The Spitting Post

by Jason R. Barden

  Now with my most demanding physical needs met, I turned my mind back to my current situation. What was a pleasant-looking cabin doing in such a horrid place? Who would live here in the center of nothingness? The entire area had the appearance of death, yet here stood a peaceful shelter. The two seemed worlds apart.

  After much thought I decided to make my presence known to the inhabitants and thank them for the food and water before I continued on my way. If I felt bold enough, I might even ask them if they knew a Vincent Carpenter. But first I would see how they reacted after I had taken their valuable provisions.

  I approached the front door and knocked, bracing myself for any situation, hostile or otherwise. No answer. I knocked louder. No answer. Maybe they were asleep, or maybe they were afraid to come to the door at this late hour. I peered through the window at the right of the door, but it appeared the dwelling was void of life.

  I thought for a few minutes about any further action. It would be inappropriate to enter without explicit permission, but I was exhausted, so I wrestled with the two thoughts. Finally, I decided to be adventurous, rude or not, and turned the knob. The door creaked open, and I tiptoed inside. My gaze fell on a neatly made bed, and my aching body followed. I ran to it on instinct and passed out before my mind could say otherwise.

  I woke sometime the next afternoon feeling refreshed but embarrassed that I had slept in someone’s home without permission. I would apologize when the owner arrived. In the meantime, I would do some exploring.

  I sat up in bed, and my wandering eyes investigated my new surroundings. I had been so fatigued when I entered I just collapsed under the weight of exhaustion. Now was my time to look around.

  The one-room cabin was small by any standard. Across from the bed was a chair and writing desk with papers stacked neatly on top. On the other side was a chest of drawers, a cabinet, and the fireplace facing the window—quaint and cozy.

  My hunger and thirst returned, leading me to the front door. When I opened the door to go outside and satisfy my cravings, I was reminded of my cruel surroundings. The skull trees seemed to stare relentlessly at the cabin, knowing that it didn’t belong. Despite the hideous view, I ate and drank my fill.

  I looked down at my clothes and remembered I needed an immediate change of wardrobe. But first I washed up at the well and felt better after removing the mud and dried blood from my body. Then I went back inside and opened the chest of drawers. Inside the top drawer I found some black pants and a white shirt, much the same as the ones I had been wearing. I put them on, and they were a perfect fit.

  “How can I ever repay the owner of this fine establishment?” I wondered aloud.

  I sat outside for a while waiting for the master of the house to arrive. I waited, and I waited. No one showed. It would be getting dark again soon, and my sanity could not take staring into that skull wasteland in the darkness of night. I returned to the house and sat on the bed. It didn’t appear the owner would be coming back tonight, either.

  “I wonder where the people are and what they’re doing,” I said aloud. Then I stood and began pacing. I put more firewood on the fire. Then I paced some more. And then, without thinking, I found myself sitting at the desk and fumbling through the papers. There were articles about various subjects, but there was nothing of any use. When I was about to give up, I noticed a journal under the papers with a revealing inscription on the cover. The Life of Vincent Carpenter.

  “I’m in his house,” I said out loud, admitting my trespass. “How could I have so conveniently located his dwelling?” I wondered where he had gone and when he might return. Who was this Vincent Carpenter? I looked through the journal for answers. It was full of entries, but it included no dates. I read through several consecutive pages obtaining no significant information. I then started reading random entries. At last I come across something useful.

  My heart was given back to me today. We met at the forest clearing for the final time and discussed our end while the blue lights above mocked me. She said she found another more suitable to her taste and that it was over for good. I wept unstoppable tears as she spewed words like daggers. Her speech was cruel and relentless as she sprayed rejection from her lips. She clenched the gold heart necklace I had given her. All the while she made me the fool. She squeezed the necklace so tight that the point of my heart pierced her flesh and blood trickled from her hand, the hand I had once held. I dropped to one knee and begged for her to remain, but she refused my pleading with sinister laughter as she twirled her green hair. I asked that she remember all the good times and let those be her guide, but she renounced them all—the memories I thought were bliss. She threw the necklace to the ground, and I noticed her blood had stained it. Her last words to me were, “Let me go.” She left me there so cold and broken. I stayed for a while, not wanting to admit these truths. Then I gathered what was left of me and walked back home, leaving the necklace and her behind forever.

  As I was examining the words, a huge lump gathered in my throat, and I found small water droplets on the page that had fallen from my own eyes. I was overwhelmed with emotion as I felt pity for him. How could anyone be so cruel? But on the other hand, this did not seem like The Green Maiden I had met in the woods. Her beauty was far too great to hold that kind of malice.

  “Is he talking about the same person I am seeking?” I wondered aloud. “Certainly not.” I was determined to ask him when he returned. I would stay until then—unless he never returned—then I would certainly have to leave.

  I placed the journal back under the papers as though it had never been moved. I didn’t want to read any further, perhaps because I didn’t want to know any more disturbing details of this or any other event pertaining to The Green Maiden. If this Vincent Carpenter did return, I would keep the necklace to myself. Apparently it was meant to be left in the forest clearing and not returned. If I had known that at the time, I never would have picked it up. Of course, I’d have to make up some sly work of fiction as to why I wanted to know about her. This would be necessary to gather any pertinent information. I knew I should not even talk of such things to him, but my curiosity had beaten down my civilized manner. I would need to choose my words carefully if I was going to get anything out of him.

  I grew tired as I was still not recovered from my previous adventure through the desert and woods. I went to bed and fell asleep with the images from the journal on my mind. I dreamed terrible dreams of being lost in the woods and of the gold heart necklace. I heard knocking in my mind as if someone were knocking on a door, a nearby door. I turned from side to side trying to shake the nightmare, then shook as if to wake myself. When I awoke I realized the knocking was real and at the cabin door. Chills went up my spine. Who might it be? Should I answer it? It’s still dark outside. Maybe whoever it was would think I’m asleep or that no one was here and leave. But the knock persisted. I put my feet on the floor, took a deep breath, and made my way toward the banging. My heart beat faster and faster, keeping pace with the knocking. I felt as if my heart were going to jump out of my throat and onto the floor, leaving a bloody mess for Vincent to clean up. Finally, I clutched the knob and braced myself. With one big pull I opened the door to reveal my visitor.

  There stood a short, heavy-set man appearing as nervous as I did. He was wearing a business suit and a frantic look. One hand reached out to knock on the door, and the other held a manila folder. His forehead was beaded with sweat as if he had been in a great hurry. There was something comical about this man who looked like a deranged butler. Somewhat relieved it was only him, I also felt uneasy and cautious. After all, what would anyone want at this time of night? Was he here to evict me knowing I am not the true resident of this dwelling? Or was he here for a more sinister purpose?

  “I’m sorry it took so long,” he said in an apologetic tone. His words stuttered out as he seemed out of breath.

  “What?” I said feeling perplexed and wondering what he could possibly be referring to.

 
; “The writing,” he replied, still trying to catch his breath.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m sorry the writing took so long.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t follow.”

  “I’m sorry the writing took so long. I printed it as fast as I could and ran it over here myself. We had problems with the printing press, and that will explain the delay,” he said as he held out the manila folder.

  “What in the world are you talking about?” I asked with some agitation.

  “Your writing, Mr. Carpenter. Remember? You wanted copies for your book.”

  “Wh-wh-what?”

  “Your book of poems, sir,” he said, trying to reassure me.

  “Are you sure I am Mr. Carpenter?”

  “Mr. Carpenter, I have known you for ten years and have never known you to play jokes, but if this is one, I do not have the time for such nonsense,” he said with a stern and aggravated tone.

  “No joke,” I replied. “I believe I was in an accident, and some of my memory was lost. Are you sure I’m Vincent Carpenter?”

  “Yes, sir. I have handled your business affairs for a decade and know you when I see you. Should I call a doctor?”

  “No need. Remind me of your name.”

  “Mr. Fimbley, sir. Henry Fimbley at your service,” he said as if we were meeting for the first time.

  “Mr. Fimbley,” I repeated.

  “Are you sure I cannot call a doctor for you?”

  “No, thank you,” I replied with a smile and retrieved the folder from his hand.

  “Well, if there is nothing else I can do for you, I must be off then.”

  “Okay. Bye now.”

  I stood there for a moment stunned as I ever had been.

  “I am Vincent Carpenter?” I said out loud in an effort to convince myself of my newfound identity. I sat on the bed still holding onto the manila folder and shut my eyes searching my mental file cabinet. My mind slowly began to etch a face; it was mine. Words started to attach themselves to the face. Vincent Carpenter—I remembered now.

  “I am Vincent Carpenter,” I said, and this time I said it with meaning and assurance. But what was I doing in the desert? How did I get here? More importantly, if The Green Maiden knew I was Vincent Carpenter, why did she request my presence at The Spitting Post? Why was she so sweet? Why wasn’t she as inhospitable as she had been earlier with the necklace?

  I switched my attention to the manila folder and its contents. Mr. Fimbley said I was a writer, so I was anxious to see what I had written. I found a portfolio of poetry and a few short stories along with a picture of the author which was, of course, a photograph of me with my name at the bottom—Vincent Carpenter. I found a strangely titled poem, so I decided to read it by the crackle of the orange fire. It was entitled Greetings from the Bermuda Triangle (That You Made for Me):

  I desire to hold you even one last time but I know deep

  within it would never be enough

  You held me up higher than I could have imagined merely

  to drop me into this bottomless pit you made for me

  Now I am swimming in pools of filth trying to stay adrift

  reaching for your once adored hand

  The rotted insects of our Love have made my mind

  home and possess me nightly

  Here no flowers grow only weeds and vines that you

  use to entangle me and hold me close to your memory

  I am trapped in an outer dimension where you

  are the ice queen of my heart

  A whirlwind of twisted luxuria and false passion

  became your means of torture

  False promises and erotic pain are your weapons against me

  Happiness without a smile, wouldn’t you love it so

  Like a life jacket during a volcanic eruption are

  the sweet words from your lips

  I am your ignorant puppet in your play of twisted plots

  Madness and folly, count the years one by one

  The weather man predicts a forecast of misery

  followed by a shower of my tears

  Chatter, humor, solitude

  As I watch the ghost ships pass by,

  a wreckage of hopes and felicity

  They raise their flag one last time in hopes that

  you will deliver me from your prison

  But you wear your key tight around your rotted wooden heart

  I have become feral and run around in circles proclaiming

  my undying love for you still

  Am I just insane?

  Perhaps

  I must be to carry on over you

  after the unspeakable things you have done to me

  Lies, deceit, it was all dreadful lies

  Did you ever mean a single sweet word

  Now I taste your bitter farewell

  I am lost in your triangle forever it seems

  Strangely written, I thought. Good stuff, but bizarre. I toured the rest of the folder hoping to find something of further use. I had regained some of my memory, but I needed more clues. I found nothing that would trigger any more of my brain’s internal storage so I set the folder on the writing desk.

  “Where to now?” I asked no one at all as I had stumped my brain and had no idea where to start looking for The Purple Swan that knew the way to The Spitting Post. I should have asked Mr. Fimbley, but I was so shocked by my true identity that I had forgotten about it. Besides, I doubt that Mr. Fimbley knew of such bizarre things.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” I muttered aloud as I realized I didn’t even know where Mr. Fimbley, or anyone else, lived. I didn’t know a thing other than my name. I sat at the writing desk for some time and began to get sleepy. I curled back into bed and was happy that I was one step closer to my goal—I knew my name. I drifted to sleep and dreamed of better days.

  I got up around mid-morning, stretched, and made my way outside for breakfast.

  I ate some berries from the bush and drank fresh water from the well, all the while contemplating what to do next. After I finished my meal I went back inside and searched the desk for more answers. I found a crumpled piece of paper that instructed the reader to travel to The Town of Diminished Desire. According to the hand-drawn map, it was northeast of the Skull Tree Wasteland where my cabin was located. I compared the handwriting to a sample of my own hand and determined it was the same. It appeared that I really was the author of these cryptic instructions. But I couldn’t recall when or why I had written this information. With nothing else to go on, I decided to search for this Town of Diminished Desire. Maybe there I would find a person with extensive knowledge of the area to direct my journey. But first I had to prepare.

  Under the bed I found a backpack with a jug tucked inside. I filled the jug with water from the well and put some berries into the pack. Back inside I directed my search to the chest of drawers. In the bottom drawer was a dagger along with its sheath and belt. The dagger was serrated on one side and had a sharp steel tip. It reflected the appearance of fear, for the hilt was wrapped with black leather and the blade was blood red. I attached the belt to my waist, knowing that somehow the dagger would be needed.

  Beneath the desk I found boots black as the night and exchanged my worn shoes for the more rugged apparel. A silver compass was resting on top of the chest, and I placed it in my pocket. The only place I had not searched was the cabinet. It stood on the floor and rose to four feet tall. My mind went wild with excitement and anticipation as to what was inside. I opened the cabinet door slowly and shrieked with delight. Inside was an eighteenth-century flintlock pistol that resembled a pirate’s gun. A bag of silver shot accompanied it. This weapon would prove to be a necessity if I ran into any danger. Further inspection revealed that, indeed, the gun was loaded. But reloading it would be painfully slow, so I mustn’t waste any shots. I placed the gun under my belt and the pellets in the backpack.

  “Why didn’t I have these with me when I woke in the d
esert?” I asked myself, but I had no answer. I double and triple checked that I had everything I needed. I turned and looked back at the house, feeling homesick already. I continued on and turned around every few steps to admire the cabin until, eventually, it was out of sight.

  Chapter Four

  Music for a Jackal

  Slowly, the landscape began to change. The skull trees became more scarce, and the ground was starting to come alive with small plots of green grass. In the distance I could see rolling hills populating a lush countryside. I stopped to consult my compass, which confirmed that northeast was, indeed, toward the rolling green mounds. Somewhere out there was The Town of Diminished Desire where, just maybe, I could gather the needed directions to The Purple Swan. For now, this was my only clue.

  As I entered the grassland, I was relieved to find it was void of skull trees. The skulls had given me the willies, and I couldn’t fathom why I placed my wonderful home in the middle of them. Why not out here where the land was full of life with the feeling of prosperity and where the scenery was awe-inspiring and beautiful despite the dreary sky? Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen the sun since awakening in the desert. I wondered why the skies were always so dismal and the warm light so scarce.

  I stopped to admire the natural beauty. Set into the rolling hills were lush green alpine meadows with rocks scattered about. Weeping willows spread into the invigorated landscape. Far in the distance I thought I heard the music of a violin, but I couldn’t be certain. Who would be playing out here? Maybe it was just the whistling of the wind.

  I continued my northeasterly march. It would be dark soon. With no tent, I decided to sleep under a weeping willow. I fell asleep and dreamed of The Green Maiden and our meeting in the blue forest clearing. My inner mind felt mournful as if I would never see her again. Her face haunted my psyche and my breaking heart. In the dream I heard wailing from afar—the sound of intense sadness and pain. The disturbance beckoned me from my slumber. I woke and realized the crying was real and not far off.