Splinter Salem Part Two

by Wayne Hill

  “How long have I been out, Tommy?”

  “About one hour thirty-five minutes and forty-six seconds. You had me worried,” says Tommy.

  “I’ve spoilt our breakfast together, Tommy. I’m so sorry.” Marie-Ann rubs her head with both hands, hiding her face.

  “No, that’s not true. You’re just a little under the weather. Let me take care of you.” Tommy takes the compress from her head, rinses it in a bowl of clean, cold water, and then wrings out the wet cloth before folding it neatly and replacing it on her forehead. Marie-Ann is grateful for the coolness, and her gloved hands slip over his hand. For a moment they stare into one another’s eyes. Her sadness lifts a little as she takes in the details of his scar-littered, youthful face.

  “My scarred hero,” she says, one hand reaching out to touch his cheek. “Who did this to my Tommy Boy?” She asks as her finger traces the path of the longest scar. It runs from his left temple, traces around his eye and cuts down his cheek, past the corner of his mouth, and onto his chin. Tommy feels as if it is the first time she has seen them — perhaps it is — but he closes his eyes, enjoying her comforting touch.

  “It happened to me out in the Barrens,” Tommy says, taking her hand in his and gently squeezing.

  “How long were you out there for, Tommy boy?”

  “Two years” says Tommy.

  “Two years!” repeats Marie-Ann. “That can’t be right, Tommy. It just can’t. Two years? The longest that we know of someone surviving out in the Barrens on their own is about a year! It was a kid called Duke Heavenhiker — and even that’s not taken seriously! Duke’s a lying sack of shit!”

  “Heavenhiker? ... What? Like ... from the films?” Tommy could see in Marie-Ann’s face that there were more important things to clear up than a fictional character in a highly popular nonology.

  “Well, I wasn’t really in the woods on my own. I’d lost my temper and, with the joining tools attached, that’s a bad idea. I hurt myself badly — without really knowing — and Talon saved me. He’s my very unusual friend. He has horns.”

  Marie-Ann has a disapproving look on her face and has her arms folded, like she is puzzled as to why Tommy would feel the need to spin such a yarn. She does not need to say anything, Tommy knows she does not believe him.

  “I’ll show you,” he says, moving from his bed over to the memory plates. Looking through them he becomes acutely aware of just how many of them were of Marie-Ann. He turns his back to her as he tries to surreptitiously stuff them into his jacket. His coat jacket now bulging suspiciously, he finds the correct plate and plays the memory of when he first sees Talon. Upon seeing the nightmare figure of Talon emerge from the cave’s darkness in Tommy’s memory projection, Marie-Ann shoots backwards. Without realising it, she is backed against the wall, and is trying to use her legs to push herself through the wooden wallboards. Fur covers forgotten and rumpled at her kicking feet — compress flying from her head — she screams. The ululation is high-pitched and powerful, as you would expect from the lungs of a singer.

  “It’s ok, Marie-Ann,” Tommy says soothingly to a Marie-Ann who is now pallid, wide-eyed and hyperventilating. “It’s only Talon. He’s my friend. Shhh — he’s my friend. Shush, now. Come on. Come on; everything is okay,”

  “Barrenites are your friends?”

  “What? No! No. No — well, this one is, yes! ... But, er ... only this one, though. He’s — He’s not exactly a Barrenite, and he ...um.... He was one of the seven Dehas... his name was Secretas ... It’s Talon now ...he’s not been a part of the Dehas for over 90 years. Talon and his daughter, Daria, saved my life, Marie-Ann. Please calm down.”

  “Dehas? Tommy! They are demons!”

  “He’s an ex-Dehas,” Tommy corrects, as he flicks through memory after memory of his adventure to show Marie-Ann.

  “Idra rehabilitated him. She’s an odd old lady who loves to drink and smoke. She reads minds like books — I think your mother would love her! Also, there’s Thankwell — who's half Barrenite half-human because the beast that is Caelum raped his mother, Idra.”

  Marie-Ann simply stares at Tommy with wild eyes.

  "Thankwell, yeah. Haha. He’s a funny bugger. A... funny ...bugger...” trails off Tommy nervously, trying to gauge Marie-Ann’s mood.

  “The son of Caelum, one of the seven Dehas, leader of the Barrenites, and he’s funny? Funny Tommy? These creatures have killed more innocent lives than I care to imagine and you’re playing happy fucking families with them? ... They’re dangerous, Tommy.”

  “Thankwell had the chance to take my head hundreds of times, love. And, as for Talon, he ... he has changed. Since he found out the truth, he’s a loving father and a kind friend. You’ve got this all wrong. Talon’s the greatest hunter I've ever met —”

  “Well, I’m not surprised about the hunting! The amount of chasing down of terrified souls he’s carried out for his amusement over the years!” Marie-Ann looked out of the window, as rain started to beat on the pane, as if trying to find a way to escape this conversation.

  “Listen to me Marie-Ann, the man was —”

  “Man! Man? He’s a fucking monster, Tommy!”

  Tommy feels his anger surge. “You know what, Marie-Ann? I prefer you when you’re fucking drunk! At least then you pretend to listen!”

  Marie-Ann slaps Tommy’s face.

  Face stinging with the blow, Tommy turns to the hologram machine and picks it up.

  “Your dad’s machine. I fixed it for him.” Tommy spins around and throws it through the wooden wall of the shack, leaving a large hole which immediately starts to let in the rain.

  “Fine, then!” Marie-Ann screams. “You have your Barrenite friends to go to! You don’t need to be in the Lanes, anymore, do you? Why don’t you pack up your things and go back to the freaks in the woods!”

  “You don’t own the Lanes, Marie-Ann!” Tommy shouts back. “I can stay wherever the fuck I like.”

  “I only came here to tell you that I have five days left to live! I wanted to spend a full day with you! To talk and get to know you better...! But what do I find — hey? — a fucking friend to the evil out there trying to murder us!”

  Marie-Ann spins on her heels to leave. Tommy grasps her shoulders and turns her around to face him.

  “Look!” he says, earnestly, his face red. “I’m sorry! Okay? I think that —”

  The fast hand of Marie-Ann slaps Tommy’s face again. His hands naturally slipping up to her throat, he pushes her up against the wall.

  “Stop fucking hitting me!” he shouts at her now smirking face.

  She brings a knee violently up into his balls. Tommy doubles up and she pushes him over.

  “You evil bitch!” Tommy groans from the floor.

  Marie-Ann grabs Tommy’s bottle of scotch. With tears of anger welling in her heavily jaundiced eyes, and a rage reflecting that of the storm outside, she rips the cork out with her teeth and spits it into Tommy’s grimacing face. It bounces off his forehead and rolls under his bed. Marie-Ann gulps down the burning amber liquid, eyes squeezed shut. Tommy watches in a haze of pain and awe as his girl finishes the whole bottle.

  “You want me drunk you joke of a man? You got it! Don’t ever speak to me again! You are dead to me, Tommy Salem! Dead!”

  And, with these words, Marie-Ann is gone.

  Tommy rolls onto his side, curling up into a foetal position. This seems to help with the pain. Eventually, the agony filling his groin subsides to a dull, but (just) bearable, ache. From his position on the floor, he can see under his bed. The random items gathered there — odd socks, bottle tops, nail clippings, a memory plate he lost, a mostly-full bottle of brandy — seem to almost summarise his life; seem to reflect his racing, piecemeal thoughts. He reaches under the bed and grabs the bottle of brandy.

  My bollocks could use some anaesthesia! Tommy thinks. Swallowing down large, burning mouthfuls of the chestnut-coloured painkiller he slowly gets to his knees. Taking deep breaths, and swigging
more liquid pain relief, he pushes himself out from his hut and into the teeth of the rainstorm. One hand cupping his groin, to prevent excessive movement in that delicate area, he lumbers into a bow-legged pursuit of the fair maiden, intermittently swigging rain-diluted brandy.

  Tommy finds Marie-Ann near her pub. She is sitting, crying, cross-legged under the weeping willow tree. She often came here in times of hurt; whenever she feels heaven is burning.

  (LOOKING BACK, FROM thirty years in the future, Splinter’s memory of this romantic moment under the weeping willow tree— his Everest of romance — had become one of his greatest memories. It was, in fact, one of his only truly clear memories. His drunken, swollen heart, strains when remembering this moment in his life. He imagines it as a perfect freeze-frame of youth, love and passion. Years of chronic alcohol abuse have gifted him a closeness to death which sharpens his feelings to razor-like quality. When under the influence, thinking is hard, but feeling is easy. Perhaps it was not as he remembers it. Perhaps it was a mundane scene, just like the experiences of everyone else. Perhaps. There are always at least two versions of such moments.

  People telling the legendary tale of Splinter Salem tend to deviate along one of two distinct branches — branches which differ greatly in their romantic content. Often the mood or the inclination of the person telling the story will determine which branch of the mythic duality they follow.

  Two young people under a tree, hiding from a seemingly never-ending storm. This is the scene’s opening. This is how Splinter Salem always recalls the moment. This is also the way many living the Lanes tell the story — a fairy tale to give people a pleasant break from the drudgery of their lives, a romantic moment out from under the long shadow of death. The version next disclosed is that which most closely follows the one in Splinter’s mind and is only well-told by a collection of his closest friends: Jonesy, Gert, Bowdon — but not Pug (Pug rarely remembers whether he is wearing trousers). The most magnificent renditions, as with all stories, are performed by people with romance in their hearts; either that or people with an Irish accent and a bottle of space grog.)

  ...ONCE UPON A TIME, ON a dark and storm-threshed night, Tommy and his love shelter under the huge shielding boughs of the weeping willow tree. Lightning streaks the air as they hold each other, listening to the rain and wind and thunder.

  Marie-Ann gently begins to cry and hides her face in her hands. Tommy gently takes her hands and draws them away. A bolt of lightning strikes not far away and makes them chuckle nervously. They stare into one another’s eyes and Tommy tells Marie-Ann that he loves her. She smiles and a heavy tear rolls down her cheek symbolising her heartbreak at meeting the love of her life at the very end of her life. It was a tear of deepest regret. Regret for the times they will never have together. Regret for the cruelty of life. Regret for lost time and lost love. He moves closer. Marie-Ann’s hand is on his chest and he winds one arm around her shoulder, brushing strands of wet hair from the side of her ear. Lowering his head to her ear, as if he were about to take it into his mouth, Tommy whispers something to her. The intimate whisper was something timeless: something that poets and lovers throughout time had failed to capture in words. It was something she had waited all her short life to hear. It was the perfect expression of love. Her strength gives way, and she melts into him.

  Tommy cups her face, using his thumb to wipe the tears from one of her eyes. Before she can stop him, he licks his tear-soaked thumb. Thunder covers her surprised squeal, and she slaps at Tommy in mock horror. He pulls her close to fend off her light blows and whispers “I'm forever stretched on your grave.”

  She weeps again. This time not for herself — not for selfish reasons — but for Tommy. For his stupidity; for his love. Quietly, as if not trusting her voice, she whispers, “I love you, Tommy Boy.”

  He kisses her now, stealing all further words from her wet lips. To the symphony of the raging elements, they passionately unite, and their lovemaking seems to still the surrounding storm and promise that it will never rain again ...

  (SPLINTER LOVES TO REMEMBER it this way. His drunken, overly sentimental heart needs the delusion. The second, less well-known, version of the tale of Splinter Salem has a much more prosaic scene taking place under the storm-assailed tree.)

  “...WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU want!” Marie-Ann shouts, wiping whiskey and vomit off her face with the back of a green glove.

  “Just to see if you’re okay. Just hear me out.”

  “I’ll fucking knock you out, if you come any closer! Fuck off!”

  “I’ll keep my distance, but I just came to tell you that ... my balls are sore. You did a respectable job: you got both.” He jokingly moves his cupped hand up and down to add emphasis.

  Tommy takes another swig of the brandy, which must by now be mostly rainwater and saliva, listening as Marie-Ann’s sniffling subsides. A joke about multi-tasking is about to stream forth from his tactless mouth, but what little sobriety remains to him decides against it. Even though he knows it is a great joke, at this moment in time it would go down like a lead balloon with an elephant sitting on it. Potential disaster (just barely) averted, he realises that this brandy-on-an-empty-stomach thing was going to result in some bad decisions — and soon.

  “I wanted to let you know that it’s a wonderful thing — you wanting to spend the full day sober with me, when you only have five days left to live. It means everything to me. I never thought that you felt that strongly for me. It makes me feel amazing; and scared — for you. Fuck! I hate talking like this! I just wanted to tell you that I think about you a lot — you’ve seen the memories I have of you, dammit! It’s embarrassing! It's like you’ve been in my head. The truth is, the only way I know how to get through a day is to imagine we are together someplace, in the quantum — you know, kind of entangled in a different reality. In that reality, I say all the right things, and you can’t keep your hands off me, because there I’m not a weird freak who’s clumsy and bumbles over my words when I’m around you. In that place, I’m cool. In that place, I’m twice as cool as Jonesy — and that’s pretty cool — and in that place, there’s no virus —” He trails off under her intense stare.

  “Go on,” says Marie-Ann, eyes still locked on him.

  “— and... well, we have all our lives ahead of us to go find that fucking asteroid. You remember, you told me, with that commune of artists on it, and I’ll break you in,” — here Marie-Ann starts to laugh, wildly — “break in there, and you’d start singing, and they’ve never seen anyone sing as beautiful. You’ll draw them in — you draw in everyone — and it’s the greatest song they’ve ever heard. You steal the fucking show, because that’s how you sing! You’re the Emerald of the Island because you shine.” Tommy takes another swig and feels embarrassed.

  “Come here, you idiot! ... I liked that,” she says, using gloved hands to try and hide her smiling face. He knows she still wants to be mad at him.

  Tommy wastes no time and plonks himself down next to her, under the mighty tree. He immediately regrets the eagerness of his movement as a rock-hard tree root reignites the pain in his balls.

  “Have another swig and then let me have the rest, Tommy. I don’t want to spend any more time sober. It’s too painful.” She waits until he is in mid-glug and then snatches the bottle from him. “Thanks!” she says venomously. Some brandy flicks out of the bottle and into Tommy’s eyes

  “Aahh, Shit! Fuck! It’s in my eyes. It's burning my fucking eyes out!”

  Marie-Ann’s laughter follows Tommy as he staggers blindly away from the tree and into the storm. He tilts his head to the sky and allows the pulsing of the rain to clean out his stinging eyes; the pain in his testicles briefly forgotten. Marie-Ann cackles helplessly and Tommy finds himself laughing too, the mad laughter catching. He tentatively moves back under the branches of the mighty weeping willow, all the while time trying to use his knowledge of chaos theory to try and predict the emotional trajectory of his pretty green-and-red meteor. Bu
t, like all chaotic systems, there is no discernible pattern. All of chaos has a pattern in retrospect, but future patterns cannot be forecasted. Her bitter mood swings, like the messiness of all biological systems, were impossible to navigate.

  Tommy briefly considers walking back to the hut, the ire of Marie-Ann mostly ameliorated. But that would be suicide. The implants in his arms were like magnets for power, any power, including lightning bolts. It was a miracle he had managed to stagger here without getting struck. Asking for two such miracles in succession was tempting fate and thumbing his nose at probability theory. If he had his joining tools and his EPC attached, then the lightning would be absorbed and there would not be an issue. Without them, however, he had worked out long ago that, if he were struck by lightning, he would explode. The implants would become unstable, and the resulting explosion would be the end of prison planet Earth. Sobering thoughts. And, with the Dionysus virus in his system, being sober was terminal.

  Tommy shifts further under the tree’s safe embrace as another lightning bolt lights up the sky. The flickering shadows caused by the lightning made Marie-Ann’s mascara-smeared face look haunting, her smile sinister.

  He chooses her love. He chooses her in all her wildness — in her savage beauty, in her demented drunkenness: her unpredictability; her unstable and explosive nature. He could never dream up such a spectacular individual. Even with his prodigious intellect, he is unable to fathom anything she does or anything that she is. Here, under a storm-tossed tree, Tommy finds the one variable missing from any of his inventions and plans. That strangest of energies, that wildest of powers: Love.

  MARIE-ANN O’SHEA SURVIVES another nine months, outlasting all expectations.

  He nurses her in her final days, Jonesy always nearby. Anything she wants, they get for her. Everyone burns up a half-day of sobriety, without complaint, trying to get her comfortable. The Emerald of the Island deserves nothing less.