Marshsong

by Nato Thompson

  “It appears that our transaction will be a little more lengthy than usual. We have some other matters that need attending as well. Let me direct you to our sitting area. Hang up your coats. Reading on the table.”

  He led them through the musty halls toward a back room. The walls lurched in and the coriander breath billowed upon them. They walked this way and that, twisting and turning as though the School was a massive musty cranium. With every turn, Isabella’s sense of anxiety grew. As Fennel skipped ahead, Isabella felt fear rising up in her with ever footstep. Something was terribly wrong.

  The next room revealed a large waiting area with dusty grand couches and various encyclopedias and epidemiology fanzines organized on the tables. The monk indicated that they should wait here and Isabella thought that her life might just consist of waiting rooms. Waiting for someone to arrive to say nothing. She sat on the couch and an ugly cloud of dust poofed right up. She coughed and Fennel laughed. She looked around the room more. A gargantuan stained glass window bent the moon glow to reveal the image of a torn husk of corn.

  “What do you think that means?” asked Isabella.

  “Corn,” Fennel got up from the couch and paced in the dull light, “indicates commerce. Ducats gone awry. It’s an apogee for the intellect. A plebeian’s anxiety. Erect their effigies as they might, none of 'em. Not an iota of spaghotta of 'em, knows a nothin'. Tell ya that much. The Raven can take that corn and turn it into mud honey. Isabella, my dear, let me take this opportunity here in this rare occasion on the soil of Coriander Christendom to initiate a new age. Let us call it . . . the eternal return. Thank you. Thank you.” He bowed to an imaginary audience. He then clicked his heels and did a forward flip. “No, really, thank you! Yes, Isabella, my ever so loving love, I am convinced that through our travails, we can once again set off to eek out the most delightful tragedy yet. We will take our recent escapades as certain proof that we were meant for more, well, more distilled enterprises.”

  “For now we must wait here,” Isabella responded as she flipped through the pages of the myriad medical books and magazines. She felt the desire to calm her beating heart. It pounded in her chest. She had heard of panic attacks and perhaps this is what they felt like. Fear turned to physical convolution. She steadied her gaze on the magazines and tried to lose herself in their pages. Magazines were an odd invention. Pages of information piled together like a breakfast buffet. A little of this and a little of that. She grabbed a science magazine dedicated to slumber titled, The Journal of Circadian Rhythms. The pages were full of images of the brain, of people with their eyes closed, of cats with electrodes attached to their small furry heads, somnambulist studies, REM studies, biorhythms, theories on synapses and theories on digestion.“

  Fennel looked over at his sister ignoring him. What a bore she could be. This was all for the best anyway, he told himself. The sickness had changed him. This he knew. He was bolder now. Wiser. His feet stood more firmly on the earth and his wings, mental as they may be, were ever ready to fly. Yes, he had talked to Marty when Isabella had disappeared. It was by the fire as he held his routine incantation—fish eggs, dust bunny, chilled wart and rusted carburetor. Marty had appeared in the midst of the flames and told him what he must do. His teeth were razors and his eyes brilliant embers. Fennel had nodded wildly and laughed.

  “Fear not, Marty, my boy, the Raven didn’t even need you to give the word. My fever has broken and with it came wisdom. She is out of control and like a dog that bites its master, you just need to put it in the proverbial doghouse She’s gonna get what’s coming to her.”

  Marty had nodded his head and they both had laughed with the fire rising higher and higher. Marty had pulled out his banjo and Fennel had danced like a leprechaun around the flame. He felt the heat and excitement with every step—the bacchanalian urgency and victory that was his new, more mature way of being in the world. Now he had a fever in him and his sister continued to pretend he was of the old ways. A child. It bothered him immensely. He sat in the corner and picked the dirt out of his fingernails. His impatience was getting the better of him.

  He hated her. She wasn’t that different from so many other people. Superior, blind, boring. He continued to file his nails and considered, as he often did when he was down, just how amazing his statue would be. The Toil would offer him a chance to give shape to his unusual perspective. It would offer a monument to the limping mistake. It would bear down viscous and grumbling in low notes and manure.

  Isabella would adore this one. He looked over at her. No, she wouldn’t. She was idly flipping through the pages and away from the tragic fold. He knew it. The Raven had been right and his teeth gritted. What a self-absorbed monkey wrench she had become. Only a few weeks until Marty came back and she had decided to skip town. It was less than purity and more than he could stand. What is it that she can’t see? What has blinded her emaciated nostrils?

  “Put down that damn book and talk to me!” Fennel yelled. He rushed at her in a fit of anger and threw the magazine across the room. It sputtered across the floor and Isabella looked up, still bored. Her eyes met his and it was he that turned away.

  “Ta-tee-ta, that’s better,” he said, skipping down the hall. He turned around. “Isabella, you’ve become a dolt and a bore. I do declare.”

  She sat there staring at him. Inside, her heart turned but she gave no hint of it. Her brother was off the chain. He had gone feral, as he ever was apt to do. She had sensed it earlier this evening and as he moved about the room, she could sense an inner meanness that was most dangerous. She said nothing.

  “Exactly,” he continued. “A perfect response for one who is a dolt and bore. Ya know, I realize that my role between the two of us has traditionally been too demure from the task of our sensitive emotions, but alas, oh Dolt and Bore, no longer. I am not afraid to get right to the task of untangling our relationship. I will not turn from the glaring light of your sudden . . . whatnot. I am not afraid to address the quite apparent fact that you and I are having some problems. I am not afraid whatsoever, D and B!” He clicked his heels and jumped onto the coffee table. “Admit it!” he said, pointing down at her.

  “Yes, it’s probably true but what can we do?” Isabella said, surprised to hear her brother addressing the issue of their inevitable demise. Her head was clouded. She reached into her jacket for more fish sauce only to find it was gone. She reached more frantically and her brother let out a disgusting screech of a laugh.

  “Hee hee hee! Looking for this, sis?” he held the vial in his hands and he was dancing on the coffee table. “I’m afraid you’ve become a sauce addict. I’m here to intervene. No more for you, oh dolty of the bores.”

  Isabella was feeling the sickness much more tangible now. It rose up in her throat and constricted her lungs. She sat helplessly on the couch vaguely realizing that Fennel, for whatever reason, wasn’t feeling the sickness at all. He stood above her with the Raven’s complexion. His eyes looked wild and mad.

  She reached out to him in desperation. “Fennel, sit down. You must understand. I love you dearly. I have to escape. I want us to escape. Please, don’t do this. Come with me.”

  Fennel stepped off the coffee table and sat next to her. He put his childish arms around her and nuzzled his face right next to hers. “Aww, necessity really is the mother of invention. And you are ever so inventive, aren’t you? So sweet all of a sudden. The tables turn and now you pretend at sympathy. Admit you are a dolt and bore and all will be well.” Fennel patted her hand. “You see, we are not a pair but, in fact, a triad. A triangle is magic and is where all the strength of the universe derives. You are resisting strength because you are sinking into that bog that is your own plebness. You are plebbing it up.”

  “Why aren’t you sick?” Isabella asked, as she bent over, her stomach surging in pain.

  “Hahahaha, the Raven is becoming his own little bird.” Fennel bounced up to stand again on the coffee table. “My little recovery has given me a small birth
. It was a bit of a birthday that had to slide through the needle of malady to arrive. But arrive I have. This Raven doesn’t get sick because ol' corncob pipe has decided to take me off my bird leash. I am free to fly and fly I shall.”

  Isabella had heard enough of this. Listening to her brother prattle on made her sick. Nothing made her more nauseous than hearing people defend their masters, least of all Fennel. She stood up and pushed him off the table. He fell back, knocking a pile of books over.

  “How delusional are you? You think this little bit of freedom is your meal ticket? You think it's over? And now what? You are my little jailor? How tortured your little soul is to be so full of pathetic rationalizations. Get it into your head, it is only me and you.”

  She was already feeling bad. She loved him and he drove her crazy. How stubborn was he going to be? So ready to display his power, he could only do so if he submitted to the predatory logic of Marty. Isabella put out her hand and helped him to his feet. He sat next to her and put his arm around her.

  “It is such a tragedy, isn’t it, sis? Delusion? When we don’t know what is best for us?” he asked mockingly. The smell of his sandy hair and freckled grin. His eyes glimmered mustard and she could feel the talons in his fingernails. “What can we do!” he asked, jumping back onto the coffee table. He slapped her hard right across the face. Before she knew what had happened, he followed up with a kick to her stomach. She careened backward. Blood splished across her nose and she found herself tossed into the corner. The snakes in her stomach turned into a beehive. Her blood ignited.

  She swooped up from the floor and grabbed Fennel by the hair. Her fingers dug deep into his scalp and she swung him around furiously. He reached out with his arms to grab onto her, but her momentum was too much for him. She twisted and spun. Round and round. Her fingers released the precious twin blood from his skull that made dandelions turn to mercury. She sent him flying into the wall. As he fell to the floor, she grabbed a somnambulism book and bashed it into his head. Blugh!

  She panted and panted—her head bleary with emotion and illness. Vomit was a marching band within her. She paced back and forth to get clarity. The blue cornhusk did a jig above her head. Fennel was getting to his feet. He was walking toward her. He was gentle now. He was a milk boy. He gave her the sad eye and whistled out the mourning song. It rode through her and the marching band in her stomach cascaded onto the floor. A day for a parade.

  Chapter 19

  Isabella awoke to the blonde moustache of a stranger. If his feathered hair and tan suit didn’t make it obvious enough, the opal hourglass dangling from his neck confirmed it. He was a Coriander Monk. He was feeding her some onion soup. It tasted salty on her cherub lips and the fluffed pillows behind her head felt good. Teak struts extended across the ceiling above the gas lamps that burned with a smell so spicy.

  “You’re awake. Good. I am Monk Harrison,” he said. He sat up and put his hand on her forehead. “You still have quite a fever. Looks like you will be spending some time in this bed.”

  She said nothing and looked him over—pale burgundy handkerchief folded in his front jacket pocket, smoke stains on the ends of his fingers, brown suede shoes. She looked up at him and said nothing, her eyes shrinking down to the contempt she loved to show. His eyes twinkled with a smile, but his face remained grim.

  “I don’t suppose you read,” he said, standing up from the bed. ”I would get you some books if that might make your stay a little more pleasant. We have an impressive collection here. I am sure you know this.” He stared at her with unflinching eyes.

  “Actually, as I am sure you know, this is my first time in your rumor mill,” she said. Even speaking made her limbs hurt.

  “I wasn’t aware of that. How strange that is. So, what is it that brought you here then?” he asked.

  “I . . . ” She thought twice. No need to go into this. She shook her head. Never mind. She felt like a used sanitary napkin. So, as fate would have it, she has been hand delivered to the monks themselves. Not bad. She should beat the crap out of Fennel more often. Fennel. Where is Fennel? She looked up. Harrison was exiting the door.

  “Excuse me,” she peeped. He looked back from behind the door.

  “Come to think of it, I would like a hardy book. I feel simply awful, but I suppose some words of wisdom would do me good. Can you suggest something for me?”

  Harrison’s eyes lit up slightly and he walked back into the room. “I would need a little more information than that if I were to choose you a decent book. Everyone has a point of entrance to every subject. Everyone is particular. A good book is a good book, don’t get me wrong, but given all the cultural variables, it’s hard to say what would be the best choice for you.”

  No doubt, Isabella thought to herself. “How about something that is of interest to you right now. That way, well, no I take it back, I have a better idea. You’re one of those Coriander Monks I hear about, correct?”

  He looked at her with that drawn grim face. The lines around his face were tremendous. Thoughtful eye wrinkles and creased grease. He didn’t answer but looked down on her. Thinking.

  “Is that such a hard question?” she asked. Even for Isabella, he was a bit unnerving—hard to read and strangely intense. He remained silent then suddenly looked up into the ceiling.

  “I was thinking how strange you are. Yes, don’t take offense. You wouldn’t. I am sure. You know you are strange. But that wasn’t the entirety of my thought. No, I was caught off guard by how you asked me about being a Coriander Monk, because, well, yes, of course, I am one. I mean it really is quite apparent. But something about the way you said it made me . . . question being one.”

  “Why, because a little girl isn’t intimidated by you?” she asked straightforwardly.

  He stared at her unblinking. His eyes still soft and stern. He sat there quiet for almost half a minute.

  “Yes!” he guffawed suddenly. “That is absolutely correct. How perceptive of you.” He laughed and then sat on the bed. His face back to its monkish appeal.

  "Very well," said Isabella. "Now I don’t suppose there is a current favorite reading topic among you monks, is there? Something that is piquing the collective interest at the moment? A lecture series of sorts?”

  “What peculiar questions you ask. Well, of course, yes, there are always topics around here. That is why we are here in many regards. We are here to keep these topics moving through these halls. Let's see, what has been the favorite topics of the last month? Agriculture is always a big topic around here. I love it myself, but I wouldn’t describe it as a particularly new sensation. There has been some fascination with bugs but in a way, the fascination is again linked to agriculture. You can’t tear the thunder away from the lightening you know?”

  He looked at her for an indication of her interest. “Yes, well, I suppose the big study these days is just population studies. Some results have recently come in regarding the correlation between geography and culture that are quite fascinating. Monk Gavin gave a fairly impressive lecture on his recent field studies with the Tyransie tribe. A completely different tribe than us, but could a heavy abundance of flood activity have something to do with it?”

  “You call that an interesting study?” asked Isabella.

  “You would have to see the data to really appreciate the study. A lot of our most recent findings reveal their greatness inside the data I suppose,” said Harrison.

  “I suppose,” she grumbled. "What about the mind? Do you study the mind?”

  “Yes, of course, we study the mind. What would the Coriander Monks be without a thorough investigation of our most important organ?” he said.

  “That isn’t our most important organ,” said Isabella.

  “And what is?” he asked.

  “The nose, you moron,” she said, “but I know plenty about that. Tell me about the mind, if you can.”

  Harrison took being called a moron very well. Not that there is a very well way to take such things. But if
very well indicates that he just let it pass without much of a thought that is how it happened. Very well.

  “I thought you wanted me to suggest a book,” he said.

  “I do, but I believe I like hearing you speak. Can you just tell me what the latest findings are on the mind?” Isabella used the phrase the mind in an affected manner. She didn’t mean to. She couldn’t help it. It was in her blood. Quite simply she would say the monks the same way she said the mind. That is to say, she held both phenomena with a judicious amount of humorous skepticism—just a trace element that always betrayed her. She had little faith in the Coriander Monks and all their hard work. The monks were a very prodigious clan with little time to waste. They were busybodies too busy to laugh at their most solemn of terms: the mind. And like all things they felt somber about, they mapped it—continuously mapping the mind, this foreign object that just sat out there like a dead pet dog run over by a buggy.

  “Well, that is not an easy question to answer. The mind will forever beguile us. We are still in a dark ages in understanding how it works. Yes, I can tell you that. But progress is being made. If only the world were full of more phantom limb victims. I swear. No easier way to discover the various oddities of the mind than spending some time with someone who is experiencing phantom limb. They feel their limbs moving around even when they are gone. It’s a good indication of how the mind works.”

  “Are you sure it works at all?” she asked.

  “What do you mean by that? Of course the mind works. The interesting part occurs when it works wrong. When it programs itself in odd ways and the monk is able to gain a perspective on the true inner workings. Like phantom limb, see? Phantom limb is . . . ”