The Spitting Post

by Jason R. Barden

  I made my way through the last of the swamp with nothingness in my head. I remained thoughtless for the last few steps and collapsed onto a soft bed of green grass just outside the marsh. I was now fast asleep and most importantly, out of the stagnant waters and on dry, solid land at last.

  Chapter Twelve

  Interrogating the Swan

  After a much-needed nap, I rose and observed that the new clothes I had received were no more than filthy rags. I opened my pack for some morning nourishment and noticed that the food Borloff had so carefully packed was now moldy and reeked. The bog water had ruined the only food I had. Also inside the pack were the silver pellets for the gun and my canteen. It was obvious the pellets would have no further use because the pistol was lost forever in the hideous marsh, and there was no way I would ever go there again. I tossed the pack to the ground and left it behind. I noticed the brace that supported my injured arm was thoroughly tainted as well. I unfastened the hinges and slowly removed the shackle. I wasn’t sure if this was a good idea, but the brace was completely contaminated, so I inched the brace off. Then I gently flexed my arm and elbow. All felt fine; there was no pain.

  I looked around. The swamp was behind the patch of ground on which I now stood, and in front of me was a massive lawn. The grass was green and short like a freshly cut yard, and it went on for miles. The sun shone brightly and was an especially welcome sight after the dreariness of the swamp. There were oak trees scattered about the lawn, and some even presented round purple fruit with blue swirls throughout.

  I picked one of the curious fruits. At first I was not sure if I should sample it, but then I remembered my food supply was gone. With some misgiving, I bit into the round purple globe and discovered a tangy, bittersweet juice that splattered the walls of my mouth. The taste was unlike anything I had ever sampled. Each bite seemed to transition between sweet, bitter, and tangy and then into a combination of the three. I was undecided if I liked the strange purple fruit, or if I detested it. One thing was for sure; it was overwhelmingly satisfying to my stomach and seemed to quench the thirst that had parched my throat to the point of painful soreness. Prior to the fruit’s consumption, my throat had become so parched it had burned as if someone had plunged a flaming torch down my mouth and scorched its walls. But the purple fruit had eased the burning and restored lost nutrients to my weary body, nutrients I would need for the journey that lay ahead.

  The velvety grass felt soft and cushiony, much gentler than the grueling terrain I had previously encountered. This place had a much safer, more delicate feel, and that troubled me. It was almost too good, too relaxed to be real in this unusual realm. Yet it did feel nice to be in a friendly environment for a change.

  I walked on leaving the horrid swamp farther and farther behind. I dared not attempt to turn too far to the right or left as I was afraid I might catch a fleeting view of the ugly marsh. I attempted, as best I could, to walk in a straight line that I hoped would take me directly to my destination.

  As I casually strolled across the well-manicured yard, I wondered exactly how I would be able to collect directions or any other pertinent information from the swan. Was it going to quack in code? Or would it signal a direction with its purple wings? And do swans even quack?

  I stopped for a moment and realized exactly how insane this all sounded. But as insane as it was, I had to do it. I had to see this journey to its conclusion even though I was unsure how it would end. Realizing that mere pondering would achieve nothing more than additional anxiety, I decided to continue across the vast, tame wilderness of trimmed grass. Ahead to my right was a black sign with purple lettering. I approached the curious sign that was suspended from the twisted vines of a nearby oak. The preposterous sign read—

  The Purple Swan

  ~*~

  Immersed in the murky cesspool of obsidian regret

  Agony smiles deep enough to never forget

  The liquid here is blue with tears from melted rain

  Deep inside the nightmare, the origin of pain

  ~*~

  Stalked by the husk with bittersweet morning dew

  I am the jester tormented by the constant you

  A fork in the road I have become and far away

  A sin for a moment of that unsympathetic yesterday

  ~*~

  To make myself feel better for a while I see

  But the angry purple swan is stalking me

  It sees me fall and stumble, will not leave me alone

  I take a tumble, shrills from my every moan

  ~*~

  Scarred with hideous reminders

  of what if and what now

  To persist on through but how

  Another nightmare of reality it seems

  To dream without dreams

  ~*~

  The purple swan on my back will not leave

  It continues to torture and deceive

  Frolicking madness flapping its obscene beak

  A sudden bloodcurdling shriek

  ~*~

  Haunting me, terrorizing me, destroying me

  The purple swan will not let me be

  Organized chaos I have become

  To exist or to be undone

  ~*~

  I have turned purple, my hands, my plea

  The angry purple swan forever haunting me

  Once I had read the peculiarities, I knew I was getting close—close to a purple nightmare, and so I continued. My eyes began to throb from staring at the same greenery as I walked and walked and walked. Then it began to rain blue droplets just in front of me. The droplets were widespread and the size common in a bathroom shower. The closer I got to the small storm, the more apparent it became that this was no ordinary rain.

  The blue droplets glowed as they rose from the grass and disappeared into the dreamy white clouds. Gravity had flipped upside down, but I was still planted firmly on the ground. I eased my hand cautiously through the upside down waterfall and felt dryness just an inch from the backward rain. With a solid motion I passed through the slim wall of rain and into complete dryness.

  I turned to see if the thin, inverted waterfall was really there. It was. What a peculiarity, I thought. I strolled on across the grassy plain in search of the mad purple swan and its terrible pond. I wondered what might be revealed in this encounter. What knowledge might I possess if I, indeed, persevered? As usual, I quickly became lost in my own thought and paid no attention to where I was marching—until I suddenly halted. Something was in front of me.

  Several large brown stalks stood tall against the horizon. They were planted firmly on a hill about thirty feet in front of me. The sun shone brightly on their rough, wrinkled husks. The sight was terrifying. What could the husks possibly be hiding within their unpolished interiors? I approached the maze of stalks as if in a trance. The husks stood about six feet tall and were about ten feet apart. They were situated in such a straight line that it was all too obvious they were planted by human hands. The husks had no roots flowing into the ground beneath. Instead, they attached themselves to the ground at the base of their husks. For some reason unknown to me, I placed my ear on one of the stalks, and I heard a sound from within, a sound I didn’t want to hear, a sound too horrifying to be real. It sounded so like a human heartbeat that it terrified me to the depths of my soul.

  I removed myself from the immediate position of the stalks and backed up one foot at a time, slowly, never daring to take my eyes away from the horrid husks. After I had stepped back a good ten feet, I stopped and stared at the brown cocoons. Then I heard movement from within one of the husks. The outside walls of the stalk began to twitch. It was such a tiny twitch at first that, had I blinked, it would have gone completely unnoticed. Then it twitched again. And again. And again. The twitches became more frequent. Then I began to see something moving inside. Fingers pressed the brown husk from within making a noticeable hand shape in the side of the stalk. Something was trying to break out.

  I stepped e
ven farther back just as I had before—one foot at a time. Then the top of the brown husk began to move outward. Slowly, it was peeling itself open, unwrapping itself into my world. The husk peeled all the way back to reveal a human shape, a terrifying shape.

  About six feet tall and wearing a sinister grin was a demented, brainsick circus clown. It was not just any clown, but a truly disturbed-looking clown with sharp, pointed teeth protruding from its appalling smile. And it was staring at me. Its head and chin tilted down toward its chest with its eyes rolled upward. Its face was painted white, and it wore crimson lipstick. Its face was a nightmare.

  My eyes drifted down toward his preposterous attire. The deranged buffoon was wearing a white fluffy one-piece suit with red polka-dots splattered about. The suit ballooned outward and if not for the twisted face of the clown, would have been amusing. On top of the jester’s head was a white nightcap with a cushiony red ball on the end. The ball hung down near the right ear of the clown and almost begged to be ruffled and squeezed if one dared such a foolish thing.

  His hands were fitted with tight white gloves, and one hand held an object of true terror. A sharp pointed butcher’s knife was ready for the carving. I stepped back again while holding my breath. The top of the clown’s head tilted toward his right shoulder, and his jaw dropped open to reveal his mouthful of razor teeth. The clown let out an ear-piercing cry from deep within its horrid lungs. I reached toward my waist for the last real weapon I had, my obsidian blade. I drew it from its sheath, perhaps for the final time. With both hands firmly gripping the hilt, I held it outward with its sharp tip pointing toward the corrosive clown. It was harvest time.

  Without waiting for the horrific harlequin to finish its ear-shredding serenade, I charged with my sword raised high. He sprang forward, eager to meet me. We slammed hard into each other and he carefully leapt away from my black blade. My right shoulder impacted his left, and my sword sliced only thin air. He flung his knife-wielding hand toward my face. The sharp tip of the butcher’s knife caught my cheek and revealed blood to the open air. The cut was not too deep, but it stung just the same. I stepped back to ready myself for the next onslaught. But there was none. It stood still, just as still as when I started my offense only seconds ago. His head tilted toward his right shoulder, and his jaw hung open. He was motionless.

  I stood there puzzled, uncertain of my next move. Then the twisted circus reject let out another ear-piercing scream from deep within its horrid lungs. The sound was extremely unnerving and constant, like a warning siren. My ears ached, rang, and hissed from the clown’s shrill sound. I began to feel a sticky liquid run down the side of my neck. It came to rest on my shirt. It was blood. The clown’s horrifying squeal had caused my ears to bleed. There was only one way to stop the red leakage—shut that clown down.

  I charged forward again, sword raised high above my head. I swung the blade toward the top of the clown’s skull, but just as it was about to make contact, the clown sidestepped my attack. He flung his knife-wielding hand toward my face. The sharp tip of the butcher’s knife caught my other cheek and revealed more blood to the open air. I stepped back. The clown stood still. His head was tilted toward his right shoulder, and his jaw hung open. He was motionless. This was not working.

  My brain began to analyze the sequence of events. Then my mind unraveled the clown’s great mystery. It appeared to react only when I acted. Only when I charged did he engage me. Maybe I could avert the entire battle by simply ignoring the clown. I slowly attempted to creep around him one foot at a time. I took one small step, then another and another. My eyes fixated on his grotesque, slanted head. I crept slowly away from the clown, my sword still clenched firmly in my hand. I walked as stealthily as humanly possible until I was about thirty feet away. I then realized I had walked backward and had reached the other side of the horrific jester. The back of his head was in my line of sight. I had made it beyond him. With a sigh of relief, I dropped my arm to my side and relaxed my taut muscles, letting down my guard.

  “Whew, what a relief,” I uttered aloud while wiping the sweat from my brow. But no sooner had I said it than the clown’s head spun around and rested itself backward. His face now glared at me from his backside. Then his body swung itself around to meet its head. Now he was completely facing me. I froze. Then his jaw shut. I clenched my sword tightly, and my muscles tightened throughout my body.

  Then it happened—the inevitable. He ran toward me, full steam ahead. His knife sliced through the open air as if he were ready to carve my flesh away from the bone. I stood my ground and tried not to panic. When he was within reach, I swung my sword at the top of his skull. My blade found its home, splitting into the clown’s head and continuing all the way to his waist. Much to my shock, the blade had sliced through the clown much easier than I had anticipated.

  The outer cloaking of the brainsick clown fell with each side going its own direction and revealing the sick insides of the clown himself. Hundreds of small, horrid objects poured from the cloth. Cockroaches swarmed from within the body-shaped sack and spilled onto the ground, scattering about. The clown costume, for lack of a better term, dropped its butcher knife and fell in defeat. The cockroaches fled the scene, leaving their clown coat behind. I stood in amazement and was unsure what to think or do now that I had exterminated my enemy.

  Just as all seemed well, I heard a disturbing crackling. My attention was drawn to a nearby husk, one that was near where the clown had sprung forth. There was movement from the husk, and the outside walls of the stalk began to twitch just as the earlier one had. Then it twitched again. And again. And again. Each time thereafter became more frequent and closer together. This was followed by another crackling from the husk nearby the source of the secondary movement. It was followed by another and another. Each husk began to twitch as the monster within began the process of hatching itself. The stalks started to peel themselves and reveal their horrid interiors. I knew one thing for certain; I was not going to be there for the unveiling. I ran as fast as I could, not sure of the best direction, but away from this nightmare.

  I finally stopped when I was a great distance away, and the brown husks were no longer in sight. As I was catching my breath, I began to refocus on my reason for being there in the first place—The Purple Swan. Where might it be? Was it even real? Or maybe Borloff was right and the swan was merely a fairytale. But I was not giving up yet. I had come too far to quit now.

  I leisurely strolled about the vast green lawn, more at ease than I had been only moments earlier when I was nearly invaded by a massive army of roach-infested clowns. Then my nose filled with the horrid smell of burning tar. The stench filled my lungs and my head. I began to feel dizzy as the fumes connected with my brain. But still I kept walking closer and closer to the source of the stench. I halted my approach when something in the distance caught my wandering eyes. A black pond full of oily tar was before me. The tar within the pond mildly bubbled as if it were a filthy hot tub for some unfortunate creature. The pond was not as big as a lake, but it was big enough that, when standing close, I could not see it in its entirety. As I was looking off to my right, I heard a scratchy disturbance of a voice coming from the black pond at my left.

  “Hark! What goes before me?” asked the inhuman and perhaps inhumane voice, if it could be considered a voice at all.

  “It is I, Vincent Carpenter, new ruler of The Black Castle,” I replied, swinging around to view my interrogator.

  “I see. You have beaten the mad minstrel,” responded the thing with the scratchy-throated voice.

  “I have,” I said valiantly as I held my chin high—possibly too high.

  The swan had dark purple feathers that looked like velvet. Its beak was black, and its eyes glowed dark red. It looked absolutely ridiculous and even more hideous than I could have imagined. It had an ugly strand of matted hair falling about an inch from its wart-shaped head. It was a horrid creature.

  “I have searched long and hard to find you,” I
said, trying not to show my disgust at the wretched thing, but seeing it swimming about in the black tarry pit made me feel nauseous indeed.

  “And what do you seek, dear adventurer?” inquired the purple nightmare.

  “Your wisdom in locating a person of interest.”

  “A person of interest,” repeated The Purple Swan. “What person of interest do you speak of?”

  The Purple Swan swam in a circle as he spoke, going round and round and round enough to make me dizzy. Before I could answer his question, he answered it for me.

  “Is it The Green Maiden you seek?”

  “How, how do you know this?” I stammered.

  “That is all anyone seeks here.”

  “Well, you are correct. Can you help me or not?”

  “Help you,” said the swan as he suddenly stopped swimming. He turned his head toward me and froze. Just as I was about to ask what the issue was, he plunged his head into the thick black tar. There he remained for almost a minute. Then he withdrew his head quickly and spewed a stream of tar into the air from his horrid beak.

  “I can help you,” he gurgled. “I can tell you where she is.”

  “Great.” And I smiled feeling that all my labors may finally pay off. “Where is she?”

  “She is at the side of a mountain just beyond the neighboring valley. You must enter the valley and follow it to its end. Once the valley opens and the walls recede, there will be a mountain ahead. You must work your way up the western slope. About halfway up the mountain, there she will be,” and The Purple Swan squawked obscenely.

  “Thank you, thank you.”

  My gratitude was broken by wild laughter.

  “Thank me,” cackled the swan. “Thank me.”

  The Purple Swan laughed so hard he nearly split himself in two. I wasn’t sure if that was my cue to leave or to continue serving as his amusement. Finally, the swan wore himself out and stopped.

  “Might I ask just how it is that you know where to find her and why she told me that you would know?” I asked as I had been waiting for this answer my entire journey. I could feel my muscles tighten as I waited anxiously to hear the answer. But it was not what I thought. In my wildest, most grotesque dreams, I never could have imagined such a monstrosity as the truth.