As we proceeded topside Harris chuckled.
“That was a mighty fine speech you gave. You should have taken on the cloth.”
“I do not fancy my fathers profession.”
“A nice parish in the country? That is not favorable to scurvy and the sword?”
“The parish is worms and dust. It is stifling to both mind and spirit. There are such vistas both mortal and metaphysic…that to burrow ones nose in the narrow confines of Saxon renderings of oriental myths is a crime against God.”
“You call the Bible a myth? I’m sure the senior Halstead would make one out of your hide for that.”
“He already has.” I said musing on the steady application of physical discipline by that tall, thin, ascetic thing I called father. I owed him much in the way of education but was very glad on the day that I put distance between myself and that holy terror.
“So that’s why you took so warmly to those diabolists in Boston.”
It was my turn to chuckle.
“Diabolists?”
“They have quite the reputation.”
“Yes, I’m sure that all the superstitious babblers fancy us the new Salem. But to imagine George as a diabolist…well that is some devilry indeed.”
“Is that the portly fellow?”
“Yes, portlier and jollier than you, more patient then a saint….more generous than the Samaritan.”
“So what is it that you do there?”
“That’s the thing I’ve told you and we’ve told the whole town a million times over. We collect books, curiosities, and entertain ideas…that’s all besides a good bit of mutton and beer. Perhaps some take to whoring more often than is proper but how uncommon is that in a port city? Does not the governor himself that pious picture of Protestant virtue…. not entertain more beauties than the king of France?”
“Tis true.”
“So why do you keep asking?”
“It’s just there’s so much seen round that Inn, so many odd folks, and lights, and voices.”
“Well what do you expect from a party if not folks, and lights, and voices.”
“Well…some have said they’ve seen fairies….” Harris said sheepishly.
“You are a fairy you great port barrel fool.” I said gripping his neck and rubbing my knuckles into his bald head. I also had my father’s height to thank for this capacity to molest the crowns of my fellows. I suppose that’s one more thing I could thank him for.
“Alright, alright! hands off you spindly monstrosity, before I sit on you.”
“Ooooff…” I exploded. “That is certain death!” And released him.
“So what do you think old Death will make of this Canaries business?”
“I rather think he will agree.”
“Really!”
“Yes, you noted yourself, the change in him. He is no longer as keen on politics and service as he is on the Contemplation of God.”
“He has gone a bit queer hasn’t he.”
“Shhh….” I said putting my finger to my lips. “We just passed his new lodging.”
“Ah! I always forget he gave up his quarters to that magician. Besides aren’t we about to meet him topside.”
“You can never be certain and…Magician?”
“Yes, that’s how I’ve come to think of him…you know like from the Bible…the magi…”
This statement threw me into a heady flurry of thought that was as brisk as the salt air that kissed my face as we emerged topside onto the deck.
The Berber sat as silent as the grave. He raised his turbaned head and regarded me with a detached curiosity.
Our guest had gotten the best accommodation. Death was reluctantly indebted to the Mohammedans. It was the galley of some Suleiman fellow that had pulled him from the English channel. It seems the Ottomans still had designs on Rome and there were yet parties in England to accommodate them despite the wane of the Hapsburgs.
“Ah! Halstead, a most peculiar matter…one I trust you’ll find very much to your liking…”
“I’ve seen my share of slavers…”
“Why do you implicate him in this sin…besides do we not ourselves trade in lives…”
“I am not speaking from a pulpit Harris…I’ve seen my share of Berbers…”
“Yes, well this fellow is a scholar…a wiseman…you see and he had something on him when we pulled him from that Spaniards grip…”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I know that you are most keen on all those Indian tales and dusty tapestries…”
My eye had already found the object he was about to reveal. There on the oaken desk, beside the captains log sat an odd powder blue box, with oriental patterns inscribed along the sides, and a great pearl sat atop.
I cocked my head. “My Mary would likely never raise her voice if I were to bring her such a gaudy trinket.”
“You’re the fool that married the prettiest girl in Norwich…Jane is just happy that she has a husband at all, which is why I am so well-kept!” He said petting his paunchy gut.
It was true…Harris was probably right…his wife was plain but I’d never known a warmer woman or a better cook. We both laughed.
“Well, anyway there is more than jewels to that little wonder.”
I cocked an eyebrow.
“Why don’t you bring it to me?” Harris said in an odd sort of way.
I shook my head in confusion but complied. I walked over in two strides and grasped the thing in my right hand.
I couldn’t move it. It wasn’t much bigger than a midsize snuffbox and I couldn’t so much as budge it.
I chuckled. “What manner of trick is this?”
“Frankly, I haven’t the faintest idea and was hoping you could supply the answer.”
“Me?”
“Well, yes you are the foremost expert on such things…you and your little club in Boston…”
“Hmm…well I’d love to help but a heavy box is just a heavy box…”
“You still don’t see…I suppose I am a terrible presenter…look…”
He strode beside me and tried to move the box. Nothing in his attempts seemed like an act. He was as limited as I in his capacity to budge the pretty little thing.
“Now..Timurhan…” He said motioning with his head for the Turk to join us.
Our guest wordlessly complied picking up the box with ease. He showed us a strange flowing scrip inscribed all on the bottom in neat rows of paragraphs.
“It’s a trick of some sort…”
“I thought you’d say that…” Harris replied and whistled.
The whole ship trooped through the Captain included. Each earnestly trying and failing to lift the box from where Timurhan had place it on the floor.
I stared in wonder.
To be continued .
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These folks were bold. They’d hopped the wall. An action which in light of their recent conversation lent a truly sinister impression.
The good thing was they weren’t walking up the length of the wall. If they had…there was no way I could escape unnoticed.
But, my blunder with the phone served as a fortuitous distraction.
Still. ‘Not good.’
I did not want these men to find my phone. I hoped and hoped hard that the battery would just die. I didn’t want them to know who I was, who my contacts were. My habits…everything was there for these creeps to peruse at their leisure.
Beep.
‘Shit.’
They’d crossed the gravel road and were fast approaching the source of that unfortunate noise.
Then I heard the most beautiful sound. The wheels of a car had transitioned from tarmac to gravel.
‘Damn it…’ What if it was the woman, or worse…
I remained prone.
The car was making its way at a leisurely pace. Neither too slow or too fast.
It drove past us. I recognized it as the property of the redneck that lived just over the creek that intersected the gravel at its halfway point.
For a moment I thought of hailing his attention. But, decided against it. Who knew what these people were capable of. They were that terrifying combination of furtive and bold. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were armed and would find live targets mighty appealing.
The car drove on. I was at a wits end as the masking effect of the truck receded and I heard that damned beep.
‘Shit…there’s just no way outta this.’
Then my mind latched on to a boyhood memory from the old country. Sure ‘the pioneers’ had disbanded but the antecedents of the old paramilitary spirit of a more cocksure Soviet Union still held sway.
I’d been evaluated. Psychologically. At the tender age of five.
My profile: actor.
I don’t know how accurate it was but…at this moment it gave me an idea.
I stripped down. I mean really stripped down. Till I was naked.
I took a sharp stone that lay nearby and cut into the flesh of my face.
I caked myself with dirt.
Then I stood up and winced as my bare feet began the journey across the gravel.
It was a bright night. The moon was full. I was plainly visible. I hadn’t shaved in days. I’d also just been napping outdoors. My full thick curls were bushy with moisture and leaves. Dirty, bloody, naked, unkempt…approaching in the dead of night illumined by ghastly lunar radiance…
I may as well have been wearing body armor. At least that’s what I told myself. Nervousness would betray me. ‘This is my armor and they are afraid.’
“Holy shit…what the fuck…eh….HEEEEY!” It was the Yankee.
I kept approaching with bold strides. Making sure that I appeared to not feel the pain of the sharp stones, sticks, and thorns that dug their way into my feet. The pain helped me. I used it to make my eyes as wild as I could. I wanted them to look downright dilated.
“Hey…you fuck…hey…one more step and I’ll fuckin waste ya…”
They were armed.
“Awww…shit….!” I yelped in yokel indignation. “fucking damn it…tawt eww pigs whir gon.”
I was standing in the clay now. Among underbrush. Looking directly at the Yankee with the gun and an Asian man. Both were clean cut and dressed in business casual. A feature which filled me with hope. These foreigners were more liable to buy my ruse.
“What the fuck…” The Asian man said. “What do we do Pete? There’s too much noise…if they find this dead freak…we don’t have the time to move him…”
I almost pissed myself. Something that would definitely be visible….
“Wai..” I said, slurring. “Are ya’ll cops…ya’ll don look like it…now dat I got a beed on ya”
To my great relief, the Yankee started laughing.
“This is just like fucking COPS man…” he said.
“…yea…this dudes been hitting the pipe for sure…”
“Ya’ll scart the shit outta me…I threw muh daym phone…”
It was still beeping.
Pete the Yankee lowered his weapon.
“Were you the one mumbling outside that wall..?”
“Uh..I wuz talkin…prolly…i do it summa da time..I suppose yall weren’t Jake?”
“Who the hell is Jake?”
“Ugh cusstumer.”
The Yankee was really laughing now. “Finished the supply before you could deliver…”
“Pete, fuck it…we should go…half the fuckin neighborhood is probably awake by now…this guy is not a threat..”
I scowled.
“Ya callin me a puhssy!?”
The two men began convulsing with laughter.
“Ey fughk you!” I yelled. “ain’t…no one laughs at Mitch witout cummuppence.”
The pair was leaving. “Well you know buddy…” The Yankee said. “That’s a great name you got there. I’m sure your cellmates are gonna find a good rhyme to match your new occupation…Mitch the bitch!”
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing myself. I grunted and cursed to keep the swell of mirth from betraying my ruse.
There was a gap in the wall with a metal gate. The gate afforded handholds, the pair paused, checking for any sign of other nighttime strollers, climbed it and disappeared back into the neighborhood.
I strolled back into the woods singing. Though it probably wasn’t necessary I wanted to continue my act till I was a good enough distance away. I still needed my clothes.
After a ten minute trek, I sat down in the thick little wood.
I felt ecstatic. I’d gotten my adventure after all. Sitting nude on bare earth in the cool night air post adrenaline rush felt positively primeval.
A sense that emboldened me to hunt the hunters.
Moving as noiselessly as possible I retraced my steps back to the wall. Pausing before I crossed the road. The coast was clear. I donned my clothes. Wiped away the blood and dirt using some puddle water. Then I combed my mane as much as it let me.
My clothes were sporty. A pair of sweats, sneakers, and a t-shirt. I left my flannel in the dirt as I made my way to the gate.
I checked around the corner even more cautiously than the pair of creeps.
My phone was still beeping but that was immaterial now.
I clambered over and began to jog.
I knew that dawn wasn’t far. My athletic garb, the hour, and the rushing blur of my motion was a ruse almost as good as the Meth addict.
I jogged in the direction that I knew the house that had hosted the bizarre conversation lay.
As I passed it I noted a large black pickup in the driveway.
I rounded the corner and ran behind the house that stood across the street.
It was risky but the adrenaline rush of nude forest near-death experience brought out the stalking caveman in me.
Who were these freaks in my stomping grounds…
I climbed over a chainlink fence and hid behind an AC unit…watching.
I knew that they were probably going to get the hell out of dodge soon.
Everything about their conversation and our encounter suggested that.
I wasn’t wrong. Because soon all three emerged pausing on the stoop to set something down.
What I saw them carrying still haunts me to this day.
It wasn’t gore…it was implication that terrified me…as I watched them dump three large black trash bags into the back of the pickup.
Then Pete and his friend grabbed a big cooler that sloshed with untold pounds of ice and hoisted it into the bed just ahead of the protruding trashbags.
Hurriedly the gruesome threesome piled in and drove away.
“Isn’t a bit early for that…” I grumbled aloud at the strong cigarette odor that had roused me from the haze of sleep.
It was then that I realized the bed I occupied wasn’t a fold-out couch in a grungy little house. I was damp with dew.
And rather unnervingly the voice did not belong to Gwen.
I was now wide awake.
“Did you just hear something?” A deep Yankee brogue carried clearly through the wall that had served as my pillow.
“You’re just nervous…” Another voice this time completely foreign. The clipped brassy accent reminding me of my Taiwanese room-mate.
“You betcha…”
“Oh, come on Peter…this…I thought you’d be used to it by now…” This time it was a woman. The first native sounding voice I’d heard.
I’m not exactly sure why I found this conversation disturbing. Despite the impossibility of being seen I shielded the screen of my flip phone as I checked the time.
It was 3:22 AM. I hated these neat little numbers. I always…always happened to look at a watch or odometer and see 3:33, 9:11, 808. A sort of luck and distaste that would eventually find me in a psych ward. But that and Crowley’s little book is a tale for another time.
True terror is not supernatural.
I did not want to be here. I was cold and damp and really hated the little international meeting just a walls length behind my back.
“I don’t like the new supply…”
A chill ran up my spine.
“Hold up Lee…are you sure about Dietrich…?”
“As sure as I can be.”
“You’re nervous tonight Pete…” Came the woman’s voice. “What’s up…? Having second thoughts…you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to…just don’t you know…kiss and tell…”
“No, no nothing like that…”
“Then what..?”
“The same damn SUV…dark blue…I kept seeing it for a good hundred miles on I77.”
“Probably just a family goin back home or visiting relatives…”
There was a pause.
“I first saw the damned thing just outside Columbus.”
“Hmm…so you think that we’ve been followed?”
Pete…the Yankee voice…sighed. “I don’t know.”
“Well, where did you last see it?”
“Not sure exactly but…it was past Charlotte.”
“Shit…” The woman hissed. “Well…I thin…”
A sharp electric beep cut through the predawn dark.
It was so loud. What the hell could that be…
The conversation had ceased.
I heard the beep again and this time I realized its source.
It was the low battery alert.
“Secure the goods Rachel…” the voice of ‘Lee’ dictated in a loud whisper. Before I heard the shuffling of feet.
At this point…adrenaline set in and my presence of mind reached absolute zero.
Instead of just pulling the battery out and hightailing it back home through the woods I threw it.
I watched the dark blur arc its way over the gravel road and land soundlessly among underbrush in the clay clearing at the edge of the wood.
The adrenaline made me move. Which was good. Because just as I had made my way up the length of the wall and thrown myself down into a prone position I heard first one then two pairs of feet land directly on the spot that I’d just evacuated.
I heard whispers and then off in the distance by the edge of the wood I heard a distinct electronic beep.
I suppose that given my choice of title you are going to assume that this’ll be some sort of symbol-laden existential pontification.
Hate to disappoint but today’s story is short on that sort of trendy ennui.
The wall is not some hardly clever Floydian commentary on the barrier between the mundane and the divine.
The wall is eight feet high and composed of brick and concrete. It stands half the year baking in the Carolina sun and half the year waiting to bake in the Carolina sun with just a few temperate breezes between. There is nothing special about it.
Behind the prosaic wall, there is a prosaic neighborhood of neat brick houses that are just a touch posher than middle class. In front of this fence, there is a long gravel road. A road that is wooded where it isn’t fenced. With a clay field as the only boundary between its crunch and several miles of humid silence.
The wood was dotted here and there with tree stands. I knew this well. I knew this because I knew where every oak would make itself apparent among the swaying loblollies. Many childhood ventures both solitary and gregarious had found my sneakered feet alternating between the crunch of leaves and gravel.
Like all haunts, my old stomping ground always begged for another haunting.
I was straddling that awkward divide between my mid and late twenties. I wouldn’t describe myself as brawny but I was no longer the thin bespectacled kid with the bushy hair. Years of woodland wandering and other physical hobbies had broadened my shoulders and given fiercer sinews to my bones.
I was young strong and slightly inebriated. My buddy still resided in our childhood suburb the two or so miles from the fence. We were fond of passing balmy evenings plotting and commiserating on his family’s deck. On occasion, we’d drink to add edge to our acerbic banter.
I suppose it also helped one meld into the mellow tempo of southern life. Something that was at times difficult for somebody with a nervous disposition. It may just be my ego defending itself but I resent that. The idea that my disposition was nervous. I think it much more accurate to say that I had certain sensibilities that were a touch more keen. I was keener than Manning. Not better but keener. Which is why I always drank just a little bit more.
It was some time not long past midnight that we trooped back into the living room for a bit of fiddling on the guitar and piano. Finding that we weren’t able to lock into a groove the jam session was quickly abandoned.
Gwen was with us. It may have been her that suggested the outing but the cause was something beyond suggestion. It was an impulse that we had all felt. A certain wanderlust had blossomed in our collective subconscious. Perhaps fueled by the mixture of whiskey, coffee, and sweets. Or perhaps by the beckoning light of the spectral moon which hung so seductively visible. The round edge of its fullness teasing the corner of an open window.
Maybe tonight I’d finally be able to help my hussy. That’s the term of endearment that I’d come to ascribe wordlessly to Gwen. I’d gotten the idea from Jimmy Carr who used the word to shut down a female heckler whose romantic strategy was pretty akin to that of the dirty blonde taking a drag from her cigarette.
She was worse off than I in terms of chemistry. So I forgave her failure to acknowledge my status as her boyfriend. Verbal confirmation was desired but not demanded. After all physical confirmation wasn’t lacking. Though this left me in an odd sort of limbo I didn’t mind it most of the time. A more callous lad might suggest that I’d hit the jackpot with a girlfriend that didn’t demand commitment. But then I’m a tad romantic and besides. She did get jealous. In fact, I think her jealousy was one of the biggest sparks that had kindled the complex mess of our recent history.
Forests and the quiet magic they assume were one of my chief passions. And it was this spiritual lust rather than a pining for validation or nooky that excited me this evening. When the topic of an outing emerged I was all for it.
In fact, I likely was the author of the desire. It was I that had sustained the outings, that was ever the chief of the charge to the wood, the chairman of camping, never missing an opportunity for a ramble.
As I’ve said. I feel things a tad more keenly. I knew that the kindling was there. That the adventurous and slightly tomboyish girl that I’d known since high school was a soul as ready for salvation in the loving embrace of the great and ancient church of woodland worship as a zealot could wish.
There was something simultaneously pathetic and noble in her need to bury her keenness in the bottle and bowl. She once commented that she’d prefer to remember nothing at all. Maybe this was why we’d united. Because I wanted to remember everything. Even the most painful things and my pains far outweighed hers by an eastern bloc. I wanted to analyze and blaze and build. She was the blankness of yin and I the inky stain of yang. This notion was supported even by the color of our hair. My head was of a raven hue and hers of a vibrant reddish blonde.
It was so alchemically sound. But of course, all equations are a fiction.
But on that night I still held faith in magic. That the sight of a meadow at midnight as the quail made its quaint entreaty to the babbling brook was a prayer that would break even the strongest spell of that blasted hash strengthened nihilistic ambivalence.
As we rounded the end of the suburb, and went up the first real country road, and finally heard the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath our feet a giddiness arose among us. All three of us were merry. Laughing amid the piney scents and pleasant breezes of an autumn night.
We danced, we sang, we praised, we blasphemed. Simultaneously wild and reverent we were feeling the vibe.
As we passed the fence and the wood to reach a truly lonesome stretch of country bordering the edge of a state park I grew happier and happier.
Yes, tonight. Tonight if on any night I’d have the neophytes affirm the faith. I could see the cascade of happiness that the union of man, earth, and soul would bring into the prematurely jaded lives of these disaffected natives of suburbia.
As night wore on and all that I could find was my clumsy tongue repeating the same caustic and acerbic jokes we’d been rehashing all evening… the chance for vespers was escaping and I grew desperate.
We were back on the gravel road. Taking the same path home as we’d taken to get to the leafy temple. The moon was so full and holy. Like a candle lit at mass.
Surely, I couldn’t let yet another night give way to a somnolent wine soaked morning.
I remarked on the balmy pleasure of the air and the merits of the moon. I remonstrated that we’d never really chewed long enough for the communion to be effective. But no, some odd collusion had risen up between them. Three is a crowd at times, it’s true.
She wanted breakfast and he wanted sleep. I desired neither. I wanted acolytes.
As I was on the verge of despair a thought flashed through my mind. Perhaps tonight was merely a preparation. One in which I could lead by example.
I affected my most stoic expression and went to sit with my back against the wall regarding the moon as a parishioner regards the upheld testament.
I told them to go on without me. That I would stay the rest of the night here to enjoy the moon and air.
They protested for a bit but upon seeing the resoluteness of the most pious gaze that I could muster left me with my God.
The Fractal Journal 