Gods of New Orleans

by AJ Sikes

  “Let’s try Brand,” he says. “And is it all right with you if I use Fellows? Only the whole thing’s a bit of a mouthful, and I can’t remember if you said Arbuckle or Augustus in the middle.”

  The tramp laughs out loud now, clearly familiar with the functions of humor. His laugh booms around the campsite like the shockwave of an artillery round. Brand feels his ears pinch inside, like the tramp’s laugh is stabbing into his brain. Then all goes quiet and the eyeless tramp is stirring his pot again.

  “Soup’s almost ready, boys,” he says, and then to Brand, “You may call me Barnaby, or Mr. Fellows. Though others may claim cause to truncate my given name, I do prefer full respect be given.”

  On cue, one of the other two tramps calls out, “You say soup was on, Barn?” The tramp sits up from where he lies and holds out a metal bowl. He has a spoon tucked between his fingers while his other hand keeps a scrap of canvas wrapped around him like an old woman’s shawl. “Oh boy, Barn’s famous Earl-eye in the Morning Chowder. Gonna get in on this, Finn?” the tramp asks, nudging a buttock into the face of his still-sleeping partner on the ground.

  The other man barely stirs, but he too sits upright, almost as if the air itself pulls him to a sitting position. Posture is like a punishment that life will enact upon this man, Brand thinks, watching the tramp slip and slide where he sits until his spine is more or less straight, his head tilting only a few degrees to one side.

  Brand watches as Barnaby serves the soup, not missing the lip of either bowl held out by his companions, and Brand knows now that the two on the ground are not of equal standing to the man who cooks and serves their food. It’s the way Barnaby huffs and grunts while he serves the first one, the man who called him Barn. That man thanks him now, and begins eating like pig at the trough.

  “Good chow, Barn. Good as good can get. Hey, who’s the new guy?” the tramp says, tossing a nod in Brand’s direction. The man’s eyes are closed, and by now Brand has realized that none of these tramps has any eyes left to open. But they know he’s here and where he is.

  “Our visitor is none other than Mitchell Brand,” Barnaby says, giving Brand a case of the frights that nearly sends him sprinting away across the cold ground of the airfield.

  “You all know me?” he says, slowly rising to his feet, though the frigid pain coursing through his heels now threatens to keep him pinned to the spot with his back to the tree.

  “Know you?” Barnaby asks, with hand held out, palm turned up. “No. I don’t believe any of us have had the pleasure before this glorious morning.” He puts his hand on his lap and goes back to sipping his gunboat slop.

  “Oh,” Brand says. “Just the way you said it there. It sounded like . . .”

  The other tramp pipes up. “Don’t go listenin’ to ol’ Barn now, Brand. Sure enough, he’s a talker, and he’ll talk your ear off. But he’ll sew it back on a second later just so’s you can keep on listenin’ to what he hasn’t got to say.”

  The tramp chuckles at his joke and sips the soup in his bowl. His partner keeps hush, and Brand wonders for a moment if they aren’t setting him up to be caught by the other ones back in the mud.

  The third one shuffles around on his backside until he’s closer to the fire. He makes some gesture with his hands and Brand hears a scraping sound. Then he sees the tramp is using his spoon against the edge of his bowl to call for more chow.

  Barnaby dishes it up and reclines against the frame of the ruined airship behind him.

  “Brand,” Barnaby says, “if I am not mistaken, and it is indeed a rare time when I am, in some small way, out of my depths these days . . . But if I am not mistaken, I would deign to suggest that you are a new arrival in New Orleans. Am I correct in this estimation?”

  “Yeah, you got it right, pal. Look, sorry for dropping formalities, and I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I’m not in a position to waste a lot of time. I’ve got people looking for me, and something tells me you three are likely to know about them and maybe have some advice for how I can avoid making their, uh . . . what’d you say, acquaintance?”

  “Well,” Barnaby says. “Tell us of your troubles, and we will aid you as we can.”

  Brand sniffs and wipes a finger under his nose. “I don’t know how you can help me. Suppose I’m a sap for asking. You haven’t got eyes to see. Forget it.”

  “Mr. Brand,” Barnaby continues, “you are no doubt familiar with the matter of communication as handled by those who sit in places of power. Yes?”

  “You mean running messages for the gods? Yeah, I know about it. And I can add, pal. Two and two make four, and so does three plus one. Three of you and one of me, and we’re all in the same business.”

  “Agreed, and applause for your acumen, Mr. Brand. Not every messenger knows what he’s about when he arrives, but you seem possessed of a singular knowledge of our noble corps.”

  Brand waits, expecting a question. He isn’t disappointed.

  “So the question then becomes, how did you gain this knowledge? By hook or by crook? Or by some means as yet unheard of in the grand annals of hobo lore?”

  “None of the above. A friend of mine threw himself off a building in Chicago City. He ended up like this.”

  “And yourself?”

  “Well, I saw what a change it made in my friend so I thought I’d just follow suit, only I went one better and stepped out of that airship at five hundred feet.”

  “Impressive,” Barnaby says. “But you say that airship as though I can deduce which one you mean. And it is a known fact that none of these around us have tasted the kiss of clouds for many a year.”

  “Yeah,” Brand says. “And why is that? What’s with all this rust and wreckage? I haven’t seen a pile like this since I was over there, and it was pretty obvious why those ships couldn’t fly anymore. These here look like they just fell out of the sky.”

  “You are not so far from the truth, Brand,” Barnaby tells him. “New Orleans has her problems, most of which are caused by those who call the city home. But there’s one we can’t change or fix or affect in any way except to let it come and hope it leaves us just as quick.”

  Barnaby aims his face to the south as he speaks at the sky. Brand figures it easily enough.

  “Storms,” he says. “You’d think people would know better than to fly airships around the place when it’s storm season.”

  “You’d think they would,” Barnaby says. “Then again, you’d think a lot of things, and ten’ll get you twenty you’d mostly be wrong. But we’ve detoured, Brand, from my original question. Which ship did you mean?”

  “That one up there, on the mooring deck. It just came in. But look, my feet are about to freeze off. Any chance you’ve got something around here I can wrap my dogs in?”

  “Sure thing, Brand,” the laughing tramp under the canvas says. “Give him yours, Finn.”

  The quiet man turns his eyeless face toward Brand, the dark skin of the man’s cheeks stained darker with grime and his wide nose crusted with a mix of blood and snot, or maybe it’s just the soup he’s been eating.

  Before the man can respond to his partner’s encouragement to give Brand his shoes, Barnaby Fellows is talking again.

  “Brand,” he says, “you’re a newcomer to the job of messenger, but with enough patience and the careful application of that most benevolent and yet insidious servant, alcohol, you shall find your way here. Of that I am sure. And lest you fear I speak falsehoods, why just look at whose lap you had the good fortune of dropping into.”

  “You mean you?”

  “I mean all of us, Brand. The Three Blind Men. Myself, whom you have already met, and Reginald Welks, whom you have not yet met in name. And our final partner in crime”‌—‌Barnaby aims a hand at the quiet man‌—‌”Phinias Gardner, whom you have at least laid eyes upon but, alas, have not and shall not have the good fortune to speak with. Man’s dumb as a post, but he’s good company for it. I dare say his cohabitant, Mr. Welks, could learn a few things ab
out the confluent actions of decorum and reservation.”

  Brand eyes the three men, their mangy hair and tangled coats, and the flaps of skin that cover the empty sockets beneath their brows. Phinias is handing over a pair of shoes now and Brand takes them without thinking. His feet have failed to register any feeling for the past few minutes, and he’s certain that frostbite is growing on his toes.

  “Thanks, pal,” Brand says. “I mean Phinias. Thanks Phinias.”

  The quiet man simply nods, then hunkers back beneath the canvas. Reggie curls up beside him and the two of them are snoring in seconds. Barnaby waves to Brand, like he wants his attention.

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  “You still haven’t told me what you were doing on that airship before you decided to wear the mantle of messenger. And if I guess correctly, which I so often do, those people who are looking for you are among the members of our krewe who have fallen as low as one possibly can while still remaining human.”

  “What do you know about it?” Brand says, dodging Barnaby’s question about the Vigilance. “About them, I mean. The guys in the mud.”

  “The mud men, Brand, were once messengers themselves. They came by this station long ago, and in so doing, they became men with more purpose than any of them had in their former lives. Not so different from you or me really.”

  Brand turns away from the tramp and looks to the sky. Dim light has washed over the horizon, bathing the airfield in a hazy glow. Brand thinks it’s like looking through old glass stained with time and everything people do behind windows when they think nobody’s looking in on them.

  Brand thinks about the Vigilance and the people it carries. And he feels his backside forming a hollow in the mud where he sits.

  “I think I’ve got more purpose than those fellas in the mud,” Brand says.

  “That you may, Brand,” Barnaby says back, half swallowing a snicker.

  Brand wants to ask what’s funny, but the feeling that he’s being watched from up above keeps his mind on the Vigilance. He nods at the ship and lifts a finger to his brow.

  “Don’t forget about me, hey?” he says to the ship hanging on its tethers above the mooring deck. The silver-gray bulk bobs in the early morning mists, like it’s returning Brand’s nod. He sniffs and turns to Barnaby.

  “Got any slop left?” he asks. Barnaby sniffs now, and pulls a grimy bottle from his left pocket. He unscrews the cap and takes a pull before passing the bottle in Brand’s direction.

  “Ah, hell,” Brand says. “Not like I’m a stranger to breakfast from the hip.” He reaches for the bottle and feels Barnaby’s mittened fingers brush against his own. A warmth passes between them, like the touch of friendship. Something Brand hasn’t felt in a long time.

  He takes a pull from the bottle and is surprised when his arm automatically stretches out to offer the hooch to Reggie and Finn. A hand snakes out of the canvas and retrieves the bottle, pulling it out of sight.

  Brand’s feet tingle and ache in Finn’s off-size shoes. But the hooch warms him, and he laughs. Barnaby joins him, and soon enough they’re a duet, hooting and chortling as the liquor does its work.

  Chapter 10

  Aiden and his folks left the mooring deck on foot and took a streetcar into New Orleans. Aiden’s badge of safe passage was good enough for the car man, but he told Aiden not to think it’d work all the time. His folks would need to make their own offerings to Papa Lebat at some point.

  The streetcar got them down the river through some pretty sad-looking parts of town. His ma’s looked out every window at every stop. She finally settled down when they got off in a place that sat along the river. The car man said it was called Irish Channel, and that actually put a grin on Aiden’s pa’s face.

  The streets that ran around the Channel made it a narrow neighborhood. And it seemed like a pretty safe place. Aiden didn’t see a single colored face anywhere on the streets.

  Aiden’s pa stepped out of the car, holding his bloodied hand under his coat. He looked around the street and then went straight into a tavern across from where the streetcar stopped. Aiden and his ma followed, with her shaking her head the whole time and muttering things Aiden knew he was better off not hearing.

  In the tavern, his pa sat at the bar while the barman wrapped a towel around his wounded hand.

  “Marked you good, my boy,” the gray-haired barman said. “Won’t like to be finding work with a mitt like that on ya’. Sorry to say it, but it’s the truth.”

  “Yeah?” Aiden’s pa said back. “So I’m a charity case now, is that it?”

  “Don’t take the wrong tone, my boy,” the barman said. “I’m helping you because you’re our kind of people, part of our krewe; we have to stick together. But you get to thinking you’re too good for being helped, well . . . I’m sure you know your way to the door.”

  Aiden thought his pa would say something else, but his ma cut in first.

  “Please. We’ve just arrived and don’t know where to go for help.”

  The barman smiled at Aiden’s ma and brought a glass up from under the bar. He poured a swallow for Aiden’s pa and talked to his ma. Aiden heard that word, krewe, again and again. After a bit he figured what it meant. Wherever they wound up in New Orleans, they’d have some people around them who they could count on. And who’d be counting on them in kind.

  The barman gave a chuckle and Aiden turned to look. His ma had her head to the side, like she’d been nodding at him, and the barman’s eyes were on him, too.

  “You got a green book from the deckmaster?” the barman asked. “Well, you’ll be knowing how to get there, then.”

  Aiden’s ma had a few questions for the barman, and Aiden wanted to listen, but decided to watch the city life outside the window. He had to know this town somehow, and it wouldn’t do no good missing out on a chance to watch it up close.

  Before the town gets to watching me.

  People moved through the dim mid-morning light just as they’d done in Chicago City. But the street looked older, like parts of it were frozen in time and you’d move in and out of history whenever you took a step. Across from the tavern was a bank, and next to that a general store kind of place. To the other side of the bank was a hotel, and a little post office sat next to that.

  Aiden watched people leave the hotel, go into the bank, come out, and go to the post office. It was like those cuckoo clocks he’d seen where two people come out and walk along tracks to ring the bell with little hammers. Aiden felt like he could stay there watching the people all day, but a second later his ma marched him outside while his pa drank his lunch.

  “I don’t know what your father is thinking,” his ma said.

  Happy for the chance to talk to his mother again, Aiden tried to offer some reassurance. “Maybe he’s just hoping we’ll have an easier time is all. You know, like the barman told us? About Pa’s . . .”

  “Yes, Aiden. His hand. I’m sure that’s why he’s sitting in that bar an hour before noon swilling whiskey.”

  Aiden knew well enough when his ma was in the mood to talk and when she was in a mood to do all the talking. The way she stepped hard on the sidewalk let Aiden know which it was this time, so he kept hush and followed her down the street. He had the green book rolled up and stuffed into his pants pocket. He hadn’t looked at it since they’d left the mooring deck, but figured they’d need it soon enough.

  Like she’d read his mind, his ma told him to get the book out and make sure they were on the right street still.

  Aiden pulled the little book out and let it unroll into his hands. The cover showed a picture of a white family, walking down a street, smiling and wearing sharp clothes. They looked like any bunch of folks Aiden might have known.

  “Open it and look, please, Aiden,” his mother said. Aiden felt her impatience as much as he heard it, so he was quick to flip the cover back.

  The first page listed the contents. Lodging and Restaurants was first. Then came Gas Stations, Barbershops a
nd Salons, and Clothiers.

  “What’re we looking for, Ma?”

  “A place to stay, Aiden. What else? Oh, give me that,” she said and snatched the book from his hands. He watched her leaf through the book while a burning ache filled his chest. It’d been a while since she treated him like some snotty-faced kid, and it couldn’t be long enough before she did it again.

  “Okay,” his ma said while she looked around the street. She seemed to decide on something and closed the book, handing it back to him in the same motion. “Follow me.”

  Aiden stuffed the book into his pants pocket again and tried to stuff his face into his shirt. He knew things were going to be rough here, but wasn’t ready for how his ma had turned out all of a sudden. He almost wished he’d gone off with Miss Farnsworth and her N‌—‌ her jazz man, Mr. Collins.

  Aiden kept up thinking about the two of them, and hoped he would see them both again someday.

  Sooner the better.

  “We’re almost there, Aiden,” his ma said a few blocks later as they came around a corner. She’d had him pull the green book out and give it to her twice while they walked, and each time she seemed to settle down a bit from before. By the time they hit Constance Street, he almost felt ready to talk to her again.

  “There’s our destination,” his ma said. “Let’s just hope they have a vacancy like the saloon owner said.”

  Up ahead, Aiden saw a shop window with dresses and bonnets hanging on mannequins and racks.

  They’d come down Constance, passing rows of storefronts and houses. Before that they’d been on a cross street, Aiden didn’t know which one, but it wasn’t a main stem like Constance was. As they walked, he’d cast his gaze down every alley they passed, when he wasn’t busy watching his shoes hit the pavement.