Marshsong

by Nato Thompson

  He rubbed along Isabella's nose. He touched her and felt the space still lingering along his skin. Always distance. More distance now than ever before. It terrified him. He closed his eyes. The illness began to rise up in him. It rose up out of the pond and made a sickening gesture toward his raft. He pushed slowly with his pole further along the Aliber River. The greasy raven landed next to him. He pushed into the mire and felt the pole sink deep into the silt below. He pushed slowly on and let the raft drift along in the direction of the sea. The sun rose over him and the algae collected around the raft wood. He lay down next to the raven and let the sun blanket him in a sheet of soot.

  That sun went glittering below the belt of the Earth and the lids of our twins rose like a curtain. Voilá. They were awake in an instant and the clitter clatter of teeth chattering rattled the air. Fennel was now practically translucent. His hair was wet in sweat and his face sallow. The smell of his vomit permeated the air. Above them, staring down was one of the red robed scribes. His eyes peered without emotion, patient. He had obviously been standing there a long time.

  He handed Fennel a wet cloth for his head and Fennel threw it out the door.

  "Good evening," said the scribe. "Generally our guests stay in more comfortable quarters, but I hope you found your stay enjoyable."

  Fennel mustered a portion of saliva and spit. The spittle failed to reach the gentleman's face and landed weakly at his waist.

  "Pardon my brother. As you can probably tell, he is not feeling well."

  "He doesn't look well at all," said the scribe.

  "No. In fact, I am a little concerned," said Isabella, rising to her feet. "That being the case, I really think we should be going. No offense."

  "No offense taken. Coincidentally enough, I am here to simply accompany you to the door." The scribe stepped back.

  Isabella reached down and helped Fennel to his feet. He was shaky. She was very worried. She hadn't realized the sleep would aggravate his condition. With one arm under his, she followed the scribe along the burgundy halls and to the front door. The hallways were deserted and the mansion's previous charm dissipated under the weight of the twin's desire to return home.

  They entered the carriage house where two scribes were caring for Zarathustra and Elia. The horses whinnied and whined and clopped jubilantly over to their masters. Fennel rubbed his cheek against Zarathustra's muzzle. Isabella pushed her brother's slouchy body onto the saddle.

  "The Duke has asked that you present this note to your superiors. Oh, and he thought you might be needing this." The scribe handed over a singular fork. Isabella nodded and received the questionable gifts. She then gave Elia a quick whack and they charged out, away from the Duke's incinerating coal mansion.

  Chapter 17

  The ride took much longer than she had hoped. On several occasions, she had to go find Fennel by the side of the road and place him back on Zarathustra. His skin had gone translucent and not a word came out of his lips, just blubber and spit. Isabella rode and rode to get to the cave, blocking out of her mind her increasing nightmare that it was, in fact, her own hubris that had caused this. Blind ambition and myopic desire, she hadn’t even considered that perhaps the fish sauce would work on her but not her brother. One night in that closet was too much for him up in that castle.

  By the time they reached the cave, Fennel was curled up in a ball in the back of the boat, cradling the phonograph, lying there shivering. She lifted him from the boat and placed him on his mat, grabbing a wool blanket for some heat. He looked smaller than ever. The sickness was so much deeper in him and it showed in his fevered brow and his crumpled body.

  Between the sounds of Fennel’s shakes, she could hear the distant laughter of Marty. The twisted revenge that cut into her heart. Maybe she could leave but Fennel was forever bound to that drunk. Her brother’s fate was far more intertwined in the inner workings of a man that placed gambling and hot dogs as priorities over simple kindness. Now he lay there like a wilted black dahlia, a signal of the retribution for all those that had forgotten.

  She wanted to think about the magic of the castle—the Duke’s mentioning of the water, the dreamy world beyond those of Barrenwood—but the stain of her brother’s illness made such considerations indulgent, only reminding Isabella of her own selfish pursuits. She would heal him and go from there.

  Isabella set up a fire and got a kettle on. A little tea should help. She went out into the brush and picked ephedra from her brother’s lackluster garden. He loved gardening though knew little of its ways. She placed some in the tea. He just needs some rest. Isabella shuddered at her stupidity. His body shook as he slept and she put her hand to his forehead.

  “I’m so sorry, Fennel,” she said quietly. “I just wanted you to join me in this mission. To be together in this. I was naïve. So stupid. So stupid.” Her tears fell from her eyes and wet his cheeks. She laid her head on his stomach and cried. The wind blew in the mouth of the cave and the candles went out.

  For three nights, Isabella tended to her sick brother. What started out in Isabella’s mind as a warning from Marty turned out to be far worse. Fennel’s condition deteriorated, his fever not desisting. The order deliveries piled up as Isabella sat quietly by his mat, making tea and cooling his forehead. Fennel had always been under a much stronger medicine and maybe, Isabella was always intended to leave. Maybe Marty knew that she would resist his magic and let her get to this point. Fennel’s slight betrayal was taking a major toll on him. He shivered and shook and even small patches of his hair were flaking onto his pillow. Like a pre-emptive fall, the hairs let loose and let their grip go limp. All Isabella could do was wait and hope. She would curl up next to him, spooning him with every inch of her body. Each shake of her brother moved through her body and she echoed a shake back.

  The nights were long. She would hold her brother and then get up and walk into the river and stare into the sky. What did the universe want from her? As usual, the shrill buzz of the mosquitos filled her ears with a haunting franticness of a world at odds with itself. Chaos reigned supreme over harmony as the labyrinth of desire, hunger, resentment and ferocity seemed to outweigh the subtleties of compassion and mirth. She had spent her whole life hinged to the whims of a man hell-bent on the now with not a concern for a person in the world. How she and her brother had managed to be as well adapted as they were, she could not say. But surely there was more than just delivering his packages (the likes of which she had no doubt perpetuated desires most base) and living on the outskirts of a humanity most lost and dazed. The heroic of Barrenwood were a lost lot. Frantic and feverish, tragic and destitute, the kind of magic that stirred in Savina Lanthaur’s heart spoke of a tragedy beyond time itself—a mortal condition of which great operas could barely scratch. But even that—even that in its own sordid way—did not truly touch upon the more glorious, something all the more wild, something all the more alive.

  It was all too much for her. Her life was a trap and Marty had used her brother as the bars. She hated this and she held her head under the water trying to undo her plight. Alas, to no avail. She came up for air time and time again. The humidity of the wet night soaking into her small lungs and telling her that she must continue to live, even if she knew not why.

  By the fourth night, Fennel’s fever miraculously broke. Perspiration riddled his brow and a glint of light could be seen in his eyes. He had barely said a word in the last few days, which for Fennel was perhaps the greatest sign of illness. Now, his lips trembled as he peeked his glimmering eye out and whispered, “Iz, the Raven has returned.” Isabella was so relieved. She could now rule out her brother’s demise as an option.

  She kissed him on the forehead. “Good to have you back,” she whispered.

  She made some solid food and even had some herself. While he had been ill her appetite had simply vanished.

  It was night and the marsh was alive with frog sounds and the chirps of birds. Fennel lay on his mat in a daze while Isabella lit some c
andles. At the recovery of her brother, she finally had time to at least consider the events at the castle—the Parakeet Path that had led straight into the mouth of a coal mountain, men and women from who knows where all coming and going. She then remembered, much to her dismay that she still had not read the note handed to her as they departed. She pulled it from her pocket, realizing she hadn’t changed her clothes. Her head was woozy from exhaustion and she tried to recollect the parting discussion at the Duke’s castle. Her superiors? Is that what he had said? Could he have meant Marty? How strange. She unrolled the parchment and read.

  To Mr. Castilla,

  I want to thank you for your gift, but I can not accept. Your two secret agents are a little young for my needs and so I will be returning them. Apparently, the boy seems to have a weak spot for silverware and so I have given him a complete set for his own culinary needs. As for you, you seem to have a weak spot for my plans of which, I am afraid, I am not at liberty to discuss with you. I find it unfortunate that you did not find it in your heart to pay a personal visit. Has your perspective become so inflated that you now send children? I warn you that it will take far more to gain control, let alone an accurate assessment of the situation. I would suggest a far more cordial and diplomatic approach. You are still young to this world, Mr. Castilla, so please try to not be so careless.

  With regards,

  The Duke of Izmir

  “Careless?” scoffed Isabella. “Who’s the careless one, Nicholi?”

  Isabella read the letter again. The events of the past few days were overwhelming her and she walked to the Aliber River to clear her head. Her body was tired. The night was warm and the air muggy. The smell of vegetation and decaying wood crept up her nose. She flicked off her shoes, took off her clothes and waded into the water. It wrapped around her waist and invited her skin. Rarely did she remain around the cave at dark, but what a pleasure it was to be here in the peculiar din of past midnight marsh. The water felt so good and she dunked her head. Underneath the music played in her ears. Gurgling sounds. She blew bubbles and listened to them palunk and rise to the flowing surface. She stood up and took in the thick air. Breathe. And back down she went. Feeling her thin hair play against her shoulders. She swam down the water following the current, letting it take her along. Eyes closed. She gave into the drift and floated. Like driftwood.

  Her heart grew sad. Fennel’s illness made it all too apparent for her. She floated on. Her feet catching on moss rocks and her hands catching lilies. She watched her knee floating above the black surface. The bone moon made it appear as if another lily floated on the water.

  “I’m just a lily,” she thought. ”Just a bump in the flow.”

  She drifted, watching her bony body ebb to the current. Her mind cleared and filled with the sound and movement. Thoughts changed to a faith in her skin and ears. They ushered in the world and gave each particular motion its due course.

  Suddenly, her head hit against some wood and she stood up. Her heart jumped. It was Marty’s shack. The rocking chair was motionless on the deck next to the jugs and cages. She spotted the card table, the broken screen door, the cluttered shelves, discarded harmonicas and croc skulls that adorned the patio fence. The ashtray still held piles of tobacco from his pipe and empty bags of chips accumulated in the corner of the deck. She pulled herself up and dripped along the floorboards. The wood creaked and groaned. She peered through the dusty windows into the interior. The small home was vacated—Marty’s simple cot unslept in for many moons. The floor was swept neatly and the moon glow illuminated the chalk dust that had settled upon the furniture. Upon first view, she felt the chill that accompanied his doorstep. It swept through her wet bones as though smelling a hint of a mother’s youthful perfume or the hazy day aroma of wet pavement from childhoods gone underfoot. It was a mood that carried the sweet smell of his apple core tobacco and the dingy air of his dusty hair. Memories. They come through the nose. She shook it off and moved to the rocking chair.

  There it sat unattended and still facing the giving groove of the Aliber—a place from which Marty crafted history with corkboard and mildew. She reclined in the chair and let her dripping butt press up against the splintering deep cracked cherry wood. Her hands gripped the knobby edges of the armrest and she stared out over the water.

  Her mind turned to the altar that greeted the Duke of Izmir—its robotic eccentricity with children with flaming heads spinning in circles. She imagined them dancing on the water. A winding trail of lava wound its way around their ambulation and across the wind. She heard the call of the old gods—Incineration—the Duke’s worshipping calling card. The dismantling of all that was. Fire the eater of oxygen. There was a charm in it. A foreboding hunger in it. He was a beast most primal, carved from an emotion refined and given flesh. He now worked his way across the fetid landscape of a humanity most uncertain. That castle as remote as it was remained too close to the idiocy of Barrenwood below. Isabella could see the Duke bowed down low. His back bent. A brute mighty man so fatigued. Tired. He could not keep pace he had said.

  The war that was coming. It touched on Minasha, it touched on the mad, and it touched upon even this man beyond time that watched from a view most high. A war was brewing with Castilla. That bent man with an iron will had stirred the pot and set forces in motion. They were spilling out across the city and disrupting the order of things. Even the fire of the Duke could not eat the fire of this old man’s relentless precision. The soulless will had a strength of its own.

  Immediately she felt Marty’s presence with her. Just like a dad’s old suit or a grandmother’s mothball wedding dress, the rocking chair issued forth its owner’s posture and disposition. The crackle of the splinters curled around and against her skin.

  She rocked back and forth as the sounds of crowds filled her ears. Her vision shifted from one of the altars to an image of muddied Barrenwood streets. Chanting. Marching. Masses of people moving. Now she could see them. Out of the fire, their shadowed bodies coagulated in unison. They moved as one being. Like ants at the mouth of an anthill, they pulsed and ebbed. She watched and gleaned. Their movements gained cohesion in the virulence of their shouts and clamor. Torches burned and startled eyes peered in sublime awakening from windows above. Water trickled from the window’s hinges. The shouting continued and she rocked back and forth. The crowd moved up against the architecture and the cradled hand of the fairway. Collectively they pushed into parts of town not for them, their footsteps defiantly intruding on villainous cobblestones. Against the design of the city, they overtook the streets with their slip-shod cacophony. They riddled the air with demands and Isabella felt water seeping from the scabs in their lips and the strain sag under their eyes. Water seeped from their hardened old potato toes. Water from their raised angry fists. Water from the onlookers who shook in their shoes and stared in stained wonderment. It ran along the street and helped people’s quaking feet gain confidence in the eye of the storm. The air above twisted in a phantasmagoric smoke. Yes, the sky caught fire and crackled in approval. Electric, the sizzling wind lifted the hair of cats and dogs on end. The torches caught the houses and the hands tore windows asunder. The cohesive flock split into pieces. Shards and splinters. Dirt clods and stones burst against the hooded police.

  She felt a calling in the madness—the moving of bodies turning the heavens into earth, the fire into water. The sky rained lava and she felt something bigger, more majestic than a mere escape. It was a deep sound within her that surpassed curiosity. It was a revolution most divine. The wind stung the mouths and eyes of everyone. The fire and the streets descended into one raging movement of collision.

  In the smoke filled mayhem, Isabella felt him make his way to her. His shadow pressed against the riotous mirage and she saw the silhouette of his bent hat and corncob pipe. His heart pulsed slowly and his heat pushed against her. Marty’s eyes glinted in the morass of smoke and tinder and eclipsed the epic moment entirely. He stood there laughing and limping. H
is peculiar walk most definable as it slowly made its way toward her. Isabella sat, helpless, as his silhouette gained texture.

  Silence. He was in front of her now. She could smell that sweet bourbon on his breath, the acrid stink of urine and the bacterial nastiness that always came with his appearance. His old eyes gleamed young despite being covered in creases caused by too many offensive jokes. He wore soiled overalls, the knees black from kneeling in muddy streets. His hands reached back behind his body where a very obvious pair of gleaming metallic sheers scraped the concrete earth. He rocked on his feet.

  A ragged smile clung to his lips and his throaty voice spoke out to her.

  “Clippers, darlin'. Clippers.” He exhaled his smoke and shoved the clippers glistening blades against her nose. “Ya getting all da satisfied. All up and bustlin. Ain’t ya? Now ya in ma chair and ya probly want ma pipe. Gotta clip ya. Gonna clip ya. Ya gonna get a sharp clippen and ya getten paired down to da stub.” He gave her a wink and grabbed her by her hair. His nappy breath still humid in her nostrils. “Cocky ya are. Cocky bitch dat’s all fired up. I knewd it happen. I always told ya. Ya just a mean whirlpool. Up against all da water in da land. Gonna hit yer head. Bump and go down. Down. Ya dat’s right. There be more and more than ya ever shook ya noggin to. Lil girl getting a wake-up call, eh? That be fine, deary. But ya pushen up against boulders and the hills and doin it as reckless as a mountain goat on a mud slide.”