“This is indeed troubling news. We will have to fight this, but a month’s time? Seems I am going to need you to locate a new residence for us.”
Caperwill rubbed his head and cleaned his glasses. He had already been working on this with great enthusiasm. “I didn’t want to jump the gun until your return but time was running out. I have already located an impressive underground location in the Mortestrate. It is without question larger than our current residence, but of course, would require a vast architectural redesign. The site is in bad shape and would need not only a lot of repair, but walls taken out, an office made with one-way mirror, and on and on. I have gone so far as to have some architectural plans made up. ” He reached over to his desk to the plans lying there.
“I will look at them come next evening. It’s too much for me right now,” said Isabella. The idea of moving her entire enterprise was too much. She just needed some rest. Perhaps she would wake up and find her attitude had shifted. Perhaps she would find this an exciting challenge. All she wanted right now was for the world to at best improve and at worst remain the same.
Caperwill could see Isabella was tired. He gathered together a few biscuits with sugar from the cabinet and came to her with them on a plate.
“Barrister Bruno sent flowers to you upon your return, but that was so long ago, I’m afraid they have wilted.” He pointed toward the corner of the room where a vase stood with drooping desiccated sunflowers. “Oh and there is this invitation to the Mayor’s annual gala. This might be a bit of fun,” he said, handing her a card.
It was an announcement for the City Celebration for the Gas Lamp Victory to be held in the Elindale Plaza—a great city-wide costume ball to applaud the great progress of the city’s renowned industrialists. Come enjoy the libations, dance to the band, and watch the unveiling of a new statue for all the city to see.
Hopefully, she could last that long. She put a kettle on for tea. Her stomach was queasy again. Little fish sauce was left and she had already begun conserving. Not this again, she thought.
She patted Caperwill’s head and gave him a weak smile. “I appreciate what you have done. I am, however, completely tired from my journeys. I need to get some rest. If you could do me the smallest favor in the interim? I need you to send a note to the Persembes immediately. I need their presence here.”
“The Persembes?” said Caperwill, his face going blank. He paced back across the room suddenly in a nervous fit. He reached over to the bar and poured himself a drink. Whiskey. A long tall whiskey at that. He gulped at it and looked back at Isabella.
“Yes, the Persembes. Why, what is it?” she asked.
“Isabella, I thought you would have heard already. Sibel Persembe is dead.”
Chapter 23
The world spoke to him. He listened into the wet wind and heard the song of a thousand applauses. They were proud of him out there. Families were holding close together, cheering. A mother wept in awe. He was most certainly a sensation, or so his night dreams told him as he considered the future. “Thank you,” Fennel whispered into the wet wind. The dripping hyacinth waved back.
Things were coming together at last. Fennel looked over at the shore where the boxes piled up, a growing altar to procrastination. The Aliber waters lapped against the pile, turning the cardboard to milky pulp. He really had no time for that. Liberation came with a cost. So what if the deliveries didn’t arrive and the School and the Guild were without their proper materials. So what if the Stallhammers shook their heads, spit their tobacco, and grunted as they piled more and more boxes upon each other. So be it. Priorities had to be produced. They were not a given. Fennel had become a master of his world.
Night previous, Fennel had poured the elixir down Chesterfield Breakfast’s gullet. He had chugged it like a child with a milk jug. The esteemed sculptor of so many heroes on horseback's bronze statue had been the subject of Fennel’s dreams for so long. He was a superb craftsman with a massive studio. He had been commissioned to adorn Ellingdale Plaza and his choice in subject matter was his and his alone. Such a profound responsibility and one that Fennel had long coveted. And now, Fennel’s dreams were becoming those of Mr. Breakfast’s. Derrilous had come through at long last. The blue goo had finally been cracked and handed over—its azure phosphorescence sizzling in the midst of the steamy laboratory. The goo was hot and ready and not without a certain amount of timeliness. The City Celebration of the Gas Lamp Victory was a few nights hence and this sculptor would have to work overtime to get the monstrous totem produced for the people of Barrenwood to gaze upon. Fennel’s dreams were coming together.
Fennel hopped in the tub and gave himself a good wash. Fingers, toes, cracks, and ears. He hummed a little song while washing the blood off his little hands—the umber crust let loose dissolving into the greater tub water. These men and their resistance! Who did they think they were battling with? He still could hear their whimpering cries that mingled with the steaming water exiting the drain. Fennel hopped out of the tub and dried himself off. He looked over to Isabella’s desk. No one there. He shook the thought off and skipped to the closet putting on his tuxedo for the day.
“Regal as a beagle, my good man,” Fennel said as he winked at himself in the mirror.
The fire outside the cave burned low during the day and rose up at twilight—cooking slow herbs in tin foil packets the twins often placed there, heating the kettle for tea and at times heating the cave on the few chilly nights. As Fennel straightened his bow tie, he saw the flash of light that meant the coming. Fennel hadn’t summoned him and he knew this was going to try to be rain on his parade. Fear shook in his bones, but he smiled in the mirror again.
“Don’t worry. No one rains on this parade.” He gave himself a wink and skipped out of the cave to meet the summoning of Marty McGuinn.
“Der be some duties ya be remiss on, lil' Scratch. Dem boxes just pilin up and dem Stallhams a tellin me ya givem nuttin but da evil eye. Ya got me soupen up ya fire and haven to come down on ya like a bad uncle. I woulda waged a good wager or so dat now that de she bitch is out on her ass, you was gonna go soldier like and keep da hen house tight. But you ain’t done like dat, is ya? Ya just as rowdy and restless as she always did warn. You need a leash more den she ever did. Now ya sitten round bowing and preenin' a righteous little twot on da high top. Look at choo. Just look at choo.” Marty made a scrunched up cute face. His lips pursed together and he pointed strange at Fennel. His ugly teeth wiggled in his mouth and his body swooshed nasty in his overalls.
“You such a big boy now. All smilin in da mirra, laughin ta nobod. Y’aint got nuttin ya know? Nuttin. Ya can preten. I do know ya like dat. But pretenen aint happnen. Now ya got me runnin from a big run, just so I can hop into dis shamble called a pyre to give ya a last repriman.”
Fennel listened to the monster’s words. He was back and mad and all that progress was slipping away. Isabella was gone and Fennel was in less of a place than when she was even around. Everything gets messed up. No other way to describe it. Fennel landed on his knees and placed his hands in the air. He didn’t want to lose momentum. He wanted this episode to go away. He only had a few days. He must keep Marty at bay.
“Marty, I’m sorry. You must forgive me. Better yet, I beg you to forgive me. I truly do. These boxes just kept coming. The Stallhammers were relentless. They just kept showing up. I have things to attend to.”
Marty spit a wad of gross into the pit and gave Fennel the one eye. “Sure ya do. Always up to sometin. She-bitch was right. She had ya lil number all along. Said ya could neva do dis on ya own. Dat ya were too wild. I can see it now. A legitimized child maniacal. Dats your modo operando. Don’t know betta. Ya just a babe, scratch. And ya know what I do to da babes. I whip em scratch. And I take a wire and I strike em hard on der baby rear. You gonna get a whippen. Mark me. A good whippen a comin.” Marty had a belt in his hand and he swung it around his head. He started laughing and whipping at the air. He loved whipping those kids. Fennel kn
ew it. Fennel hated it.
He couldn’t listen anymore. It was just a mirage anyway—Marty’s image shaped in flame, riding high above the kettle and herb packets. He couldn’t listen to this drunk slob tell him right from wrong. Not now. He had given him freedom, only to make him a bigger servant than ever.
“What about Castilla, Marty? Tell me about him. He is stealing the water, you know? Isabella knew it. She sensed it first. He is carting all the mad off in boats. That’s right. The water is being eviscerated. All for profit. The down and out carted off to prison. Barrenwood is getting rid of our lifeblood while you gamble away our savings. Isabella was right. She always is. She was always right about these things. That soulless merchant is out to take the water. Don’t you see? Why do you do business with him?”
Marty spit again. He took a snap at the fire with his belt whip and the fire crackled in echo. Fennel’s words really got him giggling. He laughed and laughed. Whatever Fennel had said really struck a chord with him as he nearly buckled over in hysterics.
“Scratch, I gotta hand it to ya. Ya bout da stupidest ding I seen in a long, long time and I gotta say, dis here Muddy Carnival is full the brim wit um. Der be here a boy born so dum, he only make da sound of a donkey when ya poor him a sip. Oh he love dat sip and he sing dat donkey song all night long. I buy him drink after drink just ta hear him snort. Der be an utta lass dat just open up her twot legs when ya wanna poke. She got a scar on her face and she be dum as a sock puppet. But she love dat Marty party. She come a slurpen for a burpen and I give it to her just good and a plenty. But neither he nor her evuh questioned da value of a man dat sets his sights on some cash money when he can get it. Way of da world, mah boy.
“But ya so dum it confuses you. I spoiled ya. Dat I did. If ya had to go beg for it da way I do, every night, ya would like money more. If you woke up in da mud, covered in da last nights bad ideas, not a ha'penny in ya pocket, jonesen for a lil somethin somethin, you would love money. You would dream of it. It would make ya pesky heart sing. You would worship it. Ya would get on yer hands and knees and rub your milk bones on it. Cash moves everything around me. So da sayen goes.
“Now get dees boxes over to der deliveries. And stop ya nasty boy tirades around town beetin and maulin low level nuttins. Dem boys night last, dey aint got nutt to do wit nutt. Once ya start maulin the rabble, da police start snoopen, the mayor start a callin, do rumor mill start a churnin . . . I put a good amount a work in ta not let dat all start up again. I knewd if I took da twos a yas in I was riskin a bit o’dat cover. But I told em, and I tell em again, if either you or dat hellion start messin with my beau vivant, yas outs on ya ass. Can’t helps ya. Now you gone runnin yer anger round town like a drunken Irish bum, beaten and a maimen townfolks. Can’t have it, Scratch.”
Fennel listened to Marty. He bowed his head and felt the desire to say yes sir the entire time. It made him crazy. His subservience drove him nuts. His hands were now clean. He was embarrassed slightly how he had run around last night placing a hurt on those involved. But he couldn’t help it. They had deserved it. Now Marty had come challenging him and he felt like a boy. He didn’t like that feeling. The Raven had awoken he reminded himself. The Raven had liberated him from Isabella and from Marty. Neither of them should place their mitts on his plots and plans.
“Stop yer yammering!” Fennel barked. He threw on the slang he had learned so long ago. His eyes were glowing yellow and the words juggled in his mouth with nervous Raven excitement. “Dose boxes gonna stay where dey may. Tell dem Stallhammers to hold up. Ah got plans, Marty McGuinn. Ah got me a super plan. And you’re wrong 'bout money. Don’t tink I don’t know it. Ya sit der just whilin away dem ducats but you want em plenty. Ah know its allure. But ya don’t get how dis Castilla is different, do you? You’re too dumb to see it. Blinded by de now.
“De water won’t always be around. It’s finite, Marty. Dis taking away of de lunatics is more dan you tink. You tink I care about a slack jawed loony tune? No. I dun. Ain’t nothin' but somethin' to laugh at. But ah see it. Dang, ah feel it. It’s part of a bigger plan. It’s a mega plan. Dey are puttin mechanisms of control 'round town. It’s not just 'bout money, it’s 'bout control, and control is 'bout dreams, Marty. Dreams. Our food. Our lunch. Our meals. You have never had any strategic sense. Ya just a small time crime boss always out on vacation. But dis Castilla is out to rinse de world of de water. Ah know it. Ah can taste it. You’re too drunk. You don’t know squat. You tink tings will always be de same. Lay low, and scrape the money off the top. You’re goin to get cut out, buddy boy.”
Marty laughed and spit again. He shook his head and snapped his belt in the air. It went crack and sparks from the fire went flying. “Get that ass of yours ready, Scratch. You’re gettin a whippin and den ahma gonna watch your body burn baby burn on da fire roast chicken-style.”
Marty laughed and laughed. His image slowly faded from the fire and Fennel was left shaking in his shoes. The Raven was strong in him, but he could feel the fear rising inside as well. They battled for control and he felt he was outside himself looking back. He was a battleground of submission and freedom. He wasn’t sure which way to turn.
“Enough!” he shouted into the night air. “The Raven has spoken and the Raven shall speak again. What I said was true and these boxes are nothing but a sign of my incompetent docility. Isabella might have been right to some degree, but I’m right by all degrees. Justice must be served. Castilla will die at my hands and when Marty comes to town, so too shall he!”
Perhaps this was the night he had avoided for so long. He certainly couldn’t stay there, not with Marty sure enough coming back so soon, whip in hand. He had a party to plan. He skipped over the cave feeling light on his feet, grabbed a suitcase and packed a few items. It occurred to him that he couldn’t remotely carry all the clothes that he wanted. That idea bothered him. Living out of a suitcase wasn’t his idea of a good time. He told himself that he would just have to get settled and buy an entire new wardrobe. These items were going to be a thing of the past. The concept agreed with him. He chucked his old clothes into the fire and watched them burn. They sizzled and cracked and he hummed to himself. He was off to join the circus.
Chapter 24
The moon had returned and its slivered toenail caught the cracked paint edge of the windowsill showing down onto Isabella's small breath. She woke with a start to an empty room. The boom of the nightclub was a rumbling factory engine. It rolled through her like the vibrating of the bottom of the ocean. She would often let it hold her in the palm of its hand. The world is a rhythm. She needed to wake. She knew that. The needs of the present couldn’t be more urgent. She strained to pull herself from the couch. How she missed her mat in the cave. Her eyes immediately set upon the work desk. It was littered with bills, but all in all, things were in order. Caperwill was more than capable.
As consciousness sewed its way back into her body, the shudder of Caperwill’s words took hold of her again. Could it be true? Sibel was dead? A pit opened up in her. The face of that beautiful young girl that had smiled upon her so was no longer around. Death had eaten her—a girl jumping off a diving board to be swallowed, so silently, in the mass of the universe’s soft mouth, never to be seen again. The thought chilled her. The tragedy of it grew against her tongue. It tasted so good, so sweet—the aria of the horrible end singing delicious pleasure in her, the sadness of the living making her heart swoon. Her own appreciation of this universal grieving made her ill. How could she enjoy what was so horribly depressing? Isabella threw the papers off the desk. They fluttered in the air and fell lightly to the floor.
Isabella walked to the mirror. Her small feet felt already tired and the night had just begun. She stared hard at herself. Was she evil? Her mind was a mystery to her. The sadder the occasion, the more she felt inside her. She had feelings for Sibel and the news of her death only exacerbated Isabella’s internal tension. Isabella bowed to her reflection unable to stare herself in the eyes. She was
evil. Of this, she had no doubt. Her feelings were sadistic, brutal, cold and desirous—a hunger malicious. As much as she hated that her friend had passed, she also felt an overwhelming sensation of pleasure. Death, it seemed, was a meal for her.
To make matters worse, the sickness had returned. She looked at her vial of fish sauce to see mere dregs remaining—small flecks in a drip of silt. It seemed her freedom would be celebrated in a pile of vomit and remorse.
Caperwill came flying into the room. He was ever in a state of business and tonight he looked exceptionally exasperated. His long grey hair flew in every direction and his spectacles hung low across his nose.
“I have delivered the flowers and message, but I am afraid they will not be coming,” he said, panting as he rushed in the door. “Rana and Yosune are locked up tight at Tacsim Station. The doors are strictly guarded and they are not receiving anyone.”
“I am sure they are scared out of their minds and deep in mourning,” whispered Isabella. The pain from her stomach made her wince. She needed more Marty hair. The days ahead were not going to be easy she thought. She sipped gingerly on the fish sauce dregs and headed out the door.
“The architectural plans for the new building!” yelled Caperwill as she hurried out the door.
“Just build it!” Isabella yelled back as she made her way to Tacsim Station.
The city was not her friend. This reunion was a tragic disaster. While she was digging bones out of the belly of the earth, a conspiracy had hatched against her in Barrenwood. How could it be a coincidence? Did Isabella’s prodding lead to this tragic fate? Isabella prayed to gods above that such was not the case. She bounded across the rooftops toward the Elegiac Hills hovering above the city. Marty ever warned her about going up there and her last visit with Minasha Darkglass certainly gave his cautionary anecdotes credence.
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