The scent of soil deep within the planet.
Sickly voices bellowed echoingly from far away places. Lyrics about dripping stars, mucous-slick vortices. A woman’s voice rose above the radio’s din :
—here at 6EQU-J5where aural putrescence is always beckoning. Tonight we have—
Something slammed against the ceiling, just behind Mark’s door.
—seed spilled upon barren landscapes. Thanks for tuning in to 6EQU-J5 all you degenerates and all you—
Thin tap of glass against glass. Mark’s bottles rattled and clanked. Molly reached for the doorknob.
“Hey, Molly.” Luke’s voice was liquescent and thick.
She quickly drew her hand away from the door.
Luke had crawled across the floor and propped himself up near the front door. He’d attempted to drag the blanket on the couch along with him, but it had bunched up around the coffee table’s legs.
“Can’t stop.” He vomited a milky fluid onto his chest and stomach.
Something continued to thump around in Mark’s room.
—forsaken dead things out there. I encourage all you corpse-faced lost souls to jig the night away, ’cause there ain’t no promise for a tomorrow. And with that, I wish you all—
“I just wanna sleep, Molly.”
Ectoplasm gushed from Luke’s nostrils.
Pale cilia-like nubs wriggled at the edges of his empty eye sockets. A worm of ectoplasm slid from the right hole, oozed across his forehead.
“What the fuck is going on ?” Molly watched the ectoplasm consume Luke’s head, encase it in an opaque bubble. She didn’t want any of this to be real. Prayed that her dreams were confined to her imagination and not spilling out into the real world.
She grabbed Luke’s truck keys off the coffee table.
She’d try again. Maybe the world wasn’t built on abandoned train tracks that only ran in one big circle. Maybe this time she’d be able to escape and make it past DR. CLARK’S LUXURIOUS LINIMENT bridge.
Maybe there was more on the other side of this.
“Mind throwin’ that blanket over me before you go ? Colder than a witch’s tit tonight.” Luke’s voice sounded strange traveling through that inexplicable substance bubbling on his head.
Molly untangled the blanket from the table leg and draped it over him. He began breathing evenly, deep in sleep.
6EQU-J5 was blasting static again.
Molly had just started the truck when she realized she’d forgotten her gym bag and guitar. She didn’t hesitate, but reversed out of the driveway and sped down the street without stopping for the blinking red light.
“You ! Come fetch me !”
The voice, barely audible over the river’s roar, emanated from a thicket too modest to hide a boy, never mind a man. The thicket nestled in a circle of smooth stones in a gap between two of the many large, flat rocks that separated the water from the land at the western curve of the riverbank. The boy walked a few paces to where a tree’s roots stuck out from the ground in gnarled arches, and wedged under one of them the kerchief that cradled his nascent stick collection. His bundle safely moored, he went to the edge of the riverbank and peered across the rocks at the thicket.
“Fetch you what ?” the boy shouted.
There was no reply. The boy was feeble, that’s what everyone said, but he sensed—correctly—that the silence was not simply that : it conveyed frustration and maybe a touch of anger. He had encountered the same silence from Pa on many an occasion. The stones looked slippery, a sheen of water sliding over them like liquid glass. The boy pulled his hands into his sleeves, went to his knees, and crawled across the rock carefully, cold water soaking his forearms and shins, the river surging ahead of him.
He wedged his foot between the rocks and began extracting from the thicket handfuls of dried out reeds and bent twigs, letting them fall, watching them slide along the rock, join with the river, and sail away. His brow furrowed when he saw what was nesting there in the circle of stones. It was a small, flat box, not much larger than the palm of his hand, silver in color, rectangular, with a circle of tiny holes on its face. A thin strap of leather was attached to the side. He lifted it from its nest by the strap and let it spin slowly as he stared at it. He ran his thumb over the holes, fascinated.
“Now bring me to shore,” said the voice and the boy yelped, startled, and let go of the strap.
The box landed on the broad face of the rock and slid toward the river. The boy lunged after it, crawling as quickly as caution would allow. It was just about to slide into the river when the strap hooked a branch that jutted from a jagged wedge of driftwood. The boy snatched up the box and crawled to shore, gripping the strap tightly in his hand.
Finally, he stood on the riverbank, regarded the box in the fading daylight. “How’d you get in there ?”
“How’d you get out there ?” The box spoke in a male voice, with a slight rasp, a hard-to-quantify suggestion of age or world-weariness.
“Hm,” the boy said, very much at a loss.
The sky had begun to take on the curious orange hue that heralded the onset of dusk. Pa never said nothing about him being home by dark, but it seemed sensible to do so, as the dark could hide almost anything. The boy didn’t like to think about the things that could hide in the dark, though he did think about them, thought about them quite a lot, sitting awake under the wool blanket, the candles snuffed for the night, the trees standing sentry outside, the moon illuminating not much more than the clouds that tried in vain to cover it, Pa snoring like a sleeping bear in the next room.
As clouds advanced, towing evening behind them, the boy took up his kerchief. He put the talking box into it with the sticks and headed through the tall trees toward home. From time to time, as he walked upon the dirt road that followed the river’s path, he asked the box where it wanted to go. Show me where you live, said the voice, now that of a young girl. He asked it how it could see. Nothing. He asked it why summer was so blasted hot and winter so awfully cold. The box remained silent, but the boy could hear it breathing.
***
Here and there a man on a horse would clop by, kicking up dirt. Each time, the boy would edge farther to the side of the road, looking away from the road. When he had gotten about halfway home, one horse’s hooves slowed to a trot until the rider was alongside the boy. The man smelled of tobacco and rum and unwashed armpits. “Boy, what ya got ?”
“Sticks. Sir. Just sticks.”
“Now hold up.” The man pulled back on the reins. “Ho,” he said, and the horse stopped.
The boy stopped too, with great reluctance.
The man’s pupils were as small as his mustache was large. The buttons of his shirt lay open at his neck, wide suspenders twisted. “S’pose you come with me ? I gots rabbits, two of ’em, one fer you, one fer me, stripped and ready for the fire. I gots good stories too, fit to make you laugh ’til your sides hurt. It’s cold, nights. I could warm y’up.”
“Pa’s expecting me.”
Quick as a rattler the man’s arm reached out and the ruddy fingers wrapped around the boy’s wrist. As the boy hollered out, the box shrieked from the kerchief as though in duet, a high-pitched, searing note that rose in pitch and intensity and volume. The man let go of the boy’s wrist and his hands jumped to his ears. The boy put his hands to his own ears, gritted his teeth.
The man slid from the horse, quick as you’d please, landing with a crack as his ankle broke on the hard-packed dirt, and the horse galloped off into the gathering dusk, fleeing that horrible screech. The man sat on the ground, eyes wide, foot bent wrong, hands still over his ears. Blood spurted in great arcs from between the man’s fingers. Saliva pooled at the corners of his mouth and poured out, pooling in his lap. Finally, his eyes popped like milk and the sockets filled with curled grey gunk like oatmeal veined with blood. He rocked back, exhaled a long and shaking breath, and was still. The noise abated.
The boy took his hand from his ea
rs, gripped his bundle tightly to his chest, started again toward home. The cold drifted in from the river, dropped down from the sky, slid from the trees. He picked up his pace. He encountered no other men on horse nor on foot. The box sang some nonsense syllables, muttered to itself, chuckled darkly, and again went quiet.
***
A thin trail of smoke reached into the sky, almost obscured by night’s black blanket. At its base an orange glow illuminated the cabin, the horse barn, and Pa, who was sprawled out in front of the fire on a kitchen chair he’d brought outside, a mostly empty whiskey bottle pointing up from his crotch. The boy approached, on tiptoe. Pa snorted and his foot jerked. The boy stopped cold as Pa’s hand flew up and wiped wildly at his nose. His beard was caked with vomit. His eyes remained closed. He adjusted his weight and let loose a rattling snore.
“Whiskey !” shouted the box. “The elixir that snuffs out all pain !”
The boy flung the box into the hedge as Pa opened his eyes.
“Boy.”
“Pa.”
“You stay away from town ?”
“I did.”
“Where did you go ?”
“I went down the river. I went to the base of the mountain. I walked on the road down by Hog’s Bladder. I climbed a tree and saw what there was to see. I caught a frog and let it go.”
“That’s all ?”
“That’s all.”
The box muttered something from the hedge, the crackling of the fire all but obscuring it. Pa’s eyes went to slits.
“Who’s with ye ?”
“No one, Pa.”
“Hm. You lie to me, you get a beating. Come ’ere, get your beating.”
With that, Pa fell asleep. His mouth hung open. His snoring now came in light rasps. The boy fetched the box from the hedge and brought it inside, kicking aside the pamphlets that had accumulated on the porch, the ones that someone kept putting there though he couldn’t read them and Pa didn’t bother to. Once inside, the door shut after him, he snuffed the candles, lay on the floor in his clothes, pulled the wool blanket over him. The darkness above him rippled, as though invisible snakes were swimming in it. He thought that if he reached his hand up over his head, he might feel them passing over his skin like fingers. This he did not do. Instead, he whispered to the box. “Keep it quiet around Pa. Pa’ll take you away from me. He’ll throw you in the fire or crush you under his boot.”
He put the box against his ear in case it might once again speak. Once he’d slid down into the gulf of deep sleep, it began to whisper.
***
The boy awoke in full daylight. He reached for the box, but it was nowhere to be found. He lifted the blanket, shook it. He scanned the corners of the modest room. He moved aside the chair, dropped to his knees and peered under the coat cabinet. Nothing. He scratched at his side and his fingernails lighted on an unfamiliar, rough surface. He bent his neck.
The box had pushed into the tender flesh just below his ribs, deep. He dug his nails between the puckered, reddened skin of his stomach and the edge of the box, but it stuck fast, and his attempts were met with shooting pains. Finally, he drew a bath for himself, stood in the water so as not to submerge the box, running a soaped-up cloth over his skinny body. He worked the suds in around the box and tried to pry it out, but still it stuck fast. Finally, he dried himself and then dressed in the clothes in which he’d slept. He went outside. Pa was gone. The bottle lay empty by the smoldering fire pit.
He lifted his shirt to inspect the box. It had taken on the contours of his side now, had darkened in color. It pulsed slightly, a counterpoint to the boy’s breathing. He touched the tip of his index finger to it. It was warm, somewhat damp, certainly more pliable than before. He pulled his finger back, letting the shirt fall back in place, and inspected his fingertip. A liquid sat in the whorls, a muted pink, like blood diluted with saliva. He rubbed it on his pant leg.
From under his shirt, a chorus rose, female voices, some humming low, others soaring. It was glorious, the sound of angels, of tenderness itself. The sound gathered in front of him like smoke. He moved toward it and it moved away, fading just slightly. One more step forward. Two. A third and a fourth and it was as loud as you please. Then the sound began to fade. He made a noise of frustration, something between a whine and a growl. He cocked his head. He side-stepped to his left, and the voices rose just a touch in volume. Another step, even louder. The voices led the boy as surely as a leash or a harness. They went toward town, warping the air. The boy followed. His lips moved soundlessly. The word he mouthed repeatedly but did not dare speak aloud was : “Mother. Mother. Mother.”
***
When Pa pulled the boy from schooling, he’d laid down some simple rules. Explore the woods. Collect sticks. Don’t talk to people. Don’t go to town. Now the boy found himself passing the white church with its modest dormer, the priest’s voice rising and falling like storm winds within its walls, an odd, halting cadence. The cemetery, where men lamented with heads bowed over silent monuments. The general store, where old men rocked in chairs on the broad porch, solemnly engaged in discussing other people’s personal business. The tavern, wherein younger men roared, bellowing over one another, women shrieking, raucous laughter, clanking and stomping. All drowned out by a chorus of angels as the boy walked, head tilted and hands grasping, along the forbidden territory of Main Row.
As he passed the cobbler’s, a wave of exhaustion surged through his body, and he staggered, putting out a hand to the wall. Pains jolted his temples, zig-zagged behind his eyes, ran along the line of his jaw and under his tongue. His side throbbed where the box had burrowed. Then nausea caressed his innards and he retched, but produced nothing but rank and viscous saliva. He grabbed at it with his fingers, pulled it up from his throat, flung it to the ground. He rubbed his fingers together. He felt hot, in the grip of a powerful ague. His shirt had dampened where the box had worked its way in.
Then Pa was before him like a hallucination, tall and starkly removed from the context of home. He had stumbled from Crackerbarrel Alley, looking down, fastening his belt. Behind him in the darkness a twig-thin woman adjusted her skirts. Pa looked up, and his mouth fell open. The boy’s mouth moved soundlessly. Pa’s ruddy hand grabbed him by the throat, and the box started to chant, a chorus of voices, speaking in tongues like folks did at the church, overlapping, rhythmic. Pa swatted the air around him. His pupils dilated.
“No,” said the boy. “Don’t you dare kill my pa.”
Shhhhhh, said the box.
Pa jammed his fingers into his ears. He pushed hard, the muscles in his forearm bulging, until his fingers broke through and pushed in deep, right to the knuckles. His eyes went dead and his jaw dropped. A long, rattling exhalation, a failed attempt to bring in air, and he was gone. He stayed standing, though, feet pointed inward, elbows crooked. Something drummed in his chest and a dark stain blossomed at the crotch of his pants. The woman screeched and retreated into the darkness of the alley.
The boy stepped around Pa’s propped remains, staring ahead, for now the singing had a source. Great translucent snakes swam over his head, overlapping, intertwining, taking on the color of the sky here, the clouds there, the treetops over there. He jumped up to grab one, and it shot right down like a lightning bolt, was slurped into one of the holes in the box, joining the chorus of voices that sang within. The boy giggled. He left Pa, following the snakes from town, toward the forest.
A rider on a dappled horse gave him a wide berth, this mad boy, walking, leaping into the air, grabbing at nothing, twitching and chortling. The snakes took many shapes as the boy followed. A dog with a profusion of bulging, dangling breasts. A broad-chested man with a cane and an exaggerated swagger. A billy-goat on hind legs, with horns curled toward the treetops. A sleek, long-limbed panther. Into the thick of the woods they went, the ever-changing squadron of snakes and the boy just behind. It seemed for a time that others walked beside him in the wood, long-legged, tall, with massive
, sagging heads, all grinning mouths, teeth and wild eyes, but he saw them only sidelong ; when he turned, all he saw was saplings and ferns, reeds and vines.
The snakes led him farther into the wood than he’d ever gone before. Up great hills and down deadfall-strewn valleys, through gurgling brooks and over fallen branches. The trees were thicker out here, thick as houses. It was cold here, too, and the boy’s clattering teeth served as percussion, backing the breathless chorus. Up ahead, the deepest part of the forest loomed dark as coal, darker than under the wool blanket in his windowless, candle-snuffed room. This, the boy surmised, was the place that nighttime fled to when the sun tried to set it on fire.
The trees began to lean away from the boy, opening a v-shaped swath in the woods. He looked down and he was clad in the bejeweled clothing of a prince, a broad lace collar like a flattened flower, a patterned doublet in purples and reds. Breeches bunched at the knee, pristine white stockings, gemstone-spangled shoes whose bright buckles gleamed. Drums thumped in their thousands. Trumpets sounded a triumphant blare. On either side of him, great tapestries unrolled from the rafters formed by the high branches, depicting scenes of great revelries, long tables spilling over with food, lined by men in black hoods and sheep-headed men ; a hunt wherein devils on the backs of muscular black mares drew arrows back in massive bows, shooting angels, mouths agape, from their perches in the cottony clouds ; expansive beds upon which dozens of plump young maidens cavorted, wanton mouths agape, with six blank-faced elderly men sporting comically large, pink-tipped erections.
It all fell away in an instant, the trees snapping back, the tapestries lifting, as the forest opened up upon a grassy clearing, a hazy grey at the edge of the night’s hiding place, where six men, tall, gaunt-faced, stood in a broad circle. The men were dressed formally, as Pa would dress when he used to go to church : cockel hats, coats and capes. Their skin was as pale as a tree stripped clean of bark. The snakes took the form of a great bird, flew to the center of the circle, and disappeared. The boy followed until he stood in the center of the circle. The men’s features were indistinct, blurred, secreted in shadow. The boy couldn’t make them into faces no matter how hard he looked. The box whispered something, and the boy nodded.
Lost Signals Page 17
