“So are we game?” said the finely dressed man, in a heavy English accent. “This is your show, love. Let’s be about it if you’re for it.”
“Aye,” said his opponent, “I’m for it, and you’re soon to be abou’ it, right enough. I’ll ‘ave your skull for a paperweight, me fine popinjay, and your knuckles for hatpins.”
“How droll. What’s your method? I don’t know your kind.”
“Three go rounds, to the death and right enough. ‘Ow bout it?” He turned toward the crowd. “What’s your pleasure, boyos?” Tad caught a glimpse of his face, which was flushed, the aura suggesting a drunk. He was at least a head shorter than his opponent, and much wider, with a hairy chest and a bald head, a squashed nose, squinting piggy eyes and fat cheeks. He had wide, spade like hands that he waved to the crowd, palms upward, entreating their involvement. Suggestions flew in from all sides.
“Toledo steel!”
“Chess! Let them play chess!”
“Pistols!”
“Drink! Let them drink and die, eh, sons of whores! Mead decide all!”
“That’s a fair shake!”
“Bare hands! Let them box!”
“No, grapple. Let them grapple!”
“Darts!”
“Nine ball!”
“Monopoly,” Tad yelled, getting caught up in the general spirit of things. There were some laughs on either side, and Stitch grinned, patting him on the shoulder.
“Avast!” said a new voice. “This is my party, you murderous cave dwelling brutes, and I’ll decide what goes!” It came from up above. Tad hardly needed to look up to know who’d spoken. Who else could it be? Daddy stood on the gable, the vulture perched on one shoulder. As the faces turned up and all eyes beheld him a thunderous cheer burst from every throat. There was widespread clapping, hoots, whistles, catcalls. The voice in which he’d spoken was the same as the one that Tad had first heard in the clearing in the trees weeks before, and that had haunted his dreams ever since, the same roughened, slightly mad back-woods drawl of the goggle eyed man in white. Seeing him, the voices in his own head started their clamor again. He speaks in his true voice, one hissed. All his voices are false, said another. There will be hangings and christenings. How’s it all going to turn out? Eat you alive.
Daddy’s choice of outfit tonight a one piece jumper with a vaguely Hispanic look, similar to those worn by matadors, canary yellow, with a red stripe traveling up the legs, along the rib cage and ending underneath the arms. On his head a tremendous sombrero of interwoven straw matting with dangling red and yellow plush balls on strings. A red sash spilled down from beneath the hat, obscuring one eye and hanging all the way down to his waist. In one hand he held a margarita glass that looked as though it could hold at least three gallons, and Tad was unsurprised to see that it held the colorless stuff that wasn’t quite liquid, or solid, or gas, but that contained no alcohol, and never had. A glow surrounding him that flared up monstrous and towering, burning bright as supernova, so that it hardly could be looked upon by the naked eye. His face flushed, but the color false, superimposed. Tad could see the clammy flesh beneath that glow, the vitality a product of the Essence and unnatural. The few wispy white hairs that passed as eyebrows. Around his neck a thick chain of gold links, and hanging from it down by his navel an hourglass surrounded by gleaming brass bars. Inside white sand trickled with agonizing slowness. He stood, the one visible orb roving over the cheering mob, and the hideous eye found Tad and fixed him rooted to the spot as the face split open in a demon grin. The warmth left Tad’s body, running away from his feet as though the ground itself were siphoning it off. The voices howled around him and inside his head. He felt he was going to faint. Realization that he was leaning against Stitch’s chest, and he looked up to the large man’s face. Flatly unreadable. An endless interplay between the three unnoticed by all but they, lasting seconds only. Daddy lifted his glass above his head, the displaced carrion bird on his shoulder fluttering its wings, and let loose a simply psychotic howl that was echoed by all below, Tad included. It’s Decadence! Eat you alive! The voices in his head. “I think you will all be relieved to know,” Daddy said grandly, “that the animal that you see enjoying the use of my person, coragyps atratus, is not a mirage. Nor is it native to these climes, but you are not, in fact, imagining it. Hum, hep! You are not experiencing outright hallucinations, though it may very well be that some of you are, in any case, this does not happen to be one of them. Or it could be that we are all having the same hallucination, which would mean that we are all most unimaginative, and should be ashamed not only of ourselves but all our relatives. Especially you,” he added, pointing to Stitch, who looked at him disapprovingly but made no reply.
“High lord!” called someone from the crowd.
“Your eminence!”
“The night’s blessing on you! Impart to us your wisdom!”
“Of what would you have me speak?” Daddy asked, speaking in the voice of a wearily accommodating adult whose children have asked for a bedtime story.
“How would you have them duel?”
“Tell us your pleasure, Fatha,” called the shirtless combatant. “We hear and obey!” Daddy opened his mouth, but before he could speak the suggestions flew in again from all sides. There was an almighty racket. Feet stomped on the balcony floor. A dog howled from somewhere and there were the noises of barnyard animals and a trumpet blast. A frightful hullabaloo. Tad stood and marveled, for the moment reduced to part of the scenery. He’d never seen the stars so bright, or so close. Daddy was drinking deeply from the margarita glass. When he raised his head again his expression was worse than ever. He raised the glass above his head and looked down sternly. Instantly everyone hushed.
“Hem! I have reached…” Dramatic pause. “…a decision.” Thunderous cheers. He jiggled the glass and all silenced again. “This is a party, is it not? Ahem! Hrrump! We have no need of firearms, I think, or swordplay. Spoil the mood! Being as this is a festive occasion, I think we should all be pleased to see an extraordinary exhibition of tandem toe tapping, footloose and fancy free as y’well might be, in short, I propose we witness, to get those juices flowing, a one on one dance-off, toe to toe, man to man, and this is a tough crowd. When the thumb drops, the heart stops. These gentle hearted plebeians will play jury, and I, judge. What say ye?” Again the crowd voiced its approval. The vulture took flight, wheeling out and winging round to land gripping the railing in its sharp talons. Those nearby edged away from it. Daddy leapt up into the air, flipping over and twisting elegantly, tucking in his knees and extending them just in time to land on the balls of his feet between the two contestants. Tad noticed that not a solitary drop had spilled from the margarita glass. The crowd was whispering excitedly; several windows had opened and new faces were peering out interestedly at the proceedings.
“Bale back!” someone cried. “Give them room!” There were side bets being made. Furtive whispering. A man’s life is at stake, flashed through Tad’s head. But the loser won’t really be killed, will he? Oh, won’t he ever, came the answer. With this crowd, do you doubt it? As much as his common perception of reality was dissolving over the course of this night, this was one he couldn’t get by so easily. Theatrics, nudity, and Essence aside, he’d yet to see any real harm befall anyone. That would up the ante in a way that he didn’t want to see, and he desperately hoped it wouldn’t go in that direction. And yet. And yet a part of him, a part that he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge, was enjoying the eager flush of the crowd at the possibility of bloodshed, the thrill of seeing other lives at peril as long as your own was not forfeit. A timeless, primeval thrill, but one new to Tad Surrey. Definitely decadent.
“Music!” Daddy was shouting. “We shall need music! Are there minstrels among us? Search the premises! Produce a band!” The cry was taken up, and there was a scramble of bodies to the windows. Some who had instruments handy began to pull them out. Taking advantage of the lull, Daddy stepped over to Tad, who stood wi
th Stitch towering over his shoulder. “Well,” he said, taking a cleansing sip from the glass, “well well well well well! What an honored guest have we. Hum, hep! But you were not invited. Trespasser, I name you! A wee bit past our bedtime, isn’t it?”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Tad said. “Your party is taking place in my backyard. I’m here to make sure that everyone is behaving. Your guests are a motley crew. Not what I’d call the “height of society,” but to each his own.”
“Your opinion has been noted, ahem, and shall be categorically ignored. I think that your dissatisfaction with the company has not prevented you from enjoying the refreshments, at least. And I see that you’ve picked up a rather hefty tour guide. Been showing you the sights, has he?” In the cleared space behind Daddy, Tad could see the Brit removing his waistcoat. Now he bent and touched his hands to his toes. Apparently he was not dismayed by Daddy’s choice of method for the contest. Across the way his opponent was hopping back and forth from one foot to the other, and jostling and joking with some others, similarly dressed. He looked to be taking the situation lightly, for a man whose life was supposedly on the line. The shirtless contestant turned and elbowed his way over to where they stood.
“Your lordship,” he said, bowing slightly toward Daddy and striking his chest with a fist. “Gatey,” he said, addressing Stitch, who nodded coolly. “I’s just wanting to say ‘ow much I’ve been enjoying the ‘ole mess. Lookin’ for’ard to this too,” he added, winking at Tad. “I ‘avent danced in a fine stretch, damn fine stretch.”
“For those of us who missed it,” Stitch said. “I don’t suppose you’d care to fill us in on the reason for this rather drastic action.”
“Why, Gatey,” the man said. “That slicked up gadfly called me mother an ‘ore!”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Much,” Daddy said. “Hem, hup! All fair and above board, but I’ve first hand knowledge of your maternal so and so, and I believe the good woman is a whore. Unless she’s changed her line of work.”
“But that she did, Fatha. This Thursday last.”
“Oh! Well in that case, off with his head, and the sooner the better, insolent whelp! We can’t take such barbs and call ourselves men! Hem!” From several spots the sound could be heard of various instruments warming up. There was a tremulous thump-a-thump of a bongo, the reedy piping of a flute or some other woodwind, the harsh blat of a saxophone, the twang of a banjo. The luminosity of the walls as they twinkled steadily, anticipating the spectacle. Tad felt the cool night air swelling his lungs, the tingle of the Essence warming every part, mind, body, and soul. The contrasting temperatures of the cool air on the outside and the heat within, intoxicating, like a sauna in the snow. And all would be well, if not for the yellow clad bandito in the sombrero, who nodded to the guests as they milled about, and rattled off his hems and haws, while at the same time keeping one mad eye locked on the middle child of the Surrey family. Over a mile away, her eyes alight with the same frantic gleam, the youngest child of the family toiled, suspended in midair above the attic floor, and salty drops of hot sweat ran down her chin and neck to land on the floor below. Daisy would not be sleeping tonight, not as long as Decadence went on. She felt a danger to her kin as acutely as if a knife were held to her own throat.
Something resembling a ragtag orchestra was assembling by the railing, leaving plenty of space for the two contestants to move about. Daddy sprang forward, tilting the sombrero back on his head and raising his glass. Much on one side of him pacing back and forth, and on occasion striking his chest with the palm of one hand to fire himself up and get the blood flowing, thwack, thwack. On the other side the Brit, standing tall with back straight, motionless. A haughty sneer on his face. “Ladies, gentlemen and beasts!” Daddy cried. “Creeping crawlers and crawling creepers! Lend us your eyes, your ears, and any other parts of your anatomy you see fit. We are gathered here today to join these men in holy matrimony…no, wait! Dash that! Strike it! We’re here to ring in the New Year, so if you’ll join me in counting down…no, that’s not it either. Ahem! Hrump! It escapes me why we’ve all come, momentarily, but I’m sure we must have a good reason…” he stopped, momentarily flustered, his eyes narrowing, and scratched at the back of his neck, sipping from the margarita glass. Snickers from the crowd. The Brit stepped up and whispered in his ear for several seconds. “Now I have it! These two brave souls seek to remedy the egregious hurt that has torn them asunder by facing one another in single combat for the sake of their honor and our own amusement. Let us applaud their bravery and mock their stupidity!” Cheers and applause from all sides, feet pounding on the balcony floor. The sharp report of a gunshot from one of the upper windows.
“Keep well back,” Stitch murmured over Tad’s shoulder before elbowing his way through the crowd for a closer view. Don’t have to tell me twice. From Tad’s vantage point he had a fine view of the action, but there was a row of others ahead of him. He wasn’t sure quite what to expect here, but he was glad of the buffer zone.
“Introducing the contestants!” Daddy howled. “In the corner to my right, this redoubtable throwback, a snaggle-toothed, corn holing plum smuggler, hailing from the highlands of Scotland, a member of the world renowned, the inimitable Clan McCauley, hum, hup, a practicing, God fearing anarchist, weighing fifteen stone, two pounds, here is the hangman’s son, Much!” Much had been in the midst of a strange looking set of calisthenics, standing on one foot and shifting his weight from the ball to the heel, and now he sprang up, exhibiting a truly tremendous vertical leap, and gave an ululating battle cry, slamming both fists against his chest rapidly, gorilla fashion. The yell was taken up by several others in the crowd, presumably other members of the inimitable Clan McCauley, or possibly other God fearing anarchists. Tad didn’t know how much a stone weighed, but he thought Much looked like a load of concrete. He would have pegged the Brit as a more likely dancer, with his body type, but he wasn’t taking anything for granted, not in this atmosphere. Appearances meant nothing, as far as he was concerned. “And in the corner to my left,” Daddy continued. “This tall drink of lemon juice, this jackbooted jetsetter, this latent limp-wristed lecher, this…”
“Oh, will you get on with it and quit your babbling!” came the gruff voice of Stitch, who was leaning against the railing, sipping from his stein. “These people want to see action, not you flapping your gums.”
“Stay out of this, you overstuffed quadruped! You’re ruining the mood! Ahem! Where was I? Ah yes. Hailing from London, England, and let us try not to hold it against him, weighing in this evening at twelve stone, nine pounds, here is the one and only Erasmus W. Whitehead, Esquire!”
“Actually, it’s Whitehall, old chap,” muttered the lanky Londoner.
“Oh well, Whitehead, no harm done. I see that you are anxious to get underway, so I shall stand aside, ha, and let you have at it; brave souls that y’are, may the best man win and all that ballyhoo. Any style’s fair game, if you can make it work.” And Daddy leapt onto the railing where he tilted the sombrero back on his head, running his finger along the inside of the margarita glass, and looking on with a smile of the utmost serenity, his eyelids fluttering incessantly. The crowd stirred restlessly as there was some amount of consultation among the members of the band, who seemed to having some language related problems.
“Get on with it, then,” someone yelled, and there were cries of agreement from the windows above. Someone began to clap their hands together, and quickly others joined in, until soon the thunder of hands clapping together rose over the field and into the starry night. Then one of the band began to strum a guitar, sweetly, gently, one string at a time, gradually warming to his work. Both of the men on whom attention was now focused were pacing up and down, sizing each other up, and circling each other as if waiting for an opening. When Tad caught sight of Much’s face, he could see that the man was smiling, his mouth partially open, yellow teeth showing. Whitehall returned the gaze without looking at him directly, instead ke
eping an eye on him with his peripheral vision, a meditative look or one of intense concentration on his face. Whenever a fresh cord was struck by the solitary guitar player, the Wytchlight or Foxlight gave a little jump, like the neon bars of a radio dial flaring up or the house lights flashing to signify the beginning of the next act. And then some sort of drum, bongo or rawhide stretched taut began to thump, thump-thump. The guitar picking up speed and Much pounded his boots on the ground, letting out an ugly laugh, and then he was underway. He touched his left hand to his right elbow and then his right to the left, at the same time teasing a jig, heel, toe, heel, toe. Moving sideways, crablike, crossing and uncrossing his legs as he moved in a circle, his fat belly hanging out over his waistline, but moving his bulk easily for all of that. And Whitehall did nothing, but nodded his head as if he were thinking it over very carefully. Pacing in time to the music, but not deigning it necessary to respond.
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