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.
Jim blinked away the shock as the thrill of escape settled to a bitter-sweet sensation. He was simultaneously glad to have escaped the abyss and worried by the dawning realization that he was still lost.
There was no way that he had entered this way. Else, he would have recognized something.
‘How many miles did I go?’
He risked the water. It tasted sweet.
To his left was a hill. To the right a limitless wood. He sighed.
There was nothing in his pocket except a soggy pack of Pall Malls.
The only comfort was the fact that the Zippo miraculously still worked.
‘Well, I don’t think that I went that far. There’s really no way.
He looked in the direction from where he had emerged.
The mouth of the cave that the stream fed into was set into a hillock. He guessed that his best bet was to retrace the steps he took belowground, aboveground.
This took him the most part of what he guessed was afternoon. He wished that he had drunk more because he was very dehydrated.
Slumping against a pine he tried to keep panic at bay. Reed, Kentucky was in the middle of nowhere. It may as well be a ranger station in a national park. There really was nothing to do except walk. Jim may have had street-smarts but he was no survivalist. The best that he could hope for was rain.
After the span of a half hour he rose and trudged further into the unknow.
Evening was setting in. He considered the benefits of a nap. But, decided against it. At least until it was so dark as to render the forest unnavigable.
This decision was soon rewarded by a welcome sight. There was another stream. This one wider and more robust than the one that had guided him out the cave. He dipped his hand greedily and lapped the refreshment with gusto.
‘This one probably feeds that little one… If not outright than through some underground channel.’
It was a thought that filled him with hope. He could follow a stream even in the dark. As the arresting thrill of discovery subsided, and his atheist hymn of thanksgiving tickled Jehovah’s bemused ear, he embarked.
The going was rocky and rough. At times thick bushes grew right down to the shore. He cursed every time he had to work his way round one. Jim walked on for a long time. Long enough for the ambience to shift.
Right as the first twinkling of starlight, heralded the approach of the actual night, something strange caught his eye. ‘That is the weirdest damned track I’ve ever seen.’
He flicked on the Zippo.
It was human looking but strange. So strange, in fact, that there was no way it could have been human. First, there was the size. It was too small. Then there was the absence of a heel. To add to the mystery the thing presented only four toes. With no big toe in sight.
‘What in the hell?’ Jim shrugged. He didn’t really have time to worry about it. Even if it was a predator his priority was to keep moving.
Jim had enough Daniel Boone in him to know that rivers always led to civilization. Or for what passes for civilization out in Bumfuck, Kentucky. So, he soldiered on through yet more of the same arduous terrain.
It must have been two or three hours since the sun had set that the song of the owl and the whippoorwill was joined by that damnably sweet chirping.
‘No bird makes that sound…’ Jim lamented. It was a suspicion bordering on fear. A suspicion that drove him on despite the immense fatigue and overwhelming desire to lay down and sleep.
A quarter hour more of the dogged march found the trees thinning. He probably had nerve damage because his feet combined with the adrenaline of expectation made it possible to run.
“Hooooly…shiiiiiit….” He cried out as he threw himself backward grabbing whatever hold he could.
In his haste for comfort he’d grown nearly deaf. So, he did not hear the thundering rush of water as it fell into a sleepy mountain lake.
He’d saved himself some serious injury, and possible death, but just barely. This was the fact that bore itself into his brain as he looked at the craggy doom some forty feet below.
Panting he worked his way down to the shore of the lake. He looked around and was dismayed. There were no piers, no boats, no cabins. Just a vast lake amidst foreboding mountains. It was too much, and Jim didn’t even try to get another sip of water before he fell fast asleep.
Pain, fatigue, and cold screamed through every sinew. He raised himself by the elbow wincing at the sensation of rough stone on that tender joint. It was absolutely pitch black.
If he were any less than completely exhausted, he would have panicked.
Holding his hand mere inches from his eyes, he saw nothing. He fumbled through his jeans. And he praised God for his addiction. For there in his right pocket was the more than half spent pack of Pall Mall’s and within the comforting smoothness of metal.
The Zippo was a small comfort. But it was comfort enough.
The dimensions of where-ever the hell he was were impressive. He walked forward cross stony dust littered ground and found no wall. He walked backward and got the same result.
His feet screamed.
‘Where the hell are my shoes…’
He slumped down and laughed as a sharp pain shot through his ass.
He brought the Zippo down. It was a stalagmite.
“Great. I’m lost in a fucking cave in Frog Balls, Kentucky.”
There had to have been something more than whiskey in those bottles.
‘Probably all part of their little plan. Clever fucks.’
Jim was never one to feel sorry for himself. He’d done too much sinning for self-pity.
‘Well, I got in here somehow. So, I’ll get out of here somehow.’
He tried to recall how he’d gotten here. But to no avail. It was that same chasm of ignorance that always followed a night of getting black-out drunk.
He absent-mindedly picked up a stone and chucked it into the yawning depths that drowned him.
To his great surprise he heard it splash.
Slowly, painfully, he rose to his raw-worn feet and advanced in the direction of the invisible oasis. Though he heard no stream, where there was a pond, there was a chance of one.
He walked forward for what seemed like eternity. It was good that he was a stubborn proud son of a bitch. Because a meeker man may well have wasted precious time repenting for ending up in hell.
“Oh, fuck yea.” He said dipping his feet into cold water. The smooth silt was such welcome relief from the rough and recent passage to this haven. He lingered there for a bit at the shore of some great subterranean indoor pool.
‘Might as well head left.’ He gambled and began to trace the shoreline with his feet as he ambled awkwardly along.
Tracking time was impossible, so he tracked footfalls. Though this too proved futile after the first few hundred. So, he walked, and he walked.
At first, he thought he was hallucinating.
“What in the fuck is that…”
Far from the shore where the depths of the lake should be, he perceived a strange blue shimmer.
Yes. It was unmistakable. There in the path of his current direction and outward past the shore was a light that grew brighter as he advanced.
He stopped when the brightness reached what he guessed was peak luminescence. After taking a few moments to ponder he said, “Fuck it.”
Jim waded till the water reached his waist and began to swim. Stopping just above the brightest shimmer he could see clear down to the bottom. Though the source itself was nowhere to be seen.
Curiosity overtook him and Jim dove.
He opened his eyes and thanked God that the liquid didn’t sting them The water was clear so very clear. It was uncanny. It stirred some vague memory.
And slowly he recollected the contents of that recent dream. Though he couldn’t breathe the water, everything else, was the same. There were the myriad submerged islands bearing stones with strange reliefs.
He surfaced and rested.
‘Well, I guess swimming is easier than walking.’ And he continued his leftward course.
After some time, he began to hear a gurgle. A sound for which he was grateful because the light had dissipated long ago. He swam towards it blindly.
It grew louder.
‘Fuck. Which way is the shore?’
He guessed and swam. But it was too long.
‘Fuck.’
He was beginning to feel the first stages of panic.
He had no clue which direction to take. He was surrounded on all sides by pitch black water. The strange blue light was long gone, and he was utterly alone without a thing to guide him.
‘Well, I can sit here like a bitch and drown, or I can drown trying to get to a tumbler of whiskey.’
He chose the latter.
And after three unsuccessful forays he finally reached the shore. Plodding along where the water met silt, he advanced towards the gurgling sound.
When it was as loud as daytime TV he inclined towards the sound with his Zippo.
Sure enough there was a small brisk stream flowing into the lake.
Jim followed it up a gradual incline.
Hope began its cautious return. And its return wasn’t in vain.
Because soon he beheld a greying in the blackness.
And then something far more beautiful than anything he had ever beheld.
There just a few hundred yards ahead was an aperture. Bright daylight revealed the verdant Kentucky green just beyond the man-sized opening through which the streamlet flowed.
Why must they be so cryptic? There was too much room for interpretation. Nothing fell into place. Or rather the places that it fell were too fantastic to be seriously entertained.
Maybe he should read after all.
But what would he read?
More cryptic hints at the illimitable…
Towards what end?
He watched the drops gather and slide. Such a natural symbiosis with gravity. Yes, it was such a simple thing. And Jim wished very much, o so very much, to be as simple.
But it was not possible.
So, he opened the envelope.
He read. Or rather he tried to read.
His eye was draw to a thin column a quarter way down the seventh page.
“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…”
“See,” Jim mused aloud. “That…that is not helpful at all.”
He tossed the stack onto the coffee table and poured another whiskey.
Staring into the fire he found that it offered no comfort.
He felt colder than he had ever felt before. The world was old.
Before, he felt himself separate from it.
Yet now he too felt old.
Hanging there in the abyss by a slowly dying star.
A fire whose fuel was as febrile and dwindling as that which crumpled so steady before his gaze.
“Where would we go?” He muttered.
How would he keep the warmth from sapping out his bones into the inky night? How would they? How would we?
He removed his shoes, then his socks.
He let the cold wood panel seep into the balls of his feet, up his ankles, femurs and find its rest in the base of his spine.
He began to dance. Frantic and drunk he hooped and he hollered in the isolation.
Placing the revolver by his head he pondered.
Faint suggestions flickered through his conscious.
Jim felt very small. He imagined that he was the proportion of the reflection in the brass of the poker. He felt himself to be his own homunculus.
He dropped the gun and ventured unshod into the black old night.
Standing in the middle of the meadow he beheld a heaven so close and bright that he could taste it. Again, he began to dance. He twirled among the rings. He danced in rings among rings within rings.
And with each step a strange awareness took hold. It was as if his feet were eyes and he were reading things writ long ago. So long ago that were he not in motion to counteract…the dizziness of age…of dimension he would surely fall.
It was narcosis. It was rapture. It was a deep read.
For he beheld the passage of odd teardrops towards a green-blue orb.
“We are locusts.” He said and began to eat the grass.
Yes, this sudden Nebuchadnezzar was profound aware of the vanity of kingship.
But why?
He was drunk on abandon. Absolutely floored by possibility, utterly drowned by eternity, he could do nothing but dance.
His feet bled. Yet he danced on heedless of the pain of prickling grasses and wild litter.
The fire, that very fire of mortal displeasure, sent him forward, launched him like an arrow towards the granite arcade.
There was a sound as if something were in flight. Intermittent static, strange gurgling, and rasping titters sent quick sharp almost painful shivers up his spine. Jim felt nauseous.
Then like waking from a bad dream he heard the first bars of “Something.”
“What in the actual… holy fuck was that?” He muttered.
The cheery mellow romance of the sixties soothed too abruptly. Cosmic horror was cleanly cut from his psyche. And it left him reeling.
He released the needle and picked up the record mid-spin. It appeared normal.
He made it play again.
Within seconds he heard, “Something in the way she moves…”
“That’s it…I’m losing my fuckin’ mind.” He thought.
But why would he imagine something like that? He wasn’t given to nightmares. Even here in this weird lonely place those dreams that he could recall were pleasant.
“Keep it together Jim.” He mumbled attempting to regain his nerve.
“Ye best be keepin’ the ways.”
He wheeled round so fast he almost fell.
There in the center of the parlor was that blasted scarecrow of a woman.
“How…”
That same perfectly intact smile broke out of her wrinkled face like sunshine through a tattered curtain. She lifted a hand with an extended finger on which hung a ring of keys.
“Didn’t think that the closest thing yer kind had to a wife has wifely privilege?” The grandame chuckled.
“That’s not right.”
“Neither is being a Philistine in Rome.”
“Huh?”
“Haven’t ye heard da old sayin?”
“Heard loads but that don’t excuse this. I’m guessin’ ya never had sons cause burstin’ in like this…well ya might see thigns ya rather didn’t.”
“I don’t care bout yer piggishness. That’s afore ye and God what I care is that you’re in Rome and ye do not do as the Romans.”
“Well, good. Cause I heard that Rome fell.”
“Smart…very smart..fool…I see that you’re very much after the new way.”
“Huh?”
“Ye think this is all just some kinda game. Believe that everythins’ plain and tidy. That this great thing with it’s stars and the way that Cronin blood plays through yer veins it’s all just so…just cause…it’s gotta be…cause it is…right?”
It took Jim a minute to process all that.
“Yea…makes about as much sense as anythin can.”
She smiled again.
Jim leapt back.
What stood before him was not Lizzy Jennings but a beautiful youth with dirty blonde braids and radiant skin.
At least that’s what he thought he saw. Because just as quick as the satanic vesper had melded into psychedelic rock the old crone was again before him.
Though now he noticed something in her eyes. Something keen and vital in the icy blue. Playful or perhaps tricky that twinkle was unsettling. He’d seen it before in some Union guys. They were young but possessed by something…older…something wiser and that combination of vigor and insight was formidable. It was off putting.
“Why da ya jump bout like a frightened bunny? If the world is just so?”
Jim sighed.
“Look could you please promise me that ye won’t just bust on in here without knockin?”
“So long as ye can promise to keep the ways.”
“Fine!”
“You’re lyin’.”
Jim sighed again and began to protest.
But Lizzy held up a finger. “It don’t matter. Ye can’t convince me ‘gainst what I know. The Lord can see into the heart. And from time to time he even let’s sinner see the heart’s o others. This is why we know ye are a fool. Why we have halved your pay till ye comply.”
Jim pondered for a bit.
“No! I won’t be able to make rent…Barragan will fuckin’ skin me. It don’t matter if I’m on the moon. He’ll fuckin’ skin me.”
Lizzy laughed. “Now if only ye were as afraid of them that could destroy the soul same as them that can destroy the body.”
“I don’t take kindly to folk trying to scare me.” Jim said coldly.
Lizzy shook her head and muttered, “Folk,” with a wry disdain.
Jim stamped his foot.
Lizzy sighed.
“I’m afraid there’s nothin’ I can do about it. Ye may live…I suppose…but even if ya do…you might not find livin’ as pleasant.”
“Is that a threat?”
“If I wanted to harm ye,” she said dangling the keys again. “I coulda done it a dozen times over.”
Jim stared.
“Frankly, I don’t much care about ye. Too brash too removed from worship…”
“There’s that religion shit again.” Jim shook his head.
“Nah…ain’t no religion…this is older magic than Abraham…than order…than yer new England tidiness…that factory faith o yers…no….”
“That sounds real religious…”
“No I don’t care for ye…but I do care for keepin things untangled…and as that bastird faith would have it…only a fool can untie the knot.”
She turned and headed for the door.
Pausing at the threshold she said. “I only wanted to save ye some trouble. But ye have the heart of Absalom. The heart of a fool.”
Jim was at a loss as the door shut calmly behind her.
The muffled sound of hooves on grassland reached his ears and he headed for the liquor.
Afternoon found him stiff limbed and groggy. Jim reengaged the safety and set the twelve gauge gingerly on the wood panel floor.
It was stupid to sleep with a loaded and ready weapon. It hurt a bit. He could stand to be a fool but not an all-out idiot. For better or for worse, the sting of self-criticism was short-lived.
Soon his mind recalled the reason for this folly. It replayed the strange melodic chirping, the peculiar pitter patter of flesh on shingle, and Jim shuddered.
He shuddered at the possibility of the unknown. What if his tidy theory was wrong? Most frightening of all, was the idea that for the first time in his quarter century of living, he was out of his depths.
So, Jim was silent as he methodically went about his morning ablutions.
He recalled Kenny’s advice. “Listen ya little shit. You think you’re real smooth. Which is why one day you are guaranteed to fuck up. Sooner or later something always throws us off balance. Let me tell you an old corpsman’s trick. Act natural, act ritual, keep tidy, shave every morning even if you don’t ever shave. Keep your sideburns trimmed. Floss those pearly whites. Gain as much control of the close and minor as possible. The rest will follow. This is the rule of momentum.”
Jim brought his chin to a porcelain smooth polish. His sideburns were soon impeccable. Tucking in his shirt he went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast with a determined circumspection.
Soon his brain produced another theory.
‘They’re tryin’ to spook me into their game. They want me to be a link in the chain. To be a little messenger boy at the safe house. Without even knowing it. That’s why they were up there playin monster. They want me to believe in voodoo rather than let me into the money. Outsiders are too much of a liability even if they’re kin. I know this gangland shit.’
His habitual calm returned. Though only for the span it took to cross his threshold.
The brilliant noonday sun revealed a once familiar meadow crisscrossed by a gridlock pattern of circles within circles.
‘If this is a ruse. It’s god damned elaborate!’ He mused as the chill tendrils of doubt once again crept into his psyche.
Where there is doubt, there is the unknown, where there is the unknown there is fear.
“No.” Jim said aloud.
‘I refuse to be fucked with. I don’t care what sort of Scooby Doo shenanigans these fuckers throw at me. I’m not gonna lose my shit over eccentric landscaping.’
He strode out into the peculiar mist that was so strange for midday. Save for it and the weird circles everything seemed normal.
Birds twittered and insects sang. Wind rustled and trees swayed. He focused on the normal.
‘Yes, in fact everything is normal. There’s nothing abnormal about mischief. Especially from locals to an outsider.’
Still, he figured it wise to stick with his original plan and lay low for a bit.
He considered setting more traps. But there was no way to tell if he was being watched. There were at least half a dozen intruders as far as he could recollect. Any of the tens of thousands of trees could hide them. They could be watching even now.
Jim offered up a double bird salute and went inside to think.
The cottage was strange and silent. It did not creak. It was so perfect still. He felt as if he inhabited a hermetically sealed box.
He didn’t know why it hadn’t bothered him till now. The silence was deafening. He could not stomach it.
Jim took quick efficient strides to the record player.
While he wasn’t particularly keen on the Beatles he figured ‘any port in a storm.’ So, it was that the needle found Abbey Road.
Yet, no music played. Jim leaned forward to try to see what went wrong.
Before he could complete the troubleshooting a crisp clear voice with a Nordic lilt broke through the speakers.
His eye fell on the neat red script. He should probably read the contents.
Maybe they’d offer up some clue as to the identity of his furtive visitors.
Then he remembered the meandering sentences, the puerile mysticism, the Talmudic dryness. He could not bring himself to do it.
‘It’s just hicks being hicks.’
Still, he thought it wise to postpone his exploration. At least for a couple of days. He needed to mull a bit. It was imperative to get to grips with the peculiarities of the situation.
‘If Dutch and Lizzy roam fearless there must be a reason.’ He theorized. ‘Though they sure are superstitious fucks.’
Then it occurred to him. Maybe, all of this worked like a mob. Maybe there were some degenerates in the woods. And townsfolk like Lizzy payed them protection. Maybe that was the cause of the Seng offering. It was, after all, a root that fetched a handsome price.
It did make sense. It made perfect sense. All the voodoo bullshit was a great way to throw the assuredly few cops off the scent. The feds probably didn’t care unless there was meth involved.
Hell, there probably was. How else did Hant afford all that crystal-ware.
‘What kind of redneck melodrama have I gotten myself into?’ Jim shook his head.
Yes. The Seng and the ways were probably some sort of elaborate communication system for a drug ring.
This put Jim at ease. He was used to dealing with criminals. Hell, he was a criminal in some regards.
A wicked smirk broke out. ‘I don’t think they’re used to city cunning.’
He very much doubted these blissful surroundings could produce the same level of soul crushing cynicism as cold blood-stained concrete.
Truth was Jim had grown icy under the bleak grey Boston sky.
“I’m gonna catch me a hick!” He murmured with amusement as he lit another cigarette.
The second Thursday was approaching. The due date was three days out. This was ample time ‘to go all Vietcong ‘n shit.’
He slept on that notion.
Awaking before dawn with the aid of an antique alarm Jim set out for the drop zone with a shovel in hand.
‘Yep, that’s the angle they’re gonna come at it from.’ He said looking at the moss the hicks had mentioned.
He began to dig. Country living had made him strong. So intense was his focus that neither root nor rock impeded a steady progress. It was just over three hours toiling that a six-foot-deep, three-foot-wide, manhole appeared on the mossy side of the stump.
He filled the hole three quarters of the way with loose leaves and twigs. Then covered these with a layer of topsoil. He made good and certain that the thick grass looked as natural as it had before the soil was disturbed.
This being done he lugged the wheelbarrow full of remaining earth back to the cottage and into the basement.
The early waking and the heavy labor took their toll. So, having assured that he was neither watched nor followed he resumed his self-interrupted slumber.
This time he dreamt of nothing whatsoever.
He awoke with a sense of foreboding. Something was off though he couldn’t place his finger on it.
It wasn’t the fact that it was dark outside. This much he had expected.
He went round the cottage checking all the windows and all the doors. He even went into the basement.
Everything was in order. Yet he still couldn’t put his mind at ease.
‘Maybe it’s been too long since my last whiskey.’
He poured a glass and sat on the couch. He sat and his ears began to listen.
There was no owl. There was no whippoorwill. All that he heard was the strange pleasant chirping.
A chill ran down his spine.
‘They’re talkin’. That’s how these assholes signal each other. Clever fucks.’
The chirping was louder and closer than usual.
‘Shit they might actually be plannin’ an ambush.’
That’s why the actual fauna opted for radio silence.
Jim sought higher ground in his uncle’s attic bedroom. He was used to raids from hooligans. The Carter economy wasn’t kind to latchkey kids. And latchkey kids weren’t kind to each other.
He switched his .38 for the Mossberg he’d found in the safe he’d cracked. Sometimes crime did pay.
He made certain to leave the light off. Carefully, tentatively, with the gingerness of a practiced surgeon he moved the curtain and peeked down into the yard.
Sure, enough every so often he saw brisk silhouettes flitting through the dark. But they moved so quickly he couldn’t make out any details.
‘Methed up fuckers…’
What the hell were they doing though. Leapfrogging? He was familiar with some military tactics on account of Kenny, but this pattern of motion made no sense. It was really more like serpentine but there were no snipers.
An ambush usually involved a slow, steady advance, like a cat stalking a mouse. Or a sudden strike like a snake in the grass.
This was neither.
‘Fuckin’ crazy hicks.’
He was entranced. So, entranced in fact that he almost didn’t notice the quick light footsteps overhead.
‘O hell no.’ Jim said releasing the safety and backing away from the window.
The chirping was everywhere. It sounded like a whole army of stealthy hicks were runnin’ unshod on Hant’s roof.
‘How the hell…’ Jim couldn’t figure it out. The angles of the cabin were so neat and the roof so lofty that access from outside was damn near impossible.
Suddenly, just as quickly as the chorus had started, it ceased.
Still, Jim held his position till dawn. As the sun began to rise, he fetched the alarm and set it for noon. This being done he laid down in Hant’s bed with shotgun in hand and napped.
The Fractal Journal 