Marshsong

by Nato Thompson

  “We have to go see her, Fennel. Right now,” said Isabella. She was already up and getting ready to head out.

  “Iz,” said Fennel, reaching out to her. Isabella turned to face him. His face, for a split second, looked old, tired and perhaps his true age. “Just don’t lose yourself, okay?”

  “Alright, Fennel. I will keep my feet on the ground. I love you very much,” she said and kissed him on the forehead.

  He punched her in the arm and bounded out to the roof next door. “To the District of Jed! Last one there is an uncle’s monkey!”

  They bounded out, cutting past the Miser’s Quarters and up over the edge of the Calliope toward the once again mud streets of Jed. Isabella giggled at the memory of the adventure with Doctor Seppy. Fennel could be such a weirdo. They sauntered through the streets, Fennel again whistling a song. Their feet took them across the path of a pair of workmen who were installing some large clock along the street. It was a beautiful ornate clock that told the time for all the public to see.

  “Dear me, my good sir,” said Fennel, bowing low toward the workman in saffron overalls. “Whatever are you doing?”

  “What’s it look like we’re doing? We’re putting this clock up.”

  Fennel pointed at the clock with his cane. “See that, sis. This is what I am talking about. Sir, do you hear me, do you hear me, sir?” Fennel gestured at the man who looked at Fennel quite annoyed.

  “I’m right in front of you. I hear ya just fine.”

  “Is this the only clock or does this clock come with others that will stand on streets all through our fair city?”

  “It’s a big job. I think we got fifty or sixty of these things going all over the place.”

  “See that, Iz?” said Fennel again. “That there is what I like to refer to as a disciplinary mechanism. Sure it has its moments of Rococo. It is a beautiful object, a public form of jewelry, but that is just its disguise. That thing there is a water stealer. Not at all unlike that boat we saw earlier. It’s a drought maker. An evaporator. These kinds of regimenters are just bad news for us. We really have got to get to the bottom of this.” Fennel looked back up at the workman. “Sir? Can you hear me, sir?”

  The workman looked down at Fennel. He wanted to ignore him, but he was just too odd.

  “Sir, I won’t beat you for this. Just go about your work. I’m feeling very kind this eve. I am glad to see my sister so I will let you live in obliviousness to your role in such insipid behavior.” Fennel laughed and skipped along the road. Isabella agreed with him and skipped along as well. Those clocks were evaporators—another city initiative with the intention of stealing the water from the world by regimenting the masses. Alas! So little time.

  Their skipping and whistling took them to the central square and they wandered down the street as the urchins they are. The preacher was no longer at his post, but the riffraff were already growing. Fennel pointed out the tavern. The Wayward Loon, its sign a pockmark of rain, hail and disrepair. They both slid toward a back table in a shroud of darkness. Upon entry, they could see the woman at the far end of the bar. She was smoking, a glass of red wine in front of her. Isabella’s heart swooned at the sight. They found a table in the far back and ordered some of the fine food options available at the ramshackle tavern.

  Staring at the woman from her distant seat, Isabella could again feel the water pouring in the room. Like the sludging of mud and river sliding along the edge of a mossy rock, that familiar and longed for sensibility had returned with magnificent urgency. Isabella’s mouth salivated at its arrival. It was a sound. It was a taste. It was an enchanted chorus that hummed in her body and it was most peculiarly strong. It was sharp and jagged—turbulent with rapids.

  “She is something very special, Fennel. Surely you feel the water in the room,” Isabella stated, gesturing with her porcelain hand toward the frenetic, nervous woman. Isabella’s eyes narrowed and her forehead made the sign of a V in concentration. She was thoroughly transfixed.

  “Oi, this is painful to witness. I do hear it, yes; but I am not such a flagrant hedonist,” he laughed hesitantly. “I refuse to turn around. You know, I do have the sense the food here is sub-par, don’t you? Let's see here. Oh, tater tots. It’s been a while for me and the ol’ tots. Perhaps that with chicken wings and nachos. Any thoughts? Hey! Snap out of it!”

  Isabella could not. She was hypnotized. Now that the woman was no longer being assaulted by sailors, her day-to-day tragedy in all its subtle poetry was on the surface. She stood thin, possibly boney, in a slim tan evening dress. Her thin, blonde ratty hair hung over her face. Her cheeks were sallow and the skin under her eyes pulled heavy. A clunky elegance. She generally remained staring at the tablecloth, but at times she would look up, expectant. She smoked without interruption unless it was to finish her fourth glass of wine.

  The howling woman had a name and it was Savina Lanthaur. She was in a state of despair, but despair it would seem was a constant companion. Nestled with feet propped up against boredom, despair had become nearly a central element of her skeletal structure. She was waiting for him. He had come into her life and had turned it upside down. He was not like a lot of the men that Savina knew. Yes, he was bigger. Yes, he was more sophisticated (not that sophistication was something she was much interested in, because she wasn’t). He was passionate for the world in a form of hunger she loved and abhorred. As much as she was struggling to just make ends meet, she remained wary of the lure of such needy men.

  As full of despair as she was, she was the definitely not desperate. She had promised herself before she was eight years of age, living out of a caravan, that she would never be that. If anything, she was most happy when smoking cigarettes, drinking cheap table wine at home in the middle of the night and listening to a Gordon Lightfoot album. She liked to feel the night air on her skin and look at the moon make fun of her.

  “Please stop, Isabella. We have a guest,” Fennel said as the waitress came to their table. “I want the tater tots, please, with a side of steak. Haha. Yes, that will be delicious. And since my sister is in a trance, I will order for her. She will have the macaroni and cheese extra cheese. She really can’t get enough. Oh, and if you have it, two glasses of grape juice. Oh, and thank you,” said Fennel.

  He seemed to be enjoying that they were not dining at Le Chevalier Noir. He too could feel the water. He wouldn’t let it bother him, but it did make his head swoon thinking of that wailing sound of the lunatics on the boat—their howls tearing at the betrayal of the town they gave their grins to. Their faces so beautifully, undeniably lost in the call of the great fearful and glorious unknown.

  “Oh, stop it, Iz,” Fennel snapped, slamming his hand on the table. Isabella broke her concentration and placed her glowing eyes on Fennel. She looked as though she were on happy drugs. “I didn’t tell you about our little prize so you could ignore me, you know. We are a dynamic duo and surely you know I missed you. You’re looking like a cat at the fish market. I’ll agree to whatever plan you concoct this eve, but do me a favor and let's at least have a meal together. There will be plenty of time to carve out this new piece of work. We can at least enjoy some tots and mac.”

  “Oh, Fennel,” her voice was soft almost purring, “you’re right. But my, oh my, she is something enchanting. I didn’t expect it but she is better than when we saw her on the wharf. She is such an enchanting fortune cookie.”

  Of this, he already knew. She was enraptured. She liked people too much. She almost sank into them like jammies, bubble bath, or skin. She wore them. Got in their mind so fast and tried on their sorrow. She was still luxuriating in this one by the time the food was placed on the table. She wasn’t completely inconsiderate; however, and once the food arrived, she set her attentions back to her chattering brother.

  “So sorry, Fennel, but I am very bowled over by this one. She is a rare treat indeed.”

  “So are you, my dear sis. Rare and kind of dumb, sorry to say. You are unfortunate that way. A littl
e dum dum. But you need to spread into the thinking of the collective sometimes. Yes, that is what I have been thinking about. Do you know that when I was that dog, I really could feel that the dogs thought like each other as one group. They had a collective consciousness like the patterns of birds in the sky. One hoard, one brain. I was part of a hoard brain. I liked it very much,” Fennel continued while popping tater tots in his mouth.

  Isabella knew Savina was waiting for something. She was anxious. Waiting. When the smell of gasoline crept into the room, her suspicions were confirmed. It was the creature from the sky.

  He arrived barely fitting into the doorway, each hand larger than Isabella’s entire cranium. Isabella gasped. In a haze of gasoline smell, she saw perhaps the largest man she had ever seen find his way to the bar stool next to Savina. She grasped Fennel’s hand and made him turn around. Fennel’s eyes lit up.

  “Now ain’t he a brute,” snorted her brother.

  This was not a creature from the sky, but a man. He had scruffy sideburns with boulder-like knuckles and his clothing was impeccable. His ermine jacket most probably requiring all the ermine in Barrenwood to tailor. He came with a heavy smell and like all things in the world, the twins loved smell the most.

  “It’s a gas smell, yes,” said Fennel, sniffing at the air. “But one with coal to boot. Now, I will admit, while I find that howling woman interesting, this one is truly something. Can’t say I’ve encountered anything the likes of this one.”

  “He’s playing with her,” mused Isabella, watching the two interact. She could see this man's words were obviously causing Savina much distress. His body so vast, the seat under him looked like a pin he precariously balanced on. They went straight into an argument. That much was clear as well. Savina’s drinks kept coming and the back of her hand wiped her faded lips. His lurching, pleading, as clear as the frustration so evident in the tense arch of his back. The moment was quick, as the man didn’t order a thing. He was there in a puff of gas and then exiting with the toothpick thin Savina held effortlessly in his grip. As they exited the door, Isabella felt the prickle of her ever-needy curiosity.

  “Oh, this is wonderful. He’s got her backed far, far into a corner. He is a force divine. I can’t believe it. Such a wonderful accident—to witness this come to life,” she said, placing her shaking hands in her pockets.

  “It’s no accident, sis,” Fennel said, finishing off his meal. “I brought it about in my sleuthing, don’t forget. You owe me one.”

  “I truly do, my brother,” Isabella said as she patted his hand. “I believe we must follow them.”

  “Won’t be hard to follow that smell. He isn’t exactly under cover, I would say,” laughed Fennel. The twins quickly finished their supper and crept out into the dripping streets.

  Fennel launched into the square wishing the preacher would be there. He could use another go around with that ol’ coot before he got drawn into Isabella’s charade. But the square remained empty of the man of God and Fennel had to console himself by throwing a rock at a hobo asking for change. They scooted out toward the smell and sure enough found themselves standing outside the home of none other than Savina Lanthaur.

  Her home, with a bent porch, lurched on its foundation. Desiccated wood rested modest and wee with a garden of sun-kissed daisies holding onto existence out front. The twins made their way up the rickety stairs. Under normal circumstances, these stairs would have wailed and whined from the pressure of any foot upon them, but the twins didn’t make one jot of noise. Maybe they floated above them, maybe they stepped with delicate ninja steps, maybe Fennel had been sincere when he indicated he was a bird and their bones were hollow, but whatever the reason the stairs remained fast asleep. At the door, Isabella popped open the lock. It made a small pop and they slid within.

  They entered into the kitchen. Pots and pans hung neatly overhead and the old gas stove was still warm.

  “The Duke isn’t here,” said Fennel, sniffing at the air. He opened the refrigerator looking for a snack while Isabella poked her head around. Down the hall, she spotted the bedroom where a person was clearly in bed, passed out.

  “Over here,” she said, and they quickly and noiselessly darted to it.

  Sure enough, Savina lay in bed, her arms twisted heavily around her pillow—the moonlight from outside settling through the blinds to rest on her sleepless sleep. The room was a mess. Clothes lay in a jumble about the room and from the chandelier above the bed hung little paper snowflakes painted in a wild tie-dye array.

  Fennel reached into his robe and pulled out two vials of neon azure liquid. The color radiated in the room and reflected off the window. In an almost dance, they moved onto either side of the bed. They were ready. Fennel moved in and suddenly gripped the mouth of Savina. The sudden strength she exuded would have shocked anyone—had anyone been watching.

  Savina suddenly awoke and made a quick startled sound. Without missing a beat, the blue liquid was whirling through the air and splattering against the back of her mouth. The awakened victim laid her head back on the pillow without sound, but her tired wild eyes remained open.

  “That went well,” Fennel said, taking off his gloves and jacket and reclining in a rocking chair. He sat back and finally took a good look at Savina. Isabella was right. Even in her trance-like state, she was enchanting. Her lithe body looked crooked and beautiful like a stick on a playground. Bony and twisted, her contorted frail frame held a magical allure in its unusual defiance. Her slightly crooked nose and long jaw held a grim visage. She was magic. Fennel smiled and resigned the evening to Isabella’s designs.

  Isabella lit one of the candles in the room and went into the kitchen. She placed the kettle on the stove and turned it on.

  “Tea?” she inquired.

  “Ahhh, good for you. Right-o. Do they have the Earl?”

  “They yes they do.”

  “Oooh, delicious. Well, I don’t suppose they have some pillows for my miserable bottom as well?”

  Isabella just looked at him and shook her head. Her brother was just that—a brother. She felt she was only four steps ahead of him because he was always repeating the same steps.

  She took the kettle off the stove, pulled two glasses out of a cupboard.

  “Oh dear, Isabella, at least wash them!” Fennel yelled, his shoes and socks already kicked off and his little toes resting on Savina’s.

  She washed out the cups. He was such a little priss. She poured the tea, added the sugar and milk and came back over. They sipped merrily and Isabella went over to Savina. She placed her hand along Savina’s face and gently felt her skin. Dry. She put her hand in her hair and petted her.

  “Savina? Are you there?”

  Savina answered as though hypnotized.“Yes.”

  Isabella looked at Fennel. He nodded.

  “You seem to be having some kind of problems of late. I was wondering what those might be?”

  “I don’t feel like talking about it really.”

  Fennel laughed, sending some tea onto the blankets. Isabella was a little shocked as well.

  “Don’t feel like talking about it?” The solution had never failed them before. Isabella felt a cool wave of satisfaction sweep over her. Yes, she knew there was something about her. Just knew it.

  “No, I don’t. You must understand. I know what is happening. I know I will have to tell you . . . I know. I know.” It sounded like she was about to cry. Her voice cracked. Her head shook in the pillow.

  The twins were obviously startled. It was one thing to resist the solution, but to be aware of it? This was definitely turning into a strange affair. Isabella was lost in intrigue. Fennel scratched his head and squinted his eyes to focus.

  “It’s okay, Savina. Sit up, please.” Isabella’s voice had taken on a soft tone, warm, caring.

  “Here, drink this tea. It will make you feel better as you talk. We’re not who you might think we are. We’re just angels here to help you.”

  She looked at Fennel in
a joking plea. He rolled his eyes and wiggled his toes.

  Savina sat up and took the tea into her hands. She began to sip and the words began to flow.

  “Thank you. You’re right. You’re not them. You sound soft and, and young. Young like Beremel. She is probably your age now. There is no way that a voice so sweet could be injurious. No way. Anyway, I will tell you my problem, but please, I must get some sleep. Things have been so crazy of late. They are always crazy of course, but this week has been a doozy. You will go when I’m done? Okay? Good, as long as that is arranged. I just never sleep. I’m always so tired. That; yes, that would be my first problem. I’m tired. You know two men attacked me a few nights ago?”

  “We actually saw that happen. I wanted to help you,” said Isabella, petting Savina’s now sweating head.

  “Help me? Well, thank you, angel. Fortunately, or unfortunately enough, I don’t need help. Not that that wasn’t apparent. Did you see big man superstar come flying out of the sky and sending those ol ‘boys out to sea? Ha-ha. Anyway, ya, I have a guardian, what would you call it? Guardian possessive man. Yes, it is the kind of guard that men can be that is a total mixed bag. Like, did I ask for one, angels? Huh? Did I? No. And let's not pretend it is because of him. It isn’t. I have more worries than that. But the fact remains, I can’t sleep. Or, I don’t get any sleep. Or, once I go to bed I’m just getting back up. I’m always so tired. You realize insomnia is a disease? It is. It’s horrible. And, right, it’s because of him . . . Or is it?

  “I did this to myself, I know it. I’m the problem. I’m the problem. I don’t get any sleep because I can’t sleep with myself. I feel wrong in my body now. Not that I have ever really liked my body. I don’t even notice it really. I’m one of those oblivious types, ya know? Sort of a zombie walking around in a fog kind of lady. I’m sure people see me like that. I can’t blame them. I could wear the same shirt for days and not know. I’m only partially on earth, ya know? That’s probably why he likes me. Because I’m just barely here. He wouldn’t like me if I was planted firmly in the earth. If I wasn’t sleep deprived. No, he wouldn’t like me then. Or maybe he would. Ha! Right, as though that is possible. No, that’s not possible.