by Chris Genoa
“That’s right. Right when my very own daughter was reading from the Good Book, out comes a most thunderous belly bang which shook the very foundation of the Church. I could practically hear those witches giggling afterwards.”
Giglet asked the Reverend if the witches in Essex were burned.
“Oh yes,” said the Reverend, “Quite a few were burned. One did escape though. A man. Jasper Eberly. It was reported that he flew away in the night. There are witnesses that saw him flying over the town, naked and on the back of a winged goat.”
I do wish the Reverend would refrain from telling such stories. I have enough to worry about in this strange land without constantly looking overhead for naked men flying around on goats.
I can hear my name being called out, most likely by some sick pignut at death’s door who is in need of a beer, so I will have to recount the rest of the expedition, including our unusual encounter with the Savage Boy, later.
—John Alden
7
Attack of the Mohawk Turkey
Towering piles of old books filled the room, many reaching as high as the ceiling. In the corner was a large oak desk covered with newspaper clippings and photographs, while tiny dust particles danced like sea monkeys in the sparse light that came through the windows. A granite bust of Benjamin Franklin’s head sat over the fireplace, double chin so droopy it looked like it could be stretched down to the floor. Dominating the study was a massive painting of the Pilgrims landing at Plymouth Rock. With the Mayflower in the distance behind them, the Pilgrims stood proudly on the beach, with hope and determination in their eyes and the light of Heaven shining down upon them.
Old swords, pistols, and muskets were also mounted on the walls, many of them covered with elaborate designs. A massive wood staff with an open claw on one end, draped in fringed elk leather and feathers, leaned against the wall. Rotted wood chests lay scattered about, some open, others closed, the lids crowded with rusted spyglasses and compasses, and spread with navigational maps.
A green parakeet with a plum-colored head shuffled back and forth on its perch inside a large brass cage.
A stuffed and mounted wild turkey stood perched atop a bookshelf, peering with its still-burning black eyes at all who dared to enter the home of Mayflower Jenkins.
Randy waved his hand in front of the turkey. He snapped his fingers. He poked it with one finger and then jumped back, shielding his face.
“Don’t touch that,” Dale warned. “In fact, don’t touch anything.”
“This bird is freaking me out. No matter where I stand, it looks like he’s staring at me.”
As Dale tried to focus his suddenly blurry vision on a stack of books taller than he was, he realized that finding anything worthwhile in Mayflower’s house would be difficult at best. It would take weeks and a team of grad students to go through everything in there.
“Everything in here looks all fuzzy,” he said. “Is it the dust or something? Does everything look fuzzy to you?”
“What do you mean by fuzzy?” Randy replied. “Fuzzy like a peach? Or fuzzy like you just drank too much peach schnapps?”
“Too much schnapps.”
“Things look pretty sharp to me. Maybe your headache is messing with your vision.”
“I guess so. I feel kind of dizzy too.”
“It could be a tumor.” Randy tapped his head. “A throbbing ball of cancerous flesh, covered with veins and hair, like some grotesque moon slowing orbiting around your brain. Might want to get that checked out.”
Randy picked up a brass spyglass and surveyed the room with it. First he saw the parakeet blink at him. Then the cat yawn. Then a black and white photograph of a Native American medicine man. Then a stuffed turkey’s foot. Then Dale with his brow furrowed. Then a pistol with a turkey head emblem on the handle. Then his own shoe. Then Dale walking toward him. Then a book. Then the cat again.
Dale grabbed the spyglass and belted Randy on the arm with it.
“Ouch! That, Sir, was totally uncalled for!”
“We’re not here to play with toys,” Dale snapped.
“I was getting the lay of the land.”
“Let’s start with the desk. He probably did most of his research there.”
“The desk? Too obvious. Only a fool would leave anything of note on his desk.”
“So where do you suggest we begin?” Dale asked.
“The bathroom. Most great men, from Pythagoras to Einstein, had their best ideas on the toilet. It is a widely accepted scientific fact, first reported in the 1500s by the German alchemist Paracelsus, that the release of fecal matter from the bowels often tricks the mind into releasing deep thoughts from the subconscious, which also happens to be where chaos often lives. So…care to join me in a careful examination of the old man’s throne?”
“Get the hell away from me.”
* * *
Out front, a twenty-foot long wooden sailboat docked in front of the house. With two masts rigged with square sails, it looked like a small replica of a much larger 16th century ship. Something that belonged in a museum, not at sea.
A black leather shoe stepped off the boat and landed on the dock with a squishy thud. It was soon followed by seven additional squishy thuds, all of which trudged in rhythm toward Mayflower’s house. The boat was left unattended, its small, tattered black flag flapping in the wind.
* * *
With Randy in the bathroom, Dale moved to poke around Mayflower’s study. A handful of books lay open on the desk, all heavily marked with notes and page markers. One of them caught Dale’s attention. He picked up the book and read the title page.
“Compendium Maleficarum, by Francesco Maria Guazzo.”
On the cover was a reproduction of a woodcut depicting a naked creature with the body of a man, the head of a goat, and wings like a dragon. This beast was sitting in an elaborate throne in the middle of a field, while in front of the beast stood a group of plainly dressed villagers, some of whom were afraid and recoiling from him, while others appeared to be mesmerized, and reached out to him.
Alone in the dark, quiet room, with Ben Franklin’s head looking down at him from behind and the creepy book in front of him, Dale got a bit weirded out. Looking at the cover, he could have sworn that the creature turned his head and winked at him.
Dale turned the book over and slammed it down on the desk.
Down the hall, standing in the bathroom doorway, Randy squinted at another taxidermied turkey which was standing in the bathtub. He knew deep down that there was no reason to fear a wild animal after it had been to the bone shop. But this one, with its glistening eyes and bright red caruncle, looked even more alive than the one in the main room. On top of its head was a wild tuft of black hair, which looked an awful lot like a Mohawk. Randy assumed the tuft was glued on since turkeys tend not to have Mohawks. Or hair.
Randy aimed the spyglass at one of the bird’s eyes, seeking any spark of life. Having spent much time staring into bathroom mirrors, looking deep into his own eyes, searching for signs of life—and breathing a sigh of relief every time he detected that faint glimmer—Randy knew what he was doing.
Staring at the turkey’s black dot of an eyeball, he muttered, “I’m going to count down from ten. If the bird doesn’t blink by then, it’s dead. Ten…nine…eight… seven…six…five…ffff—”
The turkey’s eyelid slid gently over the black ball, paused there for a moment, and then snapped open faster than a venetian blind yanked up by a giddy monkey.
Randy dropped the spyglass. “Okay bird, you wanna mess with me? Let’s dance.”
Randy fell into a karate stance. Or, more accurately, the closest thing to a karate stance that Randy could muster. The turkey also shifted its position into what appeared to be a fighting stance. Randy was less then encouraged to see that the turkey’s stance was far more impressive than his own.
Sitting at Mayflower’s desk, obliviously to the epic confrontation unfolding in the bathroom, Dale read from
the Compendium Maleficarum.
Book I, Chapter V, Page 12
This woman, because her lover had seduced another woman, changed him with one word into a beaver; since that animal, when it is in fear of being caught, escapes its pursuers by cutting off its stones: and so also it happened to this man, because he had loved another woman.
Flipping through the pages, Dale saw that the book contained page after page of descriptions of witches in the 17th century, the powers they had and the horrific crimes they’d committed. It also went into great detail on how to detect, interrogate, and execute witches.
Dale tossed the book aside. “Why was Mayflower reading this garbage?”
Next, Dale grabbed an anthology of Benjamin Franklin’s writings. It was open to the following passage, which Dale read.
For my own part I wish the Bald Eagle had not been chosen the Representative of our Country. He is a Bird of bad moral Character. He does not get his Living honestly. You may have seen him perched on some dead Tree near the River, where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the Labour of the Fishing Hawk; and when that diligent Bird has at length taken a Fish, and is bearing it to his Nest for the Support of his Mate and young Ones, the Bald Eagle pursues him and takes it from him.
With all this Injustice, he is never in good Case but like those among Men who live by Sharping & Robbing he is generally poor and often very lousy. Besides he is a rank Coward: The little King Bird not bigger than a Sparrow attacks him boldly and drives him out of the District. He is therefore by no means a proper Emblem for the brave and honest Cincinnati of America who have driven all the King birds from our Country…
I am on this account not displeased that the Figure is not known as a Bald Eagle, but looks more like a Turkey. For the Truth the Turkey is in Comparison a much more respectable Bird, and withal a true original Native of America…He is besides, though a little vain & silly, a Bird of Courage, and would not hesitate to attack a Grenadier of the British Guards who should presume to invade his Farm Yard with a red Coat on.
Dale drummed his fingers on the Maleficarum while he flipped further along in the Franklin book and continued to read.
Never leave a turkey to eat tomorrow that you can eat today.
“That’s weird. I wonder what made him go from wanting the turkey to be our national symbol to telling people to eat them.”
“Know what else is weird?” Randy interjected from behind him.
“What?”
Dale turned around and saw a monster with the body of a man and the head of a turkey standing in the doorway, surrounded by a faint halo of multicolored light.
Dale fell back out the chair and hit the floor. Sure he must be seeing things, he rubbed his eyes and jiggled his head. When he looked again, the colors were gone, and he could see it was just Randy standing there, with one of those stuffed turkeys perched on his head.
Randy pointed at his head. “This, is weird.”
Dale blinked and waved his hand in front of his eyes. “My vision is really starting to act weird. I thought you were a multicolored bird monster.”
“We have bigger problems than your tumor. We have my eyeballs.”
“What about them?”
“I think this bird is going to gouge them out with its talons.”
Dale shook his head. “What did I say about playing around? Get that stupid thing off your head before it falls and breaks.”
Dale climbed back up into the chair and riffled through the desk drawers. In one, he found a magnifying glass.
“Believe me, I tried to get it off,” Randy replied. “I poked it a couple times. But this bird is a nasty son-of-a-bitch. He nearly broke skin after the second poke.”
“We don’t have time for this.” Dale began removing the trash bag wrappings from Freedom From What?. “Look at all this stuff. There’s so much to go through, and so far none of it makes sense. Here, go through this crap. Tell me if you see anything useful.”
Dale shoved a stack of papers into Randy’s hands. Randy tilted his gaze down at the first paper, keeping as still as possible so as not to disturb the turkey on his head,. It was a photocopy of a Civil War era portrait of a woman, with the name Sarah Josepha Hale written across the bottom.
“Does the name Sarah Josepha Hale mean anything to you?”
Dale grunted. “Yeah. She wrote a bunch of magazine articles about Thanksgiving in the 1800s. They were so popular they convinced Abe Lincoln to make it a national holiday. Every year I put a quote from her up on the Ferdue website. It says something like ‘the grand Thanksgiving Holiday of our nation, when the noise and tumult or worldliness may be exchanged for the laugh of happy children, the glad greetings of family reunion, the humble gratitude of the Christian heart, and the glorious eating of turkeys.’ Without her there might never have been a Thanksgiving. She’s practically a hero to Ferdue. Probably increased our turkey sales a thousand times over.”
“Well she looks like a dude.”
“Let me see that.”
Randy held up the picture.
Dale’s mouth fell open. “Holy beaver balls. It’s him again.”
“Him who?”
“The farmer. And John Ferdue.”
“Which is it?”
“Both.”
“This is a woman, Dale. Maybe your vision is still fuzzy.”
Dale grabbed the photo and took a closer look. “No I’m positive. Put a bonnet on the farmer or on John Ferdue and you have Sarah Josepha Hale.”
“Maybe they’re all related. Cousins perhaps?”
“I’m telling you they are all the exact same person.”
Randy frowned. “Impossible. This woman would be something like two-hundred years-old today. A bit old to be leaping in and out of bedroom windows. I think all this chaos is starting to get to you. It’s messin’ with your noodle.”
“I guess you’re right.” Dale rubbed his eyes. “This has been a ridiculously stressful day. For all of us. I mean, even Tommy thought that the farmer this morning was John Alden, and he’d have to be over three-hundred years old to be alive today. How silly is that?”
“Sillier than a blind monkey lassoing a man.”
“Ha.” Dale picked up the magnifying glass and returned to his review of Freedom from What? He scanned the painting until the glass passed over the small dark figure standing by the tree in the background. With magnification, the figure’s face became clear.
It was John Ferdue. It was the farmer. It was Sarah Josepha Hale. In the painting he was wearing Pilgrim clothing and clutching a small rifle. The man had a terrified look on his face as he looked down at the ground in front of him.
Dale looked over at the picture of Sarah Josepha Hale and then back at the man in the painting
“I take it back,” he said.
“Take what back?”
“All of it. It’s not silly. Look.” Dale tilted the magnifying glass so Randy could see. “This is the guy who was in my bedroom.”
“By God it really is Sarah Josepha Hale as a man. But how can that be? It’s impossible. It’s…it’s…”
“Chaos.”
“Bingo.” Randy stroked his stubbly chin. “It also means that my Dad knew something about all this. He must have let the chaos in too. And now he’s gone. Maybe he left more clues in the painting. What’s with the spooked expression on that guy’s face? What is he looking at down there?”
Dale followed the painted man’s eyes to the ground with the magnifying glass and saw that by his feet stood a turkey with a black Mohawk.
“He’s looking down at a turkey with a Mohawk.”
Randy gulped. “You mean like the one on my head?”
Dale kept his eyes on the painting. “You mean that dead bird you’re wearing on your head for some stupid reason?”
“No. I mean the live bird who perched on my head against my will.”
“That turkey is deader than Mayflower himsel—”
A loud gobble cut Dale off.
�
�Did you just gobble?” Dale looked up from the painting to see the turkey he thought was stuffed flapping its wings restlessly on top of Randy’s head.
Dale got up and slowly backed away, moving toward the front door as gingerly as possible.
“Dale, wait. Where are you going?”
“That thing. On your head. Is totally alive.”
Dale had dropped the magnifying glass on the painting. It sat directly on top of the Pilgrim Ferdue’s face. Randy glanced down and saw the painted man’s grimace of terror in unnerving detail. Randy went into a bit of a tizzy.
“Dale, don’t leave me here. Please. Look at the farmer’s face. I mean at Sarah Josepha’s face. I mean at…I don’t know what I mean. This bird is bad news man. I tell you it’s gonna tear my lips off! I can feel its talons digging deeper into my scalp. It’ll reach my brain in due time.”
Dale kept backing away. “Just, um, try to stay calm. Animals can sense fear, and fear makes them nervous.”
“What about anger? Can they sense anger?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”
“Good, then listen very carefully. I want you to go to the car, get the blowgun, and shoot this beast back to hell.”
Dale had his hand on the doorknob. “Good plan. I’ll be right back.”
Randy’s eyes shot from Dale to the bay windows next to the door. “Wait.”
“What now?”
“I don’t think the front door is a good idea.”
“Why not?” Dale asked.
“Our friends are here.”
Huddled together and pressed against the wet glass of the windows stood the four beaked ninjas. Heedless of the rain drizzling down on them, they peered into the house, searching for signs of life. In the distance behind them, the boat they had arrived on rocked on the waves by the dock.
With Dale pressed flat against the door, trying to force his body into two dimensions, and Randy frozen still in the shadows at the other end of the room, trying to look like one of those Native American cigar statues, they could only hope that the house appeared to be empty to the beakmen.