Dead Silent

by Ivan Blake

Qu’eu ja pois viva jorn ni mes

  Pois que d’enoi serai mespres

  Ni d’amor non aurai talan.

  Rose wept with joy.“They hear me. Look, they’re smiling. Oh my dear friends.”

  Gillian put her arm around Rose. “They all loved that song.”

  “They would. Our greatest troubadour, Bernautz de Ventadorn, he came to our village once. After he’d performed at the castle, he sang that piece for us and we all joined in.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Truly dead is he who in his heart no longer feels the exquisite taste of love! And what value can a life have that is devoid of love, just bothering other people? May the Lord not hate me so much that He would let me live one day or one month overcome by boredom and no longer desirous of love?”

  “Your audience wants more,” Chris said.

  And so Rose sang another and another, and her friends listened, and for a brief time, they ceased their weeping and put aside their great pain.

  Some time later, as a line of clouds in the east acquired its first tinge of gold, Chris said to Rose, “I think I know how we’ll get the bones back.”

  * * * *

  “Stop up there by the turnoff,” Gilbert said to Blood. “Good. Now we jack up the van and wait.”

  Gilbert had rousted the twins from their cots shortly before four in the morning. He’d bought coffees and day-old sandwiches for their breakfast at the all-night gas station and told them his plan for raising all the money they’d ever need to repair the theater. They’d giggled so much Blood had coffee coming out of his nose and Sweat had sprayed sandwich all over the dashboard. To say they’d been excited was an understatement. Then they’d driven to the high school to collect what they required. The place was scheduled to close for good in September and not a nickel had been spent on its upkeep in years, so breaking in had been a breeze. And since Gilbert had once attended the school, he knew where to find the AV equipment locker. They grabbed two video cameras, a tripod, a battery pack and a light stand, then raced back to the truck and drove out of town to Loggers Point Road.

  Gilbert had fond memories of Loggers Point Road; every boy in Lewis had visited Old Lady Rey’s place back in the woods off Loggers Point at one time or another for her Fifty Cent Special and then stopped by Brazzard’s Farm for a case of Jackson Brazzard’s bootleg beer in quart bottles. Good times.

  A dozen families lived out on Loggers Point Road so someone was bound to come along. Didn’t matter who. Didn’t matter why. And, sure enough, they didn’t have long to wait. The twins hid back of the van as Gilbert flagged down a rusted Ford pickup. It rolled to a stop beside Gilbert, and an old man with a face like a dried apple said, “Morning, what can I do fer ya?”

  Gilbert recognized the name on the side of the truck. “Hey, you’re Mr. Ferguson of Ferguson’s Mushrooms!” he exclaimed. “Nice to see you again, sir. My name’s Burgoyne, Gilbert Burgoyne? When I was a kid, I sold your compost Saturday mornings at the gas station. You were good to us kids, paid us good money.”

  “Gilbert Burgoyne? Nope, sorry, son. Don’t remember no Gilbert. Only Burgoyne I remember was old man Burgoyne what killed the town way back, oh and his kid, Bo, what used to run the Bijoux. Goddamn but he was a weird sumbitch. Hear’d he died year or two back. Any relation?”

  Gilbert, a warm smile still glued to his face, stared at the old fella for a moment. “No,” he said.

  Ferguson had to break the silence. “Ya need help, do ya?”

  “Uh, oh yeah,” Gilbert replied. “Tire’s flat, and I can’t get one of the nuts off. I think maybe if we both jumped on the tire iron, it’d come lose. Shouldn’t take long.”

  “Sure, happy to try.”

  Old man Ferguson wasn’t out of his truck more than a minute before Blood was on him; had him trussed up like a pot roast in under five.

  “Okay,” Gilbert said, “first we drive the van and the truck up the track so no one comes along and interrupts us. Then when we find a clearing, we unload, and make our movie.”

  Twenty minutes later, in a grassy meadow ringed by silver birches, just as the sky began to brighten, they were ready to film.

  They’d hauled the operating table to be used in the Asylum play through the woods and into the meadow, floodlit the table with their stolen light standard, and set up the camera tripod. Gilbert and Blood were wearing old lab coats and Sweat was behind the camera. And old man Ferguson? He was strapped to the operating table, with his head held fast by one belt across the jaw and a second across the forehead.

  “Right, so we’re doing the scene where the leader of the inmates operates on the former administrator. You remember? Blood, you’re the leader of the inmates, and I’m your crazy assistant, so you say crap like, ‘Nurse, sponge please,’ or ‘Scalpel,’ or ‘How are his vital signs.’ Stuff like that. Doctor shit.”

  “Gilbert, you know I can’t act. Maybe you should play the doctor.”

  “No, you’ll do fine. Besides, you want to use the saw, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well. It’s the doctor who uses the saw, so it has to be you. Okay? Okay. And you know where to cut?”

  “Yeah, here,” and Blood drew a line across the top of the old man’s head with his finger. The old man’s eyes were as wide as pie plates.

  “Right, good. And take your time. He’s probably going to make a lot of noise. Ignore it. Enjoy yourself. Oh, and if he’s still alive when you finish taking off the skull, improvise. You know, pull out his brains and shit. Have fun. Good? Okay then.” Gilbert turned to Sweat. “Camera ready?”

  “Ready, Gilbert.”

  “Right, action!”

  Half an hour later, Gilbert muttered, “Good. That’s a wrap.” For the third time in twenty minutes, he turned away and vomited, wiped his mouth on his lab coat sleeve, and turned back to his star.

  “Are you all right, Gilbert?” Blood asked with a look of such sensitivity and concern.

  “Fine, I’m fine.”

  “So, was it okay? You said have fun.”

  “Great, and the thing you did with the skull cap, incredible.”

  Gilbert doubled over again. This time he had nothing left to bring up.

  “Oh, shit,” Sweat muttered.

  “What? What’s wrong?” Gilbert asked.

  “The camera. There was no film in the camera.”

  “No! You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m so sorry, Gilbert.” Sweat was nearly in tears. “I don’t know cameras. I thought if it turned on, it had to have film.”

  “You big stupid, fucking queer!” Gilbert stomped about kicking rocks and swinging at bushes.

  Blood took a step toward Gilbert, his forehead creased in a menacing frown. “Gilbert, I don’t like it when people talk to my brother that way.”

  “No, you’re right, Blood. I’m sorry, Sweat.”

  Christ, Blood’s a scary bastard.

  “It’s my fault. I should have checked the cameras when I took them from the school. But, oh damn, what the hell are we going to do now?”

  “We can still use this guy for inventory,” Sweat said.

  “Yes, of course. Put him in the van and maybe tomorrow we’ll clean him up like we did the pastor and his kids. But I still need a film.”

  “Could we go back to the highway and try again?” Blood proposed.

  “We don’t have time. We have rehearsal. Everybody’s waiting.” Suddenly his face brightened. “I’ve got it! Rehearsal! You film rehearsal, and we have an accident. It’s what I thought we should do from the start.”

  “But I need to get film.”

  “So then not today, tomorrow. We do a special performance, the whole play, and in the last scene, something will go wrong. Perfect!”

  “So, who gets it?”

  “Let me think about that.”

  * * * *

  The dawn morning sky was blood-red. Ten specters hovered near Rose DuCalice, shimmering like crystals before a flame. Rose had manag
ed to hold their attention for more than an hour, speaking and singing in her lovely Occitan tongue, reminiscing about their lives and families, the good times with children and loved ones before their accursed immortality, then praising their bravery and the great gifts they’d so unselfishly bestowed on others. Occasionally, one specter might fall to its knees weeping, overcome once again by the pain of loss and abandonment. Then Rose would recite another touching story, about a child at play, or a wedding, or a dance, and the figure would rise once again and listen. Sometimes a specter might vanish altogether only to reappear on its knees by its grave as if it had never heard Rose or her songs. Then it would catch the sound of its beloved Occitan and float toward Rose to listen, its pain assuaged for the moment.

  “It’s hard to hold their attention,” Rose said. “If I stop telling our stories, they drift away or they vanish altogether. It’s wonderful to be with them again, but I don’t understand what we’re trying to do.”

  “You’re helping them remember,” Chris explained, “to become more aware of who they were and what they’ve become. We want them to move beyond grief, to discover they can move about, get angry, and even act.”

  “And you believe they can do all that?”

  “Why not? They’re spirits, like Mallory. Only difference I can see is she’s crazy and they’re just in pain. So if we can make them more aware of who they were, where they are now, and why they’re in so much pain, then maybe we can get them to punish the bastards who caused the pain.”

  “Okay, so what can I do besides keep talking Occitan?”

  “The more vivid the memories you evoke, the more they should become aware of what’s happened.”

  “I can’t just keep singing songs,” she said. Then it came to her. “Right, I need stuff from the tower.”

  “The tower?” Gillian asked.

  “The Mary Tower. It’s filled with our history. Pictures, paintings, baby toys, wedding gifts, diaries, everything we’ve treasured. They all have possessions in the tower.”

  “Okay, great. So we show them their stuff, and then we talk to them. We tell them what happened to their graves, we get them angry, and then...we show them what Mallory can do. Hopefully they’ll get the message.”

  Gillian looked anxious. “What Mallory can do?”

  “I think they need a demonstration of what a truly angry spirit is capable of,” Chris said.

  “How do you propose we get them to the tower?” Rose asked.

  Chris thought for a moment. “Okay, so we have to figure out what will trigger their appearance, yank them from wherever, like how me touching someone triggers Mallory to suddenly show up.”

  “You mean something we all share, some memory, some gesture, some object important to us all?” Rose asked.

  “Right,” Chris said.

  “But that’s obvious!” Rose was excited. “Our Beloved Companion.”

  “You mean this?” and Chris pulled the amulet from inside his shirt.

  The specters moved forward as one. Tears filled their eyes. Some even reached out toward Chris, moving to touch the sacred fragment.

  “Oh yeah!” he said.

  * * * *

  Gilbert hadn’t been back more than half an hour and the cast was already in open revolt.

  “There’s no goddamn way I’m playing the psychiatrist’s daughter!” Emelia Tombstone screamed. “And there’s no way I’m getting in your Iron Maiden thing.”

  “I’ve already learned the daughter’s lines,” Wanetta Necrodancer moaned.

  “Gilbert, you can’t keep switching us around like this!” Lassa Tetana said. “It’s nuts! We just learn our parts, and you go shuffling us. I say no more changes.”

  “No more changes! No more changes!” Wolfram Necrodancer chanted.

  “Well, I think we should do what Gilbert asks,” Blood said. “It’s his play and he knows best.”

  “Shut the hell up, you enormous queen,” Emelia shouted.

  “You shut up, you great fat dyke,” squealed Sweat.

  “This is the last casting change, I swear,” Gilbert pleaded.

  “How many times have we heard that before?” Dolli said with a sneer.

  “Burgoyne,” Mayor Paget bellowed from the lobby, “get the hell out here. Now!”

  “We’re rehearsing,” Gilbert shouted back.

  “Get out here now or I’ll have this theater shut down by dinnertime.”

  “What the hell’s happened now,” Gilbert muttered as he left the stage and walked up the aisle. Behind him, the name-calling and bickering continued unabated.

  Outside, the rain was coming down in buckets.

  “Look at this place! It’s leaking like a sieve in here!” the Mayor said. Paget was wearing an enormous yellow slicker which made him look like a harbor buoy. He strode across the sodden floor of the lobby and immediately started shouting. “This morning my daughter told me your sewer pipe had backed up, so I had to come and see for myself. This is so goddamn awful, the stink and now the damp, I can’t stand it. You can’t put on plays with this smell! What the hell are you doing about it?”

  “Nothing to worry about. I have a plan.”

  “Fixing a sewer pipe and putting on a new roof will cost a goddamn fortune. You have that kind of cash?”

  “I’ll have it in three days. I’ve already spoken to the other party, and he’s wiring the money on Monday. The pipe and the roof will be fixed before we open. I’ve one or two details to take care of and then, problem solved.”

  “Problem solved,” the Mayor parroted.

  “Yes, sir, problem solved.” If Paget hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own wrath, the ice in Gilbert’s voice might have scared him witless.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. No problem, everything’s under control. I’ll have it sorted in no time. Over and over! You keep saying the same crap. Everything’s gonna be all right. Well, I no longer believe a goddamn word comes out of your lying mouth. Everything is not all right. Things keep getting worse and worse.”

  The Mayor turned away, paced for a few moments, then crashed his meaty fist into a glass-fronted display case with a poster for Lost Weekend inside. Shards flew in all directions.

  “You know, you’re driving me nuts. Why the hell I ever got involved with you, I’ll never know. Your grandfather practically killed this town, and your father was a certified loon, and now you, you’re crazier than both.” Paget marched up, stuck his face right into Gilbert’s, and poked his fat finger into Gilbert’s belly. “Get this, you piece of shit, I lose one penny on this…this festival of yours,” he waved his hand dismissively as he said festival, “and I’ll sue you for every cent you have now and every cent you will ever have. You’ll be so broke when I’m done with you, you’ll have to sell your scrawny ass to truckers on the Interstate just to buy bread. Get me?”

  Gilbert stared back at the Mayor. If he’d had a knife, he’d have gutted Paget where he stood, sliced him open from his throat to his dick. Instead, Gilbert said, “Mr. Mayor, I know I’ve tried your patience, and I’d like to make it up to you. Tomorrow morning, we’re having a special run-through which I think you’ll find very reassuring. And after, we’re going to have a celebration, cook up a nice lunch, throw some choice cuts on the old barbecue, to mark a milestone, so to speak. Only two more weeks until we open. We’d be honored if you’d join us.”

  The Mayor stepped away from Gilbert with a puzzled look on his face. Clearly, Gilbert’s reaction was not what he’d expected. “Possibly,” he muttered and then stormed out of the theater.

  Gilbert stood stock-still for several minutes as he seethed. The last time he’d felt so utterly humiliated was back in the army when a couple of NCOs, who’d taken exception to some remark he’d made, hauled him into the showers and buggered him with a broom handle. He’d sworn then he’d never allow anyone to humiliate him like that again, least of all by this two-bit, squealing pig of a Mayor.

  “Excuse me.”

  “What?”
Gilbert shouted as he spun about.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you if you’re busy, but I was looking for the theater director?”

  Before him stood a short girl, with long purple hair, black eyeshadow and lipstick, wearing black stockings and layers of black lace beneath a pink plastic rain slicker, the kind he’d seen on hookers. She’d unbuttoned her slicker to reveal a lace bodice which pressed her ample bosom nearly up to her throat.

  “I’m the director,” he said.

  “Oh, wonderful. I’m so excited to meet you. I read about your theater, and I know all about Grand Guignol, and I think what you’re doing is so amazing.”

  “Yeah. I think so too.” There was something familiar about the girl, the eyes maybe, or the boobs.

  “So, like, I was wondering if maybe you needed any more performers.”

  Bingo! The girl from Marymount Cottage, Chandler’s friend with the big boobs. So, another of the DuCalice girls playing goddamn spy. Well it has to stop.

  “I’m so pleased you came by,” Gilbert said with a warm smile. He wrapped his arm around the girl’s shoulder. “As it happens, we do need another performer.”

  Incredible, how it never rained but it poured.

  * * * *

  The tower was a dazzling surprise. While the upper portion was open to the elements, the lower portion was hermetically sealed, humidity controlled, air filtered, and alarmed.

  Chris, Gillian and Rose spent hours carrying the most extraordinary artifacts from the tower and spreading them out on the cellar floor so the spirits—when they were summoned—might see them more readily. Every one of the artifacts was priceless, not for its intrinsic worth—there were few precious gems or pieces of gold—but for its extraordinary historical significance: an ivory chess set and an infant’s swaddling clothes from the thirteenth century, a Record of Deaths from Nuremburg during the Black Plague and a tapestry depicting the King of France seated in a urinal from the fourteenth century, a lock of Jeanne d’Arc’s hair and a book entitled Ars Moriendi or The Art of Dying from the fifteenth century, an order for the expulsion of Spanish Jews torn from a wall in Grenada, a Dürer sketch of a child, notes of a lecture given by Copernicus, and on and on. Rose clambered over the boxes and piles of objects, selecting one item and rejecting another, muttering to herself as she worked, “Oh, of course, she’ll remember that. And her picture, ah, how beautiful she was. Oh, and his shoes, he’ll be so happy to see them again!”