Marshsong

by Nato Thompson

  The building’s corpses had been bulldozed to make way for something. And just at the edge, where the rubble ended and the street continued on as though not a thing had changed, like a family having a picnic in front of a tidal wave, the neighborhood continued on. The buildings were creaking on their foundations, lanterns hung on pegs out front of porches, and the streets moved with the bodies of people wandering in the heat of the night. A lone brick wall had become home to numerous splashes of spray paint with one of the more bold statements reading, Death to the king.

  Isabella’s eye wandered toward the homes where people gathered in groups sitting around on porches laughing, singing, drinking and arguing. The air danced with the sounds of humanity, and as Isabella listened even closer, she could hear a melodic banjo playing underneath it all. She wandered over to a corner where men and woman were laughing and drinking leaning on a pouring fire hydrant. The water gushed gallons upon gallons of water into the cracked black roadway making a refractive river that danced in the reflection of the dark bodies in motion. Children danced in the water even though it was the middle of the night, their limbs moving in a somnambulist dance. They laughed and pranced as though it were mid-day, their giggles like carbonation in the ecstatic extraction of the water lines below. The rusted and decayed infrastructure of Barrenwood’s plumbing belched dreams of renewal into the fresh spray. The couples, strangers, and families, that gathered near the hydrant leaned back as though resting on the evening's humidity, their bodies holding against a different sense of time as though the world had nowhere to go—as though here was as good as anywhere and now was as glorious and as sorrowful as any now could ever be.

  “Hey lil' lady, have a drink,” said an older man with a bottle of whiskey in hand.

  Isabella, who never drank, took a sip. The liquid felt warm as it slid down her throat and made a bed in her stomach. She pulled down her hood and stared into the moonlight. It caught the side of her face as if she was sunbathing and she leaned into the glow as it cooled and warmed her.

  An elderly black woman said to her, “You sure are proper to be spending a while. Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

  The elder man with the bourbon, handkerchief wrapped around his neck and overalls suspended over his shoulders, snickered, “Regina, lil' miss can be out whenever she wants. Your kids have been whooping it up here since sunrise. It’s too hot for anyone as far as I can tell. Like asphalt in a firefight.” He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and took the bottle back from Isabella and took a pull. Isabella, just sat silent, shared the back of the fire hydrant with her friend.

  “Fact is, Freddy, your great aunt would rue what they’ve done to this street," said the old woman. “My aunt, her aunt, their aunt, and on back, they all grew up around here and I know the day is soon coming when we’ll be kissing this town goodbye for good.”

  “Aw now, Regina. Don’t get all worked up about it. This place has given us as much heartache as it has anything else. Maybe it’s time to move on.”

  “The heartache is what I’ll miss most,” Regina said, staring out over the cock-eyed bulldozers, their muscular arms buried into the cracked asphalt of her memories.

  “It doesn’t much matter what we miss, the world around us rolls along. The winds that blow over us are the winds that have blown over all time. They move without a concern. God up there is a cruel strange man who spends most of his time drunk. I’ll tell you that.”

  “The Lord is watching out for us. That I know. He speaks to me at night and in these hours he keeps me from the demons. He is up there with my two boys right now. Looking down on me and holding my hand through this valley of death.”

  Freddy snickered, “The good Reverend will be pleased to hear you say that. If staying in the good list is what you want, that is what you do. I remember us playing just like these kids at this very corner. I swear the days were never this hot back then, but we played and played in the fire hydrant. I will miss this street, too. Take a drink and relax. Or put your head in the water like this!” Freddy bent over and put his whole head into the spray of water. A burst of water shot out splashing Isabella and Regina.

  They passed the bottle back and forth, listening to the friends and family, whoever they were, talk and laugh as the night went on. People would wander up, some bringing drinks, some sharing snacks—maybe dried mango or salted beef—some hanging around just hoping the bottle might end up in their hands, some talking too much and some not saying a word.

  The circle would expand and contract like an organ of the city, just contracting and retracting with the pulse of people who couldn’t sleep because their homes were too hot and the sticky air would not relent. Some people were friends and some were tolerated, but most had known each other for a very long time—through good times and bad, drunken brawls, romances gone south, surprise pregnancies, time spent in prison, and more times than not, scraping together money to just hold this torn fabric together. The rollercoaster of living had been a lot bumpier in the Mortestrate, and the neighborhoods took the hits together. It left them close and it left them hard. It is a bizarre gift to suffer together and for that few of them were thankful.

  As the night grew on, Isabella leaned back into the fire hydrant, listening to the sound of the water pouring into the street. It gurgled and chimed along with the laughter and occasional argument of her present company. Sipping Freddy’s bourbon, she dreamed a little too far out and came to herself to find just her and Freddy standing alone on that corner in the wee hours.

  She sniffed the air. Something was moving. She felt it at the edge of her senses. Something familiar. Something rank. It rang a little bell in her deep inside. The bell said danger, but she couldn’t stop listening to the water.

  “Darlin',” said Freddy. “You better find some shelter. The Mortestrate isn’t safe for the likes of you. Not at the hour you showed up, and definitely not now. Do you need a place to stay?”

  “No, no, I’m fine,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

  She leaned up from the fire hydrant and adjusted herself. Her head was dizzy. She was drunk for one of the few times in her life. The night opened up with a terrifying scream. It was Regina. She came running frantic out into the street from her home.

  “Come quick!” she yelled.

  Isabella and Freddy ran over. Neighbors exited their homes to join. They followed Regina to a teetering house with a soft wood porch.

  “The Mayberries! The Mayberries! All of em. They’ve been killed!” she screamed and then fell onto the porch overcome with grief. Isabella’s nose told her more than her eyes. She smelled the gore. The blood. The guts. She also smelled swine—lots of little pig feet, which defied explanation. And urine. And the rank odor of unwashed oldness.

  The sight of the killing in the living room was beyond description. They had been severely destroyed, some kind of extremely sharp object decapitating the bodies and leaving their innards torn out for the world to witness. The insides going outside. A family of four united into one massive mess of viscera and rot. Men howled. Women screamed. Freddy grabbed Isabella and led her out of the room.

  “You shouldn’t have seen that, darlin'. That is too much for about anyone,” he said, holding her around the shoulders. “Can’t believe it. The Mayberries. They have been here longer than most. It’s their connection to the PRM. That’s what’s done it to them. No doubt about it.”

  Isabella had a lot of emotions running through her. The scene of violence had come so quickly, her body so fueled up on alcohol, she had trouble gaining her senses with so much happening around her. She could sense her inner demons wanting to go back in that room. She strangely salivated to taste that blood—to feel it on her tongue. She felt Freddy’s arms around her.

  “Who would do this? ” asked Isabella in a daze.

  “The monarchies would do this. They know the people are moving against them and they are trying to take us out. The Mayberries. I can’t believe it. There is a war brewing lil�
� lady. Blood will beget blood.”

  Isabella shook Freddie’s arms off her shoulder. “I have to go, Freddy. It is too late already.”

  Freddy wanted to stop her. It seemed to him that it was too dangerous for such a small girl to head out into the night. He wasn’t half wrong, but she was off in a flash, her small feet catching the wind and the rooftops. She hopped not all that far away to the Mayberry rooftop. She had to—one last time—take the scene in through her nose. She inhaled deeply, the fragrance of death filling her nostrils. Swine, most definitely swine. And then, a thought chilled her to the bone, as it took hold of her with evidence most clear. This wasn’t just a massacre. It was a massacre committed by someone like herself. Someone from the other side.

  Her mind wandered in the clouds as she bounded back to the Chateau de Crawler. She tried to make sense of it all. Sibel’s death. These strangers massacred. The hint of some foul creature set loose on the city. And her own time was running out as the fish sauce came dangerously to an end. She wished Fennel would come to her aid, but had he gone off the deep end? Had he given in to the Raven and left her for good? She couldn’t believe it.

  She was alone and soon to be very weak. She found herself wishing for the Duke. She needed to be rescued. He was large. He was a force. He could take control of the world in a way she found herself unable to do. For one of the few times in her life, she felt uncontrollably vulnerable. It was almost a human feeling—that feeling of no mastery and no wisdom, nothing but a stick in the ocean going this way and that.

  As she made her way across Barrenwood, a unique feeling rose up in her that replaced vulnerability. Fear. Isabella felt a growing fear rising in her as she exited the District of Jed and cut over to the Calliope. Something was following her. She hadn’t sensed it at first, but the feeling grew with each new rooftop. She quickened her pace as her stomach also began to turn over. Not now. The sickness had terrible timing. She ran through the streets as weakness began to set into her bones. Whatever it was that was chasing her was faster. And since no human was faster than she, she could feel it was the slayer of the Mayberries. A netherworld creature was fast on her heels.

  She was outgunned, woozy and sick. She would have to retreat. Anger and curiosity surged in with mixed emotions. The right thing to do would be to run as fast as she could, but she wanted so desperately to know what this creature looked like. Why was it after her? She turned to run, slipped and plummeted off the roof to the ground below.

  She landed with a thud and blood crept out of her nose. The creature was moving fast on her. She scrambled to her feet and darted as fast as she could toward the Calliope District. The chase was heavy and her breath was short. She ran for miles with her pursuer not tiring in the slightest. Over rooftops, through alleyways, through abandoned homes and across the Serengeti Park. Still it kept coming on. She was tiring and her body ached from her fall. Panic was beginning to set in and she tried to think while she ran.

  She could only think of one escape and the thought of it didn’t please her. She made her way toward the waterfront, her legs beginning to ache, the sickness having returned and oozing in her stomach. She didn’t have it in her to make it to the Chateau de Crawler. She gave up on that plan as she crouched behind a barrel along the docks, knowing full well that this creature, with its pig smell, would be on her in minutes. What had become of her? She was becoming powerless—her skills disappearing, her body a haven for pain, her face smeared with blood from her fall and her lungs straining for oxygen. As she heard the pitter patter of the beast, she resigned herself to the only idea she had left and flung herself into the Aliber River.

  The water was ice cold and it froze her bones as she sank deep into the black mire. The river moved slowly and the smell of algae and pond played hopscotch in her nose. She held her breath in her little lungs and swam under water downriver and to the other side. The creature may be able to beat her on land, but under water she was another creature. It exhausted her and her lungs felt as though they might burst. But she knew she had to stay down. If this didn’t work, she was finished and that thought, strangely enough, somewhat excited her. She swam down the river nearly two miles before she came up for air, pulling herself soaking onto the muddy, rocky riverbank. Driftwood lay scattered about her as she coughed and coughed, freezing against the air. The smell of the creature seemed to have faded.

  From there, in a haze, she dragged herself through the streets to make it to the Chateau de Crawler. She entered the noodle house, opened the back door, literally fell onto her office floor, and passed out, her body shaking feverishly. Her teeth small hammers tapping on the eggshell surface of dawn.

  Chapter 25

  Fennel kissed the boat goodbye. He placed his small red lips on its wooden bones and gave it a lip-smacking adieu. It had served them well over the years. He could still see Isabella in the corner, staring out into the night—a dreamer of worlds beyond the here. He sat wondering which one to take. The projector or the phonograph? He opted for the projector. He grabbed the tin cans of 8 mm film and snuck the projector into his already too full duffle bag. Goodbye phonograph. Things would have to go by the wayside. He was on the run. And he felt it.

  Somewhere, out there, that monstrous master was packing his bags and making way for the marsh. Fennel couldn’t imagine that he was joking on this account. No, Marty McGuinn was coming back. He could feel it in every drop of his malcontent blood. He would be none too happy either. Cutting his trip off short to play angry dad had never been his calling card. He may be a master, but he was no paternal figure. It truly scared Fennel to consider what it all meant, and he hopped out of the boat with an invigorated sense of urgency.

  He gave a hardy whistle and sat on the docks and waited. He had docked the boat further down river on the off chance that he could come back sometime and retrieve these items. Fennel looked up river. He really could use the help of Heinrich right now, but he had, unfortunately, put an end to that. Burning bridges was apparently a pastime for him. That odd old fellow did come in handy at times, but Fennel had dismissed him without a thought. For a brief moment of rage, anyone with any knowledge of Isabella would be enemy number one. But that was no longer the case. He found a reserve of sympathy up in his throat—his own desperation bringing that rare attribute of humility to his top hat. Maybe he would rehire Heinrich if given the opportunity again.

  Zarathustra eventually came trotting up—his immense nostrils flaring in the wet fog. Fennel jumped on his back and whispered his instructions. They were off to the Calliope where the warehouses provided a great opportunity for a circus to rehearse. The signs were literally in the air. Hanging from every lamppost and electric lines were banners preparing the city for the upcoming festival. Time was coming to a head. Fennel interpreted every banner as though they were announcing his own birthday. A celebration of Fennel. Of course, the banners merely featured Big Boy Charlie holding up a sudsy beer mug with an illuminated lamp shining brightly behind. Nothing specifically mentioned Fennel, but he knew better. This event was to be his and his alone.

  Zarathustra let Fennel off in front of the warehouse. The hour was late, but he could hear the rumbling of the cast of circus crew moving behind the corrugated steel roll door. Fennel banged his hand against the door. A small door to the left opened up and out came a small adolescent with long, bright green hair and more than his fair share of tattoos. A tattooed noose was wrapped around his neck and his eyes immediately spoke of an old soul in a young body—a body like Savina’s that had seen so much that heaven and hell and earth co-mingled without surprise or awe. A spirituality of it is what it is.

  “Can I help ya?” said the boy. “You’re banging awfully loud.”

  Fennel gave the kid a creased eye stare. He decided he liked the kid for reasons that weren't clear. He tipped his hat.

  “The name is Fennel. I am here to see Phineas Welch, master of the Peanut Family Circus. As it turns out, I am the benefactor of the upcoming performance in Barren
wood. And who may I ask are you?”

  “I’m Caesar. Follow me,” said the boy.

  He walked Fennel through the small door and into the immense warehouse. The room was full of a circus in mid-training. A high wire trapeze careened across the room with leotard wearing acrobats flinging themselves back and forth. A metal sphere held inside it some motorcycles that swirled in a blinding circle. At the far end, Fennel could see the contortionists bending themselves this way and that. He closed his eyes and took a smell. Sweat, peanuts and lion turds. It was amazing and Fennel tried to calm himself. A thing like this could send him into an adrenaline-fueled tizzy the likes of which no one would want to be around.

  Caesar walked Fennel across the space to an old man with a long grey beard in a shabby overcoat who had his head deep in the gears of some odd machine. Cesar tapped the man on the shoulder and the old man abruptly banged his head. Cesar whispered to him and the man turned around with a big broad smile.

  “So it is you!” he said, rapidly grasping Fennel’s hand. Fennel pulled it back as fast as he could. He could see the oil stains on the man’s fingers and smell the sweat of a man not bathed for many moons. “We didn’t know if we would ever be graced with your presence.” The man wiped his hands on his pants and smiled broadly. He had the face of an aged squash, squishy and grooved.