by KUBOA
Ok. Ok, Marcy. I
Please. Please. Please.
The Hen Man
‘Even a man who is pure of heart
And says his prayers at night
May become a hen when the henbane blooms
And the autumn moon is bright.’
Ancient legend
Ms. Ouspenskaya, you’re Mr. Toblat’s agent, is that correct?
Please call me Mary.
Mary then.
Yes, his agent, his friend, his lady confessor.
So, you know the story as well as anybody.
Yes, the only person more closely associated with this extraordinary tale is Larry himself.
Can you tell us how it started?
How it started. My. It’s been so long. I suppose it began when Larry knocked on the wrong door.
Go on.
He was looking for a therapist. My door is one floor up, 999 instead of 899.
And you were, are a literary agent?
Yes, multimedia really. Anyway. Larry knocked timidly, stuck his head inside. I said, Can I help you? He looked a sight. Hair mussed, unshaven, the two-day or more whisker growth looked like…well, perhaps I’m projecting. Anyway, he looked a sight. And his voice was a whisper. Dr. Kluckatt? he said. He hit those consonants hard. No, I said, Dr. Kluckatt is right below me, I believe. Larry ran a hand over his face—his distress was evident. He put a hand on the jamb to steady himself and I thought he was going to keel over. I stood and guided him to a chair, got him a glass of water. It was many minutes before he could speak again.
And it was then—during this very first visit that he told you a tale?
Some of the tale, yes.
Go on, please.
***
Well, after he recovered more or less, he looked about as if eyeing the bars of a cage. Then his eyes locked onto mine. He has very small eyes, and in the center, black, jet black. His gaze bore into me—like the Ancient Mariner’s. And, I suppose, he had an analogous narrative, one that would not let him go. To this day I do not know why he opened up so readily—he was about to burst I think and could not have made it back down a flight to good Dr. Kluckatt, to unburden himself. I told him who I was, where he was, and bang! he just began to talk.
Mary, he began, Mary. (He took my hand—he held my hand throughout.) Once I was just like you, once I was young, accomplished, a man respected and even loved. I had friends, I had a flourishing practice—I was a dentist, Mary—and the respect of my peers and neighbors. Why did I need to travel? What was there for me to see of the world that was worth putting everything at risk? I ask you, Mary, what did I need—why did I damn my soul? For curiosity, for wanderlust. For plain lust. I was without female companionship.
Therefore, I planned a vacation, a few weeks away from the grind, the drill. I had heard that Carpathia was beautiful—it was a part of the world I had never seen. Even the travel agent was surprised by my choice—and this was interesting to me. This made me feel that I was doing something outré, something remarkable.
I traveled alone, first by plane and then by train across that blighted landscape of crag and cloud. It seemed as if I had entered a dream—not a nightmare then, oh no, a dream—and I was carefree as I gazed out my compartment window at the darkling world going by. My final destination was a small village, G, and as to why I chose this quaint község I cannot say. It was no more scientific than throwing a dart at a map, spinning a globe and stopping it with a single digit.
In G—I found a small inn, the kind of inn that Carpathia creates like milk. They are ubiquitous and nearly identical in any way that matters. The innkeeper there was named Anton Szerb, and Szerb had a daughter, a beautiful, mountain maiden named Erzsi. I did what any man would have done faced with such innocent comeliness, such lack of guile so far from home. I fell for her. (Here Larry paused for a sip of water—he sat slumped over, his gaze on his shoes for a long time. I did not think he would ever resume.)
Erzsi, he continued, was a mountain girl, born of spring water and chill air. Her skin was as white as Carrara marble and she smelled of cotton-grass. She smiled at me and I was hers, a suitor come from far away to die in her eyes. Soon we began taking walks together, farther and farther from hearth and home. Her father watched over us with something between consternation and pleasure—I do not think he quite believed I was real. I came from nowhere.
Finally, one afternoon as the gloaming began to blanket the hills and rills in grey, Erzsi and I lay down in the heather and made love. It was the most moving experience of my life, a love as physical as the winds yet as gentle as sleep. Erzsi moved onto me as if we had been lovers for centuries—I tell you, Man deserves not such divine passion.
(Here Larry broke off. He was near fainting and when I took him home I felt like it was the only thing to do—that my role was formed long before the tale began. That night Larry slept in my guest room—where once slept my son, gone ten summers. And in the morning, after coffee, a shower and a fresh suit of clothing, Larry began the story again. The morning sun seemed incongruous coming in my living room window, bathing Larry in gold.)
Erzsi and I continued to see each other, avoiding her father’s over-protective eye as much as possible. Nights we would wander the lanes of the sleeping village or tread the silvery woodlands surrounding. And we made love often—like many lovers we felt as if we had originated something altogether unsullied and new, something startling. Erzsi, with moonlight on her downy limbs, appeared a creature from another century, from another world perhaps. She was so lovely I would weep. And, in turn, she loved me with a passion that seemed born of the night, born of the proximate atmosphere.
One night, after Erzsi snuck back into her father’s home, I was feeling restless. I was awake in every extremity, animate with a nervous energy which may have just been love, only that. I felt as if I could walk forever, as if I could travel the tired old world and know its every contour. The moon was full—the grass looked like crystal.
I entered a part of the forest I had never visited. It was dark though the moon was as large as Charon’s ferry. Something led me on. Something from deep within the trees led me on. I could feel that there was life up ahead, and, in my enthusiastic state, I felt connected to anything living.
After some difficult travel, through gorse and bramble, I fell upon a small cottage, thatch-roofed and with thick baked-mud walls. It seemed deserted. No smoke emerged from the chimney, no light from any of its small, rectangular windows. I pushed the splintered wooden door open and it swept inward like a breeze. It was too dark to see properly—I could just make out a rough table and chairs, a small, charred chauffer. The table was set for dinner, a dinner that never occurred perhaps. I put my hand on the plates and crude silverware, groping like a blind man. Where was the small family who once lived here? The hut smelled of old food and dust.
Outside I heard something scrabbling in the dirt. It was a disturbing sound, for some reason. I was afraid suddenly, afraid to leave those dungy walls.
But the noise would not stop. Was it a spirit, something that wanted in? The door was open.
When I went outside the sound ceased. My head felt funny and when I turned, I saw the largest fowl I had ever seen, a pullet with a head like an anvil, and eyes that burned an obsidian fire. It’s just a chicken, I told myself. However, it was the damnedest chicken I had ever seen. And it held me with its gaze, the way a snake-charmer holds the snake, or vice versa.
I crouched to be on its level. I do not know what I hoped to achieve except I was simultaneously alarmed and awed. I felt as if I were in the presence of an élan vital that went back centuries, an essence as ancient as the heavens, as old as the deep. I did not see the bird move forward but it did so with supernatural speed. It was a paroxysmal explosion of feathers and obdurate talon. The night seemed to explode—a red fire behind my eyes—and I blacked out. I blacked out so thoroughly that my dreams were of unseen worlds, of hells and pits of damnation that exist only in t
he subterranean mythos of man. The night was rife with lamentation. There were messages in the stars.
When I awoke, it was dawn and the small clearing outside the hut was as if swept and tidied by imps and pixies. The light from the sun was enchanting and the small dwelling at my feet seemed a fairy tale hut, made perhaps of spun jaggery and muscovado. I stood up slowly, yet I felt hale and hearty in every limb. I felt strong and light as if I could leave behind the tethers of terra firma.
Back inside the hut, now that I could see, I found many useful things. A pump that still spouted fresh spring water and a small sink. I stripped down to skin and splashed my sensitive body with water as chill as blight of dew. My body felt different, stronger, sinewy and powerful. I ran my hand over my dampened surface and relished the feel of my own flesh under my palm.
Over the small crude sink was a glazed mirror the size of a man’s face. In that mirror I looked long and hard, recognizing myself but realizing a change there, an improvement perhaps to the map of my face. Something was clearer, some mystery revealed.
Then I saw the marks on my upper breast and chin, scratchings and cross-hatchings, as if I had been used to sharpen a small tool. In addition, a few puncture marks, as black as demon’s dread and tender to the touch. Then I remembered the fowl.
The walk back to the tavern cleared my head and by the time I reached my room all thoughts of gloom and dread had dissipated. I dressed in a new suit of clothes and set off to walk the quaint streets of the town. G—was one of those small villages which proliferate in that part of Eastern Europe, towns that seem outside of time, as if the ravages and horrors of the twentieth century had not occurred, did not reach the contented populace here.
I stopped in at a small bistro—The Schtuppon Inn—and fortified myself with strong coffee and a Saleratus Muffin. Something perplexing occurred here. The waitress, a striking, ebon-haired woman, who spoke no English, backed away from my table, her eyes brutish. She gasped and retreated to the kitchen. Shortly, the owner came to my table. He was a round man with eyebrows like hayricks.
So sorry, he crooned. She not god girl, not god girl. She—cigány—cigány. I don’t understand, I told him. He searched the air for the answer and then he beamed. Gypsy, he said enthusiastically, Gypsy!
Nevertheless, when I left, I was feeling chipper and the air outside was crisp and redolent of fall, a smell just this side of childhood, smoke and freshly cut wood.
As I walked the rough stone boulevards of G—I felt as one does right after a long illness, as if one were loosened from the planet’s strictures. The sun seemed brighter, the way clearer. Then I heard my name called—and the voice was honeyed air.
It was Erzsi—she came running up breathless.
Where have you been, she asked me. Ah, Erzsi, my love, I answered. I have been to Albion, to Kur, to the Unruly Firmaments! She did not mind my japery, but she looked at me as if I were a thorny problem.
What is it, my sweet, I asked her. I don’t know, she said, are you ok? I have never felt better, I said. Ok, she whispered. Can you come along with me? Of course, I told her.
She led me to an outlying backway, a row of houses that seemed almost painted against a stormy background, such brightly colored residences with the dark crags behind them. We stopped in at one. Erzsi explained to me that she had to see Professor Miles Markson, a friend of the family, and the retired Dean of Alternative Studies at the University of K.
Prof. Markson greeted us ebulliently. He had a face like a creature of lore, an inhabitant of the Land of Feathered Men (more on this), or perhaps a Wood Sprite.
After introductions, we settled into his cozy den, a room of books and dust and weight. There was a golden glow to the space, or so it seemed. An elderly Chinese woman, who smiled at us as if we were her most wonderful children, served us good strong tea and biscuits.
The conversation was lively—the professor had not lost some of his pedagogical impulses, and at times, I just sat back and listened to his learned speech. Erzsi was visibly pleased that I was so spellbound by her friend. She had come to pass on her good father’s invitation to dinner. The two older men were sporting companions of long standing.
Eventually, I found myself speaking, talking about the impulse that led me to this obscure corner of the world. And, as the conversation warmed and tilted this way and that, I was nattering about the previous night and the strange hut and its malevolent hen. Professor Markson sat forward, his ears pricking with interest and, seemingly, concern. He gazed at me intently as I explained what happened. Erzsi appeared alarmed all of a sudden. Yet, I continued, like the Ancient Mariner, unburdening myself with my tale.
Finally, the professor spoke. This hen—how big did you say it was?
I told him that it seemed unnaturally large—and I chuckled at my own ostensible embellishment. He did not share my mirth but rather urged me into deeper description.
When I was done—after I explained that I had apparently fainted—Professor Markson sat back in his chair and lit a ruminative bowl of frowzy tobacco. After an uncomfortable lag in the discourse, he smiled.
My boy, he said. Do you know anything about necromancy, especially animal spells? I admitted that I did not. In addition, do you know about the ancient connection between bird and man?
I said again no. So he launched into a dissertation on bird cults, bird spirits, bird Gorgons. The Greek Keres, The Welsh Gwrach y Rhibyn, or Washer of the Ford. The Hindu Garuda Bird. The Cockatrice, The Furies, the Children of Lir. Icarus.
And men, back and back, have conjured bird-gods to aid them.
These are principally men who dress as birds, yes? Just that? I asked eagerly.
He said, Oh yes! Well, not just dress as birds, like a child’s make-believe. There are the Feathered Men, Aborigines, who envelop themselves with feathers from head to foot, to make themselves look like fowl, who can rise into the cosmos more easily. The Phoenix Myth, if you will. Then there are the countless types of masks, which, if one likes, can all be interpreted along these lines. Many of the masks have branches with several forks springing from them like antennae, a feathery effect, a bird-face. The modern act of tarring and feathering is perhaps sprung from this.
But possibly the Taoist Immortals—The Hsien are more germane. These individuals, so it is told, drank of The Elixir of Life and are often portrayed in art as Featheredmen! Immortality, son!
I smiled at his dynamism. He rose from his chair, pipe in hand.
He continued, as if compelled, as he ran a hand along the spines of his books. Consider, he said: a being who realized this spiritual transcendence through comprehension of the Tao was called a hsien, the same word used to illustrate angelic ‘feathered folk’ with winged or feathered images appearing in Chou art of the period. The book of Chuang-Tzu pictures hsien as white-skinned, graceful and fragile superhuman beings. He paused, plucked a book from the shelves and found the passage he sought. Professor Ed Schafer says this: ‘These are divine persons, whose flesh and skin resemble ice and snow, soft and delicate like sequestered girl-children; they do not eat the five cereals; they suck the wind and drink the dew; they mount on clouds and vapors and drive the flying dragons thus they rove beyond the four seas’
This is fascinating, Professor Markson, I said. However, really, what does it have to do with me? He looked me over with a medical eye. Nothing, my boy, don’t worry about it. Chalk it up to an old man’s logorrhea. A lot of knowledge is a dangerous thing, no?
Soon thereafter, we left the professor’s house with hearty valedictions and promises of more visits anon.
Erzsi took my arm—I could not help thinking that it was with an equivalent combination of affection and concern. She kept looking at me with dewy eyes. Oh, how I loved her!
That evening we dined with Erzsi’s father at the inn. It was a watershed event—the first time we had publicly acknowledged our relationship. And her father—albeit gruffly and in his studied, offhand manner—accepted me in h
is home as more than a paying guest.
After dinner, Erzsi and I took our accustomed stroll—though this time it was openly and with more outright affection. We visited our usual knolls and valleys, the warmth of our bodies like some diabolical admixture of chemicals. We made love with new vigor—I bit Erzsi so hard on the neck she startled—but did not quit our rhythm. Afterwards, there was a red and purple mark there—like a bloody paraph. I apologized for my Schwärmerei—and kissed her there numerous times.
When I went to bed that night I was restless—my blood was up—and the moonlight coming in through my small dormer window was as white as a gravestone. I finally threw the coverlet from me in disgust. My skin prickled; my heart beat fast.
I went out into the moonlight—it seemed to draw me as if I could travel up a beam into other worlds. This seems fancy, yet it was as distinct a feeling as I have ever felt in my life. The more I walked in the night the stronger I felt—really, I felt as if I could fly.
The rest of that evening is a black blaze—I fell off the edge of the world into Erebus and darkness. When I awoke, it was vivid day and I was lying prone on a small tumulus. There was blood on my mouth.
(Here Larry stopped. It had been a long, draining morning. Outside, a thunderstorm was gathering—the air was electric. Larry’s eyes were worldweary. He lay his head down on the divan and fell into a swooning sleep.)
(By the time Larry began to stir, the storm had already passed—the air had that silvery quiver to it. He stretched and asked for strong coffee. After fortifying himself with this and some GORP he continued his strange narrative.)
There was blood on my mouth. A small smear in the corner, like a birthmark. And I tasted something dreadful: black earth, grave dirt. There was grit in my teeth. I sat up and my head was swimming. I did not know what day it was—it seemed I had slumbered for a week, or an hour. My limbs were sore from sleeping on the hard ground. I slowly made my way back to the village—the sun was an orange slur in the east.
I arrived before the inn just as a small cluster of townspeople was pushing through the streets, their faces twisted with grief and horror. They did not even see me—they had their sights set on the home of Constable Stern, the local rendŏr. His home was just around a small jackleg in the road from the inn. I watched in mute consternation as they rumbled around the corner. I felt begrimed—and somehow guilty.
