She would be better off if she could escape before he returned. Of course she would be an obvious target naked; she had to find clothing. It was surely too much to hope that any had been left here, but at least she could look.
She got up, carrying her baby Chance, so named because she had conceived him by no planning on her part. He remained asleep, perhaps affected by the same gas that had knocked her out, but was breathing normally. That was just as well, as she didn’t want to alarm him. He was only three months old; the alarming aspects of life were best postponed until he was better able to handle them.
Now she got a better look at her reflection, and paused with surprise. It looked as if she were wearing a hood over her head, that completely covered it. Of course that wasn’t the case. She touched her face with her hand; there was no barrier there. Yet in the reflection her hand disappeared into a dark globe. Somehow there was the appearance of a comprehensive hood, as if her head were in a bag that concealed her face and hair, without any substance actually being there. How could this be accounted for?
Then she realized that the hood that veiled her face was illusion, and therefore probably magic. She had had little direct contact with magic, but had no doubt of its power. She had been magically hooded, to conceal her identity. That added a dimension to her predicament.
The chamber narrowed into a closure somewhat like a sphincter. In fact this seemed a lot like a huge bowel or intestine, and that could be its exit: the anus. Uncomfortable image. She turned away from it and explored the other direction. The cave twisted around and back on itself, narrowing and expanding, forming another chamber. Here was a rack on which hung clothing: a blouse, and a centuries out of date skirt, extended into a bell shape by a framework of hoops. And a pair of glassy slippers below.
She was supposed to wear this weird outfit? It seemed she had no choice, though whoever had set it out must have been a man, because the underwear had been forgotten. She really could have used it, because her pregnancy and nursing had made her a full-breasted woman, and the spreading skirt provided no protection from below.
She laid Chance carefully down, and donned the clothing, which fit well enough. The slippers were comfortable, but the skirt was like wearing a barreclass="underline" she couldn’t sit or lie down in it, or even get too close to a wall. Both blouse and skirt were made of the same glassy material as the slippers, flexible, comfortable, but translucent. She would hardly care to appear in public in such an outfit. Which was perhaps the point; she would be a marked woman the moment she departed this intestinal residence. She was stuck with it, for now.
There was a smaller outfit that fit Chance: a shirt, diapers, and pullover pants, also glassy. So the clothing had not been selected randomly; it was definitely for them. She wasn’t reassured; this suggested that her abduction wasn’t random; it had been planned.
She moved on, and found a bathroom area with a sink, shower, and toilet, all translucent. And beyond that was a kitchenette, with food on a counter. The food was a package of sausage that looked unpleasantly like dog turds, but she was hungry, so she heated some on the stove and ate it. The taste was better than the appearance; it seemed filling. It wasn’t actually sausage; more like a bean concoction.
In more ways than taste. Soon after eating, she felt her gut blowing up with gas. She hurried to the toilet to let it out—and the toilet turned out to be so constructed as to amplify the embarrassing sound. She was alone, except for the baby, but she found herself blushing.
Chance woke, and she nursed him. Before long he was gassy too; she was passing it along in her breast milk. What ill fortune, to be allergic to the local food.
In due course she came to the last chamber of her convoluted prison: a family room. It contained a translucent stuffed chair before a television set. She pondered briefly, then removed the unwieldy skirt and sat bare-bottomed in the chair. It was a relief.
The set came on, showing a printed screen. WELCOME TO FARTINGALE.
“Farthingale!” she exclaimed, recognizing the name of the ancient hoop skirt.
An announcer came on, wearing a costume similar to the one her abductor had worn. “That’s Fartingale without the letter H,” he said, as if answering her. “Fart-in-gale, the land of fabulous farts.”
She sat frozen, hardly believing what she was hearing. A land where they gloried in flatulence? This seemed impossible.
“This is an introduction to our windy culture,” the announcer continued. “Intended for tourists and other visitors. We certainly hope you will enjoy your stay here.”
“I am definitely not enjoying my confinement here,” she said severely. But of course the video didn’t care.
“Some folk from other regions regard us as primitive,” the announcer said. “But we prefer to think of ourselves as basic and friendly. Some call us poverty stricken, but we merely prefer not to waste resources on nonessential things. Consider, for example the matter of sanitary facilities. Why waste time and money building a toilet into every house, when it is so much easier to make one superior public privy for all to use?”
“A public privy!” she exclaimed.
“Consider the advantages,” the announcer blithely continued. “The central privy becomes the public gathering place, where news is disseminated, acquaintances are renewed, and wares are traded. What could be more convenient and compatible? Everybody has to shit, so it is guaranteed that every person will make an appearance in due course.”
“Sh—” she started, but was unable to say the coarse word. “Defecation.” This had to be a joke—a dirty joke.
The announcer gave way to a village scene. The houses looked like huge piles of animal manure, and perhaps that was what they were made of. She knew that in third world countries they often used dried ox manure for many things. People thronged the central street, the men in shirts and pantaloons, the women in blouses and farthingales. When two people met, they paused for brief dialog, but individual words could not be heard in the general hubbub.
“Here is a typical polite encounter,” the announcer said. The scene zoomed in on a man and woman meeting on the street.
The man bent slightly and his pleats whiffled. “May the farts be with you, sirree.”
The woman bobbed, and her hoop skirt amplified her own gastric effort. “And with you, sirrah.”
“I like your smell. Let’s fuck.”
“You’re pretty strong-winded yourself. Perhaps tomorrow.” The man nodded and moved on, as did the woman.
“His invitation,” the announcer explained, “is rhetorical; he doesn’t really want to fuck every woman he meets on the street. But he compliments her by suggesting that she is attractive enough to make him desire her. She in turn is not interested in fucking every man she encounters, so she demurs by suggesting a later tryst. Both understand that it is unlikely to take place.”
Despite her abhorrence, she was intrigued. As it happened, she knew something about sexual intercourse. “Suppose the man really does want to have nuptial relations with the woman?”
She had thought the video was one-way, but to her surprise it responded. “Then the man makes a counter-offer, suggesting immediacy. ‘Let’s fuck now, lovely sirree.’ If she is genuinely interested, they go into the public privy together and do it.” The picture showed the couple entering a genuine old fashioned privy structure, blowing out a couple of loud farts, and going at it. “If not, she demurs again: ‘Some other time, sirrah.’ He can not press the matter further without social awkwardness, so must bid her good farting and depart.”