He eventually returned to the cottage, telling Melissa that he’d gone for an especially long run this morning. She informed him that they were going to the beach after lunch. Trent layered himself in clothing to keep anything from radiating outward.
“You’re going to roast!” she declared as Trent exited the patio door.
He stood dumb, dazed.
“Beach, mommy!” Jasmine cried.
They walked.
The beach was even busier than yesterday. Youth was everywhere. The only people Trent spotted who appeared older than him were the shore-bound fishermen stationed in their lawn chairs in the shallows.
They staked out their spot. At Jasmine’s bouncing insistence, Melissa helped her wriggle into her water wings. Trent, overdressed in long trousers and a jacket, refused to lower himself down onto the granules. Nor would he heed the voiceless beckon of the bluffs. He looked out across the water and wondered how many more days of sunlight were left.
“Trent!”
He turned to see Melissa hunched before Jasmine. “For the fourth time, where is her lifejacket?”
Trent looked about foolishly. “I…I must have left it at the cottage.”
“I wanna swim, mommy!”
Melissa sighed. “Can you go back and get it?”
“Hmm?”
“Never mind,” she huffed, pushing herself to her feet. “I’ll go. Watch her, please. She’s got her water wings, so she can go in, just not too far.”
“Right.”
“Trent?”
He looked at her.
“Watch her.”
He pushed his mouth into what he hoped was a reassuring grin. Judging by Melissa’s reaction, it was not.
Trent took Jasmine’s hand. Her palm was like a tiny silk pillow. Together they parted the water.
Jasmine slid her fingers free and began to stomp the shallows. Her steps caused water to bounce up like miniature fountains in the air. The tide flowed and ebbed. Overhead, gulls spun out precise spiral patterns.
A slow and silent tide also touched Trent from within. In no time it subsumed him. Trent saw the sky as a great murky ocean, pouring its Dark Matter down like sand through a sieve.
The scope of it, the indifference it exuded as it went through its bewildering machinations—these stifled Trent.
All was silent and dim; human activity was fading, like candles guttering out one by one.
But then the candles began to brighten, raging against this meta-darkness. There was a flaring.
There was a crescendo of ugly sounds.
Trent snapped his head, and the Dark Universe was once more hidden behind a bright and busy mask. A stark image filled his eyes: a tiny figure in a shell of many colours, twitching just below the water’s surface.
“Mister!” yelled a male voice.
The fishermen had sprung from their lawn chairs as quickly as their aged bones would allow. Their poles were jerking about as though they had live wires in their spinners.
The men were waist-deep in the water now. One had scooped a bulky shape from the waves while the other ever-so-gently manoeuvred the fishing line.
The sight of Jasmine’s head hanging limp and heavy from the crook of the fisherman’s arm summoned in Trent a feeling that was far worse than being emptied. It mangled his heart. The alpha and omega of all life blazed from the crushed and dripping form that was drooped over the old man’s arms like a boned fish.
With trembling hands the second fisherman removed the last loop of the nylon line that had wound itself around Jasmine’s neck. They laid on her on the sand. Trent scuttled over to her, howling, his movements as alien-looking as a crab’s crawl. He positioned Jasmine’s head and attempted the Kiss of Life.
Even in the cold, thick mire of his dread, Trent was somehow still aware of his contagion. The grinding voice in his head assured him that he would not be saving Jasmine, he would be poisoning her; breathing into her the tainted black particles of the mine shaft and of the gutted bluffs.
He sat up to draw in a fresh breath. Jasmine was still.
An eagle-like scream pierced through the murmurs that were swirling above Trent. All heads turned to see Melissa standing near The Snack Hut, the lifejacket hanging needlessly from her fist. She dropped it and ran forward.
Trent arched down to exhale again. He was abruptly shoved aside.
He remained slumped in the shallows, his clothing growing cold and heavy with the tide, and watched as Melissa did what his toxic self could not.
Jasmine convulsed. Melissa began to weep as she turned her child onto her side and saw water and saliva trickle out of the tiny mouth. Jasmine began to cough, and then to cry. She sounded like a mewling cat. Melissa kissed her sand-encrusted hair and sobbingly urged her to breathe, breathe…
“Thank God,” one of the fishermen said. “Thank God. I’m terribly sorry, ma’am. Your little one, she was starting to stray over to where our lines were cast. We tried to warn your husband. We didn’t see her go under. We didn’t know she’d gotten tangled up right away. I’m just… Thank God, ma’am.” He patted Jasmine’s head delicately, as though she might shatter at his touch.
*
Melissa carried her back to the cottage, cooing to her, telling her how brave she was and how none of this was her fault. By the time they reached the back deck Jasmine was no longer crying.
Trent lagged behind, a pack mule burdened with all the cargo that was infinitely less precious than Jasmine.
He was not yet at their yard when Melissa flung open the sliding glass door to announce that she was driving Jasmine to the hospital to be examined. She did not ask Trent to join them.
Their vehicle roared out of the driveway and down the country lane. Trent dropped the beach items on the lawn and shuffled to the cottage’s living room, where he fell into one of the wicker bucket chairs.
It was dusk before Melissa returned. She entered the cottage with a bag from a fast-food chain. She uttered only two words to Trent: “She’s fine.”
She and Jasmine dined in the kitchen. Trent did not join them, but instead went to lie down.
The night deepened. Melissa had obviously opted to sleep next to Jasmine in her bedroom.
When Trent had at long last managed to shake the pieces into a pattern, he understood what had to be done. Still dressed in yesterday’s clothing, he crept to the doorway where he lingered to watch the two most beloved things in the world to him sleeping peacefully.
Melissa had intervened in time. Jasmine hadn’t been poisoned by him. But Trent could not run the risk of such a thing happening again. The indifference of the universe, which had somehow come to house itself in his heart, had to remain his alone. He could not let it leak out to spoil his loved ones.
He slipped outside and began to walk. He tried to jog but found that his black lungs were strained even by the mildest activity. It was coming to a head much quicker than Trent had suspected.
It was still dark when he reached the empty bluffs. Isaac was likely enjoying a well-earned rest somewhere.
He found the chunk of blood-black glass that doubled as both marker and plug. He rolled it free, allowing fresh Darkness to geyser up and out, but only momentarily.
Trent climbed down into the pit and began to rake the cold earth down onto himself. The grains wedged themselves beneath his fingernails and they gloved his palms. He pulled down enough sand to keep him snug. Then he reclined his head and waited.
Pent with folded limbs and arched neck, Trent shut his eyes and tempered his breathing. The sand seemed to be grinding in his ears, chirping in the mad language of birds, or in the secret tongue of the Conqueror Worm.
The longer Trent lingered, the more acute his aerial sense became. In time he was able to see clearly, despite the narrow womb that would not birth him, despite his tightly shut eyes. He had been right. Melissa would never know it, nor, thankfully, would Jasmine, but he was right. Science had delivered Trent into this heart of darkness, but Nature had provided him with the means t
o save his family from this fate.
Trent’s eyelashes were dewy. He could feel the Dark Matter gathering on his skin like some type of cosmic pollen. It was vacuum-cold, but Trent had already reached the point of acceptance.
Above, Isaac arrived and resumed his labours. A fresh quantity of beach sand was flung. As was his custom, Isaac did not look down into the pit as he worked. He knew well enough what was down there; something primordially impure, something that needed to be sealed in for good and all. He had lugged up fewer bags than usual, sensing perhaps that his chore was not as endless as he’d long believed. Intermittently he fingered the sigil around his neck.
Though neither man was aware of the other’s presence, somehow, at that horizon where all thought dovetails, both men intuited that today, at long last, it would be accomplished. Today would be the end.
Scold’s Bridle: A Cruelty
“Do we have an understanding then, Mr. Biskup?”
Ivan Biskup disliked the way the smile was growing across the face of Peters; his neighbour, the unbidden guest to his garage workshop.
“No,” Ivan returned. “No, we don’t. Not yet at least.” He plucked a rag from the pocket of his trousers to wipe away the perspiration that jeweled his weathered face. The iron workshop was a stifling cell. The open garage door afforded no breeze but only the rays of the Dog Day sun to pour in like molten slag. “I don’t even understand why you, why anybody, would want a book like this, let alone have something made from it.”
The chunky volume sat upon one of Biskup’s worn workbenches. The book’s gold-leaf edging sparkled under the fluorescent lights. Cruel & Unusual: An Illustrated History of Torture Devices was the book’s title. The cover seemed to shout these words, with its thick, ominous typeface. Beneath the title was an arrangement of four photographs, each showcasing a different invention born of humanity’s boundless creativity and cruelty. Ivan recognized one of the items as an iron maiden. The other, he assumed, was a gallows, or some hideous rack-and-rope contraption designed to dislocate living limbs like corks popping from bottled champagne. The other two were line drawings of devices too esoteric for Ivan. He scratched the back of his neck.
“I teach history,” answered Peters, though Ivan had forgotten his question, “I want a device for a visual aid. It will help me teach a lesson. The neighbours tell me you work wonders with wrought iron.”
There was a fluttering noise as Peters flicked open the book to an earmarked leaf. He tapped his finger on the page, coaxing Ivan to look.
The image might have been of a helmet. Ivan squinted his eyes and studied closer, concluding at last that the contraption was a mask of some description. Its frame was of curved iron bands and jutting screws and a few ornamental curlicues. Poking up from the top of the mask was a pair of donkey’s ears, fashioned in crudely hammered metal.
“You’re either joking or crazy,” Ivan said. His indignation had been made plain. “Folks around here aren’t going to let their kids see something like this in school. I don’t care if it is from some fancy history book. What’s this thing supposed to be anyway?”
“It’s called a scold’s bridle. It’s also sometimes referred to as a brank. In medieval times, authorities would employ it to remind certain people of their station in life.”
At that instant, a young mother pushed a pram along the sidewalk in front of Ivan’s exposed workshop. The woman gently rocked the carriage with one hand while with the other she waved a blue teddy bear before the open hood. Neither action consoled the infant, whose cries were piercing and persistent.
“Good morning, Allison!” Peters cried. He waved and grinned at her. Allison waved back tiredly. Peters then turned back to Ivan and mumbled, “That kid sounds like a boiled cat. Imagine hearing that at three in the morning?” He shuddered with disgust.
Ivan reached over and closed the book.
“I’ll pay you,” announced Peters. “I know you need the money.”
When he saw the expression on Ivan’s face, saw the way the older man puffed up his sizeable frame, Peters raised his hands in a gesture of peacekeeping.
“Please,” he began, “don’t take offence. It’s just…well, I watch. I see things. I’m good at taking little pieces of detail and seeing how they fit into a larger mosaic. This workshop, for instance. When my wife and I first moved onto this street, we’d see throngs of people on your driveway every Saturday and Sunday.”
Ivan nodded mournfully. “My sales. My Edwina used to help me every weekend…”
“I remember. I think almost every house on the block had at least one piece of your ironwork; fireplace tools, patio furniture, garden gates.”
“Every house except yours,” Ivan replied. He, too, was good at noting details.
“That’s why I’m here; to correct that. Besides, it’s been a long time since you’ve had one of your sales. I’d imagine your bills are piling up. And before you ask, I deduced this after your wife passed last year. My condolences, by the way. You haven’t hosted a sale since. I remember that day in January when your car wouldn’t start. You had it towed and I haven’t seen it since. The repairs must have been outside your budget. You’ve been practically housebound.”
Ivan emitted an unintentional sigh of lament. “If I make that mask,” he began, “what were you thinking of paying?”
Peters named a sum that stole Ivan’s breath.
“I don’t believe you,” Ivan said thinly.
Peters produced an envelope plump with bills.
At Peters’ insistence, Ivan counted them, fumblingly.
“How does a schoolteacher come up with that kind of money?”
“Family,” Peters said plainly. “Now, let me go over a few of the key details.” He once again opened the torture book to the chosen page.
“The scold’s bridle shown here is modelled on a donkey’s head. I gather this was a pretty common design; make the guilty party resemble a jackass, that sort of idea. But I came up with this rough sketch on this paper.” He produced a sheet from his shirt pocket. “The bridle I want is made to look more like a rabbit. See the ears?”
Ivan moved his head vaguely.
“As for the mouth clamp, the book suggests an iron band lined with adjustable screws, points facing inward. These can be tightened to various lengths, depending on how deeply the punisher wants to push the screws into the wearer’s gums…” Peters continued to explain gleefully, before finally asking, “Do we have a deal then, Mr. Biskup?”
Ivan’s gaze was tethered to the bulging envelope on his workbench. “Yes…yes, I suppose we do.”
*
He did not begin to work on the project until the sun had begun to sink, dragging with it some of the swelter. After a pauper’s supper of canned soup and an apple, Ivan wended his way to the garage.
The iron muzzle was the most labour-intensive of the bridle’s components. Mr. Peters had requested that the bit be lined with a gravel-like coating of barbs. A pair of chains linked the mouthpiece to the muzzle, and the whole contraption was framed by a network of flat iron bars bent to fit the exact measurements Mr. Peters had left on his sketch.
The following evening Ivan went about ornamenting the scold’s bridle with the jackrabbit ears of thin metal. He even added six pieces of jutting copper wire to the muzzle; whiskers for the bunny’s polished metal nose. The gum clamp was lined with double rows of screws and the mask’s interior was enhanced with thick spiky bolts. He scored the interior of the eyeholes and peeled back the pointed metal jags so that the wearer’s eyelids would, theoretically speaking of course, be nicked with each blink.
The third night was just a matter of tightening and buffering.
On the appointed morning, Peters came to collect. The metal monstrosity was secreted inside a white cardboard box that bore the insignia of a wine Ivan had never drunk. Peters peeked into the top, then gave what might have been a very faint nod. He neatly folded over the carton’s flaps, picked up his spoil and strolled down Ivan’s dr
iveway without so much as a word.
*
From that day onward, guilt—inexplicable, burning, ever-present—became Ivan’s erstwhile companion. It weighted his frame like a millstone. When he did manage to steal a few hours of sleep it chewed on his psyche, causing dreams of tortures too gorgeous to ever be recalled by a civilized mind. Indeed, Ivan felt as if he was trapped in one of the devices from Peters’ book. He thought of the schoolchildren seeing what he’d wrought. He found that thought unbearable.
However, he had paid his bills and still had cash left over, enough to keep himself in drink for several weeks.
Finally, his guilt crested over into burning curiosity.
Ivan lay on the bed, listening to the windup alarm clock ticking at him from the nightstand like a clucking tongue. It punished him until daylight finally broke.
He sat up too quickly and for a moment the room lilted, yet it did not rob him of his clarity. He needed to know, needed to be reassured that he had done nothing wrong. Of course, his mask had been fashioned in good faith, as a teaching tool, but nevertheless, this rationale could not keep the ugly guilt at bay.
He rose and dressed. This morning he would have closure.
Not until he was out in the street did it occur to Ivan that he hadn’t bothered to check the time. It was early but clearly not too early; women and men on the street were jogging or were beginning their morning commute in their smart-looking business attire.
He thought he’d made it all the way to Peters’ house without being seen when the front door was startlingly flung open. Peters stared hard at him. His white Oxford shirt was buttoned to the collar, but the tie was hanging from his right hand like a limp scourge.
“Ivan!” he said with audible shock.
“I…” he began, clearing his throat as he struggled to find the words, “I just came to…”
Peters raised his hand and chortled softly. “I know why you’re here.” He pushed the door open wide. “You want to see your creation in its new home, yes?”
Grotesquerie Page 10