Strange Landscape

by Tony Duvert

  the garden rustling trees flowers dappled with sun and this tiny child who has entered through a gap in the wall comes forward timidly he’s from the village and the rich inmates here all these big guys scare him all so handsome all so

  get a look at what the cat just dragged in hey dumbo what the fuck are you doing here? a bunch of scraggly flowers in one trembling hand blue cornflowers hairy-leaved borage red chickweed stinking red rape scarlet pimpernel smelly aborted things bug-bitten leaves splintery broken stalks a bunch of flowers like this for a present yes for

  I’m uh Serge uh and I’ve come to see a guy named uh Claude

  which Claude asshole there are three Claudes here stupid not to mention old Claudette the cook thick mustache twitching above thin upper lip face of a shrewmouse long sharp snout sniveling smile her bandannas are always so badly tied her straggly hair keeps popping up in the soup

  are those flowers for him then for your Claude huh? Serge stares down at his pitiful bouquet suddenly all confused I uh picked them uh along the way

  there’s no Claude here interrupts one of the bigger boys while another And you don’t have any right weaseling your way in here take him away guys they drag their captive out the back gate of the park out toward the open fields a high hedge of wisteria and tamarisks conceals an abandoned garage there where they keep their special chair they’ve screwed down into the center of its wooden seat part of an old ax handle thin pointed at both ends bulging in the center the height of a man’s fist and smeared over with black auto grease they pull down the kid’s short pants then his underdrawers lifting him lowering him onto the upthrust stake two guys rotating the kid’s cheeks spreading them wide fingers seeking the tiny hole then perching it directly above that point they push down harshly upon Serge’s belly and the badly lubricated tip brushes his asshole perforating it but slantwise Hey now admit it isn’t this lots better than anything your Claude can do for you huh? winding ropes around him knotting them tightly then they knock him to the floor until he’s forced to crawl on all fours the chair covering his ass like a dog in the fucking position they kick the underside of the seat turn the chair back every which way causing it to rock sway then yank the child to an upright position once more sitting him down hard taking turns riding astride his spread thighs seesaw margery daw Sergie shall have a new master one boy on each knee but Serge who bawls and howls and yelps doesn’t bleed enough to suit them and so they shake their heads wonderingly Look at this no good asshole he doesn’t even seem to feel it does he the child screams even more loudly when they rip off all his clothes then set fire to them on a mound of straw they set off dragging him across a potato patch in full bloom tiny white flowers stinking of potato bugs black-and yellow-striped and their juice so pungent peppery finally reaching the esplanade and that forest of oak trees that rises up at its edge they move beneath its green shadow and Claude’s ardent village swain is lashed to a thick trunk they all the while making jokes about his tiny misshapen body poking at it with twigs teasing the minuscule prick Where’s Gerard didn’t you guys say he found a snake this morning? Yeah he did but he’s down there swimming he left it in a bucket somewhere Shit that’d be just perfect go find Gerard and tell him to get his ass over here on the double and to bring along his fishpole too

  they all raced behind me the deep night scared me the grass so thick finally falling down within it I cried out Come on then fuck me all of you fuck me up the ass come on what are you waiting for? and the guys suddenly shocked stopped short almost all of them naked a strong wind blows through the trees making them arch above our heads I want to suck you all of you oh I love all your cocks oh I love all your balls Hey this one must have gone completely batshit this Bob listen to him rave you guys the boy squats in a ray of sudden moonlight between two tall trees gray silver bark clouds swell scud darkness swallowing up all the boys suddenly all those cocks standing at attention bodies wild with anticipation breaths inhaling his words reaching out grabbing Robert You say you want cocks do you well then here’s my cock feel this cock up your ass suck on this one ram this one down your throat then my cock yes my cock yes mine too hurry it up can’t you do it any faster than that suck this cock suck my ass suck suck oh I’m shooting already shooting they he’s in such great demand now they flood showers of fuck over him the sky has opened setting free a savage silver shower lashing those pale white bodies Bob delivered up to the screaming maddened horde opens wide his mouth his ass falls head over heels upon greasy grass jerking himself off moaning moving his feverish tongue over salty cocks cheesy cocks others still hot and shit-smelling from having previously bored into his asshole or else acrid with piss but then at the first bolt of lightning ear-splitting crash smash of thunder they suddenly take off all except one that is who gently lifts the gasping boy Robert to his feet rain flaying both their bodies hair drowning bellies streaming buttocks streaming finger tips streaming and their pricks pissing rain in unison hands rubbing down each other’s haunches the pelting spitting rain that sticks in thick hot drops to their thick lashes as they embrace standing there lightning flashing legs streaming shuddering the smaller boy at last falling to his knees almost hidden in the tall swaying oily black roiling grasses and sucking upon the member of the other both shuddering now but with delight more than from cold

  only Gerard dares touch the snake he lifts it out of the pail a very long rather fat grass snake rust-colored light frosting of sand sticking to its scales like brown sugar he screws a fish hook into its tail and the boys attach the line to a branch of the oak tree against which Serge is strapped the serpent’s head dangling twisting arching spitting coiling no further than an inch away from the child’s face he’s not one of the farm kids but the son of either the tobacconist or the postmistress struggling to break his bonds attempting desperately to avoid the snake as it whips his cheeks with its pointed evil head face suddenly ashen sweat drying on his forehead the others suddenly get another wild idea and so Gerard detaches the snake from the fishing rod and sits himself down upon the grass by Serge’s tiny bare feet pinching the head of the reptile to force it to open its mouth and then he moves it forward slowly tantalizingly the child horrified no longer even able to cry out as his cock is teased by this slimy triangle from which flickers a tiny forked tongue but the snake all at once slithers out of Gerard’s grasp and bites sharp tiny teeth buried in pink flesh dangles from the child’s penis undulating between trembling thighs swishing swaying all the way down to the ground where its tail coils falling finally and the cock ripped open bleeds gushing gouts of bright blood

  there in the water beneath swaying reeds sharp as razor blades water snakes sometimes glide into the community laundry shed an open building nothing more than a slate roof set atop four wooden posts the floor sloping cement through which the river courses where village women come on various mornings bringing their family washing water snakes sometimes flashing within soapy workshirts and shit-stained drawers the rinsing women not at all concerned fast-flowing current now sputtering with rain slanting upon huge round leaves bright green wild lettuce undulating among moss-covered rocks and the handsome young boy from the chateau all decked out in a short-sleeved shirt of finest silk its color the color of spring buttercups harmonizing with his black velvet knee breeches freshly ironed and next to him a tiny snotnosed kid in a pair of ripped shorts and battered tennis sneakers Claude liked to fuck the smallest kids he was afraid the others all made fun of him behind his back so he secretly made friends with one from the village I lay low in the reeds spying upon them lying upon my belly despite the cold rain a long lovely cock pale and smooth and lithe as one of those tapers old women light in churches and then a pink almond at its tip oh how I suffer inside that a young boy should possess such a fine noble weapon I scratch at my own decaying carcass stumbling back afterward to the cemetery with such images still reverberating aching inside me and my nails tore blindly at all those scars there where my own crotch once not one among them no not one would have offered m
e his ass or his sex to eat not even the ugliest fattest shittiest ass among them could I have known possessed grew strong on if only they knew but my pathetic dung-encrusted body sets them all to flight or else to rage their punches stones sticks I receive accept like the kisses they refuse to give me I admire those wounds they give me such beautiful blood they know how to make spurt from me cruel hands of young hoods drawing forth fountains of blood whereas I can only bring forth from myself globules of stinking pus

  is it true Claude you know some dopey kid named Serge in the village?

  yeah a little squirt yeah he gives me a real pain

  well then too bad you weren’t here a short while ago

  another child plays in the laundry shed with his improbable looking boats you can fish them out at the sluice gate further upstream he stared straight through me without running away Yann is test-sailing a galleon clumsy topheavy sails of red striped dishrags towers of Babel with their various levels complicated by flying bridges gangways ladders made from match sticks flags of gold foil the hull painted red the masts green rigging of strings and twine cannons fashioned from empty cigar tubes decks encrusted with a junk heap jumble of nuts and bolts tiny wheels of cigarette lighters aligned by a dozen or so fountain pen clips wooden spools metal cylinders paper clips parts of some safety razor the motor from a toy auto knitting yarn strung tightly between regularly spaced upthrust nails to form deck railings radio tubes pulleys driving belts cranks the wheelworks of an old alarm clock all this paraphernalia strung up to the masts uncoiled springs forming strange radar detection sweeping devices and at the prow multicolored flags carefully cut out of some dictionary illustration hanging down from the bowsprit that ends in some long-beaked bird’s stuffed head Doesn’t your boat have a name?

  yes but I don’t tell it to anybody Yann answered in such a curt tone and didn’t ever say anything more to me he stands waiting near the laundry lean-to his boat tucked under one arm and always a sheepish look whenever he notices me each summer the guys form up new bands loyalties shifting during the winter months and me still never a part always left out right now René is the leader of all those hoodlums his mother pulled down his polka dot undershorts his suspenders dangling loose and spanked his bare ass right there in the middle of the street they fight the boys from the chateau but they bang me about too blows raining down on top of my thick skull I never stir from the old cemetery anymore earth so slimy with mud devastated burial mounds tombstones aslant there are thick bramble patches where I can hide and more than enough stones to pile high to protect my fire from wind I catch tiny birds in the briars using birdlime sticky shit from holly and mistletoe they’re my main nourishment these days and maybe some weeds thick leaves braised over my fire and bread crusts soaked in grease the farmers’ wives throw out to their dogs but you have to steal those during the worst heat of the afternoon sun directly overhead while the mutts themselves snooze yes I used to do that once I can’t do it anymore but I did do it once

  you live up there don’t you? René asks

  yes says Yann feels a twinge of pride readjusting various strings upon his boat setting all the gears to click clacking

  says that’s a real weird-looking boat

  it’s a ship not a boat and it all depends upon how much you understand about ships answers Yann rather piqued for any boats that the clients bring him already in a finished state never interest him in the least not even the showiest shiniest ocean liners nor the plywood models either liking only to invent imagine his own these are the only real vessels for him he rips apart all the others splits breaks them down bespatters them with all the colors of the rainbow adding wheels here nails there tinkering with those incomprehensible structures which he sets down on their sides they haven’t the right to sail forth in their original state no not until he re-invents them

  have you ever been over to the island? René pursues

  what island I don’t know any island

  the one with all the chestnut trees way beyond the forest on the road to the hospice where the nuns are the road that’s got that wayside cross and shrine you must know where I mean?

  no

  well anyway there’s this island further on and a stream running through the middle but it’s very narrow you can cross it by jumping more like a canal really perfect for boats er ships like this one we could go there together in a rowboat if you’d like Yann although extremely interested does not answer one must never collaborate give comfort to the enemy René understands this also and restrains himself from doing what he’d really like to do namely punch this snotty kid’s supercilious mug right into the middle of next week but he’s afraid of reprisals you touch one of them and before you know it twenty others are ganging up on you they really stick together those chateau dudes

  I don’t think I know you do I? Yann turns away so René takes a different tack suddenly opens his fly the two old women who worked in the chateau kitchen had no idea they admired the fine automobiles of the men who came to visit and the kids are always running in and out of their vegetable garden just beyond the kitchen windows they have no idea why chirp cheeping sprightly as sparrows the women are never mean to them often calling out handing them scraps of meat still dripping with gravy through the open windows slices of toast thick with butter not to mention sweet pickles and letting them lick spoons coated with mayonnaise whipped cream but the kids grow more and more bold give them an inch they take a mile cutting off whole slices of spice cake meant for later four o’clock snacks cleaning out whole ramekins of custard pudding lowering their noses not to mention their mouths into various sizzling saucepans Claudette stirs so seriously stealing an egg maybe or a packet of vanilla sugar they pour down their gullets making strange gurgling sounds or else filching glazed fruits as a matter of fact Robert that Bobby has taken off right now with some candied angelica refusing to share it with the others there’s a sick little guy upstairs and Bobby knocks then enters tiptoeing into the room so hushed and shadowy the kid isn’t really asleep his face too contorted with pain he watches Bobby enter with a dull stare that nevertheless suddenly grows wary as he refuses the candied fruit and Bobby quite disheartened sets it down among all the various medicines he likes sick kids best of all kissing those dry clammy cheeks that seem to be burning up with fever the wrinkles of an old man growing more and more hollow like furrows in a field multiplying filthy encrusted eyelids ooze some shitty sticky goo at the corners his bony fingers claw scratch the dirt the weeds sprouting all along his legs becoming part of them he pisses lying there and far more slowly than the river of urine a wet stain grows and grows moving outward from that center of reeking humidity invading darkening his trousers entirely noonday sun dazzles circles shimmering behind shut eyelids he tries to lift his head but the effort takes his breath away grows delirious raving now parched lips slack mumbling inaudible agony in the new cemetery beyond the old a dog howls and some woman cries out telling it to for chrissakes shut up

  thick glans skin tan and translucent René standing erect starts whacking off and his hardened cock sticks to his wet belly he peeling back the prepuce all the while watching its effect upon Yann the ragged ring of darker foreskin widens like a pouting mouth slides back and reveals the rosy knob within peeping out above its fissured edge Yann observes with a mixture of fascination/revulsion the underside of the glans its spearhead indentation that the fraenum divides a thin thread of string like those beneath the tongue but drawn taut now by the billows of pink flesh swelling below forming the two volutes of this upside-down pink heart I don’t know you Yann repeats uncertainly I don’t do I? and continues staring at that loathsome thing entirely unsheathed by now

  I’ve got a bike says René quite ingenuously but he knows already that none of the boys at the chateau are allowed such and they all dream of owning one They’d take off in a minute and never come back explained Claudette But why would they? asks the old woman sitting alongside her peeling potatoes Well after all it’s still an orphanage you know
and even if they most certainly have it easy enough here they still have to keep a sharp eye on all of them they cooked veritable banquets each night only the most expensive cuts of meat fowl dairy produce sweets fruits cheeses the tenderest juiciest vegetables they spend if you ask me Claudette continues most of their money cramming the finest stuff down these kids’ throats

  a bike? Yann asks finally after another long silence

  yeah not only that but a new one

  oh

  with a precision made derailleur six speeds

  six?

  yeah I’m not kidding

  what color?

  red

  red all red?

  yeah and with adjustable racing type drop handlebars with tape and plugs

  oh

  plus front and rear caliper brakes not to mention toe clips

  oh

  I’ve parked it on the bridge come on I’ll let you take it for a spin the laundry shed abutted one of the piers of the old bridge the river here is the same that flows through their great meadow upstream above the village and despite the new swimming pool people still fish there downstream where it widens

  I uh I don’t know how to ride says Yann blushing wildly now as he plays with the bike’s bell

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  that girl isn’t asleep she’s rotten smell her

  you think maybe she’s dead huh? damp twine wound around her neck cadaver lashed to a rowboat ropes crisscrossing her belly swarthy skin daubed with green paint weeds reeds no wind today to rustle them no tits to speak of cunt still looking quite fresh It had to be some sadist Bernard says as if he could make out bruises stains of that sadist still upon her cold forest stocked with game with hares that rot in the middle of country lanes entrails all phosphorescent crushed by autos speeding through the night oak trees looming naked their fallen leaves wet and rotting beneath pungent odor of tannic acid jagged leaves of chestnuts fallen husks prickly almond green tire tracks running the entire length of a crushed snake She was very pretty once Bernard picks up a stick and teases the cunt its lips closed clotted reddish juice had trickled down and under toward that other tinier hole between the buttocks where some dried turd still remains souvenir of one final shit