Garth Stein: The Cloven

Garth Stein was commissioned by Hugo House to write a new piece on the theme of Gods and Monsters as part of the third event of the 2009-2010 Hugo Literary Series. Stein presented his piece at Gods and Monsters on February 19, 2010, alongside poets Terrance Hayes and Linda Bierds and lit metal band Blöödhag.

The Cloven

I should have been an abortion.

I would have been an abortion had circumstances been different. When I was born, that’s what they did to people like me. I only thank God that my parents were children themselves, and their ignorance allowed me to survive.

I was conceived in the rancid backseat of a Chevrolet Monte Carlo after a Friday night high school basketball game in which my father scored two points before fouling out in five minutes of play, the dumb, untalented lunk. My homely mother was so mortified by her “condition” at her tender age that she didn’t tell a soul, not even her own parents. She starved herself to disguise her state of being, and she did such an effective job that no one even noticed until she, herself, stumbled under the dangling shingle of a midwife in South Seattle and went inside to ask for an abortion and was told she was a little late because the fluid running down her leg was discharge from her ruptured amniotic sac. Oh Jesus, spare the children having children; they know not what they do!

And there I was: born. Breathing continuously. Lungs healthy. Living under the radar of the regulatory committees who fear me so deeply. Those same people who would have me put to death, or worse, kept alive for their own amusement. The story goes that my mother, just 16 at the time, cried when she saw me. “You have a beautiful baby boy,” the plump midwife said to her sweetly. “You keep him,” my mother replied, and she left the building, never to return.

I am jostled from my reverie by footsteps, hard and hollow on the tile hallway floor outside my cell. I feel my face, which is broken and sore. I examine the bruises on my arms and my torso. The small hatch on the door slides open and a hand gestures for me. I know the drill. Resisting only brings out the prod and they will eventually subdue me. I slip my head through the tight opening; they close the slider around my neck and place a bag over my head.

The wages of sin, I suppose, is torment at the hands of a sinner. So I am being tormented, not for anything I’ve done to deserve it, but because ignorance, superstition and fear paint with a broad brush. And I am different. I am a Cloven.

Why goats are tied to the devil, I don’t know. Clearly, there is something about the nature of a goat that piques man’s prurient interest. Stories upon stories exist through history: Pan, satyrs and fauns, goat-men in England. Satan with his cloven hoofs and his horns. Men have always hated and feared the goat, the preferred sacrificial animal for any religion worth its salt. But I am not a demon, I assure you. Oh, I fully admit my goatlike qualities: I am intelligent, private and sexually dynamic. I get aroused very easily at the sight of beauty, and several times a day I feel compelled to satisfy my lust by whatever means are at hand. I am swift and I have exceptional balance, a necessity for those of us with only four toes. I have killer calves and my thighs are massive and well shaped. I have four stomachs and when nobody is watching me, sometimes I regurgitate my food and chew it again just for fun. In place of my feet, I have cloven hoofs. These characteristics are all attributable to my genetic malformation, not to any demonology. Of evildoing, I am innocent. But innocence did not prevent me from ending up here, in this regional Genetic Research Center somewhere in the Northwest.

I ask you: why are you so obsessed with my physical being? My mind is where I exist. My soul is where I exist. And yet you obsess on this joke of a body simply because it is not like yours. I can beat you at chess without the help of these cloven feet, my friend. Shove that metal tool up my ass and pinch off a nub of my stool to swirl around in your Pyrex beaker. What you learn from your tests will tell you nothing about what I am. About who I am. Talk to me like a man and I will tell you more about me than you can learn from my blood and my urine and the strips of flesh you peel from the backs of my legs.

I am a Cloven. I am a genetically mutated human organism, a man with the feet and stomach of a goat, but with no evil intent. I have lived among you for 20 years and no one has been harmed. Tell me then: who is the demon? Who thought it so easy to play with a few chromosomes in an effort to make pest-resistant corn? Not I. Was I the one who developed vitamin-A enriched “golden rice,” or calcium-rich carrots to prevent osteoporosis, or genetically modified goats that could produce a milk that cures diarrhea? No. I did nothing. And yet I collect the wages of sin.

They remove the black bag from my head and release me and I am free again in my cell. They have left food for me. My jaw hurts when I chew and my lower lip is held together with stitches, but I am hungry so I eat. It’s McDonald’s, lukewarm at best, which tells me that I am not being held in a laboratory that is accustomed to visitors of any duration; there is no cafeteria here. This is clearly a short-term facility, and perhaps this Big Mac is my last meal. Given the opportunity, I would have ordered a milkshake as well.

I eat the McDonald’s because I am hungry. And then I eat the bag just to fuck with them. Why not? I’m a Cloven; I can eat anything.

My adoptive mother, the midwife who birthed me and raised me, told me about a Cloven compound in the shadows of the Cascade Mountains; that an entire community of mutants exists there, struggling to avoid detection. This place has never been seen, so perhaps it is the stuff of legend, I don’t know. The government, of course, denies its existence. But I am counting on it because it is all I have. My mother said it was off the North Cascades Highway, past the small town of Concrete. She said there were signs that only a Cloven would know how to decipher. When I asked her how she knew, how I would know, she said that a man had seen me playing in the park on a jungle gym, when I was a young boy. He had identified her as my caretaker, and had approached her. He knew. “Tell your son,” he said, “if he is ever in trouble, he can find us. He can depend on us.”

If I get out of this laboratory alive, I will find them.

When I was just a boy and my midwife-mother would take me up to Tiger Mountain, we would find a place deep in the woods, far away from roads and trails, where no hiker or mountain biker would dare to venture. She would remove my braces and boots—an elaborate disguise I wore to obscure my true nature—and let me run free. Oh! To feel the wind whipping my face, to smell the leaves, to nibble at the flowers and savor the tender roots of berry bushes, to leap and bound over boulders and logs. Up and down the hillside I would run. And my mother, so lovely, would laugh while she watched me in my free and natural state. And sometimes we would find a patch of grass and lie out under the hot sun and she would tell me fantastical stories of dragons and knights and maidens.

How she must miss me, my mother. I’ve been gone for days. We both knew the danger. We both knew I might very well end my life here, in a white, windowless cell with buzzing fluorescent bulbs hanging far above my head. I am afraid I will never see my mother again.

I wake up from a long sleep feeling rested. I assume morning has arrived, though I have no confirmation of this. There is no time here. I sit up on my bed, which is not entirely uncomfortable, though it is a bit soft for my taste.

A woman is standing in my room, watching me. She is dressed in white, so she blends into the white walls like camouflage. She is young and attractive and I am immediately aroused; it’s the goat in me.

“They’re going to kill you,” she says matter-of-factly. “The next time you put your head through the door, they will use a captive bolt pistol. It turns your brain to mush but leaves your heart beating. They will harvest your organs while you’re still alive for maximum freshness. They say it’s a painless procedure.”

“How do they know?” I ask.

“I suggest you try to escape,” she says in reply.

“Thanks.” I stand and attempt to conceal my raging hard-on, but my hospital gown is of little use in this regard; in a hospital, there can be no shame. “Any ideas as to how?”

I look around the room obviously. There is no way out. I’ve already thought of that one. There is no vent I can squeeze through; there are no windows I can break. I live in a shoebox.

“You’ll have to overpower me,” she says. “And steal my key card.”

She says this with a steely, clinical coldness, which I find excruciatingly erotic. Her fingernails are painted a dark purple, I notice, as she taps them against the starched white cotton of her smock. When she speaks, her thin red hair sways and I notice a tattoo of a vine on the side of her neck that appears to grow from underneath her clothing.

“Is this a trap?” I ask. “Will I be shot while escaping?”

“Not if you’re smart,” she says. “Get rid of the card after you leave the building. They can track it.”

Her eyes are green and her complexion is fair; she has a small nose with a sprinkling of pale freckles. I think I’m in love.

“I’m wondering,” I say; nothing ventured, nothing gained. “If I might ravish you first.”

“I insist,” she replies. She takes the key card, which hangs around her neck by a lanyard, and tucks it into her blouse. I am overcome with desire for her. “You’d better get started,” she says. “There isn’t much time.”

The first of the Clovens were born back in the ‘70s, before ultrasound and chromosome mapping were widespread. There was no way to see the abnormalities of a fetus. By 1989, ultrasound had improved enough that mutant fetuses were detectable and, by law, were immediately terminated. It wasn’t until the late ‘90s that Genetic Research Centers began showing up. After they decided we’d be of more value to science if we were actually allowed to live for a while. Observed. Evaluated. Analyzed.

It all started with the meteoric rise of genetically modified foodstuffs being introduced into our diets. Bombard DNA with radiation and you never know what you’ll end up with. Fragments of chromosomes. Shards of fate. I don’t know the biomechanics of it. I do know the legend of it: the first Cloven was stillborn in 1977 on Vashon Island, a veritable goat heaven, famous for its goat cheeses and dairy products. A tiny little baby with hoofed feet. And then, of course, the legend grew. Most of the unfortunate things are born dead or lived only a few short breaths. It’s hypothesized that they have a genetic lung defect so their lungs fill with fluid and they quickly drown in their own secretions. The documentation proves it. No Cloven has ever lived past eight years. That’s what they say. But look at me: 20 years old with no end in sight. I am proof that the government lies to us all.

I believe there are thousands of us Cloven being held in government labs all over the country. The ones who are lucky and smart have banded together in the North Cascades, which is where I’m going.

When I emerge from the laboratory complex after my engagement with the horny little lab assistant, I discover it is night outside. It’s cold and misty. I ditch the key card as instructed, and bolt into the woods surrounding the lab center.

I stay in the woods and run parallel to a small road. My eyes adjust quickly to the darkness and I am able to travel with great speed. When I feel hungry, I stop for a mouthful of leaves. When I hear a car, I duck and hide my face so as not to compromise my night vision.

After several miles of easy travel, houses begin to crop up, homesteads, large parcels with barking dogs. I am wary of them. Dogs are always alert to my smell. When I draw close to the town, I see a road sign. I am in Fall City.

I look absolutely ridiculous wearing a hospital gown and pajamas from which my hoofed feet protrude. It’s not like I could walk into a market and ask for directions. I hunker down behind an oil tank next to a convenience store and I wait.

Two years ago, I enrolled in the university and I was very happy there, grazing the sexual landscape, browsing the partners available to me. Recently, however, I fell in love with a young woman. The heart is the Achilles’ heel of us all. Because I loved her, I trusted her. Because she loved me, she trusted me. She showed me her scars: from when she cracked her head against the Formica as a child; from when they removed a plum-sized benign tumor from her shoulder. She trusted me. So I trusted her. I showed her my scars: my cloven hoofs.

She loved them. She touched them. She embraced them and me. We made love in so many ways. I was infatuated.

And then halftime came. The big game. She was cheerleading, her short little cheerleading skirt hiked high, and she was lifted by a cheering man, and I couldn’t stop myself.

I bleated.

Fuck me. I bleated.

The silence that followed my noise seemed to ripple through the stadium, capturing the dark imaginations and fears of all in attendance. And believe me when I tell you, fear in a crowd of people is a powerful force. So much had been made by the government about my inexistence—about my inability to exist! And yet, there I was! It would have been easier for those people to accept me had I been Perseus carrying the head of Medusa slung casually over my shoulder.

They swarmed upon me. They carried me out onto the field and pulled at me, people ripping my clothes, tearing at me and holding me down. I struggled and fought and they fought until I was naked and standing before a stadium full of people with nothing but my hairy legs and my cloven feet and my goatee and who was I then?

I am a Cloven.

I ran. They chased.

If I had been in the woods, they never would have seen me again. But in a stadium with 50,000 stunned onlookers and guards and football players, I had no chance. They caught me easily and beat me until blood poured from my face as I raised myself to my hands and knees and they kicked me and punched me and I could see my life pooling beneath me, my hands and knees stained with my own blood. And I heard the girl I loved, crying, begging, “Please don’t kill him! Please don’t kill him!”

And then a man spoke to the crowd. “Leave him living,” he said. “Leave him living.”

An old Ford pickup truck pulls into the convenience store. It’s painted a bright orange. I’m pretty sure that’s not the original color, but I don’t know. The driver hops out and goes into the store. He leaves his truck running. I am stunned.

Is this for real? Is this a gift? He’s in the store, digging around in the refrigerator section, looking for whatever special microbrew might strike his fancy and his car is running and ready to go. I bolt toward it. I leap into his car, release the break, shove the shifter into reverse and I’m out of there. Like nobody’s business.

That’s my mother’s phrase. I don’t even know what it means, but I say it over and over to myself as I speed north and away from that place. Like nobody’s business.

Milepost 53 on Highway 20. That’s what the man in the park said when I was just a kid and my mom had braces on my legs to slow me down so I looked normal. Braces so I wouldn’t leap over everyone, so no one would see who I really was. She was helping me be normal, I know. And I wanted to be normal. But even with the braces I could beat the other four-year-olds. Those clumsy brats. I could dance on the roofs. I could leap.

Milepost 53 and I would know, if knowing were my destiny, the man said.

I pull the truck to the shoulder. It is the blackest of black nights. I worry that someone will spot the truck and report it stolen, so I drive it off into the ditch and crash it into a tree. I turn off the ignition to kill the lights.

Out in the dark night, I feel relaxed for the first time in years. Maybe in my life. I am going to meet my people. To find the place I am supposed to be. There is a community of Cloven out here. They will accept me for who I am.

I cross the highway and walk toward a sign that was erected by the park service. As if taunting the uninitiated, it reads: Goat Ridge Trail. I begin down the path in the moonlight.

Look at how healthy I am, and I was poorly cared for in my mother’s womb. There were no infant vitamins for me, no prenatal care. But I was birthed in private, not in a hospital. I was not subjected to governmental scrutiny. Do you not imagine that the rise in home births in the past decade is because mothers and fathers want to love and care for their babies, even though those babies might be Cloven? Do you not believe that there are more Cloven like me living among you?

I believe that the nearly 100 percent infant mortality rate in Cloven hospital births can be attributed to the hands of the very doctors who birth them, those who would play God. It must be so! Congratulations on your beautiful baby...goat? Imagine the shock to the medical staff, those who have invested themselves so heavily in the exactitude and precision of a world of which they know practically nothing! The hubris of these doctors! You can imagine the rage they must feel at this betrayal. A child with goat feet! The very concept is offensive! How difficult would it be to throttle that tiny little thing right there? How much muscle power would it take? How much effort to suffocate the little bastard, pinch its nose and mouth closed and count to 30, and then, having snuffed the flame of another mutant candle, turn slowly and sadly and present the lifeless bundle to the mother and father: it’s just as well; imagine the horrible life this unfortunate soul would have led....

The path delves into the woods and now it is so dark, even my animal eyes cannot help. But I have other senses; I can smell goat shit. I follow the scent down a slippery and uneven path until I emerge into a clearing and then, as the moon slips from behind a veil of clouds to light my way, I can see the tracks of cloven hoofs pressed into the earth. I follow the tracks across the field and into the woods on the other side, which are darker and denser than the woods from which I have come.

I am miles off the highway, in the middle of a real nowhere land. I see the prints and I smell the odor, but still, something does not sit well with me. I sense that something is wrong, and I’m not sure if my insecurity comes from within me or from without. Suddenly, I am overwhelmed with dread. Despite my mother’s elaborate imaginings of a Cloven world, it is quite possible that I am the only Cloven on this planet. I kneel down to the ground and examine a hoof print closely. There is little that differentiates it from the track of a deer. All of this might be a mirage.

I hear a snap in the distance. I stand and turn. Nothing. Then I hear the sound again. Footsteps from the direction of the highway. My entire body becomes attuned to the world around me. My mind is sharp and clear. I am in the right place. The Cloven compound does exist. If it didn’t, the scientists wouldn’t be following me.

I am not in a football stadium now. I am an environment that suits my particular skills. There is no way they can catch me out here. I burst off into the forest at full speed.

I veer off the narrow trail and into the heavy brush. I leap over logs and duck under branches. I propel myself at great speed through a maze of forest. After several minutes, I come to the base of a steep ridge and I stop. All I can hear is the pounding of my heart. I listen carefully. They’re still there, and they’re drawing close. How could they be keeping up with me over this rugged terrain?

The rock face juts 20 feet into the air. I scramble up it easily using my innate sense of balance. I continue running along the knife edge of the ridge and dive into the higher woods and run and run until I reach the precipice of a deep canyon. I lean over and peer into the blackness. A cool, rushing air greets me. A river gorge that is impassable; no bridge is visible. My heart skips a beat with anticipation. On the other side of this canyon is my homeland. I know it is true. Surely there is a way across, a bridge somewhere up or down stream.

I hear a distinctive sound. Tick, tick, tick, tock, tock.

The sound of a rock bouncing its way down the gorge, ricocheting off the walls and into the river far below. That was not my rock; my enemies are on still my tail. I can smell them, their rank human smell. I hear them with their clumsy fumbling through the brush. I am frustrated and baffled by their dogged pursuit.

And then I realize. How stupid was I to think? They aren’t following me, they’re tracking me. They were not taking a stool sample in the lab. They were implanting a tracking device. The lab assistant with her key card. The truck left running at the convenience store. I should have known that it was all too easy. They wanted me to lead them to the Cloven compound so they could round up my people and annihilate them.

I am crushed. So close to my promised land, but I will not get there. There is a bridge across this gorge, somewhere, I am sure. But I can’t seek it. My people live somewhere on the other side of this river—I can feel it in my bones—but I can’t lead my trackers to them. I have no alternative; my journey ends here.

The gorge is deep. Two hundred feet below me, I can hear the water rush, a narrow river flowing fervently toward the sea.

I will defy them. They’ve followed me this far, but they don’t know the signs. They don’t know the smells and the tastes. Only a Cloven can find the Cloven land; they will never find the sanctuary without me.

I wonder what would it be like to live with my people, in a place where those who may be a little strange or different or a little odd are not torn apart by the jackals of normalcy. I suppose that is what I’ve always hoped for; I suppose I’ll never know.

The river is very far below me. There is no way I could survive the fall.

My mother—not the one who gave me life, but the one who nurtured my life—she loved me. When no one else would give me love, she loved me.

A tracking device shoved up my ass and a cute girl in a lab coat and look at me. Not so smart anymore.

I hear them getting closer. They are practically upon me. I turn to the gorge, close my eyes and take a deep breath of the mountain air. I am strong. I am sure. With all of my energy, I sprint toward the gorge and leap as far out into the void as I possibly can. And as I float away into the abyss, I see them emerge from the woods behind me. The men who have been tracking me. They line up along the edge of the canyon and watch me fall. They cannot stop me now. Their tests and probes and tracking devices cannot touch me now. I am inevitable.

I will never see my mother again. I will never reach my promised land. But I have lived. I have breathed the air. I have run in the woods and I have played in the fields with joy in my heart.

The water, when I hit it, is as hard as pavement. That is all I know.