Two more days. Why did it have to be so slow? These things take time. Maybe he could go spy on the shacker again. Oh, what was the point? He would just be snoring or drinking or writing. Not much fun to watch. What about Savina? He could tiptoe into their house and . . . no, that would upset Isabella and why go around that bore. Wait. Yes, he would surprise Isabella.
He looked down at his shoes. “No. That’s horrible, boy. Look at that scuff. You’ve only exacerbated the problem. There. Polish there!”
How about a boat? He could sneak aboard a houseboat.
“No, no. Oh, here forget it. You don’t know what you’re doing. Damn idiot!”
Fennel kicked the shoeshine boy’s stool and threw some coins in the street. He headed off along an alley.
A chilly draft blew along the cluttered ground. Coupons and glossy magazine ads swirled about his boots: half off fabric softern; Franklin’s Coffee, all natural from whole organic beans from Sunsilet; a diet plan to slim those curves. Cats were up on trashcan lids. Rainwater poured out of pipes from tenements high up above. Fennel kicked a tin can and whistled to himself. It was the mourning song—the song he sang when he tried to drive people crazy. He would sing it to himself when he was depressed. His mind would ruminate on images of a white sand beach at night with a lost boy along its shore. He would stand there naked and pee into the black sea complacently crying. The world ebbed and flowed to the rhythm of his mourning song. It was sad. So sad.
That was the feeling he wanted in his statue. That was part of it—the toil and the longing, the tragedy of beauty that seemed to play on his heart all night long. Isabella knew it. She could touch the edge of this darkness with finality, presence. She didn’t shirk or cower but stood resolute. Like the boy in his dream, relaxed in posture yet aware. Fennel suddenly turned to his left and banged through a door that led into one of the decrepit tenements. He found himself at the bottom of a stairwell and he noisily clanged his way up, up, up the stairs.
He was on the roof. The door shut behind him and from his vantage point he could see far along Barrenwood. He saw the looming bell tower of Cathedral Ogre, the lights glowing over the Jewelers Market, the lantern lit Market Street, and he could faintly make out the distant bend in the Aliber River near where the cave was. Barrenwood felt silent. He was glad to be up there. He stepped over to the edge and peered down. Seven stories. That could kill him.
He took a mighty leap and flew over the fifteen-foot gap between the buildings. His body seemed to just be given more consideration by the air. A pact seemed to have been formed. He just hovered longer like a flying squirrel. He landed and ran to the next gap and jumped again. Again and again he ran across the building tops. Time went by and finally Fennel was out of breath. He was panting and heaving and laughing to himself. It felt good to run, felt good to have sweat trickle along the brim of his hat.
Looking down he noticed a couple sitting in a tulip garden. Oh, what have we here? A couple in love. The woman was dressed in white with a bonnet and the man sat with his back straight. They were sitting on a rusted iron bench. The woman’s feet swayed to and fro beneath her. Fennel looked up into the distant constellation of Corvus, which sat perched upon the back of the Hydra. Ah, the Raven must once again descend from his perch, he thought. He shimmied down the roof to the chimney where he could hear the couple talking. He smelled raspberry. He leaned back and began to file his nails.
“This tulip here is a Rembrandt. And this one here is a streaked Bizarre, my particular favorite. Did you know the word tulip is derived from the Turkish word for turban?” said the man. His voice was the shape of his moustache.
“No, I didn’t. That is fascinating. You really know so much about flowers for a man,” she said.
“Ha! I doubt that. I just know about tulips. That’s all. When I was a boy, my mother and I would work in the garden. She was especially fond of tulips and so I have a modest knowledge.”
“It is to your credit. Terrill, do you think a lot can be learned in a garden?” she asked
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“The garden. The garden as metaphor. Since the dawn of time, the garden has been such a metaphor for life’s processes. I can only imagine that one would gain a far richer understanding of life by working in one,” she said.
“Oh, I see. Hmm. I hadn’t thought of it that way. I was more concerned about not making my mother angry.” He laughed and clicked his heels. He really was impressed with himself.
“I can see that being the case.”
“Ha! Do I seem like a mamma’s boy to you?”
“A little,” she giggled.
“Well, I can handle that. My mother was a good woman,” he said.
“I’m sure she was. Isn’t the painting in the living room of her?” she asked.
“That’s right. I painted that two years before she died. I suppose it may not be healthy having her looming in my living room like that.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. It’s perfectly fine. She was an important part of your life. It’s good to have the past with you. Retains continuity.”
“I guess so.”
“Well, some things. Some things should be left behind.”
Quiet. The faint sound of Fennel still working on his nails.
“Hey, did you see the Turrenbull Art Show at La Fievs?” he said excitedly.
“Oh, yes! I’m so glad you mentioned it. Did you see it?” she said excitedly.
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it. His use of texture.”
“I know. I know. Very visceral. He has really come a long way. I saw a show of his two years ago.”
“Really? Work that good can’t help but be noticed. He’s so aggressive.”
“Yes, he sure is. Not my style, but I really appreciate it.”
Fennel was becoming ill with this chatter. Oh, let the Raven strike! he thought. He leapt down into the garden with a pitter patter of feet and began to dance his way over to the couple.
“Dee-da-da-leee!” he sang. “Hidey-ho, folks! I’m the garden boy. How do ya do?” He tipped his hat in a highly overdramatic fashion and bowed low to the ground. His face was smiling. They were obviously startled.
“Excuse me?” stammered Terrill. He took his hand off of the woman’s knee and repositioned himself on the bench.
“I said hidey-ho! It is a common tra-la-la sound one makes when meandering through a lovely garden. I did mention I am the garden boy, didn’t I? There are those that would describe me as a symbol of life’s processes. Isn’t that right, Madame?” he said, still smiling. He gave the woman a wink. “No, no, I’m just joking with you guys.” He laughed loud and long. His high squealing laugh sent shivers up the collective spine of the couple. It was like a slaughterhouse pig without the comfort of knowing it would soon be dinner.
“Isn’t it past your bedtime, boy?” said Terrill, deciding to deal with the “Raven”.
“Sure is. Feels late to me. I’m exhausted.” Fennel yawned. “What is it you two are up to any who?”
“Could you please move along? We were having a chat,” she said and she smiled affectionately at Terrill.
“Boy, don’t I know it. I believe you were discussing the work of my uncle, Mr. Turrenbull. You said something about his use of texture,” said Fennel placing his hand on his chin representing the idea of deep-in-thought.
“He is not your uncle,” Terrill said incredulously.
“Fine. He’s not. Whatever you say, team smarty pants. I just thought I would join in on the conversation, but apparently I am not invited.”
“Well, it isn’t polite to listen in on people,” said the woman.
“I know. I’m truly sorry. I just heard the name of my uncle and how could I but not listen in?” said Fennel, frowning melodramatically. “Can you really blame me?”
“Oh, I suppose not, lad. The synchronicity is a bit hard to believe, you must admit.”
“I admit. I bow down in the face of such questionable circumstances. But have at you, Mr. Terrill
, I am not a liar. I am Percy Pendleton at your service.” Once again he bowed low and held out a flame tulip for the woman. She reached to grab it and he let it drop to her feet. She reached down and Percy Pendleton whisked it away. “I believe it would be improper to not offer our dear Mr. Terrill this streaked Bizarre.” He opened his hand and the tulip had lost all its petals. They lay forlorn in his tiny hand.
“What is this outrage? Boy, I said off with you!” Terrill rose to his feet in total consternation.
“I didn’t mean to,” Fennel whimpered “The petals just fell off. It’s like love, Terrill. Just like love. You know that I’m sure. The petals just die away and you are left feeling abusive. Wait, Terrill, look at me.” Fennel began to grin. “Lookie here. What do I see in those eyes of yours? Another! Ha, ha, ha!” Fennel’s squeal rose up into the night air yet again. A howling pig. He jumped in the air and gave his heels a click. “You’ve abandoned someone, haven’t you? You dirty dog. Dirty dirty dog!”
A look of shock came into Terrill’s eyes. Fear. The look Fennel knew he would get if given an opening, the look that changed the currents in the air and the electricity on that bench. It was the wind Fennel always conjured. The swooping wind of insurrection. The woman went cold, her body reacting swiftly to a new, dangerous environment. Yes. Terrill was a liar and not a very good one.
“Right, Terrill?” Fennel scratched his head feigning concentration, “Who was she? A girlfriend? A wife?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” he said. His voice sounded false. The woman’s face became grave.
“A wife! Ha! Terrill the down and dirty mutt! Look, don’t be like that. You gotta do whatcha gotta do! Know what I mean? The dirty whore is probably still cryin' her stupid eyes out. Dumb, fucking bitch.” Fennel lips curled in ferocity.
“Stop this!” barked Terrill. He threw himself at Fennel, lashing out with his cane. Fennel side stepped him easily and let him fall face first into the mud. He then gave him a quick kick to the jaw and left him bleeding in the dirt. The blood oozed into the earth and Fennel began to laugh hysterically. The woman sat sobbing on the bench. Fennel turned to leave, feeling his work had been sufficiently accomplished.
“Well, needless to say, you’re not invited to the next Turrenbull show! Ha, ha! Sweet dreams, lovers!” yelled Fennel and he ran off into the night. Ahhh, the Raven. What would life be like without the Raven asserting justice wherever he goes?
Fennel ran across the rooftops laughing. He found the entire escapade funny in the extreme. Such pretenders they all were. Turrenbull, ha! Such haughty chitchat these foolish people toyed around in. He couldn’t help it. Listening to them had been painfully gross. It would be an offense to his entire being to not interfere and so the Raven had been summoned. But just as fast as his laughter ebbed out of him at his most recent exploit, the last pants of air fell like dull thuds—his exuberance fading to a deeper ennui; like butterscotch candy on the tongue, the flavor fell out as fast as it came on. All that was left was spit.
He placed his tongue on the roof of his mouth and took in his current environs. Funny enough, he was staring back out at the Aliber River. The river bubbled in the twist of the bend as it careened its way toward the sea. How strange these waters in its tributaries fed the mouth of his cave where he had resided in ebullient obscurity. Now here he stood, leaning on the edge of the tile roof, staring down at the empty port where once stood Le Bateau Ivre—his feet having magically taken him without his knowledge toward the site of the crime. Unfortunately or, fortunately, the boat was not there. It had just left. He could just faintly hear their cries drifting far out now into the blue. The workmen were along the docks loading palettes into sea containers and the general stench of fish was still seeping into his refined nose. Yuck.
He sniffed at the wind again for just another hint of that delicious flavor of tragedy that these vagabonds of madness evoked, but alas, their entire aura had faded. They were gone. What now? He looked out over the city to see if he could see or sense any packs of dogs nearby. Perhaps he could run with them again. That could be fun he supposed, but then again, it would be strange if it were to become a pattern. It made him slightly excited and slightly uncomfortable the way that idea appealed to him. Nevertheless, no packs were nearby so the point remained moot. His sister was nearby. He could feel her. She was up to no good he was sure. He could interfere just as Marty had told him, but then he would just be a dilettante.
Fennel paced. Stared at the moon. He howled at it. Okay, he would head out and bother his sister. He motioned to jump off the roof when he noticed coming down the street that same man he had bitten a few nights past—the refined businessman in the silk suit. Today his suit was pinstripe, navy blue, with a peach handkerchief in the pocket. His sandy blonde hair blew in the breeze. His nose was literally held high. He seemed to not have a care in the world, except that the man now possessed a slight limp and the sight of it made Fennel smile.
“Sorry ol' boy, the Raven can really be a terror.”
Something about such a gussied up fellow limping along really struck Fennel as absolutely wonderful. He hopped off the rooftop toward the wet ground below. His feet went slap as they landed. The man, Conner Deville, turned immediately as Fennel appeared not far from him on the other side of the street. The look of horror on his face gave Fennel pause.
“Fear not my good man,” said Fennel as he waltzed his way up toward Conner. “I was in a foul mood a few nights past. I really shouldn’t have done that to you. I’m sure the leg is on the mend. I don’t have rabies, I can assure you. Nothing but the finest saliva from little ol’ me.” Fennel patted Conner on the back while Conner stared with wide-eyed horror.
“I dare say, you must get a grip. This is no time to lose one’s tongue. Let me walk with you and shoot the breeze. The air is so very nice this time of year and at this time of night. Let us saunter for a moment.”
Conner Deville didn’t need this. His life it seemed was really turning a corner. Everything had fallen into place in the last few months, and if it weren’t for this specter of a creature, his life could be described as absolutely perfect. Barrenwood had allowed him a fresh start and the chance to re-invent himself or perhaps to finally be himself. He had just left the Estuary Bistro with Jerry and Mike, his Nicoise salad had been incredible, he had lost at least six pounds in only two months, and he was returning home with a pocket full of ducats. The night had been beckoning him and then this strange creature appeared. Conner swallowed and did his best to converse with the monster. Indignation hadn’t gone over well last time so he thought he would resort to a most pedestrian manner of talking.
“I won’t belabor it, but it was very rude of you to bite me. I really don’t know what that was all about,” said Conner as he walked with a most assured and detached pace.
“Note taken,” Fennel slapped himself on the wrist and looked up at Conner as they walked. “I get a bug in me, you see. I think I might have got it out of my system earlier so for now I think you are safe. I just saw that boat with all the dear folks of our town on it and it really got me angry. I have to tell you, when I am angry, I am most insane. I couldn’t help myself. I really couldn’t.”
Conner picked up his pace and let the creature walk with him. He figured that as long as he stayed agreeable, he could make it to the Café Vivre where he could say he was meeting a friend. Jamal might be working the bar and he could easily pretend they were meeting. But for now, he would just walk briskly and chatter with the currently, agreeable miscreant.
“You really shouldn’t take things so seriously, chap. It isn’t good for your breathing or your health. Stress is a major cause of illnesses, you know. Relax. Be at one with your fate. It will be better that way. So, on a more serious note, you really don’t think those lunatics should be taken away to a more hospitable place?” Conner stated, realizing as he finished that perhaps he shouldn’t be bringing up the past.
Fennel felt the hairs on
his back go up and he talked them down internally. The man was trying to be nice. He just was very dumb. No need to bring out the Raven right now.
“No, ol' chap. I don’t. Do you want someone to drag you off to a more hospitable place?” asked Fennel, slapping Conner on the back with a little more aggression than either would have liked. “Of course, you don’t. What you want, I am sure, is to eat nice food, do your thing and be left alone. Like all of us.”
Conner gave up on this train of thought. The best tactic would be an agreement. “I’m sure you’re right. I must admit it really isn’t up to me anyway. I was just asked to facilitate this on behalf of the dockworkers and the medical advisors. I am no expert on mental treatments, believe me. In fact, I really don’t know much of what I am doing. I hope I haven’t offended you.”
Fennel looked at the man. What he said really was true. Not only did he not know what he was working on, he really didn’t care—a middleman, the world was just chock-full of middlemen, all little ants in an anthill with little pieces of leaves on their backs, just doing their jobs, in the morass of the mass. What did Mr. Conner DeVille know of anything? Nothing! And did that excuse him?
“You know, my good man, I believe you. You don’t know anything of anything. You are just getting by now, aren’t you?” asked Fennel. He closed one eye and looked quite fiercely at Conner. It was a most peculiar look. Enough so that Conner began to fear that the Raven creature might return.
“I am?” said Conner, unsure if that was the correct answer. He could see the lights of Café Vivre just around the next bend in the road.
“You are!” said Fennel, whacking Conner upside the head with his cane. Conner fell backward and landed on his back. Fennel twirled his cane and looked up in the night sky. The stars stared down in pure ambivalence at his sudden justice. “But I’m afraid it is not enough. Ignorance is bliss, but it remains guilty nonetheless. There was a war once, you know? A whole country of people wiped out masses of other people and they all claimed they were just doing their jobs. I’m sure you heard of it. Some trial, some lame argument where everyone was culpable because they were all dumb as rocks and frail as old teeth. I just won’t buy it. I’m not even angry. I swear to you.”
Marshsong Page 19
