Sea Swallow Me and Other Stories

by Craig L Gidney

  “Who are we, you ask?” Tears moved down her awful, fractured face it, like rain down the facets of a diamond. “We, my husband and I, we are failures.” She burned in green flame. “We are kings with no subjects. Warriors with no spears. Remnants, fragments—useless.”

  Israel stepped backwards. Her thick hair climbed some unknown breeze.

  “Protectors and guides we once were. Now, we are helpless. Hopeless. We are no longer able to protect and nurture our children.” She held her breasts, shimmering basalt, with her hands. “These ache with unused milk, until they wither, like dugs.” Before his eyes, the firm dark plums became long and leathery. Her face resolved, into skin of brown, hard earth, cracked with sun and pain. The black roots of her hair frayed, became wire. It was white (and therefore, green).

  It was the saddest thing he ever saw. Israel stretched his arms wide and reached for her. She reminded him of Bertha. She enfolded him. Her breasts, against his cheek, were soft and supple. He pressed his face against them, drinking in their smells. There was the tang of woman-sweat, and a salty sting. There was softness here, the velvet of Moonflower’s curtains. He leaned a little back, and took one of the dark nipples into his mouth. It was cool and hard to the touch. Her hand pressed on the back of his head. He began to suck. A stream of honeysuckle milk poured into his mouth.

  This, then, was the source of Mr. King’s elixir. Israel tasted the summer days, Tansy’s strength, guitar notes, jungles and myths. But underneath came the aftertaste of bitterness, confinement, the ocean’s salt, the whip’s sting. Even though there were these weird, unpleasant tastes, Israel longed to drink more. So he drank more. Her milk coated his throat and went down into his belly, curled there, and went to sleep.

  A faint warmth, the tickle of green. He smelled her sweat, and heard her heartbeat. It was slow and deep, like an underground bell. He stopped sucking, and rested his head against her breasts. They were slick, and wet. A sour, coppery smell was in his nose. He was warm, enfolded in her arms. Warm. Too warm. The bell rang slower, the moments between its sounding stretching and stretching. Fingernails (or thorns) snagged into his arm. And she was no longer cradling his head.

  “Mrs. King,” he said. Israel opened his eyes. There wasn't no green light anywhere. And her breasts—they wasn't bare. A thin sheet of cotton separated him from them. He wasn't standing but lying down.

  He pulled himself away, and upright. A few strays of weak light slipped through the chinks in a wall. He realized he was in Tansy’s cabin, and, Tansy lying in a tangled heap on the bed.

  A stream of blood came from her mouth, which was bruised, dark and slightly open. Blood-slicked teeth caught what little light there was in the room, and reflected it. Her eyes, though closed, were swollen, seething with dark blood. Her nose was crushed, and he could see the tattoo of bruising along her neck. Her chest didn’t rise. She was still.

  The green and new of summer had left her. She was a husk, a form, now discarded.

  Israel remembered the stillness. It lasted a long time, maybe forever. But eventually, that shallow pool quiet was shattered.

  The scream was like a pebble, thrown into a stagnant pool. The ripples began slowly, gradually building momentum, until waves crashed against a shore.

  In the end, they found the three of them. The dead girl. The frozen boy. The wailing mother.

  - - -

  The rest of the slaves buried Tansy in the evening, at twilight. There was a burial ground for just such a purpose behind the slave shacks. Little wooden crosses poked out of the ground in neatly contained rows. The town reverend had been invited to say a few meaningless words, about what a docile woman Tansy Jones was, along with various psalms and lessons from the Bible about good servants. He assured the masses that Tansy—officially dead from a sudden fever—wandered the hills and valleys of Heaven, garbed in white, with wings, at the feet of the Lord.

  Mrs. Jones was there, looking gaunt, along with the almost-twin girls. All three wore black. The girls wriggled and snickered, while Mrs. Jones did her best to look mournful. To the melodious lowing of a spiritual, Tansy’s plain wooden casket was lowered into the earth, quickly followed by clods of dirt.

  Israel was with Bertha, mostly numb. When his turn came, he tossed the dirt into the yawning hole without looking. Bertha tightly clutched the patch of earth in her hand when it was handed to her, as if it were a treasure. Israel made a feeble attempt to wrest it from her hands, but gave up.

  Mrs. Jones and her daughters walked up to Bertha, hoop skirts sweeping the crumbs of dirt. Her daughters were nearly skipping, and whispering to one another. A dark glance from their mother silenced them—momentarily.

  “Your daughter was an angel,” Mrs. Jones said, gently touching Bertha’s shoulder. Bertha just stared at the white woman; she could have been a gnat. “She shall be missed. But the Creator has other plans for her.”

  There was still no response.

  One of the almost-twins fidgeted. “Marmee,” she trilled, “why doesn’t she speak?”

  The other girl, apparently the younger, said, “She looks like she’s dead.”

  Mrs. Jones swatted at her brood, which they swiftly sidestepped. “Children! It isn’t polite to speak in front of people like that. Bertha is mourning.”

  Meanwhile, Israel boiled inside. To those girls, Tansy’s funeral was like a trip to the market or a visit to Charlestown. A chance to wear a different costume. And Mrs. Jones continued the fake story of Tansy’s death. Before he knew it, he was yelling at them. He didn’t care what happened to him. “She’s deaf.” Mrs. Jones spared him a glance. “Bertha is deaf. You’d know that, if you cared. And Tansy didn’t die of no fever.”

  The choir stopped singing. There was silence all around. All eyes were on him.

  The older ‘twin’ broke the tension. “You aren’t supposed to talk like that. Nig—Darkies are only to speak when spoken to.” She said with the smugness of a nursery rhyme.

  “Susannah, that’s rude,” Mrs. Jones said absently. “Israel, what do you mean, Tansy didn’t die of fever?”

  Israel held her weak gaze in his own—and lost courage. Ask Rufus, he wanted to say. But he didn’t. Instead, he broke free of funeral party, leaving both Mrs. Jones and Bertha bewildered. He ran.

  - - -

  The briar patch wasn't any less sinister. The thorns glittered in the dying sunlight. Cobwebs covered some of them, like gossamer. Flies lazily hovered above the treacherous expanse.

  “Where are you?” Israel screamed. There was no response. “Why did you let them kill her?”

  He imagined the old man in his hammock under the sea of thorns, waking up. What he yelling about? he would say to his shifty wife.

  Don’t you worry none about it, the wife of a thousand faces would reply.

  They were wicked, the Devil and his wife. They’d tricked him. Israel’s rage spilled over. He wanted to rip apart the thorns, until he came upon their green haven. He would knock over Mrs. King’s pot, and set fire to the whole damn place, guitar, fox and all. Another part of him wanted to jump down into the thorns, and let them take him to where Tansy was. Pain would be a small price to pay to visit her. The rivers of milk, the lakes of honey—he didn’t care for any of that. Just her kindness. Her near him. But he wasn't worth it. He could never be near her. Just when he’d had the chance, he’d chickened out.

  “…over here…”

  Israel glanced up, to see a procession of other slaves, led by Isabel. They were coming to take him away. He didn’t know why, but Izzy felt it was his last chance to do something. The canyon of thorns awaited him with their cruelty. Fangs beckoned him. They blurred. It would be so easy to greet them. Maybe they wouldn’t bite him. Maybe it was an illusion. They were as tender and safe as Tansy’s arms….

  “…what…”

  “Stop him!”

  “Izzy, don’t, chile!”

  Arms—they wasn't Tansy’s—lifted him up. He struck at them. He shrieked, “Let me go! Lemme
go.” A forest of arms (unthorned) held him against his will. “He killed her! He killed her.” And a thousand voices (not as many as there were shifting faces) told him to calm down. It was alright. They knew. “I need her, I want to go to her.” Child, you can’t. The Lord will call you when the time is right. “No, not the Lord. I don’t want to see him…” His voice died. And he could see. Melting glass blocked his view. In twilight they took him from the safe place. Where thorns were velvet, guitars had eyes, and liquor tasted like mother’s milk.

  He was swimming toward them. Devils or angels? He didn’t care.

  - - -

  When he woke up, Israel found himself in bed. Someone was wiping his brow. He could smell her, hay and sweat. Startling blue eyes gazed down at him, framed in a black face. Cristabel.

  Israel stared at her in an easy silence that seemed to last for a long time. He acclimated himself to waking. He could tell, from the slant of the light, that it was late afternoon. Birds chattered amongst themselves, and crickets began their tentative chirping. He must have slept, for most of a day. Then, memory hit him like a wave. Tansy was dead. And he was still alive.

  Cristabel interrupted his slide into despair. “You sleep a long time,” she said.

  He turned away. He didn’t want to hear her.

  “You hungry? I guess you not.” She dropped the dishrag in basin, and sat down next to him. Israel closed his eyes. He didn’t want to feel anything.

  When he surfaced again from the clutch of sleep, it was even darker. A couple kerosene lamps were lit, and he could hear Mark near the stove, probably heating up the mush they served the workers. Israel sat up, and saw Cristabel dozing next to him. Some knitting that she’d been working lay sprawled out in front of her. In the half-light provided by the lamps, Israel saw it was a quilt. Within its folds he could make out shapes of branches, densely clustered together, held together by leaves, thistles and thorns—

  “Cristabel. ‘Bel.”

  The woman snorted awake. Her eyes shone, gaining focus. “Now he wants to eat,” she said. “Just when I comfortable.”

  Mark coughed in mock sympathy.

  Israel didn’t want to eat, but he endured Mark and Cristabel’s nurturing. They gave him half of Mark’s cornmeal and fat-studded mush, and a cup of warm tea, sweetened with sorghum. He ate obligingly, without hunger. After they were sure he’d eaten enough—Cristabel hovering like a bee, Mark sputtering and gasping like a clogged bellows—Israel got Cristabel’s attention.

  “Your quilt.”

  She grabbed at it. “What ’bout it?”

  “Let me see it.”

  She handed it to him. It was a woven briar patch, littered with eyes and faces. Here and there, animals were captured in the morass. A rabbit skittered gaily through the thorns. A raccoon scrambled above the vines, unpierced. Was that a leaf—or an eye? Or a hand—of ivy, or flesh? The artwork, of felt scraps, pieces of curtain, old work dungarees, a discarded dress pattern, was crude and childish. Yet, it lived. It moved and surged. The briar patch of fabric moved and slithered. Felt and fabric wove and unwove. That purple squirrel, this gingham cat surged and merged. The quilt was edged with a pattern of green flowers against white, the remains of an old flour sack. Stitches crisscrossed and mesmerized. Thorns became knitting needles. A fly of felt rose from the quilted briar. The green flowers glowed and released the odor of lanolin, mixed with sulfur.

  When Israel looked up from the surging quilt, he wasn't surprised to see the green glint coming out of both Cristabel and Mark’s eyes.

  Cristabel spoke first, in a voice that was both hers and hers. (A thousand shifting faces. Why not a thousand shifting voices?). “Don’t hate us, Israel.” Sap-like tears rolled down Cristabel’s face.

  “I tried my best,” said Mark, or Mr. King. His voice was a cough and dark, secret places. “But we are weak.”

  Mrs. King nodded. “We’re fading.”

  Israel sighed, crumbling the quilt. “You can’t do anything. You’re worse than the Devil.”

  Mr. King had the guitar in his hand. It shimmered into existence. Mrs. King sat back in her chair, cradling a felt fox. Mr. King began playing the guitar. It was soothing and warm, like heated syrup. Israel’s eyes became heavier. The song of summer, honeysuckle and red clay sent him spiraling towards the haven of sleep. The quilt still moved, and promised the safety of thorns.

  Israel forced himself awake, and broke the spell.

  “Y’all are weak and fading,” he told the ghostly couple. “But I ain’t.”

  Etiolate

  Oliver stood in the crowd, a part of its number, yet apart from its essence. They were smoking, high, garbed in black, whorled with tattoos, pierced with silver hoops. They smelled of cloves, cK1, and leather. They were pale, perhaps dusted here with pink, a hint of a blue vein there, in sudden relief against their flesh.

  They were pale; he was dark. Dark skin, with black wool for hair that was darker than the clothing they wore. He was out of place: black sheep.

  “See that guy over there?” His friend Pompeii had returned, carrying some Creme de Menthe concoction contrived to look like absinthe. “Isn’t she cute?” Pompeii’s voice was fey and sickly sweet. He dressed in his club-kid gear: silver booty shorts, mesh tee shirt and combat boots.

  Oliver looked over the crowd.

  “Not at all. He’s so eighties. Feathered, bleached hair, black ruffles on his shirt, those ankle boots… That scene is so tired. A spectacle of sadness on parade. He’s like Robert Smith and Peter Murphy all rolled into one.”

  “Sweetcakes, I was talking about her.”

  “She” was a boy dressed in black and electric blue lycra, with platform sneakers. Oliver rolled his eyes. “No. I’m afraid I don’t think…” But then, Pompeii would never understand. He was a post-rave boy-slut who still used his name from his Goth days. Oliver had given his up long ago. It had been Zothique, after an obscure author’s fantasy world. Like his friend’s moniker, it was a doomed and lost society, full of magic and decadence. Now the whole thing left him empty.

  Oliver took a swig of beer. It was warm. He could taste the barley.

  “You don’t like that type anymore, honey?”

  There was implication in the statement, as innocent as it was.

  He considered Pompeii, with his exotic beauty. He was Persian, and his real name was Duncan. His turmeric skin, liquid brown eyes and black hair still bewitched him. Yes. Pompeii had beauty that he did not. Pompeii was one of them.

  A few minutes later, Pompeii took to the dance floor. Months ago, he would have followed, if only to be closer to that sea of gyrating flesh. He was left with his warm beer. He stopped nursing it.

  The Gotham was a shadow of its former glory. The grimy black club no longer held any glamour. Mannequin heads were draped with veils and twinkling Christmas lights. The tables had faded stencils of snowflakes and doilies on them. And a thousand TV monitors flashed underground videos and scenes from cult movies. He caught a glimpse of Patty Duke in The Valley of the Dolls, held captive in a bathtub. Her face was pale with blue veins showing through, and she was mouthing “Give me my dolls!” Months ago he would have laughed at that scene, while popping “dolls” of his own—E, and crystal meth. The surging crowds of young people, who wanted to be Blade Runner extras, or vampires, were no longer his family. They never were.

  Bauhaus throbbed on the stereo system. A girl in a fairy-tale lace blouse and black rubber pants winked at him from across the room. He knew that this was not a sexual come-on; most people assumed he was queer, even though he wasn’t pretty. It was an offer for drugs. He’d bought from her before. He moved towards the stage.

  Within ten minutes, the lights went down, and the band Ganesa took the stage. The scene left him hollow, but its soundtrack transcended. With her trademark sari, the coffee-dark singer wailed out ghazals, muezzin’s cries, and torch-song lyrics against swirling electronic music punctuated by drum machine beats. At one point during the show, she plucked
a sitar, during a new song called “Kali”. When he closed his eyes, Oliver could see a land of tigers, monkeys, scented with jasmine and curry. Her smoky voice and the twang of the sitar drifted on veils of synths and discreet tablas. Opening his eyes after the song, Oliver saw the black-clad tribe, winding down from the faux-Egyptian dances. When “Ivory” started, he once again closed his eyes. He knew that he was missing out on the singer’s movements, but the callowness of the crowd was getting to him. The song’s verses switched from English to Hindi. During one particularly intense moment, someone bumped into him. A boot grazed his foot.

  “Would you…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re going, dude?”

  The boy who’d bumped into him was perfect. Thin as a stalk of grass with wheat-gold hair and blue eyes. The black of his clothing was sensible, elegant even; it heightened the white of his flesh. He was young, a waif. The fullness of his lips was reminiscent of models used in the Calvin Klein kiddie-porn campaign. His scrawny body had a used look, and there was a suburban feral glint in his eyes. He wore a Nine-Inch-Nails T-shirt. Through his hurt, Oliver wanted him. The boy gave him a glance, then looked away.

  Did he expect anything else? He closed his eyes, giving himself to the music. Here was the sensuality and the mystery of sex. A bit too abstract, but it would have to do.

  To the trance-like beat of the music, Oliver could imagine being with the boy. His dorm room, sepia with the light of the city, salty and sooty with the attack of Baltimore’s air. Something mellow, and fuzzy would be playing—“My Bloody Valentine,” perhaps. A few nervous giggles; then the boy (he looked like a Brian) would take out a nickel bag of crushed brown leaves. “No thanks; I don’t need—” “OK,” Brian would stuff the bag back into his jacket. “I don’t need that, when I have you,” or some such crap like that. And he would kiss him, his ice and hash, his breath mint-sweet and beer-sour. The first gentle moments, fingers circling a nipple, erecting it. The thrill of hands on flesh (pale on dark). “I’ve never been with a black man.” Breaths mingling, then lips. Then the clumsy, graceful removal of clothes, groins grinding against each other, fingers digging for bone, fingers crumbling dirt.