The Spitting Post

by Jason R. Barden

  “Set up for what?” I asked, bewildered as usual.

  “Set up for what?” again mocked the purple man. “Have you lost your mind? Set up for the gig. What else would we be setting up for at a time like this?”

  “Where do I start?” I inquired reluctantly in fear of more mockery.

  “Well, for starters, get your lute and tune it up. Must I tell you everything?” barked the purple foreman.

  “Yes, I suppose you must,” I whispered.

  “What did you say to me?” he demanded.

  “Nothing. I was just muttering to myself,” I replied, hoping he hadn’t heard me. I stood there unaware of my lute’s whereabouts, so I just watched the foreman—as I called him due to his bossy nature—set up, and hoped I would go unnoticed in this setting up business.

  The foreman sat his case down, unsnapped the locks, and removed a flute—a dismal- looking flute. It was a dull, tainted black nightmare of an instrument. He began to play a few scales as a warm-up for the gig. Then he stopped and turned to face me.

  “What? Are you still standing there?” he barked.

  “I don’t know where the lute is,” I whimpered like a wounded animal.

  “I, indeed, must tell you everything,” he said as he caressed his forehead with his fingers to show an exaggerated sense of disgust.

  “Over there,” he said, and he pointed to the other end of the room.

  While I was fully aware this was only a dream and that my body was fast asleep near the stream at the end of the great valley, I still could not help but feel agitation toward this fabricated foreman. I marched to the other end of the room, located the lute, and began to tune it. I hoped this would satisfy him, if only momentarily.

  Just as I had finished the task, another strange man entered the room. This man’s skin was gray and his matted hair was obsidian. The cart-like object he was pushing was rectangular and had a cloth masking its true identity. He pushed the object near the foreman, and the two began to talk. I could not decipher what they were saying as they appeared to be whispering softly. After a few minutes of verbal interchange, the gray-skinned man removed the cloth from the object to reveal a harpsichord. The man proceeded to warm-up on its keys.

  This was followed by a third man. This one had dark midnight-blue skin and the usual matted black hair. He was carrying a cello. He made use of the space next to the other two and began to warm himself up as well.

  “Are you almost ready?” inquired the purple foreman.

  “I am,” I replied bashfully.

  “Good. Now take your place,” he commanded.

  I moved over to the other three with my lute firmly in hand. I clenched it ever so tightly to ease my nerves. It was surprising I didn’t break it in half. All of a sudden the doors in front of me at the opposite side of the large room opened and in rushed a substantial crowd. Once the audience members found their seats, we commenced the recital. I had never practiced this specific set, but somehow I knew how to play every single note at the appropriate rhythm.

  After the first three songs, I noticed someone in the audience, someone whose face I knew quite well—The Green Maiden. She was staring directly at me and swaying her hips to the melody. I suddenly found it difficult to concentrate on the songs I was charged to play. I muddled through the rest of the performance. Ashamed was how I felt because I missed so many notes while my eyes were fixated on hers. When the end of the concert arrived, I was overwhelmed, in part due to my inglorious musical presentation but more importantly, because of the likelihood of finally speaking with her—even if it were only in a dream.

  Once the concert ended, the crowd began to scatter, and I eventually lost sight of her. I frantically searched, but she was nowhere to be found. I fell into utter melancholy as I so starkly came to grips with having lost her once again. I stood there motionless and absolutely heart sick. As I continued with these infinite thoughts of sadness, an interruption came hurling violently toward me.

  “Just what do you think you are doing?”

  “I am in deep thought. Please, do not bother me.”

  “Bother you? Bother you?” mocked the disruptive individual.

  My back was to the inquisitor, and I had no idea who belonged to this phony question, nor did I care.

  “Please, turn around when you are speaking to me!” commanded the ill-mannered interrogator.

  I spun around quickly so that I might deliver a rude gesture of my own. But when I turned, I was faced with someone I had already crossed paths with much earlier in the evening. It was the purple foreman, the tall, thin man with purple skin and matted black hair, the gentleman I labeled the foreman due to his bossy nature. What could he possibly want from me now?

  “Your performance was far beyond unacceptable, and I demand an immediate apology.”

  “Well, I do suppose an apology is in order; I did miss quite a few notes. I am sorry, but my mind was elsewhere,” I replied, trying to feel genuinely remorseful about the near-slaughter of our musical recital.

  “Well, you are correct about one thing; you did execute the song—right to the guillotine you took it.”

  “Hey, I am fully aware that I did make some mistakes, but you don’t have to be so insensitive about it!”

  “Don’t you dare shout at me!” yelled the foreman with his eyes glowing dark red.

  It was apparent we had entered into an argument that had no resolution. He continued to hurl insult after insult at me, and all I could think of was how strange his skin appeared. It looked like purple velvet, and it made me laugh a little as it seemed oddly familiar. It was like a weird sensation of something well-known but almost forgotten. It was like something long sought after but whose memory I wanted to bury. But perhaps even more peculiar was that I became amused at all as the gentleman I was debating grew more agitated and insane as time progressed. His manner became more disturbing and violently hostile with every additional insult. I knew it was time to leave him to his own insane devices.

  “Like I said, I am truly sorry. Please forgive my inaccuracies,” I reiterated, trying to calm the purple foreman.

  With that I turned and walked away hoping that would be the end of this ridiculous argument. After all, it was only a dream, and who ever heard of arguing with a crazy purple man in a dream?

  “Wait!” screamed the man as he followed after me. “I have not, and will not, accept your apology. You come back here. I am not through with you!”

  It appeared this angry purple man was stalking me, forever haunting me. I turned to face him. He was holding a drinking glass of smoldering black tar. It bubbled as he greedily looked upon it. His eyes glowed crimson. He tilted the glass and propelled the hot tar down his throat. Smoke shot from his ears and filled the air, choking me. Once the fumes had dissipated, I was once again greeted with the horrible sight of him. He smiled at me as if to provoke me. Then he raised his mouth toward the ceiling and shot a stream of black tar into the air.

  “Like I said earlier, I am truly sorry,” I said while running as fast as I could in the other direction. I could hear him laughing fearlessly behind me as I made for the exit. Once I was far away I stopped and tried to forget the nightmare foreman. Because the rude interruption was over and the purple man was far out of sight, I directed myself back to my prior thoughts of sadness. Recalling that I earlier failed to locate The Green Maiden, I took myself and my disgrace outside to the balcony to ponder awhile. The night was black and cold with only a reminder of warmth and light behind me. I belonged out here in the cold. Alone.

  I had stood there for some time, wallowing in my self-pity, when suddenly I heard a sweet voice behind me.

  “Hello there.”

  I turned and faced The Green Maiden. There she stood on the balcony with me in a mere dream. She was giggling and twirling her green hair with her fingers.

  “I enjoyed your playing,” she said laughingly.

  “I’m glad you did, but I missed quite a few notes,” I shamefully confessed. />
  “Hello,” she said, and she extended her hand.

  I bowed and kissed her hand as any true gentleman should.

  “Hello, my name is Erika,” she said, still giggling.

  Erika…I had always referred to her as The Green Maiden. But now that her name was revealed to me, it did seem oddly familiar. I searched the depths of my memory but could not locate any clues. What was my mind trying to tell me?

  “You are almost there,” she said while still twirling her hair with her index finger.

  “Almost where?” I said, altogether confused.

  “Almost at The Spitting Post. Almost where I am. Almost where we can be together. Finally,” Erika said with a strange, twisted smile.

  “I’ll see you,” she said, and she turned to walk away.

  “Wait!” I yelled desperately. I attempted to follow her, but my feet remained fixed to the ground as if they were made of heavy stone. I struggled to free myself, but no matter how hard I tried, my feet were as immovable as a statue’s. I squirmed in an enraged, embarrassing fit, all to no avail.

  The Green Maiden—Erika—strolled away still giggling and twirling her hair. How maddening. I was forced to stay as she disappeared into the darkness of the night and her laughter dissipated into the chilly air. As if by magic, my feet became free the instant the giggling ceased.

  “Ahhhhh!” I screamed, letting out the overwhelming frustration; so close and yet so horribly far away.

  I sank to the balcony floor in defeat. I then recalled this was merely a dream and that I was, in fact, closer to The Spitting Post than ever. I was so caught up in the moment that I had actually forgotten I was asleep and that my mind was wandering fast and furiously to its own bizarre destinations. I rose and walked back inside the mansion. The party was over. No one was there. I was alone again—naturally.

  The large house was as silent as a tomb. I stood there in the enormous room where only minutes ago, or so it seemed, we had played our concert before a large and appreciative audience. But now it was vacant of music and void of life—except for me, myself, and I. Then again, it was only a dream.

  I marched to the other end of the room and noticed something odd, something out of place, footprints—green footprints. I followed them up the winding staircase to the second floor and passed the purple glass swan. I traced the green footprints to a tall iron door. I placed my hands on the knob and opened it. On the other side of the iron door was a quaint room with a fireplace and a wooden rocking chair. The chair was rocking slowly and creaking. The room was dimly lit by a single candle in a far corner.

  I moved over to the antique rocking chair and placed my hand on it to halt its motion. I began to feel sleepy and decided to take a load off my weary feet, so I sat in the rocking chair. I rocked back and forth several times and stared at the fireplace in front of me. Slowly it started to fade. The brick outline of the fireplace was still intact, but the inside opened to an eerie dark green light. The light shimmering made me even drowsier. The light then gave way to a scenic view of a woodland with dark green moss all about. I was still sitting in the rocking chair, but just through the fireplace was a vast green forest waiting to be explored. I removed myself from the chair and knelt to enter the fireplace and beyond. I stepped into the forest green. I touched the fuzzy moss and felt faint. All of a sudden I began to hear my own voice, but it was not coming from within me. Rather, it was coming from deep within the forest. It softly spoke to me in a trance-like rhythm.

  Head hits the pillow, so nice and warm

  Dreaming away as if I was never torn

  In a magical place of bright green shimmering light

  I look around and a vision of you enters my sight

  ~*~

  There is no gray here only green, just green

  This surely must be an impractical dream

  You gleam with such radiance like a pearl drop

  It appears there is a mountain and we are on top

  ~*~

  You smile at me and I smile back

  Then I wake up having a heart attack

  I thought you were real, it felt so real

  But I should have known it was too good to feel

  ~*~

  This love inside, I need to hide, away, inside

  Because in this time, sleep deprived

  Have I fallen into never-ending consciousness

  I must awake and banish this distress

  ~*~

  But your eyes glow and light up the sky

  Like thousands of visual sirens, blinding me

  I cannot look away no matter how hard I try

  Those eyes deplete me

  And I must rest, far away

  Till I dream your nightmare another day

  That word “nightmare” echoed in my brain. As I reflected upon it, I saw giant hairy spiders frolicking in the greenery. They were singing about someone’s lost sanity and what they would do to reclaim it and hold it dear. I could feel the nightmare around me as it echoed throughout time. Then, in slow motion, I fell to the ground. There I entered a dream-like state before waking up to the real world where I belonged.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Post

  I awoke to a rude but rather obvious condition. The sickly yellow goo was firmly attached to me like an additional layer of skin. The foul-smelling yoke delivered from the egg man still clung to me heavily and had hardened while I slept. I looked like an unnatural disaster and was in no presentable condition to meet with The Green Maiden. How was I ever going to get this gunk off?

  I stood and attempted to walk, but I was as stiff as a statue. I cracked and crunched as I strained to move. Slowly and painfully I worked myself toward the cleansing waters of the nearby stream. The narrow body of water descended from somewhere on the high mountain. Once it reached the ground it flowed onward and outward to an unknown destination.

  I made it to the banks of the stream and plopped myself in it. The chilled water was just a little above knee deep, and I had to immerse myself to clean the filth that so firmly attached itself to me. I raked and scrubbed my clothes and skin with my bare hands rubbing them raw. It was painful, but it had to be done to remove the slime and sludge so that I might again be presentable. I removed my clothes—what was left of them after the many battles I had encountered—and gave them a further scrubbing. Once I had completed the tasks of bathing myself and washing my clothes, I dunked my head into the chilly waters to remove the film from my face. This led to an awakening of mind and body.

  The sky was a dismal gray, and the swift air was chilling to the skin. It wasn’t cold, but there was an unmistakable briskness reminiscent of an autumn afternoon. A wilting horizon nearly the same color as the treeless mountainside gave the appearance of a barren planet. Such a horrid place this was that the sun dared not shine. Its illuminating rays were nowhere to be seen and left the panorama joyless and bleak. But despite the depressing view, I was happy that my journey was near its end and that I would soon be reunited with Erika, The Green Maiden. With this delightful thought I began the ascension of the abrasive mountainside. The first thing was to decide where to start, so I looked about to get a sense of direction. And then I remembered the words of The Purple Swan. “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 you will find her there, and there she will be.”

  I made my way to what I believed was the western slope, and there I started walking upward to a better, brighter future. Or so I hoped.

  The entire terrain was littered with jagged rocks of varying sizes, but not one was big enough to be called a boulder. The slope was not so steep that it gave a sense of climbing, but it was angled enough to make for a tough trek. The effort required led to an intense cramping in my legs and pain in my hips. But I was energized by the thought that it would all be worth it.

  As I continued the grueling ascent, I thought of Erika’s beguiling smile. That gave m
e reassurance and buoyed my will to succeed in this final stage of my long and dangerous journey. It had been a nightmarish quest indeed. I had seen an entire forest with glowing blue leaves and orange sap, my house in the barren wasteland with skull trees overrunning the land, a large overgrown jackal and his wicked violinist master, and the unforgettable Torment Ted. Then there was the giant empty man with burlap sacks for skin. I had seen these and many other wondrous and horrifying things. Most of them I would prefer to forget. But I supposed now, at the end of my long journey, it had all been necessary. And it all would have been worth it even if it only meant seeing her face for one last, brief moment. I was growing weak and feeble, but yet I smiled as I pondered the gratifying destination ahead.

  I imagined going back to The Black Castle where I would ask Erika to marry me, and there we might live contentedly thereafter. I would see Borloff the Mad Butler and the twisted Dr. Ivan Butcher once more as my attending royal staff. Of course, I would be fair and honest with them, not at all like the mad violinist had been. I could invite the people from The Town of Diminished Desire to assist in rebuilding the once great kingdom. This grand idea still sounded marvelous indeed, to live with my bride in The Black Castle at the edge of the forest in blissful harmony and happiness thereafter.

  With that last thought in mind, I grew slightly faint and slid on the loose rocks. I rolled and plummeted about twenty feet, scraping myself as I did so. When I came to a rest I laid there thoughtless for a few moments. When I returned to my feet, I stumbled forward once more, and I smiled again. Nothing could break me. Not now. Not before I reached her.

  I supposed I was getting close to the midway point of the mountain and ever closer to reaching my Erika. I walked vigorously, but the loose rocks caused my feet to slip. It felt like I was walking on a treadmill set to go backward—one step forward, three steps back. But still I continued to smile.

  My words would be these if they were the last I would ever say to her. “I so desire to hold you even one last short time, but I know, deep within, it would never, ever be quite enough.” Would this indeed be my last mortal thought? I feared the worst as final exhaustion was ever closer to claiming me.