Marshsong

by Nato Thompson

  Chapter 2

  He was never far away. She could feel his nasty breath heavy on her neck with its familiar scent of bourbon, tobacco and trout spit that ever lingered in his ratty clothes and greasy hair.

  He was a haunting figure. Bent, crooked, wiry and wild-eyed, Marty McGuinn had leered over her and Fennel for as long as her peculiar imagination could recollect. He had his moments to be sure. Lessons of life came in drunken fits replete with manic stories late into the night that as sure as steam would rise from the river and end up with him crazy angry about something or other. His violent spurts erupted out of his ranting monologues as he pranced about the cave, smashing his cane against the granite walls—his words, already incomprehensible, slipping into a series of spurts and slobber. He would make a point to some God not listening above, and then laugh in condescension to himself, and then turn angrily toward the twins. His knobby liver spotted hands would grab firm onto her hair and toss her or Fennel headfirst into the mud or dunk them down into the freezing Aliber River. In his sliver of remorse, after they were freezing or bruised or both, he would concoct some twisted lesson of life that was the supposed rationale for his brazen ferocity.

  To call him demented would be too kind a term for a hateful intentionality shadowed his every slur and gesture. He was terrifyingly aware of his heartfelt commitment to that familiar element of cruelty. This sensibility that squished the saccharine and sentimental from the world in a hard clasped hand might be his defining character. Running alongside his blood cells, cruelty was the iron in his mosquito-sucked blood. And in that nefarious Pavlovian response to the universe, the twins could certainly relate. They sympathized with his desire to laugh in the face of agony and despair. They chuckled on the sweaty brow of heartache. But it wasn’t this element of Marty’s egregious personality that Isabella resented so deeply. She was too self-aware to hate the part of Marty that was most definitely in herself.

  Isabella knew that hiding behind his bravado, Marty was obscuring dark, beautiful secrets. Whatever lingered in the cobblestone streets and baroque mansions of Barrenwood, Marty McGuinn did not want them finding it out. The twins’ actions had been circumscribed in every which way. No visiting the school. No random visits to the government. No newspapers. No public displays of their powers. No making themselves known. No, no, no! All was verboten and with that, Barrenwood—that melancholic city that time forgot—had blossomed magically.

  For, of course, the sway of Marty’s stubborn resistance had produced its equal counter resistance. Side by side with their peculiar antics, these strange siblings were crafting a longer-term strategy. And while they both told themselves their distractions were harmless curiosities, Isabella, in particular, was hell-bent on doing just what Marty would have her not. With each delicate mission into the city that Marty sent them on, they were able to carve out just another piece of their niche of insubordination. They were as savvy, conniving and out for tragic fun.

  Their entire enterprise had never set right with Isabella. They slept in a cave during the day and went out at night in a city chock-full of inhabitants who seemed oblivious to the charms of this life. Even Marty’s strict limitations couldn’t prevent their wandering eyes from noticing that the twins were steadfastly different in every way.

  These urban denizens seemed to not notice what the twins could so plainly see. It was their gift. Tears that dripped from the somber eye made manifest in actual flows of water, running through gutters and dripping off rooftops: the sobbing of a mother for a child born stillborn brought forth an orchestra of sound that reverberated in their ears. They called it the water and it was the tragedy that lent life its luster. It was a hypnotic sort of drug—this water—that lured them ever so carefully into the lives of these simple but fascinating people of the city of Barrenwood.

  Perhaps Marty knew this. Perhaps he sensed that she was crafting either escape or more simply becoming seduced by the lure of something that only humans could offer—poetic sadness. Either way, it infuriated him. His sixth sense took hold of him like a plague and he would warn them both to not fall prey to their predilections.

  “Ya don wanna folla da call but ya best not. Dat watta be wet, but it also gone get ya a lickin' from ma belt. I will wallop ya 'til ya sick and a sore and I put ya pretty heads in da sick pit.”

  He was a frightful beast.

  Not too long before his sudden departure to the Muddy Carnival, he had truly been on a tear. His greasy mane sticking out of an old tattered Fedora he had found, Marty had debarked a midnight skipper to come prancing up on her and Fennel as they studiously sat by the fire in the cave. Isabella had been reading the biography of Ella Fitzgerald and Fennel had been collaging architectural blueprints—the fine lines of potential construction transforming a home into a series of portals and gangways. They each had a workstation in the cave with Isabella’s a pile of books, glue and spilled grape juice and Fennel's a closed manila folder and a mechanical pencil.

  Their quiet activities were disrupted by gleaming yellow boat lights as the skipper came trolling up the river. The twins knew what would come. They had by this point developed acumen for that "something on the wind" when Marty would arrive belligerent. The howl off the boat merely made the future crystal clear. They heard his raspy gargle cut into the night as he belched out his cacophonous coyote howl baying at a moon obscured by the marsh-laden haze. The sound sunk into the cloud-like puffs of the cotton grass and set the hair of the twins on end. Here came the wretched madness of their keeper.

  “Get in dat cannoo! D'ya hear me? I said get on in dat cannoo!”

  Marty was waving his gangly arms madly. The fourteen white hairs on his chinny chin chin breezing in the still air. Marty tossed his grubby leather briefcase against the side of the cave. It landed in a muddy mess and gold coins and napkins with doodles burst out in a gust. The skipper boat had barely stopped but continued on its way further down the river. Isabella could sense without even looking the relief of those on the boat to have Marty no longer aboard.

  Fennel hopped to it and ran out of the cave. “You’re back! Welcome home, captain.” Fennel saluted in his peculiar humor. Marty ignored him with a harumph and scurried to the back of the cave toward that dark alcove where only he ever would go. He came back out with a backpack, some Ziploc plastic bags, and a thermos.

  “A campin' time. Let's get on out before da moon chews da vines,” he said. “Da cannooo, I said!”

  Isabella quickly put her stuff away and gathered some clothes and a granola bar she had under her bed into her knapsack. Fennel scurried to do the same and, in no time at all, were all piled into the canoe. Fennel had the oar in his hand and Marty was already pouring some sauce from his thermos into his cup.

  “Where are we going, may I ask?”

  “Ya may, Scratch. Ya may. Just hed yerself out and beyond da willa grove. We gone donna make our way out towad da back alleys of da marsh here.”

  Isabella lit the lantern and stayed quiet. As warm as the marsh could be, this night wasn’t. She had a chill in her and a sudden trip to the back regions of the marsh wasn’t exactly appealing. She remained quiet for she sensed what was a hair's breath away from occurring—the tangled emotions in Marty’s every move told her that his frantic mood swing might easily erupt. In the canoe, it would be a nightmare, a wet mess.

  As Fennel paddled, Marty hummed to himself and smoked his corncob pipe. His long fingers like talons, he rapped on the side of the boat with a drumming sound of nails. Fennel warmed to the journey quite early. He smiled his crazy smile and was ever so cautious to not get a drop of Aliber onto his pressed attire.

  “Marty,” Fennel said, his eyes on the distant crescent moon, “what happens in this part of the marsh?”

  Marty reached his long arm across the boat and grabbed Fennel by the shoulder. “Ma boy, dat be a damn good query. Dat be da kinna thing a man otta ask in every which way day can. Dis part of da wetland, is home to some a squirmin' howler. Der be a lady so skinny
and hungry, she don scared all da peoples away. She special but special in da way gunpowder be special. Just a box a fire sittin' pretty in da fog. Drink up, Scratch. I’m a gonna see da bitch but pray to ya dead granny dat yous twos don don’t.”

  Marty handed Fennel his thermos lid and Fennel made a disgusted look and sipped the smallest amount he possibly could. Fennel began to cough violently and Marty slapped him on the back far too hard.

  “Ha, ha, ha, boy! Ya gone be ready for dis camp trip afteralls.”

  They rode on through the fog as Marty pointed out each turn in the maze of the swamp to make. Twisting to and fro, they rode toward some backwoods of the marsh that neither of the twins had set eyes on. The buzz of bugs grew louder and louder with every push of Fennel’s oar. Isabella fantasized that it would be here, on the sopping banks, that Marty would at long last end their special lives—his rage taking on a finality she sensed he longed for.

  But as it happened, the night would lead them to a small inlet with a boat dock. Marty motioned for Fennel to tie up and Fennel did so with precision and grace. His hands could move quick in a whirl and the large ship rope tied fast to the chiseled mooring. “Land ho! I see seagulls and the smell of saltwater on rocks, o' capitan!” shouted Fennel with a smile broad and bright. Marty took a backhand to the side of Fennel’s head.

  “Keep it down, ya dum. Dis be da bed of dat she-beast. Ya best keep ya yipper on low if ya wanna see da cave night nex.”

  Marty flung himself out of the boat and skipped rapidly along a barely visible trail. Isabella grabbed her bag, the lantern and followed. Fennel picked his top hat off the wetland floor and followed suit. They tread only about fifty yards along the path before they reached a small clearing where signs of an old fire still remained. Beer cans littered the site with small candy wrappers—all tell tale signs of Marty.

  “Dis be home tonights, ya varmints. Get ya rucksacks out and let's say night to da night. Iz, ya gets da wood and Scratch, clear da rubbish.”

  Isabella was more than happy to take a break from his presence. She headed further into the marsh, wondering who this she-beast was. Who was it that haunted the dark recesses of her tropical homeland? Another mystery for her to lay on the pile. Sticks were hard to find, as the ground was a mess of moist vines and leaves. As she searched the ground, her furtive eyes quickly lost the point.

  She couldn’t help but wonder if she would enjoy being a witch of the wet. Living alone in a hut of her making, she could invent languages to chat with the fireflies and commune with the aurora borealis on the odd night when it graced the evening. She could have a large oak library lounging out here with tomes and science fiction paperbacks stolen from Barrenwood; and children that were lost in the world could put on their galoshes and stomp their way through the muck to find her and have a good read. It would be a library for the geniuses, lost and ever so looney tune. She could hold private dances out here and invite only the most wicked to celebrate with her in revelry most mad. Costumes of fish and fowl would be all the rage and they would enter through the mouth of a frog with eyes gone psychedelic.

  Her mind wandered as did her feet and she became aware quite quickly that she had gotten herself lost. She would never be lost for long and as she stared up to the sky to get her bearings (the North Star would never let her down), she heard the faint hint of something most hair-raising—the slight wheezy snore of what could only be an old woman. It was heavy and full of congestion—air trying to make its way through a cavernous nasal passage full of crusty obstacles and viscous moisture.

  Isabella lowered herself to the ground to get herself a look and sure enough, not but twenty feet away, she could make out the silhouette of a spindly body supine on the wetland floor. Its hair a tangle with sticks and whatnot stuck in it, the she-beast snored away face first in the gunk. Before she could even gasp, she felt the strong arm of Marty McGuinn rough on her neck and they were racing with a speed most rapid back to the camp. She found herself hurtling through the air to land in a tangle in the marsh briars. The thorns cut into her, but she didn’t feel a thing. She could make out, glinting in the fire already started, the mad mad eyes of Marty, nearly spinning in their shells with rage.

  He shook his head violently and took his cane and slapped it against the mud. He then lurched toward Isabella and the cane came crashing down—down and down again it came—blow by blow, driving her deeper into the mess of thorns, ripping her skin apart on her hands and forehead. She felt the blood come as it sometimes did. He didn’t say a word (perhaps his rage too big for words at this point). He reached down and catapulted her out from her landing. His crooked teeth and alcohol stained breath came right up close to her face.

  “Curiosity killed da cat. Hear dat? Didn’t hurt da cat but kill it ded on da spot. Ya don a dum and ya gona get yas. Shoulda neva brought yas heres. Shoulda neva let ya see dis. Sendin' ya home, if ya can make it.”

  Marty hobbled his way toward the riverbank. Isabella stayed quiet. She didn’t want to aggravate him any further. She couldn’t feel any of the tears on her body, and her face and mind were numb in the face of his immense hostility. She truly didn’t want to die but just tucked deep inside herself for safety as she always did. One day this would end.

  Marty grabbed an old log from the side of the bank and proceeded to literally stuff Isabella into it. The smell of moss, mold and snake eggs filled her nose as she found herself folding like origami into the emptied shell. Her knees bent up toward her mouth and her body squished tightly into the woodish orifice. She felt the splash and kick as Marty sent the log sailing out onto the Aliber to go floating back toward the cave. Isabella could faintly make out the image of her brother, quietly hiding behind Marty, making a small wave, his eyes fearful of the monster that was their master.

  This all happened before Marty had left in a rush toward the Muddy Carnival. His departure was perhaps the greatest gift the twins had ever received. They took the news with great solemnity so as to not betray their excitement. But Marty was not so drunk as to not know the truth of it. But it mattered not. He had to go and go he did. And as such, that curiosity that killed the cat was out of the bag.

  That was some time ago now and things had, well, loosened up. They had shaken the fear, the cuts had scabbed, and the world of Barrenwood had opened up, a flower in bloom. Within a few weeks time, they had already begun to make a claim on numerous adventures in the city. Not that they didn’t have their own machinations while Marty was around. Even when Marty haunted them from his ramshackle abode, they could occasionally carve out some time to do this and that. Isabella had her nightclub and Fennel had his alchemy. Isabella still bought books by the dozen and Fennel continued his fine Velonton shoe collection. At times, they could sneak off to sit outside an active funeral, the air filled with the guttural groans of a family beside itself with sadness. They would crouch in the dark and cackle in abusive laughter at a family’s laments—a cheap shot indeed but sometimes the water flowed all the finer when the cruelty was mixed with a gesture more crass than elegant.

  On this particular eve, after having robbed the shacker of the last thing in the world he had in his possession, the twins headed into Barrenwood with little to no plan. They dined at Le Chevalier Noir, eating boiled eggs, pheasant and pears and more than their fair share of grape juice. Isabella listened only obliquely as her brother rambled endlessly about the fine smell of chimney smoke. It was like silver, he said. He had plans to place a chimney in the cave, but Isabella doubted this particular endeavor would come to fruition.

  Isabella, on the other hand, turned a growing sentiment over and over in her mind. She looked at the people in the restaurant—gussied up for their big nights out on the town. They smiled and laughed with such peculiar emotion. As insipid as they tended to see the residents of Barrenwood, Isabella often felt a brief pang of envy. They were stupid, yes, but at times happy nonetheless—their dumb qualities almost gentle. The whole notion made her frown and all the more moody.

>   They wiped their lips and scooted out into the night. The streets of Barrenwood were wet. It was the rainy season. Fennel immediately opened his umbrella and wiped the smoke hazed raindrops off his Chesterfield lapel. Isabella kicked the puddles as she walked alongside him. She gazed down the littered road.

  Barrenwood was awfully wet this time of year. People ran past with magazines over their heads in attempts to protect their top hats and ribbons. In the night, pipes were being smoked and hermits were huddled. There was the ongoing sound of creaking that slipped out of the many cracks in the bumpy roads, cobbled walls, slipshod mansions and huts, even out of the lines in the women’s faces. Everyone was a stranger here. Their eyes carried a frenetic expanse that cast long shadows between them and the other. Cowering and recoiling were frequent mannerisms. Every dog shook in its sleep, the many streams under bridges ran silent, every dream turned belly up. With each step, Isabella’s mind turned over. She was lost in thought in the maze that was the city. She naturally walked in darkness avoiding all attention. All eyes. The lanterns on the street still flickered fire and the glow from the video arcades cast electric zig-zags into the puddles.

  Fennel skipped and jibbed to his ritualized evening fancies.

  “I love the dribble. The drabble. The rain makes me dreamy. I am the Raven. The raven guarding lore. I glide over the cobblestone sloppiness and caw out a rickety tune. I have these giant talons made of obsidian and my eyes glow yellow! Yes!! Yellow is good—an off yellow the color of old bananas. There will be music following me. Just a bassoon and a tambourine. Oh, I wish I could just swoop down onto people. Swoop down from heights most terrifying! Barroooumph!! What about those two? They look like little rodents scurrying about. Trying to get home? Trying to get to work? I’m sure they scurry like that wherever they go. They just nibble and burrow and scurry. Just little mice. Mice. And I am the cawing, clawing Cretan!”

  Fennel laughed out loud, ran back along the street and tripped one of two old men—his glossy boot catching a colonel dead on in the shin. The colonel went crashing down into the wet street, his cane sliding across the road, his head thudding on the ground. His companion stared in consternation, his mouth shaped like an O.