“It is a science as mercurial as whimsy. The tides that pool between the stars are arranged like shifting sands. It is not a thing for the mind of man. That is the reason for intermediaries. A Hessian may master English but neither the English or German or any of the nations fathom the speech of Nu. As is so often the case in diplomacy, the first order of business is procuring a translator.
For this purpose you have the tablets contained herein. But beware, you must first rid the void of interference. You must massage the will of those who detest mankind. For it was from the beginning that they desired to cut us off from conversation with the Most High, considering us a mistake.”
Jim tossed the letter aside taking a shot of whiskey. He still didn’t get it. Though subtle suggestions made themselves apparent like glimmerings of distant stars.
He sighed at the pedantic madness of all that he’d been instructed to do. Place this here, build this there, invoke such and so, on and on it went.
Thinking about it made his head hurt. So, he decided on a stroll.
He walked westward across the meadow. It was late afternoon and characteristically pleasant. Even with the bizarre rings it was so easy to forget esoteric madness in the mellow mountain sunshine. Everything here was pleasant and straightforward. The dreams the ancient landscape engendered were hearty and wholesome.
So, Jim daydreamed. Wondering how different his life would have been had he known these trees more intimately than subways. But, his reverie was not meant to last.
For there, carried unmistakably by the prosaic air, was the blasted eldritch chirping.
Jim rolled his eyes annoyed at the interruption. But his annoyance soon gave way to curiosity. There was something different about it, two things in fact.
It was but one voice. This was not the disorienting call and response chorus he was accustomed to hearing. And it wasn’t intermittent but rather rapid and fevered as if something were in distress.
He gazed in the direction of the noise and his eyes fell on the stump. It took mere milliseconds for a devilish smirk to spread across his boozy cheeks. The trap had worked. The disturbed grass and broken branches were such a satisfying confirmation, that he actually clapped his hands in glee.
This feeling did not last.
Joy was joined by apprehension, and caution followed in their wake. The cries were pleading and insistent. How long had it been there? And how soon before its fellows came to its aid?
Jim shrugged. He was already exposed, and he may as well satisfy his curiosity. He paused one last time at the lip of his trap. What if it was armed? Or poison? Despite all the reading he’d done he still had no idea about the practical characteristics of these things. He cursed his uncle’s mysticism.
‘Fuck it.’ He shrugged again. ‘Somethings you gotta figure out for yourself.’
Peering cautiously into the pit he could at first see nothing but darkness. The bright daylight made it difficult to discern the strange thing among the shadows.
Jim gasped. He gasped because there was a greater darkness in the black. Twin orbs, inky black, threatened to pull his spirit from its coil. Like a pair of collapsed stars the sentient voids swallowed light and something subtler still.
It was speaking to him. Speaking in books rather than words, drowning him in oceans of experience. He clasped his hand over his eyes and again heard its fevered chirping. But he had been stung. He wanted to know more. And so again he looked upon it.
His arm shot down involuntarily and cool smooth fingers closed over his hand. Before the sensation had a chance to produce panic the thing had clambered up his arm and leapt clear of the pit. Jim was too stunned by the novel panoramas of existence he’d just witnessed to be amazed at the feat of acrobatics.
He did not give chase as the imp disappeared chittering into the vast woodland.
Three loud knocks raised him. Groggy and cursing Jim trudged past the glare of midday windows. The rude awakening nullified caution and he swung wide the door.
“What the fuck do you want?” He demanded of the strange mustachioed face that greeted him.
“Are you always this charming?” A soft midwestern accent questioned in return.
The guy was middle-aged and looked like a lineman turned high school principal.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Sir Luckadoo informed us that you may be having some trouble.”
“Sir…? What is this renaissance fair shit?”
“Well, I suppose he is a bit too modest to have informed you of his knighthood.”
“Look…buddy…I’m getting’ real tired of this goblin, knight, wizard bullshit. I’d love nothing more than to send those little fuckers straight to hell with the rest of ya. Why can’t everybody just leave me the fuck alone?”
“Still an adolescent I see.”
Jim slammed the door in his face.
The three knocks again resounded.
“Fuck off.”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option.”
“I’m armed asshole.”
“Threatening a federal agent is a bad idea, son.”
Jim swung open the door.
“A fuckin’ fed…thank Christ…I was wondering when you guys would bust these assholes.”
The strangers face was blank.
“I think you’re confused.”
“You bet.”
“What is it that you think is going on here, son?”
“A drug ring…ain’t it obvious.”
The principal shook his head.
“Well…what then?”
“You are responsible for the Western gate.”
“Pfft…more of this hick gibberish…you’re not a fed…” Jim said backing his way towards the Mossberg.
The stranger flashed a badge.
“I’m special Agent Thornton.”
“You’re special alright.”
“Come on kid. Don’t be stupid. I know what went on here the past couple of nights.”
“O yea…cause I certainly don’t.”
“Well, that’s your own doing.”
“Are ya fuckin’ kidding me? I’m supposed to make sense of this voodoo shit?”
“Well, you were given a manual.” Thornton shot a thick finger at Hant’s letter.
“Can’t make heads or tails of that shit. Waste of time…”
“Yes…I’m afraid you have wasted a lot of time.”
Jim rolled his eyes.
“So why are you here again?”
“To inform you that distracting them can only work for so long.”
Jim felt a chill. So, he really was being observed, if they knew about his recent deployment of Dutch’s trick…what else did they know?
“O?”
“Yes, you have to pass the threshold.”
“The threshold?”
“Of perception.”
Jim laughed. “You mean like the fucking Doors?”
Thornton smirked. “Something like that.”
“Well…uh…alrighty then…and how exactly do I do that.”
Thornton sighed. “Unfortunately, you have to work that out on your own. Though I can point you in the right direction.”
“Uh-huh…?”
“Do you suppose the sky is filled with nothing but death?”
“I have no idea. Nor do I care. I can barely find a reason for living down here much less guess at otherworldly horseshit.” Jim said lighting a cigarette.
Thornton sighed again. “Well, unfortunately otherworldly horseshit is your job.”
“O?”
“Yes. I know you’re very much inculcated in the new fashion. That you chose your path. That your profession is something that you can pick from a menu. I’m afraid that it isn’t so.”
“Hmm…my ma warned me about you protestants…”
Thornton chuckled.
“I don’t believe in a thing old man. Much less Calvinist horseshit.”
“I don’t think belief is necessary after all that you have witnessed.”
“See, there it is. That Baptist talk…witnessed…I’m tellin’ you I don’t buy it. And if I did, I’d go to the true Church like Ma wanted.”
“Well, my one task here is to leave you with a suggestion, with a key.”
“Uh-huh…”
“All men return to the earth from which they sprang. But the earth from which they sprang is full of wisdom. For it was not a folly that the Most High fashioned us from her dust. The light of stars spiritual and physical far beyond the Gnostic lie of duality. Matter is spirit, and spirit is matter, and any confusion about this is a trick of the devil. His armies have many tactics the chief of which is to trap spirit within matter through illusion. It is this that the El sell to Kings in exchange for temporal power. But this is a will-o-the-wisp. One that you must surpass to guard the gate aright. To stay the division till the appointed day when its revelation will strain the wheat from the chaff.”
“Jesus Christ dude.”
“Christ helps those who help themselves.” Thornton said and turned to go.
The first sensation was confusion. The second was thirst. Jim had never been that thirsty. He was ungainly on his feet and had to grip the closet door to keep from rejoining the floor.
He swung it open and found everything normal. There were no cosmic abysses, orbs, or goblin swarms. There was nothing but the balmy light of a Kentucky summer percolating through the window.
‘What sorta stuff have those hicks been sprinklin in my whiskey?’
But this thought was impossible. His face was raw and gritty. He wiped at it and gasped at the stream of reddish sediment that action produced. The sand was all too tangible, all too real. He plodded kitchenward, out the bedroom door, propelled by the gravity of crumbling denial.
Jim descended the stairs like a drunk and stuck his head under the faucet. After a sort of microcosmic phylogeny of lapping water like a beast, he regained enough humanity to shoot a hand for a large tin cup.
After three brimfulls he filled a fourth and sat on the cool marble floor with his back against the freezer. Yes, the floor was cool. And Jim was cold. No, this wouldn’t do.
All his bones ached as he stumbled onto the porch, down its steps, and into the meadow. The warmth of the sun was pleasant and he sank down making a mat of the tall grasses. He lay on this organic stretcher long enough to begin to feel the first effects of sunburn.
Sitting up Jim noted that the rings were still all there. He recalled all the strangeness. It was an insane reality he could no longer deny. Though traces of rationalization still lingered the insinct for survival overwhelmed them.
Supernatural or not, he must at least keep whatever was going on at bay. Right now his best bet, insane as it was, would be to use Dutch’s trick.
Realizing it would be an arduous task he decided to breakfast. Chasing away the soporific effects of a hearty meal with a large coffee he set about the business of checmical warfare.
His first idea was to make a Clorox trail to the hole by the stump. He was amazed old Lizzy hadn’t fallen into the trap when she’d come there to greive. He patted the grass to make certain the hollowness beneath the veneer was indeed present. He was very much satisfied that it was, and laid a bit of Seng on the mossy side of the stump, for good measure.
Next he laid out tins of the alleged goblin booze in all cardinal directions of the wood. He poured trails that circled in figure eights. He poured trails that led to water. He poured trails that led to cliff edges.
Maybe risking the injury of one of these critters was unwise but Jim was too annoyed by the alien nuisance to care.
The whole ordeal took up a quarter of the day. It was late afternoon that he placed the now considerably lighter and empty Clorox barrel in the center of the odd granite formation.
Once he returned home, had a late lunch and whiskey, he found that he was too tired to read the letter that was so perfectly balanced on the couch’s arm.
Though there was the sense of time slipping away. Though Jim’s sleepward brain was producing images of skeletons, galaxies, and hourglasses; he could not help but sink into yet another deep slumber.
He awoke in a desert. There was nothing about save for countless dunes that undulated like waves in every direction. The reddish sand was cold. In fact everything was cold despite the brightest sun that Jim had ever beheld.
It was well nigh white in luminosity. So ferocious was its radiance that he was forced to squint.
“Here the wrath of God descended.” Came a familiar voice.
Jim turned to see an unfamiliar face.
Or rather a mostly unfamiliar face. It took some time but the silver haired Wildman that stood before him was the very same specter that had rescued him from the granite.
“You stand upon ashes of the proud.”
Jim was dumbfounded.
“But it’s better to kneel…” Jim gathered before lightning pain crackled through his knees at the scythe swing of ghoul’s staff.
“Do not stand lest Abaddon be tempted. In this the place of desolation, the dwelling of wild animals, Jehovah has given the archangel charge.”
“What the hell is going on?” Jim ventured through gritted teeth.
“This was once Gomorrah.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“They were brought low. They who stood so high. Who counted themselves the equal of the most high. Who succumbed to the gifts of the stars, they whom the archer commands, it was their arrows that armed the citadels Sodom built up against the Lord. They inclined their towers towards the fallen. And so their towers fell forever. Do you not hear the howling of the Djinn?”
“Let me go…”
“Impossible. It is not I who holds you. Not I, but folly. You are a fool.”
“I don’t care if I’m the dumbest motherfucker on Earth. This ain’t right. Let me out…!”
“I cannot. It is not I who holds you. Not I, but folly. So cease to be a fool…and go.”
Jim’s eyes darted about wildly. Nothing, there was absolutely nothing but cold desolation and the shrieking wind.
“I…I…I can’t.”
“What’s that fool? You say you cannot cease your folly?”
“..Shu..sure.”
“Good.” Again, the lightning pain flashed this time on his neck as his face met the sand. “Then eat of the dead. It’ll keep that God damned mouth closed and those ears good and open, fool.”
Jim was powerless.
“Principalities and powers abound. They whom the Lord established and they who war. It is your duty to discern the true voice. But, not even I have done this. Not even our line…ranging to the very first pillars of Ur. Their cunning is great and we are inextricably bound to serve. For the most high hears the cry of all his creatures and even the most wicked are given their due. So through sin we have been cursed to guard the gate. We who propitiated Ammon in our madness must to this late day continue. For all must pass in its hour. So our duty is to turn the glass. And to turn aright one MUST READ.”
The sand filled his lungs utterly and Jim awoke coughing in the closet.
It was quiet for a spell. Jim had a week free of chirping and stealthy footfalls. He wondered if Dutch’s weird remedy had actually worked.
The thought made him laugh.
‘Of course they stopped stalking round. They’re part of the same Scooby Doo schtick. I dunno why they don’t just fess up and offer a deal.’
Jim was a stubborn man and held to the drug ring hypothesis with an almost religious zeal.
He’d considered calling the police. But, out here ‘…they’re probably in on it.’ He was no stranger to dirty cops. There were plenty of reasons to arrest him. But, the couple of times he’d actually been busted was a setup.
‘Luck of the Irish, my ass.’ He mused ruefully.
‘No use getting the feds involved either. This is way too boondocks for the suits.’
Besides, he didn’t want to be a rat. It must be hard to scrape out a living here.
Jim sighed and stretched himself out on the couch.
“This shit will figure itself out. It always does.”
He phased in and out of conscienceness as the fire crackled. Soon that pleasant sound was joined by the pitter patter of rain.
It was the perfect ambience for a blissfull sleep.
Except there was something off putting in the rhythm. Rain did not fall like that.
Jim’s eyes shot open and he listened.
‘Yea…rain generally doesn’t fall specifically on the windows.’ The realization sent a chill up his spine.
It wasn’t rain at all. It was tapping. Like dozens of fingers tap, tap, tapping at the window.
‘Do I fuckin’ look like Edgar Allan Poe.’
Slowly, gingerly, Jim sinewed his way snakelike onto the floor and shimmied to the window.
He lay just beneath it listening, considering his next step, and cursing the missed opportunity to take the shotgun.
Pitter…patter..pitter…patter…it was naseauting….he could almost feel the strange rustic fingers on his skin.
‘Gettin goosebumpy…’ Jim smirked at his cowardice in the darkness.
‘Sounds like more than one. Substantially more…’
‘Jesus, how long can they keep this up for?’ The sound had continued for at least an hour.
‘Do they know what room I’m in or they just trying some kinda general purpose fuckery….’
Then it occured to him to seek higher ground.
In the same slow, silent, serpentine fashion, he crept to the staircase and gingerly carefully tried to silence his crackling alcoholic joints.
After an agonizing aeon he found himself on the landing, then turning the knob with Chameleon circumspection he was in Hant’s bedroom.
Pitter…patter…pitter…patter….
‘How the fuck…’ Jim was incredolous.
There were no footholds in the harsh autistic symmetry of Hant’s cottage. The hybrid roof was to awkward for purchase.
The chill in his spine doubled.
He was frozen at the foot of the bed.
Jim didn’t know how long he lay there listening before his temper got the better of him and he shot up to his feet.
It was a brashness he instantly regreted.
Strange grey shapes with inky black eyes, strafed across his window, their impish passage revealing a bluish glow from the meadow beyond.
Whitish sparks, and glowing orbs, flitted in a void where a field had once been.
Jim scuttled away from the window like an overturned crab. Having secreted himself in Hant’s closet he promptly passed out.
There it was balanced just so on the couch’s arm. Everything was the same. Manila colored, red lettered, and all – it was Hant’s letter. The very correspondence he’d so recently consigned to the fire.
“No.” He said rising to his feet and reeling.
“No, no, no, no , no….”
‘They drugged me.’
‘Keep it together.’
He once again unfastened the pin.
“I know you are a fool…” That first familiar line struck him like a blow.
He tossed it onto the coffee table. Some of the topmost pages scattered.
“Shit.”
There was that poem.
“They dance and play,
They with silver skin,
Sleek in the twilight,
Far from the day,
Children of the black sun,
Spirits so bright,
See how they run,
In rings,
Round,
Though without wings,
Flit overhead,
Above all kings,
Twilight world,
That sprang all this,
Symmetry unfurled,
By a distant kiss,
Apollo, o Apollo, appeal, to the maze of Saturn’s weal,
And send them as a dance
To heal
From this morbid trance
For mid-summer,
For mid-summer,
Give a root,
For the runner,
For the runner,
Dangerous,
Just so,
But just so,
Be sure to do,
Only if you know,
The black sun,
O the black sun…”
‘Must be the way the page is weighted, or the way it’s stapled, for it to fall open like that.’ Jim frantically theorized as his fracturing psyche grasped for the convenient nepenthe of amnesia. The document’s recent destruction was forgotten. After all he did drink heavily. He may well have dreamed the whole thing.
He looked out his window at the early evening. There they were. Rings, those damned rings, spread concentric and overlapping, in a dizzying maze pregnant with suggestion.
Jim shook his head and looked away.
But, his ears were still open. The sounds that sauntered through them were not pleasing. Amidst the incessant buzz of cicadas there was an occasional chirping.
Jim considered scattering the hicks with the Mossberg. But last night’s ordeal or… nightmare had dampened his spirit. He put on the nearest record.
“Abasalom, Absalom, why do you not heed?” A familiar nordic lilt flitted through the mystic stillness.
Jim arrested the spin with his finger. There was a green apple there in the center. It was Abbey Road.
Jim was about to play the record again, to confirm that he hadn’t hallucinated the obviously dubbed-in intro, when he heard three steady knocks.
He grabbed the Mossberg left leaning on the couch.
“Who is it?” He asked fingering the trigger.
“Dutch.” Came the plain clear answer.
“What the hell are ya doin’ here Dutch? Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
“I got somethin ya need.”
“I doubt it.”
“Ya really wanna disappear into the Earth?” Dutch asked coldly.
Normally Jim would have written this off, and told him to go fuck himself but too much had happened in too quick a succession.
As the giant entered Jim was overwhelmed by a strong chemical odor.
“Ya smell like a fuckin’ janitor…what the hell is up man?”
“Hant’s way is better, but this should work for ye… for a time.” Dutch said in a concerned tone.
“Huh?”
“Hold on.”
The giant leaned through the still open door and wrestled in an enormous metal barrel that wobbled and came to rest with a liquid thud.
“The fuck is that?” Jim demanded pinching his nose at the pungent present.
“Clorox.”
“….Clorox…do I look like a maid…isn’t this place clean enough?”
“It’s for them.”
“Them?”
“The goblins.”
Jim laughed. “I thought they were fairies.”
“Goblins, faeries, demons, it don’t matter. They love this stuff. Gets em drunker than a striplin ater his first moonshine.”
“Uhuh…” Jim laughed. This he could handle. It was actually amusing. Even if his immideate suspicion regarding illicit drug manufacture were true. The story was adorable.
‘Drunk fuckin goblins…’ He continued to chuckle.
“Ja, they love the smell of it. I left trails n cups o the stuff all through the wood. Keep em distracted till ya do yer homework.”
“Uhuh…” Jim said glancing at the letter.
“Mmmhmm, I’d suggest ya read that real careful like. Gonna take ye a bit to digest. In the meantime do like I did put this out in tins or whatever. Spray it in trails. They got a nose for it. For as smart as they are they’re kinda like bugs…it’ll send em in a tizzy. Kinda funny to watch em run ater it.”
“Ok.” Jim said smirking.
“Ye don’t believe now. But ye will. Ye’ll make real good use of this.”
“I’m sure.” Jim said.
The giant gave him an appraising look.
“Ya want a drink buddy?” Jim asked good naturedly. The story had amused him and he didn’t want solitude to bring fresh worries.
Dutch shook his massive head slowly.
“Nah, I must get goin’. Gotta look after Ma.”
“Ok…then…”
“Afore I go…we need to put this in the basement. Otherwise this’ll just bring em here.”
“Ok.” Jim said. He had no complaints about removing the eye watering cleaning product as far from his living spaces as possible.
Jim nearly fell as he and Dutch double-teamed the unwieldy demon booze down the steep stairs.
He really wasn’t keen on being alone despite the rise in spirit that the comical redneck lore had caused.
“Ya sure ya don’t want a drink?” Jim said pointing to the mantel.
Dutch simply shook his head and departed in that charecteriscally efficient manner.
Jim shook his head. “Where the hell do ya get a barell of fuckin Clorox…Boy, am I gonna have stories to tell…”
Jim did not see. His return to the cottage was not accompanied by a deepend reverence. Quite the opposite, his recklessness increased.
“This is all bullshit.” He said as he tossed his uncle’s letter into the fire.
Whenever he heard the chirping he’d run out like a wildman, Mossberg in hand, and fire wildly at the trees. Wooping profanities that would put any sailor to shame.
“I can always get more shells, cocksuckers!”
It did seem to work.
“Goblins my ass…hicks with whistles aren’t about to make a heel outta Jim Cleary.”
He actually considered burning the wood. His life had not been easy and, once kindled, his nihilistic rage was capable of profound wickedness. He wasn’t unfamiliar with a cellblock nor much afraid of returning to one.
But the pay was good. And despite Lizzy’s warnings it had not ceased.
He kept finding those strange heel-less tracks. But remained unphased. Figuring it was just another trick.
It was weeks since the ordeal that had found him on the shores of Luckadoo’s lake that denial began to grow impossible.
First, his temper finally began to subside, allowing for a touch of introspection. He felt bad for consigning crazy Hant’s ramblings to the flame. It was like sucker punching his spirit in the gut. The old nut meant well.
It did not help that Jim received a sudden fortune. A turn of luck that explained everything and could only mean one thing.
On his return from the post office, bank statement in hand, he heard an inhuman wailing.
It made his heart sink to the very depths of his stomach.
Lizzy was at the stump doubled over and shreiking into the evening. Her long gray locks hung in ragged clumps completely obscuring her face.
A twig snapped as Jim approached to comfort her. She gazed up. And he turned to go.
All the fire was gone from her eyes. The spry twiggy motions had given way to shivers and sobs. He could not bear it and fled into the wood.
He sat by the cold stones a long time. Staring at the bit of paper that informed him that he was a sevenfold millionaire. It gave him a stomach ache. He actually felt naseaus.
He’d done nothing but surreptriously mock the old man his whole life. To reveive such a kindness after burning the last bit of spirit that Hant had passed on was flooring. Jim lay on the cold granite, too callous for weeping, too penitent for comfort.
The heavens that peaked through the swaying trees were agonizingly bright. With a cheerful beauty that mocked the mercenary hideousness of his soul. Sagitarius with his bow was hypnotic.
He did not know how long he lay there staring till thirst took hold. He tried to rise but to his horror found himself unable to move at all.
It was then that he realized it was absolutely silent.
The buzz of the cicada had ceased. No more did he hear the song of the owl and whippoorwill. Not even the strange chirping could be heard. Normally he would have been greatful for this fact. Especially given his current handicap. But, the damnable sound was replaced by something worse. It was a low and subtle sort of hum accompanied on occasion by light stealthy footsteps. As if a troop of children were playing hide and seek. Except the gait suggested by the footfalls was all wrong.
Jim could not move his head. But his eyes rolled freely. He gazed left at the sound of a snapping twig and beheld a silver head. A small bald thing was bobbing in his direction with several more in tow.
They stopped just beyond his line of sight and began to sway rhythmically. To his horror he found himself sinking into the stone. He tried to cry out but his dry constricted throat failed to produce so much as a chortle. Slowly, agonizingly, he felt himself becoming one with the granite.
Then quite suddenly a booming voice burst through the nightmare. “Fool!”
It was Hant’s voice. But the figure he glimpsed was not Hant. It was not the clean cut rustic but a wild bearded silver haired apparation.
The wicked dwarves scattered before the cold grey light of the wizard.
“I hope ye choke on drink. All that I gave ye..may you drink up…to the dregs…you fool.”
Jim felt a vicious kick in his rib.
But the pain was soon replaced by pleasure as he realized he could move again. He raced homeward not heeding the briars. Collapsing on the soft leather of the couch Jim fell into the deepest sleep of his life.
Stone, oak, leather, and mahogany gave the lodge a Victorian feel. Jim wasn’t sure if this was whimsy or the place was truly that ancient. Everything was well kept and tidy. Maybe it was the real deal. With enough care something a hundred years old could be kept new.
He looked at the calendar, ‘1986 …more like 1886.’
A bell chimed and the host indicated it was time to leave the smoking room.
The household consisted of Jonas, Elsa, Mrs. Luckadoo, two servants, a silent old man in a wheelchair, and a large hound.
Mrs. Luckadoo was a petite blonde from Nice. The two made a comical pair at the head of a table surrounded by highbacked chairs.
Jim sat beside Elsa. A fact that he found thrilling. Especially since every time he was passed a victual, he caught a glimpse of thigh protruding from an almost modest dotted dress. The only female contact he’d had was his aunt. So, despite being pleasant it was also somewhat unwelcome since it made conversation difficult.
Fortunately, it seemed that the greater part of conversing was meant to take place after dinner. Elsa and the help were the most loquacious. That is comparatively. They did not talk much but compared to the stoic silence of the other diners their occasional banter was downright giddy.
While he was by no means comfortable Jim felt grateful. Especially for the bathing and bandaging of his mutilated feet. An expertly executed service by Mrs. Bostridge the wife of the butler who’d been a nurse in WWII.
She had an easy manner and one of those pleasantly plain and open English faces. It was a welcome contrast to her husband’s hawk nose and arrogant air.
Due to Jim’s recent travails the aristocratic repast left him hungry. But he refrained from complaining. ‘Lost losers can’t be choosers.’
After the Tarte Tatin, a desert that Jim found only served to make him hungrier, the help gathered the plates and Elsa wheeled away the strange old man.
The host approached Jim’s chair and laid a massive hand on his shoulder.
“I take it a man of your size is still hungry.”
Jim nodded.
“Charlotte likes to cook but unfortunately her portions while exquisite are as tiny as she is.”
“It is not good to be piggish.” She retorted from her seat.
“It is if you’re a pig.” Jonas said patting his stomach.
Mrs. Luckadoo rolled her eyes and departed.
“Speaking of pigs, I have an excellent boar butchered and hanging in the smokehouse. I was going to save it till my brother arrived. But I suspect I’ll be able to outwit another one before the week is up…So, what say you and I roast it on the pit?”
“I say right on.”
First, they visited the smokehouse. It was amply stocked with game. Jonas unhooked the ribs, rear hams, and a backstrap wrapping each in some paper. Jim helped him place their hefty after dinner snack in a wheelbarrow and the pair departed for the garden.
“The meat is not yet cured. But it should still have some of that smoky savor. We’ll cook the rest here.” He said tapping the pile of stone and brick with his foot.
The sound of the owl and whippoorwill were interrupted by that chillingly pleasant chirping. Jim was glad for the garden walls.
“Seems they’ve followed you.”
Jim nearly spit out his cigarette. “They!?”
“So, you haven’t seen them?”
“Them?”
“The mine fairies.” Elsa’s answer almost caused Jim to topple over as she approached with a tray of beer.
As Jim recovered and the contents of her answer registered, he burst out laughing.
“You’re fucking with me…did you say fairies?”
“Ja.”
Jim howled with laughter.
“I guess he really did not see zem.” She said without a hint of mirth as she placed the tray on a metal table.
“Yes, but I’m sure he has heard them.”
“Hmm…” Elsa said leaning back in the chair she’d just claimed and sipping a beer. She crossed her legs.
‘Jesus, that was intentional.’ Jim said staring.
The brunette smiled cynically, “Maybe naught. There are so many dingz that a make a man go deaf.”
Jim was too horny to be witty, so he helped himself to a beer and thought of Sister Beatrice, the old nun that had beat the shit out of him at St. Joseph’s. It worked. Even the briefest recollection of that stern scowl and garlic breath could nuke his libido from orbit.
“Nah,” he said as he regained his composure. “Old Hant might fall for that sorta thing…and I might not be the most educated guy…but fukin fairies…get wrecked.”
“Education largely consists of just enough information to make a man useful. Especially since we adopted the Prussian model.”
“Prussian model…?”
“Never mind that. It’s a bit beyond you. But that cheery sound you hear. It has everything to do with you.”
“You mean that fuckin’ chirping?”
“Yes.” Jonas said as he lit the spit he’d been preparing. “Sit, make yourself comfortable, this is going to take some time.”
Elsa drummed her fingers on the chair beside her. Jim plopped down awkwardly almost spilling the stein and very nearly choking on his cigarette. She laughed.
“Be nice.” Jonas said. “Your old habits aren’t proper. Besides, you don’t want to arouse the passions of a hermit.”
“Hey, I’m not a fuckin’ hermit. And it’s not like I haven’t had pussy before.”
Jonas chuckled. “Yes before…I take it you’ve been round Reed long enough to disobey. So, you should be good and bothered by now. God knows I would be. There’s nothing shameful about being a man. And nothing good about being a tease.”
Elsa stuck out her tongue.
Again, Jim almost didn’t catch the weird detail among the banter. “Disobey?”
“You’re a Cronin boy, aren’t you? I believe you told me as much.”
“Well…yea…on my mother’s side.”
“Your uncle and my father met during the war. They were both occultists.”
Jim laughed again. “No fukin way…my mom used to call the guy reverend. He makes Cotton Mather look like a heathen.”
“Occult simply means hidden. And your uncle became the keeper of secret things hereditarily. Just as I came into this land. Just as you will come into the ways.”
“Oh, Christ…you’re one of them.”
“Them?”
“You’re just like Dutch and Lizzy. With the ways and all that crazy hick bullshit.”
Jonas shook his head. “The world is not as plain as my brothers would have you believe.”
“Your brothers?”
“Again, that is beyond you. But, let me ask you a question…”
“Ok shoot.”
“How do you suppose Von Braun got it off the ground?”
“Von what…it…?”
“The flying disk. The one near the camp that my father’s regiment liberated. The camp where your captured uncle was made an officer…”
Jim was beside himself with laughter.
“Ok…brother…shit…I don’t remember much from history class…but I think you just told me old Hant was a fuckin’ Nazi.”
“Conscription doesn’t make a man fascist any more than a Janissary is a Turk.”
“Man, this is some bogus shit…what the hell are you trying to tell me?”
“I’m trying to tell you that there are certain covenants that had best be honored. Covenants that are passed by blood. Things that can only be officiated by the offspring of a particular alchemical marriage. It’s why your uncle was snatched up by German intelligence. At the behest of Himmler himself.”
“I’m not drunk enough for this.” Jim said reaching for another beer.
“It’s going to get worse if you don’t listen. The time has not yet come for them to cross the threshold. Though they are eager. Though they ply the weak among us with gifts.”
Jim just sipped his beer and rolled his eyes. “I still have no fuckin’ idea what you’re trying to tell me.”
“I’m telling you that you’re a druid.”
Jim spit. “Uh-uh…no way…that’s that Wicca bloodletting shit that crazy bitch Heather was into.”
“This is far from childish pretense. You have priestly duties.”
“I got yer duty right here.” Jim said letting out a fart.
“In front of a lady…” Elsa said disdainfully.
“That’ right toots. HAH! Toots…”
Jonas shook his head.
“Anyhow, I thought it best to tell you plainly. To warn you. Since you were almost taken. They are cautious by necessity. The gulf is difficult to cross. But they are old and clever.”
“They…?”
“The Coblynau.”
Jim sighed. “Look, I might not be religious but I ain’t into that pagan shit either. Grew up Catholic and Irish enough to know what kinda fuckery the druids got upto. And I get it. Ya got yerselves some weird cult out here in bumfuk Kentucky. Probably some kinda cover for a drug operation. I bet she’s your honeypot…” Jim pointed to Elsa.
Jonas shook his head again.
“I’m trying to make all of this easier on you. The rites no longer include human sacrifice. That covenant has thankfully been renegotiated. Thanks in part to the efforts of your family.”
“Uh-huh.” Jim said facetiously.
“Why deed that funny man naught have a son. This boy is blot. Wee’ll be neck deep in zem at this rate.”
“He’s sterile I’m afraid. Result of the radiation from the disk.”
“We’re fucked.” Elsa cursed for the first time since Jim had arrived.
It stung his pride a bit.
“Now hold on…if I can help…but…umm…NAH…you’re both full of shit. I’m not smuggling moonshine god damn it.”
Jonas laughed. “It’s alright. You’ll either see or you won’t. I think that the fact that you lasted this long means you got a good chance of surviving.”
“Surviving!”
“Yes, but don’t worry about that for now. For now, let’s just enjoy the evening.”
It was Jim’s turn to shake his head.
“See…why couldn’t we have done that before the crazy story.”
“How the hell did you get this boat here?” Jim wondered out loud as the lake’s utter seclusion fully registered.
“I didn’t.”
“Ok…so your family did?”
“No.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I had it built here.”
“Oh!” Jim said smacking his head. Despite being a simple enough thing to guess the economic disparity between him and the giant was as great as the ratio of their height. Making it hard to see eye to eye on several levels at once.
Jonas Luckadoo was taller than Dutch. Jim guessed he must be pretty close to seven feet.
“Did you ever consider playing basketball?”
“Now that wouldn’t be very fair would it?”
“Guess not,” Jim said as he recalled that even Lizzy was atypically tall. She stood just below Jim’s nose. This was a feature he rarely encountered in women.
Elsa, the young woman who was piloting the boat as Jim and his host shared a pipe was the first person of average height he’d encountered. She had chestnut brown hair and the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. He figured she was a lot closer in age to him than her apparent lover.
But he had no time for romance. Much less rivalry. He was curious. Never had he seen a man of these dimensions. Let alone one from the leisure classes.
“Say, Mr. Luckadoo, why is everybody round here so god-damned tall?”
His host shrugged and grinned wryly, “Must be the mountain air.”
“Nah.” Jim said letting his intuition guide him. “There’s something real weird going on out here.”
“Says the man washing up barefoot on private property.”
“Ach, komm off it Jonas, tell heem…it is such a interesting story.” Elsa interjected.
“Quiet whore.”
“HEY!” Jim exploded rising to his feet.
Elsa laughed.
“I see you have the famous Celtic temper.” Jonas said coolly as he ruffled Jim’s hair.
“Do not mind heem. It is joke between us.”
“Some joke.” Jim muttered as he attempted to hold his chin aloft through the embarrassment.
Luckadoo chuckled. “I’m afraid I have a threefold advantage. Don’t let it sting your pride. I did not earn it. Neither this wealth, nor this body, nor the strength within it are to my credit. It is all utterly hereditary.”
“Ja, Jonas tell heem. He knows much now. Already seen dem.”
“Them?”
Jonas shook his head.
“That is for another time. I suppose I must apologize for baring a familiarity that you weren’t prepared for. Elsa is a whore…or rather was.”
“So, it’s not a joke.”
“It is a fact. Facts can be funny.”
“I don’t find it funny at all.”
“My mother was a whore.” Jonas stated matter of factly. “I collected Elsa from the same Bavarian brothel in which I was conceived. She is my third cousin.”
“Luckadoo don’t sound like a kraut name to me.”
“My father was Scottish. Though I’m not entirely certain as to the actual origin of the name.”
“So, you’re a literal bastard as well as a metaphorical?” Jim ventured a liberty.
“No. My parents were lawfully married before my birth.”
“Isn’t that taboo with ya rich folk?”
“The marriage was arranged.” Jonas answered as they came to rest at a dock.
“An arranged marriage to a whore?”
“Yes, my family has always been eccentric. Now, you asked about height. The early 20th century had a fascination with eugenics. It especially effected aristocrats who were already accustomed to obsessing over lineage…I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of the Potsdam giants?”
Jim shook his head.
“When King Frederick the first was prince of Prussia he formed a peculiar unit. A taller man could more easily operate a muzzleloader. Being German old Freddy took everything to the extreme and founded a regiment of giants. It included tall men from many countries. Some like my maternal ancestor James Kirkland came from Ireland.”
“So, you’re not a kraut at all.”
“My father is Hessian.” Elsa said with wounded pride.
Kirkland’s heir chuckled. “Yes, Hessian. Notice how you didn’t say German. It is small wonder that they succumbed to Rome. The fireworks of the Reich were the consequence of overcrowding. The Teutonic will has a profound dispassion for unity. A nation of warring princes as Lord Russell put it.”
Elsa stuck out here tongue.
“That’s how we the posterity of the forcefully conscripted came to be. Through three violent centuries much of honor fell by the wayside in favor of survival. The sons and daughters of Kirkland were scattered throughout the continent. That is until my father’s clan began collecting them.”
“I see.” Jim said as his head spun from the sheer madness of it all.
“That, my boy, is why despite our common national origin I could toss you like a hammer at the games.”
“And you plan to do that nasty upper crust thing and bang your cousin? Keep them freak genes goin?”
Elsa laughed.
“I doubt my wife would be very happy about that.” Jonas grinned.
Jim’s heart thrilled at the news. “O.”
“Yes and speaking of Charlotte…let’s get of this damned boat. I do believe I smell duck à l’orange.”
Shock was the first sensation that greeted Jim, followed closely by nausea. He blinked stupidly in the harsh noonday sun, choking now and again on some cool unidentified liquid that rolled down his face.
The strong smell of rich tobacco caused Jim to cough.
“That’s done it then. Cough it up. Didn’t mean to choke you, boy.” Said a cool peculiar voice.
Jim rose slowly. Only to collapse again immediately as the pain in his mutilated feet was registered by his gradually waking brain.
“That’s unwise.”
Jim propped himself up by the elbow to behold a tall, stern, middle-aged man bearing a rifle. Clad in tweed and smoking a pipe the guy would have been a comical anachronism anywhere except the woodlands that surrounded Reed.
“Why did you decide to go native?”
Jim stared in confusion.
“Your shoes, where are they?”
“..huh…ho…home.” Jim replied stupidly.
“Now there’s a fool idea if I’ve ever heard one. Where pray tell is home?”
Jim shot a lackadaisical thumb backward towards the fall.
The stranger shook his head.
“You probably need drinking more than bathing.” The cool voice said as a long limb dangled a canteen in front of Jim’s face.
He drank greedily.
A lengthy silence followed.
“How long have you been out here?” The stranger asked.
“…I…I don’t know…a day…two days…”
“Romping about the wood unshod for two days is a bizarre hobby, young man.”
Jim had no defense.
“Did you come from town or were you dropped from the sky?”
It was a strange question.
“Tow..town…sss..sort of.” Jim said amid fits of coughing.
“Sort of?”
“My uncle…his cabin…near that hick shithole…Reed.” Jim’s caustic tongue returned.
“Reed is thirty miles west of my lake.”
“Your…lake.”
“Yes, you happen to be trespassing.” The stranger stated matter of factly.
Again Jim had no defense.
“Though, it by no means seems intentional. Which is why you’re still alive. Most poachers don’t go bare-foot.”
Jim was still grappling with the idea that this vast patch of water belonged to a single man.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Luckadoo. I have a lodge here.”
“A lodge..?”
“Yes, I come here on holidays to hunt.”
“At your lake…?”
“My family’s to be more precise. This was all appropriated before statehood. The Luckadoos have been here before Kentucky was Kentucky.”
“So you’re one o dem Brahmins.”
A thin lipped smile played across the stoic angles of the aristocrat’s face.
“I figured you were a Boston boy.”
“Let’s go Bruins!” Jim chanted with fatigue-drenched bravado.
The stranger laughed coldly. And Jim thought he noted a glint of curiosity flicker through the icy blue eyes. Eyes that seemed so very familiar.
“Well, I must say that you’ve certainly intrigued me. What’s a street urchin doing in Appalachia?”
The question and the manner in which it was asked was too direct for Jim to take offense.
“…caring for the cabin…”
“The cabin?”
“Yea, like I said. My uncle’s cabin.” Jim said covetously eyeing the thistle bearing flask on the strangers hip.
“Uncle?”
“Yea…uncle Hant…lived bout fifteen miles from Reed…has some tumblers…with that weird weed on it…” Jim said pointing to the strangers flask.
Luckadoo inclined his head slightly leftward, a motion that coupled with his hunter’s cap, gave the impression of a curious bloodhound.
“Does your uncle have a surname?”
“Cronin.”
The strangers eyes narrowed and he turned.
“Elsa!” He cried.
“Jonas!” A voice responded from somewhere beyond the shore.
“Be a dear and bring the boat round!”
“Heez naught dehd?” The Elsa voice inquired.
“Close…but no cigar.”
“Tak heem hom den. You sadist swine.”
“That’s exactly what I intend, dear.” Luckadoo retorted lifting Jim’s six four frame like a ragdoll.
“Hey..!”
“Sorry lad. I don’t have much in the way of stretchers.”
Jim fumed. He was unaccustomed to being outclassed in the physique department. But on the bright side, the guy probably had some whiskey.
The Fractal Journal 