by John Klima
May 16, Tues. – Weather ditto. Lunch w/Künzler; applied him to classifying samples. Keep youthful blood in check. To parochial house without luck, no discovering priest. Further examination of the igneous masses, foreign fragments. Conjugate normal faults cutting banded granite gneiss. Right-dipping fault is cut & displaced by left. Read from Anderssen’s Aufgaben für Schachspieler.
May 17, Wed. – Drama from sunrise to set. Künzler woke early; gone when I dressed. Sky achromatic in ante meridiem. Relatively strong upcurrent. Coffee and brioche w/Künzler. Alone to parochial house. Saw Father Tito (not far advanced in life, behaviour unnatural, rude, gestures effeminate). Request for annual registers flustered lit/beast. Produced thin volume of recent production: claims of fire: scarcely acceptable as genuine. Returned to shelter amidst atmospheric condensed moisture build-up, weakened up-current. Primo: a few small fine drops, cinnamon-coloured. Secondo: they grow (B = µ H!) Terzo: descent!
It was late in the afternoon when the wind began to blow and the pine trees which grew along the creek’s edge bent like fishing poles. A string of black clouds appeared on the horizon, lurching over the ridge of the mountains and light escaped from the land’s surface; Black’s mouth twisted to a half grin; he (weight on slender left leg, right advanced taking but a part of the burden); the fumes of his D’Orsay danced wildly from their cherry.
At first they appeared, just a few, like spots of red wax on the lanes. Farmers’ heads tilted back and village eyes turned upward. A sound, a slight drumming, filled the air and then the shower swept across the village. Black sprang towards the house of Knellwolf, his short legs working nimbly, his cigar poised protectively before him. He dashed through the doorway of the stone lodge just as the crimson deluge came sweeping behind him, a mad rush of scarlet mayhem which flushed from the skies like some supraglobal surgical operation gone awry.
The doctor chuckled merrily and Wilhelm looked up from the table, where he was busy with pen and paper.
“What is it, Sir?” he asked, rising in astonishment.
“Come see for yourself my boy—The blitz of rain has come!”
A moment later, at the door, Wilhelm Künzler stood
with mouth open wide
to facilitate a
pervading cinnamon condition:
hued,
by the long-wave end
of the visible, dimpling
spectrum, plashes, puddles,
ground a network of veins
and then night fell and the doctor stood smoking on the doorstep, the aroma of his D’Orsay mixing with the rich heat of countless corpuscles; and he thought of the meal of the Israelites after the battle of Gilboa; and further of the sacrifices, it caught in a basin, and then sprinkled seven times on the altar (consecrating the people to that being worshipped as having power over human affairs), and what issued from the Saviour’s side when it was pierced by the Roman soldier. . . . And through the cleared sky the stars were cast overhead.
IV.
For one even mildly dedicated to anthropology, the place held interest. The custom of the village, at least that promoted by the establishment of Riemenschneider, was odd indeed. Men could be seen walking through the lanes, hand in hand with a young woman—not because the latter was in any way fond of the fellow, but simply due to the fact that he owned her left hand. Another might be possessed of a lady’s eyes. He would call on her after his day’s labour, gaze into the other’s organs of vision for thirty minutes, and then depart, fully satisfied.
On occasion there was a conflict of interest. The doctor observed two men quarrelling in the street one day, a plump young woman between them.
“What is the cause of this bad-tempered differing of views?” he asked a wiry old man with a large, aquiline nose by the name of Viktor who stood near at hand.
“Oh, it is the usual,” the fellow answered nonchalantly, spitting off to one side. “Fräulein Hänggi has been split too many ways. Georg there owns her right hand and arm; he desires to take his property over to the chestnut grove. But her lips are possessed by Werner, who insists, that if the two go so far, he be part of the company so he might use his goods as he will.”
“This custom must make it terribly difficult for the men of the village.”
Old Viktor let out a short chuckle. “Oh, you can be sure it does,” he said. “But it is not much of a custom. It was not around when I was a young man. Certainly I never let go of a franc for any of the lips I joined to under the chestnuts.”
“Not a custom? Then who introduced this bit of now generally accepted behaviour amongst the social group?”
“Oh, Frau Riemenschneider; she was not making enough off her cutlets. . . . Joined by the other old widows of the area. . . . I suppose they fancied the men needed the fräuleins and would pay for the privilege of their glances if they must.”
May 18, Thurs. – Woke early, scoured lanes w/Künzler. Much blood. Some bits of flesh, particularly around the vicinity of Riemenschneider’s. Curious inconsistency in pattern. Dismay and some anger in village. Father Tito stirring trouble, directed at Riemenschneider. Watched feathered creatures circumnavigate shoulder of mountain: Passeridae or Emberizidae; possibly swallows gathering at some seed-rich niche. The forest is thick with the sound of the Cuculus canorus.
He watched the priest descend along the trail, now disappearing behind a mass of chestnut trees, now reappearing, walking stick in hand. The man was apparently coming down from somewhere on the face of the mountain; or higher: its shoulder or some unseen pass. . . . Presently the two met near the scree-strewn base; one short, with outcrop of hair the colour of printing ink, the other a scowling, narrow-limbed ecclesiastic streak. The doctor spoke first, and then the priest, in a jointly discourteous and beseeching tone, his voice thin, nasally: He had gone for a hike; he hiked often; it was all there was to do in the vicinity of that dreadful little village. . . . Would the doctor like a refreshment?
Dr. Black stood admiring the Papilionoidea mounted and hung on the wall, and then, on the mantle, a fine piece of Lebanese amber, undoubtedly a good one hundred million years old, containing a splendid example of Heterocera. His host came up from the cantina, his hand gripped white around the neck of a bottle. The doctor sat down and hooked one leg over the next. The young priest set two small glasses on the table, filled them with French white wine, and took a seat opposite. Health was proposed and the two men drank. The doctor, in measured tones, somewhat mellowed by the fermented juice of grape, asked the priest what his view of the situation was.
“My view? My view is that it is the Devil’s play.”
“Then you are proposing it to be a supernatural occurrence?”
“Yes, I am saying it is unnatural—that is clear enough. Blood showers and such things are obviously manifestations of evil; and you can be sure that to be the priest in such an ungodly place is no great fortune.”
Dr. Black drank of his wine.
“So your theory is?” he asked, slightly raising his eyebrows.
“Witches.”
“Where?”
“Here—the fleisch shop and other places!”
“Explain.”
“Explain—The old women of this valley worship the Devil. See how they sell off the lips of one young woman, the thighs of the next? They are casting spells and bringing demons down to scatter us with their red gore!”
“Surely you exaggerate.”
“I tell you, it is all the work of Frau Riemenschneider and her cronies! They are witches, every one of them. In league with nefarious forces.”
“Though their practices regarding the young women of the town I cannot pass over without condemnation, they seem otherwise to live within the confines of proper conduct. To adhere all unexplainable phenomena to their persons, without adequate proof, seems to me to be an extremely unwise course, particularly for a man in your position.”
“Ah, it is easy for you to say such things. You are an outsider.”
“My dear Sir, I
am an outsider to nothing. The world is my studio. I suggest you refrain from overly pungent comments.”
The doctor did not like Father Tito’s manner. He spoke without respect, with more emphasis than the occasion required. His wine was decent, but it was white. Black preferred red, and would rather have been alone with a smoking cigar than together with a fuming priest.
Father Tito slapped the table. “My house!” he exclaimed, and the glasses rattled.
Dr. Black rose from his seat. “So it is, Sir,” he said coolly, “and I do not believe that I desire the further advantage of its hospitality.”
A minute later he was outside, carefully pursuing his way along the side of a pasture. As a man of logic he did not put much store in the priest’s bitter paranoia, but at the same time he had to admit that the phenomena of the blood rains he could not as yet explain. Frau Riemenschneider and her fleisch shop were certainly bizarre; but that the woman was a practitioner of black magic!?!
Dr. Black extracted a cigar from his jacket pocket, bit off the end as if it were the head of a snake, and was soon industriously puffing away.
V.
Witches like mountains like flowers the sun like flowers the sun some souls without bodies maybe never had bodies and the devil has slaves little ants. Witches like mountains like flowers watch out they fly out the window fly out on pitchforks and go to kiss gnomes. Witches like mountains like roses what bodies of butterflies of gnomes wrapping themselves together with attenuated ropes ride on a reed and stealing the sperm from dead bodies ride on reeds. Witches like mountains like roses like mountains and tempests in bottles souls without bodies maybe never had bodies and the devil has slaves and the slaves are little ants which play flutes made from hollowed-out human hairs. Witches like hills like roses wringing hands out comes hail and whispering phasmata and the devil has slaves trimming three hairs from the udder of a cow.
VI.
“Oh, he’s got himself buried between her sheets!”
“It’s these Northerners, these blond boys—the women always throw themselves away over such trash.”
Old Viktor laughed. “From what I hear,” he said, drawing at his pipe. “From what I hear, it was a deal made out on the installment plan; for her left ear. A pretty price it is said he’s paying too!”
“You are right enough about the instalment plan,” a stout farmer put in, licking yeasty froth from his moustache. “But it has nothing to do with her little ear—it is her right hand he’s got.”
“Her right hand! Hear that Waldmüller? How much was it you offered Frau Riemenschneider for that item, and she refused to part with it?”
“Oh, it’s the usual thing,” Old Viktor added. “A northern franc is worth two of a local fellow’s.”
Waldmüller, who had been morosely silent during this dialogue, pushed away the mastodontic beer jug he had been sweating over for the previous thirty minutes and rose from his seat. There was the glistering night sky and his swinging steps; then circling, noctivagation, tracking around the fleisch shop, lurking in the shadows (he had always been laughed at, somewhat derided for remaining womanless, with some hinting, winks and half grins, at trips to Lugano brothels).
He had watched her grow, skipping around the village, braid swinging; then older, while he sat with his goats on the hillside, she passed, with friends, expressing certain emotions, mirth or delight, a series of spontaneous, unarticulated sounds accompanied by corresponding facial and bodily movements; he watched them graze and dreamed of her in an emerald cloud and then the saving: he had saved his silver and had a jar of it (five franc pieces) buried near the roots of a chestnut tree on the hillside. He watched as the two figures emerged, and then pressed together, soft words spoken and then a clasping goodbye. The figure walked off, wound through the lanes and Waldmüller followed, stalking, slowly gaining ground and then hurling himself forward.
“You stranger boy!”
(A slap to the face.)
Wilhelm staggered back. Waldmüller advanced, both fists clenched, an ominous dark mass. He reached out and grabbed the young man by the shoulder.
“I am going to show you how we deal with outsiders prying into our women,” the goatherd growled.
He raised a fist and then felt the wrist grasped and, simultaneous with the arm being twisted behind his back, a voice:
“Hands off!”
A moment later the big man was sprawled on the ground, a small knee in his spine and his head pressed against the dirt.
“Let me up!” he cried (he felt his shoulder blade strained out of place).
“You will be pacific?”
“Let me up I say!”
“Get up, but if you attempt violence again it will go badly for you.”
Waldmüller was released and quickly sprang to his feet. He briefly stared, with angry, frightened eyes and then, murmuring discontented phrases, turned and lurched off into the darkness.
“It seems you know how to fight!” Wilhelm said gratefully.
“Aside from being not unskilled in Western pugilism,” the doctor replied, taking him by the elbow and guiding him homeward, “I am also a brown belt in the Japanese art of >柔術. But let this be a lesson to you: Tomcatting in rural villages is never advisable for a young man without adequate means of self-defence.”
Through the minute blackened lanes, toward the edge of town and Knellwolf’s; passing one outlying mass of rock lying partially embedded in the soil and well-rounded by weather; through a lit aperture a moment’s sight of Frau Riemenschneider and two other old dames of the village, their fractured voices scratching out into the night—the mewing of thrice brindled cats mind ordering quasi suppositions: compacts. mekhashshepheh wicche. Ex. 22:18 (remembering—boyhood tales—decollated men wandering through the marshes on mule back—the pursuit of lights through woods, thickets, briar, footlogs across sloughs) the simple fact away from electric device lines telemicrowaves information on discs and magnetapes data midst mountains forces stronger abnormally misshapen things (him too) of
extraordinary woollen qualities
coverings elastic substance
of the animal body loose nervous
system relaxed.
VII.
The Grotto Wüste was lively that night, old timers sitting square before drinks, pipes and cigarettes hanging from their mouths. Dr. Black sat at the end of a bench, enjoying a cigar and a ratafià, a walnut liqueur, while listening to the talk, letting his ears savour the flavour of the local dialect, which was not without a ragged sort of charm. There were conjectures, insinuations (maybe it was the work of Riemenschneider and her ilk after all—the wrath of heaven and all that sort of thing. . . . Or so said Father Tito).
“Oh this! Why this is nothing my friend!” Old Viktor cried, setting his half-consumed beer down on the table. “When I was younger a rain of flesh fell so heavy that you could barely walk through the lanes. It came down in bowl-shaped disks about twenty centimetres around, and three or four thick. They were a dull yellow colour and had on them a fine layer of short hairs which were smoothed and brushed up. When we stripped away this skin, we found a pink, pulpy substance like soft-soap inside. . . . Which was offensive! The smell suffocated! My family was poor and we were all hungry for protein, but we could not eat those meats, because in the oven they liquefied straight to blood!”
And then the stories went the round:
ludicrous boasting
churning haze of carbonic vapour
creamy accumulations and little shots of liquor:
beef-flakes fell from the clear sky; a thick shower, on the ground, draped in trees, hanging on fences mutton or venison lung-tissue shower of frogs darkened the sky and covered the earth very young minnows, fishes, falling in a straight line, in a space not more than a metre square or grain which the goats ate and women ground into flour, made burebrot, decent, but not of the highest quality dried spawn of some reptile, doubtless the frog each drop was made up of many thin red blood river worms with tra
nsparent bodies stones from the clouds caterpillars, over beyond the shoulder of the mountain more extreme: eggs; barrels of sugar; falls of salt; butter; ham; a typewriter
nectarischnapps
concealed wonder
preternatural (intramural shouts)
and the doctor wandered with steady intoxication into the night, curiosity: migration of larval life forms aside from their lies there is certainly evidence shower of perch, fish-rain at Soulac-sur-Mer France shower of shells (torrential downpour with rattling sound) pavement covered with muscles special local whirls or gusts with high pressure gradient carried heavy objects from earth’s surface to the troposphere possible explanation that a body of water in the area was imbibed (suction established through a partial vacuum) by a passing tornado, and afterwards deposited its live cargo
spiders; snakes reptiles in the road, gutters and yards, on roofs, a very dark brown, almost black, thick in some places, tangled together like a mass of wire or yarn black worms sweet. nasally
figures he saw, convened
by the fleisch shop:
“My mother already told you no; why do you bother me when she is not here?”
“You can influence her.”
“I won’t—not for you!”
“Come now . . .”
“Disgusting—don’t touch me!”
“Come now; otherwise it will go hard . . . for both of you.”
And then one shape pulled away and the other cursed, was gone, the doctor continuing his intoxicated course towards bed.