9 Tales Told in the Dark 2

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

But why should I hate them so? Because they appeared wretched and colorless?

  At least they were actually helping me get out of this bed. Not just standing and watching as my knees go out again and again. Don’t worry, Doctor Miss, I like the feeling of linoleum against my face. The sweet smell of ammonia and hospital should be bottled for cologne. This is the grand ole time I expected it to be. Just as soon as I retire from getting my strings pulled all my life, I get to sit like an abandoned marionette. Only they wore my strings out and I can’t take a piss by myself.

  Just like the nurses, they stand around all day conspiring, gossiping.

  “Well, what are you all gonna do? Hide in the corner all day jaw jacking? This ain’t no middle school dance. I ain’t going to bite.” God, waving my arms was exhausting. I didn’t feel old. But that’s what made this so damn frustrating. I felt the same as I did when I could’ve waved over every beautiful dame with the soft round hind of tomato.

  “Tell me what you want.” One of them poked up and neared the edge of the bed. It poked its kitten head up at me and looked at me with those wretched damned eyes. Before that god of theirs conceived the idea of souls, too, I suppose.

  I suppose petting it was wrong. It didn’t seem to like it much. It yanked my arm down and pulled it towards the nightstand. Smacked it against the drawer.

  “What you want something?” I opened the drawer. Out of nowhere, another sprung up between my arm and the bed and pointed into the drawer. The pen.

  “You can’t hear me either?”

  They shook their heads.

  All of them.

  I grabbed the pen, and my arm was tugged to the sheet. They strangled my wrist until it was pressed hard enough to draw a line on the bedspread.

  “Well those ladies aren’t going to like this.” I laughed, what did I care?

  My fist was twisted and dragged until the pen’s little ball tip squirmed back up inside, not kind enough to let any more ink out. They took it out on me, unable to give up.

  “Paper! You idiots, you need paper!” I couldn’t get my hand back but they heard my words and gave in, yanked me back over to the drawer and found a card my daughter had sent me.

  A little heartfelt penguin held a present in a slanted Santa Claus hat. Stupid sentence on the inside and a scribbled, “We all miss you and love you so much!” Grandkids were too young to spell their names correctly. But I guess it’s the effort, that’s what my daughter thought, she made the effort. She’s the good person.

  They started writing again.

  “I’m not that old.” I tried to pull my fist off the card. “That’s Latin, a dead language. Do I look dead to you yet?”

  They kept on writing. How am I supposed to fall asleep? Maybe my arm would go numb. I looked away. Shoved my head into the pillow and stared at the bad pastel wallpaper. Even a dingy white wall would’ve had more character. It had to be this place? It was driving me mad. That’s all this was. I finally snapped. In my fever of madness and I was imagining Santa’s little helpers. Wife was right, one day it would happen. Glad it didn’t happen while she was still around to remind me she was right.

  I always fulfilled your prophecies, Babe. Like when you said, “You’re gonna marry me someday.” Call that a prediction? I just bent to your will like everyone else’s. Got to if you’re going to get by in this world. If you’re fool enough like me to think there will be time later, play the cog. But when a cog loses its teeth, it can’t turn the things it wants to anymore.

  I woke and my arm was still twisting. It was time for the nurse to come in and shake my blinds open. They were still writing. But what was the point. I couldn’t hear them, and they couldn’t write in my language.

  The nurse shattered the silence. There went the blinds and the hazy glare poured over me. The pen stopped shaking.

  “Some one’s been busy?”

  “Last will and testament.” I sneered.

  “Don’t joke, you walked yesterday.” She smiled. Such a pretty fat girl. They scurried out of her way and she started to tear at my dignity. Wish she’d come while I was asleep. Or the least they could do was drug me so it felt like a sad dream.

  “Is that Gaelic?” She cocked her chin and looked me once over.

  “Navajo Code.”

  She giggled. “Looks like Gaelic. What does it say?”

  “Says I am going to sue you all. Even a prisoner gets a last meal request. At least let me have some eggs that don’t taste like Styrofoam. Maybe a hash brown so greasy I can paint this bedpan without a moment’s notice.”

  She shook her head and finished quicker than normal.

  “Now why can’t you guys make her dance for me? You all just prefer my wrinkled flesh?” They pointed at the note. “Can – not - read - it.”

  But I could. Just like I could see them now. Now I could read what they had written. One of them squirreled its way up the bed and moved my jaw. I shook it free. “Want me to read it out loud?”

  They all nodded.

  “It’s directions. A recipe…a prayer?” There it was, like a child’s first attempt at a full teeth smile… terrifying.

  “What happens when I say this? Do more of you come through?” Of course they couldn’t answer me, their kitten heads feigned obliviousness.

  “You all will carry me out of here then, there’ll be enough of you. Hell, maybe you can help me run the Boston Marathon?” They tipped their chins forward; it was close enough to a nod for me.

  “Gave all…” It started and rolled off my tongue like “I do.” All that fear, all that certainty. All that giving in. It felt good, it felt right, and they walked me down that aisle. Walked me out of that room. I knew there were hundreds more of them, and those were just the ones that weren’t out of focus. My damned failed vision couldn’t be expected to provide any accurate number.

  The nurses all turned towards me, not a soul the wiser. They just saw a dead man walking. Together we went right to the counter and I did my own talking. “Where do I sign out? And where can I get some pants?”

  They flashed everyone, not me. I was proud of them. Finally, the string pullers in this world knew what I wanted. And the fresh air from the hallway felt good on the ole buttocks.

  The nurses panicked. “We’ll have to get your doctor. You really shouldn’t be out of your room Mr. Berkeley.”

  “You all clapped yesterday, look at me all by myself,” I said with every bit of irony I had left in my diet. They spun me round and I could’ve thrown up. But my stomach wasn’t what it used to be, and so the bile just turned round in my belly. “Know any show tunes?” I asked my puppeteers, and then began the countdown, “And a one, and a two…”

  It was more like gliding, with all of them pulling now. They didn’t bother to keep up the charade of a walking man. I pushed through the double doors and the chubby nurse never had a chance. Pushed through another set, and then out the main doors. The sun was brighter and beneath me, they vanished, but I could still feel them, like floating down a river.

  The sun tasted sweet, every bitter thought was gone. I felt bad for my thoughts, for hating those sweet ladies who wanted to get me off my butt every morning. Felt bad for doubting my daughter. I wish they were taking me to her, so I could tell her I love her and her children.

  But that wasn’t the deal.

  The boatman said the river Styx was practically dried up. He’d gone aground and stranded himself with every one of us who couldn’t remember why we wanted to stay alive. They promised to carry me across it. Had no other way to get there. Couldn’t walk myself anymore. They just needed someone to pray for them. They had a job to do. But they couldn’t do it in such few numbers.

  Behind me, the nurses fell to the ground, the doctors flailed in an effort to seize all their patients. They should be clapping again…

  “Clap!” I yelled, “All your patients can walk!”

  It felt like school was out for the summer.

  Who could stop us?

  It was finally
our time.

  The End.

  IN THE MANNER OF THE ARISTOCRACY BY THOMAS CANFIELD

  “It is not a fit punishment, nor a just one.” Bouchard crossed his arms in front of his chest. He stared across the table at the marquis.

  The marquis lifted his tankard of ale, took a great draught, emptying it. “How so, not fit?” he demanded.

  “He is a man.” Bouchard swung a mailed fist through the air. “A weak man, perhaps. But a man nonetheless.”

  “You hold him in higher esteem than do I. I do not allow that he is a man.” The marquis threw a look back into the shadows. He slammed the tankard down on the table. “Here!” he cried. “More ale. At once!”

  A servant in black hose and black doublet stepped out of the shadows carrying a large pitcher beaded with moisture. One of his ears had been cropped after the manner of the marquis' household, an exquisitely fashioned silver lancet thrust through the remaining nub of flesh. He filled the marquis' tankard.

  “And you!” the marquis flung at him. “What do you think? Surely you wish to add your opinion.”

  “I have no opinion, lord. My only wish is to serve the marquis. I require nothing more.”

  “A loyal man, a man who knows his station.” The marquis' eyes sparkled. “Where shall I find another like him?”

  Bouchard stalked forward. “I am a loyal man. No Prince has cause to doubt my loyalty.”

  “Yes, you are a loyal man, Bouchard of Gascony.” The marquis' tone was sharp, laced with sarcasm. “Within reason. And within bounds. Your loyalty is circumscribed and narrow in its application. It is stinting, giving little, and asking much. Let us hope that you do not exhibit such parsimony in all of your endeavors.”

  Bouchard's fist crashed down on the table. “That is unwarranted! I have fought my liege lord's battles and carried his banner. I have killed and faced death that his house might prosper. No more could be asked of me.”

  “But I shall ask more,” the marquis replied. “I shall demand it. And you will comply. Witness!” The marquis turned upon the servant. “I have no more need of you. Fling yourself from the window!”

  “As you wish, lord.” The servant gave a short, truncated bow. He walked to the narrow slit window that looked out upon the rocky terrain below. Bouchard caught him as he climbed up on to the stone sill, knocked him to the floor with a blow from his fist.

  “What manner of madness is this, my lord? To send a man to his death on a whim. It is unconscionable.”

  “I shall ask no less of you when the time comes, Captain of Guards.” The marquis' face was a mask, revealing nothing. “I give you fair warning. Let us hope that you meet the test as nobly and unhesitant as my servant here.”

  “A fool may die as he pleases.” Bouchard gestured at the servant still sprawled upon the floor. “Or as another pleases for him. I am no fool, lord. I give you fair warning.” Bouchard turned upon his heel, strode out of the great stone hall. The torchlight overhead flickered in the marquis' eyes, was swallowed in their black, fathomless depths.

  Bouchard was summoned just as he was returning from reviewing his soldiers. The message was delivered peremptorily and without observing the requisite courtesies. Bouchard was grim-faced as he entered the hall. He found the marquis seated on a raised dais. Next to him sat his wife, the marchioness.

  Bouchard was struck, as always, by the contrast between them: the marquis cunning, forceful, quick of mind, and quick to anger, the marchioness refined, cultivated, and elegant in gesture and manner. Bouchard glanced at her, seeking some hint of reassurance. Her expression was somber, subdued, but her eyes were wide and full of concern. On either side of the dais stood a clutch of soldiers, eight in all, armed and prepared to do the marquis' bidding. The soldiers stared straight ahead, stonily.

  “My lord, what is your pleasure?” Bouchard made an abbreviated bow, one that fell just shy of the customary deference.

  The marquis grasped the arms of his chair, leaned forward. “Gaspard was executed yesterday. In accord with my decree.” The marquis regarded Bouchard in silence a moment. “I requested your presence, Captain of Guards. Yet you were not there. How am I to interpret this?”

  Bouchard looked at the marchioness. Her head moved back and forth, faintly, urging him to caution.

  “I chose not to attend, lord. I cannot countenance what was done. I will not witness a man put to death in such a fashion.”

  “Your sensibilities are more refined than those of my subjects.” The marquis’ tone was light, almost playful. “They enjoyed the spectacle thoroughly. They cheered, shouted, and urged the executioner on with great enthusiasm. I dare say had there been another execution to follow they would have considered it a great good fortune.”

  “They are a rabble,” Bouchard declared, disgusted, knowing only too well that the marquis had not exaggerated. “An ill-favored and despicable lot. There is little to distinguish them from the livestock that they tend.”

  The marquis smiled. “You cast aspersions on my subjects? I am hurt, Captain of Guards.” He turned to the marchioness. “Has he not done an injustice to the common folk, madam? They are not so bad as he makes them out to be.”

  The marchioness inclined her head and a lock of golden hair slipped over one cheek. “In this instance, I confess, I find that their conduct was . . . unsavory.”

  “Unsavory!” the marquis repeated with relish. “Well, that won't do at all. Dung though they are, we do not wish them to reflect discredit upon our peerage. I order that they say three Our Fathers each and observe a moment of silent reflection. Let that atone for their lack of good taste.” The marquis took a swig from a bottle of wine that rested on a nearby table. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “But consider, madam, my subjects at least do not presume to know better than their sovereign. They do not substitute their judgment in place of my own. In this regard they compare quite well with some who would denigrate them.”

  “If you wish, lord, I will resign my commission.” Bouchard spoke through clenched teeth.

  “What is that, Captain of Guards?” The marquis professed surprise. “Resign? I wouldn't hear of it.” The marquis took another swig of wine. A fire kindled in his eyes. “No, I do not think that would be a fitting gesture at all. Under the circumstances.” Torchlight flickered over the marquis' lean, sensual features. He turned to his wife, who was stirring in agitation at his side. “You wished to say something, madam?”

  “I cannot listen to this in silence. Your treatment of the Captain is unwarranted. If he takes a stand upon principle, has he not earned the right to do so? Of all the qualities you should value in such a man, surely courage is foremost amongst them. He has rendered you good service in the past and will again in the future. If you but allow him to do so. But you cannot treat him as you would one of your servants. Such a man will not abide it.”

  “It would seem, Captain of Guards,” the marquis smiled, “that you have an ally at court. A most comely one, gifted with an eloquent and persuasive turn of speech.” The marquis caressed his fingers along the exposed flesh of the marchioness' throat. “I might be inclined to heed her advice. Unfortunately, and you must allow it is no small thing,” the marquis' mouth twisted and the fire in his eyes flared into a fierce blaze, “she is burdened with a black heart and the manners and morals of a whore!”

  The marchioness vaulted to her feet. Two spots of hard color burned in her cheeks. “I do not know what has taken possession of you, lord. You have, to all appearances, taken leave of your senses. I will retire.”

  The marquis grabbed her wrist. “Not just yet, madam. I have not finished with you.” The marquis yanked her down so that the marchioness' face was inches from his own. “I accuse you of being a whore. Of being debauched and corrupt. Will you deny it, my pet? Or do you retain some faint sense of shame still? I would hear it from your own lips.” The marquis twisted the marchioness' wrist till she fell to her knees.

  “Please,” she pleaded. “D
on't do this! Not here, not in the presence of others.”

  “Let her go.” Bouchard could restrain himself no longer.

  “Ah, at last!” The marquis' eyes snapped up, fixed on Bouchard. “The gallant cavalier. Chivalry is not dead, after all. Well done, Captain of Guards. But what is your interest in the matter, pray?”

  “I said to let her go.” Bouchard took a step forward, hand upon the hilt of his sword. Immediately, the soldiers on either side of the dais unsheathed their weapons and began to advance.

  “Stay!” the marquis called out. He grabbed a handful of the marchioness' hair, pulled her to her feet. “This,” he shook the marchioness and her head snapped back and forth like that of a broken puppet, “is a woman unworthy of your regard. This is a woman who is false and without honor. But then,” the marquis paused, “she is your whore as surely as she is mine. We have both known her, have we not, Captain of Guards?”

  Bouchard's shoulders sagged, his hand fell away from his sword: the marquis knew.

  “I said that I would test you, Captain, do you remember?” The marquis' eyes were twin points of fire. “Well then, I allow you to take your own life. It is a measure of our compassion that we grant you this option. A public execution would serve no purpose.” The marquis' smile was caustic and venomous. “And I would not subject you to the taunts and abuse of the rabble. For I know how little you esteem them.”

  There was absolute silence in the chamber. Bouchard's face was carved from stone. Expressionless.

  “Lord,” he said finally. He genuflected. Then, in one swift, fluid movement, he attacked. Not the marquis but the soldiers to either side who protected him. Metal clanged upon metal. Bouchard ran one soldier through with his sword, wounded another. Pivoting, a spear was thrust through his abdomen. He grasped the haft with both hands, staggered backwards. He turned his eyes up toward the ceiling overhead then toppled upon the flagstones, dead.

  The marquis viewed the corpse, the spreading pool of blood, with grim satisfaction. He turned to his wife. “And you, madam.” He lifted the marchioness’ chin with one hand, looked into her eyes. She was stunned, mute with horror and shock. “I extend no such charity to you. Your death alone will not expunge this dishonor. I decree that you and your lover both occupy the same cell, never to be separated henceforth.”