Marshsong

by Nato Thompson

  “We are forever in your debt,” he joined in.

  Savina waved her hands as though shooing them away. “Oh, little angels, the games you play. Not just with me but with yourselves. You're more lost than you know. I’m no earth mother. I’m just glad you were here to get that boozer outta the house.”

  Savina went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of vodka. She threw it back in one motion, cleaned her lips with her forearm and lit up a cigarette. She stared at the twins as she made her way back into the room, her thin shadow like a knife in the fluorescent kitchen light.

  “That big bum is now headed to his pretentious mansion and you two sit here haunting me as though the world would end.”

  Fennel gathered together his cane and his top hat. He walked up to her ever so delicately and tipped his hat. “You,” he said with dramatic pause, “are not one to forget.”

  Savina coughed and smiled. “Neither are you two monsters. Now get outta here so I can get some sleep.”

  She pulled the robe from Isabella’s head and then ever so gently, pushed them to the door.

  “I must sleep. I truly must. I am sure I told you this numerous times. I’m tired.” And she was. Her eyes were ever so low and her posture exhausted. Before shutting the door, she leaned down and looked into Isabella’s eyes. “Such dark pools, my little girl. Remember, they don’t know anything. They never will. Your truths are in you and you’ve always known 'em.” And with that, she flicked her cigarette and slammed the door shut.

  Suddenly the twins found themselves out the front door, in the night, wondering what exactly had just happened. Fennel walked straight out to the street and retched. Isabella didn’t make it that far. She vomited off the side of the porch. Their bile blew out and sank into the garbage-strewn mud. Isabella stumbled over to her brother and patted him on the back. Besides their puking, the night was quiet. It was late. The District of Jed did not care about the twins’ antics. Silently they made their way down the road until like all things, they came back to themselves and began their chatter.

  “That Duke is bad news. I feel like crap, sis.”

  Isabella was shell-shocked. Her mind moved at a mile a minute. Even sick, her heart raced with excitement. “Can you believe it? That Duke is sure as fire. Did you notice he was sensing us at the end? He sniffed at the air. He literally put his nose in the air and took a big whiff. He was doing what we do! And Savina, she moved from the serum to waking without missing a beat. She seems to live in some netherworld. She didn’t act at all surprised to see us in the house. She is altogether unique. Special. No wonder the Duke wants her so.”

  Fennel looked at her most cross. “He is rather pathetic, isn’t he? All whiny and gropey for that tormented little number. I will not admit he is like us. That is something that you have to fool yourself into. I, for one, would never grope for a person like that. That kind of behavior is reserved for imbeciles if you ask me. And also, this sickness, I don’t relish it.”

  Isabella hated this illness—their meeting with the Duke so brief yet she had almost left the realm of awareness. How could she continue her quest in this state? It was unfair—Marty chaining them so. And now, somehow, cracks had begun to appear in the invisible wall the corralled her and her brother. Nothing had ever prepared her for this ; the fact that not only had Savina not been surprised by them, but also didn’t really seem to care; the fact that in that instance of staring into Isabella’s eyes, Isabella had, for the first time in her life, found someone who actually had something to tell her; and the fact that it had all happened so fast and so strangely without her being the slightest bit in control.

  “It was amazing,” she said in stupefied awe, walking like a zombie through the street.

  “It was an amazing disaster!” said Fennel, clumsily clicking his heels together and pointing his cane at the moon. “That Duke is a behemoth, a Gollum! What kind of man is that size and what is that smell? What kind of uncanny world do they live in I wonder?”

  “They are rather magical. I think they are deeply in love, Fennel. It is beautiful.”

  “I think it is rather beautiful, too, sweet sister. I’m no cynic, you know. I love, love just the same as any other good ol’ love lover.” Fennel kissed Isabella on the cheek and laughed. He was glad to be out with his sister. His health had already begun to churn in his veins and the eve’s events had him feeling right as rain. Perhaps all was well after all. He could maybe leave her alone again. He did have much to attend to as well.

  “I’m thinking of paying Derrilous a visit tomorrow. I have concerns about that solution. It seemed frail. I can’t imagine he has been lax in his derivatives, yet the situation of our dear Savina’s awareness begs to differ. Correct?”

  “I don’t think so. She is an exception, clearly. She has strength in ways we don’t understand. Couldn’t you see that?”

  “Right. I see. Well, regardless, I will be stopping by. We have a new toxin in the tub! The toxin of the Toil! I truly can’t wait. I’ve been waiting for this for some time. We could really get that sculpture we always wanted in the park. I just need to keep working on that committee. You see, Isabella, I wanted to surprise you, but I can’t resist the temptation to talk about it. You see, well, this toxin, the Toxin of the Toil! “Fennel raised his arms as though presenting it to an audience. “Nice ring to the name, huh?”

  “What does it mean, Fennel?”

  “Oh, mean? Well, let's see, it is in reference to that magic I want unveiled! Comprendo? Now, this toxin will allow me to implant images in the architect’s mind. I can actually show him diagrams and charts and blueprints, my bottom, whatever, and he will have it sitting in there like a monk—sitting in his mind refusing to leave. He will, of course, be convinced that this is divine inspiration! A message from God! A message from on high! He may even run to the cathedrals and basilicas and confess his new wisdom! And we will have our monument. He will build it for sure!”

  “Sounds very inspiring. I hope this toxin is up to the task, but you realize, that will take some considerable time. And I must admit I have some reservations about the return of our dear benefactor.”

  Fennel’s face became a little troubled. His brow creased. He was determined to not let this ruin his current jubilation. Oh, this Marty business!

  “He won’t know. How could he? He never pays attention to what’s happening in town. Not to mention, once the seed is buried, I can just let it grow without assistance. I am the gardener! I’ll just continue the service and da-da-da-lee, what’s that? The Statue of the Toil!”

  Isabella let it drop. Why should she bring up what they both knew? The day would come soon enough. There was a feeling about Marty that he simply knew. He would know. They both felt it. No real reason to ask why or how, he just would know. Let Fennel do as he will. She had given in as well. If only Marty would just stay at the carnival. If only he would stay in some whorehouse and never come out. Nope. No idea what he did there and so, no idea how long it required. Two more weeks was all she needed. Two more weeks and she was sure something would just crawl up on her lap.

  They walked alone in silence and headed back to the boat. The night was ending. They crept inside, untied and set off from the dock. Isabella placed another soft Gypsy song of mourning on the phonograph and Fennel paddled. The crickets chirped along in the drizzle of the river. The boat rocked gently and the fireflies darted in and out along the banks. They watched the late night Vietnamese restaurants with butchered duck in the window; the beleaguered couples leaving the clubs and the rats scurry along the gutters beside them; the slippery salesmen on the corner with herbs and ointments and the mist along the hobos' legs.

  As Barrenwood faded, they headed deep into the morass. The vines and Manzanita rose along the banks and the river widened its maw. The sound of mosquitos rose and the gurgle of the water returned. Isabella placed the film projector on the crane and raised it up into the air almost twenty feet above their heads. She pressed play and the black and white
image projected onto the face of the black water. The films looked nice along the back of the water—granulated Cossacks danced jubilantly in a shoddy village center. Their dancing would vibrate and bend to the current and the feeling was soothing. They watched quietly and thoughtfully. The sound of the oboe played darkly with them.

  Fennel cut some cheese and they ate and floated and listened. The moon overhead was envious and the night faded into light.

  Chapter 8

  They awoke with the night sitting on their chests. Their eyes popped open to stare into the shadows of clouds idling by on the cave ceiling above. Isabella woke to the sound of Savina’s voice in her ear. It hummed like a scratchy Nina Simone with murmurings of oddball maternalisms. She could smell the Duke’s gasoline—a cologne infernal. It hung in her nostrils as a mnemonic for her kin.

  Fennel, on the other hand, had the whole thing out of sight and out of mind. He needed a circus. This much he knew. He had toyed with the idea of a lone travelling psychic or snake oil salesman, someone who was in the habit of deceiving the masses; but in the end, the circus—with its gear, tent, and folio of activitives—couldn’t help but win out. He woke to the smell of catfish out in the water.

  The cave seemed to go on and on into the mountain. A tunnel did lead out the back of the cave and crept far into the mountainside toward a place that only brought the twins more sickness. They basically stayed in the front entry area. A small plaid couch, a simple fire pit, a large bathtub, some desks, piles of books scattered here and there, and two wardrobes pretty much comprised their belongings. Fennel possessed an extensive wardrobe of which every item was black with an occasional hint of red. Isabella’s clothes lay in a folded pile on the floor and were much more modest in quantity and taste.

  Fennel began to prepare for the evening. Initially he took his bath, dried himself and spent twenty minutes deciding on his clothes. The clothes had to be perfect and tonight not only would they have to look impressive, but they would have to be fairly resistant to most acids and dyes.

  For Isabella, the evening held out more opportunities to extend her ever-unfolding mission. The illustrious Persembes were scheduled to visit in all their regalia, and fortunately, their arrival fell on the day that Fennel planned on meeting with the alchemist. She had no intention of seeing that OCD nutjob. She was eager to further her investigations. Hopefully, they had come up with something.

  “Don’t forget the retardant leisurewear, dear sis.” Fennel was now shining his shoes. Isabella was still writing and not even out of her pajamas.

  “I’m hoping I won’t have to attend.”

  “Why is that? Are you still intimidated by the brazen scientist? The last man of the enlightenment?”

  “Yes. That’s it. I’m terrified,” she said sarcastically, trying to maintain concentration.

  “Well, I can never understand your distaste for him. He’s just a little mad. But, what is wrong with madness? I think humans tend to be more interesting and charming when they have had the strength to resign. Every time we visit he never fails in surprising me. And not to mention, he is the lifeblood of our schemes. Where would we be without him? Huh?”

  Isabella put her book down and began to change her clothes. She had no desire to enter this conversation but didn’t feel like listening to Fennel go on and on.

  “It’s not madness, first of all. He’s simply crude not mysterious. As for his supposed genius, that is very true. He has been a great benefit to us, and that being the case we wouldn’t want to lose his help because I am unable to restrain myself and say something I shouldn’t? Right? I, personally, see no reason to respect the genius of invention. It hardly interests me personally. I simply utilize such things like I do a fork. Anyway, I am hoping the Persembes make an appearance. They should have arrived last night. I’m somewhat concerned.”

  “Ah, you’re so sweet. Don’t worry. I doubt much could trouble those demons that they haven’t been through before. Yes, come to think of it, I think we may go our own ways tonight. It appears we have our own business to attend to.”

  Fennel chafed at his statement. He told himself that he meant it. Another night apart and she would probably be off moving toward that sickness. The thought of it still made his stomach turn. But, necessity called. He did have a lot to attend to. Can’t live with 'em, can’t live without 'em, as the saying goes.

  There just wasn’t much time left. Then again, he really didn’t mind when Marty was around. Not as much as Isabella did. Marty could be funny if you appreciated his old world sense of ribald humor. Full to the brim with morbidity, his laughter struck Fennel as something to aspire to. The chores and missions he sent them on were generally of a business he could not comprehend, but he knew that behind every one lay a devilish plot. He was sure of it. But tonight, he needed to work on the statue. It must get off the ground. It would be a monument to his mind. Surely, he had a right to be a city planner amongst all those morons. Couldn’t he present the world with a modicum of brilliance? They needed it.

  “When that statue goes up, I think we will see ourselves differently, Isabella.”

  They set out in the boat and played their songs. The music drifted into the dripping leaves and piled undergrowth. Heinrich could hear them arriving before their boat appeared from around the bend.

  “Good evening, monsieur and mademoiselle.”

  “Evening, Heinrich? What are the specials?” Fennel jumped from the boat and secured it.

  “Tonight we have a phenomenal fresh Bronzino.”

  “Fresh? When did the fish arrive?”

  “This morning.”

  “Oh, okay. I wish you could catch them as we arrived, Heinrich. That would be more to my liking. See if you can arrange that.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” Heinrich would endure Fennel’s ludicrous demands. “The Persembes showed up an hour ago and I told them I wasn’t sure if you would be in.”

  Isabella’s eyes lit up. Thank goodness! “Very good, Heinrich, I appreciate your discretion. If you could take the ladies to the Burgundy Salon. Fennel and I will have our supper and I will accompany them once we are through.”

  “Very well. Shall we go?”

  Isabella looked at Fennel and smiled. He looked so cute. Generally, his feelings were more apparent than his cravat, but she could tell he was unusually self-absorbed. It made her feel warm and compassionate toward him. She placed her napkin on her lap.

  “You would make a wonderful architect. Have you ever considered it?”

  “At times. Such things do require an enviable dedication to precision. I respect that in art forms, especially art forms of size. I have lately been fascinated with weight and size. I just want to be a part in creating very, very large objects. Objects that dominate the landscape and condemn the viewer. Art forms more akin to the cloak of evening and the ubiquitous of rain.”

  “Art forms more akin to battlefields?”

  “Well, not as wretched, but definitely as devastating. I appreciate the design of cultural intention. It is my weak spot—just like a curvature of the road that moves rainwater to certain puddles; just like the layout of a home that has families walking a certain distance to use the restroom. It is the shaping hand. I simply want to place my own design into the scheme. But mine will not ease their conscience, such a dreaded occupation of theirs. I would remind and awaken. Sculptures of smelling salt that invigorate the blood.”

  “The tragedian. Are you having the special?”

  “Yes, yes. I wanted to tell you, Isabella, that I hope all goes well with the Persembes.”

  Ah, Isabella thought, my brother is trying out being sympathetic. It was rare and when it did come, it came in awkward jolts. She appreciated it, of course.

  “Thank you. I wish you luck with the Toxin of The Toil!”

  He looked down quietly. They ordered dinner and talked of the past. They moved towards more usual topics and let the evening return to its languorous routine.

  Soon it was time to head out
into the evening. Isabella wished Fennel well on his project and made her way to the Burgundy Salon. She was very excited and had to concentrate to keep from running. The Persembes were perhaps (although they themselves did not know it) a primary part of her investigations into the machinations of Barrenwood. She had seduced these ladies of refinement into her service and their progress was essential to her plans. A city was a mystery and there was no mystery larger, more knackered, than Barrenwood—an urbanism resting outside of time, its foundation a bedrock of humanity and inhumanity. To solve the city, Isabella was ready to use whatever skills were at her disposal and these ebullient monarchical women were part of her forensics kit.

  Heinrich accompanied her to the Burgundy Salon, past the velvet curtains and Do Not Enter signs. Upon entry, the Turkish women rose to their feet. Isabella took on her public look of contempt and nodded at them. There were three of them all adorned in the finest of gowns, glimmering with jewels and nearly reeking of perfume. Baroque and bedazzled, they presented a dangerous ensemble. There was Rana, Sibel, and Yosune. Isabella had known them for some time and their interest in her had never waned. She was a source of curiosity for them and Isabella did her utmost to maintain the mystique.

  This trio was a constant source of attention throughout the great Houses in large part because, as three sisters in their teens, they could do nothing but cause attention—their every move bordered on scandal for the all too bored denizens of Barrenwood royalty. Rather than abhor it, the sisters adored the attention. They were troublemakers par excellence, moving from heartbreak to breakfast in an ever-pressing desire to escape the tedium that came with their position. They went from ball to ball, charity event to wedding, suffering through it all as if it was the most arduous of labors.

  Isabelle could taste their ennui, their dry palates. It was in a sense the opposite of the water she cherished. Their tragedies were thin, flat, without calories. Their desires manifested as mere masquerades, their demonstrative tantrums barely raising their temperature. The boredom that rotted inside them was visible on the surface. They were dry, dry as a caked riverbed in the hot Georgia sun. A strange game of anxiety and desperation was always on their minds. In many ways, their parched qualities reminded Isabella ever so faintly of herself. At least she could sense it, but like them she craved it nonetheless. The tangy feeling in her mouth was the sign of a soulless dehydration.