“I won’t ask why you aren’t in the barracks, but I do hope you are returning,” he said. He was smoking a pipe, sitting on a bench, and reading Kurt Vonnegut’s Galapagos.
“As it turns out, Harrison,” smirked Isabella, “I was heading home. I really missed it in fact. But now that I have you here, I am eager to ask you something. I want to ask you something so obvious that perhaps it will be difficult for you to answer in all your wisdom. Nevertheless, you must answer it. You must because if you can’t, then you will be caught in a clever confession that you know little of—not only the world but more sadly your own choices. What is the purpose of the Coriander Monks, Harrison?”
She sat down next to him, most pleased with herself, and stared in his eyes. She was being too cocky she knew and she should probably hide the fact that she was clearly no longer sick, but she couldn’t completely contain her pleasure.
Harrison took a puff and slowly put down his book. He stared out into the fading stars and sat quietly for some time.
“The monks simply discover, Isabella. We are here to question, observe, and consider. For us, this simple pursuit, in all its wonder, is the sacred dreams of Yog Soggoth and his numerous avatars and minions.”
“But what about the doing? What about the building? What about the making? The monks don’t just consider right, they do, don’t they?” she leaned back and stared into the night with him. It was cold out there. The night sometimes so inviting, felt bleak as she watched the sky slowly lighting up. A new day was ever an option to repeat old mistakes.
“The monks should not make black magic, Isabella. They are not the shapers of people or of worlds. That has always been my teaching and philosophy. Nevertheless, it is a big church with numerous tentacles. There are those who do here. Indeed, the makers. They are a small group but a growing part of the doctrine. The times we are in will see their emergence, I suspect. But, hush now, you should get to bed and most certainly not be talking to me at this hour.”
Isabella got up and skipped toward the barracks. She laughed out loud and sang out, “I’m not staying here. No one can make me.” She laughed and scampered off. She was quite out of earshot when Harrison mumbled to himself, “I know that all too well, my girl.”
Sleep was not to be her friend the next day as she had barely closed her eyes after handing off Jada’s prize when she had the hand of Milliard pushing her to get up.
“Get up, Isabella. We have yet another dig to attend.”
She could almost feel herself sliding into a determination to not only sleep, but, now that she was feeling better, to take on the entirety of the Coriander Monks. But such a battle would prove less than strategic. No, she would escape and escapes require surprise. So with a steady sense of discipline, she opened her eyes, put on her desert flats, grabbed her pick, and headed out to the caravan with Milliard.
They would ride out to the dig sites on camels and donkeys these days as the more fresh finds were increasingly further out. Lately, they traveled nearly a seven-hour ride so that they could dig for a few days and then return to shower up. It was exhausting work. The world, it seemed, stretched out from the edge of Barrenwood into a stark plane of basalt, sand, stone, and creosote. The barren back of the earth scorched by sun and the yucca plants, sage bushes and occasional cactus acted as a geological grammar to the starkness that were these desert plains.
Out on the plains, the wind picked up a furious pace. This work had done quite a job on her skin. She looked at it. Flakey. Dry. Her team of acolytes had found some pot shards, arrowheads and a few beads of jewelry, but nothing from the millions of years previous. The monks had roped off sections of land as far as the eye could see. Their digging into the earth acted as a collective journey toward memory. But the past, the idea of a world beyond all imaginable presents, provided a grounding narrative—a place from where the monks could look back upon an assured place in history.
Milliard and Isabella were boiling a pot of water over their fire. They looked out over the twenty other fires that amassed across their camps with silhouettes of the monks crouched in front of them. The sky above looked down with the twinkling of stars mirroring each other. Milliard rubbed a pot shard in his hand.
“To think, there were people living in huts here at some point. They must have lived an awfully difficult life.”
“It’s truly a wonder to see these bits and pieces of a society lost. The ruins of a culture whose time was up. It’s like the dirty room of a society who simply never came home again,” said Isabella.
“I wonder if the same thing will happen to our society. One day it will only be carriages and fluorescent lights around for some confused bunch of folks to wonder what we were up to,” giggled Milliard. His eyes shifted to Isabella. She was a mystery beyond mysteries. When he spoke to her he felt like the world could fall apart because all he would ever need to know would come from her. “Where did you come from before you came here? You know about me, but I still know so little about you.”
Isabella knew the truth of that. Reserved was an understatement when it came to her privacy. But what did it matter? This time was coming to a close.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I hardly believe it myself. I have a brother out there. Somewhere. We used to sleep in a cave together. He has a fire in him. He would love digging for these dinosaurs. Oh, I could see him really enjoying that. Maybe not the monks, but paleontology; he would love that. Anyway, I am from outside Barrenwood like you. I just happen to be from a cave.”
Milliard eyed her. “Is that an allegory? A cave? Come on, Isabella, you never tell me anything about yourself.”
Isabella looked at the ground. The truth sounded like a lie. What could she do? “I told you that you wouldn’t believe me. It is hard to believe, I know, but there you have it. I didn’t attend a prep school or border house or any of your typically upper crust growing up things. I was born like this and have been like this for longer than I can remember.” Isabella found telling the truth liberating. Even if it was strange, it hit home for her. She needed to talk—with Fennel so much was pent up. Milliard’s words seemed to trigger something deep in her.
“What does that mean, you have been like this for longer than you can remember?” he asked. He found asking these most basic of questions fascinating as he could tell that instead of denial, they actually triggered in Isabella profound self-questioning.
Isabella paused. She looked at Milliard and for a second. He thought he could see tears welling up in her eyes. They disappeared fast, but he held her soft hand in his and stayed quiet. The silence drifted across the range, wind spilling through the cracks in the creosote mud.
“I . . . I . . .” she said through pressed lips, “I don’t know how long I’ve been alive. I don’t really know how long I have been in that cave. I don’t know how I know what I know. I don’t know who I am, Milliard. I am utterly without a clue.”
Saying that out loud sounded absolutely odd for her. She realized in a flash that saying such things out loud made them conscious as though she suddenly knew it for the first time—one part of her mind communicating with another. A transference had occurred. The idea that she had so little knowledge of who she was struck her as a profound existential mystery. She was a foreigner on a planet with no past. All she had was her deep love for her horrible sibling and her fear of her master, and neither of them cared one iota to reflect on that fact that the three of them had no idea where they came from.
Milliard placed his arms around her. His scrawny embrace felt warm against the sage filled chill. They swayed on the earth looking up at the stars. They were lonely as well.
“I know you’re not going to stay long,” Milliard whispered. Isabella looked at him. His blue eyes sparkled under the stars. “I am going to miss you.”
Isabella shook the chill out of herself. The reminder of her departure switched her mood rapidly. “Funny you mention it. I’m leaving tonight, right after a drink of tea actually. I have my bag
packed. No moon tonight means no way to see me when I head right out into that wasteland.”
Milliard grabbed her hand beseechingly. “Take me with you, please. I don’t want to do this monk thing anymore. I am not cut out for this. I have lost all admiration for the School. Let them do their digs without me.”
She patted his hand in a motherly fashion. “You are wrong, Milliard. If anyone is to be a monk around here, it is you. From what I can tell, you possess the kind of disillusion that can only help the School stay on track. Your thoughts are wild but they are on point. I have come around to thinking that the monks aren’t half bad. Not that I would ever be one. No one here I believe is under that delusion. But you do. You have ideas. You are a thinker. Yes, you are a bit whiny and childish and a slight coward but that will go out of style for you at some point. Look to Harrison and get in his good graces. He is wise around here and you would benefit from learning from one of the more reflective monks. Plus, you can’t go with me. You are slow and a liability. I have a lot of work to do and I really don’t feel like worrying about you. We will meet again I am sure.”
She stood up and poured some tea for the both of them. They sipped quietly and Isabella wished she could get in a game of Battle Ball.
As they sipped their tea, Isabella noticed the growing ranks of monks just outside of sight. They were sitting with none other than Walter Mayhew and these monks were particularly large. She saw their coiled ropes and heard their whispered plots. Isabella sipped her tea and spoke ever so quietly to Milliard.
“It appears our friend Walter has discovered my plans. Lord knows how, but I suspect we are about to be descended upon. Milliard, you are a dear friend. I will not be gone forever. When they attack, just run. They won’t hurt me.”
Isabella leaned over and kissed Milliard on the forehead, her lips touching his skin with the magic of saturated ink. Then, with the speed of a bobcat, she dashed toward the tent and grabbed her bag. She could hear the lurch of their feet as the monks dove to intercept her. She was much faster.
Milliard blinked in surprise, got himself to his feet and ran toward the monks. He was not a heroic boy but he also was deeply unafraid of getting hurt, which is a sort of heroism. He threw his spindly body on one of the monks as it tried desperately to get the little girl into his paws. The rest of the monks came in fast. Muscles and fists struck out clobbering Milliard and grasping at the wisp of darkness that was Isabella. She bounded out of arms’ reach and bounded far beyond their grip, already folding into the darkness. She looked back to see the monks turn their attention on Milliard and begin to take their anger and frustrations out on him. He pathetically tried to fight back but he was outnumbered and basically, a weakling. She watched as they tied him up, bloodied and bruised.
“Goodbye Milliard.” She sent a kiss into the night with the sound of crickets caressing her words. She wasn’t sure he would be okay, but there wasn’t much she could do. She most certainly wouldn’t be returning. This was her one chance at escape and she had made a good first break.
The night and desert stretched out before her. She took a large sip of the fish sauce and felt strength surge into her socks. She had no horse and a long way to go. The sound of the monks heading toward her on horses caught her ear and she bounded out over the brush and hills. That was good. She needed them. As strong as her little legs were with the help of her mojo balm, she had miles upon miles of barren wasteland to go and she didn’t want to get caught in it come sun up. The heat would bake the liquid from her diminutive head. She had to force herself to move just slow enough so the monks could keep her in sight. She needed a horse. When they were nearly two miles from the camp, she bounded to the top of a small butte and waited for their arrival. They came on her quick. These monks were not the kind she was used to seeing. They were strong. They were immense. The heat in their eyes spoke of far too many years of training, discipline and focus. They would not be easy to fool.
But Isabella was Isabella and at least for this quiet moment in the night, on this night, she was fueled and ready. Her strength and wits were at a maximum. She saw them flying their lassos to catch her and she dodged them with the agility of a sparrow. A net flew out which just barely missed. As they regrouped for another pass, Isabella folded into the night, completely disappearing from their sight. They reared back their horses trying to get a perspective on her whereabouts. She quickly tiptoed up to one of the horses and whispered a wilding into its ear. The horse reared back, whinnying and whining. The monk tried to hold on but to no avail. His body catapulted into the brush as she threw herself onto the horse's back. She charged forward, leaving the monks mystified in the utter darkness of the desert night.
She was free. She charged forward on the horse heading straight out toward Barrenwood across the top of Billington Hill. The pace would be frenetic but she would get there. As much as she was eager to return home, she felt a pang of remorse for not saying goodbye to Harrison. He was a curious soul, he was.
Isabella stared down over the twinkling evening lights of Barrenwood at the top of a boulder on top of the hills. The familiar smell of coal smoke filled her nose and at a distance she could hear the horse hooves of the carriages making their way over cobblestones. Most people were sleeping, but others were drinking themselves into fantasy or plodding away by candlelight trying to make ends meet. Somewhere down there Fennel was up to no good either haunting some poor sod too delusional to appreciate the limited time they have on earth, or perhaps, working on some larger plan to remind humanity of their more collective awkwardness. He most surely worried about her—but how much? What had come between them? Somewhere down there Savina was smoking a thousand cigarettes and torturing the souls of the men around her. And somewhere out there, beyond the Manzanita and aphids, lurked the shore of the cave—her home that was no longer home. The thought brought her back to herself. Where was she going?
When she had considered leaving, she had never truly made up her mind as to where she would go. In some sense of denial, even though she knew it wasn’t possible, she had thought she might return to the cave. She missed it. For better or worse, it was home. Her ultimate plan was to get back to the Duke’s, but she was already at the end of her fish sauce. She would need another dose just to make it half way up the Parakeet Path. No, she just needed to regroup. Get her senses together and make a plan.
The only safe bet at this point was the Chateau de Crawler. It was her hideout and hang out. She ruled the nest there and even if Fennel was on the hunt for her, she had developed enough of an infrastructure to fend off him and Marty for some time. Surely she had bought and cajoled enough favors in Barrenwood to give her a few days peace before the true hunt began.
She charged forward into the city at a fast clip. She rode straight down the road and into the farmlands where the corn stalks waved a hello. She moved past the farmlands to the muddied beat up streets of the Mortestrate, cut across the upper edge of the Miser’s Quarters to descend into the warehouse district of the Calliope. The alley cats with their furtive eyes gave her a questionable greeting and she returned with her own dubious glare. As she slowed the horse, whose panting heaved heavy, she saw the fisherman already returning from their evening catch. Rows of slaughtered tuna were laid out on the docks for the vendors to purchase. Amidst the sound of their wet galoshes hitting the sea salt docks, she could hear the rumbling bass of her sneaky evening haunt. She tethered the horse whose mouth was a mess of froth.
She hopped onto the street and felt the earth beneath her. She had escaped at last. She opened the door at the back of the Pho restaurant. The washman mopped the floor and the owner was doing the final round of dishes. He winked at her as she quickly made her way through the backroom to the stairway in the back. The room smelled of peanuts and seaweed. She snuck up the backstairs where the walls were covered with graffiti of parties so long ago. She opened the door to her office. Sitting at the table, covered in papers and ink jars, sat the very tired figure of Caperwill.
He looked up from his work, and upon seeing Isabella, his face went white. “Isabella?” he said with a gasp. He got up from the desk, ran across the room and gave her a huge, inappropriate, hug.
She shook him off and said, “Evening, Caperwill. I trust the bills are piling up and you are half out of your mind at this point?’
Caperwill’s face flushed with embarrassment, “That much is true, Isabella. I knew you would appear at some point, but my god, your timing is greatly welcomed. I know I don’t usually ask, but where have you been?”
Isabella poured herself some grape juice from the cabinet and made her way to the window overlooking the party below. She could see people dancing and laser lights flashing. The hot steamy nightclub was still at its epic pace even though it would be closing in the next hour or so.
“Strange business is afoot, Caperwill. I’m afraid that no matter what we want, things around here are going to be changing.” She gulped down her grape juice and lay down on the sofa. Her little legs kicked out to rest on the edge. She was utterly exhausted.
“Your words couldn’t be more true. I have received some terribly troubling news in the mail. I went over to the Court of Appeals to make sense of all this but to no avail. I’m afraid we are being evicted.”
Caperwill thrashed through the papers on his desk. He gathered up a pile, wobbled over to Isabella and handed it to her. She looked through the papers and there it was in black and white. The Chateau de Crawler was being evicted due to some order of eminent domain. Some large construction project along the waterfront was to put her nightclub shenanigans out on its butt. They were going to buy the place at market value in a month’s time at which point she would be out on her own. She put the papers down on the floor and walked over to the window again to look over the night club where only a few souls remained. Closing time.
Marshsong Page 34