Army of Skeletons

by W. Freedreamer Tinkanesh

  * * * * * * *

  Later that week I thanked my lucky stars for the friendly people running the coffee shop where I had so many cappuccinos with Imogen: they had found my wet swimming suit and wet towel in the plastic bag I had totally forgotten about, so taken I was with finding Imogen on my way.......

  So, I went back swimming, that is, when I was not spending time with my new lover. I discovered that in her spare time Imogen made amazing spiders and delicate cobwebs by soldering pieces of metal together.

  Most extraordinarily, Taylor met someone. A tall womon with blonde curly hair and green eyes behind thin, silver-framed spectacles, an interest in skeletons, too, and answering to the name of Kelly. I got to hear about a short story published in a ‘penny dreadful’ sometimes in the 19th century, the story of a count who made a deal with the devil (did I hear Faust there?). In exchange for eternal life, he would turn into a fleshless and totally helpless skeleton every night. In the meantime, the new womon in his life, whom he had brought back from the dead, turned out to be a vampire....... Honestly, what good was he to the devil, as a skeleton? Kelly couldn’t answer that one. Or maybe didn’t want to.

  If I hadn’t been so taken by you-know-who by now, I might have paid more attention and sensed the weirdness in Kelly. Well, by now, we’re all weird, all together in this weirdness.

  ARMY OF SKELETONS VII

  A week later, I walked back home through the backstreets of Brixton, vaguely counting the many abandoned cars yellow-marked for collection. Flat tyres and broken windows, open bonnets and lights missing. Happily chatting with Imogen.

  We found Taylor and Kelly in the kitchen. Taylor, who never touched the drugs, could be partial to pot once in a blue moon. It was blue moon time and she was stoned, waving at me a piece of parchment with rune-like symbols I had never seen before. Sadly enough, once every few blue moons, smoking pot had consequences for Taylor. And it was THAT blue moon. She looked so excited, so pleased with herself, that I wondered what kind of trouble she had landed herself in this time. Kelly was quietly smiling in her corner. While Imogen stopped smiling.

  “Look! I found a way not to go to America!” Taylor was almost shouting. “This is a deal! I’ve got a miracle cure for my mother’s cancer from this guy called Sho’or! Kelly works for him sometimes. All he wants in exchange is the use of my skeleton and my best friend’s! You’re my best friend. I’m sure you don’t mind.”

  “Oh oh! Slow down and start again. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Look!” Waving again at me the parchment. “It’s a deal with Sho’or.”

  “Sho’or? What kind of name is that?”

  “Never mind! It’s a deal!” And she burst out laughing.

  “Kelly? What’s going on here?”

  Kelly looked at her watch and got up, “Look at the time! I must get going!”

  “Hang on a sec! What is Taylor on about?”

  “Oh just a joke. We’re stoned! I gotta go.”

  Imogen, standing between the exit and Kelly, didn’t move. Her eyes were dark with a hint of anger. “You know better than that,” she only told Kelly.

  Kelly froze. I looked at her, then at Imogen. What happened to tea time? You know: you get home, put the kettle on, sit in the kitchen, and go on enjoying life. It was my master plan of the day. But, it looked like master plan or not, I had lost my day to something mightier.

  Slowly, Kelly’s face went pale and Imogen’s eyes darker. While the sun kept on shining outside, oblivious of human dramas.

  “Hey! What’s up with you two?”

  I calmly suggested to Taylor to sit down and she did. I looked at the two antagonists and asserted myself, “OK, could someone tell me what’s up?”

  Thankfully, Imogen broke the silence, “It’s no joke.”

  ARMY OF SKELETONS VIII

  Imogen had a secret. Kelly had a secret. Many people around the world had a secret. And now Taylor and I were sharing this secret.

  Imogen’s mysterious disappearances? The call of Sho’or. She only had time to exit whatever situation she was in before being spirited away and into the realm of Sho’or, to become one of many skeletons in Sho’or’s army. And now Taylor and I would join their ranks. There was no escape, even for me. Taylor had signed the deal and I wanted to damn Kelly forever.

  Imogen had joined less than a year ago. At the time she had been depressed enough not to care about anything anymore, depressed enough to consider sharp implements and Death herself. When she was offered a deal with Sho’or: the depression lifted and a new home in a better area. In exchange she would just have to lend her skeleton to his army. Sho’or always respected his side of the deal. Once she had agreed, she no longer had the choice. She was called and had to go. No one could resist the call. Mysterious death could be an occupational reward.

  Kelly wanted out. The only way for her was to find a dozen skeletons before terminally breaking any bones.

  To kill or to be killed. It was a merciless war.

  And Sweet Irma was gonna get the miracle cure for cancer? Were they mad or was I out of my head? I didn’t know what to believe. Suddenly I wanted Taylor to come down from her high and I wanted to be left alone.

  ARMY OF SKELETONS IX

  Skeletons. They were animal skeletons, too, Imogen had said. Some flying ones looked like pterodactyls, but were bats. Rather lethal. There were dogs. Some skeletons were surely not human, barely humanoid, from other worlds, parallel and otherwise. The other army? Skeletons, too. How did you differentiate your friends from your foes? You just knew.

  I had started to wonder about Imogen’s sanity. After all, for a quiet one, to kiss me twice without knowing me was rather daring. But I brushed aside my doubts. It had been love at first sight and I couldn’t bear to doubt. I was hooked.

  Was I being pessimistic or just down to earth when I started considering the possibility of being ‘called’ in the middle of a gig. Sure, I could certainly picture myself leaving the stage in the middle of a song...... Sorry, gotta go. The prospect was definitely insane....... My alcohol consumption increased and I gave Tall Guy, my ganja dealer, an extra visit. Just as well it was time for the Cannabis Festival.

  *******

  On his return Segur had spilled the beans. He had been having a secret affair with some political, closeted gay guy on the other side of the English Channel. Now that it was over, he felt a bit empty, but “nothing that a few bottles of red Burgundy wouldn’t cure”.

  Ah, the British weather! Monsoon at the approach of midsummer. Of course, everyone thought the summer was already over. The sky had been so overcast lately that it was definitely due for bursting. Despite being drenched, Brockwell Park had attracted a huge crowd of revelers willing to make a point: they wanted cannabis to be legalized, and they wanted it now. Dealers would just walk around between showers, calling out “Ganja!” or “Skunk!” or whatever they had stashed in their pockets, when they were not deliberately flaunting it under our very noses. I spotted the bare buttocks of some Naked Protesters in between two showers. I didn’t have a clue what they were on about.

  Our gig on the main stage felt good. We were The Parques and we were great. Sho’or, real or unreal, left me alone. I noticed Rufus in the audience, wearing a very absurd black-and-pink-striped, plastic raincoat. But nothing to protect his head. That was Rufus all right. His eyes were literally glued to Segur’s every move and Segur’s perfectly smooth, shaved chest. I toyed with the idea of playing the matchmaker of the day.

  We were about to empty the stage of our gear when Epoxy, clad in a ragged T-shirt and a glamorous sarong, looked up from her tiny mobile phone. She had just checked her voicemail, in case she had pulled enough strings, and the case was right, she had: Mardi-Gras wanted us. Not the main stage but, “Why not the main stage?” inquired Segur sharply. Because the main stage was for the pop acts and the Popstarz Indie stage was, as spelled out in the very name, for the indie bands. Fifteen minutes. Segur didn’t get a chance t
o really claw at this, Rufus was on the other side of the fence enclosing the backstage, calling out my name.

  “You know him?” My friend innocently asked me, with a twinkle of interest in his green eyes (today they were green, tomorrow he might want them on fire. Amazing what you can do these days with contact lenses).

  So, Segur had noticed Rufus. With such a raincoat, it was no surprise. Well, I had better get on with the matchmaking and get back to my personal love life. Imogen was quietly waiting on the side line. I just had time to wonder if it was ‘coup de foudre’ or only a bout of lust, before accepting the champagne and the smile offered by my lover.

  ARMY OF SKELETONS X

  Sho’or’s first call caught me luckily enough on my doorstep. No tingling in the extremities or violent headache. Just a sudden knowledge. I walked into my house, slammed the door behind me and stepped into the living room. A collection of old sofas, peeling painted walls, and a shabby TV dating back to Methuselah. Taylor, slouched on one of the antiques, looked up, her eyes saying it all, she had heard the call, too. So, what now? How much time is just enough time to get out of the situation you were in? We were not in any specific situation, even if we didn’t fancy going to war for a mystery guy. That’s when the mystic started. A flash of light, like the too powerful flash of a camera suddenly blinding us, and a crashing sound as thunderous as Zeus’ ire. Or, as I would imagine it to be.

  There we were now, in the middle of a crowd of skeletons, anonymous skeletons, various sizes and builds. I could just about recognize myself thanx to a piece of metal doctors had installed in my right femur after I broke it into several pieces at age 10. Taylor knew about it, if she had not forgotten, and I had mentioned it to Imogen in what was at the time a very absurd conversation. Where was Imogen? How could I locate a non-descript skeleton in a crowd of non-descript skeletons? Taylor was not the only tall one. No clues. Besides, if we were just skeletons, just collections of bones, how were we able to think, move, keep alive. Nothing to do with Rodolph, this count guy who had made a pact with the devil and found himself with a vampire mistress. I was a skeleton, but my girlfriend was no vampire. Well, how could I be sure, now......

  I looked ahead, and saw who I assumed was Sho’or. Actually, was he male or female or other? How can you tell when a being is a complete network of bulging muscles, sweating blood (without ever drying out?!), with no fat at all and surely not any telltale genitals. No lips. We could see the teeth, regular and human, flashy-white with a faint hint of blood. I realized he was satisfactorily smiling. It was actually a very horrid rictus. He was negligently ensconced in a high-backed throne with finials shaped like skulls. These skulls had a very cynical look about them.

  It dawned on me that my crowd was just a bunch of rookies, freshly arrived from wherever. I was not quite sure about some skeletons. They had spikes on their spines or down their arms, or empty sockets all around their skulls (the perfect spies?), or horns where I would have a nose. Some had massive and long hands.

  Sho’or looked pleased, with himself or with us. Two skeletons were standing next to him. One human, the other I assumed to be a dog.

  “I am Sho’or”. The voice had a definite deep edge. “And this is my realm.” With a flourish of his right arm. Great, the guy was right-handed. This fact would certainly be a great help. I felt extremely resentful, to say the least. With another flourish he introduced the skeletons by his left side, “This is the General of my army and her faithful hound. You’ll obey her orders as mine.”

  I wondered if the femalehood of the general would make our pill-swallowing better. Sho’or went on;

  “We are up against a deadly enemy: The Wooden Man. His army is as lethal as you are, or will be, with your few chosen weapons. My victory and your survival are one and the same. You’ll be given weapons. Your enemies are equipped in a similar fashion.”

  His smile faded. He signaled to the general with a bloodied hand. She didn’t say a word, she just looked at us with her empty sockets, but I swear, I could see what her eyes would have conveyed. And she walked off, me and the rookies on tow, the hound’s nose tip on the ground by our metatarsals, like sniffing, like memorizing our scent characteristics, trotting from one to the next, sometimes coming back, like for comparison. My metacarpals automatically reached to the top of the skull. With a swift move its nose tip went to it, sniffed and touched, like welcoming my offer of friendship. I suddenly felt silly. I was acting as if everything was normal, NORMAL. What an aberration! We were just our skeletons, walking to death. Death. I wondered about the concept: I was a dreaming skeleton.

  Another human skeleton, same height, no particularities, had joined the general. The sudden knowledge of her army identity hit me, hit us, immediately. Female in my world, second in command in Sho’or’s realm.

  His realm looked like my world. Dirt ground, concrete building housing the armory. We filed in through the door and contemplated an antique collection of swords, sabers, daggers, machetes, and more deadly blades I could ever have imagined. We were meant to help ourselves. Behind the shiny array, I spotted metal spiky balls hanging from the walls with their chains. Wow, we had regressed back to the middle ages.

  ARMY OF SKELETONS XI

  The battlefield was a desolated, flat area with rare stumps leftover from what I assumed used to be trees, occasional pieces of huge rocks and rare clumps of dry grass, in need of a cleaning team. Bones, skulls, and various pieces of skeletons were littering the whole landscape. No time to consider a clearing out plan, the army of the Wooden Man were already rising from the horizon.

  I remember wondering if these so-called enemies were like us at the end of the day, if their survival was synonymous with the Wooden Man’s victory. They were raising the same collection of mismatched, medieval weaponry. I felt glad that catapults were not part of the arsenal and joined the fight, hoping for the best, knowing there was no ‘best’, and wishing to be among the lucky ones going home, sweet home, tonight.

  My curved sword as loud as the next. Paring off spiky balls. Bumping into skeletons, knowing who to aim at and hit with all my might. Fending off with kamikaze bats diving from the sky. Lost in the writhing mass of bones on bones. Metacarpals, fibulas, ribs and vertebrae, flying all alike all over the place. Fighting for my life. Trying to keep my skeleton together. Dodging skully missiles.

  For what felt like centuries. Sensing pain and fear rampaging all around. Hearing no cries. Feeling no fatigue ever. Just fighting. Endlessly and wearily. With no time to remember my friends, myself, my life.

  EPILOGUE

  A skeleton half lying on the ground grabbed my metacarpals. Only half of the femur remained on its left leg. This one would die when returning to its world. Who was it? Someone I knew? Someone who knew about the piece of metal in my leg? Not tall enough to be Taylor. Imogen? I couldn’t leave it to fate and lose her so soon. I looked around, searching for Sho’or. He was standing 20 feet away, looking almost sad, gazing at a silhouette on the horizon line at the end of the battlefield: the Wooden Man. What was the point of this lethal war? So many skeletons lying broken on the dirt ground. Bones and skulls mixed up. So many anonymous deads.

  I looked at the empty sockets staring up at me. Empty, expressionless, but begging me. I was just a skeleton, a collection of bones mysteriously holding together, gifted with motion. I had no vocal strings. How could I shout out loud? I dropped my suddenly heavy sword, feeling anger building up inside of me. I shouted my thoughts irresistibly, as loud as I could imagine.

  “SHO’OR!”

  And again.

  “SHO’OR!”

  Sho’or’s eyelidless eyes left their gazing and turned to me. His forever bleeding limbs took slow steps towards us. His eyes scanning the ground, searching through the bones. He picked up what looked like a few bones holding together to maybe shape something like a leg, or part of a leg, and kneeled down near Imogen. He fitted the two halves of femur together and put her bony hands around them, looking into her
eyeless sockets. He didn’t say a word. Was he willing her to hold the pieces together to survive the return to our world?

  The next second I was back in my living room, eyeing Taylor sprawled over the old sofa.

  “Imogen!” I exclaimed and ran out of my house, Taylor in hot pursuit. I ran from Railton Road to Effra Road, the hot sun pounding my head. I ran, faster than I knew I could, and fell on Imogen’s door, banging so hard on the wood that it could have hurt and skin my knuckles, but I was too intent to feel the pain. One of her flatmates opened to me.

  “Imogen!” I asked, breathless, beads of sweat breaking out on my forehead.

  “She said she fell down the stairs. I called an ambulance.”

  I pushed past the blue-eyed womon, unable to care for anyone else but Imogen. She was lying at the bottom of the stairs, pain plastered all over her face, deeply embedded in her eyes. I could see a broken piece of bone sticking out of the flesh of her left thigh. Her hands were fastened around her leg, like holding on to dear life, still trying to keep the pieces together.

  I dropped on my knees, put my arms around her shoulders. She let herself go into the safe haven. Taylor towering over us, over everyone.

  I don’t know how long we waited, hardly moving, like a ‘tableau vivant’, Segur would have said.

  The screaming of the ambulance and the screeching of tyres pulled us out of our trance.