Marshsong

by Nato Thompson

  They slid into an extremely dark foyer. Their reflections played on a mirror across from them as they could hear the crackle of fire play on their ears. Candles in sconces lined the walls and a red velvet unattended couch with an inscrutable painting above it sat on their left. Across from them were two larger oak doors where the slightest hint of conversation could be heard.

  "He's in there,” Isabella whispered.

  She opened the doors ever so slightly to peer in. A room of worship greeted her retina. Satin red pillows with gold stitching stretched across both walls and only fifty feet in front of her was the Duke bowed over in front of a large altar. It was an altar of the old church. He didn't turn around but lay prostrate on the ground.

  The altar was glorious. Though many believed the old church to be long forgotten, there were still those insightful few who adhered to its call. The Duke was one, every muscle gone supine in honor of a quirky, rickety, aggressive altar. An altar designed to empower and obliterate objects and people. Small motors turned the figurines of naked children with small flames coming from their heads. Like dedicated cigarette lighters, they spouted small fires and turned a sysiphysian 360. Long, languorous strings of ruby beads and icy cobwebs reflected light and dangled along the edges. Hints of aubergine powders, seared grasshopper legs, jelly jars of priest breath and small scrolls of pathological eviction notices were some of the many gifts laid at its steel base.

  The altar itself was a char pit where inside was only the dust and briquettes awaiting a high priestess's fiddling stick. The priestess was to stir the dust and light the bar-b-que and stare intently for futuristic trace elements. Crossing in front of the altar and then disappearing underneath it, ran a phantasmagoric chasm stretched across the chamber. Slowly moving within it was the viscous ooze of lava. The heavy radiance ignited every corner of the chamber in a pulsing heated glow. The lava was continuously churning, transforming, metamorphosing as it twisted its cryptic turtle pace.

  The twins crept in along the back wall and slid inside a cloakroom. Hiding amidst broomsticks and mothball overcoats, they peered out to watch this adventure unfold.

  The Duke lay there silently for some time. His mind bent inward; he concentrated on pure submission. He gave in so completely in order to hear the resounding crackling of those infinite flames. As they burned and chewed upon the chamber’s oxygen, he heard them tell him the story of annihilation. How the sun was voracious for worlds, how the sinkhole gets its fill, how the great winds break the dead branches, how the riotous forest fires consume and revitalize the overgrown woodlands. Yes, this was the story he was born into.

  Finally, he lumbered to his hairy, heavy feet. He was huge. His monstrous size made the enormous altar shrink in comparison. He whistled and made his way to the pillows where he reclined. He was tired. He pulled on his large knobby toes till each one popped like a cork. He pulled a glass pipe from his pockets and began to load it, his large fingers placing the weed in its bowl. He lit the underside with a nearby candle. The smell crept through the room. It lurched around, dancing along the altar. He lay there and smoked some more.

  A woman dressed in a radiant indigo dress came in and sat alongside him. Her hair was pulled up and held by a chopstick in back. Her eyelashes spread wide from her eyes. Her fingers were thin and precise. She was barefoot. She sat next to him silently and took the pipe. She smoked. Exhaled. The smoke swirled around her face and then filtered amongst the lava. He moaned slightly and sank further into the pillows.

  “What do you see in there?” she asked, as he stared hypnotically at the ceiling.

  The Duke grunted and replied, “Sometimes nothing. Sometimes it is just a blank space that tells me to eat the world slowly. Like my mother telling me to slow down and chew on the bull bone. But this time, I did have a vision. It was odd really. They usually are. I dreamt of salt being poured like a waterfall into an ocean of soda. High up in the Bomberly Mountains it poured down a river of white sand. Below it poured and the mass of the syrupy water struggled to soak up the burden of so much saline. The salt piled into a pyramid taking the entire ocean into its ravenous body. I stood up above helpless, wanting to dive in and drink it all up into my body. I wanted to be a human sponge. I wanted to soak up more than the salt pyramid.”

  The twins found the Duke hard to hear. He mumbled at times and it didn’t sound as though he was even communicating with the woman either. More like revelry.

  She caressed his head. “You really need to sleep poor thing.”

  "The fact of the matter is, I can not endure this pace," he said, pulling her hand off and replacing his own hand to rest on his big head.

  "I do everything anyway. Not sure why you worry so much. Pick up a hobby.” She said.

  "Hobby. Ha! Perhaps you are right. I could pick up crocheting or tidily winks.” He said.

  "Don’t jest. I’m serious,” she replied. She laid her head back into the pillows and stared into the lava. She took another hit off the pipe. "Or maybe you need a distraction. Why didn't you bring little miss nightmare with you?"

  "Oh," he laughed to himself. He moved to his side and faced the woman. "Believe me I tried. I nearly became pathetic in my attempt, but she is a stubborn mule. Just dug in her heels and wouldn’t budge. She pretty much threw me out with her own hands. She may be frail, but she has some might in those arms.”

  "I don’t suppose you were sober?” she smiled and lit the pipe again.

  "I was smashed. Drunk as a loon. I had thrown back far too much before I arrived. It was madness really. I wanted her to be here. But as much as I play with her, I fear she plays with me all the while. She torments me. Gods!” he threw his glass against the wall and it smashed with a crash. “When did it get to this? I am meant for grazing not delicate games of passion. I have fallen so low. Now I wait for her beck and call? Me? What? This is absurdity. She should be so pleased to know I have dared to even smile upon her, but she doesn’t care in the slightest. She is up in the agonized mindset that is her life.”

  “She is all you have ever wanted, isn’t she?”

  He petted the woman’s hair and smiled at her, his large hands enveloping her. The woman leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “I will get her back here soon. I am sure of it. I must let time work its magic. And when she is here, she will bring such wonder to our den.”

  “She will wreak havoc, Nicolai.”

  “Yes, she will be nothing but agony, but that will be our pleasure. I thirst, Esther. I thirst so badly."

  "I know. I do as well. Your face has aged . . . there are so many lines." She put her hand up to his face. A world of hills and ravines pushed up against the texture of her index finger—his face a map full of the consternations of a man most hungry.

  "Ha, lines." He brushed her away. "Those lines have been there for a long, long time, council. A long time, as you well know. I encourage the definition of my face. I encourage the sand of the world to batter my skin. I am not concerned about lines. I live to age with severity. But this . . . oh, this damn laboring. My father was never forced to such trifles."

  Esther stood up and began to pace the floor, her bare feet sticking out from beneath her robe.

  "It is true. These days are filled with far too many details of labor. I know your father was far more versed in the ways of social amenities than capital. It troubles me as well. I wish it could be different for you, but from what I can gauge that is simply not the case. We are a dying breed, Nikolai."

  "Yes. At least there is glory in that. Glory in extinction."

  "It is my job to prevent you from experiencing such glory. Sorry."

  "It is your job to bring to light this madness. In that respect, you are failing miserably. I don't know what is going on. It's a dam waiting to burst. I'm just plugging holes throughout the years. It's this tiring and painfully sophomoric utilitarianism that is the present craze.”

  "I am doing what is possible, but you realize how absolutely impossible it really is." Esther walked ove
r to the lava pit and stared into it. It was hypnotizing. If one thought the embers of a burning fire were entrancing, one has never been blessed with the radiance of lava on opium.

  Her voice was husky, calm and soothing. Just the way she placed her delicate hands on his forehead made it apparent that she loved this duke. He stood up and walked with her to the chasm. He put his arm around her and stared into it.

  "I listen to the lave," he whispered. "I was given a salt pile, Esther. Lord knows this body of mine doesn’t need more to drink. Nothing. I pray for solutions. I receive destruction. I pray for answers and it opens its mouth. One might think it wants me to jump in sometimes. And I would. I would. But I believe it is dry in the grave—a sandstorm the likes of which I am not prepared to engage."

  “I am pleased to hear that,” she said. She rubbed his back and pulled him to the floor. He lay down with her. The Duke shook his head. He wished he could wake from his troubles. His red spotted eyes were glowing in the haze. He laid his head on the oak floor and looked into the ceiling. His hands went under her dress and he felt along the cool edge of her breast—his grainy forefinger against her equally grainy nipple.

  Isabella’s eyes opened wide. A knock at the door. The Duke looked up irritated.

  "Can't they leave me alone?" he whispered.

  "I'll take care of it," said Esther, putting on her robe. She walked over to the door and opened it. There at the door was one of the scribes who whispered to her. He handed her a piece of paper and left. Esther walked over to the Duke and handed him the paper.

  He crooked his head as if listening to the wind. Silence. He stood up in an awkward way and remained standing contorted. After a short awkward silence, he inhaled broadly through his hairy bulbous nose—a vast inhalation that took in the follicles from the carpet and cinders from the fires. And then, following in musical succession, he exhaled the strangest sound—a low elk call that shook the floorboards. A sound primordial and soft. A calling to a tribe long lost. He put his nose in the air and his hand touched the oak floor. He stood up straight and smiled.

  Before they could even react, he had opened the door the twins were listening from and held them each, by the throat, in his huge hands. Upon seeing them, his eyes grew wide.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed, looking at Isabella and Fennel as though they were souvenirs just purchased. “If it isn’t Savina’s orphans! Just look how you have strayed from the path. You certainly are finding your way into my life just a little too frequently, I must say.”

  Before they had time to think, he flung them both into a closet. Their bodies banged against the wall and knocked them down to the floor. They tried to jump out, but he was already locking them in—the sound of metal clicking, clacking, locking and then, a fateful sound of him muttering some spell.

  "Enjoy your stay," he laughed.

  They could hear the Duke and Esther exit the room. It suddenly went quiet—just the sound of the lava slowly oozing its away in front of the altar and the faint sound of the Duke and Esther’s feet going down the hall.

  “Well this is rather unexpected but I have to admit, dearest Fennel, we are in the presence of something unlike anything we have ever encountered.” said Isabella. She was enraptured. His grip on her neck had been strangely soft, barely able to reach around. She hadn’t been frightened in the slightest but instead excited to meet his touch. It felt hauntingly similar to the passive visceral strength of Marty. "Fennel. Fennel!" She looked beside her. Fennel was sitting on the ground. His hands across his legs and his head buried between his knees. Isabella squatted down beside him. "Fennel are you okay?"

  "Seasick," he mumbled. "I'm just seasick. Stop the boat."

  Isabella tried her glass key on the lock. It didn't budge. Didn't budge? She tried it again and again, all to no avail. She kicked at the door. No luck. She squatted down beside him again. "Hey, my little hunter, you're not vomiting, are you?"

  "Soon enough, crafty. Soon enough. Bile and filth will be spreading across this floor. This is horrible. Let's leave. I have to leave," he mumbled between his legs.

  "Oh, Fennel. We can't. I think we're stuck here. I can't get this door to open."

  Fennel looked up, his eyes wide with panic. "Can't get it open? What are you saying? Surely we can leave!"

  He stood up and gave the doors a violent kick. The door held fast. He kicked again and again and again. The sound pounded through the room. The time for silence had gone. His face was a deathly white. Perspiration saturated his hair.

  "We can't be stuck here. What does that mean? We can't stay here. We must get home!"

  "Calm down, Fennel. I'll figure something out."

  "No, no, no! We're getting out of here. Now, Izzy! We're getting out of here now!"

  He kicked at the door again. His ankle twisted on impact and he recoiled. He then doubled over and began to get sick in the corner. What a mess. Isabella sat down across from her brother. She should have left him behind. She should have known the sickness would have affected him so badly.

  As if reading her mind, Fennel looked up at her. "Why on earth, Isabella, " he whispered in a gargled voice, "have I been so cursed as to suffer with this compromising malady while you are so fortunate as to sit there and gloat over me?" Dribble slipped off his lip and onto the floor.

  "I am not gloating. I am ill as well."

  "Sure, sure you are," he mumbled.

  Isabella peeked through the slats, staring at the altar. The way he had bowed. Totally resigned. It had been sincere and evocative. He was channeling. There were secrets here—the face of this building and the chasm of lava, the paintings and the scribes, the painting with Marty, halls of people coming and going. It was true. She had always known. And now they were trapped. She laughed to herself. She was glad she was trapped. She almost hoped the doors wouldn't open. "Don't budge." Could he know who they were? No. No that wasn't possible. But what did he intend to do? It really didn't matter. She couldn't wait to find out. But Fennel. Yes, that was a problem. She looked over at him all curled up. He wasn't enjoying this at all.

  "You seem to be feeling better," she said, handing him her handkerchief.

  "For now. For at least this minute. I am simply exhausted. The sickness wears me down terribly." Fennel reached up and grabbed a giant jacket from off the hangers and placed it on top off his refuse. He sat on top of it. "This is horrible. What kind of purgatorial mayhem is this? I refuse to believe we are stuck in this coatroom like a pair of broomsticks. A coatroom? This is so beneath us. Ha, beneath us. I can't even believe what is beneath me right now. I'll destroy this Duke. Crush him!"

  "Calm down, Fennel. I find the whole thing impressive so far. Aren't you amazed at this labyrinth? It is fantastical!"

  "What amazes me, dear sister, is your apparent vitality," he said snidely.

  "Hostility, Fennel?" she said.

  "No. I simply believe that if you felt like I did you wouldn't be so bright-eyed about our supposed great fortune. That fish sauce doesn’t really work on me. I don’t know why. I didn’t want it anyway. We shouldn’t have come this far. This was a mistake.” He looked at her. His eyes were sagging. It was breaking Isabella's heart. This was what she had feared.

  “Drink more of the fish sauce,” she said, pouring some of it into his mouth. She took a drink herself and felt some strength return to her. For Fennel, its effect seemed remote.

  “Bleck, tastes like the guts of a salmon egg.” Fennel spit into the corner.

  "Oh, Fennel, don't you see this place? There are others out here. Don't you see?" Isabella put her hand on his knees emphatically. "Fennel, I can't live on a chain. I can't be the servant, the messenger with bouts of illness and perimeters. I always knew there were others and now . . . "

  "There are no others," Fennell interrupted quietly. "There is me, you and Marty. That is all. That is all there ever will be. We are the only ones, Isabella. The way you romanticize these pathetic humans, it's embarrassing."

  "Embarrassing? Wh
at about the way we're treated? Look at you. You're sick, suffering . . . you're sitting on your own vomit because of what Marty has done. And you talk about embarrassing."

  "Marty is wiser than you know, Isabella. Generally I am the one guilty of hubris, but obviously your arrogance will cause you greater harm. He is a wise man. He knows a lot about the serendipitous maneuvering of this world."

  "Yes, he does. He knows enough to hide things from us."

  "Maybe. He also knows how to protect and teach us. He has plans for us, Isabella. He doesn't intend on keeping things this way."

  "I wouldn't be so sure," Isabella said. "You don't think the Duke could be one of us?"

  "Who? The fat Duke?" Fennel laughed. “Why? Because he prays to the old gods? Big whoop. Hurray for him. I'm gonna tear that guy to pieces when I get out of here. Lock me in here!"

  "But you heard how he and that woman talked about Savina as water. That isn't human. That isn't the way they talk. That is us."

  "Savina isn't water, Isabella," said Fennel. "How you have managed to come to this conclusion is beyond me."

  "What? She most certainly is. Couldn't you hear it? Surely you must have!" gasped Isabella.

  "No. I didn't. Why? Because there isn't any. The only fluid I heard was brandy. A particularly cheap brand as well. Now, when you talk of water I think of Zarathustra. That is the ocean thriving. That is a fluidity unbound! I have never heard the water run from a human. I shudder to think what it means that you have."

  Silence. Both. Their hearts grew sad and sank.

  "I love you, Fennel," said Isabella. She put her head on his lap and wrapped her arms around his stomach. He petted her silky hair.

  "I love you, too, my sweet, dodo sister," he said. He began to whistle his mourning song. Laconic and delicate. His lips pressed softly against the musty closet air. The notes reached through the keyhole and along their future. Always tragic. Suffering and incomplete. Words can never bridge the human gaps and spaces and the song gracefully dispelled the soothing amnesia. He saw his boy peeing in the sea and watched him shed his tears. The sea rolled slowly without emotion against his feet. The black sky blended smoothly along the black water along the black horizon. Nothing. Just unresolved tears that could never, ever be stopped.