Ghost Dance

by T C Donivan

  Our guide took us to an old man seated in a folding camp chair in the proscenium. He wore a shapeless hat and checkered coat with patches on the elbows. A cigar protruded from the corner of his mouth, which he chewed with relish. He was an imposing figure, well over six feet in height with gray hair and beard. He had an aura of fierce authority about him that was daunting. A man with an accordion stood at his side playing a simple melody.

  He noticed us, casting a contemptuous look our way, then stood up and started berating the actors in a rasping voice, “You dumb son of a bitch. You want to be the hero, but you don’t know anything! When God made you, he left out the brains and the guts. You’ve never done anything except make believe. Why don’t you go out and get a real job and leave me alone so I can get something done here?”

  The actor was crestfallen, his handsome face crumpling. I thought for a moment he might burst into tears, but instead he turned to the actress and laid his head upon her shoulder in silent despair. The Director nodded in appreciation.

  “Now that’s more like it. Show us some real emotion. Pretend you have a vagina Albert. Priscilla, you do the same.”

  He paused and blew regal smoke rings from the stinking cigar as if expecting approbation from an invisible audience. I took the opportunity to introduce us.

  “Good afternoon sir, we’re newcomers here. We’re looking for the road to Ezekiel’s City.”

  He stared back at me with pure hatred, “What do I look like – a service station attendant? Buy a goddamned Rand McNally map.” He plunked himself down in his canvas backed chair and stuck the end of the wretched cigar back in the corner of his mouth.

  “I would sir, if you could direct us where we can purchase one.”

  He stared up at me. “What are you – an idiot?’

  I held my temper. “No sir, I’m merely a traveler on the road to Hell.”

  He grinned at me, revealing a row of crooked teeth. “Now that’s more like it. Most folks pass through here pretending to be lost, or in the wrong place, consigned by God, or the Devil, or their great-aunt Ida in error.” He wrung his hands comically. “Oh my, a terrible mistake has been made. I shouldn’t be here. They’re expecting me in heaven for high tea.” He laughed. “A man who knows his fate has half the game figured out.”

  “I would agree sir,” I said.

  “You can call me the Monster, everyone does.”

  “Do they truly?” I asked.

  “No, not to my face. Call me Sartre.”

  “Is that your name?”

  “No, but it will do. Now then, where did you say you were going?”

  “Ezekiel’s City. We were told it’s just beyond the mountains on the other side of the valley.”

  He shook his head. “You were told wrong. You must cross the Deisidaimonía Mountains, which is no small hike in itself, and then sail the Alcyonian Lake, beyond which are the two cities, Ezekiel and Elysium. You’ll never find your way there and even if you do, they’ll kill you like goats.”

  “Is it a lake of fire?” Annie asked.

  He chuckled. “That’s an old trope. There’s things live beneath the surface of that lake can swallow a man whole, but I’ve known Mexican whores can do the same. No, its waters are cool as Lake Michigan in September.”

  “Watch your language, there’s a lady among us,” I said.

  He looked at Annie with surprise then ran his eyes up and down her form like a ravening wolf. “Say, you’ve got a nice figure under that suit of clothes. I could use you. How would you like to join my crew?”

  “Doing what?” She asked, the slightest tease in her voice.

  “We need actresses. You can never have enough actresses.”

  “I don’t think so,” she answered.

  “I wouldn’t go to Ezekiel’s City if I were you. It’s no place for a lady, even one who carries as big a gun as you do,” he said.

  “Is that what you do in this place, put on plays?” I asked incredulously.

  “Yup.”

  “Is this a rehearsal?”

  Our host threw away the cigar and pulled a pipe from his pocket and tamped it full of tobacco. “That’s about all it is. I haven’t gotten one good performance in five hundred years. Between these stupid goddamned actors and the poor material I have to work with, I can never get it right.”

  I looked around. “Do you have an audience that comes to your theater?”

  He winked at me. “Sometimes.”

  “What about the city, we have to get there,” Annie pleaded.

  “Keep your shirt on sister, I’m almost to that part. Now then, it’s about two days by horseback across the mountains. Once you get to the lake, you’re on your own. I can lend you the horses, but you’ll need a guide. It’ll have to be a volunteer. I can’t order anyone to cross the Deisidaimonía Mountains. It has to be their own decision.”

  “Is it dangerous?” Spencer asked.

  “So you can talk?” He asked.

  “My thoughts become more composed the longer I’m here,” he answered.

  The Director gave him the fisheye. “You’re an odd one. For most folks in these parts, it’s the opposite.” He pointed at Mordecai. “That’s an ugly dog you have.”

  “He suits me,” Spencer said. The homely beast wagged its stubby tail.

  “Is it dangerous – the journey?” Spencer repeated.

  “Haven’t I already said that? I’ve never known anyone to return. But, that may only mean they found what they were looking for when they got there,” the old man replied.

  “You told us they’d kill anyone who goes to Ezekiel’s City,” Annie said.

  “Maybe that’s what the fools were looking for,” he told her.

  A distant rumble of thunder shook the ground, echoing like the growl of a lion, slowly building until the theatre rattled, lightning flashing through the cracked plaster and broken slats of the walls.

  “Are the storms bad here?” I asked.

  The woman who’d brought us to the Director replied, “No, the thunderheads gather every night, but all we ever get are a few drops of rain that stir the dust and make it smell bad.”

  The old man stared at her. “Arsinoe is so eloquent. Like a bricklayer singing ballads. I think I have your guide, but I’ll have to send for him. In the meantime, you’ll join us for supper and the nightly show.”

  “Thank you, that’s quite hospitable,” I said.

  He stared at me from beneath the brow of his battered hat. “I suppose you expected pitchforks and eternal torment?”

  “Something like that,” I answered.

  “How long will it take for the guide to get here? We’re in a terrible hurry,” Annie said.

  “It will take as long as it takes,” he snapped.

  “Let me explain,” I said coming to Annie’s defense. “The truth is, we’re not actually dead. Our bodies are still alive on the other side.” Sartre rolled his eyes and I became peeved. “We were tricked here by, what I suppose you would call, a demon. Our Cheyenne friend called him a Wihio, a trickster spirit. He said there’s a way out for us in Ezekiel’s City, but we must find it in time or we’ll be trapped here forever/”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me what you believe. I can leave anytime I like, but they won’t let me make my pictures anywhere else. They insist I move onto “other” things, but I’m not through with this yet.”

  “My friend is an artist,” I said indicating Spencer. “What sort of pictures do you make?”

  “You are slow,” our host said in a dry voice. The group that had stood upon the steps arguing had joined us in the theatre. He swept the air with his age spotted hands. “Look around you.”

  “Portraits?” I asked.

  “I create the myth,” he said in disgust.

  The actor he had disparaged so savagely cleared his throat from the stage, “Are we done for the day?” He asked.

  The Director slumped in his chair. “Yes, I suppose we are,” he replied.

  C
hapter 29 – Pictures In A Landscape

  “Have you been here long Mr. Sartre?” I asked.

  He grunted as he shoveled a load of potatoes into his mouth. “Who can tell? By the way, that isn’t really my name. I hired Sartre to work for me once, but I didn’t like what he gave me. They called him the Monster too you know. I’m Sam to my friends. You’re not my friends, but you can make the presumption if you like.”

  We sat at long tables on wooden benches in the back of the theatre. Large platters of bloody, undercooked beef, baked potatoes and hot biscuits piled in wicker baskets were passed about the tables. Slabs of butter and fresh bread were strategically placed between every second plate. The feed was plentiful, if not luxurious. I counted more than a hundred crowded around the tables, all of them seeming to talk at once.

  Annie and my appetites were feeble, but Spencer was rapidly regaining his former robust nature, his face seeming to fill out as I watched him consume biscuits and potatoes. Mordecai sat beneath his chair, gobbling chunks of beef Spencer passed him. The woman, Arsinoe, was seated to the right of him. Throughout the meal she picked at her food, sneaking cautious looks at Spencer when he wasn’t looking. Suddenly our host called out and the entire entourage quieted.

  “Albert! Get your ass up on a chair and sing us a song.”

  The actor he had berated earlier sat across from me. He had changed out of his white robes into a suit of clothes that put me in mind of a sailor suit my mother had been fond of dressing me in as a child. Emotion knotted his handsome brow. He laid his napkin on the table and climbed atop the bench he sat on. He sang in a sweet, off key voice.

  While you live, shine have no grief at all

  Life exists only for a short while and time demands its toll

  The tune continued on in a similar manner for several stanzas until Sam interrupted him with a sharp rebuke, “Jesus Christ, that is awful! I’ve heard sick cows sound better. Sit down and shut up!” Sam nodded at me. “Now you see what I’m faced with. These people depend on me. They’re like children. All actors are.”

  The man he had so abused, got up and silently left the room. I turned to Annie, “I’ve stomached all I can of both the bloody food and the company. I’m going outside. Do you want to come with me? I asked.

  Listening with ears like a hawk, Sam spoke up, “Leave the lady, it’s not often we have such charming company, but you’re excused. Go on, get out.”

  His tone was so insolent I began to argue, my appetite for a fight whetted, but Annie squeezed my arm and I held my peace. I went down the hall and out the back of the theatre. Night had fallen and the gray landscape had turned black, the horizon barely discernible through the haze. No stars shone. The only light cast was that of the grumbling thunderheads that hovered over the distant mountains they called Deisidaimonía. The man named Albert stood leaning against the back of the theatre, smoking a cigarette, a poor cousin in those days to the cigar. The smell of the thing was noxious. I got out my pipe and filled the bowl to cover the fumes.

  “I had a brother named Albert,” I said.

  “Had? Is he dead?”

  I laughed. “No, of course not.”

  “You spoke of him as if he were.”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Albert isn’t my name. The Old Man just calls me that. He thinks he’s being funny.”

  “I suppose if I asked you your name, it would be pointless?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why do you let him abuse you like that?” I asked.

  A sheepish look crept over his face. “Ah, the old man don’t mean nothing by it. And besides, I owe him. He made me what I am.”

  I nodded at the theatre and the rancorous old villain within. “Whatever the debt, to demand such payment reveals a vile temperament. I would not tolerate it.”

  Albert’s expression became sober. “I’m not saying you should. But until I’ve paid my debt, I’ll be sticking around to help him out. He thinks he’s here for us, but it’s the other way round. We’re here for him until he can figure out what to do with himself, other than make life miserable for the rest of us.”

  The revelation stood my conception of the company on its head. “I wish you luck,” I said.

  He answered softly, “Thanks.”

  “Can you tell anything about the country we’re heading into?” I asked.

  His eyes took on a furtive look. “Sorry, I’ve never been beyond the city walls.”

  I inspected what I could of the ruined city as the distant lightning flashed, remembering what I had seen as we had climbed down into the valley.

  “There are no walls in this city,” I said.

  He rubbed out the butt of the cigarette against the theatre. “I must be mistaken. Let’s go back inside.”

  As we walked up the hall, our host emerged, his arm hooked in Annie’s. He clapped me on the back with his free hand.

  “C’mon sonny, we’re gonna show you what I do for a living.”

  The company fell in behind us as we marched into the theatre. Sam seated us beside him at the front while the others found their places among the benches and seats behind us and boxes overhead. Albert and Arsinoe sat in the front row near us. The stage was dark and empty. Sam raised a beefy hand in the air.

  “All right!” He yelled.

  As if by magic, a brilliant light flooded the theatre with color. An image, I would estimate thirty feet high and ninety feet wide, flickered to life on the stage. The image moved and I felt as if I would fall into it. Music and sound poured forth from the magical vision. I thought for a moment that the rift between worlds had opened again and I considered seizing Annie by the arm and plunging into it, but it became quickly apparent that what we were seeing was not a portal into another world, but a living painting.

  “Is this what you do?” I asked our host. He nodded happily.

  A story unfolded before our eyes set in an American wilderness landscape. Everything seemed out of proportion, the men and women thirty feet tall, their faces sometimes the size and shape of the Sphinx, filling the entire stage. Violent acts were committed and women violated. Retribution was sought. Savage men battled with swords and axes, splaying skulls like ripe melons. The sky rained blood that ran in rivers of fantastic gore and I felt I understood what it must be like to witness the end of creation. Music played and words in a foreign script scrolled across the stage before it went black once more. Sam sat in the darkness puffing merrily away at his pipe, happiness radiating from his every pore. Some of the men got up and lit the torches.

  “What did you think?” He asked.

  “Amazing,” Annie said.

  “What was this?” I asked.

  “Magic,” Sam replied.

  “Sprockets and gears,” Albert said.

  “A concoction of chemicals,” Arsinoe offered.

  “Better to think of it as magic,” Spencer said.

  Sam tapped the side of his head. “It’s the invention of my brain. But I don’t like the ending. I never have.” He hung his head in defeat, his voice a whisper. “I don’t have an ending. I never will.” He sighed and stood up stretching his arthritic limbs. “Well, I’ve got an early morning, so I think I shall retire. I had them lay out three blankets in the back for you. By the way, I found you a guide. Albert is going to take you.”

  I saw my erstwhile acquaintance stiffen in his seat. “Why me?” He asked.

  “Because it’s time for you to go,” Sam said.

  Arsinoe stood up. “Let me take them instead.”

  Sam wrinkled his brow. “You?”

  “It’s only fitting.”

  He gave a weary shrug. “If that’s what you want.” He bowed and kissed Annie’s hand. “My lady, it has been a pleasure. If you don’t find what you’re looking for, know that you’ll always have a place here with me.”

  “Thank you Mr. Sartre,” she said kindly.

  “Oh please don’t insult me with that name. It was meant only as a joke and not a very funny one.
I’m sure he has his own corner of this Hell rented out for eternity. Existence precedes essence. We are alone without excuse. Nonsense.” He looked at me. “The lady tells me you’re a writer, that you’re putting all of this into a book.” I nodded. “When it’s finished, send it to me. I’d like to see your ending. I was a writer once and writers never know how to end a good story. I’d like to see how you manage it.”

  “The ending is what it will be. It’s not a work of fiction,” I said.

  He cast me a condescending look. “All life is a fiction dear boy. The term itself says as much. In order to denote the so-called truth, we append the term non to it, thus making it clear that the natural state of storytelling is always a lie. We invent it as we go along. In reality, the final act of every story is death. It’s why Shakespeare was so good. He laid the bodies out like hogs in a slaughter pen. Has anyone ever been so bloody minded? Of course, no one wants to kill their hero, but happy endings are a lie, so give me a good death at the end of it. Humor me and I may make it into a picture like the one I showed you tonight.”

  The prospect dazzled me. “Certainly,” I said.

  Sam puckered his lips and made a sucking sound with his large, crooked teeth. “Just one word of warning on your trip.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  He grinned mischievously. “Don’t eat the apples.”

  I wondered at his warning, but he turned and walked away before I could quiz him. The company began to disburse, drifting off in knots of two or three into the night. Albert took us to the place we would sleep.

  “This is it. I’m glad I’m not going with you,” he said curtly before slipping off down the hall.

  Arsinoe lingered at the door to our room. A low growl curled up from Mordecai’s throat. I could see the dog was shivering.

  “Why do you want to come with us?” Spencer asked.

  She cast at him with eyes like a wild animal’s. “I wish only to protect you.”

  Spencer laughed at her and she went away. We lay down in our blankets and put out the candles. An empty window looked out into the night. Lightning crackled over the mountains. I felt a sudden desire to abandon our mission and remain with the odd company, as miserable as they were. I held Annie close to me, but felt alone.