The Spitting Post

by Jason R. Barden

  “Excuse me. Can you just stand aside so I can move ahead?”

  “Ah, I found it,” the gray-skinned man said as he stopped fumbling through the grimy pages. “I want to read you a story.”

  “Look, I don’t have time for bedtime stories,” I said sarcastically.

  “You will have time for this one,” he replied, appearing unaffected by my outrage. “The title is Time Devoured.”

  Feelings I wished I had, dreams I would have dared to embrace

  Everything seems so unlikely now that time has passed me by

  I look over the duration of my suffering, the continuous

  period of my misery

  Why does it seem that life and happiness have passed me by

  Each moment I thought “Look!” This could be the chance

  But every circumstance ended in folly

  How much longer must I lament my loss of happiness

  When does this feeling cease

  Have I failed at everything?

  The time ticks away and I lie dormant

  Alone, strapped, and beaten

  The pain, the misery, the sinister smile

  Of a world gone mad.

  “Hear me,” the man sighed as he concluded his recital.

  “Who—?” I said, but before I could issue the rest of my inquiry, the man rudely interrupted.

  “Wait, there’s more,” he said while turning the page. “This one is entitled Twisted.”

  Fragments intertwined, pieces melted together to form a device

  Broken hearts fused with brain chemistry wrapped tight into a coil

  Social anxiety, nerves wound around large structures of possibility

  New works of modern art inside myself

  I am hideous to the touch and confusing to the taste

  Like piles of junk material wrapped into a ball

  You see the treacherous infrastructure

  Feel the pain of its artist

  Become one with its institution

  Beware of the power it generates

  With eyes of molten steel

  Where volcanoes rest and smoke permeates

  from the mind overcome with disaster

  I am rearranged and out of order

  Like pieces of a puzzle I have many lost parts

  If you find one return it soon

  So that I may recognize the division

  And finally know myself as I am meant to be

  Not as I am

  Twisted.

  The man again sighed deeply as he completed his verbal presentations. “These are the words I wrote, and you should become familiar with them as well,” the gray-skinned man proudly proclaimed.

  “Who are you?” I asked, befuddled and disgusted.

  “I am all the things you never accomplished: the girls you were too afraid to ask out; the career you never had; the book you never wrote; the musician you longed to be but never became; the marriage you wished you had.” And the man placed the book back on the ground.

  “You can’t be,” I protested.

  “Ah, but I am. I solely exist because of the things you never achieved.”

  “That’s impossible. You’re quite mistaken.”

  “But it is possible, and that is why I know you will never make it out of here,” he said, and he shook his head in a sad, horrible manner.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I will make it.”

  “You will have to face one of your torments to make it to the outside. A strong will is needed to defeat it. This will be genuinely improbable for you. However, it is not too late to rekindle your accomplishments, but I do see that as most unlikely.”

  “What happens if I do subdue this torment? What then?”

  “You will be awarded a valuable weapon as well as granted permission to the outside world.”

  “What will happen if I don’t conquer it?”

  “Your journey will end. There is no way to the outside except through the torment ahead.”

  “Well, you, sir, are wrong. I will make it.”

  “I urge you to turn around and go back the way you came. Just give up. You will never make it. But on the rare chance that you do, and you go even farther and eventually complete your journey, you must rethink everything you thought you knew. You must let your mind go back to the beginning and reconsider what it is you thought was truth, what you thought was reality, and what you thought was a dream. But it doesn’t matter because you will never make it.”

  I could no longer listen to these words of discouragement, and I proceeded beyond the gray-skinned man and headed toward the torment. I was not going to turn around and go back the way I came. I was not going to give up. The man continued his moaning long after I had left, and I could hear him far behind me saying, “You will never make it.” Was he right? Perhaps it would be better if I did turn around and go back. Who wanted to face torment anyway? But I knew I couldn’t give up. I had become absolutely obsessed with the pursuit of answers. I thought of The Green Maiden, and I hoped she was worth it.

  I walked down the hallway and began to doubt myself and wondered if, indeed, I would lose to the torment. What would that mean exactly? I thought about the gray-skinned man. Could my failures really have given birth to a gray-skinned life form? What kind of nightmarish place was this? Again, too many questions, too few answers.

  Ahead I could see a figure in the shape of a man. Was this the torment? I drew my pistol and was ready for him. The closer I got I could see that it was not moving. I stopped some distance back and examined it. It appeared to be a statue—a grotesque one at that. It had been constructed using metal poles. Two rods made up the legs, one for the body, and eight for the arms. There were four arms on each side of the torso protruding to the side. The head was like a ball with black eyes and a metal plate covered the mouth as if to silence the grisly work of art. It was mounted on a base with an orange glowing inscription that read—

  Fragments intertwined, pieces melted together to form a device

  Broken hearts fused with brain chemistry wrapped tight into a coil

  Social anxiety, nerves wound around large structures of possibility

  New works of modern art inside myself

  These were words from the book the gray-skinned man had read to me. This must be the modern art sculpture it was referring to. I shivered in disgust. The statue was so horrid it had sent chills up and down my spine. Who could have constructed such a thing? Realizing that staring at this horrible eyesore would not accomplish a thing, I forced my eyes away and carried on. But the image burned deep into my weary and tormented mind would not free itself from me.

  The hall continued its downward direction with no end in sight. I stopped and shut my eyes hoping that when I opened them something, anything would have changed. But when I opened them, everything was the same. As I was about to wallow again in self-pity, I heard music. It wasn’t just any music; it was the same song I had played on the lute for The Green Maiden in my dream at the pond. But it was not played on a lone lute this time; it was played by a full orchestra. Up ahead the hall widened, and I could see a small structure where people about two feet tall were dancing in a circle. Above them was an overhang with strings coming down to their heads. The structure resembled a carport with two beams on one end of the flat roof with the other end attached to the wall. The marble flooring was replaced with natural cave decor. I could see something on top of the overhang, but I couldn’t determine what it was. To the left of the structure was an old-fashioned record player, which was the source of the music.

  As I approached the structure the music stopped and the short people turned around. I could have only conjured what I saw next in a gruesome nightmare. They were puppets. The strings attached to their heads were controlling their movements. The puppets were dressed in matching black suits and stared at me with pleading eyes.

  “Ah, I see we have a visitor,” said someone, and a strange man rose and jumped down from the roof. “I am
the puppeteer in this great hall. We were just rehearsing, but now it is time for our presentation. Won’t you join us as our valued guest?”

  “No! No! No!” cried the puppet voices in unison. “The strings hurt us,” they moaned.

  “Hush now,” said the puppeteer.

  The puppeteer looked like a brainsick clown in his tattered tuxedo and with his face painted blue. When he spoke, it was easy to sense that he was missing more than a few brain cells.

  “Let us make haste,” said the puppeteer, and he extended his hand to reveal a small stage to the right of the overhang. The stage needed major repairs. It was constructed of rotted wood that had colonies of mold splattered about. In front of the decrepit stage were theater seats that appeared so rickety they might collapse should anyone be so bold as to try and sit in them.

  “I really must be going. I am on urgent business. But thank you anyway for the kind offer,” I said, trying to sound appreciative while hiding my sense of disgust.

  “No, I must insist,” the puppeteer said, and he put his hand on my back and ushered me to a seat with great force.

  “I can’t,” I protested, but before I could continue, he was pushing down on my shoulders to seat me.

  “Don’t be silly. There is plenty of time. We have all the time in the world, all the time to get absolutely nothing accomplished.” And the puppeteer released a sinister chuckle.

  He sat me down in the rickety chair, and then he removed his hands from my shoulders. I attempted to stand, but a metal restraint shot from the side of the seat and went across my chest preventing any further movement. And somehow, the ancient chair held together.

  “Hey! Let me go!”

  “In due time,” said the puppeteer. “In due time.”

  I struggled back and forth, and it seemed the restraints were slowly loosening due to their worn condition. The puppeteer went over to the puppets and removed the strings from their heads. He pulled another string from beneath his coat. This string was red and slightly thicker than the previous strands. The puppets unleashed a heartbreaking scream as he threaded them.

  “No! No! No!” they lamented, but to no effect.

  “Hush now,” said the puppeteer in a calming voice that seemed oblivious to the situation. “We must perform for our guest.”

  “But I don’t want to see the performance!” I shouted.

  “Sure you do. It is okay. You do not have to pretend. I know you want to see it,” replied the puppeteer with another sinister chuckle. He pulled the puppets with the string attached to their heads and led them onto the stage. They screamed every inch of the way. He shined a bright spotlight toward the stage and extinguished the torches. The stage was illuminated in all of its appalling glory. He climbed a ladder and placed himself on the stage roof to control the puppets. Then the music began. It was the same selection as earlier, the song I had played for The Green Maiden.

  The puppets danced and frolicked on the stage trying to hide their pain, but the look of suffering was engraved on their sad little faces. It reminded me of the dancing sloth bears. Barbaric masters would attach a ring to the bear’s nose and manipulate the bear into dancing. While it resembled dancing, the poor bear was actually squirming in agonizing pain. The performance was disgusting and cruel, much like this presentation—a display of inhumane proportions.

  I continued the struggle to free myself and was making some headway. Unfortunately, I became exhausted and started to hurt from banging against the metal and had to take a break. When the song ended, the puppet maestro detached the string and brought forth some puppets I had not seen previously.

  “This is my favorite part.” The puppeteer giggled. “I think you will really appreciate this.”

  I, on the other hand, doubted I would. He placed two puppets on stage, and I couldn’t help but think they were real persons, not mere puppets. They did, in fact, remind me of someone, The Green Maiden and me. There I was looking at me in puppet form. The Green Maiden looked as she did in the blue forest. She was wearing her bright green dress, and her lips were adorned with glossy green lipstick.

  “Showtime!” the puppet master yelled, then he continued, “She stood there giggling and twirling her shoulder-length green hair with her fingers.”

  The puppeteer was speaking words from my life and narrating scenes from my own reality.

  “I was in a jubilant daze admiring her beauty, and before I could speak, she opened her mouth and said…” My puppet counterpart had delivered those words in a deep, deep voice while acting out my memories.

  “Find me at The Spitting Post; The Purple Swan knows the way,” the puppet version of The Green Maiden said in a dainty, comical voice.

  “Her voice was pleasing to the ear, yet it reflected a sense of tragedy,” my puppet said while turning to face me.

  “She turned away as if she were about to leave,” the puppeteer narrated.

  “Wait, I do not even know your name,” my puppet said, desperate for an answer.

  “You will know when you find me,” The Green Maiden puppet replied.

  “Suddenly I began to feel dizzy and light-headed. My body broke into a cold sweat, and my feet grew weary. I could feel myself going down, down to the forest floor. ‘Wait,’ I said.”

  “Wait,” quoted my puppet.

  “My eyes blurred, and I attempted to focus. My knees gave way, and I fell into blackness.”

  This play accurately portrayed the events that had occurred in the blue forest. Feeling complete horror, I had had enough. I jiggled the restraints some more, and they broke. I jumped out of my seat and drew my gun.

  “Enough!” I yelled.

  The puppet maestro turned his focus from the stage and looked toward me. His expression reflected utter disappointment, and he appeared stunned by my outburst.

  “You can’t call cut. That is my job, and I say the play is not over!” he yelled furiously.

  “Well, I say it is, and need I remind you, I have the gun,” I said as I aimed at him.

  Then I heard multitudes cheering. It was the puppets.

  “Release the puppets!” I demanded.

  “Wh-hat?” said the puppeteer.

  “You heard me.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Ah, but you will.”

  The puppeteer climbed down off the stage roof and removed the red string from the puppets’ heads. They were free.

  “Is that all of the puppets?” I asked, still waving the gun at him.

  “Yes, it is,” he whimpered.

  “Good. Now get over here,” and I pointed the pistol at the seat.

  I sat him down in the chair and tightened the restraints around him; then I hammered them into place with the hilt of my dagger.

  “You can’t leave me this way,” he said with begging eyes.

  “But I can.”

  The puppets lined up and thanked me one by one.

  “Now you can perform at your leisure and without the strings controlling you,” I said, and I smiled at the puppets.

  “What about me?” asked the puppet master as he tried to hold back his tears.

  “You will just have to watch them instead of directing them.”

  With that I walked away feeling slightly better about my time in this Hall of Ridicule. I continued on toward my destination, but I could hear the puppets rejoicing long after I had left the stage.

  Now I was back on track and headed closer to the torment. The path was once again marble, and ahead I could see the floor was leveling off. This must mean that I was at the bottom of the canyon. All I needed to do was travel upward to reach the other side.

  My thoughts went back to the puppets. I hoped they found peace, and I laughed at the idea of the puppeteer having to watch them as a mere spectator instead of a tyrannical director.

  Just ahead the marble interior stopped and the passage reverted to its cave status. I wondered if the torment awaited only a few feet farther. I exited the marble path and entered a larger room. Ab
out fifty feet from the opening was a gigantic, two-sided stone door connected to a long structure that extended from one side of the cave to the other. The structure appeared to be built into the cave and was made of white stone. To the left and right of the door were two columns of the same colored rock as the horizontal structure. The building appeared to be an underground palace. I supposed it housed the torment.

  I determined this was the best time to rest before my encounter, so I curled up next to the colossal room’s entrance. Far in the distance I could still hear the cheering of the puppets and the groaning of their immoral master as I drifted to sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  Tormented

  I woke the next morning with an urgent sense of hunger. I opened my pack and noticed my rations were almost depleted. Without thinking, I shoved the last of the berries and bread into my mouth. I drank the remaining water to the last drop. I had exhausted all my provisions. I hoped there would be a place to replenish my supplies but of course, there was none. Or at least not in these dark tunnels.

  I sauntered over to the gigantic stone door and pondered what the inside palace would reveal. I pulled on the door handle, and it opened easily, much to my surprise. The door unveiled a lavish palace interior with torches brightly lighting the room. The walls, ceiling, and floor were a sparkling tan marble. It was the opposite of the outside region and almost made me forget I was below ground. The antechamber was replete with various dark ornaments. To the left and right of the large door were small tables with red vases resting on top. The pottery housed black roses that greeted the palace guests. Farther inside the room was another table, much larger than the other two. On it was a potted nightshade plant about two feet tall with beautiful purple flowers. Most of the nightshade family were poisonous, and since I was unsure of this one, I refused to take it with me for future consumption. To the left and right of this plant were two doors leading in separate directions.

  I approached the right door and opened it to reveal a great foyer. The room beyond the door was far larger than the previous and was round. There were more potted purple nightshade plants scattered about. Another door was straight ahead, and I made my way to it. There was a sign that read, “Knock once for entry. Knock twice for removal.”