I am not accustomed to the guttural thunder of bullfrogs at night. It vibrates the eardrums as if a washerwoman, zealous in her trade, beats at her mistress’s laundry. And yet the guests and the hosts seem unperturbed by it as they converse indoors. Their chatter is like crickets beneath the ambience of the swamp. I stand on the upper floor’s porch, framed by the colonnade that plunges like an orchard of cypresses, and attempt to breathe freely the evening air after too many hours spent among people with whom I must either compete or endear myself. Looking out across the estate grounds, I see a scene from another world. Moonlight glows among the heavy gossamers of Spanish moss hanging from the gigantic oaks. The contorted limbs seem ready to rouse for midnight reveries. I wish for bed, and smack a mosquito near my ear. Presumptuous pest!
“Oh, but you see that I am the namesake of your dear Louisiana,” says Mr. Louis Beaux from within. “And so I feel as if I have come home at long last.”
The fluff-frilled French dandy laughs like a loon. He has used that tired joke so often since arriving at the Sugar Palace that it repeats in my head whenever the name of this American state is mentioned.
“You may share a name with its benefactor,” Mr. William Lutz says, “but my family has blended its sweat and blood with this swamp for decades, taming it with great industry. Louisiana is as much of my blood as we are of it. Just as the Doucette family is of this great land. We are at home here like no one else.”
“Just so, my dear young man,” Mr. Doucette says in his breathless, rousing manner. His bulky figure resides in a leather chair near the French doors. He has spilled his glass of wine more than once tonight, nodding toward sleep.
“My family has cultivated sugar cane for a century on our island,” Mr. Beaux says in his nasally accent. “What are your mainland plantations to ours? Hm? We thrive in the middle of the barbaric seas, striving where no one dared to strive before. With the wild sea crashing all around us.”
“It is much easier on an island,” Mr. Lutz says, “when you do not have to worry about Indian raids and Abolitionists threatening your way of life.”
“We have pirates to think of, you know!” Mr. Beaux exclaims.
“As do we,” Mr. Lutz says with the self-satisfaction of a checkmate.
“It tests a man’s mettle, such things,” General Davis interjects. “And I have engaged such enemies directly. There is no baptism like the baptism of war. It scalds sweetly, purifying the man of all the weaker elements in his constitution. Vestiges of childhood, and the naive ideals of adolescence, are burned clean until only a man remains. Stern and vigilant and unwavering.”
“Ah, but each of you miss the matter at hand,” Miss Lucille Doucette chimes. “The matter at my hand. That is to say, which of you is worthy of my hand? That is more than a mere question of name and family lineage and manhood. Otherwise why would I have invited so many remarkable gentlemen into Le Palais Du Sucre?”
I cannot help but sigh. I am a stranger in a strange land. Louisiana is a strange place for a man from Derbyshire. The sights and the sounds and the people are a strange witch’s brew of everyday occurrence. Were I taken to Faerie I would not experience such a crucible of cultural delineation. Louisiana is otherworldly, even if its people are familiar.
“One of you could always seek my hand in marriage,” Miss Arabella chimes in enviously.
Miss Lucille, laughs contemptuously. “You are too young for such considerations, and you are not the heiress, little sister. Why would any of these fine, distinguished gentlemen be interested in attaching himself to you? They might as well attach themselves to one of our housemaids, for all it entails.”
I can hear the sharp, angry footsteps of Miss Arabella as she exits the parlour.
“Where did Lord Machen go to?” Miss Lucille says, unperturbed by her sister’s departure. “He is always slipping away elsewhere. I am beginning to believe he has given up the chase.”
“He was never in the running, my dear Lucy,” Mr. Lutz says.
“Indeed,” General Davis concurs. “To marry a foreigner would be to betray your breeding and your country.”
“To the contrary,” Mr. Beaux says, testily. “An attachment to the right foreigner would improve your breeding, as it improved your country during its infancy. Without the French, monsieur, your country would not exist, but would still be chained to the throne.”
Politics. I despise politics. Nor am I beholden to any keen feelings of allegiance to my own country. To press the point, I always refer to England as Albion to distinguish the mythical as more integral to my identity than the reality. Perhaps it is a bit of weakness and cowardice, this disavowal—and especially as it happens that I am of an old line of noblemen—but it is in keeping with my unmoored life and the ache of my wanderlust.
“Do you wish me to make an allowance for one foreigner over another?” General Davis says angrily. “All of you compromise the integrity of our sovereignty with your presence. You should be expelled with all of the other undesirables in our midst.”
“General, do not make war,” Miss Lucille admonishes him. “It is not becoming of you in present circumstances.”
“Everything in its due time,” agrees Mr. Lutz, his voice nearer to Miss Lucille’s than the others. Doubtlessly he is sitting next to her on the sofa. An enviable position of privilege for some. “Love was never won with slings and arrows.”
“Yes, yes, but where is Lord Machen?” Lady Lucille says. “I am of a mind to send Caroline to fetch him.” She paces across the room, calling for Caroline. “Caroline! Caroline, come here at once, girl!”
Caroline is not a girl, but a woman of at least twenty. Being a slave, she comes promptly at her mistress’s command.
“Yes, Miss Doucette,” Caroline says timidly.
“Do you know the whereabouts of Lord Machen?” Miss Lucille says.
“No, Miss Doucette.”
“Then find him,” Miss Lucille says, “and escort him here. He must have gotten himself lost again.”
I hear snickering from the other suitors.
“But what…what if he has retired to bed?” Caroline asks.
“Then let him rest, obviously,” Miss Lucille says impatiently. “And report to me of his condition.”
Poor Caroline exits the parlour, led by the candle in her hand. I follow alongside her from the porch to my room, watching her through the many French windows that line the walls of the Sugar Palace. She is a rather lovely young woman—dusky of face and gloomy of feeling—and entirely unfortunate in her circumstances, much like most Negroes in Louisiana. I slip into the house through a pair of French doors. Though it is not my aim, I startle her as I emerge from a corridor heavily veiled in shadows.
“Lord Machen!” she exclaims, a hand going to her aproned breast.
“I apologize, Miss Caroline,” I say, bowing. “I did not mean to give you a start.”
“The mistress desires your presence,” she says, lowering her hand. “She is concerned about your well-being.”
“You are ever the tactful diplomat,” I say. “And, as such, must tender apologies for my regrettable absence. I am not inclined toward company tonight. I have yet to recover my strength after the long journey here.”
“I see,” she says, lowering her eyes. They are dark pools of glumness in the gloom of the corridor.
“Simply tell Miss Doucette that I have retired to bed,” I say. “No need to complicate the explanation.”
“Of course, sir,” she says. She turns to leave, but pauses. “Do you need anything, Lord Machen?” There is genuine concern in her tone. “For your fatigue?”
“No,” I say. “Yes. Perhaps. What would you suggest to raise the spirits of a man fatigued by life itself?”
“Scripture, sir,” she says with a humble smile. “Or ginger tea.”
“One or the other in its own circumstance, I am sure,” I say. “But the ginger tea is most appealing presently. Do you mind having someone make it for me…or is the hour too late? I would rather not trouble anyone.”
Caroline smiles. “It is no trouble, sir. I will see it done myself.”
“It is not too much bother?”
“No, sir. I enjoy the smell of boiling ginger. And I always brew some for myself before I go to bed.”
“An excellent habit, I am sure,” I say. “Excellent for one’s health.”
“Yes, sir,” she says.
We stand a moment together in the corridor, regarding one another. It is so much easier for me to speak to servants in a household than to conceited lords and ladies. The servants of my father’s household were always more open with me, and I with them, whereas speaking to my parents was as approaching a heathen idol and attempting to beseech empathy in the cold stone of their graven eyes.
“I will bring the tea to your bedchamber, sir,” Caroline says. She disappears down the corridor, haloed by her candle.
Left to myself, I navigate the hallways as best as I may. The Sugar Palace is large and mostly unoccupied at any given time. With some effort I return through the shadows to the room allotted to me by my hosts. It is a rather vast room, imposing with its ornate interior, the florid wallpaper, and the oak wainscoting. The furnishings, like their owners, are overly concerned with being impressive. Their arabesques and lion’s paws and such are things given to the loudest of grandstanding silence. I come from a long line of nobleman, but never have I seen a nobleman given to such puffed-up pretenses. There is a sideboard, a wardrobe, an Ottoman, a sofa, an escritoire—which I make as much use of as possible, though not in correspondence—and there is a four-poster bed. The latter is bedecked with silken curtains and very comfortable blankets. The pillows would satisfy a sultan. There are a total of four windows in the large room, and a pair of French doors, all opening to the first floor porch, or, as it is known in American circles, the second-floor porch. I can see the colonnade, the railings, and the moonlit grounds beyond it, though everything becomes lost in the dark swampland at a distance.
I stand by the window nearest to the bed and lose myself in the faraway moon. It seems closer to me now than Derbyshire. The sentiment inspired by such a notion is ambivalent at best. I do not miss my mother or father, nor the troubles of the Machen estate. Yet, I do long for the Derbyshire hills, the vales, the rivers, and the woodlands. Simultaneously, I am in America, and the whole of America lay before me like a great mystery yet to be explored. On the other hand, I am bound to this place, at least for a time, and must honour the request of my parents, even though I am quite aware of the futility of such a pursuit. Of the men herein gathered, I am least probable to be chosen as Miss Lucille’s betrothed. Nor would I wish to be. It is so much bother and bumbling humbug.
A knock at the door. Or is it a kick?
“Come in,” I say.
“I cannot, sir,” Caroline says patiently. “My hands are both occupied.”
I hasten to the door. Opening it, I find Caroline with her candle in one hand and a tray of tea with biscuits in the other. I take the tray and bring it to the small round table near the sofa. The porcelain cup billows steam with a spicy ginger fragrance.
“This smells lovely,” I say. “Thank you, Caroline.”
“You are welcome, sir,” Caroline says. She remains at the threshold, haloed by her candlelight.
“Is there something else, Caroline?” I ask.
She shifts uncomfortably. “Lord Machen, do you hear the…song of the swamp?”
“Very much so,” I say, lifting the cup of tea and blowing on it. “Especially when I am not at the mercy of certain social circles and their raucous prattle.”
“I have lived here my whole life, Lord Machen,” she says. “And I have never heard it so loud before.”
“You may call me Bram, if you like,” I say. “Insomuch as when the others cannot hear. I do not scorn familiarity, but I would prefer you not be reprimanded. I know all society to be a comedy of manners.”
“Sir,” she says more sharply. There is a long silence, and she sighs. “I speak of the swamp because I have lived here my whole life. Twenty-two years, sir, and that is enough to know something of its song. And its song is louder than I have ever heard it.”
I sip at my tea. It is still too hot and I burn my lip. “What does it mean?”
“My grandmother used to say to fear the swamp when it is loud,” she says. “And fear it more when it is silent. The swamp has been silent at times, and louder than ever at other times. It is strange. The spirits…”
She trails into silence. I do not press her. I stare out the window, the tea’s steam like a ghost before my eyes. The swamp sounds like distant thunder rumbling beyond the horizon.
“Perhaps a storm is blowing in,” I say. “It may be here within days. Or hours. I am no judge of such things. I’ve no experience to inform me.”
“Just be mindful of the swamp’s song,” she says.
The door creaks as Caroline closes it. I can see her figure outlined by the halo of the candlelight, all reflected in the window.
“Good night, Lord Machen,” she says. “I hope you feel better come tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Caroline. And thank you for the tea.”
The door shuts and I stand at the window, sipping my tea. It is hot—the tea and the night—yet I feel a chill in the root of my spine. The “song” of the swamp unsettles me. I am not a local, and my ignorance of Louisiana is vast, but my instincts counsel me with caution. I am a stranger in a strange land, and it grows in strangeness with familiarity; it does not diminish. I baulk to think what intimacy with this place should entail, for it will likely be ever as a groom marrying an otherworldly bride. Is this place the bride I seek? Or is it a fairy hag seeking to ensorcel me? Perhaps she is a Lady Ragnell in disguise as the Loathly Lady. Or the Loathly Lady in disguise of the Lady Ragnell. Which is it? A mixture of both, most likely, if I judge by the lady who invited me here to court her alongside other suitors.
Perhaps I will willfully wander into th swamp by the end of it all, if only to escape the conceit of the Sugar Palace. How it vexes me!
(This is the first chapter in a novel I am currently writing set in Louisiana during the Antebellum period. It is a Southern Gothic Horror story with Lovecraftian elements and a Saki-esque sense of humor paired with what I would aspire to be Austenian elements for the sake of Drama, as well as a historical framework for the sake of authenticity. It is, in other words, a hodge-podge of all the things I enjoy in literature. Since I am often bed-bound throughout the day, after the car wreck, I might as well use my time to cultivate the fruits of my imagination. Whether it yields a bountiful crop remains to be seen. I have had this idea percolating for a while now in my head, but only now have had the time to pursue its realization.)
The scale of the moon carp gleamed in Katashi’s palm, flashing like polished porcelain, or perhaps lacquered bone. He returned it to the pouch hidden beneath his breastplate. The bamboo breastplate was charred and scarred, haunted by the battle from which Katashi had forsaken his sworn service to the Tanaka clan. It had been a sardonic retreat into the woods. He fancied the idea of finding another clan to serve, such as in Kyoto, but halfway there abandoned the plan. Having no home, he made a home for himself here, in this valley beneath the howling mountains, and earning his life as a bandit with a dull blade and sharp threats. The valley was an ideal place to stake the tearaway remainder of his life. Cutting through its wooded beauty was an important road that led to Kyoto and, so, was frequented by both riffraff and riches. There was a river that flowed like a sacred serpent nearby, replete with fish and frogs and such, and the woods was an assembly of the loveliest trees. Cedars, pines, maples, sakuras, dogwoods, plum, cherry trees. There were momiji trees with their leaves like a fan of sharp spear blades, and mountain ash, and the mighty oaks, their strange limbs frozen in kabuki dances. Katashi cherished trees, and the lovely landscape. He may not have adhered to Bushido now, but the appreciation of beauty still burned warmly in his breast long after all other things—like etiquette and Zen Buddhism—had extinguished. Sometimes, too, when the moon rode the clouds high like a princess in a palanquin, Katashi composed poetry in his head in celebration of the beauty of that hour. Sometimes the poetry visited him in the hot noon when he cooled himself in the shade of the woods, or drank water from the pools that spooled together from the waters of the mountains looming over that valley. And yet, Katashi was not happy. He could be content, and even feel vacant of want, but such moments ebbed away as the flames and smoke rose again in his memories, reminding him of the Tanaka estate collapsing to ash. Whereas he used to meditate, now he could never sit still long enough to find inner peace. Rather, the memories assailed him on raven wings, like Tengu hellbent on mischief. In many ways, Katashi was a bitter man, and tasted much of bitter fruit. His life under the Tanaka clan had been a sweet fruit of privilege fed on the bitter duty of blood. This was why he had always enjoyed persimmons, whether ripe or unripened. The bitter and the sweet had their place. Green tea, too, was what he enjoyed, and the bitterer the better. It awakened his senses and concentrated his mind before battle. And after each battle in service to his lord, when he had often returned to the Tanaka estate, he was pleased to eat sweet rice and candies. He had taken pleasure in the indulgence of life in all of its diametric opposites. Nowadays Katashi gathered and dried his own tea, and fished, and stole sacks of rice as he needed them during the Winter. He had few possessions, but they were enough to sustain him: his dull blade, a fishing spear, a tea cup, and a pot with which he cooked his fish, his rice, and brewed his tea. And then came a day of yet greater change for the ronin. It had begun like all others. He rose, brewed tea, speared his breakfast in the river, cooked, ate, and then surveyed the valley road for passing spoils. He soon found them. It was a group of monks, three in all, escorted by two samurai. The three monks surely had coins for their journey. The eldest monk looked especially old and presumptuous. The middle-aged monk looked chubby about his jowls and had a protuberant belly, meaning he ate well. The third monk was a young man; slender and almost feminine of feature. Surely, Katashi thought, these monks had coins. Katashi then studied the two samurai closely, wondering which one he should dispatch first. Before he could come to a decision, however, a volley of roars rose and a group of bandits besieged the small group. They must have been new to the area, for Katashi had never seen them before. They wore bits of stolen armor here and there, used axes and kamas and secondhand blades. One used a fishing spear. Katashi watched grimly as the samurai were overwhelmed. He would have, at least, killed them honorably, not dishonorably ambush them with lackeys to assist. Face to face duels were his way. This, on the other hand, was a shameful display. Even so, one of the samurai managed to deflect the ambush and maim one of his attackers before he was cut down. He died with hatred etched on his face, and without a yelp of protest. Katashi would have felt honored to kill such a man, but the bandits did not indulge such thoughts. The moment the samurai fell the bandits fell upon him like dogs, arguing over who would claim his blade. There were five bandits in all, but the fifth was weeping on the ground, his lifeblood spilling out of his severed arm. The monks huddled together, but were untouched. Either they had nothing the bandits desired or the bandits feared hurting holy men. Katashi never feared hurting holy men, nor killing them. They were often possessed of more wealth than their escorts. At length, the four bandits had taken what they desired and fled into the forest. The fifth remained on the road, coiled like an infant and clutching the severed stump of his arm. The youngest monk attempted to tend to his wound, but the other two monks upbraided him. “Let the dog die,” the eldest monk said. He wore a white robe and his eyes were hard, cold, and black like onyx. “Karma dictates his fate, and his fate will see him as a dog in the next life, or something worse.” “But master…” the young monk said. The other monk spoke up, his voice authoritative. “Do not question your better. You must remember how fortunate you are to have been taken upon this journey.” This monk wore a black robe and was of an age between the eldest and the youngest. “Let the dead lie, and let the dying follow suit.” The youngest monk rose reluctantly and went from the bandit to the two dead samurai. The latter two had been stripped and bled freely from their fateful wounds upon the road. “Do not touch the dead,” the black-robed monk commanded. “You will taint yourself with the corruption of death, and so doom us all. We must return to Kyoto and acquire another escort.” “But the mountain…” the young monk protested. “It will remain until we return,” the middle-aged monk said. “We must not dare the mountains unprotected. A hasty foot leads to a foolish fall. And youthful feet are hastiest of all.” “But the demons will kill again,” the young monk said. “We have waited too long to protect the people of the village. Too many have died, and many more will die tonight.” The two older monks reddened at the young monk’s words, scowls drawn on both men’s faces. “We could not address this problem until now,” the middle-aged monk growled. “Lord Noteru had no Samurai to spare, as you know, and now we must report to him the deaths of two of his loyal men. He will not be pleased and will likely not be urgent in sparing more men in our mission.” It was then that Katashi emerged from the shadows of the woods. “The boy has bamboo for a spine,” he said, “or perhaps bamboo for his head.” Katashi was pleased by the surprise on the monks’ faces. The two older monks stepped back as the imposing ronin approached. The young monk stood defiant. Katashi looked him up and down, grinning. “Perhaps both, though he looks more a woman than the last I rutted upon.” “What do you want?” the eldest monk asked. “Did your gang not spill enough blood already?” “I do not belong to them,” Katashi said, a grim smile upon his face. “If I did belong to them I would have cut them down rather than see them fight an outnumbered force so cowardly.” “A murderer with principle!,” scoffed the middle-aged monk. “What is a Samurai except that?” Katashi said. “Though also with a master, and since I have none, I am simply a ronin.” “What do you want?” the eldest monk demanded. “Our escort has been slain and stripped of all possessions. There is nothing we can offer you. We are holy men. We have no need of earthly possessions, and so no wealth to tempt your wickedness.” Katashi laughed mirthlessly. “The thick robes of holy men have always concealed secret wealth, and secret wickedness. I ask only for wealth, however. Coins. Now.” The two elder monks exchanged irritated glances, then disdainful glances toward the corpses of their guards. The eldest monk nodded to the middle-aged monk. The middle-aged monk withdrew a pouch from his robe. It jingled. “You profane man,” the middle-aged monk complained. “It will buy you only your way into the next life as a worm.” The monk handed the pouch of coins to Katashi. “A peaceful, needful life,” Katashi said. He put the pouch within his breastplate, beside the pouch with the white koi scale. “Tilling the earth and helping a fisherman’s hook to feed his family. Much more needful a life than that of a monk, I should think.” “You despicable blasphemer!” the middle-aged monk ejaculated. “You do not deserve that gold!” “Or perhaps I could devise a need of you, after all,” Katashi said. He drew his katana. “My blade is dull and wants testing. Perhaps I should test its sharpness with a holy man’s neck.” His eyes went from one monk to the other. “But which one?” His eyes fell upon the eldest monk. “The oldest? His is sure to be tough enough to test a blade. His neck is so corded with age, like a tree’s trunk.” He looked at the middle-aged monk. “Or perhaps the fat one would be a better test of a blade. His neck is thickly swollen and surely as difficult to severe as a hog’s head from its body.” The middle-aged monk backed away, as did the eldest monk. Katashi turned toward the young monk. “Your neck is young and strong,” he said. “It might prove to be the best test of all. What do you say to that?” “If you must test your sword,” the young monk said, “then please do so. But please do so after we have cleansed this mountain of corruption.” Katashi was taken aback, but did not let on. “You care very much about this mountain,” he said. “It is not just the mountain,” the young monk said. “It is a matter of the villages near here. This is crucial for saving lives and easing suffering.” “The mountain must wait,” the eldest monk said. This caused the youngest monk more upset than anything the ronin had said to him thus far. “But master! We must purify the mountain!” “We cannot even defend ourselves against this wind-blown ruffian,” the middle-aged monk said, turning on the young monk. “How are we to defend ourselves against what we will face in the mountains?” Katashi sheathed his blade, and laughed. “Why would you not simply trust in the Buddha to see you safely to your destination? Why would you need armed warriors for escorts? Or is it that Buddha is a matter of your occupation rather than your belief?” “We do believe in Buddha,” the middle-aged monk retorted testily. “But not everyone believes, and not everyone who believes behaves as if they believe.” Katashi laughed again. “Very true. Just so, I believe in Buddha, and I carry a blade with me, for Buddha does nothing for us. He is too lost in the bliss of his own Satori to care for us or anyone except himself.” The monks gasped. The middle-aged monk glowered and spoke with scorn. “You are an endless well of blasphemies!” he snapped. “Your soul is lost! You will never break the cycle! Instead, you will descend into blood-madness and become an Oni!” Katashi nodded gravely. “Perhaps I have descended and become an Oni already. I have killed hundreds, you know, and the Buddha never interfered on their behalf. Nor on my own. Rivers of blood have flowed and, in the center of it, like an unfeeling stone, the Buddha has slept, indifferent to the world.” The two older monks exchanged looks again. “It is time to depart,” the eldest monk said, folding his arms and turning away. “Come. Leave the wretch to his fate.” “Do as you please,” Katashi said. “Your coin has bought you your way. Tread your path as you wish, but know the Buddha does not care.” The two monks began to walk down the valley path. The youngest monk did not follow. “I will not forsake the mountain,” the young monk said. “I will continue on alone.” “It will be dark soon,” the elder monk said. “And you have no protection.” “I have faith in the Buddha,” the young monk said. “I need nought else.” Katashi should have laughed, and yet he did not. There was a steel-edged resolve in the young man’s tone that reminded Katashi of the battlefield. And while he may have dismissed the Samurai code and the Eightfold Path of the Buddha, he did not dismiss the courage of a man, especially combating that devil known as Circumstance. “A fool, then,” the middle-aged monk said. “I will dedicate a Lotus Sutra to you in the hope that you will be reborn into a fairer realm. Farewell.” The two monks went their way. The young monk went his way, through a torii gate and up a long-forsaken mountain path. Katashi, curious, followed the monk from within the woods. He was in want of diversion, and would find it.
It was not long before the sun set and the shadows stretched, darkened, and pooled as a lake in the valley. Despite the darkness of the woods, the monk did not falter, but continued up the mountain at the same determined pace as when there was still sunlight with which to see. To Katashi’s surprise, there were lights along the path up the mountain— burning blue lights here and there among the trees and along the path. Voices whispered and murmured as the monk approached. Katashi heard them, too, coming from behind him, beside him, above him, below him. He was used to opponents of flesh and blood, not apparitions which a blade could not wound. Yet, he would not cower so long as the monk did not. The monk pulled up his orange sleeves, exposing his hands. Within them he clutched prayer beads. As the burning blue flames encircled him, he bowed his head and raised his hands, entwined by the beads. Within the angry convergence of the blue light the monk prayed. The flames drew nearer, as if to engulf him, but he did not mind them, continuing with his prayer. The flames began to dwindle, and their voices became desperate. They cried and they wailed. They vowed revenge, and enumerated their sorrows. Nonetheless, the monk prayed, his voice a steady lullaby in the otherworldly light. By and by, they diminished, becoming so small that they were like fireflies among the trees, and then faraway stars, and then glinting embers. At last, the flames dissipated entirely, leaving only the monk on the path, and Katashi in the woods. The monk turned and looked directly where Katashi concealed himself behind an ash tree. The ronin stepped forward “Your blade will not always protect you,” the monk said. “Often it will harm you, even if it never spills one drop of your blood.” Katashi stepped forward onto the mountain path. “What were those flames?” “Onibi,” the monk said. “Lost spirits. The victims, I believe, of the evil that lurks atop these mountains.” “Where did they go? Did you destroy them?” “I sent them forth from their suffering,” the monk said. “I hope they find peace in the next life to come.” Katashi snorted. “Doubtful. There is no peace in this life or any other. They go from one storm to another, and there is no refuge.” The monk withdrew his hands and prayer beads into his sleeves, then crossed his arms. “Why do you shadow me?” he asked. Katashi ignored the question. “I am surprised you could sense me. I am silent as a fox when I desire to be.” “Your walk is not of the woods, however much you wish it to be. You are a man too much in disharmony with himself to ever be in harmony with the world.” Katashi frowned. “You speak with high-hand when you wish. Were you born of a noble family?” “No,” the monk said, continuing his uphill walk. “I was born of a humble fisherman.” “And yet the Buddha was a prince,” Katashi said, following the monk with an easy gait. “He knew nothing of suffering, yet is supposed to somehow teach us how to overcome it. Not all of us have castles and kings to keep us sheltered from suffering.” “You wish to antagonize me,” the monk said. “But you only succeed in revealing the extent of your own suffering.” Katashi grinned mirthlessly. “I have not suffered more than most, except, perhaps, those whom I met and slew upon the battlefield.” “You relish in death,” the monk said. He shook his bald head with pity. “Just so, I will pray for you, invoking the Buddha to guide your soul to its inmost peace.” “There is no peace hidden there, either,” Katashi said, his tone harder now. “No more than there is peace in the inmost of a storm. Lightning crashes all around. The winds howl. The rains fall. The sky grows dark and the people tremble in their splintered homes. Life is dynamic. Only after death is peace attained, and even then it is not stillness, but decay as Life again eats away restlessly upon the ruined flesh.” “You do not respect the Buddha’s teachings,” the monk said. “Nor the teachers of those teachings,” Katashi said grimly. “If you only knew how many holy men I have slain, you would quiver in your robe.” “Why have you not slain me?” the monk asked. “Why did you not slay my brothers? You could have easily done so.” “I did not slay your brothers because they will return with more coins,” Katashi said. “And you…well, I did not slay you because I judged it more entertaining to witness your failure upon the mountains than to kill you outright. Or, perhaps, I may just test my dull blade on your neck after all.” The flapping of large wings and the strange cawing laughter of a crow interrupted their conversation. They looked to the treetops and saw a winged shadow pass over the pale moon. Its laughter echoed within the woods; at one moment behind them and another moment ahead; to the left, then to the right. The creature’s laughter was as coarse as an old crone’s cackle. At length, a branch shook overhead and creaked beneath the weight of the figure. “What a pair to see!” the coarse-throated voice crackled. “A monk and a ronin. What fun to be had! I can scarcely decide what to do first! Should I eat the monk’s eyes and replace them with his prayer beads? Or should I remove the ronin’s genitals and place them in his mouth?” Katashi unsheathed his sword and pointed it toward the shadowy figure. The dull blade gleamed white in the moonlight. His voice rang out in challenge. “Come and face me first, you presumptuous creature! I will cut your grandstanding pride down as a sickle the sapling!” The branch shook and a great gust of wind rushed downward with the winged figure that landed before them. “Face me, mortal,” the creature said, “and we shall test how well that dull blade cuts.” The winged creature wore a black robe and a black raven’s hat, like a priest, but had a long nose extending out from a red face. In one clawed hand it held a black-bladed katana; in the other it held a scroll such as would adorn a temple. Written upon it was the Lotus Sutra, but distorted. Perverse. Katashi stepped forward as the Tengu grinned. The monk interceded. “Tengu,” the monk said. He held up his hands with the prayer beads entwined. “You must not face him. You will not win. Tengu were the demons that taught the warrior arts to Man.” “I can fight him,” Katashi said, “and I will.” “You will die,” the monk said. “Then it shall be a glorious death,” Katashi said. “And a glorious feast, too,” the Tengu said, laughing like a crow. “As are all the feasts provided us by the pride of Man.” The creature slipped its blasphemous scroll into its black robe and held the handle of his katana with both clawed hands. Katashi dropped his sword into a low stance. The moon disappeared behind a wayward cloud, plunging the mountainside into a sea of darkness. Blade crashed against blade, and the darkness was flecked with flashes of light. Three clangorous strikes sounded and then the moon reappeared. Katashi and the Tengu had switched places. The young monk stumbled back in surprise, the Tengu only a few paces away from him. “Clever creature,” Katashi said, “to use the darkness against men. But you fail to understand. I am no mere man, for you face a demon also.” “Your boasts are most unseemly,” the Tengu said. The laughter was gone from his coarse corvine voice. Now remained only dreadful menace. “Luck struck thrice for you, and so is gone. Now only your dull blade and your skill remain, and what paltry things to safeguard your life! It will tatter like the flimsy threads of a spider’s web.” “So says the firefly,” Katashi said, readying his blade in the high position. The moon gleamed, reflecting off of his blade to illuminate more clearly the dark eyes near which the blade arced. The two warriors faced each other silently for a long time, as if waiting for another cloud to blind the moon. When the cloud came, at last, like a raven’s wing, there came five shrieking strikes of blade on blade, and sparks that seemed to alight upon the leaves of trees and burn a moment before fading once again into the uniform darkness. The moon emerged again, and with her emergence came a gasp from the monk. Katashi stood beside him, and so, too, did the Tengu. But the Tengu remained standing only because Katashi’s blade held him up. The Tengu’s blade dropped to the ground and the Tengu slumped backwards, toward his crumpling wings. The Tengu’s words were mingled with blood and pain. “Bested by a lowly man. What a pitiful thing.” “No,” Katashi said, withdrawing his blade and letting the creature collapse upon the ground. “Bested by a superior demon.” The Tengu dissipated into a flurry of black feathers, all of which were subsumed into the shadows. Only the demon’s sword remained. Katashi stooped and picked it up. Surveying its black blade for a moment, he discarded his old, dull sword and claimed the new black blade in its place. He sheathed it and was pleased by the shriek of its blade in the scabbard. “A demon’s blade befitting a demon,” he said. “You may yet be a demon,” the monk said, reproachfully. “But I will thank you all the same.” Katashi faced the monk with a sardonic frown on his face. “If the Shogun wished to exterminate these demons,” Katashi remarked, “he should have sent an army, not three defenseless monks.” “Bloodshed only feeds the demons,” the monk said. “You win only a temporary victory at best. This Tengu will return with the new moon, as will any you happen to slay this night. The portal to the realm of the Oni must be closed with an exorcism, otherwise neither the mountains nor the valley nor the villages will know peace.” “When I kill someone,” Katashi said, “he remains dead.” “A human, perhaps,” the monk said, “and perhaps not even then. Perhaps you have peopled this mountain yourself with the deaths you have sown upon previous battlefields. Perhaps you have a burden in all of these ill-begotten creatures and their insatiable bloodlust.” It was Katashi’s turn to feel perturbation, yet it passed quickly. He had no time or patience for emotions that might disadvantage him on the battlefield. The monk continued up the mountain. Katashi followed.
It was a long hike, and the moon guided them. As the night progressed the howling of the mountain increased. It was a faraway whisper at first, but soon became as a wind just on the other side of the trees. The monk spoke suddenly. “If you do not commit yourself to the Eightfold Path you will never reach Satori, but will continue in the cursed cycle of reincarnation.” “It matters little to me,” Katashi said. “I do not care to be part of some divine realm. Does the tiger wish to be declawed and defanged? How happy could such a pathetic creature be?” “If you persist in violence you may indeed become an Oni.” Katashi shrugged. “I am worse than an Oni, little monk. Most men are. For we are shameful hypocrites. At least the Oni do not pretend to be anything other than what they are: blood-drinkers. They eat men without justifying it. They do not say, ‘I kill for my master,’ or ‘I wage war for the sake of peace.’ They kill and they enjoy it and they do not taint their tongues with falsehoods to ease their conscience.” “And you enjoy killing?” the monk said. “I enjoy surviving,” Katashi said. “And you must kill to survive.” “It seems you enjoy little,” the monk said, “not living, and maybe not even surviving.” Katashi scoffed. “And that is the hypocrisy of monks. They claim to live for peace and to avoid bloodshed, but all the while they must employ warriors to kill their foes on their behalf. Monks do not live more peacefully. They simply burden needful violence upon others, like a lord sending his peasants to the paddies to harvest and store the rice.” The monk was thoughtful for a long moment, and then sighed. “You are not wrong,” he said. “The burdens of this world are often unloaded upon others. And we monks are as guilty.” He took a deep breath. “And, so, if you wish to leave my service, please leave. I will not burden you with the karma entailed in this task.” “I am not in your service,” Katashi growled. “I am merely sharing the path for a time. I seek entertainment. Nothing else. Well, no, that is not true.” His hand went to the handle of his new sword. “This new blade pleases me. For that, I suppose I am grateful to you.” “I would rather have died than led you to further bloodshed,” the monk said solemnly. Katashi snorted. “How did such a one as you come to be a monk? Did the Buddha come to you in a dream?” “How did you become a warrior?” the monk countered. “Did Hachiman put a sword in your hand and a blood-thirst in your belly?” “I kill men,” Katashi said. “It is what I am good at, so I do it.” “What of women and children?” the monk asked. Katashi took the monk by the arm, halting them both. He looked at the monk directly, and in his gaze was a hardness that cut quick and sharp like a blade. “If a youth dares to fight me, then he is a man in his own estimation, and I would not dishonor him by refusing his challenge. And I never harm women. Ever.” Katashi scowled. “You did not answer my question. How is it that you became a monk?” The young monk said nothing. He put a finger to his lips, hushing any talk. In the howling wind of the mountains there was a strange sound of chattering—a creeping, crawling, chattering among the trees. Katashi peered at the shadow-swollen trees. Things uncoiled there; things with sharp claws and gnashing pincers and long segmented bodies. Katashi drew his black blade as the long-bodied creatures came billowing through the darkness on their many legs. The nearest creature lunged for the monk, but the monk ensnared its pincer-snapping head with his prayer beads. With a quick prayer the beads glowed with white fire, radiating energy as the chattering centipede blazed and burned away to ash. “Namu Amida Butsu,” the monk said. The other two demons undulated toward Katashi like long ribbons, their movements interweaving with one another so as to confuse and dismay their intended prey. But Katashi’s senses were sharp, splitting the shadows with which the demons concealed themselves. One lunged, and then the other, and with two slashes Katashi had split the giant centipedes in two, their bisected bodies writhing wildly upon the ground. In two subsequent motions he plunged his blade into one head and then the other, swiftly silencing their chattering once and for all. The monk and the ronin continued up the mountain path. “You did not answer my question,” Katashi said. “How did you come to be a monk? Was it in search of respite from agonies? Or was it to seek agonies through self-denial?” “Life is hard and full of agonies,” the monk said. “That is the purpose of Buddha. To offer respite and refuge from the sorrows of Life.” “What do you know of sorrows?” Katashi demanded. “Monks live apart. They are chosen as children, raised in monasteries, provided protection by the same warriors whose means of life they shun.” “I was not always a monk,” the young monk said. “I was, for the longest time, an orphan.” “Born from a bamboo stalk?” the ronin mocked. “My father was a fisherman,” the monk said. “My family lived in a small fishing village on the coast. I do not remember my parents and siblings very well. They were drowned in a tsunami. I was found afterward, clinging to a bundle of bamboo that floated in the aftermath. I was found by a kabuki group, of all things. They made jokes about it, saying I floated into the Floating World. From then on I grew up in the kabuki theater. I learned how to perform and how to play music on the shamisen. I became a very popular kagema. I performed in the dress of a woman, and even played Amaterasu, and dared to think I could shine as brightly as the sun. Men hungered for me, and paid for me. They used me as they would a woman, and wealthy women paid for me as well, and I made money for my kabuki group. But I hated it. My life was suffering.” “And so your precious Buddha saved you? Or did he visit you in the night? I have heard that monks enjoy kabuki, too, and hold private audiences when the world is silent except for the chirping of lonely crickets. They enjoy kagema as well.” The young monk ignored him. “I shuddered at the touch of men and women both. I wanted to run away, but felt guilt and shame at the thought of selfish flight. The kabuki players had rescued me as a child. I felt that I owed them my life.” Something in Katashi’s posture shifted. It was not so rigid, even if it was as flint-to-flame ready. “Why did you leave?” Katashi asked, his voice neither soft nor harsh. “I was violently abused by one man. When I attempted to tell the others they told me to keep silent about it. The man was very wealthy, and was a noble. Thereafter I cut my hair and fled to the monastery. The monks refused to take me at first, knowing who I was. You are correct, ronin; the kabuki actors are paid to visit monks— some monks, but not all—and I had been very popular among the Zen masters. They hated the shame of my presence on their holy grounds, but I persisted. I invoked the sayings of the Buddha, and the Sutras I had learned while in the kabuki theater. Still, they refused me.” Katashi may have sighed, or hissed. Something in his bearing shifted. The monk continued. “Then one night I met an old monk while wandering the woods. He told me to speak his name to the monks. His name was Eiji. I spoke his name the next morning and the monks were astonished. They asked me where I had heard his name. I explained that I had learned the name of the man from the man himself. They immediately accepted me. Eiji, they said, had been the great exorcist in the monastery. He was respected even by the Shinto priestess of a local village for his ability to exorcize malevolent entities.” “And now you exorcize demons,” Katashi said. “Where is this Shinto priestess? Could she not aid you in your quest to cleanse these mountains?” The monk inhaled and exhaled. “She was slain but a week ago by an assault of demons in her village. Many holy men and women have been slain lately while trying to protect their villages against the demons.” Katashi thought about all of the many nights he had spent in the woods, a mere raven’s flight distance, from this mountain. No mischief befell him. No malevolent spirits had stalked and attacked him. Why? “What hope have you in standing against the source, then?” Katashi asked the monk. “It seems as foolish as a fish trying to hold back the river.” “It may be foolishness,” the monk said. “But I refuse to stand aside and let more people die from inaction. The Shogun is too concerned with destroying the warlords plotting against him to concern himself with demons. And so long as men wage war the demons shall invade and feast and prosper in our lands.” The monk paused, turning to look Katashi in the eye. “So…you now know this to be a doomed endeavor. Do you wish to continue shadowing me?” Katashi did not hesitate. “I am bored of stealing from peasants and holy men. I wish for more excitement, and more blades against which to test my mettle. Folly invites much diversion.” They continued up the mountainside. Summer’s blooming abundance cluttered all around them. The slivers of moonlight led them onward and upward. The night was warm and balmy, the mountain forests thick with foliage and mystery. Long abandoned huts reared here and there, the dilapidated structures sinking into their own bamboo bones and haunted by unnatural fires in their dark depths. A temple, too, sat behind a torii gate. Eyes peered from within its cobwebbed shadows. Whatever kami were worshiped there had long given the temple over to more malignant entities. “A man’s soul is like a woodblock,” the monk said. “Each life we live, reincarnated, is a print from that woodblock.” “Another lecture, is it?” Katashi remarked. “The Buddha helps us cut away the details,” the monk said, “removing the jutting imperfections used to stain the page until all that remains is a flat, smooth expanse until a pure whiteness remains, the impurities of this world slipping off of us, untouched by the ink.” “I am rather fond of woodblock prints,” Katashi said. “Especially those of Mt. Fuji. Why should we not enjoy what imprints our lives and makes us who we are? Why would anyone not stain the page with the beauty of this world?” “Why are you a ronin?” the monk countered. Before Katashi could answer, the monk spoke again. “Because this world is transient and fleeting. It is fickle. One day you have a place with a master, and then next day you are adrift after a great calamity. Not even the peaceful trees are spared. The seasons are restless and wait for no man, however painful the cold Winter winds are on his old bones.” “Even so,” Katashi said, “I love this world. It has beauty. It has strength. Perhaps I will never reach Satori, but what of it? I would rather stay earthbound with the changing of the seasons swirling around me than elevate to a realm of sheer consciousness. The world is a fickle mistress, but she remains beautiful, whether a maiden or mother or old crone.” The monk was silent for a long time. He stared at the beads entwining his hand. At length, he spoke. “And that pouch you clutch within your armor? What is the meaning of it?” Katashi bristled. “There are secrets dear to a man, and he would rather die than reveal them to anyone. Even to your precious Buddha.” The silence between them opened around them and they leaned into it as they ascended. It did not comfort them, but it did not provoke them either, covering the soreness between them like a scar. Distantly they heard the howling of the mountain’s summit. They continued to ascend the high path up the mountain.
There was a waterfall somewhere. Its rushing music swelled as they neared it. The land beneath their feet leveled for a time, and the forests opened wide, falling away to let the moonlight play vastly in the mist. Neither the ronin or the monk spoke. They heard the strumming of a koto mingled in with the waterfall’s cascade. Approaching, they saw the heavy breath of the crystalline cataract aglow with moonlight, and, within that heavy breath, the large figure of someone sitting upon a rock in the pool. “It is a demon,” the monk whispered. “It will not let us pass.” “We shall see,” Katashi said. “Wait here.” He approached the waterfall. Strangely, the nearer he came to the waterfall, the less he heard of it, and the more the beautifully sad music of the koto echoed in his ears. At length, the music continued, but the figure leapt from the rock. Still shrouded in mist and shadow, it walked slowly forward. It grew taller as it approached, cradling the large koto in its long arms and still somehow plucking at the strings to haunt the mountains with its melody. Such long, unfolding arms. Such long, unfolding fingers. A figure emerged at last, tall and imposing, her kimono black and her long hair white. Her face was like a grotesque Noh mask, only it was not carved of wood to frighten children. The sad, fang-cluttered smile was her own as well, as were the horns upon her crown and the glowing red eyes. Even now her long, blood-stained claws plucked and struck at the strings of the koto. She was a kijo: a mountain ogress. Somewhere behind him Katashi heard the monk muttering incantations. The ronin hushed him with a wave of his hand. He then walked toward the tall creature, listening to her song as if it was the most beautiful music he had ever heard. When they came face to face he did not flinch, nor did he unsheathe his sword. Instead, he unsheathed himself, casting his sword, armor and the robe beneath aside. He stood boldly naked in the phantom-spun moonlight. The only things he wore were his scars and the pouch whose string hung from his neck, its singular content being the scale of the moon carp. The kijo stared at Katashi, her red eyes glowing with hunger. She ceased playing her song and set down the koto. The koto was as long as Katashi was tall. Its board was made of bones and its strings made of sinews and tendons. The ogress gazed at him for a long moment, eyeing him up and down, her grotesque face full of hunger, and sadness. The ogress raised a taloned hand high above her horned head. Katashi awaited its fell plunge, but when it plunged even he was startled by its boldness. Her hand went to the fold of her black kimono and peeled it away from her tall, angular body. She stood before him as naked as he dared stand before her, her breasts pendulous and her womanhood glistening. He did not flee, but stood fast before her as her long, bony arms embraced him. He embraced her in turn, and she pressed her fetid mouth against his own, tasting of blood and death; a familiar kiss he had tasted many times on the battlefield; a taste that thrilled and repulsed him, enlivening him and sickening him with that katana blade sharpness of contrast. Her fangs cut his lips sweetly. Katashi sucked at her breasts while she pressed herself atop him vigorously. She kissed him many times, and with each kiss he recalled a blade or arrow or spear that kissed his skin, leaving a scar. He no longer felt repulsed, nor even thrilled. This was familiar; this was his life written in the characters of kisses and scars and terrors, all tracing the imminence of death. Even her grotesque face did not repulse him, nor was it truly ugly after a time. His whole life had been ugly and bloody, soaking battlefield after battlefield; enough blood to drown a dragon. But when the Tanaka clan fell, he saw the fruits of his efforts wither and decay on the shorn vine.
The monk ventured further up the mountain path, moving slowly beneath the cover of the trees. A wide berth he gave to the two lovers. To him it seemed their lovemaking was both sacrilegious and beautiful—grotesque and sincere. He was reminded of the many nights he had pleased men and women after his troupe’s kabuki plays. He never enjoyed any of these encounters, save one. And the pleasure of that encounter scared him, even now. There had been an older woman that had often attended his plays. He had seen her in the audience, distinguished by her gaze, for she was transfixed upon him, her eyes as bright and hot as two toro lanterns. She paid only once for him, and even then seemed shy and embarrassed as he disrobed before her. Yet, once she had begun to touch him her passion kindled and she was as lively and ferocious as any woman half her age. But there was a tenderness to her, also, and genuine love in her lovemaking. She sought to please him as much as to enjoy him, and he found that he was genuinely affected by her care. Afterwards, when the sakura blossoms had been shaken fully from her desires, she lay within his arms, her forehead against his chest. She sang a song—an old folk song—and sounded almost as a child. The lines beneath her dark eyes had smoothed and she looked fresh and young though she was old enough to be his mother. Even now her song haunted him.
“Cherry blossoms take flight like butterflies, the stars of Obon night like lovers’ eyes awake in bed, though soon to drift asleep beneath the lantern moon where dreams will keep living on—ever on after we part at the coming of dawn and the dimming of my heart.”
The monk came to the cresting crown of the mountain. A pagoda gleamed white in the moonlight, towering like a mountain unto itself. It was made of human bones. Perched atop its many eaves were Tengu, their black crow wings arched behind their backs. They cackled and cawed riotously. Down below, and standing on the pagoda’s various stories, were Yokai and Tengu. Worse of all, there were Oni. They were large, grim-faced ogres with sharp teeth and long claws. The monk knew that he had now come to the place of evil infection in the mountains and would need to exorcize the place of infection. Looking about, he found a circle of oaks. There was a natural power here. He could sense it. It was powerful with benevolent kami. They would lend him their aid. He readied his incense burner, his kindling, his prayer beads, the Lotus Sutra, and his nerves. He began the purification ritual, chanting and rolling his prayer beads in amongst the incense smoke. The monk went unnoticed for a time. Yet, he was soon spotted by a Tengu flitting about the skeletal pagoda. The Tengu squawked like a crow in alarm, pointing to the circle of oaks. Soon the Oni and other Yokai descended from the pagoda. They came in a languid tide at first, and then rushed on like a wave. The monk knew, then, that he had no time to complete the ritual. He knew he would soon die. And then Katashi arrived, crashing into the beastly creatures like a divine wind. He drew his blade and slew a handful of the twisted creatures without ever clashing swords. He moved like water through a sieve, seemingly untouched by the horde. But the horde was numerous and boasted many formidable foes. His initial attack was effective, but the element of surprise was gone. The larger Oni gathered around him, even as the smaller Yokai attempted to slip past him only to be cut down. The Oni grinned and could have easily overpowered him, yet their pride did not allow it. One by one they faced him, and one by one he tested the black blade on their thick hide and horns and heads. The moon reddened, like a basin of blood. All that was touched by its light was stained with a crimson glow. The mountains seemed drowned in blood. A strange castle could be seen in the night sky. It, too, was made of bones and sat in a lake of blood. Katashi’s black blade dripped blood, and his ferocity was whetted by his bloodlust. He struck at the Oni and Tengu with such power that it forestalled them, even pressed them back. But Katashi could not truly defeat them, and soon suffered injuries. Slashes and lacerations bled him; the trenchant pains of war staggered him and belabored his breath. He felt so alive, though, and determined. He exulted in the battle. But then the demons began to mock the ronin. They called to him by his name. “I remember you, Katashi!” a two-headed Oni said. “You slew my brother and I upon the field! We did not expect to see you here!” “Did I slay your courage as well as your bodies?” Katashi said. “Why did you never seek me when I was so close to you?” “The Oni value your contributions to their armies!” the two-headed Oni said, grinning his canine fangs. “You have been a faithful servant of blood and carnage!” As before, Katashi cut down the two brothers, though now he was more shaken than when he had dealt them their first deaths. For the first time in his life he paled and trembled. Another demon sprang forward: a one-eyed giant with a spear and gnashing fangs. Katashi tightened his hold on his sword, raising it upright beside his head. The blood oozed down the black blade. It was red like human blood; like the countless crimson ponds Katashi had spilled upon countless battlefields. “Katashi!” the giant yelled in joy through his fangs. He laughed a deep, bellowing guffaw that shook the heavens. “So many warriors and generals!” The giant gestured to the expanse of demons. “And all because of you, Katashi! You have made the demon world strong! So strong! So numerous! So unstoppable!” “I will cut you all down again!” Katashi vowed. The giant laughed. “Cut me down and I will return! I return every night, Katashi! Every night since that night beneath the sakura tree! Remember? Remember me? The one whom they called the Spear-Tongued Giant? You challenged me for the honor of being Lord Tanaka’s personal guard! You slew me without mercy, though the duel was meant to be bloodless.” “You drew blood first!” Katashi roared, slicing at the giant with his sword. The giant deflected the strikes. “True! If only I drew enough to kill you! Then, perhaps, I would have been the one peopling the demon realm and be esteemed among the legion! But you won, running your sword through my eye and killing me!” The giant laughed again, seemingly as joyful of his fate as if he had won the duel. Katashi circled the giant. “I will run you through your other eye, fool!” The giant swung his club and Katashi rolled beneath the knotted wood, rising to his feet with a slash of his sword splitting the giant’s eye. The giant roared, his bellowing voice staggering into lunatic laughter as he clutched his ruined eye. “Katashi!!!” he laughed. “You have not changed!” The giant swung his club blindly, his muscular arms whirling in a frenzy. Katashi retreated discreetly while the giant’s blind attacks struck the other Oni rushing past him to confront the intruders. Small and large Oni were flung away, broken and crushed by the giant’s club. The horde did not baulk, but laughed as if the carnage was the greatest merriment to be had. Eventually a Tengu swooped down and beheaded the giant with his blade, if only to cease his flailing, and the blinded giant’s head fell to the mist-glimmering grass, still laughing. “I will be back, Katashi!” he vowed. “Upon the next moon I will eat your eyes and drink your blood and welcome you among your true brethren for all eternity!” The Tengu that had slain the giant now flew toward Katashi. Katashi raised his crimson-cloyed blade with one hand. With the other hand he stealthily drew his tanto blade from its concealed sheath. As the Tengu swooped, Katashi threw his tanto, piercing the crow-demon’s chest. The creature collapsed to the ground, barreling over the smaller Yokai below in a tangle of limbs and feathers. Stepping through this cobbled road of mangled bodies was a horned Oni with red skin and a large scythe. He seemed in a good mood. “What are you trying to be now, Katashi?” the Oni said. “A nio? Laughable! And where is your fellow guardian?” The Oni looked past Katashi, seeing the monk in the woods. “Ah! A monk? To think you would ally yourself with a monk! I will sully his soul with the filth of his own flesh!” The Oni dashed toward the trees, his scythe raised for a bloody harvest. Katashi dashed after the Oni, slashing the demon’s leg. It was a feint, however, and the demon spun about, his scythe seeking Katashi’s neck. Katashi twisted sideways, throwing his left arm up against the crescent blade. The blade drank deeply and Katashi nearly fell. Instead, he rallied himself through the blinding pain with a flaming fury and swung his black blade with his one good arm, beheading the Oni at a single stroke. The Oni’s body fell, and beside it Katashi sagged to one knee, clutching his sword. The wounded arm hung limply, bleeding from the shredded socket. He was pale and a clammy sweat drenched his forehead. His eyes blurred in and out of focus and he felt drowsy; so tired that he should sleep forever. The horde of Oni gathered around. They did not rush. They pleased themselves by mocking the ronin and his . Their taunts roused Katashi. He glanced back at the monk, his figure wreathed in white fire as he continued his chants. In among the white fire he saw other figures: small and large, strangely shaped; some humanoid, others not nearly so. These figures clustered around the monk protectively, driving back the smaller Yokai that had slipped past Katashi. He realized, after a moment, that they were kami. Nature spirits. It was then, at this realization—when he knew that Nature itself was aspiring to protect the Buddhist monk—that Katashi could not surrender. If the land of Nihon would aid the monk, then Katashi felt that the monk was worthy of Katashi’s service, even if the Buddha wasn’t. Grimacing, Katashi wobbled as he righted himself up to his feet. “I will rest in my death,” he told himself. “But for now…I must test my blade.” The exorcism continued in earnest, and the battle continued in desperation. The floating castle began to fade, as did the howling of the demonic winds. The crimson moon waned, bleeding out until it was pink, and then dull white. Katashi bled out, too, and paled as he weakened. Still did he swing his blade against the horde, even as he fell to his knees again and again. Blood flowed from one eye, and blood clouded the other eye. His whole being was fury and pain. The Oni and Tengu realized what the whitening of the moon meant. They fled in fear, as if from the chittering of a hungry Shinchu. It was too late for them. The castle faded from the sky and the pagoda faded from the mountaintop. With the latter faded the cursed creatures that had inhabited its towering stories and eaves. Soon all that remained was the mountain, the moon, the monk, and a dying man. The young monk hurried to his side. “I will perform the rites,” the monk said, kneeling beside Katashi. “You have served the Buddha well and should be rewarded.” “I served…Nihon…” the ronin said. A burst of blood in his throat shook him. Dropping his sword, he withdrew the pouch beneath his shattered breastplate. Out of it he took the white koi scale and held it up to look at it with his remaining eye. “Your secret,” the monk said, softly. “Yes,” he said. “The joy of my life…a smiling face…reflected in the moon pond…” He coughed up more blood, his breathing labored. His face was white and his lips red, like a kabuki actor. “Her smile…she loved the koi…” “She was your lover,” the monk said. “And my master’s concubine,” Katashi said, his voice slowing. “She…loved the moon pond…the koi…she said…she was like the koi fish…gave me…gave me this porcelain scale from…her hairpin…” “She cared for you very much,” the monk said. “Yes…she would…play the koto for me…sometimes…before we made love…” His bloody brow furrowed with pain. “During the invasion…she killed the lord of the Tanaka clan…herself…and fled to the woods… I do not know…what happened to her…” “I will pray that both of you are united in your next lives,” the monk said. “I do not…wish for much,” Katashi said, grimacing as a laceration in his gut broke and bled freely. “Just…just a peaceful life…of isolation…silence…without violence… without…wrath…and with the…beauty of the seasons…all around…such as when…when I told her…she was my moon…” Katashi’s final breath faded away. The monk prayed over the ronin, repeating the Lotus Sutra to bless his passing. When morning came, so, too, did the sun, and the mountain was bathed in purifying light. The Oni and Yokai were gone. The kami rejoiced in their silent, subtle way. The monk purified Katashi and buried him, marking his grave with a stone. He then descended the mountain path. Where the monk passed he met with no demon or ghost. The mountain had been completely cleansed. When he came to the waterfall and its pool he did not see the kijo anymore. Rather, the place was serene and uninhabited. He glanced at it for a moment, then turned to leave. The gleam of white motion caught his eye and he turned to look at the pool again. Floating in the pool, serene and content, were two pale white kois. They gleamed with a porcelain luster as they floated up. They were so white that the carved edges of their scales were invisible in the sheen along their flanks. A leaf fell from a maple tree—burning orange like a phoenix’s feather. The monk bowed and then left the kois to their reward.
The windowpane frosted as Alex stared out beyond the backyard and the subdivision, into a field glossy with snow and moonlight. The star-mottled sky was a deep blue, as if the chilly air itself was breathless, and the pale moon was circumscribed sharply, cleanly, with no mist or moisture to blur its dreaming lobe. Alex moved a brontosaurus off the windowsill, fixing his eyes again on the distant hills. The hills were black in the distance, and all else between lay suffused in waxy, wintry starlight. The elms and the oaks to the left of the field were coated in ice, like white coral, and their crystalline branches did not stir. The air itself did not stir, but was inert and lifeless in the frigidity of a frozen February night.
Alex held his breath, squinting at a horizon undulating with hills. Though a uniform blackness, there was one hill among the rest which he knew did not belong. It was a stranger, and an imposter.
Downstairs, Alex’s father was asleep on the couch, a Nature program still playing, the narrator’s soothing voice muffled by the floor. Alex’s mother had gone to bed an hour before. Alex had been shooed to bed an hour before that, yet had not fallen asleep. Instead, he had slipped quietly out of bed to hold vigil as he had for the past three nights.
The distant hill rumbled, and Alex pressed his face against the cold windowpane, his breath fogging the glass. The hill that did not belong was now moving. But his parents did not rouse from sleep, though the house trembled. At first he had thought the movement was a trick of moonlight and his imagination, but as he watched the bristle-backed hill he came to mark its progress in his memory. The tremors had become stronger, too, and the hill larger as it came closer.
The house trembled again, and dogs barked throughout the subdivision in a cascade of agitation. Alex’s father grumbled, rousing sleepily to curse his neighbors for their pets, and then turned up the volume on the television. The Nature narrator spoke louder, now, about bears and hibernation and the need to eat to survive Winter. Alex’s father succumbed once more to his own hibernation.
Alex stared at the bristle-backed hill huddled among the other hills. It seemed larger tonight, and, so, he knew it was closer. He wondered what it wanted, and what it would do when it finally arrived at the subdivision. He watched it for as long as he could, but toward the Witching Hour snow fell heavy and frequent. It was difficult to discern the hills from the night. Alex laid himself down in his bed again. He did not have to watch the hill. He knew it was moving closer. He did not need to see it to know. He could feel the tremors of its approach in the frame of the house.
The next morning was not bright. The heavy snow fell harder and thicker than before, packing the earth in crunchy, sparkling whiteness. The sun was a gauzy apparition behind thick-folded linen. Alex woke up late, having stayed up late for his vigil, and he came down for breakfast only to find lunch waiting for him. It was a weekday, a schoolday and a workday, and he was confused by the fact that his parents did not bother to wake him and that they were, both of them, in their pajamas.
“Snow day?” Alex asked.
His parents did not answer. Their eyes were stuck steadfastly to the television. Alex stood behind the couch, staring at the News anchorwoman on the screen. There were images of a gigantic hole in the earth, edged with the partial remains of houses, buildings, and a few cars here and there.
“A sink hole?” Alex said in alarm.
“Don’t worry, baby,” his mother said. She did not take her eyes from the screen. “It happened farther down the road. New Hope. No one from here was harmed.”
“No one we know, at least,” her husband said.
Alex immediately thought of the hill and the tremors in the night. “It could happen here,” he said.
His mother turned around in the couch and smiled at him. Her smile could not hide the worry in her face. “No one fracks around here, sweetie,” she said. “It won’t happen here.” She looked at her husband. “Right, honey?”
“Sure,” his father said. “Still, it’s crazy. Who would have thought that a sink hole would open up and swallow all of New Hope? It’s a good thing we decided to settle here. We could be the ones in that big pit right now.”
Alex’s mother frowned at Alex’s father, then turned toward Alex again, trying to smile again.
“It won’t happen here,” she repeated.
She stared at the television again as the anchorwoman read the total number of people missing and/or presumed dead. Over ten-thousand people had disappeared without a trace, all in a baffling, blinking instant. No one seemed to have any answers as to how or why.
It did not like the light. Alex was certain of this. When the snowstorm blew over, and the sun came out, the hill was gone. There was no trace of if anywhere. Only a gap remained between the two hills where the imposter formerly resided. This knowledge did not reassure Alex. He knew about nocturnal animals from school, and knew that they were no better or worse than animals that hunted by day, but the hill’s preference for the dark still struck him keenly with dread. His father had often told him not to be afraid of the dark—that there was nothing that could harm him, even at night. But Alex knew about rattlesnakes, and coyotes, and mountain lions. And Alex knew about the black bears that lived in the woods, near the streams, and who slept in the cave system near the hills. Later that night he saw a bear in the field. The bear should have been hibernating, but it was running away.
The man in the black robe stood at the end of the long driveway, across the yellowing field where the bales of hay huddled in the shrapnel stalks. The man leaned on his long-handled scythe, his face cowled in shadow. The scythe’s blade gleamed, even in the predawn murk. Billy sat upon the front porch of the farmhouse, squinting his eyes as the flash of the blade leapt out at intervals, watching the man as the man watched his older brother, Thomas. Thomas did not see the robed man as he helped his father with the tractor. Billy could not tell Thomas because his head did not work right, and so his mouth did not work right. Instead, Billy pointed at the man with one hand—the hand that did not hold the toy soldier. Even so, no one paid any mind to Billy, and so they paid no mind to the robed man. At length, the robed man continued down the road. Along the distant hills behind the robed man were trees. The trees were bare and black like charred hands stretched out in vain to protect against the coming sunrise.
Billy did not play with the toy soldier in his hand. He held it gently, reverently, as if it might break at any moment.
“Hey, Duckbill,” Thomas said, ruffling his little brother’s hair as he and his father stepped up onto the porch. “You going to help daddy with the tractor while I’m gone?”
“If he can milk Betty without being kicked he’ll be doin’ good,” their father said. He did not pat his youngest son’s head, but grumpily took hold of the rocking chair and sat down. “But maybe someday he’ll be strong. A lot of them that are weak in the head prove to be strong in the arm. Maybe then he’ll earn his keep.”
Thomas did not sit in the other rocking chair, but stood with his arms folded. “Wish you wouldn’t say that about him. It’ll hurt his feelings.”
Their father shook his head. “He don’t understand anyhow,” he said. “And the truth never hurt nobody. I’ve been tellin’ you the truth for years, Tom, and you grew up big and strong and good. No harm done, all in all.”
In reply, Thomas crouched down beside his little brother. “You’ll learn to talk eventually, Duckbill. I know you will. When I come back you’ll be here to greet me, and you’ll tell me with your own mouth how your daddy’s the sorriest son of a buck there ever was this side of Crabapple County.”
Billy continued to stare at the distant hills, the distant trees, and the coming sunrise. Their father chuckled.
“I may be the sorriest son of a buck in this county,” their father said, “but I feel sorry for the sorriest son of a buck over there. You’ve got a talent with a rifle. I’m sure whoever you’ll have in your sights will be as a clay pigeon still on the flywheel.”
The sun rose and set the trees afire with napalm bombardment. The horizon burned in an apocalyptic inferno. Billy began to sob.
“What’s wrong, Duckbill?” Thomas asked, tenderly. He put a hand on the little boy’s shoulder, but the boy just shook his head.
“That boy ain’t right,” their father said, grimacing. “What’re you cryin’ about, boy? You ain’t got nothin’ to cry about.”
“Lay off the boy,” said their mother. She stood behind the screen-door, her hands on her aproned hips. “Breakfast is ready. Come get you something to eat. All of you.”
Their father shot bolt-up from the rocking chair and went in.
“Come on, Duckbill,” Thomas said. “You’ll feel better once you’ve had something for breakfast.”
Reluctantly, Bill rose from the porch, careful not to drop the toy soldier. His eyes blurred with tears and the glare of the sun. Letting his eyes fall to the hay bales, he saw them anew. There were minced men rolled up and bound together in amongst the straw. He rubbed his eyes clear of the tears, but not the vision.
Billy followed his older brother inside the house.
Sitting at the table, the family said Grace and then began to eat. There were biscuits, sausage, eggs, and gravy on each plate. The tablecloth was checkered red and white. The grandfather clock ticked off seconds, slicing Now from Nevermore one sliver with each swing of its pendulum. The radio was on the kitchen counter, near the dirty pans. It was turned down low, but Billy listened to it intently as he held his idle fork with one hand. The other hand retained its gentle, but firm, grip on the toy soldier. The radio host spoke of the Viet Cong and deadly jungle diseases.
Still, their father spoke casually; easily. Pridefully.
“You’re doin’ a good thing, Tom,” his father said, beaming. “Stoppin’ them Commies is the most important thing right now. It’s either them or us. You’re gonna’ make sure it’s them.”
“I know, daddy,” Thomas said.
“This ain’t goin’ to be another Korea,” his father said resolutely through a mouth full of gravy-laden biscuit. “We just come off the Big War and nobody had the stomach for it. Now, though, you are goin’ to put those Commies in their place. And that place is six feet under. Or head-down in the rice paddies. To hell with ‘em. They don’t deserve a Christian burial.”
Thomas nodded, but said no more. He ate his breakfast in silence.
Billy ate nothing. He stared emptily at his full plate.
“Bill,” his mother said. “You need to eat something. You got a full day ahead of you and you aren’t going to be able to do nothing on an empty stomach.”
“You better eat that food, boy,” his father said, “or I’m takin’ its cost out of your hide.”
Billy pushed the plate toward his brother, his eyes and mouth agape with meaning they could not convey.
“It’s all right, Duckbill,” Thomas said. “I got enough to eat.”
The radio announcer spoke confidently of the military, but his words were gnawed with screaming static.
Gunpowder clouds floated in from the East, darkening the caustic white sky. The winds cut across the heartland like cold metal blades sweeping side to side.
Billy followed his brother and father out to the gate. Opening it, they went through. They said nothing of the blood and ragged skin and meat hanging along the barbed wire fence, or the bodies entangled in the coils. The herd gathered around obediently as the men went to the barn. The old barn had a gambrel roof, like a casket, and overflowed as they approached it. The hay loft brimmed with heaped corpses and entrails and dismembered limbs as they began to pitch hay down to the cows. Billy could say nothing at all. He only moaned a little.
“Jesus, boy,” his father growled. “You ain’t even doin’ nothin’! We’re the ones throwing this hay out.”
They worked at the heaps of hay while the herd eagerly gathered around to eat. Billy watched the dumb beasts chew, their heedless lips splattered with blood. Billy’s eyes itched and brimmed as they always did when he was near hay. The world was blurry, but he could see more than most.
“Daddy, I’ve been thinkin’,” Thomas said as he pitched the hay. “You need to teach Bill how to shoot. Who knows how long this war might last.”
“The boy doesn’t understand nothin’,” his father said. “You honestly think they’d accept him? He’s…half-finished. Course, it’s our fault. We waited too long to have him. And now…well, he’ll be lucky if he can look at a gun without runnin’ off in terror.”
“Daddy, you’re being mean,” Thomas said, halting his pitchfork.
His father halted, too. He stabbed his pitchfork’s teeth into the floor of the barn like a bayonet into bowels, leaning on it and rubbing his lower back with one hand. He affixed his youngest son with a shrewd, merciless stare. “I ain’t bein’ mean. I am bein’ honest.” He turned toward his eldest son. “Don’t you remember how he reacted when I tried to get him to shoot that little ol’ .22? He ran as if the Devil was after him! He’s scared shitless of guns now. I can’t even clean a gun in my own living room without him becoming a blubbering mess.”
“That’s not his fault, daddy,” Thomas said, looking to his little brother with a mixture of sadness and pity.
“I know it,” his father said gruffly. “That’s why I said we should never have tried at our age. And now look at him! Playing with dolls and cryin’ when a gun goes off. It’s not…manly.”
“He’s still a boy,” Thomas said. “He has some growing to do.”
“At his age you were shootin’ ducks, Tom,” his father said. “All on your own with no say-so from me or nobody else.” He smiled with pride. “I remember back then. You were so proud when you brought those ducks in for supper. Your momma already had made some soup, but when I saw what you’d done, I said, ‘To hell with the soup! Let’s have some roasted duck!’” His wrinkles smoothed with youthful joy. “And I’ll be damned if that wasn’t some of the best meat I’ve ever had. And you never ruined anything you shot with a bad aim. You got the Eye for shootin’. I’d wager to say your enemies will call it the Evil Eye before long. Or the Eye of God. Where you aim, Death follows. Those slant-eyes will be like fish in a barrel. They won’t know what hit ‘em.”
They continued pitching the hay as the clouds rolled in.
Billy wandered away, unnoticed. He looked out across the yellowing fields that undulated heavenward, the bales silent amongst the splintered stalks. He was startled at the roar of the tractor engine. The tractor rolled out of the shed, his father a shadowy outline atop it. Billy watched the bold, black tires of the machine deploying forward to the day’s work, its ridged tires cutting trenches in the fallow earth.
Billy walked farther away. He came to the tobacco barn where the stalks hung from the crossbeams. Bodies hung there, too. He walked inside and saw the man in the black robe, sharpening his sickle. Billy stared at him. He could not see the man’s face beneath his hood. The whetstone slid slickly across the cold white crescent blade in a pendulous motion. The sibilance struck something primal in Billy’s spine, begging flight. But he did not flee. He stood and stared at the man. The man looked up, but his hand never stopped swiping the whetstone across the long blade. Its curvature reminded Billy of a raven’s beak. Bill began to cry.
‘Silence,’ the man said, his voice sharper than the blade he whetted. ‘You have chores to do. As do I.’
Bill ran away from the tobacco barn, catching up to Thomas in the field. He hugged him around his leg.
“Whoa, Duckbill,” Thomas said, almost falling over. He looked down at the trembling boy that clutched at his thigh. “Come on, now. You don’t need to get upset over it. I’ll miss you, too, but I’ll be coming back. Don’t you worry none.”
Billy continued to weep, shaking his head as the tears came.
They drove the shaky, sputtering old truck to the bus stop and waited with the other families for the military bus to come to pick up the young men assembled there. There were lots of kisses and handshakes, hugs and shoulder pats. There was bravado, and not just from the young men. Fathers and brothers and uncles spoke with grinning complacency.
“Give ‘em hell, boys.”
“Shoot to kill.”
“Kick their asses so hard you knock their slant-eyes straight!”
While the others talked and boasted and bragged on their sons, Billy stared at Thomas through tears. Thomas was tall, like his father, only Time had not whittled him thin yet, and his shoulders were broad, his chest burley, his arms muscled from tools and chores. His smile was easy and kind. He had the loudest laugh, spreading seeds of laughter all around him. He was the gentlest and the strongest young man among all those gathered from every end of the county.
But Billy knew that none of that mattered to the man in the black robe as he, too, waited by the bus stop, leaning patiently on his scythe.
“Be good while I’m gone, Duckbill,” Thomas said. “Grow bigger and stronger than me, okay? Momma and daddy are going to need your help.”
Billy tried to speak, but, as always, the words did not come.
When Billy and his mother and father arrived home, without Thomas, Billy stared out toward the East where the dark clouds flashed here and there with lightning.
“Get on inside, boy,” his father said. “And go to bed early. Don’t stay up all night playin’ with toys. Tomorrow I’m goin’ to have to show you how to milk the cows. You’re goin’ to be busy for the Winter.”
Billy went upstairs, but did not go into his own room. Instead, he carried the toy soldier into Thomas’s room. The little boy sat on Thomas’s bed, looking out through Thomas’s window. Beyond the distant fields, toward the East, a storm was readying its front-line offensive. Billy opened the window and a warm breeze blew in, as if from some other part of the world that was warmer and moister. It felt like a monsoon was coming to the heartland of America.
The moon was bloated with moribund light as Phoebe walked along the desolate fields. Jagged stalks gleamed with the first frost of the year, crunching beneath Phoebe’s boots. Her shadow walked beside her, stretching out long and thin, as if mocking her short height with the taller figure she wished she possessed. Phoebe was a vain creature, especially for her thirteen years of life, and while she would have rather worn more ladylike shoes when out and about, even she bowed to the necessity of muck boots when in search of Devil’s Fen.
“Perfectly white teeth,” Phoebe said to herself. “Immaculate teeth. The best teeth in the whole county. And handsome blue eyes.”
The fields curved upward upon the hilly countryside, as if swelling like the seas at the beck of the moon and arching slowly like a groggy cat upon waking. The slow rise and fall of the slopes beneath Phoebe’s boots mirrored her breath. She scarcely trusted her own breath in the unsettling silence of that hour, for it rose phantasmally before her in the Autumn chill. She could see her immediate surroundings well enough beneath the moon, but the distant trees were black fringes from which wolves, or worse, might come bounding swiftly to catch her unawares.
This was a pilgrimage, she told herself; a pilgrimage for the sake of Love. She would not be deterred, come dragon or demon or damnation. The hag had promised Phoebe that she would have her wish fulfilled, and yet Phoebe felt misgivings amounting all around her like a pack of snarling fangs.
“Perfect teeth,” she said to herself. “Like pearls. And always grinning; always so handsome. Handsome beneath his handsome mustache and handsome blue eyes.”
The hilly fields gradually sloped downward, away from the moon. Yet, the moon illuminated the receding earth brightly, as if its glow bled and pooled here in this vast valley that deepened and drained at last toward the peat-heaped lowland known as Devil’s Fen.
“Perfect teeth,” Phoebe said, “and our children will have perfect teeth, too. And beautifully black hair. Handsome chin. And the bluest eyes.”
It was good that Phoebe wore her muck boots. Devil’s Fen was choked with water and mud, the only visible earth carpeted in moss that was so saturated that it held nothing as the cold moonlight glittered off of the scab-pocked mirror of water. Rushes and sedges grew everywhere in wilted clusters, and here and there lonely willow trees hung their heads in sorrow. From all of these did Phoebe set about gathering up the materials she would need. She had brought twine, and she uprooted rushes and reeds, cut them with a bone-knife the hag had given her, and sawed off withy from the mournful branches of the willows, stacking them all together and binding them in twine. The moon seemed to watch Phoebe as she worked among the shallow pools of festering plants. Whether it looked on in pleasure or abhorrence, Phoebe could not say. She was not given to such fanciful thoughts. She cared only for the task at hand and how it would win her the man she most desired.
And it was a man that the thirteen-year old most desired. William Clements was twenty and two and the most handsome of all the men in the county. He was brawny and broad-shouldered, had a full crown of dark black hair and bright blue eyes. Moreover, while all of these things recommended him in the admiration of the women, it was his teeth that truly shined as an endorsement of his qualities. A man with such fine teeth was a man to covet, and all the women coveted him, including Phoebe, despite her young age. Unfortunately for the women in Wischmeier county, William Clements’s blue eyes only ever followed the weaver’s daughter, Marianne Mayswell. Phoebe loathed Marianne. Marianne was fair and milky-figured, made graceful by both a healthy living and the primacy of her seventeen years of age. Though she would have never admitted it—even to herself—Phoebe could not compete with Marianne, either by figure or by feature, and despite being the daughter of the mayor, Phoebe could not induce William Clements’s fondness with either her promise of wealth or of beauty. She had tried, of course. Phoebe had her father buy several dresses and bits of jewelry with which to bedew herself as a rosebud in a golden dawn. And yet, at her rising, William only turned his head ever toward that humming afternoon sunshine that was Marianne Mayswell.
And so Phoebe had gone to the hag, and the hag had sent Phoebe here, to Devil’s Fen.
“Teeth so white and spotless,” she said to herself. “Cleaner than moonlight. Brighter than the sun.”
Her boots splashed up a puddle of mud, sullying her new dress. She did not care. It was just another dress that had failed to garner the admiration and affection she envied in Marianne. The latter could have worn a potato sack and outshone Phoebe’s most regal raiment.
Whereas Marianne sewed all of her own clothes, Phoebe received her clothes from the big cities in the Northeast, her father bringing them back with him as gifts whenever his enterprise occasioned his presence in Baltimore or New York. Her father owned a lumber mill, and was the richest man in all of Wischmeier County. He employed most of the men who did not own their own lands with which to prosper. This was also why he was the mayor, for no one dared to challenge him and his resources, nor to cross him, or question him in things concerning the town. He held power nigh absolute. The only exceptions for the mayor’s power were the matters governing the romantic hearts in Wischmeier County and, of course, the Fall Festival.
The Fall Festival was held every year, during the Harvest Moon or thereabouts. Nearly participated in the Festival. It was the catharsis of a year of hard labor, and a consolation for the bitter Winter to come. There was apple cider, and moonshine, and dancing, and storytelling. There were many contests, too, and each contest rewarded its winner with an assortment of prizes. Naturally, Phoebe had never stooped to compete in any of the contests, deeming them beneath her. Yet, the hag had foretold that Phoebe would only win her husband by fabricating her own scarecrow in the Festival’s contest.
The hag said:
“With the rush and the reed,
with both withy and need,
in the dark Devil’s Fen
will you thereby know then
your fateful groom’s grin—
most unique among men.”
Phoebe might have dismissed this prophecy as the ravings of an old crone with more cats than sense, but the more she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. Marianne always won the scarecrow contest, year after year, for she was the best weaver and seamstress in town. Phoebe often overheard, with resentment, the men and women who spoke so fondly of Marianne’s talents. But none spoke more fondly of her scarecrows than did William Clements.
And it was this latter fact that had convinced Phoebe to take up the hag’s words in earnest. Even if Phoebe did not win William’s heart, she would at least attempt to win the scarecrow contest. She must conquer Marianne by some measure, at the least.
Phoebe stomped about the glittering waters of Devil’s Fen, gathering the materials she would need. It was a chilly night, yet the work brought a heated flush to her young face. It was as much heat of temper as of labor, for she had never worked so hard in her life, and it miffed her greatly.
Phoebe had gathered enough for the scarecrow’s body, but she was unsure what to do for the head. The hag had told her that Phoebe would know what to use to cap the fellow off when she saw it, but so far Phoebe had seen nothing that snared her attentions. Leaving her pile of materials on a mossy embankment, Phoebe dared to trudge deeper into the Fen. She walked for some time, aimless in the moonlit waters except where some preternatural instinct prevailed, and came to the heart of the fen. The moon’s reflection shivered and dissolved upon the wavelets of the fen as she halted. There, in front of her, crouching upon a peculiar stone in the center of the fen, was a fat bullfrog. It was the fattest bullfrog Phoebe had ever seen, its broad green and yellow mouth like a wry smile. Phoebe felt a keen jolt in her bones. This was the missing material she needed for her scarecrow. There was no doubt, even if there was apprehension. She expected the frog to leap away as she reached for it, but it only squatted there, surrendering to her outstretched hands. Normally, she hated frogs, and toads, and all such things squishy and slimy and given to the muck and mud. But Phoebe was so assured now that she would have her heart’s desire that she did not mind the bloated heft of the bullfrog’s flesh as it bulged between her cradling hands. She carried it back to her stack of rushes and reeds and withy with a confident, determined air.
Her materials gathered, Phoebe set to work by moonlight. How long she worked, she did not know. Hours upon hours seemed to pass, and yet the moon never descended a single hair’s breadth. Had she not been so fixated on her creation, she might have noticed such unnatural spans of unmarked time, but her heart and soul were consumed by the task, and the seductive dream wrought therefrom.
As for the frog—to be plopped atop as the scarecrow’s head—the hag had given Phoebe a pot of foul-smelling muck. Phoebe knew not what the muck was, but it was blackish-brown, like molasses, and smelled like sulphur. Taking the strangely docile frog, Phoebe dropped the bachtrachian unceremoniously into the pot. She waited for a time—again, she knew not how long, for she busied herself with other things—and then she dumped the pot out and cleaned the frog with water from the fen. The frog had lost all of its color, becoming a uniform light brown unlike the complexion of William Clements. Moreover, its slimy skin was now leathery, wrinkled, dried and stretched unnaturally until the frog’s mouth was just like a lipless smile. The head now finished, Phoebe impaled it on the scarecrow’s reedy spine and overtopped it with the withy hat. Phoebe then began the process of thickening the scarecrow’s body. Using mud, peat, and moss, she fattened the scarecrow to the dimensions of a man. Using a cattail, she gave him his manhood.
Phoebe had wanted to have one of her father’s servants to weave the scarecrow together for her, but the hag had said that no other could lay hand to the labor without spoiling the spell. By Phoebe’s work alone would the scarecrow exist, or else her groom would not be procured. Thus, Phoebe set about with a plaintive, but ultimately passionate, effort to form the figure of reeds and rushes, to stuff him full of sedges and moss and peat and mud. Over all of this she gave him a shirt she had woven from potato sacks, and britches made of wool, and instead of a straw hat, she had woven a hat made of withy from the willow.
The scarecrow was finished. It was as big and heavy as a man—a man very familiar to Phoebe, in a yearning manner—and so she left it there, in Devil’s Fen, hidden beneath a willow tree as she eagerly awaited the Fall Festival.
Phoebe began the long hike home. It seemed so much farther to walk now, going uphill out of the Fen and the valley and following, once again, the undulations of the hillocky fields. She glanced back, once, at the willow tree where she had placed her scarecrow. Moonlight glowed on the mournful tresses of the willow with a wan wistfulness. As she turned away a phlegmy cackle echoed from somewhere in the darkness of Devil’s Fen. A mallard, Phoebe thought. Nothing more.
Head heavy with exhaustion, and too much sleepless dreaming, Phoebe trudged home like a sleepwalker in want of a bed.
On the day of the Fall Festival, Phoebe requested her father’s housemaid, Millie, to fetch her husband and son and have them all aid Phoebe in transporting the scarecrow from the outskirts of the Fen to the town square where the festival was to be held. The family aided Phoebe with a wheelbarrow and wary glances. As soon as they saw the scarecrow they crossed themselves.
“You superstitious fools,” Phoebe muttered. She added, more loudly, “Hurry! I don’t want to be late for the contest!”
The father and son pushed the wheelbarrow from the Devil’s Fen up through the valley and along the undulating fields, coming to the town square. The Fall Festival was always held on the town square, in among the dogwood trees and the maples. Festoons hung from branch to branch, and large tents stood steepled on tall posts, one after another, each sheltering a contest or auction or certain games for the children. Normally, Phoebe felt nothing but disdain for the cake contests and the games of horseshoes and the poor families juggling pennies to outbid one another for novelties that would be mocked as rubbish in any affluent quarter of a New England town. But she felt excitement to see the commotion made in the bustling crowd as the wheelbarrow was pushed through to the center of the square, its limp passenger nodding with the motion like a drunkard in his cups, or a corpse drawn up out of the bog.
“Is that real, momma?” a little boy wondered aloud, his eyes wide to the whites.
“I don’t know,” the boy’s mother said, drawing him back behind herself with a protective arm. “I reckon not, but I don’t know for certain.”
Such remarks only pleased Phoebe the more. That her creation should give such misapprehension to the country bumpkins proved to her that she had made a formidable scarecrow. A more grotesque specimen was never known.
Fortune smiled upon Phoebe more that day, for the scarecrow contest was to be held in the central pavilion of the town square. This was a large wooden roof, like that belonging to a barn, only hoisted high upon tall, thick posts. The scarecrows from the other competitors had already been erected on stakes for all to see. Marianne Mayswell had her scarecrow front and center, its cloth body assuming a fine semblance to a man in caricature, from his protruding nose to his button eyes and his fine-fingered hands. The weaver’s daughter had outdone herself this year. The scarecrow’s pants were good enough for a child of equal size to wear to church, and the flannel shirt was checkered with perfect little red and black squares. Marianne’s scarecrow was superior to the other scarecrows in every way. Seeing it made Phoebe’s heart sink. It was perfect. But then she turned and looked at her own scarecrow with its all-too-human proportions and its unique fen-furnished materials. Marianne’s was perfected tradition, Phoebe thought, but Phoebe’s was unique. Strangely unique. Bizarre. Otherworldly. At the very least her simulacrum deserved due consideration by the judges, if not outright praise.
“Be careful!” Phoebe admonished her helpers as the father and son struggled under the weight of her scarecrow. “If you break it my father will have you whipped out of town!”
The father and son steadied the scarecrow—even if they trembled now more than ever—and then, having secured it on a large stake, retreated from their mistress, disappearing into the crowd. The crowd swelled forward more closely around Phoebe’s scarecrow to stare in wonder, and abhorrence, at the grotesquery wrought before them.
Yet, while many faces contorted with fear and disgust at the strange, foul-smelling scarecrow, the only face that mattered at all in the crowd was that of William Clements as he stepped forward to gain a better view of the curio in their midst.
“It sure would scare crows away,” William remarked, smiling nervously. “It would scare me away if I saw it standing in a field on a dark night.”
“Not so,” Phoebe said, nearly giggling with giddy joy as she gladly stepped up to meet him and his pearly white teeth. “I know you too well, William. You are too brave and strong to be scared away by anything.”
William’s shoulders, and eyebrows, shrugged. “I have my limits,” he said. “If I’d caught sight of this thing in the field at night I’d kick up enough dirt running away to bury half the county.”
“Then perhaps you wish me to accompany you home,” Phoebe said, radiant with moon-eyed delight, “to protect you from my scarecrow?”
William did not answer her, for Marianne approached, then, and he had eyes now only for the weaver’s daughter.
“She has talent,” Marianne said. “And I like the curious use of reeds and moss. It lends it a different character than the normal sort of field-uncle that the rest of us made. And the use of leather for the head is a clever touch.”
It was generously said, and yet any generosity afforded to Phoebe by the beauteous Marianne smacked of condescension, regardless of how good the intention.
“I don’t have the lay skills of a tradesman,” Phoebe said, sourly, “or a tradeswoman, and so I make do with what my elevated upbringing has given me.”
The acerbity was unmistakable in Phoebe’s voice, yet she was young, and so negligible, especially as William and Marianne turned their attentions toward each other at the exclusion of anyone else. Phoebe saw how their eyes met, and could feel their tidal force. She felt suddenly reduced in size, small, shrinking beneath the taller, prettier girl and the mutual attraction William shared with her. Were Marianne and William to kiss, Phoebe realized, William would not need to stoop to kiss her, the young woman being as tall, whereas if he were to kiss Phoebe he would need to stoop as if picking up a child. And Phoebe was no child, she insisted to herself. She was as much a woman as Marianne, if not more so. Being the daughter of the mayor, she had real power in Springfield. She wore the mature dresses of France and Italy. Phoebe considered herself worldly in her wardrobe and her wiles.
And yet, her mind was arrayed with the thoughts of their first kiss. It would not be romantic. It would not be passionate. It would be absurd. William was a man, and she was a little, foolish girl. She felt tears burning at the edges of her eyes, unnoticed by the crowd gathered around her scarecrow. Before the tears could bubble free, she hurried away from the pavilion to the solitary shade of a maple tree. No one was near her now. She sat on the ground, unmindful of her pretty green dress from France, and cried bitterly. It was some time before she realized that the shade had deepened and darkened from noonday blue to midnight black. Raising her head, she saw that the hag was standing over her, smiling a toothless smile within her faded gray hood.
“Do not cry, my little lamb,” the hag said. “Whatever could be the matter?”
At the sound of pity, Phoebe’s temper flared. She leapt up, clenching her fists at her side. “You liar! You said he would love me if I made that stupid scarecrow!”
“It is but a step along the way,” the hag said, her feigned pity replaced by a sly smile. “Be careful how you foot it, for there are more dangerous paths than fens to wind one’s way through.”
“You say a lot without saying anything at all,” Phoebe retorted. “I trudged through mud and spent all night making that useless scarecrow, and to what end? To what end, you old, ugly hag?!”
“The end has not yet come,” the hag said simply. “You will have exactly what you wish. A husband with handsome blue eyes and immaculate teeth. You must have faith, child, for it will come to pass. You will have a husband with all the things your heart values. You will have his handsome blue eyes and his immaculate teeth.”
“But Marianne has his heart!” Phoebe moaned, feigning a swoon against the tree. She suddenly sprang upright, her green eyes flapping open suddenly and brightening with the fulgurous thunderclap of a thought. “Unless you mean some misfortune will come to pass for Marianne?!” She clapped her hands together excitedly. “Ohhh, is that it?” Still smiling, she feigned sadness. “Oh, but I must not wish too mortal a fate for her. It would be beneath me. She is, after all, only a weaver’s daughter. Better would it be that William were to reflect on his first choice and realize the folly of it, choosing instead to pursue truer taste in one as highly bred as I am.”
“You will have the man with the beautiful blue eyes and the immaculate teeth,” the hag said. “As you said you desired.”
“But when?” Phoebe moaned.
The hag gestured toward the town square with a wart-clustered finger. Phoebe’s eyes followed the gesture, falling again on the pavilion. There was a commotion within the crowd. Many were glancing toward her—at Phoebe—and Phoebe was taken aback.
“What are they gawking at?” Phoebe demanded, outraged.
The hag was gone. She had vanished into thin air. Someone broke away from the pavilion crowd and approached Phoebe. Much to her delight, and agitation, it was William. He strode toward her with his long, loping stride. Coming from among those commonfolk, he was as a proud stallion stepping forth from amongst a herd of dim-witted mules. Phoebe’s stomach whirled with butterflies and she felt as if she was reeling on a merry-go-round. She felt she would have to steady herself by grasping his mustache.
“Phoebe,” he said, “the judges have decided that your scarecrow is the best.”
“Really?” Phoebe said. The excitement in her voice had nought to do with her scarecrow; rather, it was elicited by the impeccable grin on William’s face. “So I won? Me? What a surprise! I am so happy!”
“You should come get your prize,” William said.
“What is it?” Phoebe asked, excited at the thought that it might be a kiss from the young man standing before her.
“A quilt,” William said. “Woven by Marianne’s father, Michael.”
Phoebe’s smile instantly soured. “I do not want a quilt,” she said.
“But it really is a pretty quilt,” William said. “One of the best her father has ever woven.”
“Then let her keep it,” Phoebe said, irritably. “What good can I have from a quilt? I get all of my blankets and sheets from France. They’re softer and better made in France. Because of their more finely bred fingers.”
William’s countenance darkened with what Phoebe knew to be anger. But instead of offering a cross rebuke, he merely turned away from her in silence, walking toward the pavilion. Phoebe watched him go with a feeling of terrible finality all about her and the cosmos. This finality consumed the spheres and made her feel claustrophobic, like a mouse chased deeper and deeper into a narrowing hole by a mouser. Her greatest fear seemed soon to reach fruition.
“William!” she called out, her voice cracking.
He said nothing, nor did he turn to look at her. He merely halted.
“On second thought, I wish to see this quilt,” she said, hurrying forward. “It is, no doubt, as good as any French blanket, if not Oriental silk. The Maywells are very talented people.”
William turned about now, a wary smile returning to his face. “They are, as a matter of fact,” he said. “Not a weaver for four hundred miles that could do better.”
Phoebe’s luck seemed to take a change for the better a little later when Marianne had to escort her elderly father home. He had a wet cough and she, being his only child, wished to see him rectified with a bowl of hot soup and a warm fire. Reluctantly, William said his goodbyes to Marianne, and prepared to leave, himself, from the emptying town square as the gloaming drew its crepuscular fabrics all around. Phoebe, however, had a mind for fatefulness. So, she took the rare opportunity and asked that he take a walk about the town with her. Seeing no harm in it, William agreed, and not only agreed, but carried the quilt that Phoebe had won with her unique scarecrow.
Phoebe and William took several turns about the square. Phoebe spoke much about her father’s businesses, his prosperity, the various things he bought for her, and all of the material comforts which she thought a goodly lure for the man she wished to betroth. After a time, William interrupted her diatribe about the superiority of China to American pewter plates to remark upon her scarecrow.
“It seems your father had some people carry your scarecrow away,” he said, pointing.
Phoebe blinked in confusion, then followed his finger. Beneath the pavilion, the large stake was vacant of its former resident. This baffled Phoebe, for she had made no request for anyone to take possession of her creation, nor to carry it elsewhere. Her father, in fact, did not even know the scarecrow existed, for he had foregone the Fall Festival in favor of a festival of his own, awash with ale. Whichever way the scarecrow had come to vanish, Phoebe did not care. It had served its purpose, and now she was walking and talking with William Clements— alone, in twilight, with no one else eavesdropping upon them; and, truth be told, if someone did so happen to be eavesdropping, all the merrier for Phoebe. Let it spread around Springfield and to the bordering counties. Perhaps the rumor would gain momentum enough to carry this night into a foreseeable day of matrimonial bliss, or at least obligation.
“William,” she said, suddenly halting and facing him. “What are your plans for the future? What are your dreams?”
William’s brow furrowed with thought. “Well, I suppose I would like to own my own farm. Maybe someday I would even own two farms. Three even!” He laughed, and the laugh was full-chested with booming alacrity.
“You should really think about being mayor,” Phoebe said in earnest. “Someone with your recommendations could easily be a mayor. In fact, with the right wife you could become governor. A president, I should think.”
William squinted painfully, as if he had been struck on the head with a chance acorn. “I don’t think I would take to that sort of life,” he said. “I know cows. I know sheep. But running a town? I would be happy enough running my own barn without it burning down.”
Phoebe shook her head irritably. “No, no, no. It is simple, really, running a town. It is like a barn. You merely need to shepherd the people, as you do with cows and sheep. It is no different, truly. I can help you do it when we are married…”
William’s dark eyebrows lifted in surprise, furrowing his brow like plows. He sighed. “Phoebe, that is not possible,” he said. “I’ve tried to be soft about this, but you are making it hard for me. Marianne and I are getting married. You are too young to…”
Phoebe did not wait for him to finish. The tears gushed, followed by the venom. “Marianne is a stupid cow!” she screamed. “I’m the one with money! Why don’t you want to marry me?!”
William stepped back, one hand raised while the other cradled Phoebe’s unwanted-yet-won quilt, and his eyes darting about in wild terror. Dogs barked in the distance.
“Phoebe, please,” he pleaded. “It is not about money. This is about love. And I love Marianne. She is of marrying age. You…you are too young.”
“Then wait for me,” she said, her lips quivering with chaotic, conflicted emotions. “I’ll be of age in a few years and then you can marry me!”
“Marianne and I have been engaged in secret for two years, Phoebe,” he said. “I cannot break my vow to her.” He held out the quilt for Phoebe to take. “It would hurt her, and it would hurt myself. You have to understand. She and I were meant to be…”
Phoebe jerked the quilt away from him and threw it to the ground. Her scream was an infernal peal of primal rage. She pressed her hands to her ears and then ran away in a wild direction, heedless of where she was going. She ran and ran until the town square, and the town itself, was lost to the evening mists and shadows.
“She lied to me!” Phoebe wept. “The old witch lied to me! Will won’t marry me! He hates me!”
Sobbing and running, she went downhill until she finally fell to her knees, breathless beneath a wanly-glowing willow tree. The moon slowly rose, as if gloating over Phoebe’s sorrows. Her whole body rattled and shook with her weeping. She did not care about anything thereafter—whether wolf stealing through the woods or viper creeping through the weeds—and did not observe the world’s clock as it ticked on and on.
And yet, after a time, she stared down at her new dress. It was a French dress quite fashionable in Parisian salons, and now it was stained with the derisive touch of grass. She did not care. Her whole life had been marred, she thought, because William would not be bound to her. She wished her father would pillory Marianne and have her flogged. Phoebe was so wrathful that, had she seen Marianne’s face then, she would have clawed out Marianne’s pretty blue eyes. Blue eyes! Like William’s! As if matched by Providence! All of their children were fated to have such blue eyes, and they would taunt and haunt Phoebe to the end of her days!
“Weeping again, child?” the hag said. “And on your wedding night?”
“Do not…mock…me…” Phoebe said between sobs. “Leave me be. I just…want to…to…die.”
The hag cackled—a phlegmy, thick cackle like wet, rotten wood split by an ax. “You will not die, child. Not for many a year. You have too long a married life to live. Too many children to bear. Your groom comes. He will be here soon.”
“Go…away!” Phoebe rallied, her rage crashing, like lightning, through her shower of tears. Her hand found a stone, and she raised it with a fury.
The hag was gone. All around Phoebe was now silence and the moon-drawn shadows within Devil’s Fen. Lips still trembling, Phoebe rose to her feet. She breathed reluctantly, as if to breathe meant to endorse the life she now lived with all of its inherent hopelessness. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she turned toward the slope leading out of the Fen. Up from the valley her eyes wandered, as if looking for a sign. She found one. There, atop of the hillocky expanse, was a figure etched black within the moonlight.
“Wi…Will?” she whispered.
The figure approached her, walking with the same strong, long loping stride that stamped William Clements’s approach.
“Will?” Phoebe said louder, with more hope and joy. “Will, you do love me, don’t you?”
She wished to run to him, but dared not move, for she feared it was a dream from which she would abruptly wake.
The moon slid down lower as the figure descended into the valley toward Devil’s Fen, its full orange glow unobserved. Phoebe waited by the willow tree, the world overcome with a silence pregnant with anticipation. No whippoorwills chanted. No crickets chirped. No wolves howled. The silence pervaded, and Phoebe could hear her own heart pounding hard in her chest like thunder.
“Will, I promise I will be your perfect wife,” Phoebe said, or whispered, or mouthed. “I won’t ever disappoint you. I will love you, and honor you, and cherish you. I will bear you many sons with your same blue eyes and perfect white teeth.”
The figure came to the bottom of the valley’s slope, nearing the willow tree.
“If you want to be a farmer, you can be a farmer,” Phoebe said. “I will be a farmer’s wife. I don’t have to be a governor’s wife, or even a mayor’s wife. So long as I am your wife. Will, I…”
Phoebe’s mouth went slack, loosening into a gawping hole of horror.
The scarecrow loomed over her, its frog-face broad and leathery and stinking beneath its withy hat. Something dark and wet and fresh glistened all over its lips, dribbling down its cheeks and chin.
“No…not you…” Phoebe whimpered, shrinking in terror. “Please…go away…”
The scarecrow did not go away. It leaned forward, its familiar blue eyes inching closer. Its leathery lips curved upward, then parted wetly. Gleaming in the milky moonlight, each one as finely white as any polished pearl, were many an immaculate tooth—teeth more immaculate than any others in all of Wischmeier County.
Nobuteru was grateful that he had just hauled his last bundle of bamboo into his bamboo hut near the forest. As he let it drop next to the firepit the heavens let their rains fall with a thunderous clap and a boom, the thatch roof suddenly resounding with a hushing downpour. His wife, Aoi, squatted by the firepit, cooking fish and rice, her belly swollen beneath her peasants garbs. Nobuteru ’s son, Eiji, came hurrying in a little later, his bamboo fishing pole abandoned to the rain and his garbs soaked through and through.
“Come to the fire, Eiji, ” his mother said. “The rain has a chill. ”
Eiji squatted next to the simple firepit where the bamboo burned and the fish and pot of rice cooked. Nobuteru watched his son, and looked fondly on his wife, and was grateful for the bamboo and all that it provided. Without it, they would not have shelter against the rain, nor warmth against the chill, and so all seemed well in his simple life. They ate their fish and rice, and Nobuteru offered prayers to the gods of the forest, and listened to the rain with a deep sense of gratitude as he fell asleep.
It was later that night when Nobuteru was woken by Eiji ’s sobs. He roused, unlinking himself from Aoi, and peering drowsily into the moonlit hut. He saw Eiji standing near the corner. The rain had not stopped, and it was black as any night might be. Yet, Nobuteru saw what he wished he did not see. There was a long arm extending out of a cracked bamboo shaft. This arm was pale as a fish ’s belly, and lustrous, glowing pallidly in the darkness. It ’s fingers were thin, more jointed than any man ’s finger, and black claws arched out of each tip. Gently, covetously, the hand petted Eiji ’s black hair while the boy stood transfixed, trembling in the caress of the elongated fingers.
Nobuteru leapt up and pulled his son away from the hand. The hand curled its fingers in a gesture of deference, raising its waxen palms up as if beseeching a gift.
And a voice spoke.
“Nobuteru, I have blessed you, ” said the voice like wheezy wind through bamboo. “Now you must repay my kindness with an offering of your own. ”
“What are you? ” Nobuteru whispered, fearful he might wake his wife to this horror. He held his son behind him, protectively.
“I am a generous spirit that has benefitted you, ” the voice said from deep inside every bamboo shoot. “I only ask what is yours to give in turn. ”
“You cannot have my son, ” Nobuteru said.
“Oh, but how many sons and daughters have you taken from me? ” the voice said. The arm caressed the bamboo walls of the hut, and felt among the ashes of the smouldering fire. “So many sacrificed for your comfort and health. ”
Nobuteru did not know what the spirit was, and so knew not how he might appease it. “Ask for something else, ” he said. “I will do what you wish. But you may not take my son. ”
“I will have your daughter, then, ” said the voice, rolling its hideous fingers in waves.
Nobuteru looked at his wife. He stared at the swell of her belly beneath her clothes.
“Very well, ” he said. “If you can take her now, do so, but do not harm my wife. ”
“No, no, no, ” rattled the voice softly. “I must not harvest her until she is of age, as you do when you cut down my children in the forest. ” The arm withdrew into the narrow bamboo. “Five flood seasons from now. No sooner…no later…five flood seasons and I will harvest your daughter by the bladed moon… ”
The voice died away like a withdrawing wind. Nobuteru felt his son shaking beside him, and knew himself to be shaking to his very bones as well. Yet, he knew he must not let Aoi know. He turned to his son, knelt down, and took him by his shoulders.
“This is all a bad dream, ” he said. “Do not tell your mother. She must not know. Promise. ”
The tremulous boy nodded obediently.
Nobuteru wasted no time in cutting down the bamboo forest. Every day he cut down as many shoots as he could, swinging until his calloused fingers bled and his arms ached from wrist to shoulder. He did not bother to set the decimated bamboo aside and let the sap flow free from them. He cut and burned, cut and burned, desolating the forest all around his hut. His wife thought he had lost all sense, but little Eiji helped his father in earnest, for the cold sweat of fear from that harrowing night remained upon him. The pale arm haunted the two of them in their dreams and in waking daylight.
Meanwhile Aoi grew large with child. Upon the day of her pangs, a daughter was born. Rather than pleasing Nobuteru, he paled at the sight of the beautiful child and hurried out to clear away more of the forest. He thought that if he destroyed the forest then the forest spirit —or whatever it happened to be —would lose its place in the human realm and become lost elsewhere; untethered from the mortal spheres. He cut like never before, and was as a wildfire in his destruction.
It was not long before Nobuteru ’s obsession became infamous. Other woodcutters and farmers in the area complained, claiming he had gone mad. A priest was sent from a local shrine and he spoke to Nobuteru, admonishing him.
“Such profligacy displeases the gods, ” the priest warned as he looked on while Nobuteru busied his axe among the remaining forest. “This forest is sacred to spirits, good and evil alike! ”
“Well do I know of such things, ” Nobuteru said. “It is why I work so single-mindedly. ”
He revealed the truth about the visitation of the spirit, of the demand for Nobuteru ’s daughter. Hearing his story, the priest grew pensive. It took many moments after Nobuteru had finished his account before the priest spoke again.
“We must purify your daughter, ” the priest said. “Perhaps the evil spirit will depart. ”
The night of the ceremony, Aoi was told of what was to happen and why. She was fearful, for their daughter was now a healthy toddler, quick on her feet and sharp of mind. Her name was Aiko and she was the delight of her parents ’ hearts. They cherished her, as they did her brother. To lose Aiko when so young, and to such a horrid fate, frightened Aoi. But she trusted in the priest, even if she had grown to distrust her husband, and so when the priest told her that she could not witness the exorcism she took Eiji to fish while the ritual took place.
The ritual lasted all day and night. What was seen, and what was better left unseen, neither the priest nor Nobuteru ever spoke thereof. It was said that the priest had become like a man in famine, so hollow were his eyes and cheeks. The priest died before the Summer ’s end. Nobuteru did not suffer so final a fate so abruptly, but his hair turned white as hoarfrost and there was a dimness in the light of his eyes at times such as when thin clouds pass over the moon. Nonetheless, he reassured his wife and son that his daughter was saved. Aiko seemed unchanged, the vibrant look in her green eyes still lively and undaunted. She had witnessed horrors and emerged as clean from the ordeal as the sun after the morning fog has fallen away.
Years passed. Aiko grew taller, talkative, and inquisitive. She was deft with her hands, weaving strong fibers together ingeniously. Her laughter was such that birds halted their songs to listen in admiration and wonderment. Nobuteru and Aoi were pleased by her, and never disappointed. To see her run and laugh after her brother was to see joy such as bodhisattvas should envy their childish play.
Whereas Aiko blossomed, the bamboo forest did not grow at all. No more shoots sprang up from the smouldering soil, and the soil eroded with the wet season. When the river swelled it carried silt over the land, and yet the land grew nothing. The spirit was gone, it seemed, and with it the forest.
Nobuteru moved his family upstream, away from the remnants of the forest. He became a fisherman to sustain his family. Eiji helped greatly, having grown taller and stronger, now more like his father than ever. He worked hard for the family, especially for his little sister, and tended her every whim with patience. Yet, sometimes Eiji was disquieted, and was overtaken with gloomy moods, thinking back to the night that the pale hand extended out of the bamboo and caressed him. But he did not speak of such things to anyone. He kept his fears to himself to keep such fears from his loved ones.
Four years passed and it seemed the fears had passed with them. But while the family lived well, there came creeping a pernicious effect on Aiko. Slowly, the sweetness leeched out of the little girl. She became rigid around her parents, and uncaring. Her green eyes hardened and looked not with daughterly fondness, but an otherworldly detachment. She did not sing, after a time, and did not run and play. She walked stiffly, as if her joints did not work well. Sometimes she simply stood in the wind, upright, stiff-bodied, but bending with the wind as it blew about her. When her parents spoke to her, she rarely spoke in turn, and when she did speak she spoke with a whispering voice like rustling leaves. This troubled Eiji.
“There is something wrong with Aiko, ” Eiji said one day while out on the boat with his father. “She is no longer as she was. ”
“So long as we stay away from the forest, she will be well, ” his father said. “That is what the spirit promised. ”
“You cannot trust an evil spirit, ” Eiji said.
“Nor do I! ” Nobuteru shouted. “That is why I moved our family here. The curse is lifted if we remain far from the forest. The priest saw to it. ”
“But father… ”
“Enough! ” his father snapped. “That is all! Do not speak of it anymore! ”
Eiji did not speak of it, though he thought of it despairingly.
That night the rain fell hard. The thatch roof buckled beneath the weight of it, but the roof did not collapse. Nobuteru stoked the firepit as his family huddled around for warmth against the misty chill. No one spoke, the rain drowning all sound. Eiji watched Aiko with a feeling of foreboding. He did not know why, but he felt something terrible was going to happen. The premonition stroked at his hair like a long-fingered hand he knew years before.
Gradually, they all fell asleep. They could not hear the river beneath the heavy rain. When the water rushed in through the hut, they started and cried out, scrambling to stand as they were swept sideways. Eiji helped his mother, holding her against the flooding torrent, and Nobuteru clutched at Aiko. They trudged through the water as it began to drag the hut in the bullish flow. All seemed hopeful as they left the hut behind. But then Nobuteru tripped, and lost hold of Aiko. Aiko did not struggle, but floated away into the wet darkness like a plank of wood without a will of her own. Her father scrambled to catch hold of her again, crying out to her. He failed. Weeping, the family struggled to higher ground, and found it among the foothills. They did not see Aiko again that night.
The next morning the family followed the swollen river downstream, eyes red with tears as they stared into the currents, half in hope and half in horror. They called for Aiko. They prayed to the gods. Nothing answered them. When they found her body, she lay in a field clustered with the remnants of bamboo. Her face was pale and clammy, and so they knew that she was dead. They dug a grave for her in that alluvial plain, erecting a stone shrine where she lay. When the river receded there grew up a dense bamboo forest around the shrine. It was shunned by animals and people alike. Whispery voices could be heard among the leaves, and the melodic giggles of a girl. It was said that if a woodcutter entered the forest he felt long fingers caressing his head. No one dared to cut the bamboo in that forest again.
“But they are so crude, Mary,” Elizabeth remarked, setting down her cup of tea on the arbor’s table. A slight Summer breeze made the cool, foliated shadows wag like tongues all around them. “What possible enjoyment could be had in a servant’s company?”
“He is well versed in many pastimes,” Mary said. A hot flash of redness flared in her pale forehead and breast. It was so red as to nearly match her auburn hair. It was not a shade of embarrassment, however, nor fury. She fanned herself leisurely, despite the cool breeze and shade. “Many a singularly fine pastime.”
“He is handsome,” Elizabeth said. A smile betook her face, as if she had tasted something quite sour and wished to hide it. “I will grant you that. But there are many handsome gentlemen in London of equal looks, and far superior wealth.”
“I have no need of wealth,” Mary said. “I am an only child, as you know, and subject to no male relative who might contend my claim to my father’s estate. Moreover, Desmond is excellent with his hands in a manner entirely unknown in gentlemanly circles.”
Elizabeth cast a curious glance to Jenny, nettled. The latter was too concerned with a white ribbon in her hair to notice. Elizabeth chided her.
“Jenny, you are of an age that ribbons such as those should be abandoned utterly. And you are married. Married women have no need of girlish ribbons.”
“These ribbons were blessed by Father Willoughby last Sunday,” Jenny said, still attempting to tighten the ribbon. “They are marks of chastity.”
“But you are married,” Elizabeth argued with an irritated shake of her head. Her black curls quivered, tied up atop her head and away from the nape of her neck like some tragic Greek heroine from bygone times. “Chastity is impossible for a proper conclusion to such a ceremony.”
“To the contrary,” Jenny said fussily, pulling at the golden strands of her hair. “William and I have decided to remain chaste for the time being, even while in wedlock. When he is…when we are ready to produce children, the ribbons shall come down.”
“And the petticoats shall go up,” Mary said, giggling. Elizabeth frowned at her, which only provoked greater giggles. Mary sipped her tea to regain her composure. Birds sang in the distance. Evening wore on slowly, the sun descending reluctantly.
“You are a naughty creature!” Jenny exclaimed, encrimsoning as a cherry unclaimed from the stem.
“And why should I not be?” Mary posited, seriously. “I am a woman of independence and means. I need answer to no one.”
“It is a luxury not all can afford,” Elizabeth admitted begrudgingly. “Nor do I think it one I might indulge, for I cannot discern how it could be worth the price.”
“A failure of experience,” Mary said, sympathetically, “leads to a failure of imagination. Were that your husband could be capable of speaking Desmond’s tongue! You would never wish to leave the house, either for society or for a fresh prospect. Nor would Paris or Rome offer, in all their splendours, temptation enough to lure you thither.”
Jenny frowned, then finally released the ribbon in her golden hair. “Surely he could speak such a tongue anywhere in the world and you would find yourself doubly satisfied in being abroad and being in desirous company.”
“Not so,” Mary said. “For it would presume impudence and impropriety. Desmond is apt at his tongue, but not at many others, and so his low-breeding would be immediately apparent, even to a Parisian crumpet.” She tapped a finger upon her chin thoughtfully. “Especially to a Parisian crumpet.”
The conversation now at an end, they nodded and sipped their tea. Mary looked very pleased in all accounts, whereas Jenny and Elizabeth were perplexed, albeit in different regards. Another of Jenny’s ribbons had come undone, and so she was very vexed in setting it right atop her head. Elizabeth frowned, casting furtive eyes of judgment sidelong at her host and friend.
“It is all jolly-folly,” she said meaningfully.
For Mary’s part, she was so warm and glowing with a language only she knew among the three of them that when the wind grew chillier, she did not mind it, even as her friends shivered. The trees themselves seemed to shiver, too, for the shadows stretched long and the sun slowly sank into its shadowy bed.
“My, I should be getting home,” Jenny said, hugging her shawl about her shoulders. “Arthur will be wondering at my absence. Though, I doubt overmuch. He loves spending time with his schoolyard friend, John. They are inseparable, you know. They get along so well together. Much more, I am afraid, than even Arthur and I get along. But we are young, and our marriage fresh. I am sure there is time enough to grow together.”
It was Elizabeth’s and Mary’s turn to exchange shrewd glances.
“Will he keep you warm, Jenny?’ Mary asked, mischievously.
“With a fire, perhaps,” Jenny said, misunderstanding. “Arthur is so thoughtful that he always insists that my bedroom be tended to most, often to the neglect of his own bedroom.”
“Separate bedrooms?’ Mary said, suppressing a smile. “But how does Arthur tend to your fire, then?”
“Alfred, his butler, tends to it when the night comes on with its drafts,” Jenny said simply. Naively. “Alfred uses the poker rather deftly, like a wizard conjuring fire.”
“So, too, does my Desmond,” Mary said, barely suppressing a giggle. “But Elizabeth,” she said, turning to her other friend, “what is the arrangement between yourself and your husband, Matthew?”
Elizabeth cleared her throat, though she could not clear the sharp edge of vexation in her voice.
“Matthew and I sleep in separate chambers,” she said, as a judge delivering a bitter verdict. “ I cannot abide his smoking…or…” She faltered a moment. “…or his attendance to my fire.”
Mary gave Elizabeth a sympathetic smile, patting her gloved hand. There was a goodly deal of condescension in the latter act. “I am sure there is a servant apter at the art. My Desmond is indeed a wizard, conjuring flames with a mere wag of his tongue.” She smiled puckishly. “He speaks whole infernos into being. And they keep me warm throughout the most frigid of nights.”
Again, Elizabeth cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably. She eyed her red-headed friend enviously.
“I do not see how it should take much art to tend a fire,” Jenny opined, obliviously. “Alfred is nearly senile, and yet he accomplishes the task very adequately. At times even I tend to my own fire, exciting it with a clumsy poker. The propensities of fire, and the plenitude of wood, should be sufficient for the need, no matter how novice the pyrolater.”
Mary and Elizabeth exchanged glances—the former, sly and mirthful; the latter, shrewd and irritated.
“Indeed,” Mary said. “Any sufficient measure of wood may feed a fire, but here is something to be praised in that heathenistic affinity in the art of pyromancy. Why, I feel as a wicker woman all aflame with…passion…when Desmond speaks his special tongue to me.” She laughed with a girlish cadence of unconscientious joy. “I am utterly consumed by it, you know. It is always Beltane when he is speaking his special tongue to me.”
Elizabeth scowled. “One can lose one’s soul to such heathenism,” she said, her voice cold with something akin to resentment. “We must be wary of the Devil’s tongue. It can sway angels to lower stations with debased practices and unworthy company.”
“The waves lap wonderfully in my Lake of Fire,” Mary said, too pleased to be affronted, and too emboldened to be restrained. She tucked a curl of red hair behind her ear. “Maybe Lucifer was right. Maybe it is better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven.”
Jenny gasped, a dainty hand to her little lips. “But your soul, Mary! Truly, we must attend church and repent together! Father Willoughby will rectify these mortal failings. There is no salvation except through Christ, and so you must recant such confusion in your compass. Otherwise it will cost you everlastingly.”
Mary regarded her earnest friend with a condescending smirk—tight lipped, with a nodding of her head. She then turned to Elizabeth, the latter stiff-shouldered and scowling openly now.
“There are times when Desmond’s heathen tongue is so persuasive that I could die in the moment and be eternally contented. Whatever lay beyond that moment of…exultation…is nought but dreary, drafty winds through a dusty hallway. The world burns away with the intensity of it, and all else becomes as soot beneath my feet.”
“And what of the tongues wagging behind one’s back?” Elizabeth demanded, setting her teacup down hard for emphasis on the point. “They can raze reputations and family legacies with the tempests they whip up. Have you ever paused to give thought to that?”
“They are impotent cinders,” Mary replied lightly. “As impotent as the cries of herons on the Isle of Skye. All is obliterated in the inferno.”
“The tongues of fire lap at lost souls in the inferno,” Jenny said, so far amiss in the conversation that her input was no more than the whispers of the breeze through the arbor. Her two friends ignored her.
“And what of friendships?” Elizabeth continued, still scowling. “What of the cost such heresies might entail in regard to them?”
For the first time, Mary’s smile and gleeful tone faltered. “I…I should hope that any true friend might weather the infernos for the sake of a friend as devout in her loyalty and its reciprocation.”
Elizabeth stared hard at her friend, her thin lips set in a narrowly compressed line.
“You take more than you give, Mary,” she said. “It is a problem plaguing many relationships, it seems to me.”
Desmond stood at the foot of the bed like any butler awaiting orders. Tall, lean, and with a grimly-set expression of diligence, he was the very figure of decorum and servitude. Except he was out of uniform. Very much out of uniform.
Mary lay on the four-poster bed, watching Desmond with a cat-catches-canary smile upon her face. She, too, was very much out of uniform, and spread her freckled arms, fixing her fine, smooth fingers upon the headboard. Her pale body flickered orange in the clandestine candlelight. There was no one else in the entirety of her estate. She had sent the other servants home to visit relatives or friends or lovers or whoever would preoccupy their evenings. She did not care. The only interest stood before her.
“Come now, Desmond,” she said. “Attend me.”
“I will,” the denuded man said. “But first…”
He hesitated, falling silent. She could see by the flaring candlelight the ambiguity etched upon his handsome features.
“What do you want?” she asked. “Less chores around the estate? A bauble? I could get something for you while I am away in London next week, visiting Vivien. She knows the quaintest shops where nearly anything can be purchased.”
“I mean to accompany you in London,” he said. “But not in a servant’s capacity.”
Mary cackled in delight. “Oh, you have a mercenary heart! But you know such things cannot be.”
“And for what reason so?” he demanded. “You have said many times that you do not care if high society should know of our attachment.”
Her tone was sobered now; incredulous. “It is not an attachment, Desmond. Do not forget yourself.”
Desmond swayed as if stricken, and Mary’s tone softened.
“I would not have you away from my estate,” she said. “You know I cannot trust anyone to see to it but you.”
The fire in the hearth behind Desmond fluttered to one side, as if a cold draft had hurled itself headlong into it.
“Such patronage does me much honor,” he said, his face dark and his tone sour. “To condescend to someone so low as myself esteems you as to a saint.”
“I will not tolerate insolence, Desmond,” Mary snapped. “You are a servant. In this service do you serve me, still. But that is the total of it insomuch as we are bound. To stoop to pretending that you are my equal would be to lose face. Not in society’s estimation, but my own. And I will never shame myself, nor depreciate my self-worth through such short-shrift.”
“So I am nothing more to you than a servant,” he said, bitterly. “You view me as just another pleasure to be taken for granted. Our intimacy is one strictly of mistress and servant.”
“You are well-compensated,” she said, sitting up and sliding forward. She reached out with both hands and took hold of his wrist, attempting to draw him down onto the bed, toward her spread legs. “Come, Desmond. I will permit you to sleep here tonight, beside me, if you like. Is that the intimacy you require?”
Desmond drew his hand away, and her coaxing smile hardened to an irritated frown.
“Desmond,” she said, “do not ruin this lovely evening with your unwarranted umbrage. We could be both of us quite satisfied if you would simply surrender to the strong instinct inherent in your breeding…”
Desmond yanked his arm free from his mistress at once, turned, and strode to his uniform, gathering it up and donning it in the dimming glow of the hearth.
“Where are you going?” she demanded, her voice pitched with alarm.
“I have attended you in all ways a husband might,” he said. “I have seen to your finances. I have seen to your servants. I have seen to your needs, whatever myriad ways they might manifest. Yet, you have always neglected me in all respects a man should be afforded by the woman he loves and to whom he is devoted. I had hopes for a relationship by daylight such as we share by moonlight. But you value me no more than a beast in the field, wanting me for nothing but to expend your carnal propensities. Nor are you equal in those indulgences, oftentimes affording me no reciprocation pleasure whereas I have selflessly given and given unto a cornucopia of giving!”
“Desmond, please do not leave me now!” She leapt up from her bed, hurrying to him in a bereft state of undress. “Please, do not leave me alone! Come to bed with me. Please.”
He paused at buckling his belt, almost looking at her. But the anguish overtaking his face was dismissed and dignity resumed itself with an austere measure in his demeanour. He donned his shirt and jacket, not bothering with his tie. He headed to the dark portal that was the door.
“Please tend to the fire tonight,” Mary pleaded, following after him. She lay a trembling hand upon his shoulder. “That’s all I wish. You do not have to join me in bed. Just…just tend to the fire and keep me warm.”
“Tend to it yourself,” he retorted. He opened the door and hastened out into the dark hallway, leaving her behind.
Mary felt quite cold, and walked aimlessly about her bedroom like a lost soul. She had come, it seemed, to the Ninth Circle of Hell. Her womanhood was now a frozen lake. Her heart gnawed on Judas in bitter disappointment. She looked into the embers of the darkening hearth and felt the world grow cold to its core.
Elizabeth held her legs apart as Matthew, her husband, thrust against her. It was, as always, over after a handful of minutes. He groaned, convulsed, and then collapsed onto the bed—onto her— and lay there, heaving and breathless against her breasts. Afterward, she looked upon the wrinkled, flabby and pale body of her old husband as he sprawled over her, panting. Pale, loose skin— reminiscent of candle wax long ago melted and now cold—gleamed in the light from the hearth. She was reminded of a warm, wet slug. She shuddered, and not from pleasure.
After a few moments, he rolled off of her and to the side, crumpled like a leaf in Winter.
Elizabeth’s gown was hot, or so it seemed. She flung it from her body, and kicked away the sheets near her feet. She wished for a cold shower.
“You will catch a cold,” her husband said, his breath labored still.
“I am likely for a fever,” she said, laying stiffly now, as if a frozen body in the snow. Her black hair was arrayed about her head, like the halo of some martyr.
They said nothing else. Matthew lay in bed a while longer, then began to crawl toward the edge, slowly, painfully, slipping out and onto his shaky feet. He leaned on his mahogany cane, limping to his nightgown. Shakily, he lifted the nightgown up and over his head, down his cadaverous body. He struck up a cigar before he was to the door, blowing smoke into the dark. The flaring faggot illuminated his vulture features for a flashing moment just before he disappeared through the door and down the hall.
Again, Elizabeth shuddered. She leaned toward the bedside table, taking the bottle of wine in hand. She did not bother with a drinking glass, but kissed the bottle more ardently than she had ever kissed her husband. Drinking herself into a stupor, she set the bottle down—tumbling it to the Turkish carpet below—and sprawled insensate upon the bed, her skin bare to the crisp, cold air. She welcomed the cold, and the oblivion. She welcomed the scorn that was a frigid draft through her bedroom.
She hoped the cold would find her husband in his bedroom and snuff out his smouldering cigar light. There were times when she wished it would find her, and snuff out her own light.
Jenny lay naked beneath the heaving form of Alfred, moaning in pleasure as the butler rutted upon her. It was past midnight and her husband Arthur had gone to bed, joined by John. It was an arrangement both sides found very pleasing.
After Alfred finished, and he had helped Jenny finish, Jenny lay panting to one side of her bed while the butler rose to gather his clothes. He did so swiftly and economically, with no fuss or words. He was much younger than Jenny had said to her two friends while at tea together earlier than day. Virile and somber and handsome and, most importantly, discreet, he was just what Jenny wanted in a servant assigned to such duties. He opened and closed the door with tactful silence, his lean frame disappearing down the dark hallway without the faintest whisper of a footfall.
The butler gone, and the door closed, Jenny sighed in great satisfaction. The warmth of the recent rigors still smoldered within her, hot as the hearth across the room. She spoke aloud to herself.
“Discretion best serves mischief alongside shrewd naivete,” she said. “Strategic naivete. It really does make one impervious to the wagging of tongues, whether they be sheathed in the mouths of society, or one’s own friends. There is no shield like naivete against prattle. They may demean the naivete itself, but what does it accomplish if even a million tongues whip at a mirage in the desert? They may wag themselves dry, but the mirage remains, and so distracts from my little oasis that I keep to myself.”
Having thus spoken at leisure, and in an ease equally earnest, she reached a hand up to the white ribbons in her fair hair. They were tautly tied. She undid them with a pinch of her fingers and twist of her wrist. Her golden hair tumbled down wildly. The white ribbons lay in a heap, like discarded snake skins. They would coil there, in their little nest, until the morning when she would take them up once again and tie the tongues of the world up in incessant gossip entirely amiss of the actual truth.
Hell of an ache in my leg. Must be going to rain. Good thing I’m wearing my trenchcoat. Even now, far from the trenches, I can’t escape the need to wear it. It is one of the best things to fend off the rain, despite how it can sometimes invite the wash-off into my boots. Good against the New York fog, too. And the cold New York winters. My fedora helps also, keeping my head dry, but nothing keeps the chill out of my gimp leg. Damp, cold pain. Like a Mauser gone cold in my leg. As it so happens, it is an old Mauser in my leg. Medics never could get it out, they said, without risking my artery. The fact that my artery had healed around it baffled them back then. Should have bled out, they said. I did bleed out. But I am still alive today, for better or for worse.
She wouldn’t let me die back then. Sometimes I think she is still here, keeping me alive.
The sprawl of the docks is like a ship at sea. The boardwalk sways with the ocean and creaks as if it has a hull breach, keen on sinking. The boats are in the distance, lost in fog and night and the crowding shadows. The streetlights lead me along in my uncertainty. Like a dog on a leash, unsure why his master has a sad face and a loaded rifle. The dead of New York line the empty streets, like shades on River Styx. Only I can see them as their apparitions drift by. Not many living people would put up with the Sight. Seeing the dead everywhere can really ruin your appetite.
But the dead are not the people I’m concerned with. At least, I don’t believe so. I’m on the lookout for a young man. His Jewish mother is wanting him home. Probably went for a visit at a brothel and fell in love with Loose-Lucy. Or maybe got himself Shanghaied. Or maybe just left his old mother for another life. It happens. If he was dead, I would have seen him in her apartment. The dead cling to familiar forms of their former lives. Much like those of us who are half-alive, having lost our former lives in the War.
I try not to think about the War. There are enough ghosts on the boardwalk as it is without conjuring more to haunt me. That old decade is gone, and a new one’s begun, the upstart pup saddled with all of the problems from the old hound dog. Nobody warned me that the new decade would be of the same pedigree as the old. Same president, but different war. Not that I have anything against Truman. He’s just no Roosevelt, you know? Maybe he started war with the Koreans because he thinks he needs to live up to Frank. Maybe there are too many war hawks circling restlessly since 1945. I don’t know. Feed them scraps from the table and they think they rule the castle. I’m no Beatnik, but even I’ve got to say this country’s had enough of war for a while.
Glad I’m a cripple now. No war with a side order of conscription for me, thanks. Then again, there’s always a war going on in New York, isn’t there?
The bar is called the “Creak-Easy”. A joke, obviously. It is on the edge of the city, near the docks. A good place to funnel some patrons fresh off the boat. Dock workers. Sailors. Fishermen. The bartender has blonde hair and blue eyes. Hitler would have loved him slapped up on some propaganda posters. Only, he is one of our boys. Navy, I assume, by the pictures of the battleships and sailors and pilots all over the place. Also, the bloated dead men around him are a hint. Not much detective work involved, all in all. Dead men tell no tales, they say, but that isn’t the case at all for me.
“Hello,” I say.
“The name’s Dan,” the bartender says, unprompted. He extends his hand over the counter. “I like to greet all my new regulars.”
I hesitate, sizing him up. I shake his hand.
“Jim,” I say. I hold up the photograph Allen’s mother has given to me. “Private investigator. Looking for a missing person. Young man. Tall. Big. Jew.”
“A tall, big Jew, huh?” Dan says, grinning as he glances at the photograph. “He’d be easy to spot. Most Jews I know are little guys with big noses.” When he sees that I do not share his joke, he shifts uncomfortably, withdrawing his hand. “Course, they didn’t deserve what the Nazis did to them. Just saying that your Jew doesn’t sound run of the mill.”
I ignore his opining. “His name’s Allen Cronenburg. Likes to go by ‘Al’ sometimes.”
“The problem is,” Dan says, “that not many of them come around here.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating a Catholic crucifix on the wall. “Even if he was welcome here—and he wouldn’t be—he wouldn’t dare show his face around here. Not if he was a smart Jew.”
“Guess I’ll ask around anyway,” I say, turning to go.
“Not without buying a drink,” he says, his baby blue eyes hardening.
I don’t drink anymore. It gives me a headache, and I see more than I care to see when I’m drunk. So I try a different tact.
“You were in the Navy,” I say. It is not a question.
“Yeah. What of it?”
“Lost a lot of friends to the waves,” I say, trying not to stare too much at the swollen faces of the ghosts around him, behind the bar.
“Maybe,” he says, shifting uncomfortably.
“I lost friends, too,” I say. “In the Death Factory.”
His scowl dissolves into wonder. “You survived the Death Factory?”
“Somewhat,” I say. “Not completely.”
He nods. He stoops down behind the bar and fetches a glass. He pours a glass of beer and hands it over to me. “On the house,” he says.
I take a gulp— just enough to show good faith—and I survey the bar and its patrons.
“The limp?” Dan asks.
I nod. “Lucky I got to keep it. The leg, I mean.”
Dan starts talking to me about his own wounds. I am not listening to him. One of his ghosts is sputtering with swollen lips, his voice gargling in his distended neck. It is hard to understand the dead sailor and his babbling, but I get the gist of it. The dead man tells me his message for Dan, the bartender. I will tell him later. Right now I am more concerned with finding the living man I was sent to find.
“And so I get this shoulder ache pretty badly from time to time,” Dan concludes, grimacing as he rotates an arm. “Better than dead, I always say.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I say. “But keep the healthy perspective. Excuse me.”
I leave the counter and head toward the middle of the room, amidst all of the tables. None of the ghosts look like a tall, big Jewish boy, so I ignore the ghosts, for now, and focus on the living. A couple of guys at the far back corner have several dead men around them, their tickets punched to the Stygian shore. Bullet holes in some. Others with wires around their throats, eyes bulging out of their sockets. Mafia men, likely. One of them smirks up at me—as only a Mafia man can—and winks. The other one—bigger than the smaller, smirkier one—scowls at me.
Save those two for last, I think. I focus on the other patrons before the smaller Mafia man’s smirk loses its edge of humor. I could use tact with the two Mafia men—butter them up with some jokes and whatnot—but my leg is hurting me, so I just sit down, uninvited. Sometimes you got to just open with an honest salvo. Let’s both sides know that there is no flirtation involved.
“Looking for this guy,” I say, holding up the photograph. “Allen Cronenburg. You two wouldn’t happen to know what could have happened to him, would he? He frequented this dock. Possibly for business. Possibly for pleasure.”
“Maybe for both,” the smaller man says, smirking. “Some of us have the good fortune of business and pleasure at the same time.”
The bigger man says nothing. He only nods, his hard gaze unblinking as it, in all likelihood, surveys me for every little bone he could break when need should arise.
“It can be,” I admit, “but I don’t know the peculiarities of the man enough to know. You know? I wanted to make sure he did not get mixed up in anything that wasn’t…kosher.”
The smaller man— an Italian with dark black hair and a pencil mustache that could underwrite your execution—smiles broadly. His brown eyes glitter with amusement beneath his fedora.
“This guy here is funny, ain’t he?” he says to the bigger man.
“Real funny,” the bigger man says, mirthlessly.
“And that’s why I’m going to give him a warning,” the Italian says. “But in a funny way.” He grabs my arm; not violently, but firmly, and points to his own nose with his other hand. “We don’t like nosy people,” he says. “And Jews got big noses, don’t they?”
He laughs and lets go of my arm. I smile, but it has no more humor in it than the bigger guy’s openly hostile grimace. I wait until the Italian’s laughter peters off, then press him while still holding the photograph up.
“So you’ve never heard of him?”
The bigger man squints up and down at me like a tailor making an estimation of size for a suit, or an undertaker for a coffin. The Italian glances at the photograph, briefly, then shrugs.
“No,” he says, “but you keep sticking your nose where it don’t belong and you’ll wake up to find yourself a rabbi.” He grins broadly. “By which I mean you’ll have gotten an aversion to pig’s blood.”
He chuckles. His friend—accomplice or partner in crime or whatever he may be—does not share in this joke, either. His grim expression is set in granite, like a mountain, and like a mountain he is ready to drop those boulders of his fists on my head.
“What?” the Italian says, looking hurt. “Nobody appreciates a good joke. A couple of wet rags, the both of you.”
“Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” I say, standing.
“No problem, gumshoe,” the Italian says, rolling his eyes to watch me step away. “Happy hunting.”
I leave their table. The two Mafia men are not responsible for Allen’s disappearance. Their table is crowded with people, but none of their ghosts match the photo of Allen. Their eyes follow me imploringly; wanting revenge or justice or acknowledgment. I don’t have much time to offer them anything. There are more dead in this city than there are homeless, and even if I had the money to offer the Ferryman payment to send each of them Beyond, I still wouldn’t have the time to see it through.
The next person I visit is an old man with the drunken dazzle of the sea in his swaying eyes.
“Hello there, old-timer,” I say. “Mind if I shoot the breeze with you for a minute?”
“It’s a briny breeze,” the old man says, taking a gulp of his beer. “Awfully salty. But it’s the way I like it.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I say. I sit across from him, the wobbly little table between us. I show him the photograph. “Mother’s looking for her son. Young man, as you can see. Allen Cronenburg. Big Jew. Probably head and shoulders above us all.”
The old man finishes his beer in one last gulp, then squints at the photograph. He is wearing a trechcoat, like mine, but faded with too much sun and saltwater.
“There ain’t no saltwater like a mother crying for her lost child,” he says. “Big man, hm?” He rubs his scraggly beard. “Lots of lads help on the docks. Different sizes, but few so tall as you say. Maybe he sought his fortunes over the waves. Some of us do, and never look back. Take a new mother to replace the old.”
“I thought he might,” I say, “but I still need to make sure, if I can.” I shrug. “I don’t get paid, otherwise.”
The old man drinks the rest of his beer, squinting with one eye out the window, toward the docks. He never blinks. He seems the type that stares at the sun defiantly, even if it burns out his sea-dazzled eyes.
“Aye, the payout’s what we are all looking for,” he says. He sets his empty mug down on the table, in front of me. “Any sailor worth his saltwater gets a portion forwarded afore the ship sets out to sea.”
Taking the hint, I pick it up and bring it to the bar. I tell Dan I need another beer.
“On the house,” he says.
“Not for me,” I say, hooking a thumb over my shoulder at the old-timer. “Him.”
It is a mistake.
“His tab is as deep as the Mariana Trench. I’m not even sure how he got that beer to begin with. Probably filched it from somebody or suckered them with a sob-story.”
“I’m not looking for a sob-story,” I assure him. “Just a trail, or a few breadcrumbs.”
“You’ll get nothing from him but hogwash.”
“Regardless,” I say, “I need a beer for him. I’ll pay.”
I pay for the beer, then bring it back to the old sailor. I set the mug in front of him.
“Thank you, kindly,” he says. He takes the mug casually, lipping the froth. I ask him a few questions as he wets his beard. He ignores my questions in the meantime, then sets his mug down.
“What you need to know,” he says, “is that men have been dying around here. Young, old, Christian, Jew, Negro, Pollock. It don’t matter as to who—they’ve all been turning up dead. And by ‘turning up’ I mean to say floating up. We’ve been finding them on the sea near the docks. Lot’s o’ dead from drowning. Or so it seemed at first. Only, they’ve been done a terrible wrong. Their…well, their lower halves have been violated all bloody. Mutilated. And sharks and fishes can only account for so much. Maybe they all crossed the wrong gang. I don’t know what Christian would do that to a man to kill him. A garroter might bloody his hands a little with a little wire, and a hitman might bore a swallow’s nest out of a man’s head, but to do what has been done to some of these boys? Well, what diabolical bastard would do that?”
“You think Allen suffered the same treatment?” I ask.
He takes another swig of his beer, clearing his throat roughly as if he’s got shrapnel in it.
“Don’t know. All I know is that even the gangs around here are unnerved by it. Nobody wants to talk about the bodies. Even those tough boys over there that you risked your stones to talk to don’t like nobody saying nothing about it when they’re in earshot of it. Gets them upset.”
The old-timer chuckles, or gargles glass— it is hard to tell the difference.
“They go all lily-white,” he says quietly. “Reminds me of that fellar in London with the knives and the prostitutes. What’s his name?”
“Jack the Ripper,” I say.
He nods. “Something like him,” he says. “You don’t want to find a body like that.” He gives me a knowing look. “You were in the War, right?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Well, it’s like somebody sat on a landmine. Not a pretty sight. You know, we used to eat turtles, and one of the ways of cleaning them is to cut off the head and put a hose in the stump, flushing it with water. These bodies are like that, only reversed.”
He takes one last swig of his beer, tilting his head back dramatically and draining it to the dregs. His head sways as if he is ready to fall asleep, but his eyes never shut or blink. They just keep on squinting. I wonder if he sleeps with his eyes open, like Captain Ahab ever fixed upon his White Whale.
“No, sir,” he concludes, “you do not want to witness what we pulled up in our fishing nets. It’s likely to haunt a man…even a man that’s seen the horrors of War.”
This conversation finished, I stand up and walk around between some of the other patrons of the Creak-Easy. Some are more taciturn than others. Some can’t stop talking; others are tight-lipped as a can of sardines and mercury. Eventually, someone makes a scene. Not me, or anyone I am conversing with, but a newcomer barging in through the door.
“Whooooo!” the newcomer crescendoes, wobbly as a jellyfish. He is wearing an old, dirty coat and a pair of dirty slacks. A hat sits crookedly on his head, and seems like it will fall off at any moment as he wobbles left and right. Ican tell just by the look of him that he has all his shoestrings untied.
“Leroy, you loon!” Dan yells. “I’ve told you before to get out and stay out!”
Leroy’s feet halt, their big boots planting heavily on the floor, but his upper body sways as if he was a plunger struck by a 2×4. He is a lanky man of indeterminate age, his dirty beard curly and twirly.
“Oh, Dan!” Leroy exclaims. “Jus’ lemme’ haf a seagull drink. Jus’ won drink!”
“You’ve have enough, by the look of you!” Dan says, scowling. “Get outta’ here before I have to throw you out. Go get some sleep!”
“I can’t,” Leroy says mournfully, blinking back tears I cannot see. “I ain’t had nuffin’ to eat! Not won bite!”
Dan glares all the harder, but says no more. His anger gives way to blue-eyed pity—reluctantly—and he fishes into his pocket with a hand. Sighing, he holds up a couple of quarters.
“Go get something to eat,” Dan says, “somewhere else.”
Leroy wobbles to the bar, takes the two quarters, and stands there, staring at all of the liquor behind Dan.
“I said go,” Dan repeats. “Somewhere else.”
Leroy purses his lips thirstily, then sighs as if someone told him his childhood sweetheart has died.
“Ain’t no love fo’ ol’ Leroy ‘round ear,” Leroy groans. “Jus’ haf to throw mah’selth in the oshun if I wanna’ drink. Like ‘em lizard people. THE LIZARD PEOPLE!” he shouts at the end for emphasis.
Leroy staggered toward the door, the two quarters now gone into his dirty coat pocket. Smelling a potential trail, I head after him. Drunks with loose lips can reveal things that others are less likely to say.
Dan meets me at the door.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, “but Leroy’s a lost cause. He can’t offer you any info except what color the park bench is under its seat.”
“What happened to him?” I ask, still eying Leroy as he goes through the door.
“Same thing that happened to everybody else,” Dan says. “The War. Leroy was a cook on my ship. He wasn’t a bad guy, just a bad cook. All he could cook well was his own brain. And then a kamikaze hit us and he took a heavy kettle to the head. He has been dazed ever since. Dazed and confused and drunk. Once, when sober, he begged me for a drink. Saying he kept hearing ‘voices’.”
“Lizard men?” I say.
Dan shook his head. “No, the voices of all of the men trapped below-deck. The ship was taking on water and we had to abandon ship. We…we all hear those voices sometimes. That’s why I can’t stand the Japs next-door. I won’t go out of my way to tell them so, but I can’t stand them.”
“What are they, tenants?”
“Something like that,” he says, scowling. “But they also sell food to idiots willing to eat it. They act innocent, but no Jap’s ever been straight. Even their eyes are slanted, ya’ know? Probably been killing people and putting them in their soup. They’re goddamn cannibals, and I would know. I’ve heard stories from buddies in the Pacific. Japs don’t even value their own lives. Kamikazes will tell you that much. Crashed into us like they were playing chicken while blindfolded.”
Japs next-door. Cannibal soup. Farfetched, I know, but I think I’ll bite this hook and see where it takes me.
My governess, Rosamund, was quite vexed with me today. It was all her fault, naturally. It was she who left me unsupervised while I was plunged in my French studies, the lax woman taking the liberty of a walk about the garden with her favourite servant of the house, Clifford. While she was thus engaged I neglected my French in favour of the article concerning the Cottingley Fairies. It is ever a dear subject beloved in my heart—Fairies, I mean to say, not French—and I maintain that it must hold in its strange murk some glittering kernel of truth, as a nugget of gold amidst a vast coal mine of shadows. That is why I keep secret my copy of The Strand, though two years have passed since its publication. I am more inclined to read it than anything else published by Arthur Conan Doyle, particularly his stifling adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Indeed, I am astounded that Doyle could have entertained the Cottingley Fairies with any seriousness. When I consider his famously logical detective and his vacuous rationalism, one would never think Doyle of an inclination toward the phantastical. And yet, I hold within my hands evidence to the contrary.
Father attempted to dispossess me of the magazine because he believed that it fueled my fancies. What he had failed to understand, however, was that I am a keen observer of things, and so when he ordered Clifford to throw it out, I knew precisely where the magazine would find itself. That is to say, in Clifford’s bedroom. Rosamund is not the only person to search Clifford’s bare furnishings for an incriminating item.
Father has many times reprimanded Rosamund for being lax with her attentions to my studies. Therefore, when she returned from her walk she administered the French crucible in earnest, testing my poorly cultivated powers of the French tongue. I failed decidedly to follow her conversation and therefore confirmed her fears concerning my capacity for that quarrelsome language. It was an utterly hopeless cause. I would sooner master the magic of flight than master that tongue.
C’est la vie.
Of course, that is not to say I am deficient in mental acuity to master the language. Only, I rather prefer my native tongue, having honed its edge and multiplied its vocabulary with thirteen years of practice and study. I am ever collecting words for it, as fervently as any lepidopterist his beautiful specimens, whereas my French tongue withers and wanes without sufficient nourishment. And quite by design. I confine French to the basement, like a lowly urchin, and let it die slowly of starvation. My aim is to be a celebrated novelist of the phantastical variety. Not Gothic, understand, nor of the Romances, but such as Lord Dunsany and George MacDonald, the poetess Christina Rossetti and poet Alfred Tennyson. This aim is at dire odds with Father’s intentions for me. He claims a man of good breeding and better fortune would never condescend to marry a young woman of frivolous ambition, and that I should abandon my fanciful daydreams lest they interfere with more pragmatic aspirations. But I cannot help my mold and manner, anymore than his humorless austerity. Austen was apt to remind us that no man worthy of his estate wishes to link his life to a silly wife, but that is of no consequence to me. To the contrary, to marry would be the greatest consequence of all.
I persist in my ambitions, adamant that a capable mind may accommodate both pragmatism and phantasia. I intend, in short, to win financial independence as Jane Austen had, whereby I will thereupon claim freedom to be as stoic or as silly as my inclination should dictate.
June 21st, 1922
I saw a Fairy today! A real, honest-to-God Fairy! I am all aquiver at the recollection, scarcely able to write with a steady hand. Oh, but what a day! How shall I recall this otherworldly encounter? I suppose I should begin with banal descriptions of the Fairy himself.
Outwardly, he seemed but an unremarkable boy such as would be drawn from any common stock in England. He was a young boy and was of a young boy’s height. His hair was dark brown and his skin so pale that he seemed a deathly ill person. I was sitting beneath the gazebo when he alighted on the railing. I quickly put aside Voltaire’s Candide and stared in astonishment at his boldness. He crouched upon the railing like a crow and said nothing. He was utterly naked, which should have embarrassed me; only, he was a Fairy and, so, why would I fault him his heathen manner and means? He moved so strangely, his head lolling loosely and his limbs somewhat slack as if he might, at any moment, swoon and tumble to the ground. His eyes stared unblinkingly and his mouth hung open, nor did his blue lips move smoothly. His otherworldliness was confirmed in every bizarre respect.
Yet, I cannot refrain from noting with great disappointment that he did not possess butterfly wings. Rather, there extended from his back the translucent wings of a dragonfly: long and elliptical and diaphanous. It was a pity. Perhaps the females of the species are possessed of butterfly wings. I should hope so or it seems a dreadful waste of feminine conceit.
“Hello,” I said to him. “How do you do?”
The poor creature must have been malnourished, like a hummingbird that has been famished for too long a time, for he swayed as if he might fall. But he did not collapse. His mouth gaped open, and his throat undulated, the vocal cords producing something akin to human speech, and that speech was, surprisingly, a disordered form of English.
“Girl, pretty,” he said. “Fairy, I. Fairy, I. Pretty girl. Wings like Fairy? Wings like I?”
“I haven’t any wings, no,” I said.
The Fairy’s head tossed left and right ungracefully. “No. Wings, want? Like I?”
I understood him, then, to mean that if I should want wings I should have them. But I did not care for his wings or the prospect of having such. Being ever direct and thoughtless in my address, I said, “I would rather have butterfly wings.”
He grew agitated at this, vibrating like a locust in Summer, so I apologized.
“Please forgive me,” I said, “for I have always been very forthright. A novelist must be so when concerning the facts. Your wings are quite becoming for your being a boy. It is only that a young lady should prefer wings more ornate to hold her aloft. Though I am confused how I might procure wings of my own, having not been born a Fairy. Or have I misunderstood you?”
“Wings, pretty girl,” he said, though his lax mouth did not conform to the words, nor did the strangely buzzing voice seem quite his own as it issued from his bulging throat. “Pretty wings. Pretty girl. Pretty, pretty, pretty.”
Nothing of his speech struck me as particularly pretty, but I suppose that is the manner of all boys, whether born of Adam or of Avalon.
“Pretty, pretty, pretty,” he continued to say in his buzzing voice.
“Very so,” I agreed, “or I should like to think. I have been told my mother was a beauty in her time, God rest her soul. My name is Esme. I am French by name, as well as by mother, but British by way of breeding and upbringing. And by way of Father. And who might you be?”
“Who?” he said.
“You, my silly fellow,” I said. “What is your name? What do I call you?”
“Name?” the Fairy said, his countenance lax. “No names. One in many. Not one at all.”
Such a voice! Like the buzzing of insects. Yet I understood him well enough.
“So you have no name,” I said. “Then I should like—with your permission—to name you.”
“Name?” he said again, and I took it to mean his consent.
I considered him for a moment as he crouched upon the railing. Sunlight sparkled upon his diaphanous wings, and he swayed like a drunkard straight from the wine cellar. Perhaps it was my imagination getting the better of me in this wondrous moment, but I fancied I saw something strange upon his back, glimpsed only edgewise and briefly. But I could not discern what it could have been. Likely it was a shadow and his disheveled hair behind his ears and down his neck.
“I believe your name should be…” I paused, letting the thought come of its own accord. Suddenly, it struck me like lightning. “Ariel! Yes, of course. That is who you are, my confused Fairy friend. It is perfect for you. Ariel. How do you do, Ariel?”
He did not seem impressed, or perhaps he was simply indifferent. Fairies do not conform to human pretenses in many ways, it seems, and names are just one of many customs they forego. He watched me with his unblinking eyes and, though I was still enchanted by his presence, I began to feel peculiar. The gaze of his eyes seemed so faraway, and yet keen, and it quite unnerved me in their contrary nature. I could not deduce why. Perhaps it was the faint luminosity in his eyes, such as that of a somnambulist astir in the middle of the night. The shadow at his back again disturbed me, nor could I distinguish it, even as the sunlight draped him over his shoulders with its radiance.
At length, there came two voices from down the garden walkway—two figures engaged in private conversation peppered with giggles and chuckles and cooing sighs. At the sound, Ariel fluttered his wings and took flight, flitting swiftly away into the air. I left the gazebo, hoping to catch a glimpse of him in a higher altitude, but he had vanished before I had emerged from under the rounded roof.
Rosamund and Clifford approached, their voices quieting conspiratorially as they neared me, though their spiteful grins remained.
“Hello, Esme,” Clifford said, quite too familiar for a mere servant in Father’s household. “How go the daydreams?”
“Better than my French,” I confessed, which was much to great folly, for it invited Rosamund’s scrutiny at once.
“Are you studying French?” she asked, as if all that mattered in the world between us was my fluency.
“No,” I said. “I was reading and then the most unbelievable thing happened.”
“Indeed?” Clifford said, exchanging a dubious glance with Rosamund. “And what was that?”
I opened my mouth to disclose the encounter with the Fairy, but faltered before the utterance of a single word, realizing the ridicule that should follow.
“Yes?” Clifford said, patiently.
When I faltered, yet again, Rosamund scoffed. “I should say it was that she applied the proper conjugations to her French verbs. But that is too unbelievable, even for a believer in miracles, such as myself.”
I scowled at the vexing crumpet, but turned away so she did not observe it.
“I saw…I saw a wondrous dragonfly,” I said. “Inordinately large. Strange. Unlike any other I have ever seen.”
Rosamund and Clifford exchanged another look—this look being one of disappointment and disinterest.
“Dear,” Clifford said to Rosamund, “perhaps you ought to allow her to indulge her fancies a little more, or else she will be grow ever duller until she is fascinated by account ledgers, and so ruin her leisure.”
“If only she would!” Rosamund remarked, shaking her ugly brown curls. “She would be so much more manageable, in any case. And to think she might read account ledgers in French! Her father would be impressed greatly. He might even raise my wages!”
Rosamund laughed heartily and went along her way. Clifford dutifully followed, accompanying her. I remained near the gazebo. I would have been greatly injured by their insolence, but I was too delighted with my newfound Fairy friend to begrudge my petty governess and a lowly servant for paltry slights. Their comeuppance would come in due time. The universe is a just place, after all, and the Scales of Justice mete out their punishments eventually, even if only incrementally.
June 22nd, 1922
I am all melancholy! Ariel did not visit me today. I am afraid that I offended him by refusing the wings he had offered me. But, honestly, how might a human girl be granted wings? I am not a Fairy. Perhaps Fairies may, by magic, confer wings upon one such as myself. If so, I should like that very much. Only, I should want butterfly wings, not his meager dragonfly wings. That being said, with any such wings I should aspire to the very sun itself. None could keep me grounded, either by order or obligation. And to think of the look upon Rosamund’s quarrelsome face! Just to think of her potential expression as I fly away from her, and from Father’s estate itself, would be a daydream made manifest. I would be irreproachable, for I would be faraway from anyone disposed to be captious. Such liberty! Perhaps tomorrow Ariel will return and offer me again his gift, but on better terms.
I should so very much prefer butterfly wings!
June 23rd, 1922
The Devil take that bovine busybody! Betty overheard me speaking with Ariel through my window last night. Why she should be in the family wing, and so late at night, I do not know, but I believe it testifies poorly to a scullery maid’s character that she should be skulking about so late and where she is not wanted. She forthwith informed Father that I—his one and only daughter—was talking to myself like a lunatic. What infuriated me more, however, was Father’s credence to the portly spinster in contradiction to my own account of the facts. Of course, my account was false, and I readily admit it here, but the substance of the catastrophe is that Father does not trust me more than a ridiculous woman who has no business passing by my bedchamber so late in the night. Or ever! Were it the morning, I might abide it. I have sometimes caught her passing my door early in the morning, before the rest of the household had roused itself. Presumably to wake Father—though Father always wakes later than even myself, despite Betty’s early presumption to rouse him—but that is amiss of the point! I am too upset to concentrate my powers of reasoning. Enough for today! I will write more at a later time.
June 24th, 1922
Having reread the article concerning the Cottingley Fairies—with a greatly expanded personal knowledge concerning Fairy kin—I can only conclude that the Fairies therein photographed are but flat, fabricated artifice meant to swindle credence from the idiotic public. Indeed, the whole affair is either an absurd fabrication or, less likely, the Fairies photographed are a different breed than that of Ariel, for they are of utterly disparate sizes and dimensions from the friend whom I know so well. Ariel is as veritable as the very hand which writes this, and though I have never seen his back, there is no doubt of the authenticity of his wings. They carry him aloft, clearly before my uninhibited eyes. But what of the Cottingley Fairies? Never do I see a photograph wherein the dainty creatures suspend themselves freely in the air. Rather, they are as stiffly aground as any doll within a dollhouse.
I cannot help but be vexed at the idiocy of the Cottingley phenomenon. It is a ruse, unless, of course, it is not and there do happen to exist Fairies of diminutive size with wings more pleasing to my sensibilities. But I simply cannot abide the idea that there would be Fairies with pretty little butterfly wings, and that they should neglect my acquaintance! Perhaps there are other such Fairies, and perhaps I shall meet them in due time and be invited to dance with them.
Ariel seems disinclined to dance, and disinclined to mirth generally. Were he invited to dance in a roundel to the piping of flutes, he would only crouch—as he ever does—and stare imbecilically at the other dancers enjoying themselves. Is this a common trait of all of his people or is it his own unique predilection? Perhaps other Fairies bear themselves not so clumsily as Ariel and, so, can keep time enough with music to enjoy moonlit revelries. At times I think Ariel is soft in the head, like an imbecile, and doleful. Perhaps he seeks me to enliven his own dolorous life, having been born of a temperament unbecoming of livelier pursuits.
In my experience the stranger personages known have been of the human variety. Father’s household, for example, consists of too many bizarre characters. Jasper, the new gardener, eyed me too familiarly today. This seems a great feat in and of itself when one realizes that Jasper is a gangly lowbred fool with a wayward eye. Even so, he eyed me and continues to eye me when he thinks I am not looking. I abide the impertinence for now— if only for the sake of his widowed mother, for whom he labours to afford a livelihood—but should he persist in this unwelcome presumption, I will have a word with Father and have Jasper spirited away.
This is not to say that I did not have an otherwise splendid evening. I read The Goblin Market once again today while Ariel crouched at my window, listening. There did not appear any transition of emotions across his countenance during the whole reading, but I think he listened quite attentively. He always does. Occasionally he interrupted me to ask if I wanted wings, but I steadfastly stuck to the reading. Even Fairies must be cultivated in the finer Arts that humans have made in their honour. Someday I will read to him the play The Tempest so he may understand his namesake. I do not wish to read to him A Midsummer Night’s Dream, lest the bard’s flippancy be misunderstood and a war be declared between humanity and Fairy folk. There is too much war in the world in the present age as it is.
June 25th, 1922
Once again I caught Betty passing my door early this morning, before the dawn mists had even gathered in their fullness. She appeared in a disarrayed sort of state, and yet her corpulent smile was one of vast satisfaction, as if she had spent the predawn eating a grand feast when she should have been preparing breakfast for the rest of the household.
Father did not rise until much later in the day. Beneath his whiskers was an ever-fixed smile—a slight smile, for Father was never one to indulge overmuch on any conveyance of emotion—and he walked with an energy that bordered on mirth, insomuch as he was concerned. Perhaps the Fairies had enchanted him and Betty. I must ask Ariel upon his next visitation.
June 26th, 1922
Having reread some of my earlier entries, I must sadly confess that I do not write as abundantly as I should. Therefore, I am of the conviction that the only means by which to improve my capacities as an authoress is to write with renewed diligence. Only discipline and perseverance conjoined together may manifest true genius, however strong one’s natural daemon might be. Thus, I am inclined to exercise my daemon in pursuit of that subject which most infatuates me presently: Fairies. Thus, this needful exercise necessitates that I write of my dearest bosom friend, Ariel.
Ariel—as I have stated in a previous entry—is not one to make merry in a roundel, dancing like Puck beset with mirth. Rather, he is more the toadstool around which the other Fairies prance and cavort. Sometimes he is so silent and vacant of expression that I believe mushrooms shall sprout from his ears. Thus, he is more a dead log than a flower in a playful breeze. One would think Oberon banished him, so dour is Ariel’s countenance. Or perhaps Titania hexed him for some unnamed naughtiness in regard to one among her maidens. Men are wont to do as they do, regardless of race. Maybe Ariel is Puck himself, discombobulated through magic until all that remains of his former mischief is the impertinence of his steadfast stare. His eyes are dim lodestars leading to a chilly emptiness. Sometimes I fear where they will lead me.
June 27th, 1922
Father, for all of his earnest endorsements of Reason as a guiding principle, has proven himself guided as much by fancy as ever I was. He has bought a dog. Nor is it any small specimen, but a large hellhound. It is the largest among the breeds I have ever seen —a Great Dane, no less —and I cannot help but think it a terrible indulgence on behalf of someone else ’s whim. Betty ’s, most likely. No doubt she sees in its largess a certain kinship to her own breeding. Large, cumbrous creatures adore other large creatures insomuch as they allay their own self-consciousness. And so I have yet another proof of Betty ’s plot to ruin me. The lumbering behemoth is named Caliban —that is what I have come to call him, anyway —and I loathe him so. Why should I not? He is ever barking roughly and abounding clumsily, smelling most disagreeably. Were I inclined to dogs, I should like a sleek, graceful, and small dog of fine breeding and feature, not some cumbersome, dull-footed oaf scrambling in his overeager excitement to keep atop his ungainly legs. What ’s more, he chases Ariel away, barking and growling whenever I attempt to sit alone with my Fairy friend. Why, just this evening Ariel was at my window and the fatuous canine did not cease his barking until my friend had flown away. The belligerent beast had wakened the whole household, yet Father forgave so readily the misbegotten creature that Father seemed not himself at all, but a changeling. Betty apologized profusely, yet Father treated her tenderly — more tenderly than he should ever have his own daughter were her pet to rouse even half the household with its raucous barking.
I was so upset about that monstrous hellhound that I have been hitherto compelled to write an account of my grievances in my journal ere I fell asleep. If I may fall asleep. My nerves are frayed even now by the continued presence of that brutish beast. May the inferno reclaim him! Preferably without delay!
Father scolded me today. And what was the offense? I had barbed words with that corpulent imbecile, Betty. She had prepared a cake, as per my request, yet had failed to make it as I instructed. I am very fond of chocolate cakes —as are most people of elegant refinement —and, in this respect, the cake was successful, for it was, by and large, chocolate. However, the fatal flaw resided in the feature of the cake ’s only having two layers. This is unacceptable. All cakes must be possessed of three layers to be concluded wholly successful. Perhaps the lowborn can enjoy two layers of cake, but those of us who are cultivated know that the cream and the cake must be afforded proper portions in each bite. It is, I dare say, a scientific law within culinary circles. But Betty —being of such a hysterical disposition —collapsed in tears at my reprimand. When Father overheard the chastisement, (in which I was completely justified), he immediately soothed her and sided with the maudlin woman against me! When I then accused Betty of poorly allotting the amount of sugar, Father took me roughly aside and berated me with such ferocity that I wept a deluge of tears, as opposed to Betty ’s shallow tears. Yet, Father ignored my heartbreak in favour of Betty ’s. A cruelty, to be sure, and an absurdity against the laws of Nature. It is well-established that more finely bred people feel emotions more keenly and deeply than rough-worn labourers. But did Father soothe his daughter in her time of distress? Did he recant his harsh words when I wept alike to Andromeda chained to the rocks? No. He mentioned something irrelevant to the situation —concerning Betty ’s youngest brother and the War that had come and gone and such —and then left me alone to gather my tears. What cruelties Father hoists upon his one and only daughter!
My consolation came only later when Ariel appeared in the garden. I was sitting among the trellis, on a bench with the woodbine all around me. Ariel alighted beneath a statue of the Madonna. He was disposed to listen and so I confided in him, feeling much better while I spoke about, and ate, the cake in question. I offered him a piece, but he seemed unmoved by it, despite my magnanimous approval of Betty ’s failed attempt. Perhaps Fairy food ruins the lowly fare that we mortals consume. Or perhaps Fairies may not partake of our food without trapping themselves forever in our world, much as it is said we will be trapped in theirs should we partake in their feasts. Nonetheless, Ariel could have benefitted from some food. He was much more gaunt now than when we first met. His face was shrunken, his eyes dimmer than ever before, and the blueness of his lips spread along his pallid features. He looked as anemic as any blue-blooded member of the royal family.
And then Caliban chased him away. At times I feel as if the whole of this household conspires to vex me with their every breath!
July 2nd, 1922
My nerves have been too racked of late to write. I have attempted to find solace in the works of William Shakespeare and the poetry of Robert Browning. The former I adore, but the latter is a prattling knave whose works are deliberately enigmatic in the worst conceivable manner. Did he think himself so clever for having written such abstruse dribble? I dare say, his “last duchess ” should have left him at the altar. I do not understand it, nor do I believe it a failing on part of my intelligence. Rather, obscurity reveals paradoxically the inabilities of the poet, and Browning ’s works are resplendent in their unrefined dimensions. Had he written his work less obtusely, he would have benefitted his audience and himself and his poetry with readier comprehension. I regret having ascertained Father ’s copy from his library. When I returned it I happened upon him reading to someone in the recessed window, near the globe. Sneaking surreptitiously within, I found that he was reading to none other than that bovine busybody, Betty! From what I heard, he was reading John Donne, which infuriated me. What infuriated me more, however, was the patience with which he explained to the dull intellect of that lowbred woman the deeper meaning of Donne ’s poetry. As if she could plunge those depths!
I was so upset that I bumped into a small table and knocked a book loudly onto the floor. Father perceived me at once and called to me. I had no recourse but to step forth into the humiliating scene.
“Is that my book of Robert Browning? ” Father asked.
“Yes, ” I answered.
“And did you enjoy it? ” he asked.
I answered that I did not enjoy it; that Mr. Browning was too overripe with himself.
“A peculiar way to put it, ” Father said. “But it is not to everyone ’s tastes. Perhaps when you grow older, and more familiar with the subtler meanings, you will grow your appreciation for it. ”
I could not bear this remark! It allotted me such short thrift, and no less from Father himself! And while in the audience of that cow-eyed imbecile, Betty! I stormed out of the library in a hail of tears and have not spoken a word to Father in three days ’ time! Indeed, the only person to whom I speak at all is Ariel, and only whenever it pleases him to make himself known. I have no means of summoning him and, so, my confessions and consolations are entirely dependent upon his own capricious nature. It is insufferable! I am as a prisoner in my own home! When will I enjoy the freedom that so many others take for granted?
July 2rd, 1922
Today was the anniversary of mother ’s death. Father went walking about the estate, accompanied by Betty. I mislike that. When he returned his eyes were red and Betty advantaged herself during his vulnerable state to take liberty of his arm. The impertinence! The audacity! She should have been stripped and beaten like the presumptuous harlot that she is! She plots grave machinations. She seeks to endear herself to Father, to make herself indispensable, and thus to establish herself in his intimacy, thereby exacting awful control over him, as belike a sorceress unto King Solomon. It is most intolerable! I know not what to do about it, however. Perhaps I shall put a few of Father ’s hair in a jar, alongside nails and wax, and bury it. That is a sure trap for witches, from what I understand.
I have been thinking of Mother today. She was French, so it seems only congruent that she should have died as she did, from what Father has deemed the “French disease ”. I do not know the particulars of this vague disease, but it favours all the more my inclination to despise all things French. Indeed, I am dedicated to being wholly British in bearing and pretense and perspective. Or perhaps a Fairy, if only I could have butterfly wings rather than those of a dragonfly.
There are children missing, or so the gardeners were saying today. Lowborn children from the country, I should say. The commoners bear so many children that I think one or two missing from each family should not be cause for alarm. They breed like sows, after all, and their litters are overfull. They seem to think, in their own superstitious way, that a witch has taken them. Maybe a witch has. Maybe Betty is one such witch. Betty has always been beholden to an excess of appetite. Yet today I noticed that she was ever cramming food into her maw, like some sow soon to farrow. I ’ve also noticed that she has grown more corpulent of late. Today I saw her belly strike the table repeatedly as she rolled out dough for our evening supper. Had I witnessed her nurse a litter of piglets I would not have been astonished in the least. Maybe she is a witch and she has eaten the lowborn children. If so, the Fairies will not let her take me. I will not feed her expanding largess. I would rather shove her down the stairs. How can Father indulge her so? Can he not see how bloated she has become beneath her frock? The mere sight of her is repulsive enough to disturb the hungriest appetite.
I resolve myself to speak to Ariel about betty and see what he would advise to do to remove her from the household.
July 3rd, 1922
Caliban is dead. It seems he contracted some virulent variety of worm while entertaining himself in his usual bestial manner. Clifford and Jasper were given the strenuous duty of carrying the heavy beast out to the field and burying him beneath a rather idyllic oak tree. Why they should wish to ruin the scenic oak with the overbearing beast ’s presence, I do not know. Betty was not to be consoled, though Father attempted with all the heavenly powers at his disposal. I could scarcely understand the need. It was a dog and dogs are earthly beasts resigned to their earthly brevity. It is not as though an actual soul had perished, only a small ball of nerves and instincts bound up in a skull. It is no different than a butterfly tumbling dead in a strong wind. Less tragic, I should say, for I do love the beauty of a butterfly ’s wings whereas there was nothing beautiful about Caliban. And his death was not so proud as that of a butterfly ’s. Jasper and his father were afeared to touch him due to the roiling, writhing creatures in his bowels.
Later today, while everyone was preoccupied with consoling each other over the departed hellbeast, I was visited by Ariel. I recounted for him the passing of Caliban. He was as unmoved as I was, though there seemed to be a certain comprehension in his eyes that I rarely saw there. He is my confidant, of course, and so naturally I am inclined to relay to him the particulars of my daily life, but this was the first time he seemed to understand more than he would say. There was a “knowing light ” in his eyes. I cannot express it in any other fashion. Perhaps he suspected, as I did, that Caliban was the sort of beast that would seek out its own destruction in its own careless, heedless manner. If so, I am glad Ariel and I are so alike in our thinking. It accords a certain harmony of thought that bespeaks much in the means of sympathetic comprehension.
July 7th, 1922
The nerve of Rosamund! She had the audacity to label me a “spoiled princess ” in front of Clifford, Betty, Madeline, and countless others in Father ’s service. I should have slapped her, truly, and brought with the blow a new appreciation for her true standing within the household. Her impertinence and insolence are unbearable! I am all tears now and cannot compose myself! I should like to fly away from here at once! Away from her torturous lessons on French and Clifford ’s insolent smirks and the disapproval in Father ’s eyes! The latter I cannot tolerate, for they did not flinch or baulk at Rosamund ’s impudence! Rather, Father walked away, abandoning me to infernal judgments. It was his most heartless betrayal yet. I cannot bear it. I shall leave here asa condemned soul escaping Dante ’s Inferno.
Yes, I shall fly away. It is simple enough. Or so I should think. Ariel has offered me my grand exeunt, and I shall receive the offer readily. Granted, I am not overly fond of the wings I am promised. Butterfly wings would better serve me, but I suppose his wings are beautiful after all. They have a spectral sheen to them that is very fetching, in its own way, and I think, upon further consideration, that it is not so much the wings that detract from the overall aspect of Ariel, but that imbecilic stare that inhabits his face. Undoubtedly, were I to wear such wings as are possessed by him I would better flatter them, and so transpose with the beauty inherent in my features the composite impression of such wings. Indeed, though Ashputtle wore tatters and was blackened by her menial labours, her natural beauty rendered anew all with her innate loveliness, outshining her sisters when in their more lavish dresses. An old shoe, thus, may be made beautiful if it houses a lovely rose.
Perhaps I shall join the Fairies and write of my times among them, recording their habits and customs and creeds. It would be a grand sensation among Europe. It may even inspire the world to relinquish all future wars, bringing harmony and everlasting peace to humanity. Do I flatter myself overmuch in such ambitions? No. I dare say I do not.
July 8th, 1922
I sat before the pianoforte today, practicing my Moonlight Sonata. The piano belonged to mother. Father expects me to grow proficient in the intricacies of the keys, but I would rather have my fingertips feverishly dancing along a typewriter, hammering out bizarre manifestations like a blacksmith at the beck and call of his daemon. Yet, Father persists in his refusal to purchase the Remington I desire. My mother was said to be a songbird, with an excellent voice and an excellent adroitness for ivory. I will not be a songbird in a cage. I will fly free. This I vow.
At times I feel as if I am an esteemed breed of dog, to be groomed and bred and to have no life of its own. Do I pity myself overmuch? No. If pity is considered in degree of recompense to its merit, then I am woefully lacking compensation. For who has endured such trials and tribulations as have been my breakfast, lunch, and supper? But I choose to fancy myself an oddity insomuch as all pioneers and iconoclasts tend to be. If I am alienated among my own home, then it is because I am such a rare specimen of peculiarity that none may share in my propensities and insights, including those sharing my blood. An anomaly, I will live a life that will not be appreciated except by those generations yet to come, when the collective of humanity progresses beyond the limited vision of their yesteryears. Perhaps I will be an Aristotle, or a Da Vinci. The fault lines of the earth shift beneath my feet, bringing seismic change. I do not doubt that my understanding of Fairy kind will bring mankind out of the shadows of a Dark Age and into a new Age of Reason. My halo of learning burns bright, and those in my home cannot bear the brightness of it.
July 10th, 1922
What a frightful day! Whereas yesterday had been woefully uneventful, today was extraordinarily tumultuous in its seismic cataclysms. Oh, but where to begin? I will start with the greatest calamity of all: Rosamund saw Ariel today! And just when he was renewing his offer of wings! She came upon us in the woods. I had gone walking to clear my mind after a row with Rosamund over my French. She had accused me of forsaking all learning of it, which I will not deny to be true. I had quite given it up, for it no longer concerned me, nor would it concern me however much the inducement or admonishment. I had wholly made up my mind on the matter. I would leave to join the Fairies. Let them conjugate that verb!
While walking I was weeping at my misfortunes. It was a hot summery day, but the shade of the forest afforded me some small comfort while in my time of woe. Ariel alighted above me, crouching low upon a branch with the sunlight and shadows battling about his dappled shoulders.
“Wings? ” he offered.
I wiped my tears and attempted to smile encouragingly. “I would like them very much, ” I said.
“Come, ” he said. He crawled upon all fours down the side of the tree and beckoned that I should follow him.
Before I could follow, Rosamund appeared in the dappled shade, pale and shrieking like some banshee in heathen Ireland. I turned away from Ariel, confronting her absurd expression of horror, but before I could explain the situation, she snatched me by my wrist and yanked me along and out of the forest, senseless in her affrighted state. Indeed, she did not relent until we were in Father ’s house and before Father, in his private library.
The melodrama that followed cannot be recorded, so chaotic was it in all its preposterous dimensions, but the conclusion of the misunderstanding was that I was forbidden from leaving the house. Meanwhile Rosamund —being deemed a lunatic by Father —was exiled from the household itself. Clifford accompanied her in her departure, looking rather more chivalrous than I could have thought him, especially with those overlarge ears of his. Perhaps he had an ancestor whom was a knight in another age. He held his head high and seemed as stalwart in his determination as Don Quixote chasing Maiden Folly.
Rosamund, on the other hand, was overwrought. Even unto the last moment of her presence in Father ’s house, she swore that I was in danger. Through lachrymose pleas she swore to a horror and spoke of the missing children among the commoners. What drivel! To think she had been my governess, sworn to elucidate the world for me! It is too much like the lunatic leading the asylum! And to think she might actually care for me and my well-being! A first, to be sure! But I know better than to believe such poppycock (poppycock —a good word to use as a name for a Fairy who spouts drivel. Perhaps I shall write such a character based upon Rosamund ’s hysterics). She was merely attempting to retain her employment in service to Father. Yet, the one thing Father cannot abide is a woman succumbing to hysterics. And Rosamund was as hysterical as a rabid mare. I always knew her frigid governess veneer was a mask for what was, undoubtedly, a very frayed disposition of agitated nerves. The most outwardly austere of personages are those most likely to unravel when encountering something beyond their habitual, everyday experiences. Let her gather up her ragdoll nerves in a countryside cottage far from here. She could benefit from more sun.
To think that she should have maligned Ariel so! Deeming him a monster! The Good People are invariably good if treated so. The only misnomer to be considered egregious is that of Rosamund ’s title as “governess ”, for she could not govern her own head, let alone mine.
Despite the chaos of the day, I had the wherewithal to disavow all of Rosamund ’s ravings. Thus, whereas Father believes Rosamund unsettled in her wits, I have escaped unscathed in Father ’s estimation. Indeed, I am by virtue of contrast with Rosamund ever elevated in Father ’s estimation. He is likely to attribute my previous fancies to the influence of my former governess, and so I am absolved of all previous infractions of sensibility by having what Father presumes to be a moon-eyed teacher.
The advantages in this current predicament are manifold: Rosamund ’s absence from the household and the fact that Father does not believe in Ariel or his Fairy kin. Thus, my dreams of becoming a Fairy go undiscovered, and, so, unimpeded. Just so, I fear that Ariel may have been too unnerved by today ’s tumult to return and offer me again my wings. Perhaps all is ruined. Perhaps not. We shall see.
July 11th, 1922
There is no concealing it! Indeed, I wonder how I could not have seen what was so plain before me —Betty is with child! What a scandal! I wonder who the father is. How delicious if it was Clifford! Oh succulent spite! To think he might have begat upon her and then fled with Rosamund. I hope Rosamund is with child as well, and that he should flee her. Crumpets deserve as much. But I do mislike Father ’s keen interest in Betty ’s condition. He would be better to turn her out before she should bear her piglet, lest the scandal sully our household. What would high society think, knowing we have a maid soon to birth a fatherless child? They would think it the abode of Bacchus. I cannot debut in society with the swollen, shadowy figure of Betty overhanging me. No matter how dignified and regal, I will be tainted by the association.
But Father —for all his austerities and forbearance —is too soft-hearted toward Betty to lord over his household properly. It does him no good. It does the Wellington estate no good, nor its legacy. If Father wished to do her a good turn he would locate the father of the bastard and rectify him promptly with the mother of his child.
July 12th, 1922
It was a strange stretch of hours that passed today, and a stranger evening. Everyone glances at me sidelong within Father ’s house, almost surreptitiously, as if they hold a secret behind their lips and they fear they may let it slip simply by breathing. No doubt, it is scorn. They presume to take great cares with me, but that is a farce of pretense for what is otherwise derisive attitude and malfeasance. Even Father seemed to be unforthcoming today, condescending only to ask me how I might appreciate an expanded family. Were Father to remarry, I should not care. It is beyond my capacity to care. He should pursue whichever folly chances his fancy and I will pursue mine. The deathly circumspectness of everyone taxes on me so. I would rather they reverted to their outright insolence. I tire of their taciturn tension. It is like being in a house of snakes, all coiled tautly and ready to strike.
But poor Ariel! He suffered a dreadful episode today, the nature of which still eludes me. We were at the edge of the woods, at that time which the French call l ’heure bleue. Advantaged by the distraction of Betty ’s condition, I stole out undetected by Father and by the servants. Ariel was, as usual, crouching upon the branch of an oak tree. I was reading to him one among my favourite poems, “The Stolen Child ”, by Yeats. All seemed well enough —even if Ariel seemed not the least interested in what I was reading —when suddenly he succumbed to a violent paroxysm. At first glance I mistook his fit of trembles to be a Fairy prank. But when he spoke his voice was so altered from his customarily buzzing voice that I then thought him attempting a more perfected emulation of human speech. Would that I had more influence over such an affectation, for I would have steered him toward a better-bred tongue!
In this lowborn dialect he exclaimed loudly.
“God help me, Miss! Please! Fetch…fetch…the priest…Save me! ”
He nearly fell from the tree, finishing his imitation with a cry of despair. Shortly, however, he choked back his affected country accent and spoke, once again, in his vibrating Fairy voice.
“No mind, no mind, ” he said. “None for you. ”
I took this to mean that he meant I should not fret over his failed outburst of human speech and should mind my poetry again. I did so, finishing my reading. Truth be told, I do not believe that the poem held him in any interest. Perhaps he did not care much for Yeats. Perhaps Ariel is prejudiced against the Irish. I cannot fault him that.
I believe that Ariel must have been aspiring to repeat what he must have heard some inane, lowbred child exclaim upon seeing the Fairy. The commoners are a superstitious lot and would fear the Good People when they should instead rejoice in their appearances. Oh, but you cannot elucidate the idiotic masses. They misunderstand the simplest of things. Like Jasper with his wayward eye, they cannot keep their vision of what is true and what is not aligned. Their perspective drifts wildly awry.
Yet, I must write down that I saw something strange upon my friend as he contorted and writhed in his sudden paroxysm. There was something along his back, though I could not discern it while facing him. It was more than his wings —almost a protrusion of some sort —but it was ambiguous in its form so utterly that I could not conclude its nature definitively. It seemed almost an incandescently metallic blue or green, shimmering as a spectral shell or carapace. But it was glimpsed only at slight angles, necessitating a better view from behind. Perhaps it was simply a fancy of mine. Perhaps not. He flew away before I could further discern its peculiarities.
July 14th, 1922
Betty incessantly complains about the pains she feels in her condition. She crudely complains, also, as if the scandal was not ribald enough. Speaking of things gnawing at her from within, too concerned with the repercussions of her Babylonian sins to appreciate how gnawed our household is with the shame of her continued presence. Father is going to great expenses —both financial and social — to accommodate Betty and her despicable condition, whereas were I mistress of this household I would turn Betty out of my home forthwith, alongside most, if not all, of the other insolent parasites to which Father ’s house has been claimed as host. Were I Father I would put her down like any crippled mare. Her condition has made it exceedingly difficult to attend to my journal, or any writing I might venture to do. She is too loud —a donkey in a storm of biting insects would have more self-possession —and it is a trial to merely jot down these words, so disjointed are my thoughts as the house echoes with her cries. An opera house suffers less melodrama.
July 17th, 1922
O joyous day! And ever more joyous night! Ariel led me through the woods, toward the peat bog, and thereupon introduced me to the other Fairies of his acquaintance. There were four in all: two young boys, roughly the same age and appearance as Ariel, and a tall girl of lovely aspect. Like my dear friend, these specimens were bereft of clothes, unmindful of their own nakedness, and while I admired the liberty with which they lived, I vowed that even while exulting in my own Fairy freedom I should dress myself up in all manner of pretty gowns so all those who looked upon me would do so with great reverence and envy, being that I would become the most idealized spirit of beauty and liberation.
And because I would be no hedonistic Fairy.
The tall Fairy girl spoke, addressing me with a voice similar to any girl ’s my age, except for the buzzing edges of her words. Her throat vibrated as if to burst.
“Welcome, ” she said. “Wings? ”
She had dragonfly wings like the others, but she had a crown of reeds along her forehead, above her empty eyes. She must have been the Fairy Queen, Titania. Who else could she be, being so tall and regal?
“Wings? ” she repeated.
“If you would, please, ” I said.
The two young boys were crouching among the bog. There was, I realized, a cluster of small pinkish bubbles floating buoyantly atop the sprawl of green duckweed and algae. One of the boys plucked a single pinkish bubble and brought it forward, holding it up with one hand while wading through the thick, putrid sludge of the bog.
“Turn, ” the Fairy Queen said.
I did as I was instructed, eager and excited, but also slightly afraid. The Fairy boy put the pinkish bubble on the nape of my neck, beneath my curls. It stung. There was a sharp, brief pain, like the little sting of a wasp, and then it subsided. Somewhat. Truthfully, it has not stopped stinging since he put the bubble upon me. I cried out and wiped my eyes. The Fairies assured me it was necessary.
“Wings grow, ” Ariel said. “Soon, fly. ”
They said no more. I wished to speak with them more, but I was not feeling well. I left for home, a little staggered and dizzy. Ariel did not accompany me. The Fairies watched me leave, staring at me with unblinking, vacant eyes. I felt cold, and my neck hurt, but I was delighted. Soon I would grow wings and leave this terrible house behind. My liberation was at hand.
July 20th, 1922
I have had a fever for the last few days, and have been confined to bed while everyone tends to Betty. Madeline visits me briefly every other hour, bringing me water and asking if I should like anything. She offers me soup, but I am in no mood for food. I ask only for water, my diary and a pen. Very soon, when I am of clearer concentration, I will write my farewell letter to Father. I hope he will not be too heartbroken at my departure.
July 22nd, 1922
My health has improved, but not enough to leave my bed. Father visited me, briefly, to see how I was faring. He would not speak of Betty, nor did I wish him to, though I could discern that his concern for her well-being seemed markedly more than my own. I cannot lay on my back, but must lay on my side, for my nape hurts. The pain has begun to spread down my spine. I have not had the strength to rise and peer in a mirror to see how my nascent wings grow, nor do I tell anyone about my wings for fear they will attempt to confine me when my wings have grown a span enough to lift me. I keep the blanket and sheets up to my chin at all times and tell everyone that I merely feel ill because of my monthly menstruation. I insist that I do not need to see a doctor. At times it feels as if I am in a chrysalis of heat and sweat and that my flesh, itself, will split open so my new self may emerge. At other times I feel as if something speaks to me with a buzzing voice, though no one except myself dwells in my room. I do not understand it.
Ariel has not visited me at all. I have not seen him since I followed him to the swamp to meet the Fairy Queen. I hope he is well. I wish to thank him once my wings fully blossom.
July 24th, 1922
I overheard the servants whispering in the hall, speaking of monstrous things. They said that Betty ’s child was stillborn. The reason for its hopeless birth? It had been infested with parasites! From milk, no doubt, for Betty has always been an unmannered cow who enjoys milk straight from the teat. Doctor Froud attended the delivery ,but he was unfamiliar with the parasite, having never encountered them before. What I have gleaned from overhearing the servants is that they are not unlike larvae. Never having been inclined to milk, I feel that my natural predilection is thus validated. That bovine busybody has reaped her just rewards for an intemperate appetite and intemperate passions.
With Betty ’s bastard child expired, I had hoped the household would be quieter. Alas, this wish has not come true, for Betty weeps greatly while Father consoles her. I loathe this absurd development. He is too attentive with her, and Betty is too familiar with Father. But it is no matter. I will be absconding soon, never to return. My wings grow! This I know, for I feel how sensitive they are while abed. I can walk now, though weakly, and I must be careful not to draw too much attention to my metamorphosis. Most of the household think I am having a protracted temper tantrum, cloistering myself in my room because of some petty jealousy for Father ’s attentions. Let them think such! It facilitates my efforts to keep my secret from them, for they shun me presently. Beneath my silken shift my diaphanous wings grow, undetected. Occasionally I swoon, and have even fainted, but it is no matter. I can anticipate when such episodes are to come, the vibrations growing stronger in my neck and at the base of my head, and so I hasten to my bed, covering up before the weak spell topples me.
My only difficulty, truly, is ascertaining sufficient food. I have arranged that Madeline bring me biscuits every other hour, alongside tea and several cubes of sugar. I eat the sugar more often than I drink the tea, but it is a good pretense for so many cubes a day. Madeline is a recent addition at the household, so she does not know what is and what is not a routine serving. Meanwhile, her ignorance serves me as well as any other servant I might need. Were that all of the servants were so unquestioning toward my commands! This household would be a tolerable place to abide, at least for a time.
July 25th, 1922
Betty has perished. It is, admittedly, a shame whenever anyone passes away, but why should Father be so lugubrious? I have never in my life heard him cry so miserably —or express any emotion in his strictly stoic features —and yet he is a ruin of tears as he walks through the garden. It is not the first instance of a servant dying while in service to the house. Why should Betty ’s death invoke so many lachrymation? It is no different than when any dog should die in the kennel, but Father seems to have taken it too keenly to heart. He oftentimes stands in the scullery, gazing about as if looking for something, then alternately sighing and sobbing in turns. It is most unmanly for the master of a household to be seen thus by his servants. They will sense the weakness and exploit it by performing their duties most lackadaisically. Indeed, I looked out of my bedroom window and caught sight of the gardeners lounging in the shade of an oak tree. Such ungrateful parasites! Perhaps when I grow my wings out I shall lift Jasper and drop him from a goodly height. It may knock his wayward eye straight again.
July 26th, 1922
Ariel visited me last night! Happy news, indeed! I had thought that he had forsaken me. Happier news, yet, is that I have grown to understand him now. I had never noticed it before, but the vibrations in his words form a language in and of itself. Like the undercurrents on a lake, they flow with meaning beyond the superficial level. He is more articulate than I ever credited him to be.
But my pain has increased alongside this comprehension. This pain should be expected, I suppose. Growing wings must be painful for all Fairies. Yet, I console myself in the thought that this pain is but a chrysalis from which I shall emerge more beautiful and independent than ever. I await that day eagerly.
July 27th, 1922
I have been fainting of late. When the pain becomes too much. When the vibrations overwhelm me. I wake in strange places, baffled as to how I came to be there. This morning I found myself in the woods, up a tree. It took me a long time to climb down, for I was in great pain and fatigued. My fingers hurt, the nails broken and jammed with bark. I scraped my body climbing down. Only Jasper saw me coming from the woods. I scowled at him and he looked away. Yet, his wayward eye remained upon me. I should like to take a stick and poke his eye out.
There was great bustle in the house as I rested in my bedroom. Voices and hurried scurrying. They talked of country children being found. They said other things, but in hushed voices. Father was among those in the large company that left the house. A rider was dispatched to fetch Dr Froud. I do not understand what the fussy haste was all about. I am too tired to.
July 28th, 1922
I awoke in the peat bog today. Shoeless and clueless as to how I arrived there. Queen Titania was not there, nor were the other Fairies, including Ariel. I walked home. My shift was ruined. Stealing into my bedroom, I changed clothes and had Madeline bring hot water for my tub so I might wash myself and my shift. I was feverish yet, but also felt clammy, too. Fatigue drained my strength and I committed the shift to the garden, flinging it out my window. It plummeted to the earth, caked heavily with mud and peat. I fell asleep in the tub and did not wake till my fingers were pruned. Sluggishly I crawled out of the tub and into my bed. The bed was soaked through, but I did not care. I slept until evening whereupon I woke and began to write this entry. I feel groggy once again. The pain surges. Must sleep.
July 29th, 1922
The pain is unbearable. The nape of my neck throbs. I cannot think very clearly. Writing these words is difficult. Pain. The voices outside my window throughout the day. So many buzzing voices. I hear them constantly. It is another language. Like French. But I understand so much now.
It hurts so much. Cannot tell Father. I will get my wings soon and be free. It hurts! Pain. Voices.
Cannot write much. Cannot think well. In English. Hurt. Pain. Voices. Head pulses. Throbbing. Words. No. Madeline, close window. Voices in garden. Too many. Buzzing.
Examination of Patient #6, Conducted by Dr. Brian Froud on August 3rd, 1922
After an extended surgery, the specimen has been removed and placed in formaldehyde to preserve its anatomy until further dissection can be conducted. Like the others, it is an insect belonging to some new species, or perhaps a very old species that has hitherto remained dormant until recently disturbed. Whichever case it may be, it is a marvel of evolution. Measuring half a meter long, it resembles mostly insects within the Odonata order. It is parasitic by nature, however, and attaches itself to a host ’s spine using its legs, thorax, segmented abdomen, and its terminal abdominal appendages. Its jaws penetrate the base of the victim ’s skull to manipulate the host ’s cerebellum to appropriate motor function. By vibrating its thorax the insect manipulates the host ’s vocal cords to imitate speech. The life cycle of these insects —as accurately as I might approximate it —consists of a hive of larvae infesting a host, feeding from the host ’s body until the host ’s death, then the larvae emerge, enveloped in globules that are, in fact, chrysalises formed from the host ’s dead cells. An embryo is gathered by infected hosts and then implanted into a new host ’s spine for fusion as the embryo matures to adulthood. Using the host, the adult repeats the cycle by infesting new hosts with its larvae, primarily through ingestion. The complexity of this life cycle offers hope that we may curtail the colonization by such a pernicious species before it can grow pervasive.
Due to the nature of the parasitic insect, the patient died during the procedure, as have all of the patients I have attempted to treat with surgery. The inextricable nature of the creature makes it impossible to remove without a terminal outcome, so intricately bonded is its body with the host ’s spine. For the sake of the safety of the remaining servants and the master of the estate, I have advised that they leave the household while a thorough investigation is carried out by the local authorities. I have been told that there will be no total extermination due to the importance of the specimen. My experience with the specimen will also be required in future examinations, for the British Armed Forces are interested in the specimen and its potential implementation as a weapon to protect Great Britain from future foreign hostilities. I hope to prove myself invaluable in such an ambition.
The two boys squatted at the edge of the pond, sticks in hand, playing in water and mud; splashing it around like it was a cauldron in need of churning.
“Your daddy is wastin’ his time,” said the dark-haired boy. “Putting that fence up won’t help him save his livestock. Not when that giant goes walkin’ ‘round again.”
The other boy shook his blonde head and scowled. “There ain’t no such things as giants, you liar. Daddy knows what it is. It’s that disease takin’ his herd, one by one. He just needs some money for the medicine.”
In the distance the inky lands sloped upward to the crests of the hills beyond the farmhouse and the barn, and the echoes of a man’s hammer. The sun sank into the ash heap of the world, the embers slowly dying out on another dying Autumn day.
“Sure them giants are real,” the dark-haired boy said. “They’re in the Bible. They’re called the Nilfeeum, I think. All you gotta’ do is read it. God’s truth given in God’s words.”
“I thought God’s words were supposed to be Jewish,” the other boy said.
“Whatever it is, it’s what it says,” the dark-haired boy said. “Giants. You better be watchin’ for ‘em because they’ll shake your barn down and they’ll take your livestock. They’ll take each head of cattle. It don’t matter if you’re a Godfearing man, if you got Jesus on your side and in your blood. That makes him hanker for you all the more.”
The blonde boy paused in his stirring, gazing into the reeds on the other side of the pond. They swayed and whispered their secrets. He tossed his head dismissively to one side.
“My daddy can take care of any giant anyway. He’s got his gun.”
“Guns don’t do nothin’ to giants,” the other boy argued, smacking the water with his stick. “No more than whinin’ about taxes do to the County. Them giants are comin’ for you and yours. Mark my word. They’re comin’ for everybody. That’s why my daddy’s movin’ us out soon. Goin’ somewhere else. Ain’t nothin’ here but what ‘em giants will swallow whole. Nothin’ worth stayin’ for here. It’s pointless, daddy says. You might as well piss on the ground and expect flowers to grow. Ain’t no good seedin’ anyway. Whatever grows, well, them giants will be eatin’ it all.”
The blonde boy sighed. Absently he stirred the stick around the cluster of tadpole eggs, scattering them to drift in the dark brown murk of the pond; unthinking, simply churning with a compulsion that had been given spark by other thoughts a stick could not dissolve or fend off or scatter unto a similarly languid death.
After a while, the two boys sought higher ground from the valley’s shadows. They hiked the nearest hill, sitting down beneath a large oak. The sun sank to a flaming ruin among the Kentucky hills. Down below—drowned in the shadow of those hills, and dwarfed by those hills—was an old tumbledown barn that was so eaten by Time and weather that it was more straw than timber. The two boys stared at the soundless breast of the horizon as the evening waned. The sun smouldered and the valley below gave over to cool shadow. Dusk flared defiantly; hopelessly.
“A bit chilly,” the blonde haired boy said.
“Oh, don’t be such a nancy,” the dark-haired boy said. “You’re worse than a girl.”
The blonde boy sulked in resentful silence, his knees up to his mouth. His denim jeans were stained with grass and mud and pig’s blood. He didn’t wear a shirt and his face and arms had been baked brown by a Summer’s worth of sun. After a silent minute, he sighed. Leaves shivered in a cool breeze.
“I should be headin’ home,” he said. “Gotta’ go to church in the mornin’.”
The dark-haired boy frowned as if he caught a whiff of a rotten egg. His face and arms were also baked brown. His dark hair was cropped across his brow, but long in the back. A white scar split one eyebrow, like the mark of Cain.
“What do you mean, ‘What for?’” the blonde boy said. “Cuz you’re supposed to.”
The dark-haired boy shrugged. He sat with his legs laxly split in front of him. Both boys wore no shoes and their bare feet were riddled with red bug bites. Above their heads, the oak tree spread its sprawling cover, occasionally dropping an acorn.
“I don’t see how it is you’re ‘supposed to’,” the dark-haired boy said. “Jesus is everywhere anyhow, so it don’t matter.”
The blonde boy just shrugged. “All the same, daddy and momma will want me to go. And if they want me to do it, I oughta’ do it. You’re supposed to honor your parents.”
“Boy, you really don’t know nothin’,” the dark-haired boy remarked, shaking his head. His hand searched the yellowing grass unmindfully, fondling an acorn. The dirty fingers clutched it loosely. Squinting his eye against the squinting glare of the sun, he threw the acorn down the hill—as if aiming for the collapsible barn. “Yeah, I don’t see how goin’ to church honors anybody. I mean, you oughtta’ be workin’ on the farm. Or your family’ll lose it.”
“Prayer helps, too,” the blonde boy said. “Momma says so. And daddy agrees.”
“Christ,” the dark-haired boy said. “Your folks don’t know nothin’.”
“They do so,” the blonde boy growled. “He teaches me stuff all the time. He knows things.”
“Your daddy don’t teach you nothin’ cuz he don’t know nothin’,” the dark-haired boy said, rallying. “That’s why ya’ll are losin’ the farm.”
The blonde boy opened his mouth, but the words died in the cold breeze. His angrily knitted eyebrows broke for a moment, and he seemed ready to cry, drawing his knees farther up to his nose. His blue eyes sought the old barn—it was small and slanted in among the ocean of shadows between the yellowing hills. The fields sprawling around it were black with shadows and blight.
“We’ve been prayin’,” the blonde boy said.
“Banks don’t give a damn about prayers,” the dark-haired boy said, snorting. “You can’t pay a note with prayers. Hell, lies would get you further.”
“It’s not even a big note, really,” the blonde boy said, his voice tremulous. “They might forgive it.”
“Forgive it?” the dark-haired boy exclaimed, throwing another acorn. “They ain’t in the business of forgivin’. They ain’t priests. They don’t care if it’s a hundred dollars or a single penny. If it’s owed to them, it’s owed to them, and they collect. Don’t matter how big or small, they will get it out of you, even if it has to be bled out. They want ‘em numbers to match.”
“But it’s so little to them,” the blonde boy said quietly, hopelessly. “Daddy says so.” He bowed his forehead against his knees. His fluffy straw-colored hair was full of debris from the day: twigs and leaves and mud and pig’s blood. “Why can’t they just leave us alone? We make food for ‘em. We feed ‘em. Ain’t that more important than numbers on a note?”
The dark-haired boy snorted again. “They’d take those pants off of you if they could,” he said. “And not even because they’d need ‘em. Just so they could. They’d filch the skin off your back, too. Use it for a wallet for all that money they’ve got and you don’t.”
“It ain’t fair,” the blonde boy said. “It ain’t our fault it was a dry Summer.”
“They don’t care about that, neither,” the dark-haired boy said. “They grow their own crops, fed on blood.”
The boys fell silent for a while, watching the sun sink deeper, burying itself in the horizon. Shadows rose like floodwaters until the hills floated in the chilly murk of twilight. A fog came creeping in. The echoes of the hammer had died long ago.
The dark-haired boy groaned as he stood, stretching. “It is a bit chilly now,” he said. “Guess I’ll be headin’ home.”
He started walking away. He called back over his shoulder.
“Don’t stay out after dark too long or the giants will take you!”
The blonde boy remained sitting, staring into the ashes of the day as they darkened to night. The distant hills were completely black, becoming nothing more than an outline of featureless mounds beneath the dreaming fog and the wheeling stars. He stared unblinking for a moment, and fancied he saw the hill tremble. He stood up.
“Ain’t no such thing as giants,” he said.
Down the hill the boy walked alone. He looked back once, seeing how high the hill was that he had sat upon, wondering if it might rumble to life, there emerging from its slope a primordial being beyond measure or mercy. The hills dwarfed the small house that he approached, and yet the house dwarfed the boy. His foot scattered an ant hill as he passed it, and if the ants bit him he did not notice. He was lost in those shadows that lay all around.
Within that deep, deluge of shadow an image betook the boy: an image of long, loping legs and great swaying fists like the pendulums of a giant clock that struck him again and again, incessantly, like his father sometimes did when in his drink. One, two, three. Strike, strike, strike. The barn flying sideways, splintering, cracking, showering the earth. House exploding. Mother and sister broken among the debris like little frogs skewered on toothpicks for the easy appetite of the giant overhead.