The department’s offices had been reformed into nine different attractions: a manifested Mardi Gras, the Feast of Fools from Medieval France, Rome’s nineteenth century Carnival, a modern day German Oktoberfest, an Australian flowers and fireworks festival, elongated dragon-shaped racing boats during the Duanwu Chinese New Year festival, an energetic Day of the Dead in Mexico, and an Irish Festival for Saint Patrick’s Day filled with emerald cliffs, frothy beer and energetic storytellers reciting local fairy tales. A food emporium held Spanish Gazpacho soup, Greek lamb, eggplant moussaka and stuffed zucchini. There were extravagant delicacies including Icelandic cooked puffin in a buttery milk sauce and Asian sea urchin with sturgeon caviar and white rice. For dessert was an Istanbul gold leaf cake.
These attractions were brimming with crowds of dreaming clients who had been inspired by the retiring muses. Though the foot traffic was breathtakingly claustrophobic, the overall feeling of the shindig was a collected array of harmonious synchronization.
Nathaniel, who continued to wear his typical corduroy pants, buttoned dress shirt and suspenders, watched his muses with a parental eye. Noticing that one muse wasn’t in attendance, he went to investigate. The curtain of the fireworks festival closed behind him silencing the small tulip-dotted office from the party’s boisterous noises. He found Annette sitting in her swivel chair with her feet propped up on her desk. Annette was wearing her wedding dress. Her attention was so focused on the dry erase board that she didn’t realize Nathaniel was with her until he crossed in front of line of sight. Seeing Nathaniel, Annette shifted as if waking from a daydream.
“Mr. Cauliflower,” Annette smiled.
“You’re missing your retirement party,” he said dryly.
“Yes,” Annette told him. “I woke from a nice dream and found my dry-cleaned wedding dress. I prepared to attend the event, honestly I did.”
“And yet here you are as the event goes on without you.”
“I was going to attend,” Annette sighed “but three things stopped me: the first being that, even though I’m social as Miss Redmond, there’s a Slocum side that’s anti-social. I’ve been in a personal battle trying to decide whether or not to make small talk.” She motioned to the dry erase board. “The second: I have unfinished business. I can’t leave without turning a specific peg.”
“Oh?” Nathaniel asked. “What peg would that be?”
Annette held up a purple peg. “The peg of Jonas Rothchild’s dad, from the blizzard accident.”
“That peg,” Nathaniel looked grave.
“Yeah, I was thinking that, before I retire and go back to my wedding day, I might want to give it a good tug as I probably won’t have another opportunity.”
“You want to turn the peg now?” Nathaniel said in amazement. “You’ll miss the entire get-together.”
“If it means possibly cracking a long-standing missing person’s case,” she shrugged.
“Well,” Nathaniel surrendered “if we turn the peg right this second, we might have enough time to catch the masquerade ball near the end.”
Annette perkily jumped from her swivel chair and extracted the pistol from her holster.
As the colored peg was rotated counter-clockwise, Nathaniel sized Annette up as she, enthusiastically, raised her eyebrows and held the pistol aloft. He rolled his eyes, sighing pensively as the office refolded.
*
A field of yellow dandelions, shining brilliantly in the summer sun, swayed on a warm spring morning. Clouds drifted lazily overhead. To any commonplace witness, the dandelion-drenched day was what life was worth living for, yet Annette clutched her pistol anxious to fire it.
Three young girls, spinning carefree, giggled as the hems of their dresses brushed through the patch of dandelions. Annette scowled, suspecting the worst behind this display of innocence. While two of the girls whirled on, one paused, bent and consulted a single dandelion attached to the ground.
“Come on, Kathleen!” called one of her friends.
“You two go. I’ll catch up in a minute,” Kathleen told them. Her friends giggled and frolicked through the field without her. Kathleen, nearing her late teens, was a radiant girl with apricot colored hair. The fabric of her dress was light blue and flapped in the breeze as she picked the single dandelion holding it to her nose.
Thomas, no older than twelve, watched her from afar, resting his elbows on the partially barbed, wooden fence at the field’s edge. He stared longingly at her as Kathleen brought the dandelion up to her left ear fitting it carefully between the strands of her hair.
Unmindful that she was being watched, Kathleen then dove off into the sea of dandelions, joining her friends.
Young Thomas followed her recent path through the field, approaching the spot Kathleen had been standing. Thomas’ gray eyes scoured the weeds for the perfect dandelion. He found several prospects but only seemed interested in one where a stubborn bee perched on the petals. Thomas sat and patiently watched as the bee picked pollen. As the bee buzzed away, he picked the single dandelion and held it to his nose, taking in the subtle scent of spring. Casting his eyes out to the field, Thomas watched as, in the distance, Kathleen caught up with her friends. Eventually the three girls disappeared into the horizon. As Kathleen had done, Thomas fit the dandelion adoringly above his left ear. He was pleased in knowing that he had seen her that day even if it had been for a handful of seconds. Although it was evident that Thomas loved Kathleen, he primarily resided in Kathleen’s peripherals as an observant bystander.
Time traipsed forward to another moment. Kathleen was in the company of dandelions and Thomas, an outsider in her life, observed from a distance. From Thomas’ perspective, Kathleen was contentedly covered by the dandelions while lying on the ground with a navy blanket beneath her and an open book was poised in the air by her fingers. Kathleen had a private picnic on the blanket which included a cold turkey sandwich, a glass bottle of fizzy soda, a strand of green grapes and a slice of gooseberry pie. Her eyes, which were almost the same jade of the grapes, keenly explored each paragraph the book had to offer.
This is how the afternoon went until the sun started to set. Kathleen closed the book, picked a second dandelion and put it into the page she’d last read as a bookmark. She folded the blanket and the remains of her meal. She abandoned the field leaving Thomas the chance to climb the wooden fence in pursuit of the lasting traces of her memory. There were tell-tale signs of her picnic: a single discarded napkin, two grapes that had wandered from the blanket and a small patch of crunched dandelions that had snapped under Kathleen’s weight. Thomas collected a recently squished dandelion and, like the first, held the petal up to his nose taking in its scent. He tucked the dandelion safely behind his left ear thinking of Kathleen and his undying, unspoken feelings for her.
As time moved forward, the field remained but, atop the dandelion weeds, a carnival was hammering their posts. The beauty that once had been was soon ruined by tire tracks, muddy footprints and a wave of announcement flyers that were kicked by the wind. For several consecutive days, piece by piece, sign by sign, attraction by attraction, the carnival rose like a fiendish creature clawing from the earth. Kathleen stood disconsolately at the wooden fence as the carnival invaded her paradise. As a mid-afternoon sun dipped to the skyline, its yellow face malevolently burned orange. Eventually there was nothing left of the daylight but the pale bastard light bulb cousins which shamelessly coaxed the townsfolk from their houses.
Kathleen pressed against the wooden fence this time wearing a pale green dress that changed colors due to the carnival’s oscillating lights.
As her two girlfriends chimed with excitement, rushing over the fence into the field toward the amusement, Kathleen anxiously bit her lip and went with them. Stopping briefly at the main entrance of the carnival, she looked to hesitantly see that her beloved yellow garden had been heartlessly trampled. Despite this setback, she spied a small patch of dandelions that had been spared. She picked one and brought to her
nose. Kathleen carried the dandelion with her, walking into the land of blinding lights, inharmonious bells and crying carnival barkers.
Thomas, who had been following Kathleen close that night, spied the same patch of weeds and plucked one. He dug through his pockets where, days ago, he had pocketed the others, having begun his collection of dandelions. It was clear from the look in Thomas’ eyes that he hoped he and Kathleen would someday collect more together.
“Let’s not hog them for yourself, kiddo,” came a man’s voice. Thomas looked from his three dandelions to see a man dressed in a pea-green, three-piece suit. The stranger’s eyes were almost golden in the carnival’s light. His black hair was carefully combed and sculpted with mousse. Extending from his right arm, the man held a black ivory cane. On the top rested a miniature silver-cast likeness of the human brain. Thomas wasn’t sure what to say as the man appeared from nowhere!
Both Nathaniel and Annette recognized this figure. Nathaniel had once seen this man in his second life as Yuri Abramovich. Annette knew of him from having read Nathaniel’s memoirs. Nathaniel’s nostrils flared as he attempted to sway rushing emotions arising from this correlation between Thomas’ story and Nathaniel’s.
The stranger crouched down, keeping himself balanced with the cane. As he did, the hem of his pants raised an inch or two, exposing pea-green socks. Snatching three dandelions of his own, the man was erect again. Without another word to Thomas he strode confidently, and purposefully, through the field.
Thomas’ attention was drawn to a solitary circus tent.
The man in the three-piece suit stopped at the tent’s entrance and spoke to a larger man.
“See that we’re not disturbed, Mr. Moaning,” said the first man to his friend, who held a single leash attached to a whimpering greyhound. The man with the cane told the dog: “Be a good puppy for Mr. Moaning, Cerby.”
Cerby flinched at the approaching hand. After a quick pat on the dog’s head, the man in the suit disappeared through the flaps of the tent.
Mr. Moaning and his greyhound stood so rigid, Thomas wondered if perhaps they had quickly become made of immobile wax. There was something oddly ancient in both Mr. Moaning and Cerby’s eyes that pulled Thomas to them, both Nathaniel and Annette could see, as the pop-up book of her client’s life spared no details. A wooden sign was staked into the ground by the tent which read:
Dandelion Sisters
Admission: Three Dandelions
The letters on the wooden sign were bright red as if written in blood. Thomas shivered at the thought. He consulted the number of dandelions he’d collected in the palm of his hand.
Voices were heard from the tent. Abiding his curiosity, Thomas crept closer to the tent to hear better what was being said. Mr. Moaning’s fierce brown eyes were strict enough to keep the young boy from eavesdropping.
“Is it true what the sign says?” Thomas asked Mr. Moaning, “three dandelions for admittance?”
Mr. Moaning nodded.
“Seems a bit cheap for any cost of service, don’t you think?”
Cerby made to introduce himself to Thomas, whimpering as he placed his paw forward, but his owner snapped the leash. The canine returned to its normal, stationary stance.
The flap of the tent opened and the man in the three-piece suit appeared with his black ivory cane in hand.
“Mr. Jolly, there’s one more thing,” said three female voices in unison; voices that brought chills to, not only Thomas, but to both Nathaniel and Annette.
Mr. Jolly re-entered the tent.
Thomas snuck a peek before the flap was closed. In what little time he was allowed to look inside, Thomas spotted a single glass vase with a dandelion that had turned white on the verge of shedding its seeds.
“Who are they?” Thomas asked Mr. Moaning with the same wonderment as Scrooge inquiring as to the name on the gravestone.
Mr. Moaning, however, remained silent.
Mr. Jolly appeared from the flap turning his wolfish golden eyes to Thomas’ level. A wide, mischievous, inhuman grin spread across Mr. Jolly’s face showing his rotted teeth.
“Your turn, kiddo,” said Mr. Jolly. “Come, Mr. Moaning. We shall discuss what they had mentioned on the way.” The two men walked with Cerby leading the procession. Mr. Jolly looked behind him and turned his golden eyes to Thomas. The smile widened across Mr. Jolly’s lips. Mr. Jolly, Mr. Moaning and Cerby disappeared into a thunderclap.
“Thomas . . .” spoke the three female voices.
Thomas reeled to the closed flap entrance; fabric that opened on its own as he stepped through.
Annette started to follow. Nathaniel reached out and touched Annette’s arm.
“I must warn you, Mrs. Slocum, seeing the Sisters can be a tad startling.”
“I’ve read about them in your manuscript.”
“Reading about them is one thing. Seeing them in person is entirely different.” He motioned to her pistol. “You won’t need that. Remember that we’re watching a story that’s already taken place. Whatever you see in there, however frightening, it doesn’t constitute firearms being aimed.”
Annette gave a nod, placing the pistol into the holster. She and Nathaniel stepped through the tent. The two muses were not a part of this interaction. They were there as Thomas’ support. The flap closed behind the boy and his muses like a scorching electric blanket on a cold winter’s evening.
Thick cloudy layers of incense swirled within the tent’s perimeter. Nine kerosene lamps had been placed in a circle on the floor which heightened the tent’s faded colors. In front of him Thomas noticed the three Dandelion Sisters who stared with a lack of emotion. The triplets were beautiful with flowing red hair. They wore elegant golden robes matching in fabric and color. The young women chanted in equal breath, intonation, and message.
“Thomas,” said the three women “welcome. We have waited so very long.”
Thomas was instructed to scribe his name on the ledger. The exposed booklet on the dandelion-carved wooden lectern had been scribbled with several entries. The name “Nathaniel J. Cauliflower” was listed a total of six times, each with different dates and ages. Thomas didn’t see Mr. Jolly’s name on the roster. He wondered why. Regardless, out of inquisitiveness for what the Sisters might say, Thomas added his own information with the ink and quill.
“Who are you?” Thomas stood as if he were on trial.
This question bothered Nathaniel. He shifted his weight from one foot to another.
“Moirae,” answered the women. “Owners of apportionment, Fates . . .” upon speaking “fates” the flames inside the kerosene lamps flickered.
Thomas replied, “Fates?”
“Did you bring the dandelions?”
Thomas held his dandelions to the three young Fates. There were three empty glass vases on the elongated desk in front of them.
“In the vases . . .” spoke the Fates “if you please.”
The dandelions were placed in separate vases. What happened then forced Thomas’ eyes wide. In front of the Fate on the left, the dandelion grew back its root. The middle dandelion, in front of the second Fate’s vase, which had been crushed in his pocket moments ago, resorted back to full fair radiance. For the Fate on his right, the third dandelion’s petals turned white and frail, its seeds threatening to flutter at the slightest breath.
“Shall we begin, Thomas?” the Fates asked.
“Before we do,” Thomas interrupted. The three young women’s eyes brightened as blue as a crystal ocean at his words. “I would like to know your own names, ladies. You know mine. I’d feel at ease if we were properly introduced.”
“Clotho,” spoke the Fate on the left.
“Lachesis,” spoke the Fate in the middle.
“Atropos,” spoke the Fate on his right.
In this occurrence, the three women spoke separately. The rest of the fortune went on in unison. Thomas was surprised as the three women aged five years in a manner of seconds after reciting their names.
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br /> Clotho removed the dandelion root from her vase holding it out. She extended the root at least three feet as if it were elastic.
“See here, Thomas,” spoke the Fates as Clotho displayed the dandelion roots. “The thread of your life: History from joyous beginning to bitter end. How you’ve loved the girl Kathleen in secret. How you’ve been consumed by dreams and thoughts of her; you’ve suffered torturous restless nights of fantasies. Though you may not be with her at present, you’ll be with her one day, and you’ll be happy. There’s hope for you, Thomas. Connected hearts, kindred spirits, a marriage . . . and a child.”
“Can it be?” Thomas asked them.
After the fortune, the women aged by thirty years blossoming into palpable womanhood. Their cheeks flushed, their breasts more defined beneath the fabric, their fingernails were long and kept. Thomas wondered if they were done aging, fearing how much older they might appear.
Lachesis held her dandelion to the light where the yellow petals grew brighter. “Rewards will be plenty, Thomas, if you heed our warning. The child must only be influenced by you. And only be affected by your influence. There will come a time when a metaphorical storm cloud will pass into your skies. Death will overtake someone dear to you, but despair not. There’ll be wealth, oh yes, plenty of that. And power. There will be plenty of love and family. Despite these maladies and treasures, Kathleen will remain with you until the end.”
As the second Fate finished, the women aged fifty more years. Their breasts sagged, their cheeks shriveled hollow and their skin decomposed. Thomas stood with his mouth agape and horror writ large across his face. The women were disgustingly repulsive. But the passing of age didn’t stop there. The Sisters withered into wicked-looking crones with coiled fingernails.
“They’re hideous,” Annette told Nathaniel while staring at their new form, “Absolutely repugnant!”
“Enough of this!” shouted Thomas who spun to the tent’s flap. But the fabric was not about to let him free. No, there had been many last-minute escapes in the past, but the Dandelion Sisters were not about to release him without uttering the critical instructions. Atropos, the third Fate, lifted her own dandelion. With her disfigured fingers, she angrily plucked the tiny, white seeds from the root.
Asphodel: The Second Volume of the Muse Chronicles Page 21
