The Infinite Matrix | Michael Swanwick & Francisco Goya | The Sleep Of

Reason 28

09.05.02

the sleep of reason

by Michael Swanwick

with illustrations by

Francisco JosÉ de Goya y Lucientes

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Digital image © copyright

Davison Art Center,

Wesleyan University

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for any other use.

28. [Plate 47]

The Homunculus

The maternal instinct is strong beyond measure. Even witches dance when

the hand of their biological clock twitches. So it was that, too old to

create a child by natural means, a coven of witches of, as they put it,

"a certain age," set out to create a homunculus.

They carved an infant from a mandrake root, and gave it a soul crafted

from the scent of broom-flowers, the cry of a loon, and the breath of a

brindle cat. Its skin was as soft and pink as a baby's butt, and its legs

were wee and plump. They carved it without arms, for it was their intent

that it should never have to do a single thing for itself.

When the spells were done, the object pursed its lips and moved its

features uneasily, as if lost in a dream. For the homunculus was neither

entirely alive nor fully inanimate. A vague sort of self-awareness it

had, but nothing more.

"Oh!" the witches cried, "what a sweetums-wuvvums oo are!" They rubbed

their faces against it. They kissed its teensy footsy-wootsies.

From hand to hand the faux-child was passed, and those who weren't

privileged to be fussing over it at any given moment, worshiped it from

afar. "Oh, best of wee-things!" they cried. "Who's a clever ittle

slyboots, then?" They loved it more than God loves a repentant sinner.

Eventually, of course, they tired of the game, and went off to seek

another. The homunculus was laid aside, and casually lost. Somebody

knocked it to the floor. Somebody else absently kicked it across the

room, where a kitten dragged it under the couch. When next it surfaced, a

week later, it was so battered that it was mistaken for a stock root and

tossed into a cauldron of simmering soup. With an imperceptible sigh, it

relinquished that shadow-life the witches had imposed upon it.

There are some people who should never have children. You see what they

do to pets, and you cringe. May they never, never, never have babies, you

pray in secret. And you're ever so grateful if they don't.

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This is the 28th of 80 stories by Michael Swanwick written to accompany

Francisco Goya's Los Caprichos. For a listing of the most recently

available stories, go to The Sleep of Reason.

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