed with a trembling finger. The High Priestess and
two Daughters advanced to the wagon, while others—fierce guardians—held the
elderly woman erect. The High Priestess began to sort through the sacks.
Finally she found what she sought, and let out a bitter laugh.
    “A man, you said?”
    “A male, Priestess! I meant a male! I did as you asked, everything
went perfectly, the other wagon was delayed, the child fell from the sky—but
still, still, this is what came to us. I didn’t mean to look, but how could I
avoid . . .  it? ”
    A commotion spread through the Daughters. Some cast their eyes
fearfully to the sky, but thankfully there was no flush of dawn between the
corroded towers.
    “Not a man,” said the High Priestess, chuckling. “Not even a male,
dear old Crone, though I see how you made such a mistake with your bad eyes.”
    “A mistake?” the Official Crone said hopefully.
    The babe began to bawl. The High Priestess tore away the swaddling
and raised the child aloft. In the pale light falling from inside the temple,
the Official Crone saw once again the thing that had terrified her in the
streets.
    But now, in steadier illumination, she saw where she had made her
mistake.
    The child possessed female genitalia, a hairless cleft, a tiny
mound. All this and something more: not a penis, but very like one.
    “Do you see, old woman?” The High Priestess shook the baby. “Do
you see what you mistook for masculinity? It’s nothing to be afraid of. In
fact, it’s a triumph. This is the child I sent you for; no other comes so
specially equipped.”
    The Official Crone could scarcely take her eyes off the tiny wisp
of . . . well, not flesh exactly. It looked more