The Off Season

by The Off Season (epub)

  August Starling’s parade thumped to a halt. The enormous ebony coffin stood behind spans of black horses; the coffin decorated with white ribbons of virgin purity. Darkness stood at the back of the parade, while heavenly light stood in front. About fifty yards of normal daylight separated the head of the parade from celestial light.

  The new messiah descended from the carriage, and August Starling descended as well. The messiah grunted to the crowd, “Yuh know, a big bad miracle. A real mutha. We gonna have a miracle, yuh know.” The new messiah’s seven-foot-six-inch height hovered above the slight and chirping figure of August Starling. The messiah looked downward and deeply, into cleavage of the lady who sold stock and bonds. The messiah scratched his crotch, seemed puzzled. “It’s a matter of defensement,” he explained kindly to the crowd. “Defense ’em good and put on a full court press . . .” The messiah’s message was drowned beneath applause.

  Joel-Andrew stepped forward. The elephant gave a raspberry. The dragon looked puzzled. Angel wings churned wind in the high heaven. Above the Strait, The Parsonage was heavily buffeted as it returned—bells aclank—from its skirmish with the Navy. Bare rafters appeared here and there on The Parsonage, which had lost about half of its roof. Its “Strike Headquarters” sign flapped in tatters. The Parsonage rose—accompanied by ducks—toward a dogfight with the blimp. Victorians cheered, and Victorian ladies unsheathed hatpins. Obed scampered forward, conferred in a low voice with the dragon. The dragon looked surprised. Its enameled hide no longer looked enameled. Its tail switched, rose high, and, as Obed continued the conversation the dragon’s eyes showed that it understood the situation.

  “Matters proceed apace,” August Starling said, and perhaps he spoke to Joel-Andrew. “I’ve not been so pleased with anything since the creation of fire.” His pencil line mustache twisted, curled; his lips vital. August Starling looked about him, looked at the fantastic congregation of souls, and he forgot to chirp. He licked his lips.

  “You are missing some members of your crew,” Joel-Andrew observed quietly. “My anger is for all of you. I don’t see your imitation preacher or the real estate lady.” His eyes, usually so gentle, now flashed with anger.

  “They engage in a symbolic act,” Starling chuckled. “In the backseat of the carriage.” Starling looked to the sky, looked toward the Strait boiling with whales. “Their last symbolic act,” Starling chuckled. “Goody has no soul, and hers won’t assay very high; but a few pennies here, a few pennies there. It adds up.” August Starling put on a wonderful show for his audience, but his eyes at first seemed dead, then momentarily fearful. “I had you figured for another fruitcake,” August Starling said. “Now I’m impressed. Who are you? I thought all the men like you were dead.”

  “You’re not dealing with me,” Joel-Andrew said serenely. “You deal once more with the Lord.”

  “Don’t try to run a number,” August Starling said. “The Lord and I go back a long way. The Lord is only as strong as His servants.” August Starling seemed ruminative, then seemed nearly fatalistic. “Up till now,” he said, “I’ve had a most enjoyable century.”

  “Evil makes no sense,” Joel-Andrew said. “Why not do something else?”

  “You think Evil is senseless? So, go and explain Good,” August Starling said. “Meanwhile, this is going to be a real shootout.” August Starling pretended unconcern. “I haven’t been in one like this since the 1740s.”

  “You has to maintain a good protein balance if you gonna be a jockstrapper.” The messiah’s voice sounded in the background as he gave serious explanations to the crowd. “You also gotta know your dealer better’n you know your brotha.”

  “As a matter of curiosity,” Joel-Andrew said, “what do you do with folks after you get them? Pitchforks and everlasting fire? It doesn’t seem like much fun.” Joel-Andrew’s voice remained nicely controlled, but his eyes were afire in a concentration of fury.

  “It’s a different time in history,” August Starling said. “The ones like Goody we simply render into tinned meat, sandwich spreads, that sort of thing. The women, of course, we use.” August Starling looked sadly at the Martha Washington Brigade. “Some are unusable. We put those to sweeping up charnel houses, or transform them into social workers. The transformation takes a very small investment, and we enjoy quite sizable returns.”

  August Starling looked fondly at his parade, gasped as the dragon left the ground in a roar of flame and smoke and Chinese cheers. “Dirty pool,” August Starling said. “Who breathed life into the dragon?” August Starling looked at Joel-Andrew, looked at the brilliantly lighted heavens, then looked toward Janie’s Tavern, where Maggie sneered at him and waved.

  “You better get on with your show,” Joel-Andrew said. The dragon thundered Chinese curses as it flew—clumsily at first, in fact almost puppylike—toward time jumps of gunboats and diplomats and sweatshops. “That particular dragon is not a Buddhist,” Joel-Andrew said.

  And, in fact, Joel-Andrew was correct. There seemed nothing contemplative about the dragon. As its wingbeat stiffened, as it became more accurate in flight, it was joined in its attacks by platoons of muscovy and wood ducks. Across the great and angel-filled sky, beneath the gorgeous stained glass rose window, the dragon flew like a green and crimson flash. When it paused from breathing smoke and flame, it sang wailing music based on flatted fifths and Oriental progressions. It flung its fire at incredible speeds from incredible heights. Japanese businessmen fled, while transistors crackled and died. Old scores were apparently being settled, and—while the ducks had no agenda—they were carried by the excitement of a major win. The ducks quacked and splat. From inside Janie’s Tavern, Maggie cheered.

  “Let’s get it over,” Joel-Andrew said. “I won’t make a full move until you take your best shot.” Joel-Andrew looked at the three-mile parade, the great throng of people, and at the Chinese mob which now yelled and cheered as the dragon did a series of intricate loops accompanied by widgeons.

  “And, incidentally,” Joel-Andrew said to August Starling, “if you step forward into the Lord’s light, you know what will happen.”

  “I always hate this part,” August Starling admitted. “On the other hand, I always win the aftermath. In addition, simple statistics say a certain number of wins are inevitable; and odds on this one look good.”

  Above the Strait, the blimp seemed thinner. Its flashing signs stuttered. Bells from the octagonal tower of The Parsonage clanked in celebration, mixing with songs of cherubs and the high-keening call of the dragon. The dragon took tips from the ducks. It barrel-rolled, then headed toward the sky above the busted pharmaceutical company. The blimp hovered there, and both blimp and Parsonage had suffered harm. The blimp looked like a punctured tire. The Parsonage had scarcely a shake or shingle left. August Starling motioned toward his messiah. Then he motioned to hostlers to open the elaborate ebony coffin.

  A coffin so huge must surely contain mechanical mysteries, and indeed this coffin did. The opening movements were like the slowly paced opening of an ebony flower. Cleverly concealed hydraulic shafts slowly lifted the lid, lowered the front and the ends. Members of an Air Force drill team presented drawn sabers as the Marine band played Wagner, Wagner taking another loss.

  “It moves so slowly,” a member of The Martha Washington Brigade confided to a member of the Loyal Order of Beagles. “As a true American girl, I used to enjoy slow and rhythmic motion.” The lady giggled and blushed, as the gentleman cast a desperate gaze about, looking for an escape route.

  “You stand here,” August Starling whispered to his messiah. “The lady in the coffin is named Collette. The moment she stirs, give an incantation. Then raise your hands to the sky. Can your brains handle all that?” August Starling faced the crowd like an orchestra conductor leading the congregated weeping. He faced a sea of hankies, honking noses, tearful eyes. At his back, time jumps stood above the islands. The blimp—or what was left of it—hung draped like a squeezed bar rag over the ruins of the pharmace
utical company. From the gondola of the blimp, crewmembers dropped a rope ladder and escaped. Victorian cheers sounded faint in the distance.

  The ebony flower of the coffin spread its petals wide, and the first things visible were the tall and ornately carved roses of a Victorian bed. The bed stood curtained, but front draperies opened to reveal remains of the dear departed. At first the dear departed could not be seen, for the walls moved so slowly. From the Grand Marshal’s carriage, Goody and the real estate lady descended. Goody checked his fly, as the real estate lady faked a satisfied look. The new messiah faced the coffin muttering incantations. “Stock options,” the messiah muttered. “Ya’ gotta trust ya’ agent.” The messiah’s voice rose firmly. “Man-to-man defense,” he proclaimed, “must-a play ’em tough inside. Press ’em into zone.”

  Small gasps ran through the crowd of Point Vestal residents as the coffin opened farther. The crowd had not known who the dear departed was going to be, but the crowd knew Agatha when it saw her. Had they seen Collette, they would have been impressed. But Agatha was only a ghost. The crowd could not know that Agatha was part of a Victorian scheme to capture August Starling. What the crowd also could not see was the confusion going on in Agatha’s mind.

  She was—and for that matter—remains, a country girl. She became nervous, and the more nervous she got, the more rapidly she flickered.

  “Contract violation,” the new messiah chanted in the direction of August Starling. “Hey, coach, this is one screwy-looking bimbo.”

  Chapter 33

  August Starling’s face aged. For a moment it became a shadowy mask before a dry and clacking skull. He slumped in his fine mourning suit, then corrected his demeanor.

  “You may not amount to much after all,” Starling hissed at Joel-Andrew. “If you and the Lord have to stoop to subterfuge, I’ve got you both on my level. On my level, I always win.”

  “It’s your own mistake,” Joel-Andrew told him. “You owe this one to Agatha and the Irish cop, to Gerald, the morose cop and The Sailor. You forgot that not everyone has volunteered to become trivial.” Then Joel-Andrew blinked, and backed up a step. He was not having a revelation, only a realization. “That’s the reason everyone around here has been dancing with the dead. That’s the reason they are drug dealers by default. Their civilization is trivial.”

  “It isn’t much of a crop,” August Starling admitted. “But it’s the twentieth century, and you take what you can get. Trust me. I’ve been in the business a long time.” August Starling turned back to the crowd, and announced that resurrections were not accomplished instantly. To his messiah, he hissed, “Start dribbling while I put together a diversion.” Starling turned back to Joel-Andrew. “Poker it is, then. I call your angels and raise you.”

  Splats of darkness crashed against the face of the bluff and ran like ink. Streaks of darkness became filaments above the parade, and strands of the stuff began to wave and weave. A gigantic dark net fashioned itself above the crowd. The TV anchor chattered, giving an in-depth analysis of perverse mating practices among marsupials. Above the crowd, imps and demons climbed along the filaments, and the sky above the parade erupted with obscene laughter, or with perverse jokes of locker room and office. The TV anchor switched to an in­depth analysis of social norms as reflected by graffiti.

  Joel-Andrew moved his hand. At his back, flowers sprouted from the pavement. Daffodils, black-eyed Susans, a sea of nasturtiums; and Joel-Andrew stood in a field of flowers. The scent of flowers perfumed the winter air. Poppies bloomed orange, red, purple. Wisteria dripped from the fronts of buildings. Morning glory twined about stands of daisies. Shadows of cats and cherubs danced across the street of flowers.

  “Thank You, Lord,” Joel-Andrew said. He turned to Agatha. “This thing will never harm you again,” he said, and he referred to Starling. “Just lie quietly, because it is almost over.”

  If August Starling was disconcerted, no one knew. His smile seemed genuine, although his sallow face aged rapidly. Light breezes blew flower petals toward him as he stepped backward and away. A floating petunia lodged in the cleavage of the lady who sold stocks and bonds. Starling spoke in gutturals.

  Starling looked skyward, where in the distance the dragon and The Parsonage stunted with each other as they returned from a successful engagement. The wings of angels flashed. The dragon warbled. August Starling looked at the network of black, and flicked his hand. The network began transforming, drawing accurate and intricate lines. In the sky above the parade, a giant spider’s web formed and began to vibrate before a cold and sulfurous breeze.

  “People are going to die,” Starling said happily. “I’ll shock them into battle. I may not get them all, but I’ll net the ones who actually maim and kill. We’ll see who collects the remains.” As the web formed, tiny red spiders began to rain onto the crowd. The spiders moaned in teeny voices. Spiders flung filaments of web, so that hair and clothing became sticky. At Joel-Andrew’s back, olive trees sprouted, their silver­-greenish leaves like wind-whispering darts. Columbine and sweet peas tangled among lilacs and cosmos and hollyhocks. The approaching figure of The Parsonage now had someone at the helm. A figure stood in the all-seeing tower, and as The Parsonage entered into sunlight Kune’s long blond hair could be seen streaming in the wind.

  The Parsonage moved like a rescuing hand as Kune issued confident orders to the Victorians. In the crowd, where he had been making explanations to the Chinese, Obed’s voice raised the powerful notes of “Old One Hundred.”

  “My powers are at full term,” August Starling said pleasantly, although his face aged by the second. “If past experience holds true, nothing frightens people more than darkness. However, let’s spice up the darkness.” He waved his hand, and across the web appeared the figure of a monster spider. The spider was yellow and black and red. It snarled. It spread wide as a shopping mall and had fangs dripping black and acidic drool.

  August Starling sneered at Joel-Andrew, and at his messiah, at Goody, at all of his entourage. He raised his eyes above the parade, and motioned toward the trailing darkness. “Fear of darkness is in part preternatural,” he sneered. “It is principally atavistic.”

  On Joel-Andrew’s side the world lay agleam with sunshine. On Starling’s side, night winds blew cold and cruel across the parade. Darkness deeper than a muffler of black velvet blanked the parade. Screams of Chinese terror echoed, intermixed with screams from tourists, townspeople, the elephant. The parade was about to stampede as terror increased beneath the wail of demons. August Starling turned to Joel-Andrew.

  “They will fall upon each other in the darkness,” August Starling said. “It’s so dark in there, they cannot see your light. They cannot hear your voice, nor other sounds beyond the darkness. They cannot see the tips of their noses.”

  “The Lord would destroy you now,” Joel-Andrew said, “but there’s a lesson to be learned by the people of Point Vestal. You trick yourself with foolishness.”

  From the darkness came the roaring voice of the Irish cop as he fought for order. The elephant trumpeted. A magnificent splat came from somewhere, and the elephant gasped and fell silent. In the distance, Gerald’s voice rose, commanding, and shrieks of frightened horses diminished beneath the morose cop’s quiet voice; while screams from tourists and townspeople became ascendant. As its hissing became louder, the giant spider seemed lowering toward the mob. From darkness covering the parade, the news anchor’s voice gave an in-depth analysis of reproductive practices among arachnids.

  “Please do something,” Agatha begged Joel-Andrew. “Those people suffer.” Agatha flickered more slowly as fear turned to compassion.

  “They suffer deeply,” Joel-Andrew said. “They have not, however, yet suffered as you have suffered.”

  “I don’t want that to happen to anyone,” Agatha told him. “I was happy with a new husband, and then I was murdered. I had no children or grandchildren. I’ve been twenty years old for a hundred years—and all I can say”—and she broke int
o tears—“is please save them.”

  The shadow of a house hovered overhead. “I trust that torches will carry the day.” A Victorian gentleman’s voice was controlled. To August Starling, the voice said, “That is a dastardly trick. We will deal with you directly, sir.” It was the same gentleman who had spoken at length during Starling’s display of new coffins.

  “Torches,” Janie confided to her bouncer. “There are children and pets trapped in that darkness.”

  Obed’s voice rose in a singsong of Chinese, and Obed was answered by the dragon who entered the darkness high above the parade. The dragon disappeared in a snort of smoke, and from its hide sparks of light showered like fireworks.

  Some of the more adventurous Victorian gentlemen had doffed coats and hats. The gentlemen clung as lookouts in winter branches of trees. Other of the gentlemen rigged lifelines, and prepared the enormous lot of The Parsonage to accommodate refugees.

  “We have light.” Kune’s voice sounded from the all-seeing tower. “We also have the honor to be doing something useful.” From the all-seeing tower, a beam of light so pure that at it could only be the light of heaven pierced August Starling’s darkness. The flashing tail of the dragon could be seen as the dragon flung itself toward the monster spider.

  “What about the bloody heathen?” another Victorian gentleman asked about the Chinese. This gentleman was small and potbellied, but his voice sounded resolute. His sleeves were rolled in anticipation of the task, and his wrists looked capable. “I suppose one cannot, in good conscience, abandon the poor blighters.”