Elise and The Butcher of Dreams

by Steven Welch

  “Things are growing here, things look almost normal except for sand millipedes and desert wolves in the caves and such like that. Do you think it’s that way everywhere?”

  “Maybe. Our planet is strong.”

  Elise and Zuzu talked until the moon was high in the night sky. They read from the book of poems. They talked about hope and travel and food. They talked about killing and how there had been too much of it. Still, they also talked about the proper use of a 9 mm Luger with a double-stacked magazine, the dangerous value of explosives, and the subtle art of violence with sharp objects.

  “Imagination makes us beautiful,” Elise said as she drifted off to sleep.

  Zuzu patted her head and said, “Yes, and some people like to kill the beautiful things. Tomorrow we train again. You have many travels to come and many adventures ahead. There are beautiful things in this world we must save.”

  The world was still a dangerous place, and that would not change anytime soon.

  The fire died out as they slept but the chalet’s stone walls held close the warmth.

  NEW ORLEANS - FOUR YEARS AFTER THE OCEAN CAME BACK

  The drawing was of a rainbow crab and it was done in many crayons so that the colors seemed to burst from the rough paper.

  Ally drew the rainbow crab for her Mother. Her Mother told her countless stories of the crab and its companion Elise St. Jacques who saved the world when Ally was tiny. Ally plastered the canvas walls of her tent in the heart of the old train station with artwork until her Mother made her take it all down and hide it away.

  Why must I hide my pictures?

  “Because they might see what you’ve done and take you away.”

  That had been enough for Ally. She didn’t want to go away from her Mother and the 9th Ward Reunion. The artwork came down one morning and was placed in a plastic bin beside Ally’s rough gray bed mat. She always kept rainbow crab on top of the pile of artwork and stories so that when she opened the bin he was the first thing she would see.

  Before she had taken everything down, though, the artwork had been seen by Old Larry. Old Larry was strange and sometimes screamed at nothing. Ally’s Mother made sure that Ally was never alone with Old Larry.

  Old Larry saw the artwork and Old Larry talked.

  So now Ally ran with her rainbow crab drawing clutched to her chest to protect it against the hard rain and The Dream Butcher. Ally knew The Dream Butcher would destroy her artwork.

  What if, when her drawing burned, the real rainbow crab died as well?

  This was New Orleans on a hot summer night when water came once more from the sky and the moon could not be seen. The air once so thin was thick with the fish and muck smell of the river, of the fires burning here and there in steel drums tucked away in buildings of rotten wood and crumbling stone. There were sounds, tapping of raindrops on pavement, shouts now and then in the night, the buzz of insects from our world and others. The voices were few because New Orleans had a population of just under five hundred people and most of them were asleep.

  There was also the sound of men in pursuit and that was the sound that terrified Ally because she knew they were coming for Rainbow Crab and if she didn’t run fast and hide well, they would put him to the torch.

  So eight-year-old Ally Dupree ran as fast as she could.

  Ally was just a toddler when the river returned and she had no real memories of that day when the water roared back into the vast arid basin that once was the Mississippi. When they settled the waters were lower than before and the river flowed more quickly. The rains returned then too. There was oxygen from the ocean so breath was not so labored. Plants grew, wood went to rot, and strange creatures emerged to join the rats and roaches that survived the time before the return of the river.

  Ally knew every street in the Quarter, every building that a child could enter safely and many that were treacherous. She liked to play with her friend Dalton and they made great games of hide and seek through the ruins of what once was a famous city, or so she had been told.

  They called themselves the 9th Ward Reunion. New and dangerous things overran that old neighborhood after the water came back so most people clustered in the buildings around Jackson Square and into the French Quarter. More places to hide there, more places to make secure, older buildings with thicker walls. The 9th Ward Reunion made a home at the train terminal west of the Quarter and they had been safe there.

  Ally ran down the ally behind the stores facing the river, just off of the Square, then a quick left into Napoleon House, a building she knew was hollow, that led out into a yard and then a fence of stone and then down toward Canal Street. She glanced down at her rainbow crab. The paper was wet but the wax of the crayons wasn’t smeared or dripping, not yet. Ally’s legs felt like they were made of wood. Fear made her clumsy.

  The men who chased her were near. Ally didn’t hear voices, only footsteps rapping fast down the broken street. Rain washed into her dark brown eyes and it burned because this rain, the new rain, sometimes carried things that would sting.

  There was a sudden glow to her right. A lightning shrimp. It had been clinging to a wall and now it flew beside her. Ally tried not to think about the pain it could bring. She ran as hard as she could. Her legs were lean and her muscles were strong and they carried her despite her fear and despite her fatigue down a side street and toward the business district.

  Had she lost them? Had she saved the Rainbow Crab?

  Pounding footsteps. No. Ally continued to run. What if they killed her too? She had heard stories about these men and what they did. Her mother warned her about them but Ally was sure they would never bother her. She was just a small child who liked to draw pretty pictures.

  What if they burned her artwork, killed her, and chased her Mother down? The breath was hot and dry at the back of Ally’s throat. So thirsty. So scared.

  If I can make it to The War Museum. The Sheriff was there and would protect her against The Dream Butcher. The Sheriff had a gun.

  And then she stepped on a rock she had not seen and Ally fell hard to the street. Pain. Confusion. Fear. Energy left her body as if eaten out of her and she was crawling, her artwork clutched to her chest.

  A strong hand grabbed Ally by the neck and lifted her up.

  The Dream Butcher’s eyes were dark blue and there was a slight smile on his thin face. Long white hair fell beneath a hat made of hide. The rain made tiny drumming sounds against the brim of the hat. He did not look like a monster but he was a white man and she didn’t see many of them. His long fingers dug into Ally’s dirty neck.

  “It hurts,” she said. Ally could barely breath through the pain and she was too scared to kick. She was terrified and through the sudden tears had a horrible feeling she would wet herself and what an awful thing that would be, what a terrible thing.

  The man her Mother called The Dream Butcher loosened his grip a bit. He put his face close to hers; the smile drifting away and the eyes growing tight. She could sense the others gathering around in a circle.

  “Please don’t make us chase you again.”

  Ally started to speak, and the fingers closed tighter than before.

  “Blink once for yes.”

  Tears clouded Ally’s vision, and she blinked.

  “Was that once? Can’t tell.” There was laughter from someone in the darkness of the midnight rain and it was a sound without kindness. Ally’s stomach went cold. She concentrated and closed her eyes once, then opened them.

  “There. Good.” The Dream Butcher slowly set Ally down, down so that her gator skin boots made a soft crunch on the sand at their feet.

  “Hand it over, bitch,” said one of the other men in the darkness behind her. The voice was rough and low. Ally clutched the drawing of the rainbow crab tighter to her chest.

  The Dream Butcher glanced up at the rude voice and there seemed to be a trace of anger in his blue eyes.

  “Shut up, man. No need for that.”

  Ally could look around
now, her eyes tingling from tears and rain, struggling to see in the darkness. She counted five shadows around her and the man standing in front of her. The Dream Butcher was tall and thick and wore a black duster that made him look like a raven or a shadow. His pale face was wrinkled but unscarred and clean, with no beard or marking. Ally thought the Dream Butcher would have looked like a monster but that wasn’t the case. He knelt to a knee and held out a hand.

  “You can go home. Just hand it over.”

  Ally held the artwork to her chest.

  The Dream Butcher shook his head.

  “Where do you live?”

  Ally trembled. These men wanted to go to her people. Her Mother. No.

  “She’s from 9th Ward Reunion. The crazy old bastard told us,” said one of the shadows.

  “Yeah,” said the Dream Butcher, “Just wanted to hear if she would say it.”

  He stood.

  “Come on.”

  There was nowhere to run. Ally took his hand and cried.

  She had never been more terrified in her short, young life.

  The shadows split off, two in front, two behind, and one to the side of the street where slender passages could hold secrets. Ally walked hand-in-hand with a monster in the rain of that hot New Orleans night and she knew for a fact that these men would kill her Mother and her friends and they would take their pleasures in so doing. Not even The Sheriff could kill these men, not even with his biggest gun, the one he held back for the worst things that came from the river. And it would be Ally’s fault.

  They walked southwest from the Mississippi, past the streets of Barrone and Union and then on to Poydras. Twice there were low candle lights in the darkness of old buildings and as the men passed the candles went out. There were no people to be seen, and those that were hidden could escape easily enough by scrambling up walls hung with cord or disappearing down into pits that led somewhere further up the street. The people always had a way to escape, and the 9th were no exception. Ally knew they could run away but was sure they wouldn’t because they weren’t about to leave one of their own to the hands of the Dream Butcher. So these shadows would march up to her people with Ally in hand and then there would be killing and other bad things.

  The two figures leading the way held weapons but Ally couldn’t tell what the weapons were. Long and sharp. Maybe a rifle with a knife tied to the tip? Yes, probably that.

  The men behind walked backwards and were holding clubs with nails and other sharp objects imbedded into the dark wood. All the men wore thick leather clothes wrapped in wire and buckles.

  “So, what’s your name?”

  The Dream Butcher’s voice surprised Ally. It wasn’t rough and scary at all. He sounded young and nice, not like a monster should sound.

  “Ally. My name is Ally. Allison. Allison Dupree.”

  “Ally. Good name. Like that alley over there right?”

  She couldn’t tell if he was joking.

  “Sure,” he continued, “like that alley right there. Or there. Skinny, mysterious, might hold treasure or traps. A place to run. A place to hide. A place to hold surprises. Alleys are cool.”

  “I think my name is different. Not that kind of alley.”

  “Right. My name is Jack. I know you might call me something different, but it’s just Jack. So, how do you feel, kid?”

  Ally didn’t speak. She could not find her voice.

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m right as rain. Right as rain.”

  They walked, the only sounds their boots on the mud of the streets, the rustle of leather, and the chirping noises of the night bugs. Ally considered her chances of running away but it was as if the man could sense what she was thinking and every time she felt like she could make a run for it the grip of his hand grew tighter.

  They would kill her if she ran, she thought. And that might be best. Yes, it would be best because they would never find her tribe then and she would become a hero and her Mother would love her forever.

  Ally decided to sacrifice herself. She could break that grip and run and die and be a hero.

  So much time had passed that the rain had stopped. They were getting close to the secret place where her people and her Mother lived. Ally took a deep breath.

  “What’s your picture of?”

  She held the breath. Now or never. Run.

  “Is it something you think is nice? Or pretty?”

  The question shook her. Why ask that?

  She let out her breath.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When the spirit takes someone and they’re compelled to create a picture, there’s usually a voice that gives that spirit life. That voice is a muse. You ever heard that?”

  “No. I just draw. That’s all.”

  The Dream Butcher, Jack, laughed just loud enough to be heard.

  “So you think.”

  He held up his other hand and the other men stopped in their tracks. Jack motioned for them to sit. He dropped to his knees. Ally stood before him, eye level.

  I could run now, she thought, but she was curious as to what this strange monster had to say.

  “Can I see your picture?”

  “No. You’ll burn it.”

  “Well, yes, I’ll burn it one way or the other. So, please show me.”

  Ally kept it tight to her chest but turned the paper so it was revealed to the Dream Butcher.

  “Dom, shine a light, will you?”

  One of the shadows twisted a little tube and a bright light split the night. Ally had never seen a flashlight before and she thought it was a magical thing.

  The white light revealed her art. A rainbow crab of so many colors, smiling and playing in a garden under the sea. There was a little girl too, and a yellow submarine.

  The Dream Butcher stared at the drawing for a so long that Ally felt even more scared than before. There was something in his eyes that terrified her and that something grew stronger the longer he stared at what she had done.

  “The voice of The Muse, Ally, it comes from worlds below and between, worlds hidden in the pockets and folds of the universe. Do you know what that means?”

  She was stone silent.

  “Means there are voices that come into our heads from an evil place far way and these voices make us do bad things. Bad things like draw pictures. A flower is a pretty thing. You think you can do better than nature if you draw a flower? Let the flower be a flower, that’s what I say.”

  Before she could think he ripped the paper from her arms.

  “But when we listen to these voices and we draw these pictures or make music or build something useless just to play like God, doors are opened up and bad things come through to kill everything good and pure.”

  Jack had a little object in his left hand and it made a clicking noise. A small flame appeared.

  Oh no, thought Ally.

  He held the flame of the steel lighter to her drawing of the rainbow crab and the paper burned.

  “It’s not your fault. I know that. You’re just a door. But we’re here to shut the doors and save the world.”

  She cried again, harder now.

  “Build what you need to survive. No more. That’s the law. What you need to survive. Everything else has to burn, Ally.”

  The crayon artwork sputtered and popped as it melted.

  “Look over there.” The Dream Butcher dropped the burning paper and stood, pointing north to the huge open egg building that loomed like a steel and concrete whale on the horizon of the city of New Orleans. Of all the things in the old city, this was the biggest and the one you could see from almost anywhere.

  The massive building was a dome. The roof had cracked open. Something black and impossibly big roiled in the jagged vastness of the dome. Something was alive, nestled in the heart of the place. The thing glistened.

  Yes, thought Ally. Don’t be stupid. I know that place. That’s the dome of Saints where nobody can go because there’s a monster in it the size of the world and it
would eat us if we got too close. The place that was cursed. I know that place.

  “That’s what happens when you let those voices convince you to become God,” said Jack. His deep voice sounded sad.

  A tentacle a hundred yards long or more reached up from the broken shell of the massive dome. Yes, Ally, thought, the sun is rising and the monster always reaches up to the sun first thing every morning. Her Mother told her that the monster liked to get warm from the sun before it went about its business. Then it settles back down. Sure. Everybody knows that. So why burn my drawings? I don’t understand.

  “Run along, Ally. Run along to your tribe and don’t listen to those voices anymore or we’ll track you down. We’ll track you down and my men will take turns with your Mother until she loses her mind, then they’ll take turns with you and all you hold to heart.”

  He grabbed Ally by the neck and his nose was in her face. In that moment Ally thought the man’s face shimmered and blurred and changed and became that of a skull, a human skull, but with many eyes. Too many eye sockets and the skull was too tall and then the shimmer vision was gone but Ally knew what she had seen.

  “You’d better be so afraid of me that you don’t listen to those voices anymore. Do you understand?”

  She nodded yes even though she didn’t really understand. She felt the hot shame of piss running down the leg of her jeans.

  “You’d better be afraid of me.”

  “I am.”

  He was a monster after all.

  Jack pushed her away.

  If Ally could have felt the sadness The Dream Butcher felt then, at that moment, she would have been surprised. She might have even seen it in his eyes if she’d been looking but Ally was blind with terror. Knowing wouldn’t have changed anything though.

  “Now go burn all of those other things you created. Burn them all and dance in the ashes because you’re doing a righteous thing, Ally. Run.”

  And she did. Ally ran home as fast as she could, a tiny speck in the shadow of the dome of Saints where a monster lived like a snail in a shell the size of the world.

  That night Ally’s dreams were tossed into the bonfire and their ashes drifted up into the darkness. She burned her crayons too. They were beautiful and terrible to watch as they melted away in rivers of color.