The Miracle-Maker
(a novel)
Book Four of 'The Harlie' Series
by J. F. Prussing
Chapter One
Old Port Fierce
IT WAS FRIDAY MORNING. The harbor was unusually b busy the day Mister
Sherman Dixon drove his wagon into town along the shell rock roads
of Old Port Fierce. He was looking for the man with a tall black hat
and a short gray beard whom he was supposed to meet that day to
close the deal. Elmo was riding the buckboard alongside his good
friend and neighbor by then, taking sights and sounds he'd never
experienced before. He was looking for another man – the one they
called the Miracle-Maker.
Being one of the oldest and
largest cities in that part of the world, the cobblestone streets of
Old Port Fierce were narrow and well-traveled, with ever increasing
traffic, ever diminishing right-of-ways, and constantly in need of
repair. The houses were tall, separated by narrow alleys, with high
pitched roofs made chiefly out of tile and tin, appearing like so
many chimney-stemmed pipes arranged neatly on a rack and squeezed so
tightly together it was difficult to tell where one ended and the
other began.
Above the many storefronts
lining the boulevard, which appeared to form the first floors of
these multi-purpose structures, were the homes of those that lived
and worked there. By accident or design, the storekeepers were
conveniently never more than a staircase away from either bed or
business. These were hard streets, built by hard hands, and during
hard times. They'd outlived not only the masons and carpenters who
made them but all who would touch them and, like the wood of an old
and petrified tree trunk, they only seemed to grow harder with each
passing year.
Most of the older
establishments in Old Port Fierce were made of wood, stone block
construction being reserved for public buildings and the homes of
those who could afford such security. The port could be a dangerous
place at times, especially at night. But day or night, there was
always something for sale.
There were a variety of street
vendors and panhandlers that occupied the downtown area, which only
added to the color and commerce of the city, as well as its
questionable reputation. They were small, transient enterprises
offering no real challenge to the more profitable local
establishments and were, at least whenever they knew they were being
watched by the local police, fairly honest. As in any port city,
there existed in Old Port Fierce a number of businesses that catered
exclusively to a certain clientele, which will be spoken of at
length later on when it is necessary to do so. For the present time,
there were enough sites to see in the city by the bay, and Elmo
wanted to see them all.
"Ain't never seen anythin'
like this in Harley!" declared the turtle-necked driver,
amphibiously rotating his head in each and every direction.
"Ain't never seen anythin'
like this nowhere," Elmo agreed, eager with anticipation and feeling
somewhat exhilarated by his new surroundings, despite the fact that
he hadn't a decent night's sleep in quite some time. "Is this what
Shadytown looks like?"
"No," said the turtle,
"Shadytown is where the colored folks mostly live. Folks like us.
We's goin' there later on," said the farmer, having resolved their
earlier debate concerning their accommodations for that night.
"That's where Alma Johnson lives, tho', like I said before, she
don't likes to folks to know it."
As it were, both travelers had
already decided to stay at Mrs. Johnson's house after all, which was
just off Avenue 'D' and right in the center of the place called
Shadytown, their final destination.
"Is it far?" asked Elmo.
"No, but it take a while to
get there," said Sherman. "Abraham, he kind'a slow, you know."
Shadytown, as it was
unofficially called, was just northeast of Old Port Fierce, about
five miles, in a small part of the city generally reserved for
colored folks, or Negroes, as they were also called at the time. It
began with a handful 'colored' families that had settled there
shortly after the war, but has since grown to a sizable city of its
own, making up about one fifth of the city's entire population by
then.
"How soon we get there?" asked
Elmo.
"Some time tonight, I reckon.
But first we has to go to where the big boats come in. Down by the
water, you now," said the farmer, looking out towards the sea for
the tall masts to appear at any moment. "But say, Mister Cotton, if
you already been here once before, like you say, then how come then
you be axin' me so many questions?"
The raccoon smiled. He did
know more about Shadytown than he cared to admit; and he was anxious
to get there, perhaps a little more than he should have been. He
just didn't want Sherman to know that. "That was a long time ago,
Sherman," he correctly responded, "And besides, I was just a little
boy at the time."
"You sure is mighty peculiar,
Mister Cotton. Peculiar, peculiar, peculiar! But you've always been
like that, I 'spose. Now let me ask you a question," said the
farmer, his thick heavy head turning slowly around, indeed like that
of a fat brown turtle, "where is you goin' after that?"
"I don't know. But I ain't
goin' back to Harley. That's for sure. Uh-huh! Not me," said Elmo
shaking his head quite frankly. He still hadn't told his friend and
neighbor what the secret was. And that's because there really was no
secret, other than his most recent desire to put out to sea as soon
as, as soon as... But first he would have to find him, the one Uncle
Joe called the 'Miracle Maker'. "Leastways, not any time soon," he
added so as not to worry his neighbor unnecessarily, or his wife for
that matter, who Elmo knew would certainly find out sooner or later
that the two had indeed crossed paths. There are some secrets that
are just impossible to keep.
Somehow, the fat brown turtle
could tell something was going on. He didn't know exactly what, but
thought it might have something to do with Regina. He could see it
in Elmo's eyes, just as he saw it when they were both little boys
growing up in Harley together. It was a look the Harlie had never
quite outgrown. It had guilt scribbled all over his face (even when
he wasn't guilty of anything in particular and had nothing to be
ashamed of) just like them ol' horns his uncle was so quick to
observe sprouting from the top of his head. It was the look he had
on his face when he first put his hand down the back of Regina
Johnson's dress. It was the same look his wife would occasionally
tell him to: 'Wipe off yo' face...! Before I wipes it off for you',
the one she had grown accustomed to over the years.
It was easy to see that the
Harlie's plans and ambitions went further than Old Port Fierce, much
further; and he would need more than a wagon to get there. Sherman
knew that by now. Elmo needed a boat, and a big one. And considering
the fact that the largest boat he had ever set foot on was only a
raft, and a very small one at that, the prospects of going to sea
seemed more unlikely than ever. But that was something he would have
to work out once he'd taken care of the business he came for.
Nothing would stop him from that, not even Regina Johnson. And, of
course, nothing would stop the turtle from 'axin' more questions.
"If you don't minds me sayin'
so, Mister Cotton," the turtle continued as they rolled along past
some old warehouses that looked somewhat deserted, "this is all
mighty peculiar to me. Just what be goin' on with you anyway? You
never use to be like this... all secret-like, talkin' 'bout some
Miracle-Man you's 'spose to find. Sumpin' wrong with you, Elmo?"
Sherman would only address his
life-long friend and neighbor by his first name when he knew
something was bothering him. Elmo knew this, of course, and picked
up on it right away. And so, after mulling it over in his mind for a
moment or two, the Harlie thought it might be time to spill a few
beans, so to speak, at least a little; and so he did just that.
"Someone's been following me, Sherman," he stated with no immediate
concern, "...ever since I left Harley."
The turtle looked not a little
surprised. "Who dat?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know," fained the
raccoon, " Maybe someone who knows me... Maybe not. Don't know of
anyone lookin' for me 'ceptin' maybe the sheriff, and maybe my wife.
But this ain't no lawman, Sherman, and it sho' ain't Nadine. He look
more like an animal. Have long dark hair – and a beard! Saw him
three times already. Twice back in Harley. Once down by the river
when I was..."
"When you was what?" the
turtle eagerly responded.
Elmo shook his head. "You
wouldn't understand, Sherman." And he was right. How could anyone
as innocent and naïve as Sherman Dixon ever comprehend all he'd been
through? There was so much Elmo didn't understand himself,
especially the part about becoming a demi-god, which he still had
trouble dealing with from time to time. The Motherstone, or whatever
it was he'd kept in his pocket now for over a year that would come
alive almost at will, it seemed, would be even more complicated, and
just as impossible to explain. "It's just that sometimes... well,
sometimes, I feels like someone wants me dead. Don't know who. Might
not even be a person, Sherman." And here Elmo could find no words to
express what was troubling him at the time.
Anticipating the worst, which
was another habit of the turtle Elmo found irritating, Sherman
finished his neighbor's thoughts for him. "A Hellhound," he suddenly
spoke out loud, recalling just then the words he'd heard earlier
being sung from the back of his wagon. It was actually more of a
question than it was a comment, and one that begged for an answer.
The raccoon didn't comprehend
the turtle's response at first, not yet feeling quite that
desperate; but he knew what his neighbor was talking about. And he
was wrong, of course. Elmo could tell the difference between a
Hellhound and a man, even from a good distance. For one thing,
Hellhounds don't go walking on two legs, and they can't swim either,
not as far as the Harlie knew anyway. And for another thing, they
certainly don't wear eyeglasses, or 'spectables as the Harlie
referred to them as ever since Homer began wearing them himself.
Just then, the 'Great Raccoon' remembered. This wasn't a man at all.
It was a demi-god, not unlike himself. And that made a big
difference. Demi-gods, as you may well know, could look like
anything or anybody – even a Harlie! Besides, if it really were
a Hellhound, as Sherman so keenly but erroneously suggested, Elmo
reckoned it surely would've caught him by now. "Ain't no Hellhound,
Sherman," he said, condescendingly. "Could be something worse
tho'..."
Try as he may, the bean farmer
with the turtle-head couldn't think of anything worse than a
Hellhound. Who could?
The Hellhound, as alluded to
above, was a legendary animal, more fiction than fact, actually,
that was said to possess supernatural powers. Most Harlies had
learned about this mythical beast before they could actually
pronounce the word. Born and bred in the fiery furnaces of the earth
and heeled in that satanic kennel, the Hellhound struck fear into
every Harley heart, big and small, young and old, and especially
those already inclined to superstitious belief, like most women and
children of that time.
Described as half dog and half
demon, this 'hound from hell', so-to-speak, was said to roam the
lands just beyond the Iron Gates of Harley, to the south and west,
in search of its mortal prey. It was often suggested, although it
could never be proven and therefore largely ignored, that this
demonic hound was actually nothing more than a contrivance, a white
ghost, conveniently dreamed up by the Creek-folk (that is those who
occupied the entire western side of the Iron gates of Harley) and
conjured up just to keep the Harlies at bay and confined within
their own well-defined boarders. And for the most part, it worked;
as propaganda often does, either real or imagined.
From a factual and more
practical point of view, however, blood-hounds had been bred in and
around Creekwood Green for many years. They were not only good
hunting dogs, but made for excellent house-pets and yard-dogs. They
were loyal, obedient, gentle with children; and women just seem to
love the soulful and sorrowful expressions naturally exhibited their
loose-skinned dog-faces, which only made it that much more difficult
to kill them for their meat during the hard times brought about by
the war and other more natural calamities. Before, and especially
during, the war, these same admirable hounds were also employed by
plantation owners in the necessary business of tracking down
run-a-way slaves along the 'Underground Railroad', a term
ubiquitously applied to the secret trails and passageways slaves
would make frequent use of, usually with the assistance of
sympathetic abolitionists, which the blood-hounds were equally
proficient at.
The Hellhound lived, real or
imaginary, in the fearful minds of all slaves, past and present,
subjecting them to the all the terrors they would confront along the
arduous road to Freedom. Was it worth the risk? To some it was.
Others (especially the older Negros who'd not only grown accustomed
to their bondage but quit satisfied with all it had to offer them by
way keeping their families fed and providing a roof over their heads
when so many at one time had so little) thought it foolish at the
time to even contemplate escaping from their slave masters, even
after the war had been won in their favor, choosing instead to stay
on the farm and maintain their subservient positions as if nothing
at all had changed. Still, there were others who tried to run away;
and many died. And even if they'd failed in their justifiable
attempt, perhaps it was still worth it. Freedom ain't free. It's not
cheap, either. It sometimes costs lives, the lives of those who love
it and need it the most.
And even if they didn't
realize it at the time, the vicissitudes these underground railroad
passengers endured along the way, which included leaving their
families behind in many cases, had made stronger men and women of
them in the process, despite the best efforts of those who would
deny such liberties, and even more fit for citizenship in a country
where hardship and sacrifice are the staple for success, and
freedom, like everything else, has to earned. In fact, it may've
been the Hellhound itself, fact or fiction, forever barking and
nipping at their bruised, bloodied and barefooted heals, that
finally won the slaves the freedom they longed for and so richly and
rightfully deserved. Devils and demons will sometimes inspire us,
although not in the diabolical way they would expect, to do what our
better angels are unable to. Such bravery could hardly go
un-noticed, even by the slave masters themselves in some rare
instances. But it seldom went unpunished, and was rarely rewarded.
Little did the slave owners know, however, they'd soon have their
own Hellhounds to deal with, along with legends of other demons just
as dark and dangerous. They'd come from out of the north – armed, of
course, and dressed in blue. And these ghosts had guns! Leading this
notorious army of blue-clad hounds from hell would be the re-bearded
devil himself, William Tecumseh Sherman, 'Uncle Billy'.
Sherman wisely decided to
change the subject. But it was only to more bad news from back home,
something he'd already touched upon earlier. "Sheriff John's
been lookin' for you, Mister Cotton. I 'spect you knows that by now.
And I 'spect you know why. That's why you ran away – Ain't it? Can't
say I blames you for that. No, sir! Everyone know about you and
Mister Skinner going off to them ol' hills with them Creekmen."
"Folks back home seem to know
a lot about my business," noted the Harlie, looking a little annoyed
by then.
The turtle responded in his
own inquisitive way. "That dead man, Horn, the one they found up the
hills... well, they say sumpin' peculiar happen to him, altho' nobody
know what that is 'ceptin' maybe the sheriff; and he ain't sayin'.
Mighty peculiar, Mister Cotton. Mighty peculiar..."
"Rusty," replied the
bewildered raccoon, "His name was Rusty Horn. Some folks called him
Red-Beard. He was a Colonel – in the army, I think. But he's dead
now, Sherman. And they say I killed him. Shoot him dead. Just like
that!"
The fat man scratched the back
side of his head. "That true, Mister Cotton? You do that?" he
questioned out loud. "You kill that man?"
It was the first time anyone,
including the Sheriff John Townsend, had ever put the question to
him that directly, so bluntly, and with so much sincerity that Elmo
wished he could've answered it in the same manner. But he couldn't;
he just didn't know how. After all, he still didn't know what
happened, no matter how much he tried to remember. And he was there
when it happened. But it all happened so fast – in blink of an eye
it now seemed. Bang! The gun just went off. And that was the truth.
That's all there was to it. He'd tried to explain it to Joe Cotton
once and, even now, still wondered if the old man believed him. All
he knew was that it was a shotgun that'd killed Red-Beard, and not a
revolver. The sheriff said so. It blew open his chest. Sure, Elmo
had a gun – Rusty's gun. But it was the wrong gun, at least
according to what John Townsend had told him. There were no
witnesses; there was no other evidence. All they had was a Harlie's
word on it, which was ambivalent at best. And what good was that?
Elmo despaired. Who would ever believe a... a raccoon on the run
anyway? He knew it really didn't matter anymore.
Not sure if his neighbor had
heard him the first time, or if his silent passenger simply didn't
want to respond, the turtle felt obliged to ask the question again.
"I said – did you kill that man, Elmo?" And again, as if to zero in
on the seriousness of the subject, Sherman addressed his evasive
companion on a first name basis, which only made Elmo that much more
uncomfortable.
Assuming that he was still an
innocent man – or at least until someone could prove otherwise –
Elmo didn't think he had anything else to say on the matter. For a
long time now he hadn't even thought about it. And now, having
Sherman bring it all up again like that might somehow change what
happened or didn't happen, only made him feel guilty all over again.
It was written all over his raccoon face. And in a strange,
complicated, and almost funny, sort of way, it also made things more
difficult. After all, if he was guilty, and he really did
kill Rusty Horn, then maybe he wouldn't have felt so guilty
about leaving home in the first place. But if he was not
guilty, as he'd always maintained, then why the hell was he be
running at all? It didn't make sense. It just didn't 'boil the
beans'. He was cursed as well as doomed; and he could nothing about
it, except what he'd been doing all along – running.
He really had no explanation
for what'd happened, or didn't happen, that day up on the mountain.
The gun just went off. But what gun? Whose gun? Who pulled the
trigger? And where was he now? These were questions the raccoon
simply couldn't answer, and had tried so desperately to forget while
on the run. And he did... for a while at least, until this damn turtle
started 'axin' all his dam questions. And even if he could answer
them, Elmo knew for certain that the horns on his head would only
grow longer and larger, just as they always did. It was no use.
"He's dead, Sherman," was all the raccoon had left to say, "And
that's all there is to it."
"Hummm? And this here man you
say..." Sherman continued, either through deliberate interrogation or
sheer ignorance, as he turned the wagon off the shell rock road and
down along the long wooden planks forming the roadway of Fisherman's
Wharf, refusing to give into his neighbor's obvious frustrations,
"the one who be followin' you. You think he have somethin' to do
with that there Red-Beard fellow, the one they say you killed?"
"No. I didn't say that,
Sherman," the raccoon quickly rejoined. "At least, I don't think
that's what I said."
"Well, you did get a good look
at him then. Didn't you, Mister Cotton?"
"Not that good," replied Elmo.
"Not good enough."
"Maybe it was one of those
Redmen. You know – Injuns! They do look likes Greens sometimes, when
they's dressed proper-like."
"I don't think so,
Sherman," said Elmo, not bothering to explain to his curious friend
how he'd once lived among Indians and surely would've known if the
man he spoke of was one of them. "But I can tell you one thing..."
replied the Great Raccoon, coolly, and with all the certainty
befitting his demi-god status, "He ain't no Harlie. That's fo'
sure!"
Then again, the same could
always be said of Elmo (He ain't no Harlie!) Cotton. And just then,
the raccoon quietly and, perhaps, deliberately rested his own light
brown arm up against that of the fat man sitting beside him,
noticing, not for the first time, how the leathery epidermis
presently exposed on the back of the turtle's surly brown hand
seemed as black as coal in comparison to his own light brown skin;
so much so that Elmo would often be mistaken for a Creekman himself,
sometimes even to his own unsolicited advantage; but mostly out of
sheer curiosity. It was times like those he wished he was never
born.
Rotating his head and pulling
it quickly back into his shoulders, not unlike the frightened turtle
he so much resembled at times, the farmer further suggested, "You
don't 'spose he be one of them Klansmen I hear tell of. You know,
Mister Cotton, the ones that be troublin' folks that looks like,
like..."
"Like me?"
"No," laughed the farmer,
having been around long enough to know that it was always the darker
colored Harlies the Klansmen always seemed to signal out whenever
they were about their bigoted business and peddling old Jim Crow
like it was Mississippi moonshine –"likes me!"
Elmo understood what his
neighbor was trying to say, albeit in his own affable way; but he
just couldn't find the humor in it anymore. "I reckon," he softly
sighed.
"They's still fightin' the
war. Ain't they Mister, Cotton?"
"Some things never change,
Sherman," It was something Elmo had heard Homer say when he was
still alive, and more than once. Maybe the old man was right, the
Harlie sadly imagined. He was glad Mister Skinner was no longer a
part of it.
"They don't like us just
because we's Harlie," growled the turtle, "cause of how we look. Say
we is feral... and other such nasty things."
"Let them say what they want,"
declared the demi-god, no longer interested in the opinions of mere
mortals." We ain't no ferals, Sherman. That's for sure.
Mister O'Brien said so, and that's good enough fo' me. Besides,
ain't been no Ferals around these parts since..." Here Elmo
was going to mention the name Cornelius G. Wainwright III, but
decided against it. He simply didn't feel like explaining it to
Sherman, even though he suspected the turtle already know more about
'the man with the bottle-brush mustache' than most, along with his
fatal disappearance. And besides that he just didn't want to think
about it anymore.
The turtle resumed his slow
but steady pace. "Heard those Klansmen done killed a Redman down by
the river not too long ago. Strung 'im up! From an old oak tree! Say
he had his way with one of their women-folk. The calls it rape. Some
say it was Creekman who actually done it. Other folks say it was a
Harlie. Klan don't care. No sir! We's all the same to them. Anyway,
they got their pound of flesh, all right. And that's what they
really wanted. Wouldn't surprise me if this here man, the one you
say is followin' you, be a Redman come lookin' for revenge. That's
why he wants you dead, Mister Cotton. Ever think about that? Maybe
he thinks you're a ..."
"A Creekman, Sherman?"
"I didn't say that," the
turtle tried to apologize.
"I know, Sherman."
As for the turtle's latest
assumption, the raccoon suddenly remembered something he'd almost
forgotten, something else he once heard, not only from Homer but
from the old chief himself, Long Arrow, shortly before he died in
his whale-bone teepee. "Redmen don't kill Harlies," he reminded his
misguided but sometimes insightful companion. And he was right about
that. To suggest that a Redman would be hunting a down a Harlie was
simply ludicrous, even if it did involve the raping of one of their
woman.
Generally speaking, the
Indians of the Redman River held no special grudges against the
Harlies and, if anything, were always sympathetic towards their
plight, having suffered similar indignities and atrocities under the
white yoke of oppression. In fact, many of the Indians considered
Harlies 'Big Medicine', as Elmo himself could attest to, and
different from Greens altogether, affording them the status of
demi-gods from time to time, as they did the 'Great Raccoon'
himself. That is not to say the Redman held any real animosity or
grievances towards the good folks of Creekwood Green, or even
Caucasians in general; they merely distrusted them, as they would
any dangerous animal they came across in the wilds of their native
habitat, and subsequently avoided them whenever possible.
The Indians of the Redman
River were typically peaceful, and naturally suspicious of anyone
claiming ownership of, or dominion over, any piece of land,
particularly when it just so happened to be was land they were
standing on. After all, it was theirs to begin with; they were there
first, or so the legends had taught them. In fact, it was all
their land at one time! That is, until it was confiscated one day by
what became known as 'Eminent Domain' (a legal term they
still could not understand; and, even if they did, they would never
acquiesce to such tyranny, at least not without a fight, which is
probably why they'd fled across the river to avoid the inevitable
bloodshed that surely would've taken place if they had chosen to do
otherwise) and were driven out of their ancestral homeland. And even
since then the 'White Locusts' (the name obviously given to
Greens who came out of the west one day with a Bible in one hand and
a bottle of bourbon in the other) were as un-welcomed as they were
feared. It was just that simple. They didn't even need guns. But
having long since buried the hatchet, along with their bows and
arrows, and lastly their grievances, the Redman warriors simply
agreed to stay on the west side of the 'Great White Snake', so long
as everyone else, including Harlies and Creeks, stayed on the other
side. It was a treaty both sides found they could live with shortly
after the war, and was signed in their own red blood. And for the
most part it worked. It had to work; otherwise, there would probably
be no more Indians or Redmen left to speak of at all; or demi-gods,
for that matter.
As they approached Fisherman's
Wharf, a long pier near the docks where the big ships came in, the
turtle driving the wagon nervously turned his telescopic head and
asked in a whisper, "Think he still be lookin' you, Mister Cotton?"
"I reckon so," admitted the
raccoon for the first time, feeling more frightened than ever before
for finally having acknowledged it out loud to someone else.
"Think he be wantin' to kill
you?"
"I think he could've done that
by now, Sherman. If that's what he really wanted."
"Mighty peculiar, Mister
Cotton. Peculiar. Peculiar. Peculiar!"
Looking out past the wooden
bollards supporting the seawall on the south side of the wharf, Elmo
could already see the tall tapering masts of the ships he'd only
dreamed of so far, lazily bobbing up and down in the watery
distance. Some were docked along the pier while others were slowly
making their way in and out of the grand harbor under modest sail
and a dying sun.
One ship in particular, with a
small square sail setting high up on top of the main mast, appeared
so large that it was a wonder, to Elmo anyway, that it could stay
afloat at all. There was man in the crow's nest. Elmo waved to him.
But he knew the ship was too far away for the lofty sailor to take
any notice of two Harlies in a wagon. He just thought it was the
right thing to do at the time. The turtle thought it was a little
foolish, and even dangerous t the time, but didn't say anything more
about it.
Some of the boats, the older
looking ones, were made of wood. Others appeared to be constructed
entirely of metal, with long dark smokestacks stemming up from their
hollow decks like redwood tree trunks throwing thick clouds of smoke
into the powder blue sky. One of the stacks was tall and red, and in
many ways reminded the Harlie fugitive of Ol' Red and the Hangman's
Knee that was presumably still waiting for him back in Creekwood
Green – perhaps, with a rope attached to it by now. The image, even
though it was only a vague memory of a cruel distant past, still
frightened him; so much so that he suddenly wanted to talk to
Sherman some more about Harley, Sheriff John Townsend, and most of
all what people there were actually saying about him back home. But
all that came out of the raccoon's wide-open mouth was: "You say the
sheriff found Colonel Horn up in them hills, Sherman?"
Mister Dixon nodded his
turtle-head and said, "The dead man, Mister Cotton – the one they
say you done killed."
With that, the Harlie knew he
was a goner. He was closer now to the harbor than he ever thought he
would be, and still the ships looked so far away. Leaning back
against his suitcase, he could feel the sailin' shoes poking him
from within. Or was it the Motherstone? Whatever it was, it was
something he suddenly found annoying. His mind drifted, just as it
always did in situations like these; and somehow, it always drifted
back to the face in the stone, the face of a woman, the one he saw
down by the river.
* * *
IT
WAS JUST ANOTHER DAY IN OLD PORT FIERCE; and everywhere the Harlies
looked there were people rushing about like so many ants on the
ground just before a major storm. They were carrying boxes and
buckets, pushing carts and pulling wagons, tying down ropes, barking
and biting at one another, belting out orders, making last minute
adjustments, and doing all the things busy people usually do when
they are... well, busy.
"The hum of the hive!"
announced Elmo Cotton, much to the surprise and delight of his
unsuspecting driver. It one of those colorful terms his dead uncle
would throw at him from time to time, almost instinctively it
seemed, when describing scenes that demanded such eloquent
description, which, if painted in any other wordy fashion, no matter
how analytically applied, would not do it justice and lose all
intrinsic value in the process. The old fly-catcher was right, of
course; and it was a good analogy; for by then, many of the
fishermen had already returned and were selling their catch right
there on the dock as they had for generations. Others were busy
cleaning fish in front of potential customers, hawking their goods
and haggling over the price. It was not uncommon, and not very
different from what his dead uncle had told him. Only bloodier, Elmo
imagined.
The smell of the sea was
everywhere, or so it seemed; and it permeated just about everything.
There were merchants by the score, each wrapped up his own
capitalistic world, and sailors too numerous to count. There were
barrels rolling noisily down uneven planks, crates being lifted by
strong-armed men or hoisted aloft by some other mechanical means, as
evidenced by the perpetual motion of so many ropes and pulleys that
seemed to be operated by invisible hands. It was just like the old
man said: 'The hum of the hive!' And it was alive and well, right
there in Old Port Fierce.
By then, most of the fishermen
had returned in their smaller outriggers and were competing for
precious space along the wharf. There were perhaps a dozen of the
larger transports moored in the harbor that day, which only made it
more difficult for everyone else it seemed. It was times such as
these when liquid real estate was just as valuable as the dry
variety and, depending on location, demanded an even higher premium.
Gangplanks spilled out from these larger vessels all along the
seawall, angling up to the bulwarks at varying degrees. They were
long, weather-worn, gray and narrow, bending under the strain of men
loading and unloading cargo to and from all corners of the navigable
world.
The merchant ships were by far
the largest and the most active of these titanic ocean-going
vessels, and by far the busiest. Their nimble crews consisted of
stalwart men that appeared both strong and light-footed as they
jumped fore and aft, port to starboard, barking profanities at one
another like... like sailors! They scurried about the rigging like so
many shirtless spiders in an endless web of ropes and cables, each
performing his own specialized task with the precision and grace it
demanded. Driven purely by profit, and maybe even greed, it was no
wonder these ships were so full of activity. Apparently, it was the
merchant mariners who had the most to lose if their rigorous
schedules, held as they were so tightly to the dictates of the sea,
were indeed not met or impeded to any substantial degree. Naturally,
they had to be ready to set sail on a moment's notice, which they
all knew could come from the captain at any time, and under any
conditions. Just as farmers are always mindful of the weather, so
too are these sons of Noah forever aware of time and tide, knowing
full-well neither would wait for no one. They could read the stars
and ride the wind; and surely, like the old patriarch himself, they
would outlast any flood. These were the sons of sailors.
These were the men his uncle
once talked about on his back porch in Harley not too long ago. They
were the 'Sons of Sailors', a term applied without prejudice to
these noble men of the sea who, together with their shipmates and
captains, plowed the seven seas, over the shallowest reefs and in
the deepest oceans of the world. They needed little and asked for
less, except for maybe an honest captain, a healthy crew, a
seaworthy ship, some tea and biscuits perhaps, and a good strong
wind. Oh! And don't forget a good measure of rum, or at least a
little grog to drive off the spleen and make the midnight watch a
little less lonely. There's no better way to get to where they were
going; and if there were, the sons of sailors surely would have
figured it out by now. These were the sons of fishermen, the
harvesters of the sea. Most had earned their sea-legs under the
autocratic eye of the Navy. Some went on to become officers, like
Captain Roger Morgan, for instance, making careers out of what they
would've done anyway, only for allot less money. Others, like Elijah
Hatch, went on to become merchants marines, circling the globe many
times over in ships designed for such profitable excursions, ships
like the one anchored in the bay that day and making ready to sail,
the one they called 'The Maria Aurora'.
The military ships were
different, of course, as were the men that served on board them.
These were naval vessels of the time, marked accordingly with strong
wooden hulls, protracted sail, and heavily armed. Some were clad in
iron. They were built for speed and combat rather than transport and
commerce; and the men that worked them were just as hungry and lean.
They were young men, for the most part, who had freely enlisted in
the navy (although there were still a good many conscripts on board
that had been drafted during the war or, as in the famous and well
known case of that handsome sailor, Billy Budd, were absconded at
sea by upper echelons of the Fleet who were in need of their special
services) and for any number of reasons, steady employment being the
prime motivator, especially after the war when there was little else
they could do. Some of these men might have been sons of sailors;
but only the older and more experienced ones who'd earned that
prestigious and unspoken title, along with the respect that
naturally followed, would know for sure. And even then, it was
something they just didn't talk about. Why should they? They knew
who they were, and that was enough. They were the sons of sailors.
Generally speaking, the men
who served in the navy were young, clean-shaven, inexperienced and,
for the most part, lucky just to have a job that didn't include a
plow, a pick, or a spade. Some were educated, and perhaps just
looking for adventure, or what they perceived that to be. They would
quickly learn, however, that degrees and diplomas were about as
useful onboard a man-of-war as a sea-sick sailor prone to
shell-shock. Of course, there was always a criminal or two to be
found on these 'floating prisons', as one literary sailor once
described them, in which case they felt most at home. It would be
the officers' job to make sailors out of them – all of them, if it
was at all possible. In some cases it simply was not, no matter how
much time and patience was applied and no matter how desperately
they were needed. It's a profession not suited for everyone and,
more often than not, one that found the man, rather than the other
way around. These military mariners were all dressed in the same
common white cotton uniforms that day, sporting the wide-legged
trousers called duck pants and long-sleeved shirts that were
regulation issue at the time. Many wore caps and kerchiefs; others
did not. For some, it would be their first voyage; for others, it
would be their last.
Other than the discipline and
decorum that goes along with navy protocol and, perhaps, the absence
of their beards, there was really little distinction separating
these naval seamen from their merchant counterparts. For
generations, they'd sailed the same seas, drank from the same cup
and ate the same meals; they weathered the same storms, anchored in
the same ports, fought the same battles; they sang the same songs,
danced the same gigs, loved the same women and, from time to time,
they felt the same kick of a boot or sting of the whip. They
actually enjoyed each other's company, despite what you may've
already heard, more, perhaps, than any one of them would care to
admit. They shared things only the sons of sailors could properly
understand and appreciate. They talked about things they knew, a
never-ending debate which included, but was certainly not limited
to, such topics as: Who'd logged the most days at sea? Whose captain
was the bravest, the boldest, or the handsomest? Which officers were
fair and which ones weren't. Who were the cowards? And who were the
heroes? All the latest scuttlebutt. Who had the prettiest woman? In
what port? And for how long? Naturally, they talked about whose ship
was the biggest, the fastest, and who had the most guns. Not to
mention which vessel had the best cook and severed the best grub on
board; and so forth and so on.
At times these salty dogs of
the sea would even argue over such eclectic issues as: Who had the
most tattoos, or the longest beard? counting each line of indelible
ink and measuring each magnificent growth of beard right down to a
fraction of an inch with the skill and precision of a Chinese
tailor. Obviously these two categories naturally put the naval
sailors at a distinct disadvantage. For they were forever at the
mercy of the many codes and regulations prescribed by their superior
echelons, and were seldom if ever allowed to indulge themselves in
the manly arts beard growing and skin tattooing, much to their own
chagrin and despite their numerous protests, one of which nearly
ended in mutiny, if not a downright massacre, on a certain
man-of-war at one time.
With no particular flag or
affiliation to pledge their loyalty to, the true sons of sailors
served all and were party to none, private or public, merchant or
military. They were older than your ordinary seamen of the day; and
they looked it. Their faces were rough and ready, whiskered, and
sun-tanned; their skin had the feel and texture of old worn leather
with many fine lines, much like the scrimshaw they so lovingly
carved at times on whalebone or sharks teeth in their own gnarly and
talented hands. Earrings were common at the time, although only to
be worn in the masculine style with a great golden hoop piercing a
single lob, like the wedding band it was so often a substitute for
in this buoyant monastery of confirmed bachelors. These were the
sons of sailors. They came in all sizes and colors, and all manner
of dress: those in the private sector preferring the loose fitting
and colorful clothes fashionable at the time to the tightly fitted
and straight-laced uniforms issued to their military brethren.
Still, others wore very little at all, whenever they could get away
with it, that is, adorning their naked sun-baked bodies instead with
tattoos too numerous to mention and too detailed to describe with
any degree of accuracy. Tattooing was an ancient art, and one the
sons of sailors were naturally drawn to, like sharks to a dead
whale. There's permanence in tattoos they found favor with and could
definitely relate to. Having originated somewhere in the tropical
islands of the South Seas, it is supposed that these 'skin
illustrations' quickly caught the eye of the sons of sailors and the
attention of just about everyone, from missionary and pirate, who
happened to touch upon the enchanted islands where they had
originated.
The word itself, 'tattoo',
was actually derived from the distinct and unique tat-tat-tat
sound made by the primitive instruments that first produced them.
Although having existed long before any Caucasian foot fell on
aboriginal soil, these native illustrations first appeared in the
civilized lexicon shortly after the missionaries returned from their
Holy missions. In exchange for Bibles, beads, and the promise of
eternal life, a handful of these pious pioneers returned home with
these strange and un-abatable markings covering various parts of
their sanctified, and conspicuously naked, bodies, which many of
their contemporary Evangelicals considered nothing less than the
'mark of the devil', and just as heathenish.
But it was a small price to
pay, or so these priestly pirates protested, for not only winning
the heathen heart and converting the pagan, but persuading the
cannibal that it is much better, and healthier, to eat the flesh of
God rather than that of one another. And it worked! – that is, until
the Queen, Babinka, the old matriarch of the Island died one day
from a strange and terminal disease that the ship's doctor possessed
no knowledge of, and thus had no cure for. But in the end, the
missionaries had bitten off more than even they could chew. Or maybe
they simply wondered into the wrong hut one night, with a little too
much rum in their belly and not enough of the Holy Ghost to persuade
them to do otherwise. Perhaps they blessed the wrong virgin,
insulted the wrong king, or cursed the wrong god. No one knows for
sure. Eventually, they were either eaten alive or driven off the
Islands for good, to be replaced shortly after by pirates and other
enterprising entrepreneurs who brought with them death and disease;
along with rum, guns, and other instruments of fear, as fatal to the
savage heart as any pointed spear or Gideon's Bible. And they had
the tattoos to prove it.
They presently appeared as
some ancient code, hieroglyphically transcribed on a living organ.
And not unlike those famous scrolls of the Essences that would one
day be resurrected by a Palestinian shepherd boy in the vicinity of
the Dead Sea, so too would these modern day renderings be
meticulously scrutinized by priests and scholars alike as if they
were the mortal markings imparted on the Holy Shroud of Turin itself
with all their immortal implications, perhaps with the same
inconclusive results. And if by chance or design these same bodily
canvasses were ever to be exhumed and brought back from the land of
the dead like some rare mummified Egyptian, for whatever scientific
or anthropological reason, then perhaps they will relate to us a
similar story of a doomed culture, the painters and poets of which
will have turned to dust long before their sacred scribblings can be
deciphered. We may never know. And still, the ancient art of
tattooing survives antiquity, having been heroically exported over
sea though time and antiquity to more civilized worlds, along with
the artisans who'd created them; a dying breed whose masterpieces
can presently be found not hanging on the morbid walls of museums,
but rather decorating the skins of those who still wear them with as
much pride and dignity as kings and warriors.
These were 'old school'
tattoos, indelibly inscribed in solid black ink, as opposed to the
recent blue and green pigmentations utilized in more contemporary
body illustrations. It was an old and ancient recipe, the
ingredients of which no microscopic eye has yet to penetrate, and
thus analyze; and one no toxicologist could duplicate. The design
was pure and simple, made up of so many intricate lines and circles,
or parts thereof, skillfully woven in living fabric in fantastic and
phantasmagorical shapes, indistinguishable to all but the native eye
that alone has the power to understand, decipher, and thus
appreciate such graceful intricacies. Some were designed for purely
aesthetic purposes and worn exclusively by the woman of the Islands,
despite their inferior quality and potencies.
The tribal men were different,
however; they were the warriors. And the tattoos they wore were of
the masculine variety, thick and rich, the ink of which was said to
contain no small measure of human semen, never mind exactly how it
was extracted, amply supplied by the bravest warriors in order to
insure their power, potency, and, of course, their longevity. They
were meant to both frighten and confuse their enemy, in whatever
diabolical form they appeared. It was a special magic, one the
Redmen might call 'Big Medicine' that only the warrior could wear,
and only the holiest of hands could master. In some parts of that
tropical and aboriginal world, these ancient artisans were
considered gods in their own divine right, enjoying all adulation
afforded such deity and the privileges they'd so rightfully and
richly earned.
Naturally, these 'Island'
tattoos were highly sought after, and paid for handsomely, in
advance. Most sailors worn them; all sons of sailors did. They were
sown into their Saxon souls in the same manner as they'd always
been: skillfully, indelibly and, of course, painfully. You might
even call it a 'rights-of-passage', a tradition passed down by sons
of sailors throughout the ages who'd wore the savage insignias as
signs of their own pagan past, and in support and approval of such
tribal ritual. Life is short. Death is certain. But, like gold,
tattoos are forever. The men who wore them would take them to the
grave. It's a personal story, recorded in ink, and as much a part of
them as the lines on their faces or the veins in their neck. Remove
one indelible mark and the sailor dies. They are something neither
the fires of Hell nor the hand of God can erase. It is in their
hearts and in their heads. It's in their skin. They wear them
proudly but never in vain. They are the sons of sailors. That's who
they are. That's what they do. The tattoo says so.
The waters of Old Port Fierce
were calm that day; and with the tall ships anchored so closely to
the dock, Elmo imagined that it must be very deep there, even at the
seawall itself, which shot straight down into the black abyss like
the Pillars of Hercules. The air was crisp and there was a clear
blue sky. There were birds in the air, mostly seagulls. The smell of
fish seemed to everywhere. It was early afternoon by the time the
two Harlies rolled down Fisherman's Wharf. Many of the smaller boats
were already coming in with their catch of the day, out-rigged with
long fishing poles trolling for one last bite. Their nets were all
drawn; their hulls were packed.
With hair and aprons flying in
the breeze, the women of Old Port Fierce welcomed their haggard
husbands back home from the sea. Sometimes they could be seen
perched high atop their homes in what was appropriately, and for
obvious reasons, sometimes called the 'widows watch', or, more
specifically, that railed-off section of the roof reserved for such
portentous sightings, and thus providing them with the best
vantage-point for viewing all incoming ships, and one in particular.
The children of these woeful women could often be found below, along
that protracted wooden carpet, waving to their long lost fathers
with eager smiles, ignoring the wooden splinters that would
occasionally penetrate their bare and callused feet. Set up along
these salty planks were portable fish stands stocked with every
creature of the sea imaginable, from angel to zebra fish, looking as
if they could be easily disassembled and relocated at a moment's
notice. The owners of these makeshift storefronts kept themselves
busy by doing what they did every day of the week (except for
Sundays, of course, when they closed down their shops in observance
with the Holy Sabbath) for generations. They were weighing scales,
sharpening knives, cutting and cleaning fish, and throwing buckets
of salt water over the blood stained tables. Haggling with customers
over prices was a never-ending battle, and one they didn't always
win.
Elmo enjoyed all the strange
new activity. It made him feel alive and different, like he did when
he was a child so many years ago before his real troubles began, and
long before he became a raccoon on the run. He didn't particularly
care for the smell of fish, or the taste, but reckoned he would soon
get use to both; either that, or go hungry. But he did like the
hustle and bustle of the city, the 'hum of the hive!' as his uncle
once called it. And he didn't at all seem to mind the cacophony that
went along with it, which was quite unlike being back home in the
quite solitude of the bean fields. It reminded the Harlie of life.
It reminded him of Freedom, although he still wasn't sure what that
really meant.
Old Port Fierce was actually a
good place to get lost, whether you wanted to or not. And with so
many different kinds of people milling about that day, Elmo was
hoping to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The diversity of the
scene was overwhelming, and so were the many thoughts racing trough
the raccoon's suspicious but open mind. He was seeing things he'd
never seen before, and hearing voices that were as new and different
as the faces they were articulated from. But it was the smell that
that stood out the most of all that day. It was the smell of the
sea, fish! – the salt and sustenance of Mother Nature, that
unmistakable odor that reminds all warm blooded mammals exactly
where they came from and where they truly belong, whether they care
to admit it or not.
Smell it? Aye! It's scent of a
woman. It's in the womb, that same salty substance we all swim
through, like salmon struggling up stream for the survival of the
species, or die in the process. And the smell pleased the Harlie
very much and made him glad that he was alive. And yet, the raccoon
knew all along that he could not stay there forever, or even for
very long, at least not as long he would've liked, and certainly not
as long as he wanted to. He still had a date with the Miracle-Maker.
Raccoon had been asleep all
day in the snug hollow of a tree and dusk was coming on when he
awoke. Raccoon stretched himself once or twice and then jumped down
from the top of the tall dead stump in which he made his home and
then set out to look for his supper. In the midst of the woods
there was a lake, and all along the lake shore there rang out the
alarm cries of the Water People as Raccoon came nearer and nearer.
First Swan gave a scream of warning, then Pelican repeated the cry,
and from the very middle of the lake, Loon who was swimming low took
it up and echoed it back over the still water. Raccoon sped merrily
on and finding no unwary bird that he could seize, he picked up a
few mussel shells from the beach, cracked them neatly and ate the
sweet meat. A little further on as he was leaping hither and
thither through the long, tangled meadow grass, Raccoon landed with
all four feet on a family of Skunks, Father, Mother and twelve
little ones who were curled up sound asleep in a soft bed of broken
dry grass. "Huh" ! exclaimed Father Skunk. "What do you mean by
this, eh"? And Father Skunk stood looking at Raccoon defiantly.
"Oh, excuse me, excuse me", begged Raccoon. "I am very sorry. I
did not mean to do it! I was just running along and I did not see
you at all". "Better be careful where you step next time" grumbled
Father Skunk and Raccoon was glad to hurry on. Running up a tall
tree, Raccoon came upon two red Squirrels in one nest but before he
could get his paws upon one of them, they were scolding him angrily
from the topmost branch. "Come down, friends"! called Raccoon. "What
are you doing up there? Why, I wouldn't harm you for anything"!
"Ugh, you can't fool us", chattered Squirrel and Raccoon went on.
Deep in the woods at last, Raccoon found a great hollow tree which
attracted him by a peculiar sweet smell. He sniffed and sniffed and
went round and round till he saw something trickling down a narrow
crevice. He tasted it and it was deliciously sweet.Raccoon ran up
the tree and down again and at last found an opening into which he
could thrust his paw. He brought it out covered with honey!Now
Raccoon was happy. He ate and scooped, and scooped and ate the
golden trickling honey with both forepaws till his pretty pointed
face was daubed all over. Suddenly Raccoon tried to get a paw into
his ear. Something hurt him terribly and the next minute his
sensitive nose was frightfully stung. Raccoon rubbed his face with
both sticky paws. The sharp stings came thicker and faster and he
wildly clawed the air. Raccoon forgot to hold on to the branch and
with a screech he tumbled to the ground. There he rolled and rolled
on the dead leaves till he was covered with leaves from head to
foot, for the leaves stuck to his fine sticky fur and most of all,
they covered his eyes and his striped face. Mad with fright and
pain, Raccoon dashed through the forest calling to one of his own
kind to come to his aid. The Moon was now bright and many of the
Wood's People were abroad. A second Raccoon heard the calls and
went to meet it but when he saw a frightful object, plastered with
dry leaves, racing madly toward him he turned and ran for his life
for he did not know what this thing might be. The Raccoon who had
been stealing the honey ran after him as fast as he could, hoping to
overtake and beg the other to help him get rid of his leaves. So
they ran and they ran out of the woods on to the shining white beach
around the lake. Here Fox met them, but after one look at the queer
object which was chasing the frightened Raccoon, he too turned and
ran at his best speed. Presently a young Bear came loping out of
the wood and sat up on his haunches to see them go by. But when he
got a good look at the Raccoon who was plastered with dead leaves,
Bear too scrambled up a tree to be out of the way. By this time the
poor Raccoon was so frantic that he scarcely knew what he was doing.
He ran up the tree after Bear and got hold of his tail. "Woo, woo"!
snarled Bear, and Raccoon let go. He was tired out and dreadfully
ashamed. He did now what he ought to have done at the very
first....he jumped into the lake and washed off most of the leaves.
Then Raccoon went back to his hollow tree and curled himself up and
licked and licked his soft fur till he had licked himself clean and
then Raccoon went soundly back to sleep.
Chapter Two
Roger Morgan'S Eyes
(and the Bell Tower)
"MISTER HATCH! MISTER HATCH!" shouted the farmer to a tall bearded man
standing alone on the pier that day.
Conspicuously dressed in a
long dark coat and sporting a black stove-pipe hat with a single
white oleander flower strapped in its band, stood the man that
Mister Dixon Sherman had been looking for.
Either the merchant didn't
hear him, or he simply had more important things on his mind at the
time to take any notice. He looked a just a little confused, like a
man who suddenly remembered there was something he was supposed to
do, but just couldn't remember exactly what it was.
"You be Mister Hatch?"
enquired the fat brown turtle, pulling his wagon to within ear shot
of the tall thin man. Sherman knew who he was talking to, of course;
unless there was another man with a grim face, a gray beard, and
black hat and coat wondering around in Old Port Fierce. But he
didn't want to sound presumptuous, or take any unnecessary
liberties. It was just the way his momma brought him up.
"Who wants to know," voiced
the beard beneath the hat. He was going through the pockets of his
coat when he said it, and wasn't paying particular attention to the
two traveling Harlies, one of which he'd met only three weeks
earlier. He was also naturally suspicious of anyone, particularly
those he didn't immediately recognized, calling out his name so free
and easily. "Whadaya want?" he demanded to know.
Whadaya want? Who wants to
know? They were questions Sherman wasn't particularly prepared to
answer, simply because he didn't think it was necessary. But he
answered them anyway; and in the only he knew how – honestly. "It's
just me, Mister Hatch" he said, as if he was a little disappointed,
"Sherman...Sherman Dixon?"
The man in the hat looked the
fat man up and down as he would a sack of beans or a side of beef,
and then just stood there for a while. "I'm Hatch. My name is Elijah
Hatch," he finally said through a face full of short gray whiskers.
"You're the farmer – Ain't you?"
The driver jumped off his
wagon while Elmo remained high on the buckboard. He pulled a long
piece of paper from deep inside his coat pocket and, putting his
best foot forward, said with a smile: "Yes, sir! Sherman Dickman... I
mean Dixon! – At your service!" he beamed with noticeable pride.
"It's all right 'chere, Mister Hatch. In black and white,' he
quickly added in his best businessman-like voice as he meekly handed
the document over to the man whose signature appeared at the bottom
of the contract along with his own.
Elijah Hatch looked over the
paper he'd signed earlier that month and handed it back to the
excited turtle. "Hummm," he sounded, while cutting open a sack of
beans with a long sharp knife as though he was slitting the throat
of a well-fed pig. The knife came out of nowhere, or so it appeared.
Maybe it was hidden beneath the merchant's long black coat, the
raccoon imagined, much like the Bowie knife he'd kept stealthfully
strapped to his leg all this time, only a much sharper, it would
seem. Or perhaps the old man kept under his hat. It was certainly
tall enough to conceal such a weapon, along with a rabbit or two,
Elmo observed from a distance, and not such a bad idea. "From
Harley, I s'pose," questioned the mad-hatter with the knife.
"Yes sir, Mister Hatch. That's
where we's from," answered the farmer as he gingerly folded up the
paper contract in his fat brown fingers, carefully placing it back
inside his coat as if it were, in fact, the map to King Solomon's
lost mines or Captain Cook's buried treasure,. He then turned his
attention to the promised produce by slapping one of the large
burlap sacks as he would the beefy broad backside of his own beloved
wife while proudly proclaiming: "Now them's beans!"
The black hat seemed to agree,
but the look on his weather- worn face told the turtle that he'd
seen better. Meanwhile, Elmo, who remained seated in the wagon,
stared down at the man in the black hat wondering how, or even if,
he should approach him at that time with his ambitious and still
uncertain plan. Suddenly, the raccoon was beginning to think that
going off to sea might not be such a good idea after all, especially
if those who would be accompanying him looked anything like the tall
black ghost standing in front of him that could produce knives out
of thin air, or even his hat, at any given moment.
"And who's this?" the merchant
suddenly demanded to know, deliberately pointing his long gray
eyebrow in the raccoon's direction while still running his fingers
through the Harley beans on the back of Sherman's wagon.
But before Sherman could
answer, the Harlie raccoon stood up and spoke for himself. "Name's
Cotton," he said, nervously brushing the beans from his tangled hair
and climbing cautiously down from the wagon. "Elmo –" he added,
realizing, too late of course, that he might've already revealed
too much of his true identity and wondering if he would've been
better served by using a different name altogether, something that
didn't sound so... so, Harlie. After all, this man called Hatch had
already been to Harley, at least once by Elmo's reckoning, to close
the deal with Sherman; and he could've been there many more times
before that. He could even be a Creekman, for the sharecropper knew,
and might even know Sheriff John Townsend. Elmo knew he'd have to be
much more careful in the future; that is, if he were to have a
future. But it was too late; he'd already spilled the beans, at
least a good many more than he actually would have liked. He would
just have to make the best of it. "Elmo Cotton," he repeated,
unashamedly, giving full and unambiguous disclosure to his real name
and true identify, even though he knew by now that Cotton wasn't his
real name at all. It was just as well, he thought. "Howdy," he then
smiled, honestly, with an open palm and an open mind.
The merchant didn't smile
back. "Cotton's white where I come from," he matter-of- factly
stated, offering no greeting in return and taking no hand on first
acquaintance.
Realizing he'd probably gone
too far already and, perhaps, a little too hastily, the Harlie
summarily withdrew his hand. He picked a few stray beans out of his
hair as the black hat bore down on him, curiously, his cold gray
eyes squinting slightly beneath the broad black brim. It reminded
the raccoon of the way Sheriff Townsend once looked down on him in a
similar fashion from on top of a tall gray mare. The similarity was
alarming. They were the same suspicious eyes, like those of a
China-man, only in the merchant's case, bushier on top, and perhaps
a little older and grayer.
And then the hat spoke: "Once
knew a man named Cotton. He was a big man; a cook! if I'm not
mistaken. They sailors called him 'Spider'. Dark as the devil. From
Harley, too; a sharecropper, I 'spose," suggested the merchant with
a reminiscent smile while driving his long chiseled nose into an
open bag of beans for professional reasons. "Not as good a last
year," he judged out loud. "Must be the drought... takes the kick
right out of 'em; the smell, too. That's what Spider told me... the
cook, that is. Don't suppose you're related tho'." And here the gray
eyebrows glided in for a closer look. "Too light!" he observed at
once. "You look more like one of those Islanders, boy... Ever been to
the Rock?"
Elmo shook his head no.
The merchant persisted: "The
Rock, man! The Island of the two volcanoes. The land of bleeding
Rock? Sure, you must have heard of it. The Parrot Islands?"
Elmo just then remembered one
of the sailors he'd meet earlier that day, the one with the wooden
leg, he thought, mentioning something about a parrot, which meant
nothing to him at the time. He now, chiefly from the merchant's last
remark, guessed it to be an island, or something, and very far away
no doubt. 'The Parrot' as it is sometimes collectively known as,
consists of a group of small islands, often referred to as an
archipelago, lying far across the Pacific ocean, southeast, in that
tropical part of the world where such scattered land masses are
frequently found. The Parrot Islands were just of these vast
archipelagoes, formed eons ago by the volcanic activity which, even
today, adds to the richness of landscape as well as their
ever-expanding perimeter, often at the great peril of the native
inhabitants. The island alluded to by the black merchant that day
was, in fact, located in that same archipelago, known as the Parrot
Islands, primarily because of the many species of colorful birds
that inhabited the rain forest that flourished in the tropical
environment. There were other names as well, as hunted upon in the
previous narrative: 'The Island of the two Volcanoes' was one of
them, aptly applied in view of the two active volcanoes that made up
approximately fifty percent of the island's jungled land mass; the
'Land of the Bleeding Rock' was another – henceforth, 'The Rock' as
observed by both the merchant and the one-eyed sailor. But to the
aborigines who lived there, it was called in their own native
tongue, as it had been for two thousand years – 'Ishtari-Toa'. It
also happened to be the very same volcanic island Zeke Harley, aka
'Spider' Cotton, visited some years ago when he sailed onboard the
Firefly, along with Mister Elijah hatch and Captain Maximilian
Orlando; and where he first came into contact with the Motherstone.
He was ship's cook at the time, and, by all historical accounts, a
damn good one. Elmo had heard the name before, 'Spider' Cotton, not
only from his dead uncle who had spoke of this mysterious black
'spider' on more than one occasion, as if he actually might have
known him at one time, but just then from the black-hatted merchant
himself who gave reference to such a 'spidery' individual. The fact
that they shared the same name, Cotton, actually didn't mean very
much to the raccoon, or perhaps not as much as it should have. It
was not an uncommon name, especially among Harlies, and Negroes in
general who naturally were given such colorful appellations view of
their agricultural occupations and lack of family genealogy. He also
vaguely recalled Joe Cotton mentioning something about an island
once... with a funny sounding name. He wanted to talk some more to the
tall man with the menacing eyebrows about this place he called 'The
Rock', wherever it was, but decided it would not be in his best
interest to do so. He was still very suspicious of this man called
Hatch; and he had a right to be, and thought he should find out a
little more about him first, if that was even possible. So instead,
he simply and shyly asked: "That were you come from?"
The tall man answered the
Harlie with yet another discerning glance. "Why? Do I look like I'm
from the Islands?"
Elmo felt as though he was
being tested in some manner, although he didn't understand why.
"Well, no. It's just that..."
The fat farmer interrupted.
"It's just that my friend here ain't never seen nobody from the
Islands before," he smiled, having already taken his client for a
man not in the habit of answering questions, particularly ones of a
personal nature, and especially those coming from a Harlie
sharecropper who didn't even look like a Harlie. Besides, it just
wasn't done that way. "He don't mean nothin' by it, Mister Hatch,"
apologized the turtle, rather nervously... "He just ig'nat. That's
all."
Elmo looked a little angry.
The merchant appeared disinterested. He walked slowly over to the
wagon and began examining the rest of his purchase as if still
trying to decide whether or not the beans were worth his hard-earned
money after all. "Bad crop – Eh?" he finally suggested before any
money was actually exchanged.
"S'been like that all over,
Mister Hatch," the farmer further apologized. "Just ask Elmo – I
means, Mister Cotton here. And not just in Harley."
"So I've heard," agreed the
merchant, taking no further interest in the raccoon and focusing all
his attention on the business at hand. "Not enough rain, I reckon.
Well, can't do much about that now. Can we? These will do," he said
after a moment of quiet deliberation. "Gonna be a long voyage, you
know. Harley beans are good for that. They don't spoil. High in
protein, too! Drives off the scurvy, or so I'm told. And besides,
the sailors seem to like 'em."
"You can eats 'em right out of
the sack! See?" said the turtle, reaching down, grabbing a healthy
handful of the potent pellets and gulping them down right there on
the spot just to prove his point. Not that he really had to, of
course. But hey! This is Sherman Dixon we're talking about. Right?
The same fat farmer who once ate a week old dead catfish right off
the pavement and a carrot vomited up by a mule. Don't ever tell
Mister Dixon there ain't no such thing as a free lunch. You just
might get the same response Cornelius G. Wainwright III got. The
only difference, of course... Sherman wouldn't even leave the bones.
"Man don't live by breadfruit
alone," admonished Mister Elijah Hatch, as solemnly and
prophetically as the biblical named assigned to him at birth. He
suddenly seemed to be speaking to himself as he pointed a long hard
finger towards a pier at the end of a long dock.
"That's where you go, boys,"
instructed the merchant, pointing a long gray finger at the tallest
mast in the harbor that day. " The captain's name is Morgan – Roger
Morgan. You'll find him there. The ships called the Maria Aurora,"
continued the hat, drawing the Harlies attention to the tall
square-rigged vessel docked not very far from them.
Beggin' your pardon, sir,"
said the turtle, apologetically, "But what does that has to do with
me?"
"The beans, man," the merchant
scowled, "...the beans!"
It was at that point Sherman
suddenly realized that his precious produce was to be delivered and
taken onboard the same vessel he and the raccoon had so admired
earlier that day from afar; the very same ship Mister Elijah Hatch
was presently referring to that day, and docked at the extreme end
of the long wooden pier.
"Tell him Hatch sent you.
He'll know what to do. And see that the cargo is placed in his care...
And his care only! D'ya hear me, boy? I'll pay you later," the
merchant added, tipping the black rim of his hat as sign of further
good will and confidence. "If you're asked to give a hand, best lend
it. I'll pay you for that as well, and make it worth your while."
The farmer had no immediate
objections to the merchant's last minute instructions, which
actually came across more as an order than anything else; and
indeed, he intended to do exactly as he was told. He trusted this
man called Hatch, almost implicitly by now, knowing all along that
somehow, somewhere, he'd be paid in full, and at the proper time.
After all, he did have a contract. Didn't he?
The Harlie raccoon wasn't so
sure, however; but once again, he decided to keep his thoughts, as
well as his suspicions, to himself and not meddle in the business
affairs of his friend and neighbor, even though a portion of the
profits, never mind how small, resulting from the exchange were
legally and rightfully his, as Sherman himself had so magnanimously
pointed out. And even if, judging from the quality of the crop, that
portion turned out to be little more than a fraction of what the
Harlie might otherwise have received under his own bargaining
powers, which had always left much to be desired, that would still
not be enough; at least not even enough to buy Nadine a proper
bathtub, as he'd once promised her. But it just might be enough to
buy him a ticket out of Old Port Fierce.
Not to be taken advantage of
so easily, at least not as much as his reputation would allow, the
fat farmer wisely begged the next obvious question, "How do I know
what he look like?"
The merchant hesitated, and
then appeared to smile; although, with his hat and beard, not to
mention a very sober and serious disposition, it was actually hard
to tell. "He's the one with the patriot eyes," he finally stated,
like Uncle Sam, in a black hat.
"Parrot eyes?" questioned the
fat farmer, plunging out his ear with his little pinky finger (which
actually wasn't so little, or pink, at all) as if he was having
trouble hearing at the time.
Sensing the farmer's handicap,
linguistically speaking, that is, the merchant elucidated. "Red,
white, and blue," he duly noted, "the colors of liberty."
"Huh?"
"You heard me, boy... Ol' Glory!
The stars and stripes. The twilight's last gleaming..." he solemnly
sang.
The turtle still didn't seem
to understand, and neither did the raccoon; it showed in two silent
blank stares.
"Fire and blood!" burst forth
the merchant, with not a little of both in his own piercing gray
eyes that did not go unnoticed by the two muted Harlies. Fire! It's
in the eyes... Aye, Morgan's eyes. Red! Hot as Satan's hooves. White!
as the Judgment Throne of God. And blue... blue as the first born
ocean. Peel your eyes for him, lads! You can't miss him."
The Harlies looked at one
another in awkward astonishment. "B-but, w-what?" stuttered the
turtle, not exactly sure at first what to make of such a devilish
description, and still a little wary of the unscheduled
arrangements, "....does I say?"
"As little as possible,"
admonished the merchant. "He's not a man to be taken lightly. And he
certainly doesn't have time to waste answering a lot foolish
questions," he warned. "Besides, he knows you're coming... that should
be enough. Now get going! And don't be mixing with those sailors,
either," cautioned the man in the cylindrical black hat. "They ain't
your kind. Any one of them will slit your throat as soon as shake
your hand... maybe just to see if you bleed black blood," he added
with a curious but well-intentioned smile aimed directly at the
raccoon this time. This ain't Harley, boys! You just remember that
now... and you'll be alright."
"Y-Yes sir, Mister Hatch.
Aye-aye! Er... Yes! s-sir... sir," stammered Sherman, struggling with
his own words as much as he was with the merchant's steely-eyed
stare. "I be glads to help. Mister Cotton here, too!"
"Well, see that you do,"
Elijah flatly stated with a half-frozen face and arctic eyebrows.
"Come and see me when you're all done. I'll be with the captain by
then."
Knowing it was late in the
afternoon and would soon be getting dark, Elmo didn't want to take
any chances; and he certainly didn't want to lose Mister Elijah
Hatch or Captain Roger Morgan in the cacophony of the port city that
he guessed would soon be as black as the back of Sherman Dixon's
hands. The captain and the merchant represented his only two
chances, thus far, of getting on board. It was the raccoon's turn to
speak up and ask the same question the turtle was just about to ask:
"Where?"
The merchant appeared both
amused and annoyed at the same time, which was only possible for a
man of his dynamic personality, at the raccoon's summary request. It
almost made him smile. "You see that, lad?" he said pointing, just
as he done before with the same compass-like index finger, to a tall
white steeple at the end of the shell-rock road, which sat high atop
an equally white-washed church where Fisherman's Warf actually
began. "See it!" he continued, pointing in the direction of the holy
steeple, "You can't miss it."
Following an imaginary line
delineated by Mister Elijah Hatch's elongated finger, the Harlies
could just barely make out what he was so adamantly directing their
attention towards. It was a church, painted entirely in white, with
a belfry mounted conspicuously at the summit of the steeple and
crowned with solid black crucifix. What made this particular house
of worship so distinctively different from all others of its day was
something else that'd been incorporated into steeple's design and
placed there for one specific purpose. It was, in fact, an actual
crow's nest; one that had been salvaged from a scuttled whaler and
installed directly above the belfry at one time, serving as both
lookout and lighthouse for any and all incoming ships of no
particular banner. It was a familiar sight, recognizable to any
sailor's sore eyes, especially those recently blinded by wind and
rain, and a welcome relief to those that gaze longingly, lovingly,
upon such earthly and heavenly things. It was an appropriate,
practical, and fully functional accommodation; and it worked!
allowing priest or laity the best vantage-point of viewing any and
all ships entering or exiting the harbor at any given time.
Naturally, it was usually the
homeward-bound ships that drew the most attention from the crow's
nest cathedral. And upon such sightings, the piously perched lookout
would immediately leave his cozy quarters and descend into the
belfry below, whereupon he would then sound the approach of the
incoming vessel by industriously ringing the great bell and clapper,
calling families and friends together to greet their seafaring loved
ones at the dock. It was a simple, and sometimes morbid, reminder of
the lives they choose to live, with all the vicissitudes and
uncertainty associated with the fishery. The bell was also an
effective, but somewhat gruesome, way of letting all those
concerned, especially the good women of Old Port Fierce who, with
babies still sucking at their at their sainted breast and whose
husbands were generally employed in the business of the fishery,
typically were he the first to arrive, be aware of which of the men
had arrived home safely, and which had not. The bell also tolled
once for each if those who returned; twice, for those who didn't;
and, because it's shape and size, it could be heard for many miles
away.
The merchant asked again, "Do
you see it now, lads?"
The lookout steeple towered
high above every other structure in town, including the new
courthouse on Front Street, which had only recently been constructed
and boasted four stories in all. The large copper bell sounded
religiously each and every Sunday morning as well, at precisely nine
o'clock, calling the faithful to service, and saints and sinners to
their knees. It was a holy and sanctified place, a home to widows
and orphans alike, and to the sons of sailors, orphans themselves in
many undocumented cases, who knew first-hand the dangers of working
on the tall ships and the hardships associated with that
time-honored and noble profession that had sustained the friends and
families for so long.
Despite the meager rewards and
the many risks involved in the fishery and the many shipping
industries it generated, it was job the sons of sailors loved
none-the-less, and one they performed with pride, and a certain
reverence only they could understand. It was a tradition served. And
they served it well; from cradle to grave in most cases, passing
down their nets and outriggers from one generation to the next, as
ceremoniously as they would the rusty muskets and war-worn sabers
their venerable grandfathers once fought with under General George
Washington, or their great-grandma's wedding ring that would one day
grace the fated finger of yet another fisherman's wife. They learned
it. They lived it. And they loved it. It was as pure and simple as
that. One day, they might even die for it, as evidenced every time
the bell rang out in the old white steeple, signaling that yet
another sailor had perished at sea. It sounded a little different
then, not like it did on Sunday mornings when the tone was less
ominous and more welcoming, as it should be. Whether or not the bell
ringer actually had any control over this audible variance was never
disclosed, not publicly anyway; but rumor had it that these musical
monks who preformed this vital task were well-trained in acoustics,
as well as other arts and sciences they were required to learn in
their scholarly pursuits, and possessing many musical talents. It
was all part of the curriculum, the training which, by the way, was
equal to that of any PhD whose ivy-league letters might include
Harvard and Yale. It was their job. It came with the robe, so to
speak, like Poverty, Chastity, and Obedience. And if that robe
happened to be a black, rather than the traditional brown that is
typically observed adorning the impoverished bodies of their poor
Franciscan brothers...well, so much the better! For this special breed
of Brotherhood, or the 'Black Friars' as they were appropriately and
commonly called, were indeed not only the true Fishers-of-men, as
commissioned by the Holy One Himself and commanded by their own
infallible conscience, but sons of sailors as well, of the oldest
and highest order, following in the fishy footsteps of Ol' Saint
Peter, the patron saint of all fisherman who, not unlike his
unsinkable Lord and Master, once walked on the water. They were
missionaries, of course, Christians, for the most part, and sons of
sailors all, who were so seldom seen on dry land that they were
often thought not even to exist. They lived instead in monetary,
onboard one of the oldest and largest ships still afloat in all the
oceans of the world and presently moored in its own private dock at
the very end of Fisherman's Wharf, a place specifically designed to
accommodate such a deep hulled vessel. She was called the
'EVANGELINE', a converted man-o-war with her original guns still
intact and very much operational. 'Just in case...' so warned the
current master-at-arms, a portly old mariner and occasional drunkard
who'd once served as chief gunner's mate in His Majesties Royal
Navy, and who now went by the reverend and respected name of Brother
Charles Owen. He was only one of a hundred and fifty-two monks to
have joined the cloistered ranks thus becoming an official and
life-long member of that eclectic, revered, and much admired group
of evangelical mariners collectively known as 'the brothers of the
black sail.'
The ship, the 'EVANGELINE',
was marked by single black jib that flew forever from her crucifixed
bowsprit, and captained by a old gray-beard monk who would
occasionally drop anchor in Old Port Fierce to fill his holy hull
with guns and Bibles, beer and bread: the staple of these marauding
sea-preachers who made it their sacred mission in life to convert
every pagan to the one true Faith, whether they liked it or not, and
bring them to the foot of the one true cross, or at least to the
place of the skull, Golgotha. And they would, as their holy oath
demanded, sail to the ends of the earth to accomplish their
apostolic mission, not unlike the holy pilot Paul himself who, in
similar fashion, both as prisoner and mate, set his own Roman sail
on Mediterranean waters of Asia Minor, only to be shipwrecked off
the rocky coast of Malta which, in God's great glory, he was able to
incorporate in one of his many canonized letters, along with being
whipped, beaten with rods, stoned, et al, and live to boast about
it. And like the great evangelist, they asked for little and took
even less, except perhaps a little grog for those long and lonely
nights sons of sailors are forced to endure in a Paradise of
Bachelors, and a proper Christian burial; at sea, of course.
And when it came their time
to go home (not their earthly home which, as the sons of sailors are
keenly aware of, is ephemeral at best; but that Heavenly home that
can only be reached in death; the one that awaits us all and is our
ultimate destination, and true home) there was only one place these
'Brothers of the black sail' wanted to be – the sea, of course!
Where else? And when the time finally arrived for these maritime
monks to climb onboard the great white ship of Salvation, bound for
the sacred shores of Jerusalem, perhaps, they would not hesitate for
one solitary second; and just like their brothers before them, who'd
long since made that fated and fantastic voyage of which there is no
return, they always seemed to know approximately, if not exactly,
when that time was drawing near. You could hear it in the sound of
the bell. Call it instinct, if you will, like salmon swimming
upstream to mate or elephants burying the bones of their behemoths.
Perhaps it was something they shared with their fishermen fathers,
the previously touched upon 'merfolk' of legend, a
commonality that could not be easily understood by those who made
their home in dry terra firma, nor erased by the hands of
time, the deeds of man, the process of evolution, or even grim death
itself...
Don't these bury bones in dry
dusty earth...There be worms down there! The air's too stuffy and,
besides, it's too damn dirty. Give me clean sheets! D'ya hear, mate?
Canvass! White shrouds to cover a black heart. Aye...that's the
ticket! But why all the secrecy? Wasn't it the Lord himself who'd
once consoled the grieving fisherman by telling him, in some
un-canonized version of the Holy Gospel, the Apocrypha, I believe it
is called, that all would be saved, despite the mortal sins that had
earned them eternal wrath and damnation? Wasn't it the one
unspeakable truth he'd warned the blessed saint of in the Heavenly
halls, perhaps even as the resurrected Host handed him keys to
Paradise and bade him not to mention it to anyone? Is God so
merciful as to forgive the unforgivable? Maybe... maybe not. It's not
for us to decide, or judge. Even He was forsaken, at one time. But
just in case, send me off in clean white sheets. A disguise so pure
and simple that Saint Peter himself might just look the other way,
and hold his holy nose, 'ere I enter Jehovah's kingdom by the sea.
Yeah! Plant me at sea and let me be. It's the only cemetery for the
likes of me. No Eulogy necessary. No wishes, no wakes. No tears!
Save your flowers for weddings. Seaweed and sardines for the
undertaker. Coral for a coffin, plankton for my pillow. Graves are
for farmers; they live in the soil, let them die in dirt as well?
Bankers and lawyers have their mausoleums waiting for them: a rich
man's grave, they say; but even with all that power and wealth, they
cannot roll a single stone. But wait! What's this? Didn't our Lord
once say, in so many holy words, that it would be more difficult for
a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven than it would be for him
to pass through the eye of a needle? Aye, a difficult thing to
accomplish! But he never said it was impossible, observes the
wealthy old Jew. He may be right, you know; stranger and more
fantastic things have happened. Potter's Field for the poor! insists
the Pharisees and Sadducees while sweeping the floor of the Temple
and discovering forty pieces of silver in the process; cremation for
all the rest! What's the difference anyway? The bodies of murderers
and thieves will burn no less and just as brightly, or so I am told,
as those of dead Vikings warriors and kings; and their bones will
turn as easily to ash. Give me a bed that's cold and wet, and
clammy, one I rest comfortably on, for a while at least. Eternity's
not such a long time, I reckon. Bury me deep, boys... Fathoms! I say.
So that not even the sea-witch can find me... the ol' whore! Curse her
cursed and crusty head. She's the Devil, I tell you! S'been lookin'
for me for some time, you know. God knows where I'll be when she
finally catches up with me. In Davy Jones', I hope. God forgive me...
but spare me your prayers, Mister Preacher-man; and save your
sermons for Sundays, as well as your homilies and benedictions. Weep
for the widows, and be done with it! Poverty has many orphans, or so
I'm told; so feed them while you can: Fishes and loaves! Fishes and
loves! Bread and beer, too, if you can find them. Tis' better than
peaches and peacock. So eat, my boys! And drink to the devil, the
bitch in the bay. We live, we die... That's what coffins are for –
Ain't they? Well, if I must have one, then hell, make it a sieve.
Hey! You there, Brother Carpenter! Drill a hole or two in that pine
box of mine. I want it to leak! And throw in a stone or two, for
ballast, don't you know; and perhaps me pipe and a bottle of rum.
Let me go quick. Soon I'll be food for fish. A fine and happy house
my empty skull will make for some ol' hermit crab. But wait! I
almost forgot. What is a grave, even a wide and watery one like
mine, without a proper headstone? Fetch me the blacksmith. Quick,
boy! Off with you, lad. Find me an anchor. And make sure it's good
and heavy, so it takes me down real quick. No chains necessary. You
won't need a windless. No time to waste! Who wants to float forever?
Here now, lad, take my hand one last time before I go. Feel how cold
it is? Like a fish! Ain't it? Hell's bells! I'm dead already. Now,
tie me up tight, my boys! That's it... nice and snug. There you go.
Tuck me in and give us a kiss. And don't forget to nail down the
lid... I mean, hatch. Poor Queeg-Queeg doesn't know what he's missing.
Now! Over the side with me, lads! That's right. Do it nice and easy,
won't you? Gently... Gently... There you go, man. Now lower away! Just
let me go. The anchor... I mean my headstone... will do the rest.
Goodbye! Goodbye! No tears, mind you. Remember now, we're all sons
of sailors. So, down, down, down, down I go. Out of the blue and
into the black. Fathoms save me... I go where the hammer-head go. I
sound. I swim with the fishes. Starfish! Seahorses! Is that a
jellyfish I see? Neptune, are you there? Show me your pointed
tirade, your bearded face and fishy tail. Hasn't seen the white
whale? Or ol' Ahab for that matter? I'll be with them soon enough.
Quick! One last breath and my lungs are filled. I can breathe at
last. And then, then, and they burst. But wait! Not just yet. Is
that a tail-fin I see over yonder? Flukes! How lovely...Great God of
the ocean! My wife – Is that you? Maria! Oh, my blushing bride! How
sweet and beautiful you look. So, my dear, you have waited for me
after all, after all these years...just like you said you would. But
am I too late? Too old? Too gray? Too... dead? Is this the promised
Paradise? Hold on, my dearest, my darlin', my Love! I'm coming! I'm
coming! Just one more...But wait, I'm sleepy now, and I hear the bells
a'ringin'...'
And just as the merchant
dropped his finger, the bell in the church steeple rang out once
more, calling the boats back into the bay along with the sons of
sailors who served them so faithfully, so well, and for so long.
There they would wait, as the sun spun on its axis and the moon
turned the tides gently, gently away. There they would also sleep,
and perhaps live to hear it ring yet another day, hopefully; and not
for the last time.
On such days as these, when
the sun was beginning its predictable journey (although, of course,
it's merely the rotation of our own earthly satellite spinning on
her axis which gives the sun-god, Ra, the illusion of mobility) over
the jagged peaks of the western skyline, did the old monastery
appear. The monk remained in his crow's nest until all the ships
were safely moored, except perhaps for a few stray fishing boats
that would be arriving late and, because of a clear crimson sky,
were in no immediate danger and in no need of intervention,
spiritual or otherwise. The look-out had done his job well, which
was all that was expected of the old Quasimodo, his black hood fixed
firmly over his hump as he tread the marble floors of Notre Dame in
search of Esmeralda.
The bell had stopped ringing;
the clapper at rest, for the time being at least. The boats were all
in by now, except perhaps for a few of the smaller vessels that
would remain in the shallows for a while longer, dragging their nets
behind in hopes of snagging a few stray mullets that they might use
for bait the very next morning, or, better yet, bring home to their
wife to fry up for breakfast. And so the old hunch back donned his
long black robe and headed for mess hall where he would sit down and
break bread with his brother bell-ringers at supper. It was the end
of another day. Soon, the crouching lion of Avenue 'D' would be
awaken once more, stalking the salty streets of Old Port Fierce as
he'd done for over a hundred years, in the dark night of the flesh
such as these, in a place called Shadytown. The brothers would not
be there to greet him, of course; they'd all be fast asleep by then,
in the small monastery which was actually part of the little white
church with the crow's nest steeple and the bold black crucifix on
top.
And right behind the church
that day, a magnificent red fireball was slipping slowly into the
mountains of the west, offering up the last rays of an exhausted
star as fuel to illuminate, if for but one fast and fleeting moment,
the stain-glass windows of the chapel. And at that very moment, just
as it had happened for the last two hundred years, the light from
the dying sun shot straight through the glass, penetrating the pane
as light through a prism, in a silent explosion of light. And the
colors of the Lord suddenly appeared in one final fanfare; a grand
finale of so many fantastic colors illuminating, at the speed of
light, all immediate surroundings and saturating the little chapel
from within, like the rainbow that shone on the first glorious day
of God's New Covenant.
"D'ya see it, lads?" begged
the prophet, Elijah.
"I sees it! I sees it!"
exclaimed bugged-eyed turtle, jubilantly out-stretching a fully
erected neck towards the light show of so many fantastic colors,
"Well, that is to say... I thinks I see it."
Even though the rainbow of
light had lasted only a minute or two, Elmo spirits were suddenly
uplifted by the distant display of spectacular colors which he
counted as a sure sign of good luck, something the 'Lucky Number'
hadn't experienced in quite some time, to come. "Me, too..." he softly
spoke as the last ray of hope dissipated into the vapory mist and
was gone before he could fully appreciate the miraculous event that
had just taken place. And with that, he suddenly remembered why he
came. He reached for the Bowie knife in the pants leg of his
overalls. It was still there.
"Excellent!" voiced the
merchant with eyes wide open, and smiling for a change. "Now, when
you're done here, you go straight to that church. You can't miss it.
It's a white church, I say. There are no other like it in the
vicinity... except for a small tavern over yonder where the sailors
go."
Mister Elijah Hatch paused for
a moment as the two Harlies climbed back onto the wagon with a sense
of awe and wonder neither one had ever experienced before. It was a
rejuvenating experience, full of hope, and one that would stay with
them for the rest of their lives. "Oh, and by the way," the merchant
added as a small but significant matter-of-fact not to be
overlooked, "don't look for me in the church... It'll do you no good."
Sherman and Elmo sat silently
on the buckboard, looking at one another somewhat flummoxed.
Understandably, they were at a lost to comprehend exactly what the
merchant was asking them to do at the time, or, more importantly,
where it was they should go to meet him once the job was completed
as previously prescribed. The turtle scratched his hard head in
wonder, hoping the answer to the riddle would present itself in its
own good time, which, by the way, was the manner in which the slow
fat farmer from Harley usually found them anyway, if he found them
at all. "Huh?' was the only syllable that escaped his thick red lips
that day.
The raccoon shrugged.
Elijah Hatch couldn't wait any
longer. He was tired and thirsty, and had other business to attend
to that day; and he certainly didn't have any more time to waste
waiting for two Harlies bean farmers to comprehend his meaning. So
instead, he simply winked at them and said with curiously raised
eyebrow, "It's called the Blue Dolphin Inn. Look for me there, my
boys. I'll be in the Fishermen's Hall."
Eventually, they both
understood; although it took the turtle just a little longer than
the raccoon to figure out exactly what the merchant was trying to
tell them, albeit in his own ambiguous and somewhat peculiar way,
which, in fact and for whatever unfathomable reason, seemed to be
the way he explained most things. It simply meant that Mister Hatch
would be inside a saloon, somewhere in Old Port Fierce, called the
Blue Dolphin Inn. Elmo wanted to laugh (something he actually hadn't
done in quite a while) but didn't know if even remembered how; and
besides, he didn't want to sound too presumptuous, or hurt the
turtle's feelings.
Then, just before he left that
day, Elijah Hatch smiled. It was an honest smile, one that left the
Harlies feeling slightly more at ease than they did only a moment
ago, especially the suspicious raccoon who was just then beginning
to think that this man called Hatch might just be taking advantage
of them, for whatever nefarious reason.
Mister Dixon was also a little
apprehensive. He had met with the black-hatted merchant on only one
other occasion, back in Harley; it was the first time they'd
actually met. Even then he appeared dark and aloof, gloomy even; but
in a lonesome and melancholy kind of way most Harlies could relate
to. For the most part, he looked like a man with simply too much on
his mind, but somehow always managed to get things done. Sherman had
heard about this man called 'Hatch' from other farmers in and around
Harley, and was warned never to get too close. The 'black merchant',
as he was often referred to (and not just in Harlie and Old Port
Fierce), was also known for his quick temper, especially when
cheated, bamboozled, hood-winked, or just plain lied to. But he was
also considered a kind man, a fair man; a man even a turtle could
trust; after he'd earned it, of course. He was a man with good
instincts who could give as good as he got; and he was charitable in
the truest sense of the word. It was apparent from the start that
Mister Hatch was the kind of man that insisted on knowing as much
about everything and everyone as possible, while revealing very
little of himself. 'Comes with the territory,' he often say in that
regard; or, 'What's it to you?" in his own personal defense when
questioned unreasonably on any given subject. Naturally, this would
sometimes cause consternation among his peers and mere exacerbated
his own 'questionable' reputation at times. It also made others just
a little nervous whenever the tall black hat appeared, from out of
nowhere it often seemed, just like the knife the Harlie had
witnessed earlier that day when he sliced open the bean-bag.
As previously mentioned, Elmo
Cotton was not so trusting of this man called Hatch. He was
naturally skeptical of everyone, more so now than ever, which forced
him just then to tighten his grip on the handle of his suitcase,
holding it closer to his side than ever before. But there was
something about the merchant he genuinely liked; although he
couldn't say exactly what it was; and he actually hoped that that he
might get to know him better before the day was through. It was the
same feeling he'd once felt towards Colonel Horace 'Rusty' Horn,
when the rode together side by side up the mountain trail. He could
still see, in his mind at least, the great hump of the bull swaying
to and fro, like a milky white wave, with Red-Beard's head floating
on the serpentine surface. He thought they could actually be friends
some day, as he once thought of the man who'd saved his life when he
shot dead the rattle snake out on the trail; the same Colonel Horn
who murdered Homer Skinner, and perhaps all the others up on the
mountain that day in cold blood, and would've killed him as well,
with those same cold, un-blinking eyes of his. The Harlie only hoped
the merchant would not turn out the same. He knew he would get to
see him again at the Blue Dolphin Inn. Some place...what's that he
called it? Oh yeah! – the Fisherman's Hall. And perhaps then, he
would ask about going along, wherever that might be, and in whatever
capacity he might serve. There was something else about the moody
merchant the raccoon found a little troubling at first; something
about the old man's appearance, which didn't necessarily have
anything to do with his gloomy attire. It was a deep and
inexplicable sorrow that couldn't be explained, much less
comprehend, at least not in so many words; and certainly not by a
couple of Harley bean farmers who weren't accustomed to such deep,
dark psychologies; although there were quite familiar with hardship
and trouble. It was in the merchant's eyes, mostly, cold and gray;
but it also seemed to cover his entire countenance; the way someone
looks when they go to a funeral, especially when it involves a close
friend or relative; and in a strange and morbid sort of way , Elmo
could almost imagine this Hatch fellow being laid out in one of
Lester Cox's famous coffins, dressed in black – stove-pipe hat and
all! He wouldn't even need any make-up. Not that Lester wouldn't
offer any, of course. It came with the service... just like the money
back guarantee, the Harlie suddenly remembered, hoping even now that
he would never have to take advantage of the undertaker's generous
but morbid services, or the money back guarantee. Maybe it was
something the merchant was born with: a birth defect, perhaps; like
a cleft palette or a crooked nose, something you just learn to live
with. Elmo suddenly recalled seeing the same sad and melancholy look
in his uncle's crow's-feet eyes. It was day before he died.
To ease his own gnawing
suspicions and perhaps mitigate any further apprehension his friend
the raccoon might still be having at the time, Mister Dixon pointed
something out that day, something he considered very important. It
was plain and simple, and as real as a sack full of Harley beans,
only smaller. "Look!" ejaculated the bugged-eyed turtle as Elijah
Hatch drifted slowly out of sight, his black hat floating over the
crowded street like a crow in the cornfields, "You see that, Mister
Cotton? The hat! It's all black – Just like me! But look'ye here
now. See that white flower? See it, Elmo!"
Standing on his toes, the
shoeless raccoon quickly realized just what was making his friend
and neighbor so optimistically excited at the time. It was a
flower – something he hadn't noticed before, probably on account of
his own vantage point of sitting on the right side of the merchant's
chimney and out of sight of it. Fastened securely in a velvet band,
which was as black as the hat itself, only shinier, was the oleander
flower. It appeared as a small white star with five broad leaf
pedals patched against a solid black background. And there it was,
drifting off into the distance and dancing over all those hilly
heads like the star of Bethlehem twinkling in the desert on a cool
Judean night.
"See it, Mister Cotton! You
Sees it? That's what you calls an Oleander flower, explained the
exasperated turtle; although when he said the word Oleander, it
actually sounded more like 'O'lando'. "It's special! S'pose to be
lucky."
"You mean... like a lucky
number?" recalled Elmo, thinking not about black hats and little
white flowers, but rather about a dear old friend he'd left up in
the mountain one day in September, and who never came back.
"'Sumpin' like that," said the
turtle, "But they's poisonous... or so I's been told."
Elmo was still a little
confused as to the merchant's previous remark and where he was to be
found later that day. "Say, Sherman," he just had to ask, "What you
'spose that man mean when he say he be at... the 'Fishermen's Hall'?"
The driver of the wagon had
been speculating about that as well and freely admitted: "I don't
rightly know, Mister Cotton. But I do knows where that other place
be, the one calls the BLUE DOLPHIN INN. It's up yonder next
to the white church, just like the man say. And that's where be
goin'. But not right now," he reminded the raccoon as the little
wagon rolled on, "we gots to wait."
"What we gonna do in the
meantime, Sherman?"
"Well," shrugged the turtle,
as if they had no other choice. "We do 'zackly what the man say. We
goes to work."
Elmo sighed, "I's afraid you
was a'goin' to say that."
Chapter Three
The Maria Aurora
"WHOA, ABRAHAM!" mouthed the turtle, pulling in the reins and braking the
wagon directly opposite the main trunk of the great ship that day.
The Maria Aurora! with her three prominent masts: a main, a mizzen,
and a smaller aft, all shooting straight up into the Heavens, like
three massive wooden candlesticks waiting to be ignited by the
finger of God.
Her hull was brightly painted
green and yellow, supporting a high poop deck in the aft and a grand
forecastle at its elevated bow. It was moored at the very end of a
long pier jutting precariously out into the bay and tied down to so
many bollards that went straight down the still deep water
supporting the wooden deck above and forming much of the bulwark of
the seawall itself. The ropes holding the ship in place were as
thick and brown as Sherman's wrists, Elmo imagined; unraveling them
strand-by-strand would surely keep a man occupied for a lifetime.
The ship itself was presently being scrubbed down by no fewer than a
dozen bare-chested sailors kneeling side by side along the wooden
platform like so many Muslims at prayer. All that was missing was
the rug, and perhaps a Mullah or two. It was clearly one of the
largest vessels in the port that day, and the perhaps the busiest.
Inscribed upon the ship's tapering bow section was the name 'MARIA
AURORA' in long white letters, along with a black palm tree
silhouetted on either side of her sizable hull.
Her bowsprit was long and
straight, with a single cross beam forming a full scale crucifix
that stretched out over the water like Golgotha by the sea. Angling
up from the cross at numerous degrees, were so many rope-lines and
cables, stretching up to the maintop and beyond, as tight and taunt
as the strings of a well-tuned harp. Just beneath the holy phalanx,
and so skillfully crafted that each and every scale could be
counted, was fastened the likeness of a life size mermaid cast in
solid bronze. It was a true work of art, clearly engineered to
outlast its creator, and so beautifully designed so as to never be
duplicated.
It was mermaid, of
course; half fish and half woman, in all her metamorphic glory. She
was cast in a bronze, that perfect blend of copper and tin which,
exposure to elements over so many years, takes on the familiar
bluish-green tint we often associate with the iridescent scales of a
fish. And there she remained, suspended directly beneath the
bowsprit of the great ship, in the customary fashion of the day, and
for all to gaze upon and wonder. She was nakedly dressed in skin and
scales which, at some point just below the manufactured waistline,
seemed to merge together somehow, like the independent colors of a
rainbow that bleed and blend into one another so gradually and
naturally that is difficult to tell exactly where one begins and the
other ends. And it was there, just below at the seductive abdomen,
in those most private and pubic areas, where the fishy hips and
tender thighs of the mythical maid tapered down, sensuously and
gracefully, into two perfectly formed flukes located at the rear
extremities of this exquisite creature; while just above that same
delineation began the familiar hour-glass curves that made up the
human-half of this Marina Madonna in all her fine fleshy form,
including a perfectly formed bellybutton incorporated into her
bronze navel suggesting, as artists sometimes do, some deep hidden
meaning as to the true nature of his masterpiece, or perhaps the
identity of the model, which, despite all amphibious exhibitions
retains the unmistakable and god-like image of man (or woman) all
his (or her) glorious and beguiling beauty. Surely, Venus DeMilo,
owing perhaps to the proud disposition of her Roman roots, would
feel threatened in the presence of such a perfectly polished
specimen whose natural youth and beauty were so perpetually
preserved in time and space, as well as heavy metal, and raise her
one remaining arm in Republican protest. Aphrodite, on the other
hand, being the more democratic of the two, might kneel before the
metal maiden and worship at her coral altar in the sea, as the
Greeks once did the great Poseidon. Homer's sirens would be silenced
as she glided gently over the Mediterranean, immune to such
sorceries, unlike brave Ulysses with his cotton ears and crew.
Needless-to-say, indignant Cupid would fly off in a ribald rage, his
amorous arrows unable to penetrate this impregnable beauty whose
very presence would wilt the hanging gardens of Babylon if ever
exposed to such Persian wonders. Neptune, no doubt, would take her
for his bride. And who could stop him! – dragging her down to his
coral castle in the deep, along with captain and crew, and every
last splintering plank of the Maria Aurora.
But exactly who, or what, was
this Maria Aurora? Was she ship and sail and timber and nails? Or
was she really blood and bone, and flesh, as the sons of sailors
suggest; and given her baptismal name, who could doubt them. It's
all organic anyway, one might just as well say, regarding the
elemental make up of such a buoyant beauty; wood and bone being so
closely related, particularly in regard to their modulus of
elasticity and grain, canvass and skin sharing similar elastic
properties and both epidural in nature. Could it be? Or perhaps, she
was merely an expression, an idea, a representation, a rendering, an
emblematic piece of art, enigmatically fashioned in the fantastic
form of a metallic mermaid and placed upon the prestigious bow of
some old forgotten warship to protect it from pirates and other
perils of the sea? Was it placed there for luck? Something sailors
can never seem get enough of, by the way, as some kind of ornamental
talisman? Or maybe she was a combination of all three! christened,
perhaps, after the Roman goddess of the dawn, whose very name
invokes Viking images of those famous lights seen glowing in those
Northern latitudes – the Aurora Borealis. Ah! those mysterious
luminosities that appear in the Scandinavian skies, visible mostly
during the winter solstice; those same northern lights that coolly
grace the Alaskan skyline and fill the hearts of Europeans with awe
and wonder, the same awe and wonder once reserved for the
blonde-bearded barbarians gliding over the North Sea in their
square-rigged, shield-clad, serpent-headed longboats, and fear.
Maria Aurora! Could such an
excellent and exquisite creature have ever existed, in any form? Was
she real? Did she bleed, as all women naturally do, subjected to the
same lunar frequencies that govern the monthly menstrual cycle and
regulates the tides? Was she capable of giving birth? Was she
married? And to whom! What church did she belong to? Where was she
baptized? And with such a colorful name, too! – The Maria Aurora. It
speaks of Spanish blood, a fine old Latin vintage; Sangria, perhaps;
it's Catholic to the core. Was she Confirmed? Catechized? Did she
receive the Holy Eucharist – and where! What church did she belong
to? Were did she hail from? What country? Holy Rome, perhaps! Did
Ireland have a sober hand in such an ambitious enterprise? Portugal!
France? Was she born and bred in the mountains of old Madrid, as
some have contested, swearing on the grave of the Holy Evangelist
himself, tamed and tested in the shipwrecked waters of the
Mediterranean; ferried off to Old Manila, a gift from King Phillip
of Spain to the Filipinos, the good and gentle peoples of that Grand
Archipelago where, after so many boatloads of silks and spices, she
finally came to rest on the revolutionary shores of E pluribus Unum
where she currently resides, if not in person, then at least in
effigy; a mmetalized mermaid fastened to the bow of her namesake,
like a crucified Madonna, or Tutankhamen entombed in gold? Or maybe
her true origins lay elsewhere; somewhere east of Gibraltar; the
Pillars of Hercules, perhaps! The Norwegians have built some mighty
fine war-ships from time to time; and so have the Dutch, and the
Germans when they not too busy starting wars with everyone else.
Peter the Great was not only a great Czar, but a damn good
boat-wright, who was not afraid to pick up a hammer and saw, along
with a bottle of Vodka, and labor right alongside his mongrel
shipmates. Britannia rules the waves! So they say; but not the Maria
Aurora. Well then... just where did she come form? The truth of the
matter is, we just don't know. Like Shubert's unfinished symphony,
or George Washington's unfinished portrait by Gilbert Stuart; she
remains undone; incomplete; a work in progress, you might say; but
then again – ain't we all?
The Maria Aurora! Who art
thou? No one knows for sure; not even the older sons of sailors who
boast of such knowledge, as well as the skills and talents that went
into her original design; after all, it was they who sawed her ribs,
hammered her planks, plumbed her keel and put sheets to the wind,
thus enabling Brother Poseidon to breathe life into her empty hull.
But there are some secrets hidden from the noblest of mariners; for
the sad and simple truth is, they just didn't know. And even if they
did know the true origins of this fine and uniquely sculptured
specimen, they would certainly never tell. Lovers never do, you
know. It really didn't matter whether her blood was warm or cold,
splinter or flesh; she was closet thing many would ever have for
wife, or a lover. They play with her. They tease her. They made love
and war with her. They impregnate her with their salty seeds even as
she as she hangs on her cross, leaving a long white wake behind, and
with the whole watery world before them.
Maria Aurora! She was the only
female company they had at times; all they knew, and all they would
ever need. She was mother, lover and wife, in shiny metallic armor,
with cold and colorless eyes, forever fixed, like those of an
Athenian statue, gazing out over the liquid blue horizon; her frozen
hair ablaze in all its animated splendor, suspended in time; her
naked breasts exposed like the twin cannon (actually called 'guns'
once they'd touched the deck of any ship) of a man-o-war, each
topped off with a tender nipple so life-like and real that on more
than one occasion, and sworn to under penalty of eternal damnation,
milk was said to have flown from those same golden glands. It was
further suggested that those same milky white mammaries once nursed
back to health a certain scurvy-ridden captain and his ill-fated
crew during a long calm at sea that nearly drove them all mad. And
if true, the milk of human kindness was never so nourishing; and
never tasted so sweet.
But why place such a
masterpiece on the barbaric bow of a ship at all? where wind and
rain can corrupt, like it corrupts all treasures in this fallen and
corruptible world of ours. Surely, such a metal marvel would be
been just as at home, and certainly more appreciated, in a British
Museum, the Louvre, perhaps; or gracing the marbled mansion of some
wealthy philanthropist; the palace of a Persian king, or worshiped
in the Halls of the Pantheon rather than be mounted on the barnacled
bow of a hell-bound warship of bachelors and fools? But there she
was! And there she stayed, face to the wind, guiding her lonesome
lovers on many a long voyage across ocean and meridian, around the
Horn, the cape of Perdition, through maelstrom and malaise, mayhem
and madness, to the ends of the earth and beyond; but always,
always, returning them safely home, to heart and hearth... until the
next time, of course, when the ol' whore comes a'callin'.
It was rumored that the ship's
much recognized bow piece was proudly placed there by descendants of
the original sons of sailors, the 'mermen' themselves, whose
blood once coursed coldly through their own amphibious veins. Or
perhaps, she was put there to simply to remind these forsaken
mariners who (or what) they really are, and perhaps to guide them on
their never-ending journey through wind and wave, as she did their
fishermen fathers who once plowed the same seas in search of their
mermaid wives, the ones who had refused to leave their watery world
as their fated husbands once did so many long and lonely years ago
when they foolishly, and regrettably as they would now be forced to
admit, crawled out of the muddy waters of Paradise only to be doomed
on dry land. But then again, maybe they put her there just for luck.
All that day, the men of the
Maria Aurora labored in their assigned tasks and duties, consisting
chiefly of securing the vessel and preparing her for the next voyage
at sea. They brought on board, mostly by way of rubber-like
gangplanks angling steeply up to the splintered deck, an endless
stream of cargo consisting mostly of so many boxes, bails, buckets,
kegs, ropes, canvasses, and containers of all shapes and sizes,
along with a substantial number of animals including: sheep, goats,
pigs, chickens, and other assorted livestock, along with several
cats and dogs that would serve as food for the crew and banter for
those abroad who might be interested in an equitable trade.
Combined, the value of the ship's cargo was probably worth more than
all the assets of the all the farmers in Harley put together, Elmo
rightly imagined, and a bounty to make even Ike Armstrong green with
envy.
Maria Aurora! Elmo liked the
name: It was a woman's name, which was not uncommon for ships of
that day (or any other day come to think of it) and one that seemed
to fit quite well. Up until now, Elmo wasn't even aware that ships
had names; he only suspected as much on account of stories he'd
heard from Homer Skinner and his dead uncle concerning the bigger
boats, and the men who took them out to sea. There was still a lot
for a raccoon on the run to learn, and little time to do so. Other
than having paddled a small raft across a river at one time, he
actually knew very little of ships, boats or, for that matter,
anything else that floated, or sank. But he did know one thing,
however: he knew that sooner or later he'd know a great deal more
about them than he ever did before, especially if things worked out
the way he planned, and preferably sooner rather than later. His
hopes soared, liked the seagulls that would fly in and out of the
tall masts bobbing up and down along the wharf that day. He looked
down at his suitcase; he still had the sailin' shoes, and could
think of no other place that he would rather be jut then than
sitting in wagonload of Harley beans with his best friend and
neighbor on a cool spring morning in front of a fine and magnificent
ship docked at the bay in good Old Port Fierce. He was exactly where
he wanted to be, where had to be, and where he was meant to be all
along. All he had to do now was fine a way onboard; but first, he
had to find the Miracle-Maker.
The Maria Aurora was not a
regulation naval vessel, as clearly evinced by the mere absence of
any military weaponry onboard; visually speaking, of course.
Never-the-less, she was commissioned as such, and for reasons
disclosed only to Captain Roger Morgan and Mister Elijah Hatch. They
alone possessed any immediate knowledge of the clandestine voyage
she was about to embark upon, as well as her final destination. As
previously touched upon, the voyage was secret one, highly
classified, and it would remain as such long after the mission was
over; whether it was accomplished or not. The crew, who weren't all
military either, didn't even know. They were a strange and eclectic
breed, a band of brothers, an aggregate of both private and
professional sailors, appropriately described by one of their own at
one time as '...a cast of characters with no character' who knew
little or nothing of the pending expedition. They were the kind of
men Roger Morgan preferred. They obeyed orders and asked little or
no questions, regarding their itinerary as privileged information
and, for all intents and purposes, none of their concern. They were
punctilious as well as professional, or they were thrown in the
brig; and they respected protocol...well, for the most part; after
all, they were sailors. Flogging was not uncommon for that
era. It was imperative that disciple be maintained at all times,
especially in matters concerning treason and mutiny. In wartime, of
course, they would simply be shot for even suggesting such criminal
activity; or, if time and tide permitted, and at the captain's
discretion, they might just be hung from the nearest yard-arm,
which, by the way, is still the preferred method of execution by
most sons of sailors who commit such atrocities, just before being
dropped like an anchor into murky waters of eternity. They had to
obey; they had no choice. They were sons of sailors all, personally
handpicked by Roger Morgan and Mister Elijah Hatch, specifically for
the voyage they were about to embark on, and for the sake and
success of the mission.
Some of the sailors were
dressed in the uniform of the day, comprised chiefly of white and
blue cotton, while others appeared more like the mariners the two
farmers had observed earlier that day in Old Port Fierce. Some of
the men were naked from the waist up and, primarily due the darkness
of their flesh, appeared to have spent most of their waking hours at
sea, baking in a topical sun, perhaps, until fried to a golden
crisp. Even to unaccustomed and land-focused eyes, like those of the
Harley bean farmers, the sailors onboard appeared as different and
diversified as the Harbor itself. Seemingly indifferent to one
another's station or rank, and working as closely together as their
tasks at hand demanded, the men of the Maria Aurora went about their
business as sons of sailors do: with pride, proficiency, a little
humor, the occasional profanity, of course; and maybe even with a
song or two, the words and melodies of which were known by all in
that time-honored profession.
Taking a closer look at these
'busy bees' onboard the Maria Aurora that day, Elmo Cotton was
quick to observe, even from a respectable distance, that more than a
few of these industrious mariners were, in fact, darker than the
Harlies themselves; darker even than Sherman Dixon, which was a rare
sight indeed in any part of the colorful world. One of them, an
older black gentleman with a large, well-rounded and dangerously
exposed belly, was sitting all by himself in the front section of
the ship known, for obvious reasons, as the forecastle. He was
softly singing, with needle and thread held firmly in his big,
black, sea-hardened hands, while sewing yards of canvass that would
soon hold the winds of the world. He stitched silently and slowly,
like a man intent on performing his appointed task to the best of
his ability; he didn't say a word as the two young men from Harley
cautiously approached the ship.
Sherman waved to him from the
top of the wagon, as though he'd seen this old man before. The
raccoon quickly smiled, thinking how much the old black tailor
reminded him of his dead uncle, and withdrew it just as quickly. It
wasn't Elmo's world. Not yet anyway; and it certainly wasn't a place
for two green-horned Harlies, or colored folks in general, to start
getting comfortable in. It wasn't Harlie; or even Creekwood Green
for that matter. But it was a better place than where he came from,
Elmo imagined. And just like the old black sail-maker who seemed so
quietly content in his painstaking and thankless profession, the
raccoon on the run felt strangely secure, even happy! Perhaps for
the first time in a long, long time. Maybe there would be a place
for him after all.
In the middle of the
orchestrated activity, stood a lone mariner atop the great mainmast
with a megaphone pressed to his lips. He appeared, for all intents
and purposes, the orchestra leaded himself; although you wouldn't
know that by the way he looked, which was no really different than
any of the others sailors onboard that day, but simply by the way he
spoke; and perhaps the fiery look in his eyes that occasionally shot
down from the mast head like lightening from the sky, or bolts of
pure blue energy. His name was Roger Morgan, and he was the
captain. He was in charge – of everything! or so it seemed to the
raccoon who couldn't seem to take his bandit eyes off the man at the
bottom of the tall vertical shaft that went straight down to the
keel of the great ship. Chiefly on account of his clothing, which
was rather plain and simple by comparison to the other officers on
deck, he appeared no different than anyone else that day, and just
as indistinguishable. With no visible insignia of rank sown into his
sweat-stained shirt, which was actually the simple white blouses
worn by all the other seamen onboard that day, he appeared as
nothing more than just another common sailor before the mast; and
perhaps something even less, other might've observed. But there was
something about the man at the mast that betrayed his rudimentary
disguise, whether he was conscientious of it or not. For beneath
that thin veneer of white cotton beat the bold heart of a sea
captain, with all the purpose and responsibility Captain Noah would
have instantly recognized.
Roger Morgan was a man with
thick, curly black hair and deep blue eyes which did, just as the
merchant predicted, appear as twin red-hot coals plucked from a
barbecue pit, or the fires of hell, perhaps, especially when struck
by the sun at just the right angle and viewed by those accustomed to
such optical observations. He was a little less than average height,
lean, and possessed many of the healthier aspects of a man half his
age. Morgan was a man who knew how to fight, both mentally and
physically – although he always preferred the latter – and, despite
rank and privilege, which naturally precluded him from such hostile
activity both on and off duty, he could always be found in the thick
of things, side by side with his men, sword in one hand and pistol
in the other. You could see it in his eyes. You could hear it in his
voice; that same voice the turtle and the raccoon were soon to hear
on the dock of the bay that day in Old Port Fierce. It was the sound
of a man who knew exactly what he wanted, at any given moment; and
he knew just how to get it. It wasn't necessarily a loud or
intimidating voice, but one that somehow seemed to overwhelm all in
his immediate vicinity, even when it softly spoken , like a silence
before the storm, the stillness in the eye of a hurricane, or death
song or a breached sperm whale. But today he couldn't afford such
solemnity, or patience. There was too much to do; and he was already
a day behind schedule. He'd been attending to urgent and, perhaps,
more personal business earlier that day. Settling matters with the
black merchant was one of them; taking care of some addition cargo
yet to be accounted for was another. He was not in a mellow mood
that day. And so, the captain of the Maria Aurora could be heard
that day, more loudly and vociferously than usual, bellowing out
orders from his megaphone high in the maintop. He could be heard
clear across the harbor that day; even to the ends of the earth, it
seemed.
Sherman spotted him first.
"Yep!" said the turtle, leaning backwards and then sideways, forcing
his eyes to focus on the dark-haired man waving a megaphone from the
top of the main mast of the great ship, "I thinks that's him."
The merchant was right,
thought the raccoon: It was all his eyes, Roger Morgan's eyes; eyes
which, even from a distance spoke with fire and flame; red, white
and blue, just like the Mister Hatch said, and blood. And above
those eyes, way up high in the sky, just above the captain's
megaphoned head, a banner had been attached to one of the ropes
angling straight up the highest point on the mast. It was a flag!
Ol' Glory, to be more specific. And there it flew, all red, white
and blue, defiantly streaming in the breeze, just as it once did at
the ramparts over Fort Sumter in the dawn's early light.
It
was the end of the day, but there was still a little light and life
left to it. They were greeted at the ship by a hard-faced man
standing alone on the gangplank who appeared to be in charge of all
the cargo. He was wearing the buttoned-down uniform usually reserved
for officers, which, in fact, he was. His name was Cecil Jones; he
was first-mate of the Maria Aurora. He was an industrious fellow, a
serious man, who was apparently in no mood for small talk or
un-necessary trivia. He looked a little nervous. "Get them beans
down below!" he ordered the two Harlies, having been made aware of
the arrangements some time earlier. "And be quick about it!"
There was another man standing
close by the first-mate; he was stripped to the waist and covered
with a plethora of tattoos. He didn't look at all like any of the
other sailors onboard that day who were, for the most part, busy
with the more menial tasks of scrubbing down decks, heaving ropes,
or stowing away various supplies that would be essential to the
upcoming voyage. It was Peter Finch, the master-at-arms who, despite
a well-deserved reputation for being cruel and ruthless at times,
had served in that unenviable position with a proficiency that did
not go entirely un-noticed by upper echelons. And that's all anybody
really had to know about Mister Peter Finch, for the time being.
Just then another man
appeared. He was shimmying down a rope like a monkey at the end of a
chain that appeared to have suddenly dropped right out of the sky
like a vine in the jungle. The rope, which had been knotted
precisely every two feet to help facilitate the climber's vertical
mobility, ascended all the way up to the main-top, like one half of
Jacob's Biblical ladder. The monkey-man at the end of the vine was
Nelson (although no one knew for sure if that was his first or last
name, since it was the only one he ever answered to) who'd
fashionably distinguished himself by means of a long, blonde
ponytail that trailed all the way down to the small of his back like
the modest train of an altar-bound bride, and just as proudly
displayed. Exactly how long it had taken this fair-haired
Kublai-Khan to produce such a magnificent mane was anyone's guess,
although he had obviously been growing it for quite some time, with
plans to make it even longer. Nelson was captain-of-the-maintop,
third in command and, true to his coveted position as chief look-out
on board the Maria Aurora, a very curious fellow indeed. Apparently
he'd descended from his perch in the crow's nest just to see what
all the commotion was about. He'd spied the two Harlie's earlier
that day from his lofty position, which was more than enough to make
any look-out stand up and take notice.
Casually, yet in a hurry to
get the job done, Elmo Cotton lifted the nearest sack of beans from
the wagon to fulfill a promise he'd made earlier with his good
friend and neighbor, Sherman Dixon, at the adamant request of Mister
Elijah Hatch. The turtle, however, made his business, and presence,
known in a more vocal manner, wanting to make sure there were no
misunderstandings. "Mister Hatch sent us," he declared out loud to
no one in particular. 'Spose to ask for Captain Morgan," he further
stated, following the merchant's instructions to the letter and
hoping not to offend anyone, particularly the serious looking man
who, as previously described, was the first-mate in command of the
Maria Aurora.
The tattooed man, who was
standing closest to the wagon at that time, was the first to speak
his mind. "You hear that, Mister Jones?" he said to his senior
officer. "He wants to see the Captain."
"Captain's busy, Finch. You
handle it," insisted Mister Jones, who was busy scribbling down
numbers in a big red book and didn't seem particularly interested in
anything the fat man, or anyone else not under his immediate
command, had to say. He didn't even look up.
The master-at-arms could see
that the first-mate had more important things to do at the time than
banter with a couple of bean peddlers, who, chiefly due to their
rural appearance, as well as their manner of speech, he immediately
took for two Harley sharecroppers, and so did as he'd been told
earlier. "Get them beans on board!" he barked, having overheard the
something about a shipment of beans being delivered that day, which
were suppose to already be stowed onboard.
"And make it snappy!" shouted
the captain-of-the-maintop, still clinging to his hempen umbilical
cord as if his very life depended on it, just for spite.
The Harlie quickly obeyed and
began to make his way up the rubbery gangplank with a sack full of
beans tossed casually over his shoulder, whereupon he immediately,
and quite accidentally, perhaps, tripped over a knot in the pliable
wood and fell flat on his face. The Harley beans were scattered all
over the gangway, much of the produce finding its way through the
small cracks in the planks and down into the water below where they
floated on the briny surface like so many leaves on a pond. The
first-mate, a man of genuine but limited sympathies, despite his
insensitive demeanor, shook his head in total bewilderment,
whispering under his breath something about famers and their big
feet. Some of the other sailors who were standing nearby simply
laughed out loud, the way sailors often do in these situations.
Others kept right on working as if nothing at all had happened to
distract them from their industrious duties. It was not a good
start, the Harlie imagined, not good at all. And he was right.
"Greenhorn!" howled the
tattooed man as he approached the wagon to have a word or two with
the driver who obviously was the owner of the produce. "Hatch sent
you – Eh?"
Sherman stuttered, "Y-Yes,
s-sir." He then jumped down from the wagon to assist his fallen
comrade.
More embarrassed than bruised,
the clumsy raccoon quickly regained his composure and began
gathering up the scattered beans, at least the ones that hadn't
fallen through the cracks, by the handful. He tried not to look too
concerned, or conspicuous, as he began stuffing them back in the
brown burlap bag.
"Did he tell you about the
tariff?" the master-in-arms demanded to know, directing his
attention back to the turtle.
"'Scuse me, sir?"
"The tariff!" shouted yet
another sailor whose clean-shaven head suddenly popped out of a
small porthole circumscribed in the starboard side of the ship, like
a worm from an apple. It belonged to the boatswains-mate, Nathan
Scrubb, who was in charge of the cargo, and all other activities
associated with the lower decks of the ship, where he lived and
breathed in those dark dungeons below that were generally off limits
to more fair minded mariners. Apparently, he's been there for so
long that, for lack of sunlight one could only imagine, his skin had
since turned a pasty white ash. "You know – Taxes!" he repeated with
a sour frown that made the rest of bald head wrinkle up like an
albino prune. "Now don't tell me you boys ain't never heard of
taxes!" He'd obviously been listening to the dialogue all along,
wondering what was going on. Now he knew; or at least, he thought he
knew, which was only one of his many misconceptions.
The turtle shook his head.
"Export taxes," clarified the
hairless worm, "It's the price of doin' business here in Ol' Port
Fierce. Thought you knowed."
Sherman looked up, then down,
and then back to the first-mate who still appeared to be
pre-occupied with more urgent business at hand. He didn't exactly
know what to make of the sudden inquisition, or what to do next. And
so, he simply answered as politely and honestly as he could, under
the circumstances, of course: "No, s-sir," he addressed the worm.
Meanwhile the tattooed
master-at-arms just stood there like a Roman sentry, arms folded and
feet set firmly apart in the same gladiatorial style, his eyes
darting silent daggers at the fat brown turtle who, for personal
reasons perhaps, he'd decided right then and there he just didn't
like.
"Why, everyone has to pay
taxes," decried the pony-tailed monkey who'd just then let go of his
life-line for the first time since lowering himself to the crowed
deck; a little nervously, thought he raccoon. "– No exceptions!" he
barked.
Elmo Cotton was the first to
notice that this agile young sailor, who appeared so comfortably at
home in the ropes and rigging as any of the lesser primates, walked
with a noticeable limp, not unlike a wounded chimpanzee. An
accident, perhaps? But it was apparently one that did not interfere
with his lofty ambitions, or duties, one iota. In fact, one could
easily imagine this gimpy blonde hanging from a yardarm by way of a
prehensile tail he kept hidden away in his trousers for just such an
acrobatic function; or, as it sometimes occurs when a physical
handicap in one part of the body is compensated for by all others,
as though the injured leg had indeed, chiefly because of its utter
uselessness, strengthened not only the arms but the entire upper
portion of the monkey-man torso in ways that could otherwise never
have been achieved. Maybe that's why he spent so much time up in the
air, one might imagine; it was a job he was most comfortable with,
and suited for; nature providing, in her own magnanimous way, the
means of one's employment. Or maybe he just preferred it that way:
up among clouds, alone and aloft, lazily lounging in the billowing
white sheets, an endless jungle of ropes, lines and cables, swaying
in the breeze and hovering somewhere between heaven and hell,
protected by sea and sky, safe from the predatory world below,
forever gazing out at the endless blue horizon, away from the 'hum
of the hive' and all other manner of human concerns below, as
monkeys often do.
"Don't know anything about no
taxes, sir," responded the turtle, slowly and nervously, eyeing all
three sailors with equal suspicion, "Or t-tariffs," he suddenly
began to stutter again. "You gots to talk to Mister Hatch about
that, I's r-reckon."
"Ain't got time! Can't you see
we're busy?" said Peter Finch who was by then standing directly in
front the frightened turtle, tattoos and all.
"I's sorry about that," was
all the farmer had to say on the matter. But before he and the
raccoon could continue with their laborious task, Finch's tattooed
arm reached out for the turtle's head. Grabbing a fistful of curly
black hair with one hand, the master-at-arms slapped the farmer
squarely across the face with the other. And it was only then, for
the very first time, Mister Sherman Dixon could clearly see, up
close and personal, not only the barbaric markings covering most of
the exposed skin on the sailor's otherwise hairy and colorless arms,
but similar lines stitched into his naked chest as well.
Unlike other tattoos the
farmer had observed from time to time on men such as these, the ones
he'd just witnessed appeared altogether different, and strange. They
seemed to swerve and curve in manner all directions, delineating no
particular images or words familiar to an educated eye, or
un-educated for that matter. And they were many, too! interweaving
in a circular fashion, criss-crossing in multiple patterns that
might accurately be described by those who study such bodily
abominations as 'controlled chaos'. They were dark, incoherent, void
of any discernable form or function; and they all seemed to have one
thing in common: they were all drawn, or sown if you will, in the
same black-green ink that reminded Sherman of a dead catfish he once
ate, and a lot less appetizing. It was the same putrid color,
dark-green, which suddenly, and for whatever bizarre and
inexplicable reason, seemed to make the bruised beak of the turtle
open just a little bit more than usual, like a dog that wanted to
vomit. It was the first time he had ever been struck like that;
forcefully, and with so much intent. There was maliciousness about
it; something he couldn't understand, and something he didn't think
he deserved.
Following the unprovoked slap,
the sting of which could still be felt by the turtle long after it'd
been delivered, the sailor called Finch promptly proceeded to
relieve the fat man of his purse which was tied to his belt at the
time. But the purse was empty, chiefly on account of the fact that
Sherman hadn't gotten paid yet and, for more practical reasons that
will soon become quite evident, he seldom carried money in his purse
anyway, especially large amounts that could be easily stolen or
lost. And for that reason alone, the wise turtle made it a point to
stash his cash, and whatever other valuables would fit, in his shoe
which, as previously demonstrated, he'd always thought would be the
last place anyone would look. Frustrated, but still determined to
extract whatever he could from the fat man's person, Peter Finch
then began going through the sharecropper's pockets, only to come up
with a few scrapes of paper upon which Sherman had scribbled down a
few directions he thought he might need. In other words, the
turtle's pockets were empty. All he had on his person at the time
were the few loose coins he'd taken along with him, just in case of
an emergency, which indeed were hidden deep inside his shoe, just
where he meant them to be, and where they belonged.
After going through Shaman's
deep but empty pockets, Peter Finch, as if reading the turtle's
mind, looked down at his soiled shoes. But before the master-at-arms
could go any further, a shot was fired over his head that was heard
by one and all on Fisherman's Wharf that day. It came from the
barrel of a gun, a pistol to be precise, held by the hand of a man
standing at the trunk of the main mast. The hand belonged to Roger
Morgan, as so did the pistol. He was the captain of the Maria
Aurora, whose attention had been suddenly drawn to the cowardly
display he'd just witnessed on board his own ship. And he didn't
like what he saw. The pistol said so.
Disposing of all present
duties and responsibilities, the captain dropped his megaphone, and
whatever else he was doing at the time and walked directly down the
gangplank to the scene of the disturbance. Roger Morgan was in no
mood for the sailor's shenanigans, or whatever other mischief the
master-at-arms, who was known for intimidating just about anyone and
everyone he deemed worthy of his ire, might be up to. There was
still much that needed to be done, and little time left to do it. It
was getting late. The tide would soon be coming in. And even though
he tried very hard not to show it, it was clear to everyone in the
general vicinity of the ship that the captain was not a happy
sailor. "What's going on here, Mister Jones!" he roared at the
first-mate who had not only witnessed the unlawful event but allowed
it to get so out of hand in the first place.
"Nothin', cap'n," answered the
first-mate, slightly embarrassed and a little annoyed that the
captain had to step in as condescendingly as he did. "Just a slight
misunderstanding – That's all. Won't happen again, sir," he
insisted, as Peter Finch stood idly and stiffly at attention.
Under normal circumstances
that would've been the end of it; and, for all intents and purposes,
it should have. But these weren't ordinary circumstances; and so, it
wasn't the end. Not by a long sight. Realizing the gravity of the
situation while taking into account the seriousness of the offense,
not to mention and the nature of the mission they would all soon be
taking part of, the captain of the Maria Aurora decided to set an
example by taking matters into his own hard and experienced hands,
as he usually did. And who better to make an example of than the
master-at-arms himself, Peter Finch? Why not punish the punisher?
thought the prudent captain. The irony alone should be enough to
make the message stick. It was a perfect solution, and a logical one
at that, to a problem all captains have to deal with from time to
time – discipline! It would set a serious tone for the entire
voyage, he further realized, while giving Finch a taste of his own
medicine. The punishment would have to be harsh but fair, according
to protocol; and it had to fit the crime. It didn't necessarily have
to be a physical admonishment, either; although that was the usual
prescription for disorderly conduct both on and off board all naval
vessels at the time, and especially under the articles of war which,
not-with-standing the treaty signed at Appomattox, were still in
effect. And even though the Maria Aurora was never officially
re-commissioned as a war-time vessel, for reasons of her classified
and clandestine mission, she was still under orders; and she was
still under the command of Captain Roger F. Morgan. And it was his
job to make sure that everyone on board damn well remembered it; and
that included the civilian portion of his recently formed crew,
perhaps even more so than the regular sailors who knew who their
real lord and master was.
But there was more than one
way to skin a cat, or scale a fish to use a more appropriate
metaphor and Roger Morgan knew just how to do both. He was also
aware from personal experience that there were more powerful tools
at his disposal than mere whips and chains when it came to
excoriating a sailor. Darbies could only do so much; and a ship's
brig can often be nothing more than a solitary forecastle, without
the snoring and swearing, and with better accommodations! many a
drunken sailor would boast. Peter Finch had been whipped more than
once before in accordance with that section of the Naval Penal Code
dictating the remedial actions requisite to these kinds of offences;
but at the time of its application, the punishment, executed as it
were by means of an instrument commonly referred to as a
'cat-o-nine-tails', only seemed to have elevated the master-at-arm's
already ignoble reputation as a rascal and ship's scoundrel, his
present rank not-with-standing. In fact, at the time of its
justified deliverance, Finch appeared (or perhaps he merely
pretended) to have actually enjoy it, even as the nine lead balls
lifted the top layer of skin from his illustrated back leaving only
streams of oozy red bloody covering the epidural canvass. Why add
yet nether stripe to a tiger's hide? the captain finally concluded.
It would only serve to make him that much bolder, and perhaps a
little more dangerous to both captain and crew – and himself, of
course. Besides, Finch's body was already covered with scars,
whether he deserved them or not, the more obvious ones being
self-inflicted, of course; one more would make little or no
difference. It would merely compliment his already vile appearance,
adding to his own sadistic reputation; it might even hold him in
higher esteem by those bent on disobedience in general. It just
wasn't worth the risk, or the effort. Roger Morgan had something
else in mind, something more permanent.
Striking a civilian, although
not a major offense and seldom brought to a court-martial, was still
taken very seriously in the navy and had to be dealt with
expeditiously, regardless of the circumstances surrounding it, or
the personnel involved. It was not only good for moral and the
overall health of the crew, but was necessary for well-being in
general; and, like any strong and effective medicine, it had to be
administered swiftly, properly, and without prejudice; it also had
to be swallowed as quickly as possible. A reprimand was in order,
and it was up to the captain to decide what that should be. And so,
walking calmly and collectively down the gangplank, pistol in hand
and megaphone at his side, and right up to the face of mischievous
master-at-arms, who was standing erectly at attention by then, Roger
Morgan stood toe to toe with Mister Peter James Finch.
The captain spoke not a word.
He didn't have to; his eyes did all the talking for him. They were
all he needed to communicate the message. Not in so many words or
sentences, of course; not even with a single sound, but with just
one long look. The eyes said it all. They were the eyes of a
commander, the Lord and master of a world whose destiny was
controlled by one person. They were Roger Morgan's eyes, in all
their patriotic authority; and they loudly, and they spoke volumes.
They were eyes as blue as the Heavens and as tireless as the sun; as
deep as the sea and more potent and powerful than all the elements
of the Periodic table combined. The eyes had a voice, and the voice
had a name – Roger Morgan. They spoke with a calm and deliberate
silence, the kind of silence that demands immediate attention,
respect, and gets it. It was simply a matter of mind over matter –
Morgan's mind over Finch's matter. The two had met before; there was
really never any contest. Both knew who they were and where they
stood, and that's all that really mattered.
But look'ye here shipmates!
all you arm-chair philosophers who ponder the mysteries of the soul
and plumb the depths of the human psyche from a safe and comfortable
distance; you braggarts and bullies who claim dominion over
another's man's destiny; you lovers of Humanity and haters of
mankind; you judges and jesters. Look closely, I say, into those
same steely blue port-holes to the soul and you will notice a
compassion there that may otherwise have gone unnoticed. Captain
Roger Morgan knew very well, perhaps better than anyone, what Peter
Finch had become over the years. It happens to sons of sailors from
time to time, as it does to all noble, and perhaps not so noble,
professions – They simply go bad. They run amuck; they go afoul.
Sometimes, they just go mad, which is even more pitiful. Finch was
just one of these unfortunate souls, albeit nobody was ever able to
discern which route the demonic sailor had taken – sin or insanity;
perhaps both, at least by those whose sympathies allow them to make
such metaphysical observations; cause and effect playing a pivotal
role in the psycho-symbiotic relationship as demonstrated more than
once in the Holy Text. It was only out of stubborn loyalty, and pity
perhaps, that Roger Morgan allowed the sadistic master-at-arms to
stay onboard for as long as he did and serve in such a capacity, and
perhaps for more personal reasons; for once the he'd saved the
captain's life by taking an arrow meant for Morgan's lungs. At one
time, Roger Morgan imagined he would've done the same for Peter
Finch; but not anymore. Still, he felt sorry for the master-at-arms,
in a way one thief sometimes feels for another when they are caught
in the commission of a crime.
Order must be maintained at
all cost, all the time, under all circumstances, especially in the
military, and particularly in the navy where life and limb, not to
mention survival of the crew, depended on it. There's simply no
other way. Misconduct was like a disease, a cancer that could
metastasize throughout the whole ship and spread, like wild fire, if
not promptly extinguished with the proper medicine. Discipline, it
seemed, was the only solution. It was a tried and true medicine:
strong at times; universally prescribed; clinically approved, and
administered as needed. And it worked, every time...well, almost every
time. Of course, there are always exceptions; Peter Finch just
happened to be one of them. Still, Justice must be served, in this
world as well as the next; sometimes, it is severe. There's simply
no way around it, especially in institutions such as the military
where men – I mean real men – are placed in close proximity
of one another. Boys will be boys, I suppose; but that's what makes
them boys, and not girls. It's what binds them together and makes
them a band of brothers. Introduce the female ingredient to this
volatile mix of testosterone driven inmates, and you merely
compound, rather than mitigate, a problem that has existed long
before the battle of the sexes; homosexuality, despite modern
misconception, would merely weaken the long grey line. A pragmatist
by nature, and innovator by necessity, as well as an avid historian,
Captain Roger Morgan once entertained the idea of forming an 'All
Amazon' branch of the military, in the tradition of that famous
battalion of lesbian warriors who, after cutting off their own right
breasts in order to accommodate their longbows, fought so heroically
(or is it heroincally?) on the battle-scared hills of Old Athens, as
documented by none other than Alexander the Great. It would not only
provide these fearless feminists with the equity they so adamantly
desired and most likely deserved in some questionable cases but
would also, as prudent commodore so keenly observed, put their
adversaries at a certain disadvantage, especially during those
special times of the month women dread and men are all too familiar
with which, as gynecological studies have recently revealed, can not
only be predicted, but synchronized! so as to have any particular
group of women, over a certain period of time, cycling at the exact
same moment. Picture, if you will, an army of these pre-menstrual
hermaphrodites charging over the hill, blood in their eyes, with
lances and arrows drawn. Napoleon's forces would flee in terror at
the mere sight; the Russian army would collapse under such an
assault; the Green Mountain boys would throw down their muskets and
take to the hills; the British Navy could make wake in a heartbeat,
as Nelson falls on his sword. It was a bold and noble experiment,
and perhaps a little ahead of its times; one may only speculate.
Obedience was imperative, on
land as well as sea; perhaps more so the later, in which case there
is no appeal and the verdict is always final. In all cases, at least
once the ship has been put out to sea, the captain is the final
arbiter, the judge and the jury, and sometimes even the executioner,
depending of course on his personal disposition and his stomach for
such things. Captain Morgan did have the stomach for such things;
and he would be Finch's executioner... some day. But not today, he
thought, looking straight into the eye of the devil without beating
an eyelash and knowing that, sooner or later, one of them,
presumably the master-at-arms, would die at the hands of the other.
It was only a matter of time.
Like a dog being kenneled by
its master, the master-at-arms blinked but did not bark. He
immediately backed down, knowing full well the consequences if he'd
decided otherwise. Morgan was still the captain, and Finch was
still... well, Finch; only there was a little less of him left
standing after Roger Morgan stared him down on the deck of the Maria
Aurora. It was not so much what he did that day, or what he didn't
do for that matter, but the way in which he did it that made all the
difference. It was all in the eyes; the eyes of Roger Morgan. It was
the humiliation, of course; it cracks louder than a whip and stings
more than a swarm of bees. A flogging would have been preferred;
thirty-nine minus one by the Hebrew measure; but none were offered
that day. The stare alone was the punishment; enough to make any
other man break down; but not Peter Finch. He was simply too proud.
And so, he just stood there and took it, like the dog that he was.
And that, the captain knew by now, was the master-at-arms real
weakness; a weakness, which, like any Achilles heel would eventual
destroy him as surely as it once did the ancient archer, and all the
evil kings of Israel who'd prided themselves above the Law of Moses,
and whose blood was licked up by the dogs outside the Temple of
David. The battle was over, for now at least. Order had been
restored on board the Maria Aurora. With the punishment delivered
and Justice being served, the captain thus spoke: "That's enough,
Mister Finch. Now get back to work. And that goes for the rest of
you," he ordered, coolly and calmly, like Alexander before his
chastised but still adoring troops.
The sailor responded
accordingly. "Aye, Captain," he said with a short salute, before
obediently going back to work as if nothing had happened, at least
nothing he hadn't expected to happen all along. If Peter Finch had
been humiliated in the least, you would never have known it just by
looking at him. He was much too cleaver to allow his feelings to
show, and too proud. The captain noticed this and wasn't surprised;
and so did many others onboard; but they all knew the captain had
won the battle, as usual. Finch was put in his place, at least for
the time being; but, like a dog that just can't resist, he will
always find a way back to his own vomit.
And all the while, Sherman
Dixon stood there in awe of what he and the raccoon had just
witnessed. The sting of the sailor's slap had long since vanished,
as most stings eventually do, even those we sometimes don't deserve,
only to be replaced with yet a sharper and, perhaps, more personal
kind of pain; the kind that never really subsides. It was the pain
of humiliation, something the master-at-arms had just gotten a
healthy dose of himself; although, as previously mentioned, it would
be difficult to tell just by looking at him. Sherman's pain, his
humiliation, was of a different kind; it was far was more personal;
it cut much deeper; and it wasn't even deserved, not like the
mater-at-arm's punishment. He felt as though he'd been spanked;
which if fact, he was; a slap in the face being the adult equivalent
of such a scolding. He was ashamed; it showed. And there was no
shell big enough, thick enough, or hard enough to kill the pain,
deaden that awful sensation, or mitigate its long-lasting effects.
It was a pain, a sickness in the stomach, he found almost unbearable
– almost as much as a toothache, which has already been talked about
at great length. He would remember that moment, that pain, and the
shame, for a long time to come; perhaps the rest of his life. He
just knew it. And that only made it worse.
Elmo thought he knew how his
good friend and neighbor must have felt at that moment. But he
didn't know. How could he? No one knew. Only the turtle knew; and he
wasn't telling. He was too embarrassed, too ashamed, to tell anyone,
even himself. So he just stood there, long after the captain and
crew went back to work as ordered, looking like the fool and coward
he imagined himself to be. The raccoon sadly thought that the fat
man from Harley might stand there forever, just like Lot's wife on
the outskirts of Sodom and Gomorrah, frozen in a pillar of salt;
although in Sherman's case, it was more like a mountain. But turtle
never did look back. He was too afraid. And maybe that's why he
didn't turn into a pillar, or a mountain, of salt that day, which,
he actually might have preferred at the time.
When the work of unloading the
wagon and storing the beans was finally completed, the two Harlies
rested for a while on the dock of the bay, watching as the pelicans
dove for their dinner. It was an interesting, elegant, and perhaps a
somewhat unusual, sight to behold, considering how clumsy and
unassuming these gentle birds of prey actually appeared perched on
bollards or begging at the pier. Like an arrow darting the sky, they
would pull in their feathered wings, just in the nick of time, and
breach the surface of the water without a crease or a ripple, as
graceful as any Peruvian cliff diver, before emerging with a fish
firmly enveloped in that proud and powerful pouch. The birds would
then dispose of their meal in one long and satisfying gulp, which
not only impressed Mister Dixon but actually made him just a little
bit jealous.
Chapter Four
The Fishermen's Hall
NIGHT WAS FALLING FAST on Old Port Fierce, like a curtain coming down at
the end of the day, the players taking one last bow before scurrying
off the stage into the awaiting arms of fans and critics. The sky
was a melting mixture, a twilight rainbow of orange, pink, yellow
and blue, with each integrated color blending and bleeding perfectly
into one another as light through a prism. It's the same effect
often captured on old oil canvasses, paintings of sunsets, perhaps,
in which the artist's landscape takes on a whole new and different
dimension, appearing as mere shadows silhouetted darkly against the
otherwise colorful tapestry of a slowly dying sky. The contrast is
almost apocalyptic.
The masts of the ships bobbed
lightly up from the quiet water below, like tall black timbers
swaying in the breeze against the mild evening sky. Elmo thought he
would never again see anything so peaceful, or beautiful. The
storekeepers were busy locking doors and pulling in shutters while
the fish peddlers threw endless buckets of seawater over the blood
stained tables as the street venders torn down their potable tents.
And in between these dreary but necessary tasks, they all counted
their money.
Women, young and old, shuffled
back to their humble homes, talking to one another the way women
always do, exchanging gossip and recipes shuttling off their
suppers, caught that very same day, in fact, in turned-up aprons,
just as the women of old Capernaum must have done two thousand years
ago with the fishy leftovers from the Sermon on the Mount; the
loaves would simple have to wait until they got home. The fishermen
who'd arrived earlier that day, who were done doing the things
fisherman do with their wives and children after a long hard day at
sea, were well on their way to the saloons located at the far end of
the wharf to discuss the events of the day and those things
fisherman just like to talk about: the weather, naturally; their
boats, without a doubt; the volume and size of their catch, along
with the current market value; and, of course '– the one that got
away!' One of these sea-faring sanctuaries just happened to be the
same saloon the merchant, Elijah Hatch, had spoken of earlier in
such great detail 'The Blue Dolphin Inn'. The fishermen all knew
where it was; in fact, most of them were already there. The ones
that weren't were already on their way. And along with them that
evening went the turtle, the raccoon, and a horse named Abraham.
"Well, I guess this is it,
Mister Cotton," said Sherman Dixon, bringing his empty wagon to a
halt in front of the aforementioned tavern. "But I don't think you's
gonna find no Miracle-Maker 'round here. If you's still lookin' for
one, that is."
"I reckon not," the raccoon
agreed.
They found the building
exactly where the black hat told them it would be: right there,
adjacent to the old white stucco church with the lookout steeple and
bell tower. He also couldn't help notice the stark black cross,
fixed ominously against the fading rainbow like the Arc before the
flood. Sherman tied his horse and wagon to a rail outside the Inn as
Elmo walked over to the window with suitcase in hand. He looked
inside. All he could see was smoke. They decided to go inside.
Upon entering the Blue Dolphin
Inn, the two Harlies quickly found themselves in a thick cloud of
hovering white smoke. The air was steamy and stale, and smelled of
fish; not unlike the dead catfish Sherman found by the side of the
road one hot summer day back home, thought the raccoon on the run
whose nose had not only grown longer since his vital transformation,
as naturally it should have, but more sensitive was well.
It Friday night at 'The Fish',
as the name of the famous Inn had been shortened to over the years
by those who'd frequented the oldest drinking establishment in Old
Port Fierce almost on a daily basis. The parlor was crowded by then
with fishermen, sailors, merchants, and other patrons of no
particular affiliation who were there to talk, relax, eat, drink,
smoke, or just get drunk, which, to the sons of sailors at least,
was why they were there in the first place. And even if it wasn't...
well, it damn well should be! There was a counter inside the parlor
with an iron foot-rail running along the base. Behind the counter
stood a man with a large brown bottle. He was filling the glasses as
quickly as they were being emptied in front of him while collecting
the coins left on the table and putting them into his
apron.
"I don't see 'im anywhere,
Mister Cotton – Let's go," Sherman said, straining his turtle eyes
in the smoky little parlor for any sign of the merchant or his
trade-mark black hat with the single white oleander flower in the
band.
"But I thought you said he
would be here?" questioned the raccoon as a big-bosomed woman
suddenly emerged from behind one of two large doorway at far end of
the parlor with an armful of empty containers.
Sherman shrugged, "Well, I
reckons I be wrong. Let's go!"
"Wait a minute, Sherman."
"I thinks I'll just waits
outside."
"But don't you wants to get
paid?" said Elmo.
"Sho' I do," Sherman replied,
as the man behind the counter ran a rag over the bar and laughed.
"Well?"
"I just don't think if we
belongs here, Elmo," was all the turtle had to say. And he said it
like he meant it this time.
In the company of so many
strangers, with even stranger faces, Elmo didn't know what to think,
and was almost afraid to even speak at all. He knew they were
strangers, intruders, and obviously not welcome. So he simply
nodded, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, and tried not
to look too Harleyish, if that was at all possible given the
raccoon's appearance. He realized of course, that despite the casual
and congenial atmosphere, all eyes were upon him and the bug-eyed
turtle, whether they liked it or not. Some of those eyes looked
friendly enough, but most appeared suspicious, sinister, and maybe a
little angry, as if they were looking for an excuse, any excuse, to
have both Harlies thrown out of the building and back into the
streets where they undoubtedly belonged, along with all the other
human debris, including land-lubbers, bums, drunkards,
gutter-snipes, street-urchins, riff-raff, and various other dregs
of society that were no more welcomed at 'The Fish' there than they
were. And they knew it; they could see it in their eyes.
But alcohol can sometimes have
that affect on people, as the raccoon himself had found out some
time ago: it can turn good men into monsters, if you let it. But
maybe they were already monsters to begin with, he couldn't help but
wonder, without the help of ol' John Barleycorn; perhaps they were
unaware of their own schizophrenic condition, the alcohol merely
acting as agent, a sort of truth serum, to unleash the devil within,
the same demonic spirits that that dwells in us all, to one degree
or another, drunk or sober, to be exorcized from time to time, if
not totally annihilated in the prescribed manner. But then again,
better an inebriated devil that a sober one; especially if he's
buying the drinks. Can anyone think of anything more hilarious, more
dangerous, or more honest, than drunken spirit or a gassed ghost? As
the old Italian saying goes, 'In Vino Veritas', so goes all
beguilement. And if the eyes are truly the 'window to the soul', as
many have suggested...well then, it might be wise to drape them from
time to time, depending on what you want, or don't want, others to
see. Other eyes that night appeared not so intoxicated, however; and
they seemed to be simply saying: 'You're not welcome here, mate. Go
away!' And these were by far the scariest.
And that's exactly what the
Harlies did; but not as some at the bar would have liked, and
certainly not as Sherman would have preferred. Rather, they
proceeded directly to the rear end of the smoky little room where
stood two swinging doors, one of which the big-bosomed woman
appeared from only moment earlier, beyond which music and laughter
could be heard in great volume. There was writing on the wall just
above the two great doors. It read, in large blue cursive letters:
SAINT PETER'S HALL. There was also an image; it was simple and
faint, and appeared directly underneath the saintly letters. It was
the plain and distinct figure of a fish, carved, it would seem right
into the wood of the door jam and outlived in red ink. It had
obviously been placed there out of respect for the Holy Father
himself, Saint Peter. And in place of an eye, which one would
naturally expect to see positioned in the fishy profile, were
painted two small lines: the smaller horizontal line intersected the
longer vertical member about two thirds the way up the shaft,
forming a miniature crucifix fixed in its pointed head. A Baptist
by birth, if not by faith, Elmo Cotton was familiar enough with the
Catholic catechism, mostly from what Mrs. Skinner had taught him of
that particular brand of Christianity, to know exactly what it
meant. He'd seen the sign of the fish before; although Sherman
wasn't quite sure what it meant, or if it meant anything at all.
It was called an Ichthus, the
Greek word for fish, the letters of which were an acronym for: I=
Jesus; X=Christ; O=God's; Y= Son; E= Savior. It was used by the
early Christians as a way of secretly professing their faith, even
in the face of certain persecution, and often found scribbled in
sand or chiseled into stone, particularly in the ancient catacombs
under the cobbled streets of Rome where martyrs sleep and widows
weep, and saints repose in sacred slumber. It was the sign of Peter,
of course, the 'Rock', duly ordained by our Lord himself to be the
first and foremost 'Fisher of men', which included, among others,
Harlies. Elmo noticed that one of the doors was slightly opened. "So
that's what Mister Hatch meant when he said: 'Meet me at the
Fishermen's Hall," he wondered out loud
"You reckon?" whispered the
turtle, as though someone might be listening; which, of course, they
were.
"Must be, Sherman. It say so...
right over the door. Look!"
"You knows I can't read,"
returned the turtle, apologetically.
"Well, neither can I," replied
the raccoon, "but I doesn't has to know how to read to know what
that there mean," he noted, while pointing his whiskered chin to the
fish floating above the door.
"Look like a fish," said the
farmer.
"Not just any fish, Sherman,"
Elmo responded with one hand on his neighbor's rounded shell and the
other firmly gripping the metal handle of his suitcase, "That what
you calls a Jesus fish."
"'Scuse me, Mister Cotton... but
did you say a 'Jesus' fish?"
"That's what they calls it..."
The fat farmer thought about
it for a moment. 'Well, if that be the case... he finally spoke, with
a sudden enthusiasm that was absent in his previous aspect, "maybe
this be the place after all.
"Must be, Sherman."
"And say, Mister Cotton!" the
turtle ejaculated, stretching out his telescopic neck in further
anticipation, "Maybe that there Miracle-Man, or whoever it is you's
lookin' fo', is somewhere inside."
"Miracle-Maker," the raccoon
quietly agreed, although not as optimistically as his well-meaning
friend who was still unaware of Elmo's true intentions, which were
anything but friendly. He knew he was getting close; he could feel
the edge of the bowie knife scraping against the flesh of his thigh.
He never forgot what his uncle had said the day before he died:
You'll find him in a choich... in a place they calls Shadytown.' And
although the Fisherman's Hall was not actually a church, at least
not in the conventional sense of the word, there was something about
it, a certain holiness that did not escape the raccoon's sensitive
nose. It reminded him of burning candles, incense, prayer books, and
old women. It smelled like church; and they were, after all, in Old
Port Fierce, somewhere in the general proximity (even though he
still wasn't sure exactly where) of a place called Shadytown. And
so, in response to the turtle's keen and astute observations, the
Harlie smiled and said, "You never know, Sherman. Stranger things
have happened. Let's go inside and see."
Exiting the rear of the smoke
filled parlor through the massive swinging doors, the turtle and the
raccoon suddenly found themselves standing at the entrance to the
great hall. It was both long and wide inside; in other words, it was
huge! with so many tables and chairs placed indiscriminately within;
some were pulled tightly together in order, it would seem, to
accommodate large gatherings of these fishermen friends. There was a
high ceiling with criss-crossing rafters that not only helped
ventilate the smoke filled chamber but added to the overall ambience
and atmosphere of the famous establishment. At the head of the hall,
which, from the Harlies' perspective, was actually the back, there
appeared to be a stage: some kind of elevated platform with several
empty high-chairs evenly spaced on either side of what appeared to
be a preacher's pulpit, which stood in the center and was so large
and heavy, and so grandly designed, that it may very well have
served as an altar in more ecumenical surroundings. It merely
confirmed the raccoon's earlier suspicions that it was, in fact, a
church; or at least that it had been in a previous function. He
could smell it; and it smelled like... like – fish! He knew they were
in the right place; and not only that, they'd found what they were
looking for.
With his tall black hat and
contrasting oleander, the merchant was an easy target to spot, even
when he was sitting down, and even at a distance. The man seated
beside him at a small round table in the center of the hall was
Roger Morgan, the captain of the Maria Aurora. He was slightly
shorter than the merchant and clean-shaven, with curtly black hair
speckled with gray, and a head that at first glance appeared almost
a little too large to accommodate, or compliment, the rest of his
broad body. He had deep blue eyes with dark circles around them,
which gave him the appearance of a man somewhat older than he
actually was, and perhaps one with too much on his mind, not unlike
the merchant himself who often exhibited a similar countenance.
Again, just as he did earlier that day at the main mast, he appeared
to be wearing no uniform or insignia of rank; only a clean white
shirt and a pair of plain blue bell-bottomed trousers, or, as they
are more commonly referred to by the sailors who wear them, 'duck
pants.'
The two men were speaking
softly to one other, almost in a whisper it seemed (although it may
have only appeared that way on account of all the noise and
everything else going on around them) between long pipes and tall
glasses of beer. The hall was packed full that night and, as
evidenced by the shuffling of so many leather clad feet, tables and
chairs, and the constant buzz of activity; or the 'hum of the hive'
as Uncle Joe would've observed, had he been there at the time. Many
of the patrons were still in their fishing clothes consisting
chiefly of duck-pants, tight pull-over shirts and long woolen
overcoats in various stages of decomposition, which they would
usually wear until they fell off their bodies; at least until they
went home, or whenever their wives or children would come and drag
them from the bar in whatever state of inebriation they happened to
be in at the time. But it was early in the evening, and much of the
dialogue was still centered around the many occupational activities
involved in the fishery, and the with the seriousness it so richly
deserved; more casual conversation would ensue later on, when the
whiskey flowed and the conversation turned to more personal and
private matters; which, by the way, were taken with the same
seriousness as their professional discourse, and perhaps even more
so, especially as the evening worn on and matters became even more
private, and personal. It was usually during those small hours in
the morning when lifetime alliances were forged, old scores settled,
and blood and oath were all that really mattered. But for now, the
talk was easy and free, and loud, rising and falling with the
raising of glasses and so many toasts to a job well done.
It was an acoustical wonder
the merchant and the captain could hear one another at all amidst
the robust laughter and loud talk produced by the other patrons
seated along the protracted bar that ran the full length of the
grand hall, much like the foot-railed countertop inside the parlor,
only much longer and made of sturdier stuff. To add to the cacophony
of the evening, an endless stream of notes could be heard emanating
from an old standup piano discriminately set next to the make-shift
stage, not far from where the merchant and the captain were
situated. Seated at the grand old instrument was a rather portly and
slightly balding young man with red hair and a long orange beard. He
was a jolly sort of elf, fat, with an inexhaustible repertoire and a
talent for performing in front of large and boisterous audiences he
was obviously accustomed to. Apparently, his knowledge of musical
scores was only exceeded by an insatiable appetite for whatever food
and beverages were appreciably place before him on the flat top of
his upright wooden companion.
It is said, with that rare and
righteous mixture of pride and humility so often associated with the
fishery, that whalers earn their lay (or wages, that is) in whatever
percentage of the profits they sign-on for, in accordance with the
ships documents and whatever position they are assigned to, form
cabin boy to captain, and rewarded accordingly at the end of the
voyage. But this young prodigy preferred to be paid in a more
substantive manner – beer and bread; and as much of it as he could
consume, not only at the expense of his hungry and thirsty audience,
but his generous employer as well who would, more often than not,
run out of beer long before the last finger fell and the final song
was sung, in which case he would suddenly have to make a special
trip to the brewery just to keep up with his other paying customers.
But it was well worth the trip, the time and the effort, as well as
the money. The red-headed genius was just that good; and he kept the
place packed, too! He seemed to know just about every tune ever
composed, from classical to country, and ever verse and chorus in
between; in multiple languages, no less, which he quite fluent and
proficient at. And so what if the portly piano-man didn't happen to
know the particular song or rhyme called for by his demanding but
much appreciative audience at any given moment? No big deal! He
would simply make one up, right on the spot! and throw in a few
bawdy choruses of 'Titsee Magee and Molly 'Ho! Two women I don't,
but ought, to know!' just for good measure. He never let his
audience down; and he never went hungry, thirsty, in the process.
Seated at the other tables
that night, along with the regular fishermen, were a variety of
sailors, dockhands, merchant marines, roustabouts, near-do-wells,
scalawags, and other human resources typically found in an old port
city, along with the usual assortment of saints and sinners you
would naturally expect to find in church on any given Sunday with
bowed and, perhaps, slightly aching heads. It seemed that much of
their attention, exhibited mostly by discerning glances and
whispering thoughts, was being drawn to the two dark strangers
standing silently by the great door and sticking out like a couple
of raisons in bowl of grits. Needless-to-say, it was not the most
comfortable moment for either the turtle or the raccoon; but they'd
found who they were looking for, which is why they were there at all
in the first place, and proceeded with caution towards the center of
Saint Peter's Hall.
Conspicuously absent from the
fishy congregation that night was the presence of any female
company. Other than several big-bosomed serving maids burdened down
with overflowing pitchers of beer, who were constantly being
whistled and winked at, there appeared to be no other women at all
present at the Blue Dolphin Inn on that particular night, especially
inside the old Patriarchal hall. It would seem as though women in
general were neither welcomed nor allowed on the immediate premises.
Perhaps it was a matter of protocol, observed on ships throughout
the maritime world, and for a number of good reasons; or maybe, it
was that those of the fairer sex simply refused to enter any
establishment, public or private, so bent on keeping them out, and
so ostensibly designed to accommodate men only. For indeed, there
was only one restroom within the entire Inn, consisting of two
buckets, a sink, and a water spigot protruding straight out of the
wall in a most uninviting, but manly, manner. And considering the
volume of beverages consumed on any given evening at the Blue
Dolphin Inn', and particularly inside Saint' Peter's Hall, it wasn't
surprising that the facilities was permanently occupied which, of
course, was just another reason for women not to patronize the
famous establishment. And it was hard on the men as well. Those who
couldn't wait... didn't, choosing instead to relieve their bloated
bowels and bladders outside the building, which was yet another
reason for women of good up-bringing and modest inclinations to
avoid 'The Fish' as they would, say, the plague or a mouse, or maybe
even an exhausted wad of chewing tobacco, the kind often found lying
in gutters and on sidewalks along with so many cigar and cigarettes
butts, which, when chewed to just the right consistency, as Charles
Smiley was once so famous for, and spat on the ground, are sometimes
mistaken for actual turds, and avoided with equal consternation. And
if that ain't enough reasons to explain why, to this very day, no
female foot fall is to be heard within the sacred and segregated
walls of the famous Inn...well then, I don't know what else to say;
except maybe this: Leave it alone, mate! And don't try to do
anything to change thing. It'll do you no good; and it might even
get you kilt! Sometimes, like the raccoon and the turtle were
quickly learning that night, you just know when you're not wanted...
and where you're not supposed to be. Besides, it would take more
than Hannibal's elephants to drive the fair ladies inside the humble
hall of the Holy Fisherman. Naturally, modesty may've also had
something to do with it, along with the vanity so often associated
with those of the feminine persuasion.
The
notion of injecting the female component or introducing, even in its
most masculine moldings, the slightest hint of feminine influence
into their mild and manly presence would be sheer lunacy; and it
would surely disturb, if not alter forever, the delicate balance of
the Universe so harmoniously requisite in keeping their sacred
fellowship as pure and private as it was and always should be, in
the true patriarchal sense, nourished as it were in strict Hebrew
orthodoxy, despite what we may've heard regarding of the dominance
of Jewish mothers, the controversial and Apocryphatic gospel of
Mary, or even the virgin birth itself! It is something women simply
cannot understand; not without first surrendering that which makes
them who and what they really are, and not just victims of their
cruel male counterparts while collectively beating their bare
breasts and barren wombs, along with Amazons and feminized men, at
the blood-stained altar of abortion while Lilith licks her succubus
lips. Besides that, it was something that just wasn't done; not as
long as the sons of sailors had anything to say, or do, about it.
Certainly, Saint Peter would concur. For not unlike those Templar
Knights of old in their never-ending quest for the Holy Grail over
scorched and scarred Palestine, so too did these latter-day
crusaders prefer their company pure, immune from and uncontaminated
by sex, of any kind, limiting their acquaintances and extending
their loyal friendship to those who shared their similarly
chauvinistic views of this fallen and fallible world of ours.
'Like a fish bowl!' it had
once been analogically compared to, '...where all the world's an
aquarium and fate's the hand that stirs the muddy water within the
dark glassy globe, occasionally, and as need be, for both the good
and the evil, with one purpose in mind, but always, always, under
the ever-present and discriminating eye of God who observes us all,
gloatingly and glaringly, invisibly it would seem, but always and
forever, with mercy and long suffering, unlimited patience and
kindness, Grace abounding! and all through the unimpeachable and
impenetrable glass that separates creature and Creator, without
which all Humanity would surely perish in its present form if it
were not so; Aye, matey! like a fish out of water. And such was the
kind of talk one would come to expect from these gentlemen of the
sea on the heady subjects of metaphysics and other soul-searching
topics.
Regarding matters of more
intimate detail, particularly those involving the fairer and
opposite sex as previously touched upon, these were generally
ignored and rarely discussed. There was simply no room for such
dialogue within the hallowed halls of Saint Peter. And if it existed
at all, it was only in the minds and hearts of those who knew enough
to keep them there. The sons of sailors made sure of that; for
theirs was a celibacy of the mind, so pure and profound, no woman
could penetrate; and one that would only confound them if they even
did. It was said that the mere sound of a female foot falling was
enough to rouse many a manly suspicion and call these
knuckle-dragging Neanderthals quick to conference, if not to arms.
But there was more to it than that; all is not always what it seems
within this brave band of brothers. In a strange and almost
bewildering sort of way, these sons of antiquity were
sentimentalists at heart, and could be, despite the lack female
companionship, quite Romantic. Sometimes, it even showed.
Call it tradition, a custom if
you will; and a good one, too! going as far back as anyone could
remember. All the way to Noah, perhaps. It was simply a matter of
choice, as much as protocol, like Charity and Chastity; a certain
chivalry that allowed for such undistracted discourse so essential
to their long and short term interests and happiness, as well as the
well-being and general welfare of the group; something without which
they would be totally lost, and probably not even survive. And it
did not (as some have tried to explain, rather unsuccessfully and
quite erroneously, I might add) have anything to do with the male
ego, or any other psychological phenomenon so often attributed to
the behavioral patterns of these modern-day Neanderthals. No! It was
simply the way they preferred to be – Celibate! Well, for the time
being at least; and, for the most part, it worked! Not to mention
the fact that many who frequented the grand old hall, as well as
other drinking establishments in the immediate vicinity, were too
young, too old, too naive, too stupid, too ugly, or just plain too...
married! to enjoy the alluring temptations of the femme fatal.
Is it no wonder that upon the sirens' sweet call, brave Ulysses
stuffed his ears and tied himself to the mast? On waters such as
these, deep and dangerous, that have rolled the earth since time
imaginable, under which presently lie the broken hulls and hearts of
many a brave mariner, even Saint Peter himself would surely fear to
tread.
Perhaps the real reason for
the gender imbalance wasn't really all that complicated and more
evident than once might imagine: after all, the sign did read:
'Fishermens hall', didn't it? Clearly, a male contrivance!
The invitation could not be more obvious, more direct, or more
properly placed. It was not so much a question of hospitality, or
the lack thereof, that created and maintained such a male dominant
atmosphere that, or any other, night inside the sacred Hall, but
rather a simple understanding that could be summed up in the
celebrated words of another great mariner: that pipe-smoking,
spinach-eating, pop-eyed sailor with the tattooed forearms who, in
the mist of his own trials and tribulations with the fair Olive Oyl,
once eloquently stated in his own philosophical mutterings and
meanderings he would later become famous for, that one, undeniable,
undisputed, and unmitigated truth in life: 'It's proven through
history that womens' a mystery'. No truer words have ever been
uttered, I suppose. Even Sinbad and the brave Ulysses would surely
have to agree, as well as a beaten bruised Blutto. It's a simple
sociological fact; one that has haunted sons of sailors all over the
world from time to time, even to this day: 'It's proven through
history that womens' a mystery...' Ain't it the truth?
With a growing anxiety that,
perhaps, they weren't as welcomed as they should've been by now
(even by the merchant himself whom may very well have forgotten the
episode that'd brought them all together in the first place) the
farmer and the raccoon quietly made their way toward what appeared
to be the captain's private table. They tried to look as
inconspicuous as possible, an endeavor they both failed miserably in
accomplishing, especially the barefooted raccoon with his frayed
suitcase and soiled overalls. The merchant nodded to the captain
who, in turn, motioned for the two young men to step forward and
approach the table. It was an unexpected gesture, and one that
suddenly made them both feel more important than they ever did
before – or at least, a little less Harley-ish.
Morgan thought he recognized
the sharecroppers from an earlier encounter when he'd been forced to
discharge his firearm over the heads of his startled crew to the
dismay of the tattooed master-at arms who was the cause of the
disruption in the first place. At first, he seemed a little angry;
and then he looked amused. There was, I suppose, some humor to be
found in the sight a couple of Harley bean farmers approaching the
captain's private table that didn't escape the merchant discerning
eye, either. As a well-established matter of protocol, it was
something that just wasn't done in Saint Peter's Hall, or anywhere
else for that matter, at least not without a written statement or
some other form of formal introduction. But Morgan admired the
boldness of the farmers, and felt that he might actually have owed
one of them an apology, if nothing else, for what happened at the
dock that day. He'd also consumed enough alcohol by then not to take
issue with the merchant for initiating the meeting to begin with. In
many ways, the intrusion came as a welcome and timely relief to what
had otherwise was turning into a contest of wills between the two
old titans, and one the captain was in no particular mood to pursue
at the time.`
Roger Morgan was a relatively
young man (for a captain of the Fleet, that is) with short black
hair, thick red lips, a ruddy complexion, and large round eyes which
have already been detailed with great specificity. As he'd
previously appeared onboard his beloved ship, the captain of the
Maria Aurora wore no discernable uniform that would have signified
his rank or command, and could easily have passed for a common
seaman at the time. While acknowledging the presence of his guest,
Roger leaned back in his chair, gazing deeply into the merchant's
cold gray eyes as if waiting for him to unravel some private riddle
they'd both been wrestling with for quite some time. Together, they
appeared as old friends who just happened to be suspicious of one
another, as old acquaintances often are, but careful never to allow
those suspicious to interfere with their friendship. But it went
deeper than that, much deer. Theirs was a special kind of
relationship, like that of brothers, I suppose; the kind sons of
sailors are familiar with, forged in the heat of battle, bonded in
blood, and consummated on many lonely nights spent together in the
company of other like-minded mariners. But like all relationships,
this one too had its limitations; and, in the case of the merchant
and the captain, those limitations would soon be put to the test.
"Which one's the farmer?" the
captain casually enquired, wiping the foam from his face with the
back of his sleeve.
After a short and predictable
pause, Mister Dixon hesitantly stepped forward, forcing a smile
which, under any other circumstance and in more familiar
surroundings, would've came easily and naturally enough on its own,
and said with a slight stutter, "We's b-both famers, sir." He then
turned back to Elmo who, holding the suitcase tightly at his side,
nodded in agreement, although he wished he hadn't had to do so.
"Now I remember!" beamed the
captain, slightly inebriated by then and looking at the farmer
through sympathetic crows-feet eyes. "Sorry about Finch," he quickly
apologized with a sincerity that sounded as though he actually meant
it. "He's a bad apple, that's for sure. But we're short of apples
these days," he further explained, "and I need all I can get my
hands on – good or bad. Besides, he's really not as rotten as he
looks. It's those damn tattoos, you know. I've seen worse. Don't
worry, boy. He'll get what he deserves. They all do... depend on it."
The turtle liked what he
heard; and coming from the thick brave lips of Captain Roger Morgan
made it sound even better. Elmo liked it, too, although not as
noticeably; and he was more optimistic than ever. He knew this might
be his only chance he would have to get on the good side of the
captain and, therefore, the only chance of getting onboard the ship,
which he was now more determined to do than ever; once, that is,
he'd found the Miracle-Maker. And so, with his suitcase and sailin'
shoes firmly in hand, the Harlie waited for just the right moment.
He wouldn't have to wait very long.
Not knowing exactly how much
of the disruptive exchange Roger Morgan had actually witnessed on
the dock that day, Mister Dixon was about to present his case before
the captain of the Maria Aurora as a matter of truth and
consequence. He'd been hoping all along to get even with the
tattooed sailor who slapped in the face; or at least see him
reprimanded for doing what he did, and for no apparent reason.
Justice demanded it. It was against the law. But what law? Whose
law? His, or theirs? Sure, he was a civilian; and striking a
civilian was against the law; even Sherman knew that. But he was
also a Harlie; and he knew deep down, as all Harlies do, that
somehow, despite whatever happened after the war, that would always
make a difference. And actually, it did. Not just because they were
Harlies, but simply because they were in the wrong place at the
wrong time. It wasn't fair, and it certainly wasn't just; but try
explaining that to the likes of Peter Finch. You may as well try
explaining Newton's first Law of Gravity to a hovering humble
bumble-bee that, despite all aerodynamic calculations and weight to
wing ratios, should not be able to fly at all. Or better yet, try
explaining to an Arctic Eskimo who'd been hunting seals, killing
polar bears, and eating blubber all his fat and frozen life, the
medicinal benefits of a strictly vegetarian diet; not that he ever
had a choice in such gastronomical decisions, or even wanted one.
You may not like what you hear; and you just might get yourself
stung, or harpooned! Being mean was something that came natural to
the sadistic master-at-arms. But damn it to hell! Sherman thought to
himself: Harlies gots rights, too! Even if they's just po' ol' dirt
farmers who ain't gots a pot to pee in... or enough sense to know any
better. And a Harlie's rights is just as good as anyone else's', he
further extrapolated, even though it may've been too late by then.
And his had been violated! The Law said so. Didn't it? It was a
question that's been on the turtle's mind ever since the incident
occurred. It was something he just couldn't put it out of his mind,
no matter how hard he tried. And it all came out just then in one
short and succinct sentence that seemed to sum up all his doubtful
thoughts at the time. "That man done me wrong," said Sherman,
peeping out of his shell like the frightened turtle he actually was.
He was sure, however, that the brave captain would agree, sooner or
later. So would the wise merchant, he further imagined; and so would
Peter Finch.
They both knew, of course,
what was really bothering the frightened turtle at the time. Sherman
Dixon didn't want Justice; he wanted vengeance. It was written all
over his fat, flabby, and frustrated face; it was as clear and
evident as the yellow stripe on the back of his soft humiliated
shell. He also wanted respect; and he wanted it now. He was just too
scared to ask for it; and he didn't know how. And until he did, he
would get neither. He didn't even know what it was yet. Neither did
Elmo for that matter. They both had a lot to learn.
But Morgan knew, and so did
Elijah Hatch. They also knew that it was something the fat man would
have to learn on his own, and earn, the way sons of sailors do.
That's the only way it means anything. That's how it works. The
turtle would get his vengeance, and more, eventually; and with it he
would also get Justice, and maybe even a little respect. But first
he would have to learn the difference. Until then, he would get
nothing.
Still wanted it; and just as
he was about to open his mouth and demand it, Sherman Dixon felt
that something was very definitely wrong; and he knew immediately
what it was. It was only himself. You see, in the end, the
frightened turtle simply couldn't bring himself to admit what had
actually happened to him that day on the dock in Old Port Fierce. He
was too ashamed. It was the captain himself who convinced him of
this. Not in so many encouraging words or sympathetic gestures, but
merely in the way he looked at the farmer that evening in Saint
Peter's Hall at the Blue Dolphin Inn.
It was all in the eyes... Roger
Morgan's eyes: eyes as blue as cold steel and white as flash
lightening; piercing eyes, peering and penetrating, probing
instruments that did not blink, not unlike those of a certain
colonel we need not mention. These were the eyes of Roger Morgan,
the eyes of a captain. They've seen war and watched men die. These
were lenses that looked in as well as out. They spoke for
themselves, a right optical megaphone if ever there was one. The
captain didn't have to say a word. All he had to do was look. And he
did look! He looked deep, deep, and deeper still into the farmer's
frustrated soul until he could look no deeper. Sherman did not look
back, however; he was too embarrassed. He felt violated, somehow, as
if he were being ripped out of his shell, his naked body twisting
and turning in the air like that of a pig hanging in the marketplace
about to be butchered. He could all but here the flies buzzing in
his ears. And at that moment, Sherman Dixon knew what he had to do.
It was only be a matter of time.
Elmo Cotton was about to say
something in regard to what had taken place earlier that day in
defense of his slow unfortunate and, in many ways, defenseless
friend. But before he could pen his mouth, he was cut short by
Morgan himself who, being a man accustomed to having his orders
obeyed, even if those orders were given vicariously through others,
including his own cabin-boy who was at times and for reasons
undisclosed invested with such regal authority, enquired of the two
before him, "Mister Hatch said you were told to find me onboard –
and me alone. What happened?"
Suddenly realizing that
they were the now ones under the captain's gun, and not the
guilty sailor who'd actually committed the crime, Mister Dixon found
within him the courage to answer for both he and his neighbor: "They
say you was busy, sir. And that's the truth," he added out of pure
frustration,
The captain eyed the turtle
with a certain amount of uncertainty. "All lies have a grain of
truth in them, boy; especially the good ones. Who told you that?" he
asked.
"The sailor-mens," snapped the
turtle.
"Which one?"
"The man with all them..." And
here the turtle struggled, attempting to describe the dark green
markings that covered so much of the 'sailor-men's' body, by tracing
an imaginary line on his own fat forearm.
"Tattoos?" questioned the
captain, as a small purple vein formed on his forehead.
"God's guns, man! They all
have tattoos," reminded the merchant.
"The mens on the boat."
"Boat?!" decried the captain,
suddenly appearing not nearly as sympathetic he did only a moment
ago, and perhaps a little perplexed. "What boat?"
"The one they calls Maria
A-Aurora," stuttered the turtle.
Morgan scowled, as if he'd
just been personally offended; and, for the moment at least, he
didn't say word.
Sherman could not imagine what
it was he'd said, or didn't say, to warrant such a stern and silent
reproach; but he knew it must have been something very serious. He
waited while as few other patrons seated at nearby tables turned
their heads and chairs to collectively witness the interrogation.
They recognized Morgan and Hatch all right (who wouldn't?) but
didn't know what to make of the two 'Strange Jimmies', a pejorative
generously applied to anyone, particularly those of questionable
character or alien origin outside their immediate circle of
acquaintances, standing at the captain's table.
"I must be hearing things,
Hatch" the captain finally surrendered, turning his half-attention
to the stoic merchant seated beside him while vigorously plunging
out one ear with the probing tip of his left pinky finger, much like
the turtle was in the habit of, attempting, it would seem, to remove
some excess ear-wax, or perhaps some other foreign obstruction
impeding ability to comprehend what he was hearing at the moment.
"I'm all plugs! There... There... There it is. Ahhhhhhhhhh! he sounded
in climatic relief, tilting his massive head to the floor while
gently taping out an unctuous wad of some yellowish wax-like
substance that fell from his skull like honey from the hive.
Apparently, the wax was what precipitated his temporary loss of
hearing in the first place. "That's better..." the captain softly
sighed.
Not a few at the adjoining
tables snickered; some laughed out loud. The merchant was also
smiling by then, knowing that Morgan was only doing what Morgan did
best: He was making a point and, with the help of a little alcohol
and a small but appreciative audience, he was making it stick. He
was also having a little fun in the process, which was also to be
expected.
"Now," continued the captain,
turning his undivided attention back to the turtle at hand who
hadn't moved an inch, "Would you care to re-phase that,
boy?"
Sherman did exactly that, and,
in doing so merely exacerbated his present situation, which was
beginning to look bleak. "The boat they calls the M-Maria Aurora,"
he repeated with the same debilitating stutter as before, only this
time on the first name of the celebrated ship.
"That's not a boat!"
excoriated the captain, the purple vein on his forehead having grown
noticeably larger, and more clearly defined, by then... "That's a
ship. That's my ship!"
"Y-Yes, sir...'Scuse me, s-sir,"
the turtle stammered, quickly correcting himself after finally
realizing it was his own choice of words, poorly chosen it would
seem, that had earned him the captain's ire. "That's 'zactly w-what
I means to say. S-Ship! Sir! Not b-b-b-boat," he muttered and
sputtered.
"Then say what you mean,
Mister; and mean what you say. And nothing else!" ordered the
captain, sternly admonishing the stuttering turtle he actually
becoming quite fond of. "I'll see about Finch later. And next time
do what you're told," he added.
The farmer shook his head and
then nodded, clearly embarrassed and very much aware of the
captain's admonishment. He felt much like the child who, after
having been soundly beaten up by the local school-bully through no
fault of his own, suddenly finds himself standing in the
vice-principal's office getting lectured on the meritorious rewards
of practicing good behavior. He wanted nothing more than to leave
the hall, immediately, and come back later, perhaps, to pick up his
hard-earned pay. And he was just about to make such a early exit
when, suddenly, another gullible thought flowed forth from the
turtle's primordial brain, just as it did when he committed the
first unpardonable sin of referring to the Maria Aurora as a...a boat!
"About the tariff, sir..." the turtle humbly digressed, wanting only
to assure the captain that he intended to pay it (the tax , that
is) in full measure, once he'd settled things with Mister Elijah
Hatch, of course.
"Tariff! What tariff?" begged
the captain, while working his pinky finger now into the other ear
and plunging away with the same vigorous back and forth motion as
before, only deeper.
"The t-tariff, sir. You know?"
"What the hell you talking
about, man!" the captain howled.
But the turtle kept on
stuttering, "T-taxes. The taxes, s-sir."
Morgan thought for a moment.
"You ain't talkin' about tribute by any chance... Are you, son?" he
earnestly enquired, thinking they might have been approached by
pirates.
"Huh?"
"Money!" the captain
clarified.
The turtle nodded in the
affirmative. "The man say we gots to pay before we puts the beans on
the bo... I mean the s-ship," Sherman quickly corrected himself.
The captain arched an eagle
eyebrow, smiled, and then laughed. "You hear that, Hatch – a
tariff!" he roared.
It was an old sailor's joke,
of course; one that's been around forever it seemed, at least ever
since someone first discovered that he could take another man's
money, possessions, or anything else he owned for that matter,
including his wife, if not legally, then at least with as little
amount of guilt and shame as possible, and with force if necessary.
It's called stealing, robbery and extortion, among other things.
Some still referred to it as tribute. Politicians call them taxes;
and they call for them as often as possible. There are no
exceptions. They affect just about everyone, especially those who do
business on the sea where boundaries are often determined by those
with the biggest ships and the biggest guns, including Pharaoh,
whose own floating palaces were sometimes taxed by pirates waiting
in ambush along the narrows of the Nile like so many hungry
crocodiles, or else ferried off for ransom. It was just business as
usual. 'Tariff' was the modern term most often used in the maritime
business of import/export, which, when fairly applied and
justified, was generally tolerated, albeit with the usual grunts,
groans, and calls for impeachment by those whose wallets were
affected the most, and for the most part accepted as... well,
'business as usual'. What happened to the turtle that day was
something entirely different; and they both knew it. It was
something the merchant was quite familiar with by now; only, he
never thought anyone would actually be stupid enough to fall for
such a prank, at least not in Old Port Fierce where folk were just
not gullible. But then again, he'd never meet anyone like Sherman
Dixon; and probably never would again. Nobody could be that ignorant
– or stupid! Could they? he secretly surmised, wondering if perhaps
he better have another look at the beans he'd recently purchased
from the same fat man from Harley who fell for the joke. It might've
even been funny at one time, when it was all in jest; but there'd
been reports lately of sailors, and merchants as well, extorting
money in a variety of ways that were unethical, if not downright
illegal. It made the merchant more than suspicious. It also made him
angry. Times had changed, and not for the better, Elijah Hatch sadly
acknowledged. "That's a lie," he admonished the honest but rather
gullible turtle. "This is a free port, son. There ain't no tariffs
in Old Port Fierce... none that I'm aware of anyway. You've been
duped."
The turtle was flummoxed and
befuddled. "B-But," he tried to explain, before finally realizing
that he was not only the butt, but the arms, legs, head and heel, in
fact the whole imbecilic being of a very old and very practical joke
played at his own expense. Suddenly, he was more ashamed than ever,
if that was even possible; and quite embarrassed, to boot. He felt
as though he'd only made matters worse. Now, he really wanted to
leave, even if he never got paid.
"Finch was just pulling your
jib, boy" scolded the captain, having about as much sympathy for the
bean farmer, whom he thought should've known better, as he did for
Mister Finch who'd made such a fool of him. "Pay him no mind next
time," warned Morgan. "He's a liar and thief; but he's good at what
he does. Like Mister Hatch here says, there ain't no tariff. And
don't you forget it."
Sherman knew that he should've
ended the conversation right then and there; but he didn't. "Ain't
that kinda like stealin'?" he questioned the captain and the
merchant at once.
Hatch spoke for them both when
he said, "You're right, son. It is stealing – maybe even worse. At
least a thief will let you know when he lifting your purse, if he's
an honest one, that is. What Finch did was different. It's shameful
– the act of a coward. But I suppose it can't be helped."
"It could... but it won't,"
noted the captain, correctly. "Finch is a trouble-maker, a bad
apple; you know that, Elijah. Sure, I could have him flogged...
wouldn't be his first time; and it wouldn't do much good. Might even
make him worse. He's kissed the gunner's daughter more than once.
Don't suppose even keel-hulling the bastard would straighten out a
devil like Finch. He's twisted, man – All knots!" the captain
attempted to explain while twisting and turning his calloused hands
into a ball of twisted fingers. "Some men just don't change.
Besides, he's too old."
"I guess you're right, Roger,"
the merchant nodded in sad and subtle agreement, although he'd
always hoped the captain was wrong in his final assessment of the
master-at-arms in question. He'd personally trained Peter Finch,
just like he did Roger Morgan, and, at one time, considered him
officer material. Elijah Hatch was actually once captain of both
men. They'd sailed together on many brave voyages, with Hatch at the
Helm. Morgan and Finch were still young men at the time: boys with
beards, you might say; and so was Elijah Hatch for that matter,
relatively speaking, of course. They'd seen battle together; and
Peter Finch was the best gunner in the Fleet at one time; next to
Ensign Roger Morgan. He was also one of the bravest and the boldest,
and had the scars and medals to prove it. His promotions came
swiftly, not unlike Morgan's, and were, for the most part, well
deserved. But something happened to the master-at-arms along the
way; something just went wrong. He became bitter and bent, 'twisted'
in the captain's manual description, and resentful; not only towards
his immediate superiors, which sometimes happens to young Turks and
up-coming officers who are constantly attempting to impress their
upper echelons, but also towards his peers and underlings, many of
whom not only admired and looked up to the young Mister Finch, but
sought to emulate him. Many was the time he would admonish the crew,
and even punish them for no reason. He became aloof, estranged –
ambiguous at first, and then just plain cruel; just like the tattoos
covering most of his near-naked body, which, as Captain Elijah Hatch
once observed, may have had something to do with the master-at-arm's
'twisted' transformation.
'It comes with the ink...' the
sons of sailors were quick to point out, having undergone similar
'skin-stitchings' of their own, although not as deep and dark as the
ones Finch so proudly displayed. The ones he wore were different.
He's received them, for the most part, on the Islands; as did many
sailors of that age old profession; and, some, including Elijah
Hatch, say he was never the same since. The tattoos back than were
mostly black (colored ink coming into fashion only recently among
the Island artisans who still performed the painful ritual of
tattooing) with tantalizing hints of green and blue blended into the
epidural canvass. It was a poisonous mixture, a substance derived
from a variety of native plants which, although not particularly
lethal, would leave the recipient of the mark sick for weeks to come
and bed-ridden, much to the chagrin of his commanding officers. They
were applied the old fashion way: topically, with the customary
'tat-tat-tat-tat-tat' of the witchdoctor's barbaric needle which was
typically engineered from the tooth of a tiger shark. It was done
slowly, patiently and, of course, painfully. There was no other way;
and there were no anesthetics, except perhaps bottle of rum and a
metal blade to bite on. The scars lasted for days and the lines
never faded. They were indelibly etched into the skin and could
never be removed; and the patient's heart would be forever altered
as well, in time turning as black as the lines on his own
transfigured body. And such was the case of Mister Peter Finch.
Whatever had happened to turn that once noble heart into a
cold-blooded killer was just as ambiguous as the markings
themselves. Still, Captain Hatch never gave up on the illustrated
mate. For beneath all his transfigurations and all the ambiguities
invested in their diabolical design, the master-at-arms was still
the son of a sailor, if nothing else, and perhaps worth saving.
But the captain had always
disagreed. "Minds can sometimes be changed, Elijah," he spoke on the
subject with his glass half-empty, "but the heart... now that's a
different matter all together. He's hopeless. But that's what makes
him so good at what he does, I suppose."
"Hope springs eternal..."
reminded the merchant.
"Not for Finch," gulped the
captain. "He's an animal... No! He's worse than that. Animals act out
of blind instinct. This one hates for hates sake. But still he
obeys..."
"We all have our orders,"
reminded the merchant. And those were the last words Elijah Hatch
would speak on the subject he knew so well and yet so little of. He
then quickly emptied his glass and turned his attention back to
pressing, and perhaps more peculiar, matter at hand: like the
raccoon, for instance, who he'd been suspicious of ever since the
crossed paths on Fisherman's Wharf that day. He also couldn't help
but notice that this raccoon had blue eyes and was presently holding
onto an old beat-up suitcase with a broken handle as if it contained
the keys to the Vatican vault. "What's that you got in the bag,
son?" he asked out of sheer curiosity.
Elmo's naked feet moved two
steps back, almost on their own volition it seemed. He positioned
the suitcase behind his back and was holding on to the handle by now
as if he were glued to it. "Just some nasty ol' shoes..." he murmured,
almost incoherently, wishing by now that he'd left the suitcase
outside in the wagon, or some other place where it wouldn't be so
conspicuous. "My uncle done give them to me," he added, just to make
it sound more plausible.
From the moment they arrived
that evening, the merchant had also noted that only one of the two
sharecroppers was wearing any shoes. He wondered why, and just had
to ask the shoeless raccoon, "Why ain't you wearing them, boy?"
"Well..." began Elmo, alarmed by
sudden inquisition, perhaps more than he actually should have been,
and wondering if he should say nothing, or just turn around and head
for the door. He did neither. "They's called 'travelin' shoes, sir..."
spoke the raccoon, griping the handle of the suitcase more firmly
than ever. He was going to say 'sailin' shoes, but didn't want to
sound too presumptuous; not just yet anyway. "Ain't got much use for
them tho'. They's kinda raggedy... and they smells bad, too. And
besides," he added, feeling just a little bit disingenuous, "they
don't fits me no-how." By then Elmo cotton thought he'd said enough,
if not too much, already.
Morgan had no reason to
believe the barefooted pedestrian; but he had no reason not to.
"Well,' he said with a hint of an apology and a re-assuring smile,
"That's your business, son – not mine. You did a good job, I hear.
And that's all that really matter, I 'spose."
The merchant nodded in
agreement.
Naturally, Elmo wanted to make
a good first impression (Who doesn't?), knowing it might also be his
last. He was even beginning to believe he accomplished just that. He
was still trying to think of a way to get onboard the captain's
ship, if that was at all still possible, and knew he'd have to be
more careful in the future, especially when answering questions of a
personal nature. He was still raccoon on the run, fugitive and
vagabond, and it seemed like he would be no matter where he went or
how far he ran, even to the ends of the earth. "We did everything
you told us to, Mister Hatch," he said with a shy but confident
smile.
"Good!" said Hatch.
But the captain was still a
little curious and not yet completely satisfied. "Where you from,
boy?" he asked, looking directly into Harlie's eyes, which were
almost, but not quite as dark and blue as those of the celebrated
captain. He also noticed, just like merchant earlier, that this
raccoon was holding a suitcase; so tightly by now that his knuckles
were beginning to turn white, which, even for a light-skinned
Harlie, was quite remarkable.
Even though he had no way of
knowing it at the time, Elmo Cotton was one step closer to climbing
onboard the Maria Aurora. The sailin' shoes weighed heavily in the
suitcase; he could feel them, along with the Motherstone, tugging at
is arm. He still hadn't put them on yet since he'd left the old
Indian camp, but could almost feel them on his feet right now– and
they fit! He stepped forward slowly, cautiously, but with pride and
confidence; not so much in himself, for he'd long since abandoned
such human entitlements, ever since he became a demi-god, in fact,
but in those who taught him what they really meant; he was actually
thinking of his Uncle Joe as he boldly approached the captain's
table, and perhaps Homer, too. "Harley...' he replied, in a deep brown
voice that was just beginning to sound eerily like that of his own
dead uncle; like a bull frog in a fog-horn. "I's from Harley sir,"
he croaked.
"Harley!" exclaimed the
captain with a sobering burst of energy that made him knock over his
own glass, spilling the foamy contents all over the table. "You mean
– up north of Creekwood Green?"
"Yes, sir," answered the
turtle for the raccoon, laying a chubby brown hand on Elmo's naked
shoulder, "That's where we's come from."
Morgan smiled. "Heard they
have some mighty fine beer up in Creekwood Green," he said,
"Speaking of which..." And here the captain paused to pour himself
another glass of beer from the pitcher to replace the one he'd just
spilt. "Cornbrew! he suddenly cried, so vociferously in fact that
many heads turned at once in their direction. "That's what they call
it – Cornbrew! A place called The Nickel Pig Saloon... up on the hill,
if I'm not mistaken. That's it! Now I remember."
"Kessler cornbrew," reminded
the well-traveled merchant who was certainly no stranger to the
bitter but pleasant taste of that special brand of beer brewed by
Mister Kessler and his celebrated sons, whom the malt liquor was
appropriately named after. He'd had his fill of the potent potable
known as cornbrew not more than a month ago when he'd passed through
the old Iron Gates for the sole purpose of procuring a wagonload of
the precious produce for the up-coming excursion. Naturally, Harley
beans would play a vital role in the voyage, as they have for over a
hundred years, providing captain and crew with the nourishment they
would need for what was turning out to be a very long and expensive
enterprise that was already over budget. The beans would prove to be
indispensable; and they were cheap, too! as the bean-counting
merchant was also well aware of. They grew in abundance in the muddy
soil in the lowlands of Creekwood County, better known as Harley;
the town that, in its own modest and colorful way, was made famous
by the plentiful commodity. It was often rumored, although never
actually proven (which is precisely why they're called rumors) that
little Harley bean was actually the secret ingredient Kessler and
his sons used, in charitable measure, when preparing their special
brew, which was always in high demand and short supply, as the
economy dictated. Not only did the insightful merchant have the
foresight of stocking his own shelves with a generous supply of the
famous larger, along with the usual rations of rum and other strong
spirits; but he was wise enough to have several barrels of the
specially prepared cornbrew stowed away in the heavy hull of the
Maria Aurora as well, and not just for his own private consumption,
but that of the crew who would toast Mister Elijah Hatch many times
over before the mission was terminated; hopefully, to a successful,
profitable, and healthy conclusion...whatever it was.
As captain of his own vessel
at one time in his long and illustrious life, Elijah Hatch had
always treated his crew well, and with all due consideration. A
large part of that treatment always included a generous supply of
beer, a staple of sailors everywhere and a favorite among many
Americans who, thru their own acquired tastes, and perhaps for more
personal and patriot reasons, actually preferred the foamy yellow
beverage over the finest French cognac. And it didn't start in
America! For those who may be interested, beer was actually first
introduced into a sober and thirsty world by the ancient Egyptians,
as documented in their own hieroglyphic cook books. It is said that
the wealthier citizens of that once thriving Metropolis actually
used it as a form of currency; perhaps to pay the wages of the lower
class workers that built the great pyramids (in much the same way
the Incas paid off their own inexhaustible workforce half a world
away in coca leaves – Talk about employee incentive!) when not
ingesting it themselves, that is, at least three times a day, or so
it is written, while cruising the Nile in any one of Cleopatra's
many luxurious yachts. Beer! It's the elixir of life; a gift from
the god. And it's been found all over the world. It was even found
in the tombs of the dead Pharaohs, perhaps to quench their parched
throats as they journeyed through the underworld of the dead, or as
payment to the ferryman to usher them into the land of the dead, not
unlike the Roman god, Charon, who provided similar passage through
the shadows of Sheol, but only to those who could pay the fare.
Archaeologists have actually
discovered five kinds of beer and four kinds of wine while poking
through dumps, examining skeletons, probing texts and studying
remains of beer jars and wine vats at Giza. Beer was depicted on the
walls of the tombs, as were scenes of the ancient Egyptian brewery.
It was probably very similar to the way beer is still produced in
Sudan today. Traditionally, beer was regarded as a female activity
as it was an off-shoot of bread making – the basis of the beer were
loaves of specially made bread. Most likely, it was not very
intoxicating, nutritious, sweet, without bubbles, and thick (the
beer had to be strained with wooden siphons, used as a straw,
because it was filled with impurities). Though the later Greek
accounts suggest that the beer, instead, was as intoxicating as the
strongest wine, and it is clear that the worshipers of Bast, Sekhmet
and Hathor got drunk on beer as part of their worship of these goddesses,
because of their aspect of the Eye of Ra. Tenenit was another
ancient Egyptian goddess of beer. It also happened to be, and still
is for that matter, a staple beverage onboard all sailing vessels,
and for one practical reason – the alcohol! Vikings would store
large quantities of the precious yellow liquid onboard their
graceful long-boats while cruising off the coast of Iceland and in
the warmer latitudes around neighboring Newfoundland, which they
would drink in large quantities instead of water. As it were, and
due chiefly to its pure and natural properties, the water itself
would often become undrinkable on these long and protracted voyages,
primarily due to the bacteria and other disease carrying germs and
viruses that thrived in non-alcoholic environments. And besides,
beer just tasted better.
Aside from the beer, the wise
and benevolent Hatch also made sure that there was an ample supply
of food stuffs onboard prior to embarking upon any protracted voyage
at sea, including bread, beans, rice, cheese, an assortment of
salted meats. And just as any good army marches on its stomach, so
too does the Navy float, and with even greater buoyancy: on bellies
full of beer! And he knew just where to find it – Creekwood Green.
The Nickel Pig Saloon! In fact, Elijah Hatch had dried a keg or two
himself not too long ago at the very same tavern the captain spoke
of so hospitably, the one up on top of Lazy Hill Road in town called
Creekwood Green. "Double Footprint... Charlie's best!" he delightfully
boasted.
Morgan agreed. "That's it!
That's it! Pete Liddle's place! I was there. They play a game there...
What's that they call it?"
"Ten-Keg," reminded the
merchant who, having participated in the precarious sport just then
alluded to with so much enthusiasm, knew exactly what Roger was
thinking of. "They call it Ten-Keg, Roger. It's played with barrels...
just like ten-pin."
"Right again, Hatch!" the
captain exploded. "I remember it now. There was a man up there;
long, black beard; he wore glasses, and dressed in a bearskin, if
I'm not mistaken. Queer sort of fellow, liked to play with dynamite,
so they say. Threw a mighty mean keg, too. And man! could that man
roll a barrel..."
The unambiguous description
immediately made Elmo think of the man he'd seen in the bean field,
back at the Iron Gate, and the same one on the other side of the
river, the demi-god he just couldn't seem to drive out of his mind.
Could it be... he thought to himself, as both the captain and the
merchant suddenly appeared caught up in the nostalgia of the
moment.
"Tom Henley...That's it!" Morgan
gleefully exclaimed after a brief moment of sober recollection. "He
was an older gentleman. Lived up in the hills. Miner, I suppose.
Looked like the devil. But smart as a whip! Like to read books.
Educated man, they say. He was on the blue team; I was on the red.
It was a close game. We lost, of course. Henley did most of the
damage. Wouldn't want a rematch. That old man damn near killed me!
But that's the name of the game – Ten-Keg. Ain't no other like it –
Eh, Hatch?"
Actually, what the captain was
referring to, although his knowledge of the sport was rudimentary at
best, was a game they would play in Creekwood Green from time to
time known simply and appropriately as 'Ten-keg'. It was played,
quite naturally, with ten corn-kegs, that is to say: beer
containers. The objective of the game was simple: to stack all ten
kegs in a pyramid fashion one on top of the other, on the opposite
side of the Ten-Keg court (a magnificent work of art in and of
itself, painted right there on the floorboards of the oldest saloon
in Creekwood County) before the opposing team had a chance to do the
same. The trick, of course, was to simply get all ten kegs across
the court (preferably in one piece) by means punctiliously outlined
by the rules thereof. It took skill, courage, a whole lot of nerve;
a little luck, perhaps; and, of course, voluminous quantities of
beer (as I already mentioned, the kegs had to be empty) which
certainly didn't hurt.
Ten-keg is a very
dangerous game; one the merchant and the captain were obviously
quite familiar with. What impressed them most about 'the game' was
the magnificent court on which was played on, which seemed to have
been constructed for the sole purpose of accommodating such a novel
form of entertainment. It was all hand carved, right into the floor
of the old tavern itself, and painted entirely in blue and red, the
colors of combat, as any war-child could tell you. The design
itself, being chiefly composed of two brightly painted starbursts
placed on opposite ends of the hall with a vast array of celestial
bodies scattered throughout the wooden tapestry, was a magnificent
work of art. 'Out of this world!' more modern minds may wonder; a
work of extraterrestrial origins, perhaps; put there, it would seem,
by some interplanetary space traveler, whose alien space ship just
happened to touch upon the humble tavern on the hill one exploratory
night (or maybe, they just got lost, as can happen to even the most
seasoned space travelers in the galaxy, never mind how advanced)
whose mission it was to leave behind some astrological chart of the
Universe; perhaps for the benefit of fellow space travelers who
might chance to pass that 'milky' way in some near or distant
future. Or maybe it was simply a gift, in exchange, perhaps, for a
few barrels of beer to aid them on their journey home through the
stars of some far-away galaxy; a small token of appreciation they'd
left behind for these hospitable Earth creatures who, as scientific
observation would clearly suggest, would more than likely be extinct
by the time these alien mariners of time and space ever returned to
see what eventually became of the intoxicated inhabitants of the
third stone from the sun who, as evidenced by their behavior alone,
were so intent on their mutual annihilation. Needless-to-say,
Ten-Keg, along with the voluminous amounts of alcoholic beverages
consumed on any given night at Peter Liddle's Nickel Pig Saloon,
would probably have something to do with the alien's gloomy
prognostication. But, as usual, I digress.
Getting back to the Ten-Keg
court, there were, moons, stars, planets, along with all manner of
solar satellites; a whole constellations, in fact! incorporated into
its general astrological makeup, which, even over a good many years,
never lost its luster, did not seem to fade, and not once ever in
need of paint or repair, despite the harsh punishment it took from
those who participated in the barbaric and sometimes deadly sport of
Ten-Keg. The images were indelibly circumscribed in the floorboards
of the old saloon, fixed, as they were, in the deep dark Heavens,
anchored by the gravitational hand of God, secure and permanent as
the Milky Way, the rings of Saturn, or the many moons of Jupiter;
curiously observed in their revolutionary wonderings by the naked
eye of man or, perhaps, through more modern contrivances that allow
him to peer, mechanically, that is, even further and deeper into the
finite matter of the Universe through telescopic lenses and their
own myopic eyes. And what they see is perhaps not unlike the
ambiguous renderings transcribed on the floor of the famous tavern,
or stitched on the body of Peter Finch, the illustrated sailor
himself. But, unlike those inscrutable tattoos sinfully sown in the
soul of the wicked master-at-arms, or those sometimes observed in
the musty and moldy halls of dead Pharaohs, these hieroglyphs served
a more practical purpose and were, at least to those with a basic
knowledge of astronomy, decipherable. You see, they not only formed
and thus delineated the actual boundaries of the aforementioned
'Ten-keg' court on which the game was played, but they were also
aligned in such a way and manner so as to coincide with the natural
celestial settings they so clearly represented; creating, if you
will, a map of the entire Universe, or at least that much of it
which could be seen by the naked human eye, comprehended, and
microcosmically catalogued in wood. And not only that, these same
astronomical lines also delineated the positions of the various
players during the course of any particular evening when the game
was fully underway. And so were the goals! as properly depicted by
the four spectacular starbursts painted ostensibly in each quadrant
of the rectangular playing field. To further describe such an
astrological masterpiece in one chapter, and in the full detail it
so richly and righteously deserves, would be practically impossible.
I won't even make the attempt. Nor will I try to explain at any
greater length the exact rules and regulation associated with the
time-honored game called Ten-Keg. All that will just have to wait,
for another chapter; or maybe even another book. Suffice it to say
that, in any case, Ten-Keg had to played, or at least seen, in order
to be fully appreciated its true historical value.
In his own condescending but
inoffensive way, Morgan questioned the two Harlies once more on the
subject he just couldn't seem to get his off of his mind that
evening. "Don't suppose either of you boys would be knowing anything
about Ten-keg, now – Would you?" he politely asked, but with a
seriousness that across like blue daggers protruding from the
sockets of his eyes.
Together the two farmers shook
their heads – "No."
The captain looked not a
little disappointed. "Either of you drink?" he summarily asked,
pushing the pitcher of beer forward across the table.
Despite a powerful thirst
brought on by too much work and not enough food or sleep, Sherman
Dixon declined the captain's generous offer knowing, from personal
experience at least, the adverse effects the alcohol would have on
his large but sensitive empty stomach; and that they would soon have
to be leaving anyway. "No thank you, sir," he smiled in return,
"Must be on our way now. We still gots to finds us a Miracle-Maker.
Ain't that right Mister Cotton?" he suggested.
Elmo pretended not to hear. He
wasn't even sure if such a person even existed. And he certainly
didn't want the captain, or the black-hatted merchant for that
matter, to know what his plans or intentions were; at least not
until he was able to find this so-called 'Miracle-Maker, or whoever
it was, and do what he had to do.
The captain and the merchant
looked at one another in silent wonder.
It was already dark outside,
and Sherman knew that he still had to find Bernice Johnson's house,
which would be difficult enough in the daylight, he imagined; the
beer would only make it worse.
The thirsty raccoon was
thinking that his friend the turtle perhaps might've spoken a little
too hastily, and that perhaps he should've spoken for himself.
Actually, he could think of nothing more he wanted at the moment
than a tall glass of cold beer; and maybe something to eat; a
plateful of Mister Freddie Fripps famous fried frog's feet, perhaps;
to not only rekindle his dwindling spirits but fill the empty void
in his stomach. And nothing goes down better with Freddie Fripp's
famous fried frog's feet than beer; Charlie Kessler's cornbrew, If
you got any; Double print label! If you can find it. The Harlie
hadn't tasted beer in over a year; and he hadn't eaten a home cooked
meal ever since he'd left the old Indian camp; not even one
barbecued dog! or broiled raccoon. And hey! Demi-gods have to eat
too, you know. It would also give him a chance to prove something to
the captain and the merchant he'd been wanting to ever since they
met. Exactly what that was, he really didn't know yet. But he had to
say, or do, something – and quick!
"Go on, lads," Morgan
insisted, pushing the container of beer closer to the edge of the
table where the thirsty raccoon stood reaching for the glass, almost
instinctively, like a man reaching for his gun when he wakes in the
middle of the night to the sound of someone breaking in through in
the back door.
But the fat man was just a
little quicker that night, and pushed the pitcher away from the
raccoon's padded paws just in the nick of time, or so it seemed.
"Harlies don't get drunk," he sheepishly stated; which even he knew
was a lie.
Morgan laughed. "Not on this,
you won't!" he argued while emptying the pitcher of beer in one
grimacing gulp. "Say, Hatch," he beseeched his humble black host.
"How about some rum? Give us some rum! Won't you?"
Naturally, Elijah Hatch knew
that rum was the drink of choice for all sailors, and had already
paid for a bottle of the finest spirits, imported from the Virgin
Islands, to be brought the captain's table at once. It arrived not a
moment too soon, and replaced the empty pitcher of beer with many
thanks from the captain who then proceeded to fill his empty glass
to the brim with the sweetly spiced, ninety-two proof elixir while
singing a line from a song he'd once learned as a cabin-boy when, as
it so often happens in the young life an adventurous sailor, he was
offered his first taste of the potent adult beverage: a special
blend which would one day bear the captain's own prestigious name.
"Wine is fine at supper time
'Beer for Breakfast'! Say some
But all night long, I'll sing this song
Give us whiskey and rum!"
Captain Morgan then turned his
immediate attention back to his partner, Elijah Hatch, with a
serious expression on an otherwise boyish looking face. "Pay the
man!" he ordered, slurring his words by then and raising a
half-empty glass of rum to the turtle before finishing it off in
one quick satisfying gulp. Apparently, he was anxious to get on with
the more pressing business at hand. "He earned it," belched the
captain. "Didn't he?"
Mister Hatch paid the fat man
with a handful of silver coins he tossed across the table. It was
more than the original agreement had called for, and more than
enough to compensate Mister Dixon and his Harlie helper for their
labors that day.
Sherman didn't even count the
money. He simply picked up the coins and placed them in a small
moneybag he'd tied to his belt earlier in preparation for the event.
He'd thought about putting the money in his shoe, along with the
other coins, which certainly would have been the wisest thing to do.
Bt the fat farmer wasn't feeling particularly wise that evening; he
was actually feeling quite wealthy, a maybe even a little proud of
himself; and pride, as we all have found out at one time or another,
likes an audience. He thanked Mister Hatch several times over,
nodding his head and stepping back from the table as Captain
Morgan's blood-shot eyes bore through him like a carpenter's drill.
He promised a better crop next season, hoping that he and the black-hatted
merchant would be able do business again. He then headed straight
for the doors on the far side of Saint Peter's Hall.
Elmo smiled, with suitcase
firmly in hand, as he turned his back on the table to follow in the
turtle's nimble footsteps. He didn't think it would be wise to state
his true intentions at that time, the captain and the merchant
having already resumed their previous discussion with even greater
urgency then when they had arrived. Apparently, they wished to be
left alone.
But lady luck would intercede
once more by popping up her pretty altruistic head when, as it
sometimes happens when we least expect it, all else fails and
Providence does what it does best – it provides. And it couldn't
have happened at a more opportune time, or in a more appropriate
way. It involved a problem Elijah Hatch had been thinking about for
quite some time, with no solution on the immediate horizon – Until
now, that is. The idea came upon him in a flash of inebriated
inspiration, as most good ideas generally do at times like these
when Necessity suddenly, and sometimes painfully, gives birth to
Invention. Call it a miracle; but it was something the merchant
simply could not take credit for; he was merely the conduit, a
midwife, if you will, in the grand scheme of things. You see,
earlier that evening, before they'd gotten down to the real
conspiratorial business at hand, he and Captain Morgan had been
trying to decide exactly what to do about securing the cook's
position onboard the Maria Aurora. As it were, the cook who was
originally commissioned for the duration of the voyage had been put
in prison, despite his self-proclaimed innocence (they're all
innocent, you know) and in view of overwhelming evidence against
him, for accosting a police officer with a butcher's knife. Before
the Harlies reached the other side of the hall, Elijah Hatch had
already put forth his proposal.
It happened only three days
earlier: the unfortunate and untimely result of a domestic dispute,
a lover's quarrel to be more precise, that ended in tragedy, as many
often do. It began as a disagreement, an argument between a man and
his wife over a would-be gigolo seeking her unsolicited affections.
It would seem, however, that her affections may not have been as
unsolicited as she claimed or her jealous husband would have liked.
In other word: someone was lying. It was a difficult and delicate
situation, as most domestic disturbances usually are, and one that
called for official intervention. The police were eventually called
in; the officer-in-charge hearing out a sordid tale of wanting lust
and betrayal that ended in one final confrontation involving the
three suspicious participants. It climaxed, quite naturally, with
the arbitrating peace officer coming in between the wife, the
gigolo, and an angry husband yielding a meat cleaver. Accusations
flew; and so did the meat cleaver, landing at some point during the
heated exchange at the right hand of the policeman, leaving him with
three less fingers than he had prior to the initial investigation.
The cook was taken into custody, of course, and charged with
dismemberment. The fingers, along with the bloody butcher knife that
severed them were collected as Exhibits 'A' and 'B'. The gigolo was
reluctantly sent home, the cook's unfaithful and insatiable wife
trailing not too far behind. It appeared the cook was right after
all; and the two would spend their rest of their adulterous lives
together in sin and deceit, just as they always had. They deserved
each other; and that's exactly what they got. In the end, it was the
gigolo who received the far worst punishment; and the cook could be
heard laughing from his cell that day ten mile out to sea. The only
ones who weren't laughing at the time were Roger Morgan and Elijah
Hatch. The Judge, despite all legal maneuvering and coercions,
including a hundred dollar bond posted by the captain himself, could
not mitigate the cook's harsh sentence (prescribe by law to be no
less than one year and a day at hard labor, presumably cooking meals
for his fellow inmates, without the aid of his meat cleaver, of
course, which was marked Exhibit 'A' at his trail and has since
mysteriously disappeared, along with the three bloody fingers) a
single solitary day. And even with his political influence, which
carried a great deal of clout within the jurisdiction of Old Port
Fierce, the captain could not spring the cook from his current
incarceration. The merchant fared no better.
With only two days left before
the evening tide, the Maria Aurora was in desperate need of a ship's
cook - and fast! Both captain and merchant were well-aware that
without a cook onboard there would be no voyage; which also meant
there would be no Mission; and in that case, Captain Maximilian
Orlando would never be found, saved, or rescued. It was as simple as
that. Captains come and go, as well as officers and mates;
commanders retire; sailors jump ship, when nobody's looking, that
is; but a cook... Ahhhhhh! a good cook lasts forever! And is always in
demand; or at least that's the way it should be. Just ask Spider
Cotton, if you ever get to meet the man. As touched upon earlier:
the Navy floats on its stomach. No cook, no sail. The sailors
themselves would make sure of it, even the ones who had no say in
such matters concerning the ship's itinerary and could easily get
themselves court-martialed, or hung, for merely suggesting such a
mutinous act of treason. No cook, no sail! Even on short excursions,
like say... a trip around Old Manhattan that could hardly last an hour
or two, there were some positions that were simply deemed
indispensable. Ship's cook was just one of them. Hell! Every sailor
knows that. Captains and commodores we can live without, and often
do with great success, but not our bread and butter. But time was
running out for the captain of the Maria Aurora, and the tide was
coining in.
And so, with no other options
available at the time, the die was cast that night at the captain's
table inside the Fisherman's Hall at The Blue Dolphin Inn in Old
Port Fierce; perhaps in the imperceptible presence of the venerable
the old saint himself. In one final and desperate act, Captain Roger
Morgan would finally put an end to a problem he'd been wrestling
with for most of the night: a problem which, if not immediately
resolved, would surely have followed the captain of the Maria Aurora
to a mutinous end, and perhaps an early grave. He stood up just as
the two Harlies reached the two great doors at the head of the Saint
Peter's Hall and, in a thunderous voice that sounded if it came
straight from the sanctified lips of the sainted fisherman himself,
cried out for all to see and hear that night: "Either of you boys
know how to cook!"
The room became disturbingly
and understandably quiet. The Harlies looked at one another, and
then back at the captain's table. Elmo smiled. It was his first real
job.
Elijah Hatch knew he'd made
the right decision after all.
And so did Roger Morgan.
Chapter Five
Fat Moon Friday
(Or, the tale of three towns)
LIKE A BROOM drearily sweeping the dust from the streets of the city,
night fell over Old Port Fierce. One by one the stars came out,
filling the Heavens with a thousand dancing lights. The man in the
moon smiled down from his milky white throne, shining his own
special madness down upon the glassy black waters of the bay, as the
tide came in and the boats slowly began to rise.
Most of the markets along
the Fisherman's Warf were closed by now after a long hard day of
trade. A few late arriving fishing boats could be seen returning
from the sea that evening, bows aglow with ghostly yellow lanterns,
their outriggers still angled up in position as they trolled lazily
through the placid purple water in the hopes of getting one last
hit. Long wooden tables placed along the piers, which only an hour
ago were delectably stacked high with such fresh edibles as dolphin,
wahoo, yellow-tail, mackerel, halibut, snook, snapper, king-fish,
sword-fish, blue-fish, blow-fish, dog-fish, cat-fish, elephant-fish,
angel-fish, devil-fish, the rare and elusive dragon-fish (thought to
be extinct), sting-ray, moray-ell, lobster, crab, and squid were now
laid barren and bare and presently being scrubbed clean by
adolescent youths working and waiting in glorious hope of one day
following in their father's fishy footsteps as sons of sailors often
do. It was night-time in the city of Old Port Fierce, but already
they could feel the sun on their face and the wind in their
whiskers; even though they were too young to actually grow any
whiskers of their own; but it was always fun to pretend; and
besides, only walruses have whiskers. Sons of sailor's have
beards.
Before leaving the Blue
Dolphin Inn that evening, Elmo agreed to return to the ship first
thing in the morning. He was to be the new cook onboard the Maria
Aurora; and he couldn't have been more pleased with himself. He was
still the 'Lucky Number', or so he imagined, but knew by now that it
was more than just luck that had brought him this far. There was
something else in play here, something beyond his control and
comprehension. He could feel it; he just didn't know what it was
yet, or what to call it. He didn't even know where he was going. All
he knew was that he was on his way; and for the time being, that was
enough. But he still had one more score to settle; and to do that,
he would first have to find the man they called the Miracle-Maker.
Naturally, the wondering
raccoon would be saddened to have to say goodbye to his good friend
and neighbor so soon, and wished he could have stayed around just a
little while longer. So did Sherman. But the turtle seemed to
understand and wished his neighbor well more times than was actually
necessary. They would, however, have to spend one last night
together at the home of Alma Johnson before that happened. And for
that, at least, they were both.
"You sure is lucky, Mister
Cotton," said the turtle with his trademark smile firmly intact.
"But you is peculiar, too. Mighty peculiar."
It was something Elmo had
heard many times before, and not only from other Harlies. "Now what
make you go and say somethin' like that, Sherman?" he asked while
climbing back up on the empty wagon with his suitcase in tow.
"Let me 'splain," said the
farmer, matter-of-factly. "The way I sees it, is this: First you
goes up in them ol' hills with all those Creekmens. Then you runs
away all secret-like. And then you's gone for almost a year? Don't
tell nobody where you go. And then I finds you walkin' along the
river, lookin' likes the devil his-self. 'Would you please gives me
a ride, Sherman?' says you. Sure, I will! says I But first you says
you gots to find this here Miracle-man...."
"Maker!" Elmo corrected. "They
calls him the Miracle-Maker."
"That's what I
say...Miracle-man. And you still ain't finds him yet.
"Never mind," sighed the
raccoon.
"Anyway," continued the
turtle, "Seems like only yesterday you was just a po' ol' dirt
farmer from Harley... just like me! And now, here you is; you and that
ol' nasty suitcase, in Ol' Port Fierce, getting' ready to take off
in a bo.... I means, ship, with Mister Hatch and all them sailor-mens.
Now if you don't minds me sayin' so, Mister Cotton, that there am
mighty peculiar."
Elmo didn't mind. In fact, he
agreed with almost everything his neighbor had to say up until that
point, except for one thing: "I ain't like you, Sherman," he said,
almost as if he was ashamed of his cowardly friend and neighbor; and
then, after thinking it over a little, he added: "But if I was..."
he paused, "just like you, then maybe I's wouldn't be in so much
trouble." It sounded almost like an apology. It was.
The turtle smiled, "Gid-up!,
Abraham," he whistled.
Elmo wouldn't let it go at
that. "You know..." he continued, "I ain't even a good bean farmer.
And I ain't much of a cook, either. I just told that to Mister Hatch
so's I could goes along. Do you understand what I's sayin', Sherman?
I ain't never cooks for that for that many mens befo'. Most I ever
cooks fo' is me, Homer, and some Creekmens... that makes nine, if I's
countin' right. And look'ye here, I done counted twenty-four
sailor-mens on the bo...."
"Ship!" corrected the turtle.
".... today," continued the
raccoon, "and I knows there gots to be mo' than that. Bo... I means
ship, that size, gots to hold at least fifty mens. Don't you think,
Sherman?"
The turtle didn't look
surprised, or insulted. He knew that his neighbor was right, about a
good many things; and the truth of the matter, although he was too
ashamed to admit it just then, was that he often wished he could be
more like the raccoon himself. He knew it took a lot of courage to
do what he'd done; and deep down, he knew that Elmo was innocent,
just like he said he was. There was never any doubt in his mind
about it; although he wished his good friend and neighbor had never
ran away, and still couldn't understand exactly why he did it in
the first place, thinking, perhaps, that an honest judge and jury
would most likely exonerate him sooner or later; if they didn't hang
him first. But it was too late for all that, and there was nothing
he could do about it. Well," said the turtle , trying to offer the
troubled raccoon the encouragement he was so desperately looking for
just then, "The way I sees it, all you gots to do is cook just for
yo'self... but put in fifty mo' of everythin' else into the pot."
Elmo mulled it over in his
mind. "I don't think it works like that, Sherman."
"It do for me!"
"Maybe," replied the raccoon,"
But when it comes to eatin'... everythin' works for you, Sherman. Even
road-kill catfish, and throwed-up carrots. Why, I reckon you'd eat
them nasty ol' shoes right off yo' feet if someone put enough
mustard on 'em," Elmo declared a little too late and, perhaps, a
little too harshly. "I'm Sorry, Sherman, I didn't mean..."
"Oh, that's alright, Mister
Cotton. Everyone know how much I likes to eat. Humph! And you're
right about that, too... the mustard, I mean. Can't never have enough
mustard, I reckon."
Elmo laughed. "I really wish
you could comes along with me, Sherman. Don't think the captain
would mind very much. I know Mister Hatch wouldn't. 'Course, I don't
know 'bout those other mens, 'specially the one that slapped up
up-side the head. Don't 'spose he..."
"You be careful with that
man," the turtle interrupted. "Sumpin' ain't right with him. Cap'n
even say so. He's gots the devil in him, he do."
"Don't worry, Sherman. I knows
'nough 'bout devils."
The turtle shook his head and
said, "To tell you the truth... I wish I could go with you,
Elmo. I truly do." The fact that he addressed the raccoon by his
first name was enough to let Elmo know how sincere he actually was
and how much he really meant it. "But you knows me, Mister Cotton,
I's just a po' ol' dirt farmer from Harley. What would I be doin' on
a bo... I mean ship, anyway? Besides, my wife be 'spectin' me home fo'
too long. And you know, Bernice... Now that be one woman what don't
like to wait up for no man. And look'ye here, Mister Cotton!"
exclaimed the portly turtle, "I's too fat to goes on any ol' ship,
or a boat! And even if I do... that be one boat that gonna sink fo'
sho' the. And I ain't lyin'."
"Well, I don't know too much
'bout boats," said Elmo, a little suspiciously. "But I do knows a
thing or two 'bout rafts – and sinkin', too! Almost...."
"But, look'ye here!" Sherman
rejoined, a bit more optimistically. "Uncle Joe would sho' be proud
of you, Mister Cotton – damn proud! if you 'scuse my language. And
I's proud, too," added the proud turtle with a noticeable tear in
his eye that didn't go entirely un-noticed by the appreciative
raccoon, "maybe even mo' proud than Uncle Joe."
'I wish he be here right now,"
said Elmo as the empty wagon creaked slowly over the cobblestones of
Old Port Fierce.
Just then a big blue horsefly
appeared, out of nowhere it seemed, flying in the face of the fat
man. "Well, you know, Mister Cotton..." said the turtle, thrusting out
his big brown hand and catching the insect in mid-flight, just like
Uncle Joe would do on his front porch back in Harley, "maybe he
is..." He then slowly opened his hand and let the horsefly go.
Leaving the wooden decks and
the bulwark and bollards behind them, the two Harlies headed
northwest along Front Street in the direction of Shadytown. It was
getting late, and they still had to find Alma Johnson's house, in
the dark. Elmo was still thinking about the Miracle-Maker, and few
other things, as he reached down the left leg of his overalls just
to make sure the knife was still there. It was.
Meanwhile, Elijah Hatch was on
his way back to the ship after another long and exhausting talk with
Captain Roger Morgan. There still remained some unfinished business
between them, but nothing that couldn't wait until they were under
way, reckoned the merchant, and nothing that would seriously alter
their plans, or the mission.
Having left the captain with
another bottle of rum back at Saint Peter's Hall, and having drank a
little more than perhaps he should have that night, especially
before such a long and un-certain voyage, Mister Hatch suddenly
found himself in a mellow, even melancholy, mood as he approached
the Maria Aurora under the light of a full moon. He'd made it
a point of always inspecting the ship the night before any major
excursion, especially ones that were headed for the Islands where
supplies were hard to come by, if they could be found at all; and
even when they were found, they often came at a very inflated price.
Best have one last peek, he said to himself, stalking up the
gangplank like a black-hatted burglar. It was a ritual he'd
performed ever since his days in the Navy, a way of making sure that
everything was ready, even just hours before they were piloted out
of the bay. It was just the right thing to do. In everything but
title, Elijah Hatch was still a captain and only doing what all
good captains do before a long voyage; besides, he always liked to
be the first one onboard, and he didn't mind being alone. There was
something about strolling the empty deck in the small hours of the
morning when there was nobody else around; it made him feel... well,
it made him feel good; like waking up in a full house when everyone
is still upstairs in bed fast asleep. Everything seems so strange,
different; even the old kitchen table takes on a whole new
appearance, and meaning. Meanwhile, Roger Morgan was doing the
things he did best, which involved a woman with a painted face,
oversized breasts (at least for someone of her petite stature) and a
broad backside that would sway from side to side like the broad beam
of an outrigged fishing boat as she trolled the streets of Shadytown
for just one more hot. They'd actually meet earlier that night at
outside of the Blue Dolphin Inn; and it wasn't the first time.
As it turned out, she just
happened to be renting a room, cheaply and conveniently, it would
seem, right above the sainted saloon. The merchant was there when
she and Morgan first exchanged glances just before entering the hall
that evening. It was the captain's prerogative, and perhaps his
privilege, as the merchant was well aware of, to have one last
fling the night before any major excursion; something the sons-of
sailors referred to as 'droppin' the anchor', among other nautical
analogies. It was really no secret; in fact, you might even call it
tradition; unless, of course you happen to be the captain's wife (if
he had one, that is) in which case you would probably have another
name for it, which would not so nautical, or nice. It was a practice
Elijah Hatch never indulged in himself; not only from a moral
standpoint, but for more personal reasons; hygiene being very high
on Hatch's list of priorities, especially whenever sailors and their
various acquaintances were concerned. Venereal disease was still a
major issue at the time; and the cure was sometimes more fatal than
the disease, and just as painful. Besides, Captain Hatch had always
led by example, and he didn't see any need to change now; even
thought he was a civilian. But, as they say: boys will always be
boys, and captains are no exceptions. But there was something else
on the merchant's mind that night; and the closer he got to the
ship, the more apparent it became. There was obviously something
going on; something Elijah Hatch just didn't like.
Several strong-armed sailors,
three altogether counted the merchant, were vigorously working the
gangplanks of the Maria Aurora. He'd seen them before, but couldn't
quite remember where, or when. He touched the brim of his hat and
they saluted in return, as though they didn't know who he was but
wanted to make sure he understood they were there on official
business, whatever that happened to be so late in the evening, and
under orders to do so. They were carrying small barrels, it seemed,
and large wooden crates down into the hull of the ship, which Mister
Hatch assumed to be already filled to the plimsole by then. Although
it wasn't out of the ordinary to be stowing a few last minute
supplies on board just before a long voyage at sea, it was peculiar,
thought the on merchant; and it was late. Morgan never
mentioned anything to him about it; and neither did Mister Scrubb,
the boatswain, who would not only be aware of such activities, but
would more than likely be in charge of the stowage. Perhaps Nathan
had other things on his mind at the time, Hatch concluded, not
unlike the well-endowed woman he'd seen earlier that day outside the
Blue Dolphin Inn who had caught the captain's wondering eye like a
worm at the end of a hook. He would have a talk with Morgan the
morning.
Still, all the late night
activities struck the merchant as very odd, peculiar. The men had
been given enough man-hours to get the job of loading the vessel
done by nightfall; and the merchant hadn't heard of any additional
or last minute supplies being ordered for the voyage, which he
thought was something the captain would've brought up at their last
meeting had that been the case. Something was wrong, or at least not
exactly right, he suspiciously thought to himself; or, as an old
acquaintance once said to him just before setting out on a similar
voyage: 'It just don't boil the beans, Mister Hatch. It just don't
boil the beans'. The sailor's name was Cotton, Reginald Cotton,
although his shipmates called him 'Spider'. He was a cook on board
the Firefly. And he just so happened to be a Harlie, which made the
merchant wonder.
Standing in the moon shadow
of a weather-worn bollard, the merchant kept his distance as he
watched the three men labor throughout the night in their
clandestine and questionable activities. He thought he recognized at
least one of them, but he couldn't be sure. When the last barrel was
rolled up the gangplank, onboard, the sailors left. The last the
merchant saw of them, they were headed in the direction of the Blue
Dolphin Inn. Feeling more uncertain about Roger Morgan than he did
just an hour ago, and 'the mission' in general, Mister Elijah Hatch
decided he might have another word with the captain before they went
to bed. But first he would have to find him, which he knew wouldn't
be easy, especially with all the beds in Old Port Fierce. He decided
it could probably wait until the morning; meanwhile, he thought he'd
make one final inspection of the Maria Aurora before turning in. And
that's exactly what he did.
* * *
IT WAS LATE IN THE EVENING by the time the farmer and the raccoon
rolled into the downtown section of Old Port Fierce. It was already
past suppertime but the streets were still streaming with colorfully
dressed pedestrians, promenading up and down the avenue like so many
peacocks on their way to a fox's funeral. And there was a good
reason for all this: It was called the 'Fat Moon Friday'; and things
were just getting started.
The celebration would continue
long into the night, and probably into the next one as well. 'Fat
Moon Friday' was a traditional event in Old Port Fierce as old as
the city itself. It occurred almost religiously, once a month! as a
matter of historical fact, just as the first beams of the full moon
rose up out of the sea like a ghost from a watery grave, and just as
pale. It was a time for fun, frivolity, eating, drinking (especially
drinking), toasting and roasting, singing and dancing, playing in
the in the streets, along with a little mischief making, and general
doing what all folks always do on such fine and festive occasions:
having a 'hell of a good time!' on a fat-moon Friday night, in Ol'
Port Fierce.
'Fat Moon Friday', as it has
been called since its enigmatical conception, began, one could only
assume, as a way of marking the end of one full lunar cycle and the
beginning of a new one, which, in and of itself is really not much
of an accomplishment, considering the fact that the tracking of
celestial satellites, the moon in particular, has been going on for
centuries, if not eons, as predictable as the tide, or woman's
menstrual period. But it was more than that – much more! What better
way to welcome that great goddess of the moon in all of her lunar
glory and milky white wonder than with a celebration in her honor?
Celebrated by poets and prophets and gazed upon at night by lovers
and troubadours who serenade one another by the sanctifying light of
the silvery moon. And what better way to celebrate her undeniable
presence? as she waxes white in the midnight sky, smiling down her
own special blessings upon the face of the water, and the earth; the
good, good, earth, while brother sun snores in the Heavens,
somewhere on the far side of forever. Who wouldn't celebrate?
And celebrate you should!
especially if you happened to be one of those sky-worshiping
astronomers who are so easily mesmerized by such celestial
observations; or better yet, a hopeless alcoholic who is sometimes
attracted, usually as he staggers home late at night to an angry
wife and an empty bed howling at the moon, to the movements of
planets, stars, and other celestial observations he may soon be
seeing in his own forgetful mind as the rolling-pin, or maybe even a
frying pan, comes down upon his howling head, reminding him, if
nothing else, that the hand that rocks the cradle also holds the
iron. So drink up! all my fellow star-gazers and winos. Drink, I
say! To the devil and the deep blue sea. And toast him, while you're
at it... the man on the moon himself! And if you can get him to buy
you one more round... well, that's what friends are for. And for those
of us not so inclined to academic pursuits or howling at the moon,
Fat Moon Friday was merely a convenient excuse for yet another night
of shameful exhibitionism and perhaps a little self-gratification.
Many found it a cathartic; a form of entertainment; a safety valve,
if you will; a necessary release of energy and emotion that might
otherwise explode if left to its own natural and volatile devices.
There were, however, those who took a more sobering view of the
monthly ritual, declaring it nothing more than an alcoholic state of
self-induced lunacy, inspired, perhaps, by the ol' drunkard himself,
Satan! who, no doubt, not only conjured up the idea of 'Fat Moon
Friday' in the first place as he stalked the lonely halls of
Perdition wondering what else he could do to expand his infernal
kingdom and fill his wretched ranks with more imps and sinful souls
to serve under his satanic red banner, but orchestrated it on a
monthly basis from that same fiery throne below, and for his own
unholy amusement and diabolical purpose. At least, that's the way
they saw it. And from a certain outside perspective, these pious
purveyors of truth and decency weren't far off the mark in their
hellish assessment; although their numbers always ranked in the
minority and were forever dwindling, or so it seems.
For the most part, and
especially for those residing in Shadytown where it was said to have
originated, Fat Moon Friday simply meant another month of survival
in the city, which, depending on your station in life and, perhaps,
your own personal point of view, might very well be something worth
celebrating; and in heroic proportion! But rich or poor, young or
old, lunatic, heretic, pirate, poet, priest or prophet, it really
didn't matter; Fat Moon Friday was for everyone! And that's what
made it so special, so human, and certainly worth celebrating.
That's what made it real. And that's what it was really all about:
not the moon, or any other stars or satellites fixed upon the
Heavenly tapestry we sometimes falsely worship, but the worshippers
themselves! just as in worshipping any idol, though we curse the
altars they stand on, we merely worship ourselves.
No one was exactly sure how
Fat Moon Friday came about, or where or when it actually began;
although most folks agreed that it probably started somewhere in
Shadytown, perhaps on Avenue 'D' where, as the Psalmists sings:
'Satan waits like a crouching lion...'
But it really didn't matter;
and Fat Moon Friday didn't necessarily coincide with the end of each
lunar cycle as so many came to believe; that being the grand
appearance of the first full-faced moon. But it always happened on
Friday. And if the two periodic events just happened to fall on the
exact same day, which as we all well know occasionally happened...
well then, so much the better, and all the more reason to celebrate!
Full moon or new moon, or any phase in-between, it really didn't
matter. But it always occurred on a Friday. That much was certain.
Always did, always will. It may as well have been written on two
tablets: the eleventh commandment! chiseled in stone, inscribed by
the holy finger of God Himself who surely must have overlooked it
somehow while preparing the Holy Text. Or maybe, as some have
solicitously suggested, and not in jest least they suffer the
eternal flames of hell and Lucifer's legendary legions, it was not
overlooked after all! and that somehow, for whatever religious
reasons we may never know, the lost commandment was not lost at all,
but intentionally destroyed, when Moses, out of sheer madness and
perhaps utter frustration, cast the original tablets containing the
missing mandate at the idolatrous calf, breaking the golden spell of
the Egyptians forever and commissioning the loyal Levites to cut
down all his faithless followers. We may never know? But what we do
know is this: Jehovah reigns! Then as always, showering down his
blessings on the good and the evil, the rich and the poor, the
priest and the pagan, Jew and Gentile even on Fat Moon Friday night,
just as He rained down manna from Heaven on those same insufferable
Jews four thousand years ago in the Sinai desert.
For all intents and purposes
and as previously catalogued, Fat Moon Friday was celebrated at
least once a month, usually at the end of each and every one of the
twelve lunar cycles making up the full calendar year, whether the
moon was full or not. It was suggested by some that at one time the
auspicious festival, which actually did have its surly roots in
Shadytown, was held only at such a time when, in fact, the full moon
did happen to fall on any particular Friday, as the title literally
suggests. But due to the rarity of the occasion, as well as the
impact it had on the local economy that always seemed to be
struggling at best, all that had quickly changed. And so, in order
to accommodate a growing interest in that one special event, along
with the commerce it generated, Fat Moon Friday was extended to
include the last Friday of each and every month of the year,
regardless of the shape or size of that magnificent satellite that
somehow possessed the strange and compelling power of changing minds
as well as the tides.
It was in that part of Old
Port Fierce, more commonly known as Shadytown, where Fat Moon Friday
was said to have originated. It was a tradition, a way of life, as
much a part of the old port city as the bay itself and the thousands
of ships that had been coming in and out of the grand harbor for
over a hundred years. And it really didn't matter how the moon, or
any other celestial body for that matter, waxed and waned in God's
heavenly vault, or how many, or how few, people actually attended
the gala nocturnal event. And it didn't matter where they came from,
either. Fat Moon Friday was for everyone. It was just that simple;
it was here to stay. And there was nothing anyone could do to stop
it, even if they had wanted to. It was a calendar event remembered
more often than most birthdays and anniversaries. It eclipsed all
other holidays and outnumbered any congregation, public or private,
including all the Sunday morning services combined. In fact, Fat
Moon Friday was even more popular than Fisherman's Day, which was
celebrated once a year in May in honor of the holy disciple himself,
Saint Peter, which, in some social circles was considered nothing
less than sacrilege, and maybe even Blasphemy, if not downright
heresy! But we all fall short on such occasions, I suppose; and
didn't the venerable ol' saint himself have his own faults, which,
as we all know were overlooked on more than one occasion? We all
can't walk on water; but we all lighten up and live once in a while,
even if that means rocking the boat from time to time. And if there
was ever a time to rock the boat, Fat Moon Friday was as good a time
as any. Thank God it only happened once a month.
Fat Moon Friday worked. It had
to work. And it worked especially well for those who knew it best
and celebrated it the most: the good, the bad, the poor and the
proud, the ugly and the beautiful, which pretty much summed up the
entire demographic population of Shadytown at the time. These were
the colored folks, Negroes for the most part, who lived desperately
but in relative comfort on the lower rungs of societal evolution,
doing what they do best, what they've done for over a hundred year:
They survived. They had little and owned even less; but somehow,
they always managed to get by. Like the poet once said: "When you
ain't got nothin', you got nothin' to lose...' They lived day to day,
hand to mouth, on the 'Shady' side of town known, quite
appropriately, as Shadytown.
Perhaps it was just their
stubborn pride that afforded the good citizens of Shadytown, often
at their own expense, such a colorful and carefree existence; a life
envied, at times, by those living in more prosperous parts of the
country who sometimes wished their culture and lifestyle was as free
and uncomplicated as those in Shadytown and Old Port Fierce, and
perhaps a little more integrated. But 'old dogs die hard' some would
say, and so do old habits; and there was still enough discrimination
to go around. But if the truth be told here, and it should, the
people of Old Port Fierce and Shadytown actually had more in common
than either one would care to admit. Geographically speaking, they
were all part of the same city anyway, Old Port Fierce, having grown
apart over the years like two roots stemming remotely from the same
ancient tree, as more discriminating influences were introduced into
the famous city, further separating the populace.
Being one of the oldest and
most prosperous cities on the entire southern continental seaboard,
Port Fierce, as it had originally been called (the adjective 'Old'
having only recently been added as a means of differentiating it
from another Port Fierce located in the great state of Florida that
claimed, without merit of course, to be even older than the old port
city itself) was by far one of the largest ports on the entire
eastern seaboard, and the busiest. Shadytown, which actually began
as a small housing community to accommodate the early slave
population located in the northwest section of the city, was only
one of the newer and poorer annexations to the old metropolis and,
for reasons that will soon become self-evident, never considered a
legitimate part of the city.
The citizens of Old Port
Fierce were, relatively speaking, well-off. This was due chiefly due
to the shipping industry that was, and still is for that matter, one
of the most lucrative in that part of the new world, as were the
fisheries that thrived and profited there in and around the bay, and
even the deeper waters of the vast Atlantic. The two adjoining
cities just happened to be located, either strategically or
conveniently, probably both, on opposite sides of a pair of railroad
tracks that didn't even exist but still somehow managed to delineate
the two towns and divide them not only economically, but along
social and cultural lines as well. Any and all other differences
separating the two neighboring townships were purely genetic, and
probably not worth mentioning. Suffice it to say they were locally
accepted, generally understood, and tolerated as long as there was
always 'the other side of the tracks' to go back to, especially
after Fat Moon Friday.
Despite what some may think of
it, the name Shadytown had nothing to do with the complexion of the
skin of those who resided in that infamous part of the city by the
bay. It'd been called 'Shadytown' for as long as most folks could
remember. One reason may be on account of the numerous sea-oaks
found in that proximity that not only grew to menacing proportions
but seemed to encroach nearly each and every street, particularly
along Avenue 'D' where their thick pervasive roots could be seen
sprouting right up through the concrete, like prairie dogs on the
plain, turning solid rock into rumble and cobblestone into pebbles.
Above, their overlapping branches could actually be seen forming a
'shady' green canopy for practically the entire length of the grand
corridor, which subsequently blocked out all but the most
penetrating rays of sunlight, keeping heads and tempers cool on
those long hot summer days, and adding celebratory atmosphere in
general. Like a great green circus-top it sometimes appeared, or a
long and leafy tunnel through which elves and elephants pass,
especially in the springtime when the leaves were thick and green,
and the song-birds nested in the golden boughs. It was the perfect
place to hold a celebration. And celebrate they did! But they never
celebrated alone; for it was not uncommon for the folks in the
downtown area of Old Port Fierce, mostly of the Caucasian
persuasion, to meander across the tracks (figuratively speaking of
course, simply because, as touched upon previously, there weren't
any, rail or otherwise, separating the two sections of the old
port city lying equally north and south of one another as they had
for the last one hundred years) at their own risk and leisure.
It was during Fat Moon Friday,
which, for reasons previously touched upon lasted for one night,
when the bolder and more adventurous citizens of Old Port Fierce
would venture forth across the aforementioned invisible tracks in
search of entertainment that could only be found on the north side
of that same imaginary border; in Shadytown, that is. It was usually
these same inquisitive pilgrims, the ones with large purses and fair
complexion who, for a variety of reasons, seemed the most venerable
and, for obvious reasons, the least inconspicuous.
It was during this special
time of the month when folks on the right (or should I say the
'white') side of the invisible tracks, would partake of, and
participate in, such activities that they might otherwise find
amoral, or at least objectionable, in their own home towns. It was a
time when temperance took a holiday, or at least a back-seat, and
virtue was checked at the door like an old comfortable hat you never
really liked to begin with but somehow always found indispensable,
and something you just couldn't live without, especially when you
were getting ready to leave and you suddenly noticed it was raining.
It was a time when all that separated the legal from the illegal,
the good from the bad, was a long, thin gray line, fuzzy at times
and in certain places, and perhaps one's own conscience.
To put it more succinctly and
in its proper context, Fat Moon Friday was paganism in its purest,
simplest and, perhaps, most naked form. It was Hedonistic, a night
to hoot and howl, and without waking up the neighbors simply
because... well, if your neighbors weren't there already, they were
most likely still on their way there to Shadytown on Fat Moon Friday
night, hooting and howling in their own orthodox way, which the more
colorful and unorthodox folks of Shadytown often found amusing, and
sometimes downright embarrassing. As they say: 'when in Rome...' But
this wasn't Rome; and there those are times when cultures, like
empires, simply can't help but clash. And what a noxious noise! But
you have to give them credit for tying, as they hooted and howled at
the moon, like they do on the 'Shady' side of town, along
with the beggars and thieves, princes and paupers, the good and the
bad we find in any spirited congregation. Either way, you always
were in good company and never had to worry, as long as your
remembered where you were and which side of the invisible 'tracks'
you belonged; and it was always a good idea to know how to get back.
Accommodation in Shadytown were... well, shady, and not always
available. Many would wind up sleeping in their own wagons, if they
had a wagon to sleep in; others simply stayed awake for the festive
entire weekend which, considering where they were and who they might
be sleeping with, was not necessarily a bad idea. And if there was
anyone still sleeping in Shadytown on Fat Moon Friday night – Quick!
Check for a pulse! Call a doctor! Or perhaps even (gulp...) the
coroner! Hurry! Fetch Lester Cox! He's probably somewhere around; or
any other undertaker you can find whose services will surely be put
to good use; for if, indeed, that were the case, and the poor soul
was more than likely dead already and fit for one of Lester's famous
caskets... with a money back guarantee, of course.
Allowing for, and therefore
supporting, such decadent behavior was a lively and diverse
conglomeration of patrons that seemed to gravitate to Shadytown from
all parts of the eastern seaboard. They came by horse and wagon,
buggies and boats (which included anything they could attach wheels
to, or would float) or else they simply walked, which, depending on
where they were coming from and how far they had to travel, was
never a certainty. The railroads had not been constructed that far
south yet, which was a source of major disappointment to those who
could afford such luxuries and would certainly have welcomed the new
transit system, along with the expediency it offered. The 'Iron
Horse', as the new locomotives were appropriately, at least in a
metaphorical sense, became widely known as, was the future; at least
in the eyes those who were able see the potential, and the profit,
in the mechanized and developing world of the industrial revolution;
but to others of more traditional values, who would just as well
keep things as they were, the railroad represented just another nail
in a coffin that was beginning to look a little less foreboding, or
at least not as grim as it once did when horses were made of flesh
and blood and iron was for something your wife did when your clothes
needed pressing. Sometimes they arrived on Riverboats that came down
the great 'White Snake' of the Redman River, which were considered
by many as mere floating replicas of the infamous city itself,
equipped onboard with every vice known to man, including gambling
and prostitution, and then some.
Having long established their
own special way of life alien to other parts of the region, the
peoples of Old Port Fierce protected their culture in a practical,
if not so innovative way; and that was by simply never fully
integrating with that of any other culture. Needless-to-say, the
folks of Shadytown were no so different, although their segregation
was more mandatory and less conciliatory than that of their
Caucasian neighbors to the south. Despite all they had in common,
culturally, geographically, historically, and even spiritually, the
two factions rarely mixed – except, of course, on Fat Moon Friday
when, through mutual allowances, intermingling of the races was not
only tolerated and condoned but, in many cases even welcomed. Under
normal circumstances, however, the two races remained as segregated
as their Creekwood and Harlie cousins to the North.
Was it pride or prejudice that
finally drove the good folks of Shadytown and Old Port Fierce to the
opposite sides of the invisible tracks? Maybe it was a little of
both. More than likely, and quite ironically, it was the war itself
that may have led to the great divorce, or at least contributed to
its ultimate and predictable end, exacerbated, perhaps, by certain
tensions and misgivings between the races that didn't exist, at
least not in such hateful overtures, prior to the gunshots at Fort
Sumter, and would take a century, or more, to repair, if that was at
all possible. Fear was the real cause and culprit, principal and
agent, that malignant necessity that not only conquers but divides,
instilling in both victor and victim such hatred and hostilities
alien to their better natures while reinforcing their own stubborn
and prejudicial views on one another. It was just one of those
things, I suppose, that could be neither diagnosed nor disguised, no
matter how clever or beguiling the mask; not even on Fat Moon Friday
night when, chiefly for the sake of the anonymity, but more so for
the sheer enjoyment of it, papier-mâché masks of many shapes and
colorful sizes could often be found covering the faces of those who
took not only the time and the energy to construct such creative
contrivances out of an already busy work schedule but, in some
cases, especially when the masks were large, extravagant and
expensively designed, would invest their last penny just to make
sure that theirs would be the talk of the town long after the
festivities ended and the clowns have all gone to bed. Naturally,
the masks did more than simply add to the festive flavor of the
occasion and the gay atmosphere in general, they were, in their own
discretionary and self-serving way, just another way of escaping, if
only for a day or two, the harsh realities of a life they'd grown
not only immune to, but come to accept in a most magnanimous way. It
was something the peaceful colored folk of Shadytown had been doing
for as long as they could remember, and something the less colorful
but more affluent folks of Old Port Fierce could only gaze upon and
wonder with applause and appreciation, and perhaps even a little
envy.
As for the good folks of
Creekwood Green who lived just as far from the old Port City (and
glad of it, for the most part) and to a lesser extent their Harlie
neighbors to the east, they too were sometimes drawn into the
previously described lunar sphere of madness and mayhem. But
Creekfolk were slightly different and, to be honest, proud of it.
They were not like those in Shadytown, or Old Port Fierce, however
closely related they might actually be, both culturally and
genetically to the latter. They were the sons and daughters of the
original 'Crackers', those who drove their herds of cattle across
the grasslands and plains, grazing all the way to the markets where
they were sold by the pound to the highest bidder; some were then
transported by rail to the meat processing factories to the north,
where they were mercilessly butchered: food to feed a young and
hungry nation. Others, like the heads of yellow-hammers that were
driven across the everglades of Florida, were packed on ships in
Punta Rosa, like so many sardines in a can, to be sold in Cuba and
other foreign markets in the southern hemisphere. To this day you
can still hear the 'crack' of the whip in everything the Creekfolk
said and did. It was something they just couldn't hide: like the
'twang' in their throats that gave their voices such that
distinctive and recognizable sound. It was in their bones, and in
their brains. It was in their blood. They could change it if they
wanted to. And they never would.
Naturally, the crack of the
whip meant something else all together to the good folks Harley, and
the bad ones for that matter. And even though they were never more
than a few miles away from the Creekwood Green, separated only by
those old Iron Gates, which have already been described in
sufficient detail, it wasn't far enough. Many could still hear the
'crack' of that whip, and count, not unlike our raccoon friend who
suffered equal injustice, the strips left on many a proud and
stubborn back. But we've covered that ground already, and know just
about all there is to know about Harley, and hardships endured by
its humble citizenry; and so, for the present, we shall dispense
from any further extrapolations in that localized area and focus
more firmly on the three remaining townships as the title of this
chapter clearly suggests.
Not unlike their darker
complexioned neighbors to the northeast, the 'Greens', as they were
sometimes called by the Harlies, justifiably so, but without
prejudice and never in the pejorative sense, maintained their own
cultural roots and cultivated them with the same care, attention,
and pride as did the Harlies to the east, but from a more European
perspective, perhaps. But even so, some of those roots, however
manifested in clear blue eyes and alabaster skin were, in fact,
connected to the same proverbial Tree, both literally and
figuratively, and maybe more closely than some Greens and Harlies
would actually have liked, or cared, to admit. And if you look real
close, you just might see evidence of this phenomenon, both
sociologically as well a physiologically. It's biological, I
suppose; just like...like, sex! As it just so happens when two
chromosomes come together in close enough proximity of one another,
either by accident or design, something miraculous often occurs. The
same may be said of cultural exchanges, although it usually takes a
little longer, and is not as much fun. Not only do the two become
inextricably linked like the spiraling double helix of a single
strand of DNA, and they sometimes produce what is commonly referred
to as a 'hybrid', as in the case of one Mister Elmo Cotton, our
raccoon on the run, whether they accept their unique new status or
not. And it doesn't happen in a vacuum; nothing in Nature ever does.
We all have roots; some go a little deeper than others. Many roots,
many branches; but only one Tree. Naturally, most of them are buried
by now, either deliberately or through lack of proper nourishment.
But they all stem from the same Tree, regardless of kin and culture;
kill one, and the whole Tree suffers; prune the branches, and it
thrives!
Likewise, the more modest
folks of Shadytown, taking no exception to this time-honored
tradition, protected their own culture just as fiercely, albeit in a
less discriminating manner. It was clear that they would never (not
in their own lifetime anyway) achieve the social status of their
neighbors to the South in Old Port Fierce, not even after the Great
Emancipation; but somehow, that didn't seem to matter. Some things
are slow to change, if they change at all; and even when the
opportunities did occur, either through progress, philanthropy,
political incentives, good fortune, or just plain dumb luck, they
were seldom sized upon in Shadytown, where life in general always
remained the same, for better or worse (usually for the worse),
except, of course, on Fat Moon Fridays when, for apocalyptic
reasons, they would become , if for only one night out of the month,
the toast of the town! celebrities in their own regal right, and
with all due respect; not unlike Quasimodo, the famous French
bell-ringer of Notre dame who, much to his surprise and delight,
suddenly, and quite unexpectantly, found himself in a similar
circumstance as he was ceremoniously crowned 'King of the fools!'
one fine and festive evening in the squalor streets of gay Paris!.
Hey, every crown has its privileges...as well as its thorns.
'It's in the jeans...' some
would suggest. Not so much in the biological sense, but rather, in
the material: Denim – blue jeans, of course! to use its more modern
and colorful description. Jeans were first created in Genoa, Italy
when the city was an independent republic and a great naval power.
The first were made for the Genoese Navy because it required
all-purpose trousers for its sailors that could be worn wet or dry,
and whose legs could easily be rolled up to wear while swabbing the
deck. These jeans would be laundered by dragging them in large mesh
nets behind the ship where the sea water would bleach them white.
The first denim came from Nîmes, France, hence de Nimes, the name of
the fabric. The French bleu de Gênes, from the Italian blu di
Genova, literally the 'blue of Genoa' dye of their fabric, is the
root of the names for these trousers, 'jeans' and 'blue jeans',
today. The first jeans came in two styles, indigo blue and brown
cotton 'duck.' Unlike denim, the duck material never became soft and
comfortable so it was eventually dropped from the line. Although
denim pants had been around as work wear for many years,
historically dating back to England in the 1600s with a fabric there
called denim, it was the first use of rivets that created what we
now call jeans. 'Waist overalls' was the traditional name for work
pants, which is what these first jeans were called. In 1789 George
Washington toured a Massachusetts factory producing machine-woven
cotton denim. Dungarees, or overalls, such as the ones worn by our
own raccoon on the run, Elmo Cotton, have been around since 1792,
and were predominantly used as a protective garment for slaves,
farmers, railroad workers, mechanics and other blue collar laborers
alike.In being cheap, ill-fitting and made of rough, but durable
cotton cloth, they carried a stigma to mark the low status of their
wearer. In 1853, when the California gold rush was in full swing,
and everyday items were in short supply, Levi Strauss, a twenty-four
year old German immigrant, left New York for San Francisco with a
small supply of dry goods with the intention of opening a branch of
his brother's New York dry goods business. Shortly after his
arrival, a prospector wanted to know what Mister Strauss was
selling. When Strauss told him he had rough canvas to use for tents
and wagon covers, the prospector said, 'You should have brought
pants!' saying he couldn't find a pair of pants strong enough to
last.Some called them dungarees; others called them overalls. It
was strong stuff; and it was cheap too! Cotton, of course, was king.
It was grown primarily on the Southern plantations, along with
tobacco and other organic commodities, and shipped to textile mills
not only in the Northern industrial states, all over the world where
it became the stuff of tents, sails, and other canvass goods. But
the Harlies didn't need tents and sails... they needed pants! just
like the vociferous prospector, along with other articles of
clothing made from the same raw material they most likely picked
with their own 'cotton-picking' hands. But things were different
after the war: money was tight; much of it was actually worthless.
Many went without; they made do, or simply did the best they could
by improvising, adapting and overcoming, as they'd done for over a
hundred years. This was particularly true in the devastated South
where reconstruction would be a slow and painful process, if it
proceeded at all. And they weren't alone in that regard. War does
not discriminate; and even the winners can sometimes be losers.
Indeed, many a New York Yankee could be found at that time wondering
the streets of lower Manhattan with nothing but rags and bags to
cover their own urban feet, widows and orphans among them.
The people of Shadytown were
typically poor, and have been for as long as anyone could remember.
Not unlike their cousins to the north who lived 'up in Harley', they
were also segregated; not by crumbling walls and rusty iron gates
that could be seen and touched, and looked upon as the ancient
Britons once gazed upon Hadrian's Wall with so much fear and
trepidation, but something far more inventive, divisive, and modern:
it was those 'invisible tracks', touched upon earlier in their own
prejudicial definition. And they were, in that sense, just as solid
and real as the iron gates of Harley, and perhaps even stronger
since walls and gates can be breached and broken, whereas prejudices
are made of sturdier stuff that can only be overcome by ideas, and
maybe even a little charity, especially in a places like Shadytown
and other townships in that part of the county where folks of the
Negro race lived in segregated societies as they have since they
were first brought to the continent in chains.. In some cases, it
simply can't be done. But there are always exceptions; Erasmus
Harley just happened to be one of them.
For geographic reasons, among
others, the town of Harley had always been considered a natural
extension of Shadytown, whether it began that way or not, and spoken
of as such by those who lived there. There had always been curious
link that existed between Shadytown, Old Port Fierce and Harley,
which is perhaps just as old as the towns themselves and rooted in
traditions that go back even further. The ancestry shared between
the people residing in the three towns, although often left
undocumented, became the stuff of bedtime stories, myth, legend, and
even scandal as sometimes occurs when fact and fiction intertwine to
such gossipy degrees that they become practically indistinguishable
from one another.
Of course, there's always room
for debate and interpretation; but one fact remains indisputable:
and that is that all Harlies, regardless of their remoteness and
isolation to other more urban societies, could, in fact, for the
most part anyway, trace their family trees all the way back, with a
few twists and turns along the way perhaps, to Shadytown itself,
where the story really begins, and maybe even further; to the garden
of Eden, perhaps! or at least as far back as Old Port Fierce. It was
more than just geographical location, of course, it ran a little
deeper than that. You might even say it was 'skin deep'; as deep and
dark as the muddy roots of Harley. Not so much the town, although
that too would come into play, but in the man himself: Erasmus
Harley. It was that same vital fluid that flowed through the
venerable veins of an old Negro slave; the sap, if you will. He was
the trunk, gnarly and knotted as he became in his later years, and
they were the branches. It was as simple, and as natural, as that:
Two towns spliced together by one old Negro, whether they liked it
or not. And that Negro, that man, that trunk, and that tree, had a
name. His name was Mister Erasmus Harley.
Now, to understand exactly
what happened, and why Mister Erasmus Harley decided to flee the
congested confines of Shadytown as well as the prejudicial attitudes
of the Old Port Fierce citizenry at one time for the swampy fields
of Harley, one could only speculate, although the need for a little
more space and a little less discrimination was always a good guess,
and probably the most realistic of all, as all migrations begin that
way. It happened shortly after the war as the bodies were being
buried in Gettysburg, the blue and the gray, the blood was still
fresh in the killing fields. It was a time for healing; and it was
also a good time to leave. As in all families, no matter how solid
the foundation, there are always disagreements leading to such
drastic and fateful decisions; the newly emancipated slaves were no
exception. They simply split, divided, and went their separate ways.
Some stayed on in Shadytown and went to work on the farms or in the
fisheries, employed for the most part by their former task-masters
who, much to their own amazement and benefit, became even wealthier
under the new arrangements. Others went north, however, with little
more than the shirts on their backs and eventually settled in a
place called Harley.
It's said that Erasmus Harley
initiated the great migration himself shortly after the war when he
shook the sandy soil of Old Port Fierce from his shoeless feet and
headed North, eventually settling down in muddy lowlands just east
of Creekwood Green. It would certainly explain how the town of
Harley got its name, but there were no official documents to prove
the supposition. Written records were seldom kept back then, for a
variety of reasons, and the ones that did survive were ambiguous at
best and downright erroneous at worst. There weren't many
gravestones, either; the ones still standing were usually to be
found in old churchyards and overgrown cemeteries, along a few
simple wooden crosses constructed at the burial site over which
prayers were said and eulogies read as the bodies were lowered into
the sacred soil. Some were found in the back yards of the
dearly-departed relatives, just like they were in Creekwood Green,
and certain parts of Old Port Fierce, where they were equally
observed and revered. But even if these the old gravestones could
talk, metaphysically manifesting the spirits of the dead that lie
beneath those slumbering stones, they would have little of value to
tell us concerning their ghostly past; for in death, as in life,
facts can be manipulated and sometimes manufactured to suit a
particular fancy; and fancies often fly, like so many myths, legends
and tales, or ghosts from the grave; some more true, or false, than
others: like the tale of three towns, for instance, or the ghost of
Erasmus Harley. There were other tall tales connected to the great
divorce that were just as popular and even more contemporary; one
being that Erasmus Harley's oldest son, Ezekiel, who, as rumored,
had fallen out of the old patriarch's good graces when it was
discovered that he was secretly having an affair with a young white
woman from Creekwood Green while engaged to marry a local girl from
Shadytown, Miss Daisy Cotton, the daughter of a poor but proud black
preacher from the segregated part of Old Port Fierce. It was also
suggested that, Ezekiel Harley, otherwise known as 'Zeke' was
spotted from time to time in Creekwood Green shortly after his wife
became pregnant with their first and only child. Some say he was
looking for a woman.
Creekwood Green was an old and
predominantly white settlement lying just northwest of Old Port
Fierce. They say it wasn't the smartest thing young Ezekiel ever
did, especially at a time when these kinds of relationships were not
only considered immoral, but were illegal as well; and it certainly
wasn't the easiest to conceal, as 'Zeke' Harley himself would soon
find out, despite all prudent precautions. It was a choice he would
live with for the rest of his life, and one he would live to regret.
There was talk of a lynching, or at least a trial. Needless-to-say,
the Harlies reacted no differently, only from an entirely different
point-of-view. They were just as much against such interracial
arrangements as the Creekfolk, which they likewise considered, and
for equally ignorant reason.... well, unnatural, and generally
un-healthy. Creeks and Harlies just don't mix. Hell! Everyone know
that; especially Creeks and Harlies! It almost goes without saying.
It's like...like the Hatfields and McCoys without the shotguns, or
Romeo and Juliette without the poison, but just as lethal. And then,
to make matters even worse for poor Zeke Harley, the young woman he
was alleged to be having an affair with was none other than Annie
Odie, the daughter of a well-respected mayor and descendant of Otis
Odie himself, the founding father of the oldest settlement in that
that part of the territory. It was said she was engaged to marry a
soldier at the time she'd disappeared, a confederate colonel by the
name of Horace Horn, whom they called Rusty. Some say she was
murdered; others said Zeke Harley killed her. No one knew for sure.
Not even Red-Beard.
Naturally, Daisy as devastated
by the news, but, for reasons that remained undisclosed even to her
closest of kin, including her older brother Joe Cotton, she stood by
her pre-nuptial vows and married Ezekiel Harley anyway; silently and
grudgingly perhaps, but for better or for worse, against her
family's wishes and maybe her own better judgment. She would wait
for Ezekiel to return, which he eventually did; but, as Daisy could
clearly see, he would never be the same.
Zeke went back to Daisy, for a
while at least; and they lived together in Harley, along with their
newborn child. Naturally, everyone assumed Zeke the father. He and
Daisy knew better, of course; along with the real father, whose
identity was never established, at least not to the satisfaction of
anyone that mattered, and quickly became the subject of much debate
and speculation when it became rather obvious that the child was not
one hundred percent Harlie, and perhaps of mixed race.
In the end, the truth finally
caught up with Ezekiel Harley, and the Law was not far behind. He
escaped, just barley, by running away. Some say he had no other
choice; and that he 'took to the hills' (a common expression used at
the time, especially among outlaws and thieves who sought refuge in
the wooded highlands to the north) out of sheer desperation. Other
claimed he went to the sea, the merchants perhaps, and was never
seen again. He actually travelled south across land and changed his
name; but even that didn't seem to help, or deter those with long
memories who were still looking to exact their pound of flesh for
the murder of Annie Odie, which he was eventually accused, whether
he actually did it or not. Daisy Cotton would raise the child alone.
What else could she do? Joe Cotton helped, of course; but he knew
he could never take the place of Elmo's real father whose identity
and whereabouts he promised to keep secret, even from his own
sister, Daisy Cotton. Joe was there the day Zeke left town. He knew
where the Harlie was going; he could see it in his eyes. They were
red at the time, filled with blood and revenge. He gave Zeke five
dollars and promised him he would look after his wife and unborn
child for as long as he could. He also gave the runaway a new name,
Reginald Cotton. It was the least he could do for his good friend
and neighbor, and his sister's husband. Reggie Cotton never looked
back; but what he'd left behind that day would eventually find its
way to Old Port Fierce. And it was not very far away; not far away
at all.
And that's the way they
remember it in Harlie. The folks of Creekwood Green and Old Port
Fierce remember it a little differently, of course, if they remember
it all. But all three would agree that something did happen back
then, and that the Harleys, particularly Erasmus Harley, had
something to do with it. But most of the original Harleys were dead
by now; only a handful of graves remained standing; and these were
so old and neglected by now that no self-respecting ghost, ghoul or
goblin would be caught dead loitering in their immediate vicinity.
Aside from local birth records and deed transactions, which for
reasons of census and taxation were considered indispensable at the
time, there was actually very little written down during those
difficult and uncertain years in Shadytown, Harley, or anywhere else
for that matter. Unfortunately, many of the older grave sites in
Harley that had survived the war have long since been plowed under
by greedy land-grabbers, grant-seekers, landlords and other
opportunistic low-lifes, like Ike Armstrong, as favors owned them by
corrupt politicians.
No one knew for sure anymore
exactly where the bodies were buried (Not even Lester Cox!) except
maybe those who'd buried them in the first place who were buried by
now as well. No one seemed to care. Not even the descendants of old
Erasmus himself, who lived out their tainted lives relative
obscurity, anonymity, and certain poverty, having long since
squandered their grandfather's hard earned wealth in ways that would
have the old man rolling in his grave... if anyone could remember
where he was buried, that is. Everyone else remained strangely
silent on the subject, maintaining that speculation would only
further deepen the wounds, on both side of the Harley Gates. And
besides, digging up the bones of dead relatives was something decent
folks simply didn't do, Harlies or Greens.
To this day there existed an
on-going feud between the two neighboring communities that would
probably only end when the last Creek shot the last Harlie with the
last bullet fired from the last gun'; or visa versa. Blood may be
thicker than water, but it's not nearly as thick as mud – the kind
of mud still found in the muddy bean fields of Harley, as old as the
hills of Jerusalem and just as war-torn and bloody. And it is from
that same mud, clouded and polluted by a thousand generations, we
are born; in a cesspool of human debris, in which we all must learn
to swim, or die. Whether we are Harlies, Greens, Cottons, Skinners,
Armstrongs, Smiths, Dixons, Coxs, Jeffersons, Jacksons, Jones or
Johnsons, or even Lincolns and Washingtons for that matter, we all
sprang from the same seed inside the same apple that fell from the
same tree planted in the same garden so many lifetimes ago. And it
really doesn't matter who planted the tree, or even why. There are
some things we don't have to know; not on this side of the grave
anyway, and for good reason, I suppose. But there's one thing we do
know, or at least should know if we haven't figured it out by now;
and that is this: We are all stardust. And when you get right down
to it – it's true! We're all made of the same stuff, whether it
comes from the Serengeti Plain of Africa, the Mongrel steppes of
Asia, the Black Forests of Europe, the frozen tundra of Alaska, or
the muddy waters of the Mississippi Delta. We are equally doomed,
even in the mist of Paradise. We've squandered immortality. We live.
We die. And in the end, as the philandering philosopher, Ol' Ben
Franklin once put it, quite eloquently I might add, and on his own
headstone, no less: 'I am food for worms'. We are all that, when you
get right down to it, and more. And that ain't so bad. It could be a
lot worse; and it often is, for those who have tasted immortality
only to want more. And so I guess in some ways that makes us all
Harlies... whatever else we are.
On its surface, Fat Moon
Friday, or the Feast of the Full Moon as it was also know as in more
esoteric circles, was really not very different than any other feast
celebrated in Old Port Fierce at the time, except for the fact that
it was celebrated once a month, every month, come what may. Not
being an official holiday in the same sense as, say, 'Fisherman's
Day', 'Founder's Day or 'New Year's Day', all of which came around
only once a year, Fat Moon Friday was celebrated in a more casual
and, some would even say, more carnal atmosphere. There were
the usual trappings: dancing, singing, friendly conversation, joking
and, of course – barbecues! Naturally, there was always a plentiful
supply of food and beverages on hand, the latter consisting chiefly
of beer and wine along with an assortment of other potent potables
that were typically brewed in bathtubs or copper stills and sold in
mason jars on street corners. Prohibition was still a long ways off,
so terms like 'Moonshine' and 'Bathtub gin' held no special
significance at that time, unless, of course, you were talking about
real moonshine, which, on Fat Moon Friday night at least, was
self-explanatory, or playing cards in the bathtub, which, although
highly improbable (at any times) was not completely out of the
question, especially if you happened to be one of those insufferable
people who have a fetish for taking baths and just can't seem to
ever get enough of them, and particularly if you had too much gin to
drink. Rum was often the beverage of choice, and a favorite among
sailors who participated in the lunar event whenever they dropped
anchor in that Old Port Fierce, which, as far as they were
concerned, was never often enough. A product of the Caribbean where
it was first distilled from sugar cane and other fermentable
ingredients, they would consume the spicy elixir by the barrel, and
sometimes, when there was not enough to go around, they would simply
water it down into their own special concoction known as 'grog', a
staple of seamen all of the watery globe, as much a part of their
daily sustenance as bread and biscuits. It was there, in Old Port
Fierce, where, when time and tide permitted, they would drop anchor
in the black waters of the bay and crawl forth from their moldy
forecastles and down from their lofty lairs high up in rigging like
so many cockroaches and spiders before storming the beaches not
unlike an army of sea-sick land crabs on liberty. They stayed just
long enough to wear out their welcome, which usually never took more
than a day or two, or whenever the jails were so full that the local
police would have no other choice other than to simply cart then
back to Fisherman's Wharf and deliver them into the anticipating
hands of their superiors officers, or whoever else they could find
willing to take them off their beleaguered hands, where they would
be summarily thrown in the brig until such a time they were sober
enough to properly flogged. Naturally, flogging them at the time of
incarceration would do little good, as the anesthetic qualities of
the alcohol would surely have deprived both the flogger and floggee
of all desired effects; and it probably wouldn't have done much good
anyway. Hey, we're talking about sailors here. Ain't we?
No one knew exactly how or
when it happened, but it seemed that over the years Fat Moon Friday
had taken on certain carnal qualities that were often brought into
question by the local clergy, as well as those who refrain, for
whatever Puritanical reasons, from such 'questionable' activities.
Over time, what began simply as an innocent acknowledgment of the
monthly lunar phenomenon had somehow evolved into something more
sexual in nature and content; or at least that's the way it appeared
on the surface. It was at that special time of the month when the
moon turned the tides gently, gently away, that such noble virtues
as modesty and chastity were substituted for their more sinister
alter egos: pride and lust. Naturally, it could perhaps best be
understood and more accurately described by a woman undergoing her
own menstrual period, which some physiologists suggest is regulated
by the same lunar effects, who may go through similar changes and
mood swings during that time as well. They appeared in the form of
vices we are all too familiar with, at least those of us who have
fallen and are not too proud to admit to such transgressions, which
were tolerable at best and forgiven at worst. They came in many
faces, many disguises, some more superficial than others. But no
need to guess here; we all what they are, and who we are. And we
know it, no matter what mask we choose to wear, simply because we've
all been there at one time or another.
It was a time of altered
perceptions when one simply became more open to suggestion than
usual and, therefore, slightly more susceptible to certain
proclivities he or she might otherwise avoid, especially in matters
relating to their own insatiable appetites, sexual or otherwise, and
the gratification they offered. In that respect it was a time of
iniquity, incorporating all of the seven deadly sins enumerated in
the Holy Cannon, condensed in twenty-four hours of pure pantheistic
pleasure, hedonistically satisfying those desires of the flesh in
whatever form they happen to manifest themselves, and in measures
unimaginable. Naturally, during these tempestuous times, there
seemed to be more gambling, fornication, drunkenness, along with
other suspicious activities, equally shameless and maybe even more
addictive, going on than usual. However, occurring only once a month
and lasting no longer than a few days at most, Fat Moon Friday's
were relatively harmless and, for the most part, a welcomed release.
It was a time for purging pain with pleasure, often in excess,
sometimes with dire consequences. Some would say, with all due
austerity, that it's a necessary function; cathartic, in a clinical
sense, like administering heroine to a dying cancer patient; and
they may very well be correct in their non-professional assessment.
But like all narcotics, the 'fix' provided by Fat Moon Friday was
only temporary; and, like all medication, it eventually wore off,
requiring an even greater dose to achieve a similar effect the next
time around, leaving the patient in a worse predicament than when he
was prior to the treatment. But medicine does work, when properly
prescribed, but only for as long as it's supposed to. Like
everything else, it has its place and purpose; sometimes it is best
left on the pharmacist's shelf. It might even be described as a
compulsory indulgence, like sipping a glass of brandy after a
troubling day at the office, or smoking a cigar. 'Moderation in
everything...' preach the libertarians; and, under certain
circumstances, I suppose they may be right. 'But does that also
include sin?' argues the Evangelist, viewing all iniquity equally
offensive in the holy sight of God, in whose righteous presence we
are but mere menstrual rags fit for the sewer, if not the fire. Is
it possible to burn 'moderately in Hell? Or is that what Purgatory
is all about; perhaps one day we will find out. But isn't that how
all vice begins, in moderation? 'A little wine...for the digestion,'
the Apostle Paul prescribes to his dyspeptic disciples. And didn't
our Lord and Savior drink wine in such a moderate manner, and not
only at the wedding feast of Canaan? And when finished, would we not
be too surprised to find Him dancing (although we have no way of
knowing it) with the pretty bridesmaids in the customary fashion of
the day? Or leisurely lounging in the company of eligible Canaanite
bachelorettes who, unlike the foolish virgins who were out trying to
fill their lamps, sat at the foot of the Salvation as He entertained
them with a psalm or two; perhaps one of Solomon's autobiographical
love songs. And why shouldn't he? After all, He created them all:
the wine, the women, and the song, along with everything else in
this fallen and fallible world we put such a high premium on. And He
did not come that we would merely have life...but have it more
abundantly!
And by no means were these
deviations in the human condition, however short-lived and
celebrated, limited to the population of the twin coastal cities.
Sins of the flesh, such as fornication and adultery, like all vices
of man's carnal creation, are not modern inventions; nor are they
isolated to any specific group of people, as history
anthropologically indicates. And just as the size of one's skull
does not phrenologically measure his capacity for truth, wisdom and
knowledge, the appetite for such depravities does not necessarily
depend on the size of his ego or what tribe he happened to be born
into. Sin is universal, if nothing else; and it does not
discriminate. It's been around for eons, long before those other
infamous twin sister cities of Sodom and Gomorrah fell into
hell-fire and ash-heap. And it will probably be with us right up to
the end, until the breaking of the seventh seal, in fact, and the
unleashing of the four horsemen, whenever and wherever that blessed
event occurs. And when it does, don't be too surprised to find
yourself in right there in Shadytown, on Avenue 'D' perhaps. For we
have all been there at one time or another, and will more than
likely return, like a dog to its own vomit, especially during those
dark nights of the flesh when the moon is full and bright, and on a
Fat Moon Friday night.
Before we go any further, it
should be stated here and now that not all of the behavior taking
place on the special night of the month was immoral. Like the Ying
and the yang of the Chinese philosophers, good and evil often go
hand in hand, at a respectable distance one could only hope, and are
actually quite complimentary to one another. On the contrary, much
of the activity witnessed on Fat Moon Friday night, however
self-absorbed and solitarily pursued as indulgences often are,
culminated in many a long and lasting friendship that might
otherwise have gone un-noticed or unachieved, innocently based on
common interests mutually shared and appreciated; such as a taste
for a particular brand of beer, the enjoyment found in a simple but
passionate hobby like shell-collecting, or perhaps just playing
checkers on the front stoop. It's what the ancient Greeks, and
perhaps a handful of Biblical scholars refer to as 'Phileo' Love,
that special relationship we share with our fellow man, less
satisfying, perhaps, than 'Agape', which only God can sustain and
inspire, but certainly not nearly as difficult to bear as 'Eros'
which selfishly leaves so many of us bewildered and betrayed at
times. Maybe that's the way true alliances are formed: not with
blood and oath or passionate embraces, but with a simple toast
between a couple of friends, a sea-shell found on the beach, or the
familiar 'King me!' heard when we finally reach our desired goals on
other side of the red and black battlefield, and without killing
each other in the process.
But too much of anything,
including L-O-V-E, can often have a deleterious effect on the body
and soul, not to mention the psyche, of man; and that's especially
true of that awkward kind of love we sometimes describe
self-sacrifice; the kind of love that will do anything for the
other... except nothing; which may be exactly what is needed most.
Sometimes it's better to just leave and get on with life, rather
than systematically drown the ones we love in the empathetic milk of
human kindness, which, as every mother's son knows can be as lethal
arsenic when administered at the wrong time, in the wrong dosage,
and with the wrong intentions. There is no more agonizing a death,
that I can think of, than slowly suffocating in the warm and
well-intentioned embrace of a selfless lover who, when you get right
down to it, is not so selfless after all. As the poet sings: Love
ain't love until you give it away. Sometimes you just have to know
when to let go. In a way, you might even say that Fat Moon Friday
was merely another way of letting go, or, to be more generous:
letting off a little steam; a safety valve, if you will, that
regulates the temperature and drives off the spleen. But as with all
remedial fixes, Fat Moon Friday could also be a placebo, a sheep
disguised in wolf's clothing, a skillfully woven disguise, a
masquerade, an exercise in ambiguity, a fake and fraud, as well as a
celebration. For beneath the mask and veneer of social pleasantries,
lurked a malignancy, a cancerous tumor that was slowly eating away
the very heart of the city, bite by infectious bite until all that's
left is an empty shell, a hardened heart, or a rotten apple. And it
threatened those on one both side of the invisible tracks; one more
than the other, perhaps – the ones who had to live there, in a place
called Shadytown.
The symptoms of this beguiling
disease were evinced on that same monthly basis, usually on Fat Moon
Friday night, on the cobblestone streets and in the very heart and
soul of Shadytown, and especially on Avenue 'D'. Often described by
preachers and priests alike as a 'Couching Lion', the feline hunter
stalked the streets of the shantytown in much the same manner as the
metaphorical demon who lay waiting in the gutters and alleyways,
behind closed doors, on rooftops and in cellars, crouched like a
lion and ready to spring on its unsuspecting prey, innocent and not
so innocent, at a given moment. This sickness, this disease, this
scourge on society, this animal, this beast, has a name. It's called
Poverty, and it manifests itself in a variety of unhealthy and
unholy ways. It came in the disguise of social amenities such as
gaming houses, brothels, pool halls, and other enterprises born to
satisfy the 'Crouching Lion's insatiable appetite, which only had
only increased over the years, like a fire being fanned, and fed
with oxygen.
But along with all the
lasciviousness that occurred in Shadytown during Fat Moon Friday and
beyond, there were always those elusive and redemptive rays of
sunshine that somehow managed to permeate the dark and lonely night
of the flesh. And they came in three benevolent waves: Faith, Hope,
and Charity. Faith in God; Hope in His infinite mercy and justice;
and the Charity, which is merely another word for Love and thus by
far the greatest, that naturally springs from God's eternal
fountain. Like the blessed Trinity of Saint Patrick's illustrative
shamrock, the three may be considered as one, separate but the same,
unique and independent, but all made up of the same Divine substance
and constantly working towards the same heavenly goal. Salvation!
The town, Shadytown that is,
actually began as a handful of slave families that took up residence
in the northwest section of Old Port Fierce shortly after the Great
Emancipation. The official title given to that particular parcel of
land at that time was 'Liberty', which can still be found on legal
documents dating back to a time before the port actually came into
commercial use. Prior to that period, most of the supplies had been
brought in by covered wagon or the military, and always in short
supply. The tall ships and the merchants would soon change all that,
forever.
It was a time when cotton was
king. It was the cash crop, grown on plantations along with a wide
variety of beans, greens, and other leafy produce that sprung from
the fertile soils of the delta that formed and fed famous port for
over a hundred years. It was a place where cattle were bred by the
thousands and the starting point for their long trek across the wide
expanses of the west to their final destinations ports foreign and
domestic. And with the arrival of the tall ships with their wide
wooden hulls, Old Port Fierce quickly became the largest and most
profitable port on the entire eastern seaboard, having secured that
enviable position chiefly by virtue of its location (the harbor
being fifty feet deep in most places and a natural port to begin
with) and with the support of a few enterprising, albeit slightly
inebriated, riverboat gamblers who'd first envisioned the profitable
port as yet another New Orleans or New York harbor, and right in
their own back yard! There simply were no other ports around at the
time that could accommodate the tall ships that brought the
much-needed supplies to support the growing number of settlers still
pouring into that part of the world. Many became wealthy, for a
while at least. But the gamblers got more than they bargained for;
for, as it sometimes happens in the risky business of capitalism,
you simply bet on the wrong horse. As newer, deeper, and more
accessible seaports opened along the coast, and times and attitudes
changed, Old Port Fierce became less important in the overall
mercantile business, but still a good place to drop an anchor and do
a little horse trading.
Nothing lasts forever, which
isn't necessarily a bad thing by the way; and one thing drives out
another. And just like the wagon trains that came before them, the
tall ships would soon disappear as well, giving way to more modern
forms of transportation, like the railroad for instance, and follow
in the fated footsteps of their predecessors. Presently, the 'Iron
Horse' of the North had yet to make it that far South, which was
perhaps the only reason Old Port Fierce had remained, for the most
part, the busy, vibrant and prosperous place it had always been. But
the smoke could be seen on the not too distant horizon, and the
tracks were already being laid. It would not be long. But until
then, Old Port Fierce would remain pretty much the same; and so
would Shadytown, along with its bars, saloons, boarding houses,
gambling houses, smoke-houses, cat houses, out houses, houses of
worship, houses of ill-repute, and all the houses that made up that
special part of the grand old city, which, from a purely economical
standpoint, actually played vital role in sustaining the community,
and contributing, in their own entrepreneurial way just as much, one
could easily ague, as any tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, banker,
broker, merchant, bailer, butcher, baker, or even the candle-stick
maker, and all the other saints and sinners that contributed to the
general welfare and longevity of the city. And they celebrated that
fact each and every month, right alongside their good friends and
neighbors to the South, on a Fat Moon Friday night.
* * *
IT WAS ON JUST SUCH A NIGHT when the farmer and raccoon arrived in
Shadytown. The streets were aglow with lanterns hung from posts at
every street corner, perfuming the neighborhood with the distinctive
and scent of spermaceti oil and ambergris. There was something Hindu
about it. An orange light permeated the warm moist air, creating an
appropriate atmosphere for the nocturnal circus that was about to
begin.
The people of Shadytown
occupied their time by parading the streets in various processions
that'd actually begun at sunrise. They were dressed in their
traditional attire, one more colorful than the next; some revealing
perhaps a little more they should've, especially those worn by the
scantily-clad women of the streets who were young and beautiful
enough to compliment such garments. There were beads and bangles,
and assortments of accessories adorning the flesh that night. There
was singing and dancing, hooting and hollering, and many happy faces
hidden discretely behind those paper-machete masks that seems so
ubiquitous throughout the evening, some of which were so large and
cumbersome that not only did they encompassed the entire face of
those that worn them, but were actually quite a chore just to hold
up. There were musicians on almost every street corner, banging
drums and blowing horns and whistles as the people passed them by,
tossing coins into their little copper cups, or stealing them when
they weren't looking; even from the blind ones, of which there were
many. Occasionally, they were thrown beads and necklaces from
balconies or other worthless trinkets for their musical efforts, and
blown kisses as well. It was all part of the show, the event, a
local Mardi-Gras, so-to-speak, held each and every month under the
light of the moon and in the fine old Latin tradition of Rio del
Rosa, something of which mere words simply do not do justice, and
one that would have to be seen to be fully appreciated.
Much of the festivities had
died down by the time the Harlies arrived in Shadytown that night,
chiefly on account of the fact that many folks had settled down by
then and were gravitating towards the many open grills and barbecue
pits, which could be found just about everywhere, to partake of
their evening meals. But that did not mean that the party was over –
quite the contrary! That was just the end of 'round one'. Those
arriving lately, many from out of town, peered curiously into steamy
storefronts windows and local saloon halls that lined the streets
and avenues of Shadytown. These were the places the sailors and
sea-merchants frequented after many days at sea. There were also a
number of brothels to be had, along with the women of the night who
lived and worked there, displaying their own specialized goods
through dimly light windows and half-opened doorways. Their shops
were mainly located along Avenue 'D' in a section of town most
accommodating to those kinds of activities and the avarice behavior
they bred; and they never closed. What they had was for rent, never
for sale; and the price was always negotiable.
Not all the sons of sailors
pursued these illicit and often illegal indulgences. Many were
respectable family men who prayed and attended church on a regular
basis. Never- the-less all were fair game to the 'Crouching Lion' of
Avenue 'D', especially on Fat Moon Fridays when the mind is willing
and the flesh is weak. And the men were usually the first victims,
regardless of how much their jealous wives guarded against them
falling prey to the temptations of such entrapments, which they
valiantly fought an on-going but largely unsuccessful battle to
eviscerate. For the most part, the children of Shadytown were
shielded, and thus spared, from the more sinister sides of Fat Moon
Friday, but not as successfully as some mothers would've like. Many
of the local establishments that catered to these kinds of vices
were located predominantly along Avenue 'D' and were avoided by many
of the more morally conscious participants. They were patronized by
suspicious looking men and older boys who drank beer, smoked thinly
rolled cigars and pitched pennies up against concrete walls in front
of the endless rows of storefront structures, further contributing
to the makings of their own miss-spent and wasteful youth. It was
all part of the scenery.
Even from a distant, Elmo
could smell the aroma of freshly caught fish and other produce from
the sea being grilled over open flames. The smoke from these fires
rose through the orange curtain and out into the street, spewing
from old copper drums had been sawed lengthwise in half and placed
on makeshift stilts to serve their newly constructed purpose as
open-air barbecue pits. The children of Shadytown gathered around
the smoky drums, dirty-faced and bare-footed, swatting the flies
from their supper, which for the time being at least, was secured.
They feasted mainly on fish while tearing off claws from freshly
boiled lobsters and crabs – blue-crabs! the same ones they perhaps
caught that very same day as the tasty crustaceans made their way
over sandy beaches of Old Port Fierce and into the nearby streets of
Shadytown where they were quickly snatched up and thrown into the
pot, along with whatever else happened to crawl up on the beach or
along the boulevard that day, including the giant sea-turtles which,
especially when the moon was full and bright, could often be found
struggling their way up the beach through the sugar sands to lay
their eggs. They were easy game, if the seagulls didn't get to them
first, and quite delicious. Feral cats and stray dogs were also an
easy and legitimate target, and were considered, at least to those
whose tastes included the domestic meat, a delicacy on some menus.
Needless-to-say, the local dogcatcher was not a very busy man, at
least on fat Moon Friday night, and stray animals were actually
quite rare.
In Shadytown, nothing was ever
wasted. Not even the rats! of which there was always a plentiful
supply of, were spared. Rodents, including everything from church
mice to sewer rats, were considered a rare and reliable source of
much-needed protein at the time, along with snakes, spiders,
scorpions, cockroaches and other verminous insects and bugs one
typically finds under moldy rocks or in the old wooden rafters. They
were easy to catch, children being uniquely equipped in that regard;
that is, once they got over the initial shock of handling the vermin
which they would typically impale on the ends of long pointed sticks
and barbecue over an open flame. In fact, ever since Fat Moon Friday
was first institutionalized as a legal holiday, despite mild
objections raised by not a few local politicians and church
officials who thought it would only add to the criminal element of
the city, Shadytown never had the problems with feral cats, stray
dogs, or any of the other vermin that seemed to plague other cities
of its size and population. And that's simply because... well, there
weren't any to be found. Not in Shadytown, anyway; at least not on
Fat Moon Friday night.
Sherman Dixon turned his wagon
left at the north end of Front Street and directly onto Avenue 'D'.
He then proceeded inland towards the old neighborhood. That was
where his sister-in-law, Regina Johnson, lived with her mother,
along with her little boy, Oley. That was their destination; but
first they had to find it.
Elmo Cotton sat quietly next
to the turtle on the buckboard with many emotions racing through his
mind, not least of all the fear of word getting back to Harley of
his current whereabouts and intentions. He remained, for the time
being at least, a fugitive from justice and a raccoon on the run. He
would not soon forget it.
Sharing a common ancestry with
their colored cousins to the South, the bean farmers from Harley
were not very different from any of the other colored folks in
Shadytown; well, at least not physically. Naturally, it was easy for
Sherman and Elmo to blend in on that particular evening (one a
little more easily than the other perhaps) chiefly due to the color
of their skin and the cloths they wore, earning them more than one
questionable and discerning glance from several pedestrians. It was
actually a refreshing change of scenery from all the blue eyes and
white faces the two travelers had met earlier that day in Old Port
Fierce, and certainly a more familiar one; and after all that the
turtle and the raccoon had experienced, particularly down at the
Fisherman's wharf that day, it felt good to see some faces that
looked more like their own. It even smelled a little like Harley,
the raccoon imagined just then, sniffing the air for even more
familiar scents. But not all of the faces in Shadytown were as dark
as Sherman's, or even Elmo's for that matter. There were a
substantial number of white faces to be seen in Shadytown that
night, some more friendly, and less white, than others, and many
downright mean and ugly. Some of these, the sailors most notably,
were dressed in the traditional military uniform: tight white
shirts, bell-bottomed trousers and the traditional black kerchiefs
that hung loosely around their sunburned necks. They walked the
streets alone and together, with that distinctive swagger often
associated with sailors on shore leave. They sometimes congregated
in small bands of threes and fours, counting the coins they'd
recently acquired from their last voyage at sea and figuring out
just how to spend it. With time and money to waste, they were
naturally easy prey for the 'Crouching Lion' of Avenue 'D' and his
many mistresses. It is often said: 'a fool and his money are soon
parted'. Well, whoever said it, certainly was no fool; he definitely
wasn't a sailor.
And then there were other
mariners in the crowd that night wearing different kinds of clothes
altogether. These were the merchant marines Elmo guessed, chiefly
from what his uncle had once told him. Some of them were speaking in
foreign tongues, or so it seemed, with bits of English thrown in
here and there whenever necessary, and depending on who they were
talking to. There was something different about them, exhibited in a
variety of ways, not least of all their language which possessed
that Mediterranean flavor that speaks of garlic and old spice. It
rolled off their salty tongues so easily, and naturally, like fine
wine from a golden decanter. They appeared to be of mixed breed and
blood, exhibiting features not unlike that of the Harlie himself,
both light and dark, and all shades in between. He thought it
peculiar that they all seemed to look the same, too; not merely in
dress but in other, more subtle, ways as well, which were perhaps
not so noticeable at first but just as present and ubiquitous, such
as the way they walked and talked, and the expressions they wore on
their weather-worn faces. And they all, especially the younger
merchant marines, had that same look about them. It was a youthful
expression, that dumb and defiant look that is often associated with
youth. In fact, it was the same look the Harlie wore himself at
times, the one that so often landed him in trouble back home,
especially with his wife: that same 'look' she was constantly
admonishing him to wipe off his face... 'befo' I wipes it off fo'
you!' she warned. Elmo never knew exactly what Nadine was talking
about, and would sometimes drag the back of his hand across his face
just to amuse Lil' Ralph, and maybe even annoy his wife, which he
usually succeeded in. It was a look that held no patents and had no
prejudices. It was the same look Elmo remembered seeing the on
Dickey Dilworth's fallen face when he caught the culprit peeing in
his bathtub. It spoke volumes... without even saying a word.
Other
men appeared on the Avenue as well that evening as well; some
dressed in finely tailored clothing, sporting dark fedoras and
spit-shined shoes. They stood like princes of the city, nodding to
each passing mariner as if welcoming them home after some long
heroic voyage. Elmo Cotton couldn't help but overhear one of these
suspicious looking characters as he graciously introduced himself to
a threesome of marauding seamen he seemed to recognize as 'The
Wizard of Avenue 'D'. The same man then turned to the raccoon as
the wagon rolled by and smiled a perfect row of gold teeth. It was
like nothing the Harlie had ever seen before.
Not to be outdone by the men,
the women of Shadytown were gaily dressed in every color imaginable,
mostly pink, yellow, and red cotton, with ruffled white sleeves and
braided hems. Having worked all week at home or on the docks, doing
the things woman of that period was expected to do, besides having
babies, nursing children, and satisfying their husbands and lovers,
they were happy enough to adorn themselves in whatever fine clothing
and jewelry they could afford. For many of them it was their only
escape from the harsh realities of Shadytown, and a time when they
could prove to themselves and the rest of male dominated world, if
only for one day a month, they were still ladies, regardless of
their circumstances; and they expected to be treated as such.
Rolling down Avenue 'D' that
night beneath the moon and stars, the farmer and the raccoon
marveled at sights they'd never seen on muddy and distant roads of
Harley. It was night-time in old Shadytown, and it was a Fat Moon
Friday night! People came from out of nowhere, or so it seemed,
pouring into the street that quickly took on the carnival-like
atmosphere of a three ring circus, without the elephants and
acrobats. The endless night sky served as the Big Top stretching
from north to south and east to west, with a full-faced moon for a
ringmaster and a galaxy of stars for a sideshow.
Chapter Six
Street Urchins
ONE BY ONE, the stars came out in all their curious constellations,
along with that omnipresent lunar orb that was both cause and reason
for the nocturnal celebration that was about to begin. It was a true
celestial circus (all that was missing were the tents, the clowns,
the usual assortment of freaks and sideshows, some cotton candy and,
perhaps the man on the flying trapeze) that began with a Big Bang
and would end the way all carnivals do – quickly and quietly, making
you wonder if they were ever there to begin with, or if it was all
just some wild and crazy dream you just awoke from, and might just
as soon forget; for a while anyway, until the next time, when the
poles are pitched, the canvass stretched, and the clowns come out to
play, as the old Carney barks and beckons us back just as he does
every thirty or so days, under the stars in good Old Shadytown, on a
fat Moon Friday night.
Among the many pedestrians
strolling down the infamous avenue that night were the ones Joe
Cotton had spoken from time to time, albeit discreetly and never in
the presence of young children. The raccoon starred at them with
eyes wide open; the turtle couldn't help but notice them as well.
They were the working women of Shadytown, the infamous prostitutes
of Avenue 'D'. These were the fallen angels, the ones with flashing
eyes and painted faces. These were Satan's sirens, solicitors of the
flesh, and they were dressed to kill. They went by other names as
well that need not be mentioned here, most of them pejorative and
all of them demeaning. With tightly woven skirts pulled up firmly
about their waists and sheer white blouses, they shamelessly peddled
their bodily goods on the steamy streets of Shadytown, some more
openly than others.
Whether standing alone on a
street corner, beckoning with open breasts from a red glowing
window, or spliced to the tattooed arm of a semi-intoxicated
sailor, these ladies of the evening were difficult, if not
impossible, to avoid. They were the fat-bottomed girls, the kind
that thief from Eulogy, Alvin Webb, once spoke of just before he
died. They served anyone and everyone willing to pay the paltry
price which varied depending on circumstances but was usually in the
neighborhood of half a dollar; and these ladies did not
discriminate. They spoke the language of the street that was as
smooth and hard, and as the well tread upon, as the cobblestones
beneath their high-heeled feet. They spoke through painted lips and
perspiring white blouses that seemed to fly open at the slightest
breeze, taking immediate notice of the little wagon as Sherman
slowed down to get a closer and, perhaps, better look at something
that wasn't entirely new to him. Elmo had been taking in the sights
as well, maybe a little more eagerly than should have, knowing all
along who and what these woman were, and reckoning he couldn't
afford what they were selling anyway. They owned the streets as much
as anyone, securing their own special place on the nocturnal stage
in the very heart and soul of Shadytown, right there on Avenue 'D'.
Naturally, they stood out, eyed with varying degrees of emotion –
depending, of course, on whose eyes happened to befall them –
ranging from sheer indifference to genuine contempt, and perhaps
even a little jealousy and envy from those women who... well, you know
what I mean. These were the bad girls you mother always
warned you about; which, in some ways, only made you want them even
more. It's something your father might understand. Not that he would
ever agree with it, of course; and not if he knew what was good for
him. Some would say they were only making a living, just like
everyone else, I suppose. There are those who claim, and quite
correctly I might add: 'Why, it's the oldest profession in the
world!' Other were not so generous, however; citing the famous
Magdalene who, but for the grace of God and a few incriminating
words, escaped not only eternal damnation but the stones of her
accusers as well. Of course, in some cultures, prostitution is still
considered a young man's rights-of-passage; a tradition, if you
will. Or, as one famous Libertarian so economically observed: 'Hey!
at least these girls are working!' But just because something is
old, economical, or traditional, doesn't necessarily make it right,
or good... like slavery, I suppose; or stoning someone to death. Elmo
Cotton had heard of these kinds of woman, of course, mostly from men
who had been to Shadytown before, like his Uncle Joe and Alvin Webb;
but he never actually seen one, at least not so up close and
personal. They kind of frightened him a little, especially the way
they looked at him with hungry eyes and suspicious smiles. The
temptation was there; and the flesh was as willing and weak as ever.
But fortunately for the raccoon and some others perhaps, his pockets
were empty, just like they'd always been. Or were they?
As Abraham slowly and
methodically made his way down the cobblestone pavement of Avenue
'D', Sherman turned his amphibious head from side to side,
instinctively it would seem, as though it was the most natural thing
in the world to do. Elmo, who was seated next to him on the
buckboard, did likewise, wondering, perhaps, how much money was
inside the turtle's moneybag at the time, having been paid in full
earlier that evening at the Fisherman's Hall. And it occurred to him
just then that some of that money may very well belong to him, not
only for his assistance in stowing the precious produce on board the
vessel, as ordered by Mister Elijah Hatch, but also because of
something else his good friend and neighbor had imparted to him
earlier that day concerning a certain portion of the produce (the
Harley beans, that is) having originated from Elmo's farm, which,
according to the fat man himself, he would rightfully be compensated
for.
Suddenly, the raccoon didn't
feel as helpless, or poor, as he presently appeared to be. And so,
turning his undivided attention to the bug-eyed turtle whom he'd
recently, and a bit sarcastically I might add, began referring to as
'Mister Moneybags', chiefly on account of his recently acquired
wealth, at least by Harley standards, begged the obvious question:
"Say, Mister Moneybags... 'zackly much money you gots in yo' moneybag?
And he said it coolly and coyly, the way raccoons sometimes do when
they smell something they want badly enough but are just too afraid
to reach out and take. He was referring, of course, to Mister
Dixon's newly inflated purse, or money-bag as they were called at
the time, hanging loosely, and perhaps just a little too visibly,
about Sherman's ever-expanding waistline, practically begging to be
lightened, if not snatched altogether from his trousers.
Sherman was just about to
answer when, from out of nowhere it seemed, a band of feral youths
suddenly appeared in front of them, as if having cropped right out
of cobblestones themselves, like so many weeds through the cracks in
the pavement. Observing these... these street-urchins, who were by
then eyeing the fat farmer like a golden goose fit for the fire,
Elmo sensed an immediate and present danger, something he hadn't
felt since he was back in the wooded cabin when the bears would come
around late at night looking for food. He was also beginning to
realize that if he didn't soon relieve the fat turtle of his
recently replenished moneybag, the street-urchins, or whoever these
trouble-seeking hooligans were, would surely do it first. He wasn't
exactly sure how, or why, be thought that way; he just did. And with
everything at stake that night, and all his plans ahead of him, Elmo
Cotton knew he would have to do something soon; and furthermore, he
knew he would only be doing his friend and neighbor a favor.
Sherman, slow as he actually
was in comprehending such things, especially when they involved
friends and relatives, was quick to pick up on the raccoon's
monetary inference, as well as Elmo's sudden interest in the ladies
of the evening, "That's fo' me to know... and fo' you to finds out,"
he snapped right back, the way turtles sometimes do when approached
by hungry raccoons who should know better than messing with a fat
turtles with hard shells who can be more than a match for any 'coon
foolish enough to try. "But first, Mister Cotton" he further argued
with every intention of carrying through on his original commitment,
"we gots to find Miss Bernice's house."
The raccoon agreed, of course,
and suddenly wished they were there already. By then, the street
urchins had multiplied, exponentially it would seemed, and gathering
in alarming numbers; and not just around the slow moving wagon, but
on opposite sides of the avenue as well, like an organized pack of
hungry hyenas stalking a young unsuspecting water buffalo on the
African Serengeti that strayed too far from the herd. "I reckon
you's right," resigned the raccoon, "And could you please make
Abraham moves a little faster? I don't like..."
And just as he said this, one
of the prostitutes of avenue 'D', whose face appeared be
inconspicuously masked in bright red paint, flashed a broad white
smile from across the avenue aimed specifically at the raccoon. Like
a fox caught in the farmer's lamplight as he was snooping around the
chicken coop in the middle of the night, Elmo froze. He sat up and
stared, momentarily mesmerized, as the sweat soaked through the
white cotton fibers of her blouse, voluptuously detailing each
perfectly formed breast under the wetness thereof, right down to
each rock hard nipple sitting high atop the goose-pimpled areola
like two rough-cut rubies. For some reason it reminded the hungry
Harlie of two eggs frying sunnyside-up in the pan; moreover, it
reminded him of his wife, Nadine, which only made him hungrier. The
woman then waved as the green and yellow wagon rolled slowly on by,
looking directly at the raccoon.
"Say what you lookin' at,
Mister Cotton?" Sherman suddenly asked, as if he didn't already
know.
Feeling only a little ashamed
and not so tired any longer, the raccoon slyly changed the subject.
"You sure this is the way to Bernice's house, Mister Moneybags?" he
asked, turning his attention back to the road before them which
appeared to be widening by the minute. But before long, Elmo's
raccoon eyes returned to the painted women. He found that he simply
could not keep from looking at her, even when tried. Perhaps he'd
been away from his wife longer than he thought. But it was not his
wife he was thinking about any longer.
"I thinks so... leastways, this
is the way I came last time I was here," answered the fat man as he
drove the empty wagon noisily over the cobblestone streets of Old
Port Fierce, occasionally reaching down to his side to make sure his
moneybag was still safe and secure. "Course we could always go back
the way we came, I 'spose, and then go east; but that would take too
long. And besides, I thought you might want to see some of the
sights first. Ain't never seen anything like this in Harley. Huh,
Mister Cotton?" he winked.
The raccoon nodded in
agreement, his eyes permanently fixed on the woman with the painted
face who was standing all alone by then in the orange glow of a
street lantern. She was the same black cat beauty that waved to him
from across the crowded street, the one with the fried-egg breasts
and the white cotton blouse that presently being undone, one button
at a time, with long red nails. Her hair was straight and black. It
reminded Elmo of the way Boy's hair would cascade down over his
savage shoulders with that same iridescent blue; only woman's hair
was much longer than the Indian's mane, flowing like a black garden
snake all the way to the slit conspicuously cut into the hem of her
tight red dress. Among her other womanly attribute, this dark haired
Aphrodite also had these extremely long finger-nails, the kind that
twist and turn in so many contorted spiralings until reaching their
full and final extension at the very tip of the keratin blade; they
were at least four inches long, even at the pinky, and painted a
scarlet red, to match the slit-skirt one would only surmise, and the
letter indelibly sown on her soul. She also appeared to posses the
largest backside the Harlie had ever seen on a woman so otherwise
delicately built; like the high-riding rump of an Ethiopian war
princess, he might have imagined if, in fact, he'd ever seen an
Ethiopian war princess with a high-riding rump, and just as proudly
displayed. By comparison she was much prettier and any other woman
on Avenue 'D' that particular night, even with her painted mask;
indeed, there were many of them to be seen, and had, by then. But
alas, she was a marked woman; Cain's twin sister, perhaps, the
harlot of Babylon who may as well have had the incriminating scarlet
letter 'A' conspicuously stamped on her fallen forehead or
embroidered right over her adulterous heart for all mankind to pity
and all womankind to scorn, much like the promiscuous Hester Prynne
in Hawthorne's timeless novel. In Harley she would've been a called
a whore, or worse; but in Shadytown labels didn't seem to matter
much – only the price. Scorned by some, adored by others, loved by
none, and available to all, women such as these were pitiful and
plentiful on Avenue 'D', just as they are everywhere else in this
wanting world of ours. But there was something different about this
one particular woman, imagined the curious raccoon. She didn't look
like the others. She actually looked quite ... well, innocent, he
imagined; owing perhaps not a little to the virgin white blouse and
that angelic smile which may have once graced the lips of the
Madonna herself as she suckled her newborn son. She was just too
beautiful for her profession, one would have to wonder. Or maybe
that was a mask, too; a disguise, if you will, just like all the
others.
She had a pretty face, thick
red lips, and long black hair that was perhaps straighter than it
should've been in view of her African ancestry. Her blouse was
conspicuously undone by now, the flesh beneath the fabric clearly
visible, which she erogenously massaged with claw-like fingers,
leaving very little to the imagination. She was obviously trolling
for a bite; or, as the fisherman would also say in their own
peculiar vernacular: 'cuttin' bait and fishin' deep...'
It wasn't the most
respectable why to make a living, nor the most profitable; but for
some, like the painted lady of the Avenue 'D', it was perhaps the
only way. She lived with her mother on the outskirts of town along
with her illegitimate son, but had recently rented a room just above
the Blue Dolphin Inn where she'd just came from having put the
captain to bed. Unlike the fishing boats that had long since been
moored for the night, she was out trolling for one last bite. And
just then, she thought she felt a nibble.
Rotating his armor-plated head
to the far side of the street like a turret on a gun-deck, the
turtle took notice, if not exactly aim. "See that, Mister Cotton?"
he enquired of his wide-eyed passenger. "Now that's what I calls a
Miracle-Maker! Don't 'spose that who you be lookin' for – Huh?"
"No," replied Elmo, reaching
for the pocket in his overalls, "But that sure am one
miracle."
"Make a blind man see!" agreed
the driver.
"And a dead man come..."
rejoined the Harlie. He was thinking, perhaps, of the time not too
long ago, it suddenly seemed, on the Island of Long when, as 'Great
Raccoon' and demi-god deluxe, he was ceremoniously asked bring the
old chief, Long Arrow, back to life; only to realize, of course,
that even demi-gods have their limitations, much to the chagrin of
the high priest, and most likely to his own spiritual
demise.
"You know, Mister Cotton," the
turtle continued, "Last time I come this way she be wearin' that
'zact same dress, if I's not mistaken. And don't you know, she be
standin' in that 'zact same place... right by that there street light.
And she be doin'... well I thinks you knows what she be doin',"
observed the driver of the wagon, craning in his neck a notch or two
for modesty's sake. Apparently, Mister Dixon had traveled down this
road before, more than once perhaps, and was well aware by now of
all the trappings and enticements offered in that socialized section
of town. But that was before he'd married Mrs. Dixon, and back in
his bachelor days when both he and his moneybag were not so fat.
"You know what she be wantin' now – Don't you Mister Cotton?"
admonished the turtle, in the only way he knew how.
With both eyes shamelessly
pinned to painted lady like flies to molasses," the penniless Harlie
merely replied: "About fifty cents, I reckon." And just as he said
it, the woman in question reached into her blouse with long red
fingernails and pulled out a firm but fleshy brown breast, which she
solicitously waved in the general direction of empty wagon, and
specifically at the wild-eyed raccoon.
It did the trick, of course;
although it wasn't really necessary.
The turtle was astonished, and
clearly embarrassed, at the bold and brazen exhibition. He'd
witnessed such flagrant behavior before; but never performed so
shamelessly, so up close and personal, so deliberately, or so early
in the evening for that matter. What alarmed him even more was how
Elmo just happened to know the exact price she was asking at the
time, which, according to Sherman's private and very reliable
sources, was still only half a dollar, or fifty cents... or so he was
informed. He remembered now because it also happened to be the exact
same price he paid for a shoe-shine and a haircut the last time he
was there. It was at a local tonsilarium, right there on Avenue 'D'
as a matter of fact. Four bit! two for the shine and two for the
cut; only the proprietor of this particular establishment turned out
to be one of the 'queer' individuals who took a shine not only to
the Harlie's patent leather shoes, but the Harlie himself, if you
take my meaning. But the haircut was the best the farmer ever had;
and so, he wasn't totally disappointed. "Now how come you be knowin'
sumpin' like that, Mister Cotton?" frowned the turtle, the lines on
his forehead coming together in the form a fleshy brown question
mark. "Who told you 'fify cents?
Elmo shrugged, "Just lucky, I
guess." Then he paused. "And how do you know, Mister
Moneybags?" he likewise enquired. "Hummmmm?"
The turtle, lost for words,
withdrew into the sanctuary of his shell, where he knew he would be
safe and secure from any further accusations. Despite their many
flaws and failures, Harlies were generally not known to surrender so
easily to the temptations of the flesh, especially the more shameful
and sinful ones such as fornication and adultery, Isaiah Armstrong
not-with-standing. For one thing, their Harlie wives simply wouldn't
stand for it; and the Harlie husbands knew it. Besides, with women
like Nadine Cotton and Bernice Dixon around, it just wasn't worth
the risk. These cowgirls had broken bucks before; and they certainly
knew to steer a bull, or a stallion for that matter. So beware all
you cowboys and buckaroos, you Jim Dandies and city-slickers, all
you gigolos and street hustlers, you misogynists, you pugilists and
playboys, you sultans of the saddle who make every house a harem,
and every bedroom a bordello. Beware, I say! Don't mess with these
mares, even if you are, as the cowgirls like to say: 'hung like a
horse'. These gals know how to fight, not just in the
bedroom; and they mean business. And if the raccoon wasn't so busy
staring at the painted lady across the boulevard and going through
the pockets like a boozer in search of his bottle, he certainly
would have remembered all this and heeded the warning. He was
searching, it would seem, for some loose change; two quarters to be
exact, which he somehow thought he might find if he dug down deep
enough. By then, the turtle could see what was really on the
raccoon's mind and, in an almost 'I wish I hadn't brung you here'
sort of way, seemed to understand. Life on the run can do that to a
man, he sadly supposed, especially when you don't have your wife
running alongside of you. It just can't be helped.
As previously elucidated upon,
sins of the flesh were actually quite rare in Harley, most marriages
in the agricultural community typically lasting a lifetime...and
beyond that! for those who believe in the hereafter. Of course, it
may also be argued, and quite forcefully I might add (depending, of
course, on who you happened to be married to when the hooded reaper
grimly arrives on your doorstep with his famous sickle and watch)
that Heaven, by any definition, would certainly preclude any and all
matrimonial ties; and they would certainly have the right to do so.
After all, it the Lord Himself who once proclaimed to a curious
audience on the very same sore subject: 'For in the resurrection
they neither marry, nor are they given in marriage'. Surely, this
was meant to be a blessing, if not a reprieve. Still, there are
others who will argue that marriage, on whatever side of the grave
they exist, can be a blessing, as well as a curse. Perhaps Brother
Job, whose own un-supporting wife once pleaded with him to 'Curse
God and die!' would be among these ambivalent souls.
Subsequently, the men who lived and worked in Harley had long since
figured out the secret to a long and happy marriage. It was actually
quite simple. There wasn't any! And so, they never bothered looking
for it in the first place. Instead, they made the most of what they
had, including one another; and sometimes, they actually were
happy. You see, happiness is active, not static. It's something that
is 'pursued', just like the Framers suggest in their celebrated
Declaration of Independence. Happiness is not an entitlement. Of
course, there are those who will insist: 'You don't miss what you
ain't never had'; and that might be a good way of looking at it. And
if it ain't already right there, cooking in the kitchen, washing in
the tub, or waiting for you in the bedroom... well, it probably never
existed anyway. And even if it did, as the men of Harley would
sometimes admit to themselves, especially whenever their eyes
wondered in the ways of the flesh, they were probably better off
without it. They would be right about that, too. And as for the
institution of marriage... well, there really was really only way
out, in Harley anyway; and that, of course, was 'feet first!' Just
ask any Harlie. Or better yet, ask his wife.
Unfortunately, along with the
other six deadly sins, Shadytown was not immune from occasional
adultery, which was said to have destroyed many a good man, along
with his family, leaving the usual casualties in its wicked wake,
especially on Fat Moon Friday night and particularly on Avenue 'D'.
It's a temptation that's been around for as long as the institution
of marriage itself, ironically enough; one having little or no
meaning without the other come to think of it. It was Joe Cotton who
once told the inquisitive raccoon, not half in jest, that it was a
woman who invented it, marriage that is. Elmo never quite understood
exactly what his uncle was trying to say at the time, if anything;
but he knew now! He knew ever since he got married. 'And don't ever
forget it,' the fly-catcher would say; never mind the fact that he'd
never actually had taken the sacred vows himself; and glad of it,
for the most part. But even with those admonishing words of wisdom
echoing in his raccoon ears, the Harlie still couldn't help looking
back at the woman waving to him from across the street. There was
just something about her, he kept thinking to himself; something...
familiar. He liked what he saw. And so did the woman in red.
"Now don't you be gettin' no
ideas, Elmo," Sherman nervously smiled, once again addressing the
Harlie by his first name just get his attention. Then, slowing the
wagon down to almost a standstill to drive home the seriousness of
that warning, he further admonished his wide-eyed passenger, "You is
a spoken fo', Mister Cotton. And so's I. 'Member?"
"'Member what?" Elmo replied,
his attention still focused on the painted woman on the other side
of the cobblestone street.
"Lordy! Lordy!" Sherman
quickly responded. "Best not let Bernice or Miss Nadine hears you
talkin' like that! Or we both be in sleepin' in the barn. You know
how the womens is, Mister Cotton. And comes to think of it... I ain't
even gots a barn!"
No matter how much he tried,
the raccoon still couldn't keep his mind, or his eyes, off the
painted woman on the other side of the street who was still standing
there as if waiting for him to do....What?
Sherman wasn't quite finished.
"Now don't think I don't know what's goin' on here, Mister Cotton,"
he harshly criticized his good friend and neighbor, "'Cause I do!
And I knows you do, too! And you knows I knows you do. And I knows
that you knows that I knows... and...Oh, fo'git it, Mister Cotton. Just
fo'git it!" he suddenly cried, throwing up his hands in frustration.
Tangled up, or so it seemed, in his own exasperated thoughts, the
turtle resigned, "You gots that ol' jelly-roll on yo' mind... Ain't
you, Mister Cotton?"
Jelly-roll was a term still
used by some of the older Harlies, the men in particular, to
describe as accurately as they could, and in their own metaphorical
vernacular, that part of the female anatomy which, chiefly due to
those characteristics that make it physiologically receptive to the
male anatomy, could not possible be described in any other way, at
least not in its proper sexual context, which even these Negro
Neanderthals were too modest talk to about in any other way. And
even when they did talk about it, it was usually done in song, the
blues in particular, and composed by such notable black troubadours
as 'Jelly-roll' Morton, whose very name is analogously immortalized
in the sexual charged phrase itself. And for those of you who have
never bitten into a freshly baked 'jelly-roll' and savored the
tantalizingly rich red juices hidden within those soft moist
layers...well, you don't know what you're missing. But then again,
maybe you do.
"Now don't you be getting' no
ideas," warned the cautious driver. "Ain't gots no time fo' no
jelly-roll."
Like the BANG! BANG! BANG!
BANGing! of a copper kettle being struck with a long wooden
spoon under a kitchen table a hundred miles away, the warning was
there. The words ran rang true, loud and clear, not unlike the sound
of Lil Ralph's drum, and just as difficult to ignore. But it was
faint and far away, a million miles it suddenly seemed, even as the
raccoon frantically fumbled through the pockets of his overalls for
fifty cents that just wasn't there. And hear it he did, like the
sound distant thunder: lightning in a clear blue sky; followed by a
hurricane, no doubt; or perhaps the dreaded tsunami that comes
crashing down from half a world away, destroying everything in
rising wake and dragging it back out to sea, and with all the force
and fury of a woman. No wonder they are more often than not,
christened with the names of women. Coming up with nothing more than
a heavy heart and an empty hand, Elmo Cotton slowly turned to his
neighbor and said, "I know, Sherman – I know."
The turtle was not so sure
about that. "Now just what is you lookin' fo' anyway?" he said, a
little suspiciously and very much very concerned over his neighbor's
sudden interest in what the painted woman had to offer that
particular evening on Avenue 'D' in a place called Shadytown on a
Fat Moon Friday night.
"Huh?" Elmo answered, coming
up a few coins that'd somehow worked their way into the corner of
his breast pocket, which he knew wasn't nearly enough for what he
had in mind. He turned to the turtle, whose baby brown eyes were
still full of doubt and suspicion; it made the raccoon smile.
The turtle squinted. He'd seen
the coins and knew very well what was on the Harlie's mind by then.
But he just had to ask, "What's that you gots in yo' hand, Mister
Cotton?"
Counting the coins he had all
but forgotten about by then, which consisted of one quarter, a dime,
a nickel, and five shiny red pennies, the raccoon sheepishly replied
"...bout forty-five cents... but I lacks a nickel," he added.
"Humph!" the turtle
acknowledged.
But the Harlie was not so
willing to give up. Not just yet anyway. He'd been secretly eyeing
the moneybag hanging heavily from the turtle's belt. "Hey, Mister
Moneybags," he said in a rather suggestive tone, "how 'bout...?"
It a question answered before
it was even asked.
"No, sir!" stated the farmer,
flatly and firmly. "Uh-Uh! No, sir! Ain't no way! Ain't no how!" He
then went on to explain: "I know some of this here money rightfully
belongs to you, Mister Cotton. You done earned it; and like I said
befo', some of them there beans was yours anyway. But I think it
best ifin' I gives it to Nadine, just likes you told me to.
'Member?" Although not entirely shocked or surprised by the sudden
request, Sherman wondered if Elmo was seriously considering the
sinful proposition, or if he was merely teasing him, which raccoons
are known to do now and then when in the company of their own kind.
It's a well know fact that Harlies, in general, can be quite
humorous at times, even when all hope lost, which they were actually
quite accustomed to. It was something that just came natural to
them, like eating, breathing, and breeding, I suppose; and besides,
it never hurt. It didn't necessarily make life easier; but it did
make it a little more bearable. And it worked! Well, at least most
of the time. Under ordinary circumstances, the turtle would have
guessed Elmo was just trying to make him laugh, which Sherman always
liked and appreciated. But these were not ordinary circumstances,
and they were both far away from home, and their wives; and that,
somehow, made all the difference.
Elmo decided not to pursue the
matter any further. That's not to say he'd entirely given up on the
notion. Let's face it: jelly-roll ain't that easy to forget, once
you 'gots it on yo' mind' as the old bluesman would say. But as
usual, dollars, along with the distant sound of a kettle drum still
banging in his ears, had damned him. Money, or the lack thereof,
always seemed to be at the root of all the Harlie's problems,
especially when he didn't have any. But in any case, or a least in
this particular one, the lack of money may've very well saved the
sharecropper from his own destructive desires, along with something
else he was not quite ready to deal with. "I 'member, Sherman," he
finally admitted in a mocking but grateful gesture, the way brothers
sometimes do in situations such as these. Then he laughed. And as
the grin on the raccoon's face widened, the turtle laughed too.
Now, the only thing Sherman
Dixon liked better than laughing was making other people laugh. It
just came natural to him; and he happened to be very good at it. Fat
people are like that, I suppose – they have to be! You might even
say it's expected of them. Not only was Sherman fat, but there were
those who considered him stupid as well; although Elmo was not one
of them, and was quick to admonish anyone who even suggested it.
Like
most sharecroppers, Sherman Dixon never went to school. He had a
hard time explaining things and, at times, spoke with a noticeable
stutter which only confirmed what some had suspected all along: that
Mister Dixon was indeed as slow in the head as he was on his feet.
Elmo knew better, of course; and, in his own humble and doubtful
way, so did Sherman; although it still hurt. Most of the time he
merely laughed off the insults, as saints often do in the company of
those who just don't know any better; other times he would even go
along with it and, in some instances, gain the respect of his
persecutors. Sooner or later they would all go away; and even if
they didn't, chances were they would soon be laughing right along
with him. And that was his secret weapon. You see, the fat man's
laugh was contagious, as all laughter should be, especially when
it's of the self deprecating variety. Maybe that's why Mister Dixon
laughed as much as he did. It was a wise comic who once stated in
all candid seriousness: 'It's more difficult to make a man laugh
than it is to make him think'. And when you get right down to it:
Who would you rather be around – a man who thinks...or a man who
laughs? Think about it. And laugh! Sherman always did. But what
really made the turtle laugh that day was the truthfulness in the
raccoon's laugh. For 'Truth' is the yeast that makes all jokes rise
or fall to the occasion. The good ones have it in spades –
'truth', that is. That's what makes them so funny. It works
every time! Maybe that's why there is so little truth in the world,
and so many bad jokes.
By the time they both finished
laughing, the painted woman was racing across the street to greet
three sailors who were swaggering down the boulevard on their much
anticipated shore-leave like... well, like three sailors swaggering
down the boulevard on their much anticipated shore-leave. Naturally,
they responded accordingly to the woman's soliciting advance, as
sons of sailors are known to do in these situations.
They were all dressed in white
and black, like three striped skunks, the tallest with his shirt
sleeves rolled up high on his shoulders, proudly exposing a variety
of very dark tattoos covering every square inch of hairy flesh from
shoulder to knuckle. He appeared slightly inebriated at the time as
evidenced by his uncertain and somewhat staggering footsteps. He
was, in fact, Peter Finch, the same master-at-arms who'd slapped the
fat farmer from Harley in the face earlier and tried to steal his
money. The other two had also been on the dock that day, and the
turtle recognized them as well: one by a long blonde pony-tail
trailing down his uniformed back; and the other by his wrinkly bald
head that looked not unlike an albino prune in need of a suntan, or
at least a few rays of sunshine.
Unlike our Harlie hero, whose
monetary status has already been established, these three skunks
did, in fact, have more than fifty cents in their combined pockets
at the time, and were obviously looking for something, or someone,
to spend it on; and, for three recently paid and slightly inebriated
sailors on shore-leave, that wouldn't take very long – Not in
Shadytown anyway. Not on Avenue 'D'! And certainly not on a Fat Moon
Friday night. They would be gone with the morning tide, as sons of
sailors usually are; unless, of course, they were still in jail by
then waiting to be carted back to the brig, an angry captain, and a
certain flogging. Collectively, these three sailors made up a
portion, albeit a very small one of the Maria Aurora's current
registry. It would be their last night in Old Port Fierce, or any
other port for that matter, for a long, long time. And they intended
to make the most of it, as sons of sailors always do.
Like all species, wild or
domesticated, raccoons possess a natural, almost instinctual,
aversion to skunks and are known to attack these odorous and
obnoxious creatures bravely, and with all the ferocity they
deserved; along with the prerequisite precautions, of course, that
go with this particular adversary. Elmo immediately recognized one
of these sailors as none other than Mister Peter Finch, the tattooed
master-at-arms of the Maria Aurora who'd not only slapped his friend
and neighbor, but laughed as well when he fell down and spilled the
beans. He didn't think it was funny then, and thought it even less
funny now that he had time to think about it; he was also beginning
to think that it might be sailor's turn to go down, which is exactly
what happened just then; and nobody even laid a hand on him. In an
awkward and somewhat foolish display of unbridled bravado, Peter
Finch shamelessly approached the painted prostitute, a little too
prematurely, perhaps, and tripped the process, striking his hard
stubborn head on and even harder and more stubborn piece of concrete
lining either side of the famous boulevard. The alcohol he'd
consumed earlier may well have contributed to the seaman's untimely
fall; but that was something only Finch would know, and something
he would never admit to; certainly not in front of his subordinates,
and maybe not even at the end of a rope, where the truth can be
stretched only as far as a man's (or woman's) neck. As good King
Solomon warns us in his proverbial style: 'Pride goeth before the
fall'. It happens all the time, even to the great and wise among us
who, as Satan himself found out, are most susceptible to that fatal
fall from grace. Like a common drunk, Peter Finch simply tripped
over the curb and into the gutter, much to the amusement of a
handful of heckling street-urchins who were actually used to such
exhibitions whenever the sailors were out and about on liberty, and
especially on a Fat Moon Friday night. They couldn't be happier.
When at last his eyes were
opened, Peter Finch found himself lying in the gutter and staring
straight up a woman's dress. He'd landed in that rather enviable
position, either by accident or design, but most likely by accident.
For the moment, at least, all he could see were two inner thighs
wrapped in a dark red vortex culminating in the blackness above and
beyond. It was the painted lady, of course, the same woman of the
night Elmo had made eye contact with earlier from across the avenue
who, despite the turtle's vocal remonstrations and the ever-present
beat of Lil' Ralph's the kettle drum, he still couldn't keep his
eyes off of. She just happened to standing there when the incident
occurred. And there she stood, hovering over the fallen mariner in
quiet confidence, arms folded and lips slightly parted, sneering
down on the semi-conscious master-at-arms, a conquering Amazon, the
hem of her pleated skirt flying in the breeze like the Scottish kilt
of a noble highlander looking down on a dead Englishman.
For quite some time the sailor
lay there, motionless, dazed and confused, gazing up into that
forbidden and most private area of the female anatomy, geometrically
referred to as the 'devil's triangle' by those mariners with a flair
for descriptive metaphor; not to be confused with that other deadly
triangle they may also be familiar with, especially those who,
through no fault of their own, had suddenly found themselves lost at
sea in that mysterious part of the Caribbean that shares the same
hellish description: 'the Bermuda triangle'. And there he was, in
full view of the old familiar triangle, in the same devilish
dilemma. It was the mark of a woman, permanently imprinted in his
brain and stamped on his forehead, not unlike the apocalyptic '666',
by Satan himself, and one that would eventually be the
master-at-arms passport to hell. But for now, at least, all Peter
Finch could do was stare. And that was enough. It suddenly occurred
to him, however, that perhaps Lilith was right after all! There are
times when the woman belongs on top; and men, if only they were not
such egotistical idiots, should indeed fall more often into such a
compromising and subordinate position. It was not where he really
wanted to be at the time; but he did appear content, for the moment
at least, and it showed.
Naturally, Sherman Dixon
wanted nothing more at the moment than to walk right over to the
prostrate master-at-arms and kick him while he was down and he still
had the chance: once for slapping him in the face earlier that day,
and another more for invading the woman's privacy, no matter how
unintentionally it may have occurred and despite her professional
occupation. It just ain't right. Hell! every Southern gentleman
knows that – even a Harlie, thought Sherman; apparently, this skunk
knew nothing of the South, and he certainly was no gentleman. But
then again, the painted woman wasn't exactly a lady, either; at
least not in the traditional and cultural sense. Apparently, she
wasn't even embarrassed, perhaps being accustomed to such lewd and
lascivious behavior living on the streets as her profession often
demanded. A good swift kick was just what the sailor needed, thought
the turtle as he tried to find it in his own soft shell to
administer such a badly needed and much deserved reprimand. One good
swift kick would surely make up for the slap he'd received earlier
that day; and if that kick just happened to come from a broad-footed
boot of a Harlie been farmer like Sherman Dixon (Now that's a kick
for you!) so much the better. And if one kick was good...well,
wouldn't two be even better? Three or four is probably what he
really deserved; five, if you include one for good measure. Hell!
Why not just make it six, for all the faces Peter Finch had
undoubtedly slapped in the past? Or perhaps an even dozen, to
include all the other poor and pitiful faces the sadistic
master-at-arms would surely slap in the future, for no good reason,
and be done with it. Forty minus one, if you want to be Biblical
about it. Not that they counted, of course; at least not when you
consider the number of scourges imprinted in the Shroud of Turin,
which suggests, if nothing else, that the man once wrapped in the
holy relic surely received more than his fair share (over a hundred
lashes according to some scientific evidence) of stripes, which
would also suggest that someone, or something, didn't want this man
to make it to Calvary. It was almost as if, at the very last moment,
the devil knew who he was up against, and that he'd bitten off more
than he could chew: moreover, that his fate was sealed, and victory
already won... but it wasn't his.
Being visibly out-numbered
that evening, Mister Dixon wisely decided against such drastic and
potentially dangerous action, and summarily backed off. For although
being kicked by a Harley bean farmer was indeed far less than Finch
deserved for committing his egregious and unpardonable crimes, it
was more than Mister Dixon could find in himself to deliver that
night on Avenue 'D' in a place called Shadytown. He pitied the
sailor as much as he ever pitied anyone, including himself; and
besides, he just didn't have it in him. So instead, the fat man from
Harley simply did what he always did in these situations; what did
best – He laughed! He then looked down in the gutter, shaking his
oversized head in the same condescending manner reserved for school
bullies who'd just been badly beaten or spoiled children about to be
spanked, as if to stick out his tongue and say 'Baaaghhhhhh! Serves
you right.' But the laugh said it all. It wounded the master-at-arms
even more than the soiled foot of a sharecropper; perhaps more than
the rod God Himself ever could. It was pity that stayed the farmer's
foot that night. But, as the saying goes: '...no good deed goes
unpunished'. It was something Mister Dixon would soon come to learn,
the hard way.
And he didn't laugh alone; for
by then the street-urchins had all gathered around the fallen
sailor, like so many rats around the carcass of a dead alley cat,
and burst out in cheers, applause, and so much laughter. It seemed
that Peter Finch had only gotten what he deserved, and perhaps what
the street-urchins had been waiting for all along. By then, even the
painted lady was laughing, as well as the raccoon, towering over the
love-sick sailor like the wondrous Colossus of Rhodes... with lipstick
and a skirt. Seeing the wicked master-at-arms lying helplessly in
the gutter somehow seemed to make up for all the slaps, kicks,
knocks, punches, bites and barks, scratches, put-downs, insults,
injuries, and all the other injustices suffered in this insufferable
world of ours. The laughter only made it that much better. It was a
contagious; and it all happened right there on Avenue 'D' on Fat
Moon Friday night, in a place called Shadytown. Where else?
And they didn't laugh alone;
for by then a small crowd of innocent, and not so innocent,
by-standers who'd just witnessed the comical event had gathered
around and were laughing right along with the street-urchins, the
painted lady, the two Harlies, and a horse named Abraham. As their
numbers increased, so did the volume of their laughter. Not
surprisingly, the other two sailors who accompanied the
master-at-arms that night were laughing as well; although not nearly
as loudly and, perhaps out of respect for a one of their own, a
little more discreetly. They knew master-at-arms well enough to know
that he didn't like being mocked, particularly by civilians, and
especially by other sailors. Moreover, Peter Finch was still an
officer of the Navy, sober or drunk, and deserved at least that much
respect, if nothing else, according to protocol. Besides, it just
didn't look good. And so they tried to help him up as best they
could. But Finch would not budge from his compromising position,
which he seemed to be enjoying perhaps a little more than he should
have; and neither would the black Aphrodite.
"You see! You see!" shouted
one of the more vocal street-urchins, a rather queer looking fellow
with a high-pitched voice and a girlish figure, "What goes 'round
comes 'round. I told you so."
"Can't hold his liquor!"
observed a well-tailored pedestrian, scraping the mud from his
shoes, "...poor bastard."
"Give im' another drink!"
howled another one of the urchins, perched high on the head of a
curly-topped giant, to get a better view perhaps.
"Yeah! Let's see 'im do it
again!" insisted the curly head below.
Others cried out in unison,
"Kick 'im! Stick 'im!" while waving sticks and spitting on the
curb.
"Mug-wump," sighed an old man
in the crowd who Elmo immediately recognized as one of the four old
grey-bards he'd overheard earlier that day talking about whatever it
is old sailors usually talk about, the one with the odorous
approach. Apparently he'd had known the master-at-arms in a previous
life, and perhaps wish he hadn't.
The turtle agreed with them,
of course; although not so vociferously, and perhaps with a certain
amount of pity that didn't go entirely un-noticed. Others were
merely wondering if the master-at-arms and his whore would
eventually get what they deserved: her, his fifty cents; and him, a
social disease to be cured, if possible, by some Shadytown physician
who specialized in venereal viruses. And the more painful the
better, one could only imagine, envisioning, perhaps, the long sharp
needle utilized in such delicate operations. The Harlie had actually
seen such an instrument when it fell, quite accidentally of course,
from the black medical bag of a well-known doctor from Creekwood
Green who was summoned at one time to perform the grizzle procedure
on a local resident who fell prey to the insidious disease, better
known as gonorrhea; at least, that's what Joe Cotton told his
inquisitive young nephew at the time. It was something he tried to
put out of his mind; but the long nasty needle stayed with him ever
since, and so did the black bag. But then again, what better place
to keep such a barbaric instrument of torture, he might've imagined
had he been aware of such things as the Spanish Inquisition and
other Machiavellian cures. But Elmo had other things on his mind at
the time; he was still thinking about the painted woman, and
wondering why she looked so, so familiar. Was she really worth it –
the fifty cents, that is? Unless he could find another nickel in his
pocket, the raccoon would never know.
With a little help and a few
choice words from his ship-mates, the master-at-arms was finally
back on his feet, wishing perhaps he could've stayed in that awkward
and enviable position just a little while longer. But it was getting
late, as the other two skunks were quick, and correct, to remind him
of that. Even the painted Aphrodite was anxious to be on her
solicitous way by then, knowing, after all, there were other fish in
the sea just waiting to take her bait, and one in particular she
still had her eyes on.
As the crowd slowly dispersed
and went their separate ways, except for perhaps the street-urchins
who somehow knew that the show wasn't not quite over yet, the drunk
skunk's attention was suddenly drawn to the painted wagon and its
two familiar passengers who'd crawled back on top to be on their way
as well. Ironically, it was the sound of laughter that finally
brought Peter Finch to his senses, as well as his feet, which only
infuriated him even more, realizing by now that he was not only the
source of the joke, but the butt as well. It only made him that much
more determined to finish what he'd started earlier that day at the
dock. Only this time, there would be no captain's pistol to tell him
otherwise, and no one else to answer to. "Wait here," he soberly
ordered his shipmates in a voice that clearly meant business, while
winking at the black Aphrodite who'd since put a comfortable
distance between her and the master-at-arms, "This won't take long."
Now Peter Finch really had something to prove, and not only
to the painted whore. And so, in a quiet and controlled rage, he
walked stiffly towards the motionless wagon like a man bent on an
unholy mission. He was still slightly drunk, and perhaps even a
little dazed, but not so much that he didn't understand what'd just
happened to him and all the humiliation that followed. He appeared
more than a little upset as he rolled up his sleeves, exposing, for
the first time, perhaps, the full extent of those inscrutable
tattoos.
Meanwhile, Sherman wanted
nothing more than to leave the scene, immediately; but his progress
was impeded by the small band of street-urchins who refused to give
up their hard-earned ground. They were actually just a bunch of
local kids, feral youths, rag-a-muffins, with nothing better to do
and too much time to do it; hooligans, really. And they were soon
circling the little wagon like a school of hungry sharks around a
dying whale; the blood was already in the water. Apparently, this
was nothing new to them; in fact, it was almost as if they expected
it to happen all along.
Elmo quickly noticed that some
of the street-urchins were carrying sticks and clubs; a few of them
even had knives. He whispered something into Sherman's ear.
The turtle nodded. He shook
the reins, and slowly the wagon began to roll over the uneven
cobblestones of Avenue 'D' just as it did before.
Having wrestled a rather large
hickory club from the soiled hands of a nearby street-urchin, Peter
Finch proceeded towards the wagon, whereupon he thrust the sturdy
timber directly and deliberately in-between the slowly rotating
spokes of the wagon wheel. "That's far enough, Mister," he ordered,
as the wagon and a horse named Abraham came to an abrupt, and most
unexpected, halt.
Without the captain, the ship,
the pistol, or any other semblance of controlling legal authority to
prevent him from doing what he was going to do anyway, what was
indeed inevitable by then, Peter Finch was on his own and answerable
to no one, except maybe his own impenetrable conscience. Sherman
Dixon realized this as well, and knew by now what a fine kettle of
crabs he'd actually gotten himself into. The raccoon was thinking
very much the along those same lines; although his mind was still
hell-bent on the painted woman of the night who, not surprisingly,
was still there, eyeing the two Harlie with curiosity and delight,
along with other emotions she had long since abandoned to the
cobblestone streets of Shadytown, and had since forgotten.
The fat man's ambitions were
not as amorous, nor as bold, as those of the daring young raccoon;
but he was feeling a little different than he did only few
hours ago; and it showed. Sherman Dixon had changed somehow,
although he wasn't exactly sure how, or how much; but it all had
something to do with what happened that day on the dock – something
to do with Roger Morgan. The way he... That's it! Sherman suddenly
realized, wondering why it had taken him so long to figure it out.
Of course! It's the eyes. It's all in the eyes. Roger Morgan's eyes,
of course: deep, dark, and cold; penetrating, like the icy rains of
Nova Scotia November; red and white, like the defiant stripes that
flew over Fort McHenry one star spangled night in the twilight's
last gleaming; and as blue as any sea and sky. But it was more than
just the eyes; it had to be. It was the way the captain stood toe to
toe with the master-at-arms that day, looking him in straight in the
eye and staring him down like the dog that he was. It was just any
look, either; it was 'the look!' Beyond that, it was something the
turtle just couldn't explain. It was something he just didn't
understand at the time. But like all great mysteries that unravel at
their own pace and in their own good time, perhaps someday he would.
It was that same 'look' in the captain's unblinking and un-daunting
eyes that was enough to stop Peter Finch, dead in his bullying
tracks, heel him like the whimpering dog he really was, and reduced
him to something his own wicked mother wouldn't recognize. Sherman
wondered if he would ever have 'the look', that same cool, clear and
decisive look, in his own eyes some day; and if he did, would it
work for him the same as it did for Roger Morgan, the captain of the
Maria Aurora? He seriously doubted it, but thought that he may one
day find out, sooner rather than later.
Finch was standing right
alongside of the wagon by then, practically eye to eye with the
driver of the vehicle. "Hand it over," he ordered in a clam but
serious voice.
Sherman knew right away what
the master-at-arms wanted; and so did Elmo. He wanted their money,
of course; but he also wanted revenge. You could see it in his eyes,
and the way he said 'hand it over'. Only this time there would be no
compromise, or debate; most of all, there would be no captain's
pistol to stop Finch from getting what he wanted, or doing what he
was about to do. This time it wouldn't end with a simple slap in
the face. Sherman knew that by now. And so, pulling in the reins of
his wagon with one hand while further securing his moneybag attached
to the belt around his waist with the other, the fat man from Harley
stubbornly held his ground, as well as his money. Then he did
something totally unexpected, and quite out of character. He shook
his head, spat on the ground, and simply said – "No."
It took the lady and the
raccoon totally by surprise, and maybe even a few of the
street-urchins who, by then, had taken the turtle for nothing more
than a big, fat, clumsy coward (soon to be a poor, big, fat,
clumsy, coward) whose entire life consisted, as far as they could
tell, of one continuous lip-quiver and belly laugh; whenever he
wasn't gobbling down dead catfish and throwed-up carrots, or making
love to his big, fat, clumsy wife, perhaps. But they would be wrong;
and Sherman was about to prove it to them. He knew it wouldn't be
easy; things like that seldom are. But it had to be done. What
Mister Dixon did just then took more than just courage. It took guts
– Real guts! something the fat man always seemed to have a plentiful
supply of, but, unfortunately, only in the physical sense. Up until
now, that is. You see, in some reverse, and perhaps long-overdue,
process of anthropomorphism, the turtle became a man... a real man!
Well, maybe not entirely; not just yet, as we shall soon see. But
the metamorphosis had already begun! The shell was beginning to
break; the chrysalis was cracking; the caterpillar would soon become
a butterfly. And there was just no stopping it.
At first Elmo was dumfounded;
but presently, he looked both pleased and proud, hoping perhaps that
would be the end of it. But it wasn't.
"I said, hand it over," the
sailor growled, more seriously than before.
Again, Sherman responded in
the negative. "No," he said, simple and plainly; and, almost as an
afterthought, he politely added: "I would prefer not to." There was
no stutter.
Upon hearing this, several of
the street-urchins burst out in applause and laughter. "That's
tellin 'im, fat-boy!" shouted a voice from the crowd.
It made others in the crowd
cheer: "Fat-boy! Fat-boy! Fat-boy!"
The urchin with the
high-pitched voice cried out: "That's no boy – That's a man!"
The crowd capitulated.
"Fat-man! Fat-man!! Fat-man!!!"
The street-urchins laughed and
cheered even louder, waving their stick and clubs steamy night air,
and shaking their fists in anger and delight. It was just another
typical evening on Avenue 'D' in Shadytown, on a fat Moon Friday
night.
All Peter Finch could do was
stand there and take it. What else could he do? It was one of the
most humiliating moments in his long and loathsome life. Aphrodite
was even beginning to feel a little sorry for skunk by then; but she
would never let it show. Pity was not part of the program. Never
was; never would be. She wanted to turn and walk away, but there was
still one more fish she was hoping land that night; so, she decided
to stay a little while longer. "Fat-man! Fat-man!" she joined in,
breasts bouncing in air like two pigs in a blanket as she looked on
with both pity and pride. "Fat-man!" she cheered the turtle.
Suddenly, they were all on
their feet, applauding shouting "FAT-MAN! FAT-MAN! It made Elmo
smile, despite the fact that he never liked the name, 'Fat-man',
especially when applied to his good friend and neighbor. But the fat
man himself didn't seem to mind. It actually made him blush;
although, it was rather difficult to tell on account of the turtle's
extremely dark complexion. But for a brief and shining moment –
perhaps, for the first time in his amphibious and shell-sheltered
life – Sherman Dixon actually felt like a real man. So much so that
suddenly, a little hesitantly at first, he joined in on his own
accolades: "Fat-ma! Fat-man!" he shouted from the top of the wagon,
slamming his size twelve shoe on the footboard.
"FAT-MAN!!!"
Naturally, it made the
master-at-arms even more furious.
The raccoon sensed something
was about to happen; he just didn't know what, or when.
When after a minute of two the
cheers and the shouting died down to a reasonable level of
conversation, along with the typical sneers and jeers, the skunk
took up from where he'd left off before he was so rudely, and
loudly, interrupted. "Let's have it... fat-man," he repeated in the
same sobering voice as before; only this time with one hand
clutching the turtle's immobilized leg. "Com'on, fat-man."
Fat-man! Fat-man? Somehow,
coming from the foul lips of mater-at-arms, Mister Peter Finch, it
just didn't sound the same. Nobody clapped this time; no one
cheered. There was no applause. All was silent; even the
street-urchins who, for the moment at least, remained quiet and
still, like boats on the calm waters of the bay just before a
hurricane. The turtle looked down. He'd heard the name before,
almost all his life, so it suddenly seemed: 'Fat-man!' even when he
was just a little (or perhaps not so little) boy, weighing in at a
hundred and seventy-five pounds by the age of eight or nine; nearly
as much as a full grown Harley by then; and he was always hungry.
Fat-man. The name suddenly took on that old familiar sound he would
hear over and over again; sometimes from those who should've known
better, and those he loved the most. Sherman hated that name, now
more than ever; but he was always too ashamed to admit it, or let
anyone know.
Fat-man. It was a name, some
might say, he should've gotten used by now; the way we all get used
to all the bad things thrown in our face from time to time, whether
we deserve them or not. Time, they say, has a way or mitigating such
painful memories; once it has had a chance to work its
anesthetically magic on an old wound that perhaps shouldn't have
been there in the first place. But there are some scars that don't
go away so easily; some wounds that never heal; and some words that
just sting. Fat-man! It still hurt, even after all these years.
Hell! It always hurts, even when it's not supposed to hurt, like
when applied in a jesty or jokey sort of way, which, as we've all
experienced at one time or another in our own jesty and jokey lives,
sometimes hurts the most, simply because... well, because the ones
doing the jesting and the joking, do it at our own expense; and most
of the time, they don't even know it. Like salt being rubbed into
and open and oozing wound, they seldom see the effects of their own
offensive remarks, taking it for medicine, I suppose; which, in some
cases, and at the proper dosage, may actual work! But remember this,
all you pill-pushing polemicists, you doctors of debate with your
hyperbolic needles and satirical stethoscopes, you quacks and
quislings who dole out cynicism, satire, and sarcasm on a daily
basis like so many poisonous prescriptions. Beware, I say:
'Physician, heal thyself."
But just as in the unalterable
Laws of Physics, for every pain there's an equal and opposite
pleasure (if only we can find them) and a lesson to be learned in
every sting. It was a lesson the fat ma... I mean, Sherman Dixon, had
learned a long time ago in his own humble, forgiving way. It's the
way of the way a turtle, you might say, armored as he is in his own
portable and protective housing that can never be fully penetrated.
But even the thickest shells and hardest houses have their
weaknesses; and they can always be flipped. And left in such a
helpless and compromising position for any length of time, at the
mercy of all the animals and elements, the soft underbelly thus
exposed to every fang and claw, including man who may or may not
have the good sense and moral judgment to put him right again, the
turtle dies in its own natural defenses. Elmo Cotton knew this, of
course; but he was glad Sherman was still a turtle, and both pleased
and proud to be to be perched up beside his good friend and neighbor
that day in a little wagon pulled by a horse named Abraham. And even
though things had suddenly had taken a turn for the worse, for the
moment so it seemed, the raccoon knew that somehow everything would
turn out all right. He didn't know how he knew this (call it
instinct or intuition) but he could see something in the turtle's
eyes that convinced him of this. Sherman Dixon had changed somehow.
And that much he was sure of.
But there are some people who
never change – they know who they are – and Peter Finch just
happened to be one of them. In his own myopic and malevolent vision,
all the master-at-arms could see in the turtle's eyes that day was
fear. And then, if for no other reason than salvaging his own vile
reputation, Finch wasted no time in doing what, in his own hideous
and hateful heart, he knew he had to do; or perhaps he did it just
to impress the skirted Amazon he'd already gotten a taste of, and
wanted even more. There was still a little matter of money, 'the
tariff' as it was once referred to by the sailors with so much guile
and jocular deceit, to be taken care of; not to mention a score that
still had to be settled. And Peter Finch knew just how he was going
to do both.
And so, reaching up to the
wagon and pulling the turtle down from his lonely perch on the
buckboard, Peter Finch continued his earlier assault by driving poor
Mister Dixon to the cold wet cobblestones. The fat man scrambled to
his feet as quickly as he could, which as actually quite fast
considering his size and weight, as the street-urchins looked on
with glowing and growing anticipation, as if they'd been expecting
something like this to happen all along. It was nothing short of a
good old fashioned ass-whooping, a mugging – a Shadytown shakedown!
And it was all happening right there on Avenue 'D'. It was really
nothing new. The black Aphrodite was stills standing quietly at on
the curb, waiting and watching, along with a few other spectators
gawking from a safe distance.
With fully clenched and
white-knuckled fists, the mad mariner then proceeded to pound the
poor defenseless turtle into the ground without the slightest hint
of hesitation, or mercy. Unlike the previous attack, this one was
quite different. The blows were delivered not only with a vengeance,
but with a purpose in mind. They were accurate and deliberate, and
very well placed, most of the punches landing directly on the
turtle's unprotected head. They were also much harder; delivered
with a force not felt during the master-at-arm's pervious pummeling
of the Harlie bean farmer; and they all found their mark. Sherman's
face was still swollen from the slap he suffered earlier suffered
earlier that day from the same wicked white hand; the sensation of
which he could still feel at times, especially when he tried to
laugh. But these strikes were different. This was more than just a
slap in the face. This was a pre-meditated act of violence carefully
thought out long before it was actually executed. There was nothing
extemporaneous about it. There was malevolence behind it; like the
stabbing at a dead dog just because... well, just because it is a dead
dog and can't bite back. There was a sickness about it, as if the
master-at-arms derived some perverse pleasure from inflicting pain
on others, particularly those who tried to get close to him, and
maybe even be his friend. The pain was more than physical; it was
mental, and emotional. It hurt because Finch wanted it to hurt. Any
other anguish inflicted by the merciless blows was merely ancillary;
spiteful – fat for the fire, you might say, and just as painful.
Finch knew that, too; and he knew exactly what he was doing. Fueled
by alcohol, vengeance, and a pure satanic will, these blows could
indeed be fatal, as the street-urchins were well aware of by now.
This was not a beating; this was a one-man massacre; the first one
Mister Dixon had ever experienced in is short and ignorant life. And
so the turtle was scourged.
He tried to defend himself by
warding off the brutal blows; but it soon became apparent that,
despite his formidable size and un-channeled strength, the fat man
was no match for a sea-hardened sailor like the master-at-arms of
the Maria Aurora. Not to mention the fact that Mister Dixon, whose
kind and calloused hands had driven a plow many a hard mile, was
totally unaccustomed to such physical displays of aggression and
virtually unskilled in the manly art of pugilism. It was a pitiful
sight to watch; even the street-urchins, who were actually quite use
to witnessing such bloody exhibitions on the cruel and unforgiving
streets of Shadytown, were forced to look away from at times.
Apparently, Peter Finch was merely completing the task he had begun
earlier that day, and with no one there to stop him.
Elmo Cotton remained
suspiciously silent throughout the whole bloody ordeal, sitting
motionlessly in the wagon, as the other two sailors, who were not
laughing so loudly by then, merely looked on in as if they too had
seen it all before. They turned out to be the bald-headed boatswain,
Nathan Scrubb, and the pony-tailed mast-header who seemed so at home
in the web-like rigging of the Maria Aurora, the one they called
Nelson. They were keeping an eye on the Harlie, the street-urchins,
and anyone else in the crowd who might have notions of interfering
with the master-at-arm's... private affair. They were also keeping a
close eye on the painted lady of Avenue 'D' who, knowing Mister
Finch they way they did, was still on the menu for that night.
With the two skunks watching
him so closely and being outnumbered from the start, there was very
little, if anything, Elmo could do to help his friend and neighbor.
Obviously, the bloated turtle was no match for a master-at-arms,
sober or drunk; and it soon became apparent to everyone in the
immediate proximity, including the Amazon and scavenging
street-urchins, that anyone attempting to interfere with the
business at hand would certainly receive a similar, if not worse,
beating from the masochistic master-at-arms if they did. It could
make matters even worse for poor Mister Dixon, the raccoon summarily
surmised as the punishment continued unabated, along with the
humiliation.
It was too painful for Elmo to
watch; and so he didn't, thinking instead that if he and Sherman
hadn't met earlier on the road down by the river, his friend and
neighbor might not be in such a precarious predicament and taking a
beating he never deserved and certainly didn't ask for, in which
case he wouldn't be feeling so hopeless, guilty, and sick to his
stomach as he did just then. But then he wouldn't have met Mister
Hatch and Captain Morgan that night either; and he wouldn't have
been offered the job as cook on board the Maria Aurora; in which
case he would never... Providence works in strange and mysterious
ways, he began to wonder as the scourging of Sherman Dixon
continued, blow by bloody blow.
Meanwhile, the gawkers gawked
and the street-urchins cheered and jeered in customary fashion,
which only made the fur on the back of the raccoon's neck stand that
much higher. Some were still cheering for the defiant but slightly
disadvantaged turtle at that point, even though they knew by now
that it was a lost cause. Among them was the painted lady of the
night who was, through no fault of her own and holding no particular
prejudices as those in her profession seldom do in these situations,
the real cause and all the calamity that night, either directly or
indirectly. She, like everyone else in Shadytown that night, was
used to such merciless muggings on the streets of the city, which
could happen at any time, even in the broad daylight when the
Crouching Lion of Avenue 'D' was thought to be fast asleep. All they
could do was watch and wait. And that's exactly what they did, as
the fists flew and the blood flowed.
In the end Mister Sherman
Dixon was left sobbing and bleeding on the cobblestone streets of
the infamous city, a broken and beaten shell of a man, wishing
perhaps he'd never been born. If anyone ever needed a miracle that
night, it was poor and pitiful turtle; but there was no
Miracle-Maker in sight. Having spent all his energies, or perhaps he
was just too tired and drunk to continue the beatings, the Peter
Finch ceased his unprovoked assault thus sparing turtle any further
pain and humiliation. As in all conflict, great or small, victory
gets the prize and defeat pays the price; and in this particular
case, that price happened to be the entire contents of Sherman's
moneybag, which Peter Finch just then relieved him of by tearing the
leather pouch from the fat man's belt and ripping off the his
trousers in the process. The bag was full, of course, with so many
silver coins; twenty five dollars, in fact; half of which he would
have to surrender to Ike Armstrong, as stipulated in the contract he
signed over six years ago, leaving him with the princely sum of
twelve dollars and fifty cents. The pilfered bag contained his
neighbor's pay as well, which Elmo had instructed Sherman to give to
Nadine Cotton upon his return to Harley after all. Now that too was
gone; and it hurt the turtle even more than the beating itself, just
knowing that he'd let down his good friend and neighbor, along with
his wife and child.
"You sure that's all of it!"
barked Finch, his pugilistic knuckles glistening red and white in
the moonlight with Sherman's blood. He then pocketed the Harlies'
entire salary for the season and threw the empty moneybag into the
gutter whereupon it was quickly snatched up by several
street-urchins who began tearing it apart like vultures gutting a
dead opossum.
Battered, bruised, beaten and
broken, the penniless (and mow pant-less) turtle replied with a
stuttering sigh, "Y-Yes, s-sir," as he slowly and painfully pulled
himself up off the blood-stained cobblestones of Avenue 'D' that
night. And as he did so, the master-at-arms, with a renewed sense
and pride and passion, the kind often associated with sudden
monetary gain (never mind how much or by what illicit means it is
achieved) landed the final blow. With the skill and tactics of a
well-seasoned boxer, and with all the force he could put behind it,
Peter Finch planted his last and most forceful punch in the soft
center of the turtle's protruding stomach. Sherman didn't know what
hit him. He didn't even see it coming; he was too busy covering his
naked shame. It was a sucker-punch! upon which he immediately
coughed up a mouthful of blood and doubled over in excruciating
pain. And then, for the amusement of his rag-a-muffin audience,
which had grown exponentially by then, or merely to regain the
respect of the two shipmates he otherwise might've lost, Peter Finch
circled around the grief-stricken farmer and, just for good measure
and perhaps just for spite, kicked him in square in the seat of his
under-britches. More than likely he did it to impress the painted
prostitute who, feeling somewhat responsible for the whole bloody
mess by then, was actually contemplating a quick and quite get-away
while it was still possible to do so. For the second time that day,
the turtle fell; and there he remained, for a while at least, on
hands and knees, his head hung low, naked (except for a torn and
tattered shirt, some soiled underwear, and a scoffed pair of shoes)
and embarrassed, beaten to a bloody pulp, an oozing mass of swollen
brown flesh, sobbing and sweating in the street one Fat Moon Friday
night on Avenue 'D', in a place called Shadytown, which he suddenly
wished he never even heard of. He cried until he could cry no more.
The gawkers gawked, the
leerers leered, and the jeerers jeered. Many laughed out loud, while
others simply shook their heads, like they had seen it all before.
Some just looked away. A few looked down with pity and pathos at the
fat black man lying in the gutter, as the last tear fell silently to
the ground. Meanwhile, the street hustlers went back to hustling
whatever it was they were hustling before the whole bloody incident
occurred as the street-urchins disappeared, one by one, into the
dark shadows of the night until they too were gone. Exactly who
these homeless rag-a-muffins were, or where they actually came from,
was a mystery unsolved; for they came in all shapes, sizes, and
colors too! They were mostly boys, of course, in the flower of their
youth, whose wild and wondering ways lead them to mis-spent life of
crime and debauchery. There were a few females urchins sprinkled in
the muddled mix, like so many roses among the weeds; although it
wasn't that easy to tell them apart (at least not without a more
intimate examination), and even more difficult to pluck, as some
flowers come with and bristles and thorns, and only bloom by
moonlight. Then again, there are some flowers that never bloom; and
these you would be wise to just leave alone and be on your
way.
Climbing slowly and painfully
back on his wagon, wearing only his shoes, a torn shirt and his
underwear, Mister Sherman Dixon turned to the raccoon but didn't say
a word. He didn't say anything. He wanted to cry, but the tears just
weren't there. The turtle was clearly was traumatized. His eyes were
as two narrow slits surrounded by puffy mounds of meaty brown flesh.
Snot and blood poured from his open nose and mouth; his ears like
two bloated sea-shells. His whole nappy head was swollen with cuts
and contusions; disfigured, it would seem, by the deep penetrating
blows. Pieces of his scalp appeared to be missing, as if they'd
plucked out by hand, leaving blotches of raw, red meat here and
there surrounded by so many tiny black springs caked in coagulated
blood. His arms hung listlessly at his side; it reminded Elmo of the
way his uncle looked when they found him dead on his front porch;
all that was missing were the horseflies. He didn't look like a man
anymore; he looked like a piece of rancid red meat, the kind dogs
won't touch.
"Sherman?" spoke Elmo, not
knowing what else to say, or do, at the moment.
The turtle turned slowly to
the raccoon. He stared at him, forever it seemed, through vacant
blood-shot eyes. He didn't even know his own name.
"Sherm..."
But before he could finish,
the fat-man smiled; at least that what it looked like, although Elmo
could never be sure, all things considered. And then he tried to
speak. "H-how does you l-like me now, Mister C-Cotton?" he spoke in
a voice that was clearly broken, but not defeated.
Elmo leaned over and kissed
the turtle on his cheek. And then they both began to cry.
* * *
BEFORE LEAVING THAT NIGHT, one of the street-urchins, a dirty little flower
with curly red hair, came running over to the wagon holding up the
farmer's torn trousers and his empty moneybag. She passed them up to
the Harlie, perhaps expecting something in return. All she received
from the raccoon, however, was a snarl and a reprehensible look that
frightened the street-urchin away and into a long dark alley. Elmo
really didn't mean to do it, and felt sorry for the girl, or
whatever she was; maybe she was only trying to help.
By the time the episode
involving the turtle and the skunk came to its painful and
predictable conclusion, all were all gone, including the painted
Aphrodite who, although not intentionally, may have been the real
cause of the whole calamitous affair. Before leaving the scene of
the crime, however, Mister Dixon, who was still clearly traumatized,
noticed all three sailors entering a building on the opposite side
of the street, not too far from where the confrontation began and
ended. He thought little of it at the time, and said even less, as
he gathered up his wits, and whatever was left of his pride, which
wasn't very much.
It was a modest wooden
structure with a high pitched roof located right in the seedy heart
of Shadytown. There was a covered walk-way leading up to a rather
large wooden door that appeared to be the one and only entrance to
the establishment. On either side of the trellised walkway, two
lanterns had been lit, providing just enough light for pedestrians
to gain access to the building, and enough smoke keep the mosquitoes
away. The building itself was of that oriental construction
sometimes known as a pagoda, with multiple layers of thick red tiles
that curved up curiously about the edges. A small window had been
craftily cut into the wood on the right side of the door. It was
perfectly round, and filled with so much steam and smoke that it
appeared almost white from the outside, like the cataract port-hole
of a passenger ship. As he put his pants back on, fastening the
empty money bag to his belt, Sherman sensed a curious odor in the
air that reminded him of fish being cooked over an open flame. It
was not an unpleasant odor, and a smell the turtle had become quite
familiar with, even since he'd found the dead catfish rotting in an
open field. Under different and more hospitable circumstances, he
might have even stopped the little wagon to have a closer look. But
he already knew who was inside by now; and he simply wasn't in the
mood for food, which tells you exactly how shaken up he still was
over the incident. With Elmo at his side, the turtle picked up the
reins and said, in a voice that could hardly be heard, "Gid-up!
Abraham."
Even as the wheels slowly
creaked along the cobblestone boulevard, Sherman noticed something
very peculiar (intriguing, would be a better word) as they passed by
the pagoda. It was the door; and not just any door. This particular
portal was all hand-carved, intricately and throughout, with symbols
and images engraved into the wood, some so small and finely detailed
it would take a jewelers eye-glass to fully appreciate. But it was
not so much the door itself that warranted the turtle's immediate
attention just then; it was what was painted on the wooden canvass
across the street that he found most intriguing. For on that door
was painted, in so many fantastic colors, an image Sherman would not
soon forget; an image that was almost irresistible.
What Mister Dixon found
himself staring at that night in the yellow glow of the lantern was
a painting, it seemed, depicting a rather odd-looking sea creature,
or something similar to that. In his delusional state of mind,
however, it was difficult at first for him to make out precisely
what it was; but it was not impossible. It was red, white and blue;
the colors of the stars spangled banner, interestingly enough, and
as war-torn and faded as the Ol' Glory herself as she flew o'er the
ramparts in the Chesapeake Bay. They also happened to be the colors
of Captain Morgan's eyes, he suddenly recalled; what the grim black
merchant once described as 'patriotic' referring, of course, to
those same optical organs. Red, white and blue! They were all there
that night, and presented in an alien image that was both familiar
and foreign to the shell-shocked turtle. It had the wings of a bird
and fins like a fish, along with multiple crab-like legs that were
painted blue. It was the strangest looking fish (if in fact, that's
what the painter had in mind at the time of its composition) Sherman
Dixon had ever clapped an eye on; and, indeed, the fat-man from
Harley had clapped an eye on some incredible looking fish in is day,
including a 'walking' cat-fish that somehow made it all the way up
to Harley at one time; the same fated fish he'd found dead on the
road one day and disposed of in one long and delicious gulp. There
were some words painted over the image in thick red letters that
tapered at the ends, calligraphically, in the oriental style often
associated with that particular race which are sometimes found on
old maps and Chinese menus. But in the dim lamplight and fog of the
evening, it was difficult to discern exactly what they spelled out,
if anything at all.
The turtle's head was still
aching and had swelled up even more; a delayed reaction, perhaps,
which sometimes occurs as the result of a multiple concussions. His
temples were throbbing, his battered brain swimming around in his
skull like a frog in a mud-puddle. He was still feeling the effects
of brutal beating he'd endured earlier that evening at the hands of
the masochistic mater-at-arms; and, least he forget, he had the cuts
and bruises to remind him. Before leaving, however, the fat-man
quickly and deliberately drew a mental picture of what he'd just
seen, which, under the circumstances, took all the grey matter he
could muster. He then committing the ambiguous image of the sea
creature to memory, and perhaps for future reference. It was
something he would not soon forget it. How could he? How could
anyone! "Giddy-up, Abraham!" he commanded the pony in a more
familiar manner. And then they were on their way again.
Before long the little wagon
had made its way into the residential section of Shadytown where Fat
Moon Friday was still in progress, albeit on a more subdued and
sober level, as many were at home eating supper by now, or maybe
taking a quick nap, which was actually quite common those fast and
festive times when sleep, like food and sex, was something you took
whenever you could get it. The driver had spoken hardly a word since
they'd left the scene of the crime that night. It was not like
Sherman to be so quiet, and actually quite disturbing, thought Elmo,
wondering what would happen when Bernice Dixon found out what
happened on Avenue 'D' one night in a place called Shadytown. And
what would Nadine say if, and when, she found out the he was with
the turtle when it all happened? What would she do? It was bound to
happen. Things like that can't be kept a secret; not for long
anyway; not in Harley! and especially not with someone like Sherman
Dixon involved. It just didn't work that way. Hoping to get his
neighbor's mind off his most recent troubles, and perhaps just to
pass the time, the sagacious raccoon put forth what he thought to be
a relatively innocuous question. "Why do they call it Shadytown?" he
asked, while attempting to mend the farmer's torn trousers with a
needle and thread he kept in his suitcase for just such emergencies,
but had never made use of up until now.
Much to the Harlie's surprise
and relief, the taciturn turtle was ready to speak once more. Only
now, when the fat-man spoke it was with a certain seriousness the
raccoon found noticeably unfamiliar; an austerity completely alien
to Sherman's usual manner of speech, which Elmo found both
disturbing and disquieting. He sounded arrogant, angry, and maybe
even a little bit proud. "Don't be so ig'nat, Mister Cotton... Ouch!"
he snapped at the raccoon, as the sowing needle sharply pierced the
cotton fabric of the trousers, pricking the fat-man in his fat
behind in the process. "And why you be axin' such a foolish
question?" Of course, what the wounded turtle really meant to say
was 'asking'.
Elmo had no immediate response
to the turtle's recently discovered hubris; he simply didn't know
what to say.
"It's because you think I's
stupid!" barked the turtle, turning a swollen red eye to his
suspicious passenger. "That's it... Ain't it, Elmo? You thinks I's
ig'nat." Again, addressing the raccoon by his first name just for
accentuation.
That squeaky, high-pitched
voice and warm familiar glow that Elmo had grown so fond of over the
years was gone; replaced, it would seem, by a cold blank stare and
those short staccato sentences that so often accompany the mind and
thoughts of a tormented soul. It was all so alien, to both of them,
and quite out of character with the turtle's otherwise warm and
gregarious nature. There was no laughter in his voice, only words;
it was a sound Elmo neither liked nor recognized; something he found
disquieting. Sherman sounded like a different man; and perhaps he
was, the sharecropper thought to himself, just then recalling for
one brief and bloody moment the mind-altering changes he himself
went through not too long ago, it suddenly seemed, after his own
chastisement when he was first introduction to the business end of a
whip and thrown in jail for equally unjust reasons. "I didn't say
that, Sherman" the raccoon apologized, "I never said you was stupid...
or ig'nat. I just wants to know why they calls it Shadytown. That's
all."
Sherman looked at his neighbor
sideways, with his head tilted slightly to one side, the way dogs
sometimes do when they're confused or just looking for attention.
"Oh," he said, "Then why didn't you say so in the first place?"
"I thought I just did."
"So you don't think I's
ig'nant then?"
"No..." reassured the raccoon.
"But you sure is ugly," he had to confess, as the light of the moon
suddenly broke through a dark dense cloud, bringing into full and
unmitigated view the extent to which the turtle's wounds had left
him disfigured. The Harlie didn't mean it, of course; it's just one
of those things friends say at times to remind themselves who they
are and where they come from. 'But you sure is ugly...' It may not
necessarily be true; but even if it were, it was just another way of
saying: 'it don't matter anyway. Or maybe it's just their way of
saying how much they really love one another in the only way they
could: without actually saying it, that is; not unlike brothers and
sisters who often express their affections in a similar manner.
Likewise, the turtle responded
accordingly: "And you is still peculiar, Mister Cotton – Mighty
peculiar. But if you still really wants to know why they calls it
Shadytown... well, I 'spose it's mostly because folks livin' 'round
'chere parts looks likes me", he plainly stated, noticing not for
the first time the raccoon's unusually light complexion, as least in
comparison to that of his own dark skin, and most other Harlies in
general. And then, to further illustrate his point, the fat-man ran
a fat brown fingers first over his own fleshy forearm, and then over
his neighbor's seated next to him, "– and not likes you," he coldly
explained. The difference was obvious; and so was the answer.
Elmo Cotton was also aware
that many, including those who perhaps should've known better,
considered him too light to be a Harlie. That was nothing new. Some
didn't even consider him a Negro at all (or colored, as say in the
Southern vernacular), and more than once he was mistaken for a
'Green'; that is to say, a Caucasian farmer from the neighboring
'white' community of Creekwood Green, located on the west side of
the Iron Gates, where Elmo would occasionally have to pass by on his
way to Mister Skinner's. But he was too dark to be anything else
but a Harlie, at least by popular definition; and even that
bothered him at times. Not because it was true, but simply because
was reminded of it so many times. On both sides of the Iron Gates!
Once he was approached by a traveling salesman who happened to show
up in Harley one uneventful day selling (of all things) hats! to the
local sharecroppers or anyone else who might be interested in that
particular item. And not just any old hats, like the ones Harlies
are accustomed to while working in the fields which were typically
made out of straw, but hats made of very expensive materials, such
as silk and fine linens, and in a variety of fashionable designs. He
called himself a haberdasher. And when asked whether he would prefer
to be called a Negro or a colored person, along with a few other
colorful expressions the Harlie hadn't heard of at the time, any
more than he'd ever heard of a haberdasher, Elmo simply shrugged his
shoulders and answered: 'Just calls me Elmo... That's my name.' The
question was asked sincerely, with the highest degree of respect,
and certainly without malice or any hint of prejudice; still, it
made Elmo feel a little uncomfortable at the time, and he wasn't
even sure why. He actually liked the young white man who was about
the same age as he was at the time. And even though he couldn't
afford to buy a new hat from him that day, or any other day for that
matter, he wished the salesman well and sent him on his way with a
generous supply of Harley beans. 'So's you don't gets hungry...' he
said with a suspicious smile. The young man was most appreciative.
'Thank you... Elmo!' he paused with a polite tip of the hat, making it
a point in the future never to address his customers by anything
other than their proper names. Elmo often wished more people could
be like the traveling haberdasher, or at least make up their minds
one way or another as to who, or what, he was: black or white, Creek
of Green; or better yet, '...just calls me Elmo.' Was it really so
much to ask? he often wondered.
Well, sometimes it is. The
truth of the matter was that he was actually a little bit of both,
black and white, among other things, but never enough of either to
satisfy those who made such ignorant and discriminating
observations. And he was always treated just a little bit
differently, on both sides of the Iron Gate, depending, of course,
on the circumstances and the people involved. It just plain hurt.
And whenever it happened, which was more than he liked, it always
left the raccoon feeling a little more lonely and a little less
human; like being an outcast in his own world and an outlaw in any
other. It was as if he were constantly being torn in two and forever
trying to put the pieces back together again, like a broken garden
shears, the twin blades of which are useless without one another.
But the pieces never fit; and even when he did manage to force them
back together again, it never seemed to work right; and it always
fell apart. All he could do was curse himself, along with whatever
inscrutable and malignant force created such a muddled up mess in
the first place. He was confounded; neither black nor white – only
grey, a counterfeit, not unlike Red-Beard's confederate shirt. He
felt more out of place than ever, even in a place called Shadytown.
"So now you knows why the
calls it Shadytown – Huh, Mister Cotton?" rejoined the turtle,
admiring the raccoon's handiwork and thinking perhaps they could
both use some rest, and maybe even a good home-cooked meal. Abraham
was beginning to look a little tired too by then. Even horses need
their rest, he acknowledged as the beast turned its heavy head and
seemed to sigh in agreement. He hoped Alma Johnson was still awake.
Farm-girls go to bed early, he reckoned, even when they have no farm
to go to.
"I do now," said Elmo after a
long and deliberate pause, wondering if perhaps that's also why he
was spared a similar beating that day on Avenue 'D' in Shadytown:
simply because of the color of his skin, or the lack thereof.
Sensing the sadness and
frustration in Elmo's response, and perhaps feeling a bit ashamed of
himself by then, Mister Sherman Dixon apologized to his raccoon
friend in the only way he knew how: with a big, fat, cat-fish
eating, carrot chomping, mornin'-to-you, neighbor! Harlie-like grin
that was instantly and unmistakably recognized by the estranged
passenger in back of the wagon. "It's not what you thinks, Mister
Cotton," he said in his familiar high-pitched voice that sounded
almost like music to the raccoon's ears. "I know who you is, and you
knows who I is. And that's all what matters. Don't mean a thing what
other folks has to say. Don't mean a dang thing! And it just don't
matter no how. No, sir! You be Harley, Mister Cotton, just like me!
And that's all we has to know. And by the way, Elmo, you know you
always be my friend," he added with an old familiar smile that
washed away the last doubt.
"And you always be my friend
too, Mister Dixon," the raccoon smiled right back. There were tears
in his eyes when he said it, which Elmo naturally tried to hide. And
as he looked over at the fat man riding besides him, Elmo knew that
his neighbor was right after all. He realized by now that the color
of his skin never really did matter, not to Sherman Dixon anyway. "I
just hopes Harlies is more welcome in Shadytown than they is in
Harley," he heavily sighed.
"Don't worry 'bout that,
Mister Cotton," returned the turtle. "Folks in these here parts is
used to seeing mens like us," he finally concurred with yet another
cat-fish eating grin that cemented their friendship once and for
all.
The turtle's choice of words
were well aimed, and did not go entirely un-noticed by the raccoon
who, as friends often do, was quick to appreciate, or at least
understand, the meaning of. 'Mens like us...' It was more than a
casual observation, more than just words, much more. It was a
statement! A proclamation! An exclamation mark that should have been
stamped in patriotic blood at the end of that sacred sentence
secured in the Declaration of Independence which declared,
unambiguously, indisputably, once and for all, despite the
uncertainty of its framers and the short-sightedness of its Southern
dissenters, that we, the people, the migrant masses that make up of
this grand and noble experiment are, in fact, created equal and
endowed with certain 'inalienable' rights that come not from kings
and queens, however benevolent their reign, but God Himself, the
Creator, in whatever form we choose to worship Him. It's right there
in the preamble! It's called freedom of religion; not freedom from
religion. And that includes all religions. In fact, the only
'religion' the document clearly precludes, logically enough, is
atheism; simply because to do otherwise would undermine the whole
premise on which the document is based. If there is no God, or gods,
to procure these 'inalienable' rights – no Creator, that is – then
they are, by definition alone, neither inalienable nor right; the
words become meaningless, or something perhaps far worse... like the
French Revolution. It's a statement of fact, clearly spoken and
spelled out in no uncertain terms, in plain English, and written in
big and bold letters, like those in John Hancock's famous signature
at the bottom of the page, so that even King George would have no
trouble reading it. And with it they pledged their lives, their
fortunes (and many were indeed quite wealthy by then) and their
scared honor, which was perhaps their greatest contribution. As the
old kite-flyer so eloquently put in the heated halls of the First
Continental Congress: 'Gentlemen... we must hang together; for we
don't, we will surely hang alone'. And he meant every word of it. It
came with a big bang, heard clear around the world, so they say,
along with a handful of gun-toting, Bible-thumping,
whiskey-drinking, farmers, carpenters, and free masons who just
wanted to be left alone. It was more than just words. It was an
idea, a commitment, the kind that exists when two people see and
find in one another, perhaps for the very first time, a kindred
spirit; something nobody else can, or ever will perhaps; it is that
which inextricably binds them together, spiritually and eternally,
through good and bad (especially the bad), the thick and thin, and
even the black and white. And the Harlies were part of it, whether
they knew it or not. It would take another hundred years or so for
them to finally realize it, of course; but they would know. And they
would fight for it in the same spirit of their white forefathers,
bravely and boldly, and the blood they bled would mix with that of
patriots and tyrants and forever feed the sacred tree of Liberty.
"Are we almost there yet?"
said the raccoon, to no one in particular.
"We still has a ways to go,"
acknowledged the turtle. "Alma lives on the north side of town, 'way
from all this here commotion and rambunctiousness. Folks up that way
is more sensible, you know."
"Minds if I walks for a
while," Elmo suddenly enquired, looking back now and then, as if
someone might be following them.
"I thinks it best if we just
stays in the wagon from now on," said Sherman, more out of concern
for the safety of his passenger than anything else, including
himself, "and don't go mixin' with nobodies no-how. Don't need no
trouble, you know. Ain't got no mo' money no-how, Mister Cotton," he
reminded the recalcitrant raccoon, reaching for his moneybag that
was no longer there.
Cutting the last loose thread
with his teeth as he finished sewing together the farmer's torn
trousers, the raccoon replied, "That should make it easy then."
"It also means you can't calls
me Mister Moneybags no mo'. Ain't that right, Mister Cotton?"
"It sho' am, Mister Mo...I mean
Mister Dixon," corrected the raccoon, never really meaning anything
by it anyway. "Oh! and by the way," he added, tossing the newly
stitched trousers back to their original owner, "I gives you another
inch..."
"I's takes it!" acknowledged
the fat man with a big Harley grin.
Just then, the horse named
Abraham looked back and shook its long weary head as if to say:
'No... I'll take it,' referring, of course, to the burdensome weight
of its master, which only seemed to increase with each passing meal
and mile, making the thankless task of transporting the heavy load
that much more difficult. But with a name like Abraham, I suppose
you can't be too choosey. As one animal to another, the fat brown
turtle merely returned the pony's bewildering stare with one of his
own. That's not to say Sherman Dixon was as ignorant and dumb as a...
a horse, as some individuals, who apparently knew little about horse
and even less about the fat farmer, claimed. And by the way, there's
a reason they call it 'horse-sense', which is something else these
cruel-hearted Pharisees will never understand. True, Sherman was
simple-minded; but in an honest and friendly sort of way that many
found... well, honest and friendly. It was also something called
humility, which is something we can all use a little more of now and
then. And despite what other might say, or think, about the slow fat
turtle, he was actually a rather shrewd and clever business man, and
surprisingly good at negotiating, especially when it involved Harley
beans, day-old dead cat-fish and regurgitated carrots never stood
stand a chance against the indiscriminate farmer. And if ignorance
is bliss, as the poet truthfully states, then perhaps Mister Dixon
was the happiest man on the face of the earth. In fact, it was the
turtle's own ignorance that provided him that day, just as it always
had, with all he ever needed.
In all his tumult and
troubles, Sherman had totally forgotten about the money he'd
secretly hidden away in his shoe just before leaving Harley earlier
that week. He never had the chance to put it into the moneybag,
along with his stolen stipends, like he should have and meant to all
along. Maybe he was just too stu... well, never mind. It wasn't much,
but it was still there. All of it! All two dollars and fifty-cent of
it! The skunk didn't get it. Peter Finch simply never knew it was
hidden there to begin with. Had he known, things might've turned out
quite differently, of course; but who knows? Realizing how little it
actually was however, amounting perhaps to a night or two in a cheap
hotel and maybe a few indecent meals, Sherman decided to keep it a
secret, for the time being at least, and not squander it foolishly
as some folks are known to do from time to time and for a variety of
reason. Besides, he knew he would never hear the end of it from Alma
Johnson, or is wife for that matter, if he spent the rest of his
money in a Shadytown hotel when there were perfectly good
accommodations waiting for him just up the road a ways. He would,
however, give half of that money to Elmo Cotton before they parted,
just as he'd promised, even though it wasn't very much. That's just
what friends do, he wisely decided. That's what Harlies do.
The farmer drove his wagon
north along Avenue 'D' for about six more blocks, leaving the
street-urchins, the painted woman, and Fat Moon Friday far behind.
Although still officially in a
place called Shadytown, the Harlies approached a quiet section of
town where the streets no longer bustled with activity and all the
lights were not so bright. Except for a big fat moon, a billion or
so stars, and an occasional candle or two burning in a shaded
window, everything was relatively peaceful and quiet as the
cobblestones turned into sand and Ol' Abraham bowed under the yoke
of his master's heavy burden.
"How far to Bernice's house?"
asked the raccoon in no particular hurry any longer.
"Just a little ways up
yonder," said the turtle, pointing with his nose while driving his
wagon slowly towards a dark deserted street just off the main
avenue, "If'in' I's not mistaken."
He was, of course.
It soon became apparent, to
Elmo at least, that Sherman had no idea where he was going, or how
to get there. And so the turtle and the raccoon spent the rest of
the night in Shadytown. They fell asleep in back of empty wagon, arm
in arm, like two lost lovers.
Chapter Seven
The Sons of Sailors
(God is a fish)
"WHERE WE AT?" yawned the raccoon, as he opened his eyes on a bright and
blue Saturday
morning.
The turtle, despite the fact
that he was still very sore from what happened to him the night
before and couldn't used more rest, was already awake and sitting up
on the buckboard. "I don't right know," he answered, gyroscopically
rotating his head in all directions attempting to get his bearings.
"Still in Shadytown, I reckon. It was too dark to see last night.
Guess we just got lost."
"That's alright, Sherman,"
replied the raccoon, "We all gets lost sometimes."
The turtle was right about one
thing: They were still in Shadytown, and still on Avenue 'D',
in fact; only it appeared to be quite a different place than it was
the night before on Fat Moon Friday. The streets were quiet, almost
deserted it seems, and some of the shops stores appeared closed, as
if the owners were observing some kind of Sabbath, in the tradition
of the Seventh days Adventists. Either that, or they were just too
hung-over and tired to go to work, thought the Harlie who was
certainly no stranger to the inebriating effects of alcohol and the
consequences that typically follow such intoxicating events.
And so, the turtle and the
raccoon spent the better part of the day riding through the streets
of Shadytown, looking for... well they weren't sure what they were
looking for. They were just looking.
They eventually wound up back
in Old Port Fierce, where they revisited the Fisherman's Wharf along
with some of the other places they'd been to the day before. And
there they came a small group of older looking gentlemen seated on a
bench at the end of the dock. They were dressed in loose fitting
clothes and leisurely smoking their pipes which, not unlike the one
Elmo inherited from his dead uncle, were short and white. The
raccoon listened with curiosity and delight. And this is what he
heard:
"She's
a fine lookin' vessel," stated one of four sailors, blindly pointing
the tapered stem of his pipe at the ship moored before them while
trying a stir up a little much-needed conversation in the company of
his fellow mariners. "Headed for the Islands, the boatswain tells
me."
Upon the mere mention of yet
another voyage to the Southern Islands, the others quickly came
alive, generously re-charging their pipes with sticky wads of black
tobacco, as they'd done ever since they were boys. Appearing to have
just awoken from a long and restful sleep, they eagerly jumped on
board.
"What's 'er name, mate?" the
sailor demanded to know.
"The Maweea Auwowa," gummed
the toothless old Jonah.
"What's that you
say,""rejoined the deaf man, holding an old tin horn to his ear to
compensate for his hearing loss.
"Maweea Auwowa" shouted the
second mate into the funneled end of the horn."
"Marrrria Aurrrrora!'
corrected a third mariner, rolling his r's in the flavorful
tradition of the Latinos, pronouncing the words as they might've
sounded in Court of Queen Isabella, coming from the seasoned lips of
Francisco Pizarro himself, perhaps
The first mate enquired:
"Who's the skipper?"
"Morgan, they say," stated he
third mate, his old cataract eyes gazing blindly out to sea. He
appeared to be the oldest among them, old enough, perhaps, to have
served under Captain Noah himself on the famous Ark.
"Never heard of 'im," replied
the first mate, dismissively.
The blind man suddenly turned
his old gray head in multiple directions, as if searching to find
out exactly where the sound was coming from and who among their
little crew would say such a thing. "That's 'cause you ain't heard
nothin' in over thirty years!" he shouted back to the first mate.
"Your ears is like two seashells... all empty and dry, and full o'
sand. Your head's a coconut, mate! But look'ye here – the meat's all
gone. No pulp left... just seaweed. And now all you hear is echoes.
Helloooooooooo!" he rudely howled into the old man's empty ear
attempting to recreate the sonic phenomenon. Then he paused, as if
expecting the reverberations to occur at any moment. "S'been like
that ever since the war," he softly sighed. "Remember, mate? When
that cannon ball exploded on your starboard. Grape shot, methinks it
was. Thought you was a gonner... headed straight down to Davy Jones'.
And you ain't heard a thing ever since. Ain 't that right?
Seashells, I say! Listen," he further instructed with one hand
cupped to his own hairy earlobe, "sounds just like the sea – Don't
it? And that's all you ever hear now. But don't be so gloomy, mate.
You don't know how lucky you are! There's too much talkin' in the
world; and not enough listenin'.
"Gotta agwee with you there,
mate," sounded toothless mariner. "Too much flappin' of the gums!
They's worse than womens. See?"
"No I don't," spoke the blind
man. "That's the problem, mate! But I sees what I hears... and I hears
plenty."
"I hears what I sees..." echoed
the tin horn, having adjusted his other senses accordingly over the
years to compensate for his loss of hearing, and becoming quite
proficient at reading lips in the process. "And I sees more than
most," he further enunciated on the subject of his own unique
handicap.
A fourth sailor, who appeared
to have just woken up from his afternoon nap, picked up his heavy
head and yawned. He was still a little groggy, or so it seemed, and
wasn't necessarily in the mood for an argument, especially not so
late in the afternoon. He hadn't been feeling well as of lately, and
it showed. His wooden leg, which was actually an old prosthesis he'd
carved himself out of a piece of petrified driftwood, was getting
the better of him again; and it showed. At one time he thought of
getting it replaced, perhaps with a new one made of ivory; or maybe
even whale bone, like the splintered spike that bore the broad beam
of another famous captain – Ahab. He was obviously aware of what the
others had been discussing and suddenly demanded to know: "The
mates! Who be the mates, man?" as if he'd been listening all
along.
"F-F-Finch and Jones,"
stuttered the second sailor who was having a little difficulty
expressing himself on account of having had all his teeth extracted
at a very young age; a painful procedure that not only disabled him
from properly rolling his r's, as previously mentioned, but one that
had also left him with a noticeable stutter. Naturally, his diet was
likewise affected by the operation, limited ever since to those
foods requiring the least amount of molars to properly digest.
As it were, the poor old salt
had his teeth removed, all at once! by the ship's surgeon only three
weeks into his very first voyage at sea, some fifty years ago it
seems. 'Gum disease!' a near-sighted ship's surgeon once tried to
explain to him (although it didn't really matter; one explanation
being as good as another at the time and seldom given anyway) with
little time to waste on a cure, and a leaky hull that still needed
mending. You see, not only was he the ship's surgeon, but he was
employed in a variety of other activities suitable to his many
talents, including ship's carpenter and butcher, the latter, of
course, being his true profession and the one he prided himself in
the most. 'Probably picked it up in Shadytown', the cross-eyed
physician further suggested as he approached his frightened patient
one day with a rusty pliers rattling. It took the determined dentist
nearly five hours to extract all the affected teeth (none were
spared) and four strong-armed sailors to hold down the reluctant
patient whose only anesthesia that day was a few drops of
watered-down grog. It was the most pain the poor fellow had ever
experienced, including the time he was treated by the same
meat-cutting physician for a severe case of syphilis he'd
unfortunately contracted somewhere in Old Port Fierce. 'Damn
Whores!' admonished the silver-haired Hippocrates, meaning no harm
as he painfully inserted the long needle into the patient's penis,
administering what was at the time the only known cure to that once
fatal disease he'd become all too familiar with. Syphilis was a
dreaded disease, highly contagious, and as old as the twin cities of
Sodom and Gomorrah. It followed in the foamy wake of mariners all
over the contaminated globe, from one ocean to another, like the
infested rats that brought onboard the infectious seeds of the black
plague. Whether or not the tooth decay was in any way related to his
venereal disease was never established; not that it really matter,
of course. The ill-fated sailor was only twenty years old at the
time of the operation; and he hadn't touched a solid piece of food
since... or a woman! Who wants to kiss a face full of formless flesh?
As for the missing teeth... well, let's just say he didn't have to
worry about toothaches anymore, like some other folks we know.
"He's stutterin' again,
cap'n," observed the lip-reader
"Blood and thunder!" roared
old Ahab, with all the authority invested in braided cap he still
wore to this day as an aging symbol of authority. He was a pilot; a
captain, in fact! The oldest in all Old Port Fierce; and a damn good
one. "I told that dentist not to remove all his teeth. Wasn't
necessary... not like that other thing they done to poor Gifford here.
Reamed him out like a gun barrel, they did! Syphilis, they say. And
he's never been the same since. Poor ol' Gif... he sighed. 'S'been
gummin' grits ever since. Never loved a woman."
And here the rifled mariner
looked up at his pilot with soul-searching eyes, as if indeed the
old man possessed some supernatural power of restoring his rootless
gums back to their former cutting edge; or perhaps, he knew of a
doctor who might be able to fit him with a fine set of false teeth,
not unlike the famous dentures that graced the noble jaw of General
George Washington, which, by the way, were actually made of animal
bones, and not, as it is so commonly misconstrued, out of wood.
Either way, the he would be eternally grateful; but it was just not
to be.
"Aye! Aye! T'was a terrible
dark day. I was there. Ain't that right Gif?"
"W-wooned my whole wife,
cap'n" muttered the mariner, ironically enough. What he really said
was 'Ruined my whole life'; but, of course, that's not the way it
came out.
Naturally, the skipper was
more than sympathetic. "Easy now, Gifford," he consoled the
grief-stricken sailor. "Try chewin' them words a bit more before
spittin' 'em out."
"F-Finch and Jones," stuttered
the sailor, trying as hard as he could to pronounce his 'F's' with
no teeth to speak of; which, by the way, is actually alot more
difficult than it sounds. Try it yourself! That is, if even you find
happen to find yourself in the unfortunate predicament as 'Poor ol'
Gifford'. And whatever you do... make sure you get a second opinion.
"Maweea Auwowa," he regurgitated, foaming a little around the mouth
by now, still trying to answer the second-mates probing question
regarding the officers of the famous ship. "Finch and
Jones...."
Skin and Bones!?" questioned
the deaf man, attempting to read those salty old lips and rootless
gums while raising his tin horn to his likewise tinny ear. "Now
them's some mighty queer names."
"No. Not Skin and bones, mate.
Finch and Jones!" howled the peg-legged pilot. "And take that damn
horn out of your ear, Mister. It don't do you no good no how. It's
about as much use as this ol' stump of mine. Ahhhhhhh!" he cried,
attempting to adjust the ill-fitting prosthesis one more time.
"Mister Finch and Mister Jones," he painfully repeated, even though
he knew it was useless by then, just like his leg. "They's the first
and second mates of the Maria Aurora... just like ol' Gif tried to
tell you sons of bachelors."
"Never heard of 'em, cap,"
shrugged the blind man.
"'C-course not!" spouted the
celibate seaman. "They's only babies when we put out to sea. The
skipper, too, I heard."
"Who?"
"Morgan!"
"Roger Morgan?"
"Aye. That's his name,"
"Never heard of him..." repeated
the blind man just as before.
"A gunner," reminded old Ahab.
"And a good one, too! Went on to become cap'n, if I'm not mistaken."
"You ain't," nodded the
tin-horn. "And would you mind moving your lips a bit more, sir... so's
I can hears you more proper-like."
The officer obliged. "His
name's Morgan. Knowed him well. He was only a child when we first
met; a mere lad. Green as a bumkin, but...." And here the old pilot
had to stop of a moment to reminisce. "– Had these blue eyes... I'll
never forget. Something about those eyes.... Well, anyway," he
continued, as if awakening from yet another dream, "We shipped
together for a while... South Pacific. Onboard the Firefly. There was
a captain; handsome young devil. What's his name? Oh, Yes! Max.
That's it! Maximilian.
"Owando?" gummed Gifford.
"Why, I d-don't beweeve it...."
"Orlando!" blinked the blind
man, instantly recognizing the grand old name of the famous skipper
he'd sailed with all those years ago. "Maximilian Orlando. Aye! A
real son of a gun... Navy! Captain of the Fleet, you know – and a damn
good one. I was there. Had him a mighty fine ship... and a good crew,
too! The first officer was a man named Hatch, Elijah Hatch. Quiet
fellow. Didn't do too much talkin'. The good ones never do, you
know. Morgan was there, too. It was before the war..."
"Which one?" interrupted the
first sailor, who was perhaps old enough to have served in the
Continental Navy under Captain John Paul Jones.
"That last one," reminded the
blind man, "the one what freed up the slaves. They calls it
E-mancipation. Navy started takin' 'em on at that time. Strange
Jimmies... There were quite a few colored fellers onboard at the time.
One was a cook. A big man...Spider, we calls him. Never got his real
name. Don't know if he had one."
"You wouldn't be skylarkin' us
now, would you mate?" questioned the old confederate, finding it
difficult to believe that anything like, like integration would ever
occur onboard, even after the war. "Niggers... in the navy? Now I'm
done." He rested his old white bones.
"It was alright with the
cap'n; so I reckon it's all right with me," challenged the
peg-legged skipper. But that's just the way Max was – a downright
Republican when it came to that sort of thing; and a real gentleman.
S'been missin' for some time now. Lost, they say, somewhere in the
Parrot Islands. Some say he's dead. But I don't believe it, mate.
Not Max! Men like that don't die so easy.
First sailor: "Neither do I."
Second sailor: "I thought you
didn't hear so good, mate."
Third sailor: "He hears what
he wants to hear."
Fourth sailor: "I heard that."
First sailor: "The Parrot, you
say?"
Second sailor: "That's where
she be headed."
First sailor: "Who?"
Third, toothless, sailor:
"Morgan! The cap'n of the Maweea Auwowa. Gonna wook for Owando, I
weckon."
Fourth sailor: (appearing to
fall asleep again) "Aye...Good ol' Max."
Second sailor, blindly: "Don't
worry, Morgan will find him."
"Let's hope so," said the
third mate, loosely gumming his pipe.
"Skin and Bones, too!" laughed
the blind man.
"Poor Skin and Bones..."
lamented the deaf man, resting his ear-horn on his lap. "Knew 'em
well."
The peg-legged pilot picked up
his sleepy head once more. "Finch and Jones," he growled, correcting
the boatswain for the second time that day, "Finch and Jones! And
look'ye here mate, didn't I hear you say not more than five minutes
ago you never heard of 'em?"
"I hears what I sees,"
reiterated the first.
"Damn it!" spat the
emasculated sailor, realizing by then that the blind man had been
reading his lips again, just as he'd done a thousand times before.
"He's always doing that me. Son of a – !"
"Headed for the Parrot, I
hear," rejoined old Ahab, resting his dead stump on a great bollard
supporting the pier. "Istari-Toa, you know, the ol' bitch in the
bay. Speakin' of which, I wonder if the ol' Queen's still alive.
What's her name?
"Babinka," spoke the mate,
pronouncing the name of the old matriarch with trouble what-so-ever.
"The Queen of Ishtari-Toa..."
voiced the commodore.
"The land of the Bleedin'
Rock..." noted the sleepy-eyed first officer, referring, of course, to
the name give to the particular atoll by the sons of sailors
themselves. "Or was it the two Volcanoes? I could never remember
which."
Had some mighty fine times at
the Rock," reminisced the visually challenged sailor, confirming the
captain's colorful description, a tear forming him his cloudy dead
eye. "I could see real good back then, you know. Babinka! Aye, she
was a real beauty! A little plump around the middle... But hell! All
them island girls is like that. Besides, she was the queen! Queen's
got a right to be a little juicy. If only I was twenty – No! Make
that ten years younger – Why, I'd drop this ol' anchor on the queen
myself. Depend on it, lads! And so would the rest of you... Well,
except maybe for ol' Gifford here," he balked. "And even he...."
Upon hearing (or rather,
seeing) all this, the deaf sailor jumped in: "Babinka'a dead. I
thought you all knowed that. Why, you'd only be screwin' a corpse,
mate."
"As if that would stop any of
them," insinuated the captain who knew his crew better than
anyone.
"Must've been a mighty big
coffin," noted the third mate. The queen was a powerful big woman...
and I ain't gummin' my grits."
"Aye," agreed the skipper,
fully awake and aware by then. "Bobo's dead, too. Mabutoo be king
now. He's the queen's eldest son. A big fellow, they say. Aye! Black
as sin. Just as big and mean as his daddy. They say he killed them
both. Wouldn't surprise me! Not after what happened at old Fort
Stanley, it don't."
"The massacre..." reminded one
of the sailors who was there right after the battle to witness the
carnage alluded to by his superior, "It was... It was..."
"Aye, you're right. It was..."
recalled the captain, sadly, at a loss for words to describe what
happened the fatal day of the attack on Fort Stanly. "They butchered
the poor bastards. The whole bloody lot of them. Not much left of
'em. Only one survived. Needle's his name. Corporal – bugler, if I'm
not mistaken. Runs the place now... or what's left of it. A saloon!
Calls it Bonestown, he does. Right there in the middle of jungle,
where the old fort used to be. They say he's crazy... lost his mind.
Can you blame him? He was there. Saw it all...all that blood and guts.
Them savages done just kill a man...they eviscerates him. Skins 'em
alive. Just like the Redman... only they don't stop there. They eats
them. Needle knows. He was there. Saw it all. Some say you can still
hear him blowin' taps, every night mind you, for the dead soldiers.
That's not crazy. That's a trooper..."
Just then another old man
appeared on the dock and sat down on a bench not far from the four
conversing sailors. He had a large bulbous nose, mostly red with
spider-like veins running through it, and a black patch covering one
eye. The patch hung from a string that disappeared into the cloth of
a black and white cap covering most his balding head. He carried
about him a rather foul and rancorous odor that did not go
undetected by the raccoon and the turtle, even from a breezy
distance. He turned his head, looked over at the Harlie who was
pretending not to notice, winked his one good eye, and said with a
curious smile, "Shippin' out, sonny?"
Elmo didn't answer. He didn't
even move.
Sherman, who was still on the
lookout for the tall merchant he was supposed to meet there that
day, simply turned his hard shell to the stranger and coldly looked
away.
He appeared to be part of the
small group of convalescing sailors that day, but for some awkward
and unexplainable reason, chose to remain by himself, as if
deliberately avoiding his fellow mariners for undisclosed reasons.
Perhaps it was because of the way he smelled, thought the Harlie
(his own senses having greatly increased since becoming a raccoon on
the run, and not always to liking) much like the putrefied scent of
a decaying catfish Sherman once found on the roadside in Harley, and
devoured in single gulp. It may have also had something to do with
the hat he wore: a furry black pelt, resembling, to no small degree,
the familiar raccoon cap made famous by Ben Franklin and Daniel
Boone, still fashionable at the time despite the animal's sour
reputation, and in all its frontier glory; including eyes, ears,
whiskers and, of course, the tell-tale tail; the difference,
however, lying in two distinctive white parallel stripes traversing
the carcass of the dead animal from back to front. It was a skunk,
of course; a polecat, to use its more colorful appellation, the
un-eviscerated organs of which were know to put forth the
unmistakable odor unique to that particular species. And it seems
that even its present state of taxidermy, the skunk-hat, for reasons
which may never be fully understood, somehow retained that same
offensive odor. However, to be fair to the skunk, which squirts his
assailants primarily in self-defense, the sailor in question may
have exacerbated the odorous effect, as he appeared to not have
taken a bath in quite some time, with little or no regard for those
in his immediate vicinity. In fact, the stench emanating from the
one-eyed sailor was so overwhelming that Elmo actually had to cover
his mouth and nose, even from a distance. The others must have
noticed it too, he imagined; but they made little effort to distance
themselves from the foul smelling sailor who, perhaps being one of
their own, allowances were made. Or maybe they were just so used to
the stench by now, they were simply able to ignore it. Either way,
he appeared to be the most lonely and loathsome fellow Elmo even
clapped an eye on.
"I say, mate... Er'ya shippin'
with the Maria Aurora?" repeated the skunk, only louder this time
and with a bit more urgency in his voice.
Upon hearing the unruly
request, Mister Dixon turned his attention back to what was going
while keeping one eye peeled for the man in the tall black hat that
he was expecting to find on the pier that day. He was hoping that
the foul smelling individual would simply leave them alone; or
better yet, just go away. But instead, the polecat was already on
his feet and headed in their general direction. Making his
un-welcomed approach, the skunk greeted them both with weak salute
and a chilling smile.
The Harlie acknowledged the
sailor's presence while maintaining a safe distance. Yes, sir...
Huh... Aye, Aye sir!" he saluted, not exactly sure what else he
could do under the circumstances. "How'd you know?" he boldly lied,
thinking, for one brief and imaginative moment, that if he could
convince a smelly one-eyed polecat, who most likely had been to sea
for so long that he obviously had forgotten how to take a bath, that
he was, in fact, one of the crew... well then, maybe he could
convince anyone – including the captain!
"Didn't know Morgan was takin'
on any Ferals," squinted the sailor through his one good eye
who, through no fault of his own, had lost the precious organ on a
whale boat somewhere off the coast of Madagascar when a misguided
missile, darted by the ambitious arm of an over-zealous and slightly
near-sighted harpooner, found its mark in the socketed cavity of the
sailor's skull instead of the humpback of his intended target. "No
offense, mate," said the skunk to the raccoon that day; which, by
the way, was the exact same apology offered up by the industrious
harpooner upon extracting the fated dart.
"None taken –," replied the
Harlie, who had learned of such prejudices among some folks from his
Uncle Joe and came to accept it – and he meant it, too. "I'm from
Har..." he then began to explain before quickly checking himself.
Elmo knew all along, of course, that he was still a raccoon on the
run, a fugitive, and that he would be better served by keeping his
identity hidden, particularly from strangers and especially so far
away from home; or least until he was far away where he just didn't
give a damn. But news traveled fast in that part of the world, and a
harbor was no place to keep a secret. Even Elmo knew that. And so,
he simply stepped back a few steps from the stranger, holding his
nose and tongue, and holding no special grudge against the one-eyed
bigot whom he could only pity at the time, much as he once pitied
Alvin Webb. But the old polecat did apologize, which was more than
the Harlie expected and more than he ever received from the dead
outlaw. He even thought he might've grown to like the old man if
time and happenstance permitted, once he'd been properly scrubbed
down, of course, along with all the other sons of sailors he'd seen
and heard that day on the docks in Old Port Fierce.
Meanwhile, the four old
sailors continued their gentlemanly discourse in the only way they
knew how, with smoky breathe and fading memories. They talked of the
sea through long white pipes of clay in endearing terms, feminine at
times, as if it really were a woman. But to the sons of sailors, she
was more than that. She was friend, lover, mistress, and wife, all
rolled into one and beset in ways too ancient to question and too
mysterious to fathom. They couldn't have loved her more. And yet,
this was one female they feared, more than they did the rod the God,
at times, especially when she rose up in all her raging glory. It
was a timeless relationship that began, and would therefore end, in
the sea, in those icy black vaults beneath the waves that rolled on
as they did five thousand years ago. It was a bond that simply could
not be broken, not unlike the inextricable bonds of holy matrimony.
In one sense, it was more than a marriage; immune as they were from
such earthly vows; born not of blood and oaths, but of something
more, more elemental – like water! The stuff baptisms are made of;
the true essence of life, in its most basic composition. It's a
symbiotic relationship, equally cursed and blessed, something
Red-Beard might've recognized in his own schizophrenic psychology,
like the two halves of conjoined Siamese twins joined at the hip,
sharing one heart and one lung, having and wanting it no other way.
'Ain't she just like a woman!' was a common expression among these
romantic mariners in describing the indescribably relationship they
has with the sea. It's a lover's embrace, and the sailor's lament.
And that's all you would hear
ever hear about it. They actually spoke very little of the sea, or
themselves for that matter, as if protecting her honor at every
expense and guarding her like any jealous lover would, and should.
And just like a couple of elderly spouses who live out a lifetime of
intimacies, sharing secrets that would make their grandchildren
blush, and ones they would take to the grave where, even in those
cold dark dungeons, they would still make love, tenderly; not in the
passionate embrace of Love's ephemeral fire, but rather plainly,
quietly, calmly and, of course, naturally, just like they always
did. It comes with a simple touch of a wrinkled hand or the
reassuring nod of a graying temple. Words at this point are useless,
meaningless; they would only get in the way. Sometimes, love is
enough. It's more than enough. In fact, anything more, or less,
would only destroy it.
And best of all they didn't
even have to say it. It's written in their faces, tattooed on their
silver-haired chests, and proudly displayed over the marbled mantles
of their souls like so many marlin heads, the spikes of which have
long since lost their luster, but not their edge. It's in their
blood and in their bones; their hearts and heads, their bodies and
souls. It's in their beards. Hell! They reeked of it. It's the wind
and the waves, the sea and the sky, the salt and the sand. It's
where all life began, and will eventually end. It is death and
resurrection combined. It's hard, sometimes; but they endure. And
they wouldn't trade it for all the catfish in the China. They lived
it. They breathe it. And like fish out of water, they'd be equally
doomed to live in a world without it. They sucked it in through long
white pipes of clay, expelling it back into the very wind that fills
their billowing sails. You can see it in the way they walk and the
way in they talk. It's also in the way they laugh – at the Devil
himself in fact, whom, if that old sea-elf only knew who was doing
the laughing, just might laugh right along with these merry
mariners, just before smashing them to bits against a coral reef or
swallowing them up in a tempest. But shed no tears for these brave
sons of bachelors, and pity them not; for they know who they are and
you would only embarrass yourself if you did. Regrets they have few;
they play the hand they're dealt; poker, perhaps, and they always
play to win. Life for these nautical nomads is one endless journey;
but one that is always, always taking them home, although they know
not where they go. Death is breaks all bargains. Life goes on, only
the memories remain. And they'd do it all again, laughingly,
lovingly, like jolly ol' Stubb, I suppose, with a pipe and a dance,
and perhaps a measure of rum. That's just the way there are. That's
what they do. They're the sons of sailors. And just like their
fishermen fathers before them, they love every minute of it, more
dearly than their own ephemeral selves.
These were the sons of
sailors. They were a breed apart, or so they claimed, a band of
boisterous brothers so ubiquitous and diversified they could be
found on all ships and in all the oceans of the world, from the
frozen plains of the Arctic to the sacred waters of the Indian
Ocean, where Vishnu once swam in the reincarnated form a great sperm
whale, perhaps. They were a secret society; the Knights Templars of
the seas, so to speak, comfortable in their own thick-skinned armor
and in the company of their own kind. Unlike some other
fraternities, whose skull and bone practices are often viewed
negatively at best by those of suspicious nature, these buoyant
brothers were always open to new ideas as well as members; so long
as they weren't prone to sea sickness and didn't mind a little
hazing now and then. They were an open society that enjoyed their
anonymity, which they guarded fiercely, with a vengeance only they
could understand, and execute; vigilant to excess, decorated in
their own colors, like the Swiss Guard of the Vatican; and always,
always on the lookout for those who take it away from them. In fact,
you would seldom hear them mentioned by name, preferring to be
addressed by station or rank, or simply 'mate'. They took orders,
and anything else that came their promiscuous way; and they took no
prisoners. They're the sons of sailors; that's who they are. They've
been around forever it seems, at least since the days of the Flood
some would eagerly suggest; and they would probably be right,
because they sure as hell smelled like it sometimes.
They were the sons of Noah,
too; and proud of it! But they may go back even further than that,
as there are those who claim these antediluvian submariners have, in
fact, been around since the dawn of creation. It is suggested, and
with little hesitation, that they first appeared shortly after the
angels arrived on earth but long before the introduction of man, in
the twilight of the Universe, so-to-speak, while the gods were still
making love, instead of war, and preparing the world for more
miniature replicas of themselves. Formed by the finger of God (or,
perhaps it was the devil – the jury may still be out on that one)
and at such a time when there was no land to speak of when the world
was but one vast global ocean, they came into being. It's a fishy
tale, no doubt; a yarn still in the making, and one the sons of
sailors knew so well and spoke of at length, at times altering the
plot and players to suit a particular circumstance or audience.
Legend? Myth? Fact? Perhaps. But aren't all good stories a little of
all three? Especially the good ones that contain the proper, the
right, blend of fact and fiction, and just enough truth to make them
worth listening to, or at least funny? And isn't that what all the
things we hold true and dear to be based on – a myth? And how much
more wonderful when myth becomes a reality, as it once did two
thousand years ago, born of a virgin in a little cave in
Bethlehem?
It all began in the ocean, and
well it should have, where once there lived a race of sea creatures
that were aptly and physiologically described as mermen and
mermaids. They were both fish and mammal, as the name clearly
suggests and as evidenced by their upper and lower extremities,
which clearly defines and delineates two distinct species that had
somehow, and for whatever unknown reason, been inextricably spliced
together so as to produce a new and unique creature, the like of
which had never been seen before and, therefore, could never be
duplicated absent the power, natural or super-natural, that spawned
it out of the mud in the first place: a hybrid, in fact, amphibious
in nature and anatomically correct in all other natural aspects.
Whether this was the
miraculous result of Divine Intervention, the handiwork of a
mindless and indiscriminate being, the mere by-product of some
mischievous god with not enough to do and a little too much him on
husbands, or merely the evolutionary process gone slightly berserk,
is difficult to say. And as for the latter, anyone who has ever
observed or even seen a picture of a platter-puss would certainly
agree that it was at least possible; and that it can, and does,
happen from time to time, much to chagrin of those who might
otherwise claim that Nature, like God, is incapable of such errors;
and if, in fact, such curiosities are mistakes to begin with and not
just the blue print for some future race of beings that would, in
retrospect, not only consider us odd freaks of nature, but inferior
as well. It remains a mystery, a riddle, a real Gordian knot that
even Alexander the Great, with all the apotheosis invested in him by
the Oracle of Delphi, couldn't unravel with the blow of a sword. And
perhaps, as in all cases of such beautiful and bewildering
anomalies, which usually occur only once in the Universal scheme of
things and, not unlike the fated dinosaurs and fabled unicorns, are
doomed to certain extinction from the start, it should! As to the
exact historical period in which this marine metamorphosis took
place, one could only speculate.
They were called merfolk:
a term which, although physiognomically correct, is nowhere to
be found in any lexicon, and one they certainly wouldn't have chosen
for themselves; their actual name, if translatable at all into the
vulgar vernacular of man would merely come across as an
indiscernible, and perhaps unpronounceable, series of wheezes and
whistles, not unlike those observed by modern marine biologist when
studying the various folios of whales, dolphins, and other more
subterranean mammals of the sea. They were doomed from the start;
fated, it would seem, by their own choosing, to an earthly existence
they never should have happened in the first place. It was a
process that was as inexplicable as it was irreversible, and
tantamount to extinction. As for the actually physical appearance
these submarine creatures, one would only have to imagine what one
might already know from what they've seen, heard, or otherwise read
about in storybooks of old where these kinds of things are discussed
in any great detail. They are often described, particularly by the
sons of sailors who still claim to observe these fishy folks from
time to time, despite the aforementioned and un-provable fact that
they no longer exist, as mysterious and wondrous creatures with
human torsos and fish-like tails that tapered gracefully down into
horizontal flukes that were not only functional, under such fluid
conditions, but served them quite nicely in lieu of legs and feet.
Sailors claimed they would sometimes be greeted by these aquatic
acrobats, which manatees were often mistaken for, in all the oceans
of the world, fanning flukes and waving hands just above the watery
plane; but always from a respectable distance, as they are naturally
shy and gentle creatures that rarely, if ever, deliberately come in
contact with humans, especially those sporting fishing poles,
casting nets, or more recently – harpoons and guns.
It was further stated that
these fishy citizens of Atlantis were appropriately equipped with
both aqualung and fins to support their underwater existence, along
with other physiological attributes lending to their unique aquarium
lifestyle, including those great and powerful flukes, which, not
unlike the tails of the mammal whales moved up and down rather than
side to side like those observed on their cold-blooded cousins,
propelled them so gracefully and successfully through the warm
undulating currents of the Gulf Stream, as well as the icky black
waters beneath the Polar ice caps, as they have for centuries
untold. And they seemed to be ubiquitous; sighting of these
fantastic sea-fauns being reported from as far away as Mongolia
where they observed cruising the inland waterways of the Orient and
Great Delta, at home, it would seem, in those black brackish waters
as any ocean or fresh water stream. And they came in all shapes and
sizes, too; many so small they could fit on the back of a sea-horse,
if the they so desired; and others as large as killer whales, such
as the great Celtic merman made famous in song that lived off the
Coast of Ireland, by the Isle of Man, and was said to have guided
Noah and his Arch to its final destination on top of Mount Ararat in
exchange for immortality. And for that reason, among others perhaps,
they were said to be an eternal breed that would live forever, a
fate perhaps not as desirable as one might imagine, as we shall soon
see.
Regarding their mammal
halves, these legendary sea-elves, for lack of a better description,
were inexplicably graced (or cursed one might say, depending on your
point of view) with human arms, heads, beards and breasts, which,
considering the liquid median in which they lived and breathed, was
actually more of a handicap, rather than the convenience some might
falsely conclude; although that too could, and would, all change in
time. It was also insinuated, without any real physical evidence to
substantiate such a claim, that these delightful denizens of the
deep were actually cold-blooded, which would clearly suggest an
amphibious nature, and that were really no different than any other
fish found floundering in the sea, their homosapien characteristics
not-with-standing. And whoever would make such a statement might
even be correct; although it would take nothing short of
vivisection, that is to say dissecting one of these curious
creatures, preferably post-mortem, in order to make such a
cold-hearted determination and be proven correct. Would it be worth
it? Or is killing, even the dumbest and most expendable beast on the
God's cruel and carnivorous planet, justified under any
circumstances, even for the sake of survival? The Evangelist seems
to think so; and he has Scripture to back him up. 'Man does not live
by bread alone', so sayeth the Author of life, even in his most holy
and resurrected state as He clearly demonstrated, not only with
loaves and fishes but within own flesh and blood. But to be fair, He
also states that under no uncertain terms we are to be good and
faithful stewards of the land, which, in the prime example set by of
Brother Noah, would certainly include all birds and animals, and not
its ultimate destroyers; furthermore, that we certainly weren't put
here to simply satisfy our own selfish goals and greedy desires;
which, come to think of it, in precisely why God, in His infinite
mercy and wisdom, gave us... whiskey! To keep the Irish from taking
over the world.
But if we are, as
evolutionists seem to agree, nothing more than the latest (and as
some suggest, the deadliest) link in the never-ending chain of
natural selection, who is to say if our motives are good or evil,
even in the most extreme cases? After all, we are, according to them
at least, no more than bi-pedal animals acting out of pure natural
instinct. And if that's true, which we should certainly hope and
pray it isn't, then we as a species can no more be blamed for
slaughtering the last unicorn on earth to feed our starving
families, than a killer whale is for tearing the flesh from an
innocent sea-lion that happened to cross its murderous wake. Perhaps
then, we should place the ultimate blame where it really, and quite
logically, belongs – on God! Or whatever power it is that not only
initiated but sustains such a cruel and cannibalistic world in which
we are mutually annihilating one another for the sake of survival.
But then again, as the old mariner once said: 'Who's to doom when
the Judge Himself is brought to the bar?' Does the ameba stand on
equal ground with the Leviathan? Is man the ultimate arbiter of his
own fate? And if not, who is? And where do we draw the line? Perhaps
these and other paradoxical questions of life and death are best
left to scholars and theologians. But even they have to eat
sometime; and what better meal could they ask for than a finely
roasted sirloin, a juicy leg of lamb...or a fish?
As for the merfolk,
well, they may've found out the answers for themselves by now. For
you see, something happened along the way to alter not only their
anatomical blueprint, as original and uniquely engineered it was
designed, but their minds as well; and perhaps even their souls, if,
as their human half clearly suggested, they possessed souls. What
happened next would change the course of mankind, and fish-kind (if
such a word even exists), forever. Naturally or un-naturally, I
suppose, the vital transformation occurred. Exactly how it happened
is still academic; anthropology providing no real clues at this
time; and Nature, no fossils. There is simply no evidence, empirical
or otherwise, to prove they ever existed at all. But still the
rumors persisted, and so did the speculation. In fact, at one time
there are so many theories concerning the actually origins of these
mysterious sea creatures it would be impossible to mention them all
in one volume; and even if it could be done, it would certainly not
them justice. But there was one story in particular that'd not only
outlived and survived its most mortal critics, but the test of time
was well; and, like the indomitable whale breaching the surface of a
fathomless ocean, this one seemed find its way into the oxygenated
light of day more often than most. It was the tale of the glow-fish.
And for those who may not have already heard it, the story goes
something like this:
There once was a glow-fish
that lived deep in ocean. Now in the course of time, it is said, a
notion was instilled in this particular fish's pre-historic brain.
It was the simple and innocent notion: to venture out into the deep
dark waters in search of something... well, something better. Exactly
what that was, remained a deep dark mystery, even unto the glow-fish
itself. All it knew for certain was that it was a place, far away,
and that he would not be going alone. It was risky venture to be
sure, and, considering all the unknown mysteries of the sea and the
challenges it presented, not a very appealing one, as the glow-fish
was quite content to live out its life in the quiet and comfort, not
to mention the safety of its own coral surroundings.
Whatever possessed this little
fish to come to the realization that such a place actually existed
was beyond human reckoning. But nevertheless, it happened. The
glow-fish quickly and effectively went about communicating its newly
found knowledge to other fish in the sea, which it was somehow
compelled to do, hoping they might join in his unfathomable quest
for a wonderful new life and, subsequently, a better world in which
to live. Naturally, some fish listened in their own fishy
suspicions, and some didn't. And when the time came for the
glow-fish to begin its fantastic journey into the watery unknown,
the ones that listened followed; and the ones that didn't simply
swam away shaking their scaly heads and fishy tails. Exactly what
became of them will remain a mystery unresolved until such a time
when all secrets are revealed in the fullness of time. And so the
journey began.
For many days and an equal
number of nights (it was virtually impossible to tell which was
which at the great depths the fish were presently traversing) the
glow-fish and its fishy followers ventured further and deeper into
the great ocean than any fish, at least the kind they were
accustomed to, had ever swam before. Many of the fish had turned
back by then, frightened of all the news surroundings and
questioning the glow-fish's intentions; after all, it was just an
ordinary fish, small in comparison to most others, and of no
particular importance. Some actually considered the little glow-fish
ugly; which, if the truth be told, it probably was; at least in the
myopic eyes of more beautiful fish they'd met along the way, like
the graceful angel-fish and the proud pea-cock fish for instance,
that take notice of such ephemeral things. Naturally, the glow-fish
paid no attention to these proud and finicky fish and encouraged its
followers to do the same. Down, down, and deeper down still, it
brought them, into deep dark places of that watery world where the
sun could not penetrate, glowing all the time and lighting the way
into those hidden vaults of the deep where sailors sleep and
Leviathan comes to die.
At last the fish, along with a
few faithful followers, came upon a great net that had been placed
directly in their path by some unseen Fisherman who, apparently, was
waiting for them above in his boat. It was an old familiar trap, one
easily recognized at once by many of the older fish that'd come
across such manmade contrivances in the past, and easily avoided,
provided the correct measures were taken in advance. But it seemed
that the glow-fish already knew who'd cast this one particular net,
and was taking no precautions to avoid it. In fact, it seemed that
the glow-fish was very much intent on swimming directly into the
fatal net; and, moreover, it was beckoning all the other fish to
follow it into the deadly snare. It was a bold and bewildering
gesture, and, in many ways, quite foolish; it was also unexpected.
And just like before, some of the fish followed and some didn't, and
with equal joy and abandonment.
The ones that remained
followed the glow-fish, reluctantly at first but willingly in the
end, into the net and were eventually trapped. The Fisherman quickly
pulled in his net and all were caught. Not one escaped. The fishes
that would not follow the glow-fish, all swam back to the safe
shallows of their own shadowy worlds beneath the waves and remained
there until their dying days, which, like all creatures, were
numbered. But what became of all the other fish, the ones that were
caught in the Fisherman's net, is even more of a mystery; for
indeed, just like the glow-fish, they were pulled from their natural
environment, the life-sustaining waters they'd grown so dependent
on, but, at the very last minute were let go, by the fisherman
himself as he sliced the net in two with one powerful blow of his
knife.
They all escaped, except for
the glow-fish. It was brought up into the boat where it was then
stripped and scaled, like any other fated fish, and thrown into a
bucket. It was a slow and agonizing death, and one the glow fish
couldn't fully comprehend at the time of its execution, starring up
at the Fisherman through clouded bloodstained eyes, its gills
opening and closing as if searching for the liquid oxygen that just
wasn't there anymore, and drying in the scorching light of an alien
sun. All the faithful fish could do was look on from the water below
in wonder and sorrow as the low-fish slowly expired.
But the story does not end
there. For you see, the glow-fish knew exactly what it was doing the
day it swam into the Fisherman's net, fully understanding the
consequences of its actions, and what would happen to all the other
fish if it didn't. The glow-fish also knew, but don't ask me how or
why, that the Fisherman was not the enemy at all. Quite the
contrary! He was their deliverance. For it was he, the Fatherly
Fisherman, who'd put it in the head of the glow-fish to leave its
home and take the others with him in the first place. It was his
idea all along. He commanded not only the winds and rains, but all
life above and below. The stars he navigated by were of his own
making. The sun obeyed him, the moon bowed down before him. It was
he who'd cast the net which he made with his own gnarly fingers. And
it seemed that the glow-fish knew that, too, which is perhaps why it
was so willing to let itself be caught up in the first place and
doomed to a certain and agonizing death. It was a fatal decision;
but one he freely accepted, realizing all along that death was not
the end, only the beginning; and that life was the only real option
after all; one they would eventually find, not in this world, of
course, but in another. It was actually something the fish and the
Fisherman had planned long before the perilous journey began. You
might even say that it was predestined. The glow-fish would die; and
so would all that followed it its watery wake, eventually. But death
would not be the final judgment, for the glow-fish or its faithful
followers.
The Fisherman took pity on the
fish that day, as he always did, especially the little glow-fish he
loved above and beyond all others. And in his omnipotent power and
unlimited wisdom and mercy, the old Fisherman reached into the
bucket and, lo and behold! the little glow-fish was whole and
complete, with a brand new body. The other fish leaped in joy,
circling the boat in excited anticipation of being reunited with
their new little master. But that never happened. You see, the
Fisherman decided to keep the glow-fish all for himself. He simply
wouldn't let him go; and the glow-fish would have no other way. The
Fisherman smiled, whereupon he instantly transformed all the fishy
followers into new and wondrous creatures, not unlike the glow-fish
itself, in all his incarnated glory, granting them all eternal life.
And they all glowed in the same glory that great and glorious day,
just like the glow-fish, half man and half fish, skin and scales,
spliced at the waist, with waving arms and splashing tails, in the
familiar form they one day be famous for.
The Fisherman rejoiced; and so
did the glow-fish. He called them mermen and mermaids
and bid them all farewell, admonishing them to remain that way in
ocean until such a time when he would call them all back, in which
case he would send the glow-fish himself to come and fetch them
home. Whenever that time would finally arrive was never disclosed,
not even unto the glow-fish itself who, if we believe such things,
was last seen sailing off with the Fisherman into the misty grey
morning.
Well, it was a good story,
even if it wasn't entirely true; and it did offer a reasonable, if
not totally scientific, explanation for the origins of those
delightful creatures of the sea and progenitors of Mankind that we
all know and love so well and are more commonly referred to nowadays
as mermaids.
But the story didn't end there
(the good ones never do, you know) and there are times when even
immortality isn't quite enough, as in the case of the mermaids
and mermen. Not satisfied with their newly improved and
divinely inspired status, recalling all they had heard of the dry
land beyond the sandy surf, and ignoring the Fisherman's warning not
to leave their watery domain, some of the followers of the glow-fish
turned their attention to loftier goals and more earthly ambitions.
They'd tasted life beyond the sea and discovered that they actually
liked it. It was an experience (as most experiences are when we
first encounter them) they simply couldn't ignore, like the first
bite of an apple, you might say; or the first time you fall in love.
It was as if they were drawn by some earthly power, well-beyond
their comprehension and control, to breach the invisible barrier
that separated them from the world of man, which, considering their
half-human anatomy, was theirs anyway. It was a totally human
response to an age old dilemma, and quite predictable: to walk upon
the earth, not unlike the Fisherman himself. It was a desire they
couldn't escape from and a longing they simply couldn't resist,
which, ironically enough, may've been a direct result of what the
Fishman had done to them in the first place, immortality
not-with-standing. It was a simple but paradoxical fact that may
never be explained, and one some of the fish would eventually come
to regret; but not all. Still, there are many things even the
glow-fish couldn't explain. Perhaps this was just one of them.
In time, the earthly desire
became so overwhelming that the fish finally acquiesced, even
against their better judgment and more natural instincts. It is
rumored that, in the end, they simply rebelled, ignoring the
Fisherman's final admonition never to return to the surface again
until such a time when he himself sent the glow-fish back to fetch
them. It was a critical choice with disastrous consequences. But it
was their choice nevertheless; made of their own free will. And with
that choice, they sealed their own fate; and mortality was assured.
By braving the atmospheric
conditions they were certainly not unaccustomed to (and therefore
unprepared to handle) these mermen of the sea, despite the
misgivings of their mermaid wives who'd begged them not to go,
ventured forth onto dry land and, in time, walked on legs and
breathed in the fresh unsalted air. Then, gazing up at sun and sky,
they knew what they'd done and cursed the ground they walked on,
along with the glow-fish and the Great Fisherman who they blamed for
their dire predicament. Turning their attention back to the sea, and
realizing the terrible mistake they had made, many attempted to
reverse the process by swimming out into the ocean, where it all
began, diving down into the deep never to be seen again; others were
later found washed-up on the beach, their hybrid bodies unable to
assimilate into a world they were simply never meant to occupy. But
not all were lost; for in time, some of the merman did adjust; and
not only that – they changed. The scales were the first to go,
falling off one by one, like the tears of a child. Then, their
tapering torsos split in two, eventually transitioning into the
self-supporting legs they so longed for. Gone were their flukes and
fins, and finally, their gills, the last amphibious link to a
cold-blooded past they would no longer be part of, or even survive
in; at least, not for any length of time with their newly acquired
lungs and legs. It was simply too late.
As time and tide passed, the
disobedient mermen adapted, giving in to all manner of human lust
and passion, and all the consequences that naturally follow such
earthly desires. And without the mer-wives (who wisely but sadly had
chosen not to follow in the fated footsteps of their foolish
husbands) to satisfy their insatiable lust, the mermen took to
mating with, and eventually marrying, the daughters of man who in
turn, taken up by these handsome creatures with such lean and
muscular physiques, were more than willing to bear their salty
seed.
Whatever it was that'd caused
such a sudden and drastic change in the physiological makeup of
these poorly misplaced and equally misguided creatures, is the stuff
of myth and legend, yarns spun mostly by the sons of sailors
themselves who are considered to be actual descendants, if not the
direct by-product, of these illicit and un-natural affairs;
bastards, if you will, of the unbridled passions of sin. And to
further substantiate this fantastic if not hypothetical claim, there
are certain reptilian characteristics the sons of sailors share,
even until this day, with their fishy fathers of the past; not least
of these being a most remarkable and uncanny ability to breathe
under water for protracted periods of time, and swim – like salmon
upstream! whenever instinct or desire moves them to do so, which
usually, and perhaps naturally, coincides with the spring spawning
season; something, I'm sure, their lusty fathers would be quite
proud of. Calling these salty sons-of-bachelors fish out of water
would be an understatement, and one they would appreciate. In fact,
if you were to examine more closely the hands and feet of this new
and select breed of humanity, you just might find such hard, if not
irrefutable, evidence needed to support this phantasmagorical
phenomenon in the visual form of several small triangular shaped
webs located at the conjoining base of their own fleshy fingers and
toes; which, come to think of it, not only proves the hypothesis to
be true, but further explains their highly advanced and superior
swimming skills, which, of course, only further facilitates their
natural impulse in matters of procreation. It just makes sense.
And it could only have
happened in one place: the ocean; the sea of course! that same salty
incubator, that old crucible and cauldron from which all life
springs, from the smallest of plankton to the great Leviathan,
including the sons of sailors themselves. But for what purpose? And
to what end? These are questions for future fisherman to ponder, and
for more evolved minds to answer, if they are answerable at all. And
of course the most perplexing question of all we can ask is – Why?
Well...Why the not? God's a captain. He doesn't give reasons; he gives
orders! But he also gives life. He creates it from nothing and then
takes it back again. We own nothing. We are nothing. To ask anything
more is not only foolish, it is blasphemy. But if you must, go ask
Job! Of course, you may not like the answer; for it will probably be
the same answer given to the famous man from Uz himself when he so
vehemently, and against the advice of his own wicked consul,
demanded pretty much the same thing of God – Nothing! And if you are
humble and wise enough, and you don't mind eating a little crow now
and then, you just might repent as Brother Job once did, in
sackcloth and ash; or better yet, just shut up and listen for a
change. There are some questions that just too paradoxical to be
answered. What color the rain? What does blue sound like? To name
only a few. .
And where does that leave us?
Perhaps nowhere! There are some things man may never know, at least
on this side of the grave. And still we ask: Who is God? And if not
a person, at least as far as our imaginations dare to go and for
those of us who do not believe in the Incarnation, well then – What
is he? If you were to ask the sons of sailors this, they will merely
shake their salty beards in unison and proclaim what they've always
believed but are sometimes a little reluctant to admit: Why – God is
a fish, of course! And they wouldn't be far off the mark in their
cold-blooded, either. But exactly what kind of fish is He? you may
ask. A great white shark? Or perhaps a giant squid. We may never
know; although, from a personal perspective, a great spermaceti
whale often comes to mind when pondering such monumental thoughts.
God is a fish, or so they say,
that swam the oceans of the Universe long before the stars and
planets existed in their present molecular form, before time had any
meaning. And in that expansive emptiness, He created the heavens and
the earth, along with countless stars, constellations, galaxies, and
all heavenly matter too numerous to mention and too complex for the
human mind to comprehend in its present finite state. The angels
were his first born, of course; sprung from His own impenetrable
mind and, quite understandably, His highest achievement; but even
these were flawed, as some eventually rebelled, before being driven
down into the fiery furnaces of the newly forming planets. Seeing
that His work was not yet complete, and compelled by his own
infinite imagination, God created man, giving him dominion over all
the earth, which he'd also created in that same divine and creative
process. And from there...who knows? Creativity has no bonds and knows
no limitations. Still, that same old nagging question remains; the
one that has confounded and confused Mankind ever since – Why? But
to find that out, we must first find out who; or what. But we
already know that, don't we? God is a fish! – in all His ubiquitous
and omnipresent glory. God is a fish! Catch Him if you can. Touch
him, you die. But chase him, you must; to the ends of the earth; in
all the oceans of the world, if that's what it takes. Seek Him out
and you will find Him; or perhaps, He will find you! which, as the
sons of sailors all know, is more likely the case. And be careful,
lads! He is also a dangerous fish. He gives life and takes it back.
without pride or prejudice, without fear of favor; and sometimes,
without warning. But he is a merciful fish, too. He heals the earth
after he destroys it, and makes rainbows out of storm clouds. And to
those who claim that God is a merciless fish that knows no justice,
well... they know nothing of justice or mercy then... or fish for that
matter. Real faith takes real work, and courage; or at least, it
should. And we should not be too afraid to fight, even though we
perish in the battle, as the sons of sailors often do.
But speak not of courage to
these brave and gentle souls; for they know that the sea is full of
heroes, as well as villains and fools. It is a place where madmen
go, sometimes; and it is not for the faint of heart, the weak of
mind, or the poor of spirit. Neither is it for the pious and proud
commodores of this world who, in their never-ending quest for fame,
fortune, and immortality (notice how the three often becoming
indistinguishable to these poor devils) often find themselves
floundering on the rocks, shipwrecked on the shoals, or sunk in the
junkyards of the deep where Titans and Krakens pick their mythical
teeth with the bones of tyrants, thieves, and murders.
But God is also a benevolent
fish. He loves what He creates, even when it does not love Him back.
And He's willing to die for it. But beware! This is a jealous fish.
He said so Himself. So take care, and always be on guard, least the
terrors and beauties of the deep take you down, drowning you in a
sea of wanting desire that makes you forget who it is who's doing
the creating, the drowning, and the killing all along. It is all
part of master plan of Creation. And don't be fooled by Evolution;
there is a difference between the two: Evolution, from a purely
logical point of view, may yet prove to be no more than the physical
manifestation of Creation that can otherwise never be explained to
the satisfaction of more limited and finite minds in all its
intricacies and complexities, but the same cannot be said of
Creation. It just doesn't work that way. Try explaining the advanced
theories of quantum-physics to your average Neanderthal, and you
will probably get your head handed to you... on a spit! But simply and
calmly tell him or anyone else for that matter, and in no uncertain
terms, that God created the Heavens and the Earth and leave it at
that, and then you may at least get a polite nod from the brute
before he grunts and walks away, knuckles dragging in utter
confusion. Indeed, Creation may tell us something about Evolution;
but Evolution tells us nothing, or at least very little, about
Creation. How could it? It wasn't even around when it happened.
And finally, if you are one of
those sorry souls who think God is a fish with no sense of humor,
just think of a rich man attempting to navigate his overloaded camel
through the Biblical eye of a needle; or Abraham being told that his
wife would give birth to a son at ninety years old: and that he
would be the father! Imagine Saint Peter being left in charge – of
anything! Think of the Jews, God's own chosen people wondering
around in the desert for forty years – and laugh! Or better yet,
glance into a quiet pool of water on some calm and pleasant morning
and tell me what you see. Perhaps then you will know who you are.
More importantly, you will know who He is. God is a fish! The sons
of sailors know it. And if you listen real close, you just might
hear them sing....
FIRST MATE:
"A young man heard a voice one day,
'Come sail away with me!
A sailor's life is clean and strong,
The way life ought to be.
SECOND MATE:
"The sailor came back home one day,
A 'riding on the tide.
Just to hear a young girl tell him,
'I will be your bride."
THIRD MATE:
"He settled down in Harbor Town
To see his dreams come true.
He had a son who, like his dad
Had eyes of navy blue."
PILOT: (Snoring)
"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"
FIRST MATE:
"His son grew up and went his way
As sons of sailors do.
And had a son, who like his dad
Had eyes of navy blue."
SECOND MATE:
"One day the sailor saw a light
Which split his heart in two.
The water rushed into his veins.
From that day on it grew."
THIRD MATE:
"One day the tide came in they say
Just like the days before.
A voice cried out from far away:
'Come sail with me once more!'"
PILOT: (Snoring)
"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"
ONE-EYED SAILOR:
"A sailor's life is like the Sea
Which rolls in with the tide.
It comes and goes, then fads away,
But never really dies..."
He remembered it now. It was
the same song he heard the woman was singing, down by the river
where the little boy was skipping stones. And with that done, the
four old shipmates, along with the smelly old skunk, charged their
pipes and fell quietly back into each other's arms, as son sailors
often do at times like these.
Their faces would remain with
the Harlie forever, just like the face in the stone. It was their
eyes that told the real story; clear and penetrating; blue, like the
sea itself; eyes that gaze inward as well as out, like the windows
to the soul some claim them to be; eyes that pierce like lightning
bolts in the eye of the storm, away and aloft, and burn like coals
in the bottom of the pit; eyes that have looked upon sea and sky;
eyes that have seen war, and death; eyes that have gazed upon the
inscrutable face of God, which is what sets them apart from all
other creatures, and lived to speak of it, or so they claim. And if
you ask them what they saw... well, I don't think they would tell
you; at least not in so many words. It's not what sons of sailors
do. But if you just have to know what God looks like, you just might
get the answer the Harlie got that day when he looked into those
same starry eyes of the mariner: 'What is God?'Why, God is a fish,
of course, a glow-fish! What else?'
And it should come as no
surprise; for not unlike the very first sons of sailors who, at one
time or another, shared the same metaphysical form and swam the
infinite sea of immortality, God has always been a fish. But they're
mortal now, through no fault of their own it could well be argued,
with human needs and desires, as well as organs. They live, breathe,
and bleed. They die. They feel pain. They are caught. But without
their mermaid wives, the ones they'd forsaken so long ago in their
liquid past for the fatal and fleeting trappings of Humanity, they
were doomed to certain extinction along with all other living
things.
They lived now only for the
sea, and yearn for the land that'd placed them in their earthly
predicament to begin with, shackled by lungs and limbs they could
never escape. These are the sons of Sailors. They plow the oceans
and pray for land; a handful of dirt, perhaps; a blade of grass.
They exist now in floating prisons of their own making; a wooden
hearse, a leaky coffin, with nothing to hear but the lonely cry of a
gull and nothing to see but the endless blue horizon. But somehow
that's enough. Occasionally, they may sight a solitaire humpback, a
lonely albatross, the fin of a dolphin, either off in the distance
or flanking their starboard, guiding them gently onward or riding
their foamy white wake. Perhaps it's the subtle flukes of a mermaid;
or maybe a manatee lost at sea, as it sometimes happens to these
gentle coast-dwelling mammals that are often confused with mermaids
(especially during protracted voyages such as whaling expeditions
that could last well up to three years or more) by the lonely seamen
onboard who make little or no allowance for the obvious differences
separating the species. Indeed, these gentle but ugly sea cows were
often mistaken for the long lost mermaids of old; the same ones who,
unlike their foolish husbands, had refused to surrender their gills
and flukes for lungs and feet. Whatever they were, they were only
there to remind them of who and what they once were, where they came
from, and what they really were meant to be – A fish!
Aye! God is a fish. And if you
don't believe that, just ask the glow-fish... or the Fisherman
himself! for that matter.
The raccoon seems to have a
special relationship to fish. A whole group of tales recounts how
two hunters following a raccoon trail him right up to a tree stump.
When one of the hunters looks in, he sees in the water that has
collected inside, not a raccoon at all, but a fish. One of the men
eats this raccoon-turned-fish, and as a result, finds himself
overcome with thirst and must seek out the lake to quench it. Soon
he becomes a Fish Spirit himself. In this role he grants his friend
blessings. In one variant, it is Waterspirits that set this train of
events into motion, so that the raccoon-fish is their servant.
There was a large
settlement on the shores of a lake and among it's people were two
very old blind men. It was decided to move these men to the
opposite side of the lake where they might live in safety as their
settlement was exposed to attacks of enemies and they could easily
be captured and killed. So the relatives of the old men got a
canoe, some food, a kettle, and a bowl and started across the lake
where they built for them a wigwam in a grove some distance from the
water. A line was stretched from the door of the wigwam to a post
in the water so that the old men would have no difficulty in helping
themselves. The food and vessels were put into the wigwam and after
the relatives of the old men promised them that they would come back
often and keep them provided with everything they needed, the
relatives returned to their settlement. The two old blind men began
taking care of themselves. On one day, one of them would do the
cooking while the other went for water and on the next day, they
would change about in their work so their labor was evenly divided.
As they knew just how much food they required for each meal, the
quantity prepared was equally divided but was eaten out of the one
bowl which they had. Here they lived in contentment for several
years but one day Raccoon, who had been following the water's edge
looking for crawfish, came to the line which had been stretched from
the lake to the wigwam. Raccoon thought it rather curious to find a
cord where he had before observed none and wondered to
himself,"What is this? I think I shall follow this cord to see
where it leads". So Raccoon followed the path along which the cord
was stretched until he came to the wigwam. Approaching very
cautiously, Raccoon went up to the entrance where he saw the two old
men asleep on the ground, their heads at the door and their feet
directed towards a heap of hot coals within. Raccoon sniffed about
and soon found there was something good to be eaten within the
wigwam but decided not to enter for fear of waking the old men so he
retired a short distance to hide himself to see what they would do.
Soon the old men awoke and one said to the other, "My friend, I am
getting hungry, let us prepare some food". "Very well", replied his
companion, "you go down to the lake and fetch some water while I get
the fire started". Raccoon heard this conversation and wishing to
deceive the old man, immediately ran to the water and untied the
cord from the post and carried it to a clump of bushes and tied it
there. When the old blind man came along with his kettle to get
water, he stumbled around in the brush until he found the end of the
cord and began to dip his kettle upon the ground for water. Not
finding any, he slowly returned to the wigwam and said to his
companion, "we shall surely die because the lake has dried up and
the brush has grown where we used to get water. What shall we do"?
"That cannot be", responded his companion, "for we have not been
asleep long enough for the brush to grow upon the lake bed. Let me
go and see if I can get some water". Taking the kettle from his
friend he started off. Now as soon as the first old man had
returned to the wigwam, Raccoon took the cord and tied it back where
he had found it to wait to see the results. The second old man came
along, entered the lake and getting his kettle full of water,
returned to the wigwam saying as he entered, "My friend, you told me
what was not true. There is water enough, for here you see, I have
our kettle full". The other could not understand this at all and
wondered what had caused this deception. Raccoon approached the
wigwam to await the cooking of the food and when it was ready, the
pieces of meat, for there were eight of them, were put into the bowl
and the old men sat down on the ground facing each other with the
bowl between them. Each took a piece of the meat and they began to
talk of various things and enjoy themselves. Raccoon quietly
removed four pieces of the meat from the bowl and began to eat them
enjoying the feast even more than the old blind men. Soon one of
old men reached into the bowl to get another piece of meat and
finding that only two pieces remained said, "My friend, you must be
very hungry to eat so quickly, I have had only one piece and there
are but two pieces left". The other replied, "I have not taken them
but suspect you have eaten them yourself". The other replied more
angrily than before and thus they argued and Raccoon, desiring to
have even more fun, tapped each of them on the face. The old men,
each believing the other had struck him, began to fight. Rolling
over the floor of the wigwam, upsetting the bowl and the kettle and
causing the fire to be scattered. Raccoon then took the two
remaining pieces of meat and made his exit from the wigwam laughing
"Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha". The old men instantly ceased their arguing for
they now knew they had been deceived. Raccoon then remarked to
them, "I have played a nice trick on you. You should not find fault
with each other so easily". Raccoon then went on to continue
crawfish hunting along the lake shore.
Chapter Eight
A Conspiracy of One
MEANWHILE, ON BOARD THE MARIA AURORA, Roger Morgan was looking over some old
sea charts when Mister Elijah Hatch entered the captain's cabin. He
did not look up as the merchant ducked his tall black hat under the
low hanging door.
"Just about ready, captain,"
the merchant reported.
"Good!" answered the captain,
digging the point of his divider in his hardwood surface of his
desk. "Have a seat, Mister Hatch. I want to talk to you."
"About what, Roger?"
"Ohhhh, about Max... and other
things."
"Anything wrong?" asked the
gray beard from under his hat that was all but scraping the beam of
the captain's aft quarters even as he sat down.
"It's the navy," stated
Morgan, as simply and plainly as he could under the circumstances.
"They've been asking questions."
"Oh?"
"This ain't the merchants,
Hatch."
The merchant grinned, "Oh,
really?" He was wondering if the captain was referring to anyone in
particular.
"It's not like..."
"The good ol' days – Eh,
Roger?"
"Something like that, I
'spose," replied Morgan. And here the captain looked up from his
charts and studied the man in front of him, as if for the very first
time. "We just do things a little differently now," he said with all
the authority vested in his position, "That's all."
"So I've heard."
"You know what I mean,
Elijah,"
"Something about the mission,
I suppose?"
"It's a little more
complicated than that," insisted the captain of the Maria Aurora,
"And personal."
Me?" said the merchant, acting
overly surprised.
"They don't trust you, Hatch."
The hat laughed. "But you do?"
"It's not funny."
"It is to me."
"Well, don't worry," said the
captain, forcing a weak smile from behind the oversized desk. "I'll
take care of it."
"Anything I can do?"
"Not without a uniform."
"Never did me much good
before," stated the merchant with little deference to his former
commission. "Besides, I don't see any braids on your shoulder."
Roger Morgan didn't like
wearing uniforms, despite the fact that he looked very handsome in
them; especially when he wore his dress whites, which women found
most attractive. He never wanted to stand out from his crew, even
when protocol demanded such distinction; it was just not his style
of command. Besides, in the heat of battle, wearing your rank is
really not such a good idea. It makes for too easy a target, as any
good officer will attest to, if he's ever been there. For the most
part, and when he could get away with it, Captain Morgan wore what
his men wore, ate what they ate, drank what they drank, and swore
when they swore. He even stood watch in the mast-head, as all hands
onboard are called on to do from time to time as sailors before the
mast. The captain of the Maria Aurora had always assumed, and
rightfully so, that if his men wouldn't obey him for who he was,
then no uniform would make any difference, nor should it. "Sit down,
Mister Hatch," he finally said.
"I prefer to stand, captain,"
replied the merchant, with all due respect.
Morgan looked up again, but
only for a second. "You never did like taking orders. Did you,
Hatch?"
"Was that an order, Captain?"
"No," said Morgan, with an
uneasy but sincere smile.
Mister Hatch nodded politely.
"Good," he said. And then he quietly removed his hat and sat down.
"So, it's still all about
orders," thought the captain out loud, going through some papers on
his desk, "You should've thought about that before you joined the
navy
It was a sore subject. Elijah
Hatch knew it would come up sooner or later, although for the sake
of their friendship, he'd always hoped it would be at a time when
they were both too old to care and under less stressful
circumstances, like banging their heads and glasses together on a
topical island somewhere in the Southern Seas; under a palm tree,
perhaps, smoking their pipes and praying for a breeze as they
watched the native women stroll along the beach in their customary
grass skirts. And it could still happen that way, Elijah was just
then thinking to himself. But things would never be quite the same
between the two. It had been an honorable divorce, and not just from
the Navy. It was one Elijah never regretted, however; and he never
looked back since. But he knew that's not why he was there. "I
should've thought about a lot of things," he reminded the
officer.
"Is that why you left the
Fleet?
"I didn't leave the Fleet,
Roger," replied the merchant, with a hint of sadness in his broken
voice, "The Fleet left me. Or, if you want get technical, it left
without me."
"Well, I suppose you're right,
Elijah. But that's just way it is... or was. Besides, you knew what
you were getting yourself into before you took command. They told
you..."
"I know what they told me,"
interrupted the merchant, running his fingers along the black brim
of his tabled hat, noticing how old and wrinkled the cloth had
become over the years. "It's what they didn't tell me, that makes it
so damn frustrating."
"Oh, that..." replied the
captain, recalling the slave ship and the incident that cost Captain
Hatch his commission at the time. "Forget it."
"Some things you don't forget
so easily," replied the hatless gray-head.
"Well, if it'll make you feel
any better, they haven't forgotten about you either, Elijah."
"Nice of them to remember."
"And neither have I," reminded
Roger Morgan.
"They haven't forgotten your
rank, either," added the commander of the Maria Aurora who, as the
merchant was just beginning to suspect, might be having second
thoughts about the mission they were both about to embark on. Either
that, he imagined, or there was a slight change in plans, which was
equally disconcerting. "You know too much, Elijah, "stated the
captain, quite frankly and his official capacity. "And that's the
problem. It scares 'em. And it spooks me a little, too."
"Good," replied the merchant."
I get nervous when those in power are not scared, or spooked as you
say. That's when they're most dangerous, you know."
Captain Morgan was not
surprised at the merchant's hostile attitude towards his former
superiors. He had a right to be angry. Not because they were wrong
and he was right; but simply because they knew it, but were just
afraid to admit it. The slave trade continued, even after the war;
and the Navy was still a big part of it. And that meant Captain
Elijah Hatch was part of it too, just like Max and Morgan, whether
he liked it or not. Hatch didn't; and he suspected 'Max' didn't like
it either, but was merely following orders, just like everyone else
in those days. Morgan however, he was never quite sure of.
"I told them you were
retiring," re-assured the captain, "That you just wanted to be left
alone... to be let off on some God-forsaken Island with a bottle of
rum in one hand and some young native girl in the other, just like
all the rest."
"Actually, that's not such a
bad idea,"
"Retiring?"
"No," insisted the merchant,
"the part about the young native girl and the rum."
"Some things never change –
Eh, Hatch?"
"And what about the mission?"
Morgan smiled. "Nothing has
changed... Well, almost nothing."
"So, they actually they
believed you?"
The captain knew he was
sailing in uncharted water at that moment, and he really didn't like
it; he never did. "'Course not, Hatch," he finally had to confess,
"But who would?"
"I did," returned the
merchant, reluctantly, "...at one time."
It wasn't exactly a shot
across the bow, but it was the closest thing to it, and the only way
Elijah Hatch could make Roger Morgan know that there was still some
unfinished business left between them. They lived in different
worlds now, and both had gone their separate ways; one went on to
become a merchant, the other, a captain. Only one had survived in
both, Elijah Hatch; and that's what was bothering him at the time.
"You look a little troubled,
Mister Hatch," noticed the captain, "What's ailin' you, man?"
"Nothing I won't get over."
Morgan sat up and stared.
"It's been long time, Roger,"
reminded the merchant, looking out of the tiny stern window located
directly above the captain's head at some red storm clouds brewing
on the watery horizon. It was still light outside, which made them
appear even more menacing. He paused. Never a man for dwelling too
much on the past, Elijah Hatch preferred living in the present; or
even the future for that matter, which he at least had some
influence over. Pulling scabs off old wounds just wasn't his style,
even after they had time enough to heal and would've fallen off
naturally anyway. And doing in so in the presence of old friends and
shipmates who might well have sympathized with his later run-ins
with the navy, both personal and professional, would only make it
more painful. He then sighed and summarized, "But it all worked out
for the best, I suppose. And I'm still here. They can't get rid of
me that easily."
"Lord knows they tried," the
captain agreed.
"And I still doing what I've
always done," noted the merchant, a bit more optimistically perhaps.
"Making Admiral's nervous?"
Elijah pretended not to hear.
"Actually, when you get right down to it, Roger, the only difference
is pay and protocol.
"Money's not everything,"
reminded the captain with a hint of disdain for the civilian branch
the noble and time-honored profession that he was still very much a
part of.
"No, but you have to admit the
merchants do pay better. And you don't have to..."
"Take orders?"
"That, too! But I think you
know what I mean."
"It comes with the job,
Hatch," reminded the captain.
Of course, no one knew that
better than Mister Elijah Hawthorne Hatch who'd always performed his
job well, no matter how menial, or thankless, the task. Even as a
boy, cutting bait for the fishing boats out of Old Port Fierce,
young Elijah took pride in his profession; and he always took it
seriously. It was no wonder he rose through the ranks as quickly as
he did. Captain Maximilian Orlando obviously saw something in the
youth that impressed him a great deal, which was precisely why the
captain of the Firefly took young Hatch under his sure and steady
wings as soon as he was old enough to join the Navy. The sons of
sailors noticed it as well: the stuff officers were made of. Roger
Morgan had it, too. Some said he had too much of it – Elijah Hatch
was one of them.
The merchant shook his head.
"That still doesn't make it right."
The merchant's last remark,
aimed squarely at the captain's broadside, found its mark. It was a
statement that might have insulted any other officer, but not so
Roger Morgan; he knew Mister Hatch and, in his own conscientious
way, he knew the merchant was right. It was just Elijah's way of
reminding the captain of the Maria Aurora who the senior officer
onboard really was, and perhaps still is.
"Just doing my job," the
captain replied, going back to his charts.
"It was my job, too. That's
why I quit, Roger – Remember?"
The captain didn't immediately
reply. How could he? He didn't quit; he'd stayed on, even when his
own motives were brought into question. Roger Morgan had navigated
these murky waters with the conscientious merchant before. He was
talking about the war, the slave trade, and something that happened
ten years onboard the Firefly twenty years ago.
"Look'ye here, Hatch," the
captain argued, looking up from his cluttered desk, "We won! Didn't
we? We beat the gray bastards and salvaged the Union, or what was
left of it. And it wasn't that easy. So what if we sold a few bloody
savages in the process. They were cannibals, man... Or, what is that
other word you used?"
"Ferals," replied
Hatch, "They were called Ferals, sir. Still are in some
parts."
"Ah, yes... Ferals. A
wild name for a wild animal. Dogs!"
"They were men, captain,"
corrected the merchant.
"They were slaves," countered
the captain, "just like the Negroes from Africa. And we made a nice
profit – didn't we?
"They were men none-the-less,
Roger. No matter what price you put on them."
Morgan fired back. "I'll
remind you we lost more than a few good men of own in the
process. Or have you forgotten the Monitor?
"And that's another
thing..."
But before the merchant could
finish his thought, the captain stood up and demanded to know: "Just
what the hell do you want from me anyway, Hatch!"
In his own sober and
solicitous way, the merchant took back his command, if only for the
moment. "I want..." he began, pausing for a moment of reverence, "I
want the blood of those brave men to mean something, captain. And
not just the ones that won. We all bled during those years, blue and
gray – including the so-called Ferals; and their blood was no
different than yours, or mine. They were men, Roger."
"And if I remember correctly,"
reminded the captain, seating himself back down behind his
handsomely carved desk, "they fought on both sides, as strange as
that may seem to some."
"They did what they were told
to do, Roger."
"Just like everyone else, I
suppose."
"And they died."
"Some things are worth dying
for," stated the merchant, stoically Deep down he knew Morgan
agreed He was a good man, a fair man, not unlike the great
Maximilian Orlando himself who'd taught them both so well, not only
what it means to be a sons of a sailors but what it meant to be men
of authority and consequence.
"For God and country,"
reminded the captain."
"Men don't die for their
country," he further elucidated upon the explosive subject of war,
"They die for themselves, their families, and their future. "As for
God... well that's between them and their maker."
The captain of the Maria
Aurora knew very well what his friend the merchant was talking
about, and it was not just about the past. It was no secret that the
navy was more than complicit when it came to the illegal
transportation of human contraband, feral or otherwise, even
after the war; and he was wise enough to know laws seldom changed
things, at least in the worlds he revolved in. He also knew the
merchant was right, about war at least: the right side did win;
although there would always be those who disagreed. He'd found that
out when the first bullet was fired at him, and missed. But it was
not his job question the outcome, only to obey orders. It wasn't
always that simple, as Mister Hatch was soon to find out. And it
wasn't about politics or patriotism, either, or right and wrong.
It's more personal than that, more important. It's was life and
death.
The outlawed slave trade was
still alive and well at the time, albeit under new management
consisting chiefly of ex-privateers who had learned their trade at
the Navy's expense, along with a number of renegade pirates who,
because of the Navy's growing influence over the high seas, soon
found themselves out of a job and with little else to do. It was a
marriage made in Hell, you might say, but one that worked quite
heavenly. The wages of sin were set long before the war ever
started, and so was the price; not in stone, where it could easily
be seen by discerning eyes and counted accordingly, but rather
behind closed doors, in smoky back rooms, even in the captains'
quarters where autocracy was the rule of the day and questions were
seldom, if ever, answered. To put it succinctly, and in more
commercial terms: the privateers provided the ships; the pirates,
the muscle; and, for a small but substantial percentage of the
corruptible profits, the Navy simply looked the other way. And so
did Roger Morgan who just then fired off another round at his
formidable but friendly foe. "We all have our orders, Hatch, even
you," he said with a hint of jealousy that didn't go entirely
undetected by his former superior, "Our job is to simply carry them
out."
There were those who would
disagree with the captain's assertion; Elijah Hatch was one of them,
although there was a good bit of truth in what Morgan said. He'd
been down this watery road before with the captain of the Maria
Aurora and once it almost drowned him; and although he knew it would
useless to debate the issue any further, he thought he might try,
but some other time; there were still more important things to
consider, and discuss. And so, he did what he usually did in these
kinds of situations – he simply changed the subject, even though he
really didn't want to. "I see you still don't like to wear your
uniform," declared the former captain, suspiciously eyeing the
common white blouse Morgan was wearing that day, the same kind the
sailors often wore.
"As I recall," reminisced the
captain, casting a weary but critical eye on black attire morbidly
adorning the tall frame of his friend across of the table, "you
never much cared for uniforms yourself."
"Dark clothes for a dark man,
Roger" returned the merchant, grimly. "Lately, I prefer black."
"You're beginning to sound
like one of those damn black sailors," rejoined the captain. "And
you look like one, too."
What the captain of the Maria
Aurora was referring to at the time, perhaps more irreverently than
he should have, was a particular band of Christian sailors known as
the Black Friars. They were brothers, actually, in the ecumenical
sense; men of the cloth; Franciscans, missionaries who've until this
very day traversed the watery part of the globe in a magnificent
Galleon of Spanish marked by a single black jib that bellowed from
its bowsprit in a sea of white sheets. Black! It also happened to be
the color of their long dark robes, which seemed to fit them so
well, all the way down to the ankles, in fact, and secured about the
waist with a simple knotted rope. Three knots to signify the three
Holy Vows of poverty, chastity and obedience which they observed
religiously, on land as well as sea. Their ship was called the
Evangeline. She was armed with fourteen cannon, port and starboard,
a wide variety of smaller firearms and swords, and fifty-two capable
Christians who knew how to use them. Black were her colors, as
evidenced by that one billowing banner mariners respected and
pirates feared. And on that lonely black patch of canvass their
mission was clearly defined in the form of a bloody red crucifix
sown visibly into the sheet as inextricably as it was sown into
their own mortal souls. How long they'd sailed under that
unmistakable and sometimes inscrutable insignia was unknown; but it
is documented that their voyages pre-dated many of the earlier
expeditions to the Islands, including those undertaken by Captain
Walter Stanley who was said to have been the very first white man,
and a fine Christian captain in his own right, to 'walk among the
cannibals'. But that's another story all together, and one worth
mentioning; but for some other time perhaps.
Morgan looked not a little
surprised. "Don't tell me you're taking up the cloth now, Elijah.
Never took you for a religious man."
The merchant managed a weak
but genuine smile. "Like I said before: black has just become more
appealing to me lately. It wears better, too! White stains too
easily. Know who taught me that, Roger?" motioned the merchant
Roger really didn't have to
ask. "Those black bastards?"
"They're friars, captain.
They're called the 'Black Friars'."
"Among other things," reminded
the captain. He was thinking just then that perhaps the old renegade
finally found his true calling, which may or may not have explained
his most recent conversion, not to mention his righteous attitude.
"What else did they teach you, Hatch?"
The dark merchant slumped down
in his chair, slowly and silently, the way old men sometimes do, as
though the weight of the world was just lowered on top of his
shoulders. "Things that wouldn't interest you, Roger," he said.
"You'd be surprised what
interests me lately."
"Would I?"
"Say what you want, captain,"
reminded Roger, looking across the desk at his senior officer with
affectionate blue eyes, "but some things do change."
The merchant was skeptical.
"It's been a long time since you called me that," he smiled across
the table.
"What – captain?"
"And I appreciate that, Roger.
I really do. But I guess it doesn't matter anymore. You're in
command now; and that's the way it has to be. Me? I'm just a grocery
store clerk."
Morgan didn't necessarily
agree. "You're a man on a mission, sir," he quietly reminded his
superior officer.
The mission the captain spoke
of had been in the planning stages for over six months. It was
actually quite plain and simple, as the most dangerous missions are;
and so was the objective: To find Captain Maximilian Orlando and
bring him home safety. That was the order. It was the means of
carrying out that order that was perhaps not so plain and simple.
Morgan knew there would problems; but nothing that couldn't be
solved, or at least negotiated. That's why he included the merchant
to begin with. No one knew the islands, or the people who lived
there, better than Mister Elijah Hatch. Convincing the Admiralty of
that was just one of his latest challenges. He knew it wouldn't be
easy. And it wasn't. There were still those in power who would've
had the renegade merchant, who they'd always considered a 'loose
cannon' anyway, flogged and hanged for insubordination, which, by
the way, was not only justified during time of war, but encouraged.
But they finally acquiesced. At one time Morgan had thought of
giving up on the idea of finding Orlando altogether, thinking his
former commander to be dead by now anyway; but he needed an excuse
to further his political and economic ambitions. He needed a
mission. He also needed Elijah Hatch, who knew more about the
Islands than anyone.
"I feel old, Roger... as old and
scared as the hills of Jerusalem," stated the gray-haired merchant
marine, grimly, "like an anchor that's been lowered too many times...
covered in barnacles, and rusted." It was Elijah's way of letting
the captain of the Maria Aurora know his true feelings and, in his
own metaphorical way, what he was really on his mind.
Sensing a sudden reluctance on
the part of the 'grocery store clerk' to follow through with the
mission, Morgan beseeched his former shipmate, "Just one more time,
Hatch. That's all. I promise."
"So your mind's made up then?
"Has been for quite some time
now. It's your mind I'm worried about, Hatch."
"How's that, captain?"
Morgan looked down at the tall
black hat resting on the table, the top of which was level with his
own shoulders. "Mabutoo," he said, rolling up his eyes without
moving his massive head.
"The king?" questioned the
merchant with a single raised eyebrow.
Knowing full well what was
going on inside Hatch's fertile but sometimes impenetrable brain,
Roger Morgan only confirmed what the merchant had already suspected
for some time now: The king of Istari-Toa had to be eliminated.
"Mabutoo has to die," the
captain plainly stated for the first time since the mission was
proposed. "There's just no other way. That's what I wanted to talk
to you about, Mister Hatch... along with some other personal matters
no one else has to know about.
"Navy know about this, Roger?"
"Well maybe they do and maybe
they don't," said the captain. "You know the rules, Hatch – No
assassinations. It's in the code.
"Well at least you've read
it."
Morgan grinned. "Yes," he
acknowledged, "but that doesn't mean we can't engage the enemy. And
there isn't anything in the code about getting lucky. All it takes
is one shot, you know."
"So, that's what this is
really all about – personal matters. It's between you and Mabutoo.
Ain't it?"
"You said it, Mister Hatch.
Not me."
"Well, let me say something
else, Mister Morgan. I'm against it! You just can't... you don't kill
a king."
"You're wrong," the captain
calmly contended. "That's exactly what you do with a tyrant,
especially one like Mabutoo. What else can you do – take him
prisoner? Com'on, man! That's what this is all about.
"I thought it was all about
Max," said the merchant, referring back to the original orders of
locating the missing commander of New Fort Stanley, Maximilian
Orlando.
As previously stated, finding
Captain Maximilian Orlando was the true objective of the mission.
He'd been kidnapped, or so it seemed, by a small army of King
Mabutoo's warriors. To what end was still unclear, although many
suspected it was for a ransom yet undisclosed. There were others,
however, who'd assumed it had something to do with the illegal slave
trade that still flourished in that remote part of the world. Elijah
Hatch was among them. And when first approached by the captain of
the Maria Aurora to search for the missing commandant, the ex-naval
officer jumped at the chance; not only for sentimental reasons,
which were obvious enough to Captain Morgan, but also for more
personal, and selfish, ones; he just wanted to see the islands
again.
"Oh, I'll find Max alright,"
insisted the captain, "with your help, of course. I already have
some ideas about what might've happened to him. But we have bigger
fish to fry right now."
"Mabutoo's a mighty big fish,"
suggested the merchant, cautiously eyeing the man on the other side
of the table.
"We'll just have to use big
bait then. Won't we Mister Hatch?"
"We, captain? I don't remember
sayin 'Aye'.
"Where's your spine, Elijah? I
know you want it as much as me. Besides, it'll be just like old
times."
"Assassination's still against
the Law, captain... even on the islands."
"Only if they can prove it,
Mister Hatch," reminded the captain, "And only if we get caught."
"And what does the Admiral
have to say about all this?"
"He doesn't know. This is
strictly confidential," warned the commander of the Maria Aurora in
a tone the merchant wasn't used to hearing from his onetime first
mate "This is between you and me, Hatch. No one else."
"And Mabutoo?"
Morgan smiled and repeated,
"It's the only way,"
Elijah Hatch looked more
bewildered than he did surprised. "I see, Roger," he resigned.
The captain said, "I don't
think you do. Not only is Mabutoo holding Max prisoner, as I for one
believe; but he's also interfering with business."
"And what business might that
be, captain?"
"You know damn well what I'm
talking about, Hatch."
"I'm afraid I do."
"Mabutoo must die."
"Sounds serious," said the
merchant, grimly.
The captain nodded.
The truth of the matter was
that King Mabutoo had been selling off his own people, as slaves,
not only to the pirate ships who frequented that part of the world
in search of the illicit contraband, but anyone else who was willing
to pay the premium, which, after the war and due to the new
sanctions imposed on any foreign nationals engaging in the criminal
importation of slaves that had since been abolished from the
continent, was at an all time high.
But it seems that the king
had become too greedy, as happens to all monarchs who rise to power
too quickly and too ambitiously; and his asking price had lately
become unreasonable. And besides that, he was in need of
replenishing his dwindling armies, for whatever diabolical purposes
he might have in mind. There was even talk of insurrection, and
putting an end to his lucrative slave trade, much to the chagrin of
Mabutoos's equally greedy counselors who'd profited greatly over the
years at the expense of their own relatives who were currently
enslaved on the sugar and tobacco plantations scattered about the
Caribbean. And as for those who dared to oppose they young monarch,
their heads were promptly placed on sticks long before they could
voice any real opposition to his majesty's agenda (or any of his
other regal decisions for that matter) and were at a loss to do
anything about it, since Mabutoo, for all intents and purposes, was
a god (as were all descendents of the royal blood-line) and just as
infallible when it came to these and other sovereign matters; for as
even the lowliest cannibal knows, you just don't argue with a god.
It was the young ones, naturally, who supported the king's position,
and were hungry for war. Still, there were those on the island who
saw it as a way of weeding out the inferior, especially some of the
older warriors who had grown accustomed to selling off their people,
despite their dwindling numbers. To them it was simply business as
usual; and on the Island of Istari-Toa, at least, business was never
better. Mabutoo would change all that, however; and nobody knew that
better than Roger Morgan who was still very much engaged in the
unlawful act. He often wondered why Elijah Hatch, a man of good old
American enterprise and ingenuity, didn't see it his way, which is
exactly why he was making such a bold proposition that day, despite
the obvious risks it entailed. "Mabutoo has to die," he firmly
stated, looking more in command than ever. "It's as simple as that."
"Simple?" questioned the
merchant.
The captain shrugged. "Mabutoo
has many enemies...We all do."
"What if someone finds out?"
Hatch demanded to know. "You just don't kill a king. I know these
people, Roger. I've lived with them. I've walked among cannibals.
They may be savages, man! and they'll skin you alive if you give
them half a chance and less of a reason, but they ain't idiots. They
have their sovereignty, and their king...not to mention an army of
blood-thirsty warriors. Mabutoo knows how to control them, the way
all dictators do – with fear. It works, everytime. And there ain't
one savage, not that I can think of anyway, who would betray him.
It's just doesn't happen that way. It's taboo! Bad Medicine. Don't
forget they're still heathens. Others will hear of it as well,"
reminded the merchant. "These islanders have a way of coming
together when threatened by outside forces. And they don't surrender
so easily. Remember what happened at Fort Stanley. And they'll burn
down the new fort as well, along with all the soldiers stationed
there. Max could be among the casualties. Think of it! Isn't that
what this mission is all about – saving Max? And what would the
Military have to say about that! These things have a way of coming
home to roost, you know. And the last thing we want is to fight
another civil war on some god forsaken island."
"I thought we were in
agreement, Elijah," said the captain.
"I agreed that Mabutoo should
be overthrown. Yes!"
"Me too!" exclaimed Morgan.
"And that's just what I intend to do."
"But all this talk about
killing..." said the merchant while placing the stove-pipe hat back on
his heated head, as if to also say: I've heard enough, I'm done. But
he wasn't through yet. "You're turning this into a political matter,
as well as a personal one," Elijah Hatch further admonished the
would-be assassin. "The way I see it, captain, this is all beginning
to sound like a conspiracy of one. And you know how the Navy feels
about conspirators."
Although the Navy was, as
previously mentioned, willing to 'look the other way' when it came
to the smuggling of contraband, human or otherwise, they could in no
way condone, support, or comply with such illegal activity. It was
sticky against the naval protocol and punishable by death, usually
hanging. Both men at the captain's table were well aware of that;
only one would chose to ignore it. The captain had other
accomplices, of course; but they were dispensable, men without names
or faces, ghost in uniforms, but as real and dangerous. They simply
obeyed orders without question. As far as Roger Morgan was concerned
this was still a conspiracy of one. He was hoping to make it
two.
"And don't forget, there's
still a fort on the Island," Hatch reminded his ambitious host.
"It's not like the one in Bonestown. They have a new commander now
that Max is gone. What's his name...? Oh yes! Flemming.
"Lieutenant Randall Flemming,"
Morgan nodded, as though he'd been anticipated the merchant's latest
move. "He'll be no trouble. In fact, he may even help us. He knows
how to keep quiet. But it's not him I'm not worried about, Elijah.
It's you."
The merchant replied. "You
should be."
"These things have to done in
a certain way, you know, discreetly, and delicately; an accident,
perhaps? I'm sure Mabutoo's made more than a few enemies over the
years. Haven't we all? And everyone has their price, even a savage
cannibal who we all know would sell his own daughter for a bucket of
blood. Hell! I'll get a god-damned war going before this is all over
and make it look like he started it! I'll kill the son of a bitch
myself. There'll be no questions. Aye...we just got lucky, that's
all. Mabutoo's as good as dead. And then all we have to do is find
Max. You can take the credit if you want, I'll take the slaves... and
the money. There's still a market for good cheap labor, and not only
the Antilles. There's talk of gold, too! Think of it, man! You get
the glory and I get everything else. It's the perfect plan. The only
one standing in our way is Mabutoo.
"And don't forget the Pacific
Ocean," said Hatch, even though it was un-necessary, "... or the
Horn."
"That settles it then," said
the captain, looking up from his screwed down desk. "Forget what I
said about Mabutoo... and the slaves. Nothing gets back to the
mainland. This is strictly business, Hatch. You're a businessman.
Look, you don't have to be involved; just help me out with the minor
details. Like I said, there are those who don't even want you here."
The merchant lowered his head
so that the line of his hat angled forty-five degrees off vertical.
"It still ain't right," he replied, "And I'm already involved."
The captain of the Maria
Aurora looked back down. He fixed his eyes on the old map spread out
on the table, wising to avoid an argument he knew he couldn't win.
He knew the merchant was right, about Mabutoo at least; but he also
knew that it was too late to change course; the ship had already
left the harbor on that issue; and now his friend, the merchant, had
suddenly become more of an anchor than a wind to him. But to admit
anything else beyond that point, even the truth, would be
treasonous, considered the captain, and maybe even grounds for a
court martial. He was still naval officer of the Fleet, honor bound
by rank and duty; and he had his orders: Find Captain Maximilian
Orlando. Everything else was purely ancillary. There would be no
paper trail. No questions. It was an undocumented order; and, as far
as the Navy was concerned, one that never existed. Elijah Hatch
realized that by now, and it only made it that much more difficult
for him to refuse. Who's to say what's wrong and what's right,
Elijah," Morgan contended from a more philosophical point of view,
"It's all for the best, anyway."
"How so?" tilted the hat.
Morgan was pleased to explain.
"Look at it this way, Hatch: If you lived on some god forsaken
island in the South Pacific, or anywhere else for that matter, who
would you rather have for a king – Me? Or Mabutoo?"
"What's your point, Roger?"
"Well, the way I see it," the
captain further elucidated, "It's all just a matter time. Slavery
won't last forever, especially now that it's against the law.
History's against it! Even the military knows that. That's what the
war was all about...well, that and other things. But it's all part of
the past now. Things change. People change. A hundred years from
now... Who knows? we'll all be better off, I suppose; including the
Negro! Might even make an officer and gentlemen out of him; a
captain perhaps! But that's for others to decide. I have my own
career to think about... and my own agenda."
Morgan knew he was risking his
commission by speaking so freely to a civilian about these and other
matters; but he owed it to Hatch, along with a reasonable
explanation. "A few more slaves wouldn't make any difference, he
reckoned. "We'll make one more run, Hatch... just like the old days.
And this time we'll keep the profits for ourselves. No one will
know. No one will care. Like I said, nothing gets back to the
mainland. The arrangements have already been made. I already have
people in Jamaica ready to bargain.
"It's against the law,
captain," repeated the merchant, flatly; as much as he knew it was a
waste of time and his breath.
The captain turned his back to
the merchant and gazed patiently out the stern window. But unlike
the ever vigilant Hatch who'd previously noticed the storm clouds
gathering in the horizon, all the Morgan could see was clear blue
sky, even that late in the afternoon when the night was well upon
them. "Out there..." he said with little or no uncertainty, "We are
the law."
"This is still a democracy,
Roger... at least it was the last time I looked. Politicians make the
decisions now."
"Bastards...Whores!" howled
Morgan. "They can't obey their owe laws. Why should they expect us
to? And they write the bloody things..."
"Then we are all doomed,"
spoke the man who'd once been Roger's best friend and shipmate,
"captain or slave."
And for the first time that
day Morgan had to agree with the merchant on at least one point.
"There really is no difference then," he acknowledged.
"Who ain't a slave?" observed
the wise merchant, "even you, Roger. Think about it. We're all
Babylonians. And we serve someone, whether we know it or not.
Sometimes it's just better not to know."
"You only make my case,"
Morgan was quick to reply. "We are all indentured, man. It's just
that some are freer than others; and we have to remind ourselves of
that now and then. And what's so wrong with that? The Bible condones
it. History supports it. Men have been selling their families since,
since, they've had families to sell. Didn't our own Founding
Fathers, freedom fighters all, own slaves at one time or another,
and treated them fairly? Look at Ol' Tom Jefferson! He fathered a
bastard child from that Negro bitch, what's her name... Sally
Hemmings. Not to mention the fact that Hancock and Washington were
both moon-shiners as well as a tax-evader. Now that's Emancipation
for you. That's liberty! And wasn't the Prophet Mohammed himself a
slave trader, and a damn good one at that? How else was he going to
defeat the Crusaders? Not with seventy-two virgins, I suppose?"
It was a good argument, and
one Elijah Hatch had to agree with in more ways than he cared to
admit. The captain was right about one thing: many, if not all, of
the slaves, feral or otherwise, were indeed sold into bondage by
their own people. And in some cases, lucky for them! Think of it
this way: If not for the trials and tribulations of our
revolutionary forefathers, however unjustly suffered and heroically
endured, and the wheels they put into motion, where would any of us
be today? Still running from Hell hounds and slave-masters I should
wonder (not unlike a certain Harlie fellow we all have come to know
by now). Or perhaps, if not for the selfless sacrifices of our great
grand-parents, we wouldn't even exist at all. And who would've thunk
it? Salvation does not always come in guises we hope for, or even
expect. Would the Jew have survived long enough to realize his
promised freedom if not for Pharaoh? Could Frodo have ever reached
the Crack of Doom without Gollum to guide him there? Providence
provides, and God works in mysterious ways; ways we may not at first
approve of, understand, or even appreciate; but he provides
never-the-less. And who's to say how far even a slave can go under
that such Divine Providence, and what he might achieve, if left to
his own wits and God-fearing devices? Heroes aren't born; they are
made! They rise to the occasion, reluctantly, perhaps, and despite
their own shortcomings, weaknesses, and cowardly inclinations; and
at times in spite of themselves. Sometimes they fail, but are none
the worse off for their effort; and, perhaps, in the long run, it
makes them stronger – if it doesn't kill them first, as the German
philosopher once observed. But sometimes they overcome, they endure,
they survive, they go on; and even when they don't, their efforts
are seldom in vain; for in risking it all, they gain everything.
They do not seek glory; only fools and cowards do that. But rather,
glory finds them; and hopefully, when she does, she finds them not
wanting.
Elijah Hatch was never one to
be found wanting; in fact, he was a hard man to find at all, as
Sherman Dixon was just beginning to find out for himself. Everyone
has to start somewhere, the good merchant had always imagined;
perhaps, even if it begins on an auction block. And who is to say
which is worse: looking at the rear end of a mule all day for bag of
beans, or serving a tyrannical king on some god-forsaken Island? Of
course, Mister Hatch knew which of the two he would have preferred;
and it wasn't the rear end of a mule. But that was not the issue at
hand. Slavery was just plain wrong, despite whatever economic
benefits it may've generated and no matter who may have profited
from it, including their own flesh and blood. "It's not up to us to
decide such things, Roger," the merchant quietly contended. "Who are
we to decide? It's a dirty business, anyway. And killing a
king...well, that's just plain suicide."
"Only if you get caught,"
reminded the captain. Obviously, Roger Morgan had already made up
his mind on the matter and, as captain of the Maria Aurora, was
about to let the merchant know it in no uncertain terms. He could
have had him arrested and thrown in the brig at that point on
trumped up charges, for the sake of the mission, of course – for
Maximilain Orlando; and that would've been enough. But he didn't do
that. Rather, he simple reminded his old commander-in-chief of a
time when they were both on agreeable terms and saw things more eye
to eye. "It's not personal, Hatch," reminded the captain, quoting
that famous Sicilian, "... it's business."
The shot, however directly
aimed and deliberately delivered, went right over the merchant's
stove black hat. It was meant as a warning, not to kill; and Mister
Hatch took it as such. But the imaginary bullet had found its mark
not in the merchant's hat, but deep within his own black heart; and
it felt like the sting a man-o'-war. Elijah Hatch had said just
about all he wanted to say that evening, perhaps more than he should
have. The original agreement he and the captain had signed on to was
to find the missing Commander of New Fort Stanley – Captain
Maximilian Orland who, at one time, just happened to be the
commanding officer of both Elijah Hatch and Roger Morgan. It was the
one thing they could both still agree on, which made the success of
the mission so important, and so personal. It was the business part
he presently objected to, the business of slaves.
As it were, Captain 'Max', as
he was still affectionately called by those who knew him well enough
to do so, was a naval officer by training and an army commander by
appointment. He was put in charge of the newly constructed fort on
the Island of Istari-Toa as Commander-in-Chief of all military
operations. It was a joint venture involving both military branches,
and a decision sanctioned by Congress and by the president of the
United States of America. And it was done for a noble purpose
No one was exactly sure how or
when it actually happened, but it seemed that Captain 'Max' (in his
early days as an ambitious young seamen, he was also referred to as
'Handsome Max' in light of a youthful appearance that had stayed
with him long into his senior years) had remained missing from his
prestigious post for over six months by now. Rumor had it that he
might've been captured by King Mabutoo, the current monarch who
ruled the Island in the Southern Seas known as Istari-Toa with a
bloody iron fist, and was being held ransom, although no demands had
been presented as of yet for his release. Others, including the
temporarily installed commander of the Island Fort, a Lieutenant
Randall Fleming, insisted in a written affidavit that the aging
Admiral indeed went off on his own volition, for reasons that
naturally put into question Maximilian's mental state at the time of
his mysterious disappearance. But still, no one knew for sure what
had really happened to Captain Max, where he was, or if he was even
still alive. And that was the real business Elijah Hatch had signed
on for. Not to kill a king, and certainly not reinstate the slave
trade.
For the first time since
they'd agreed on the primary directive, to locate Captain Orlando
and bring him home alive, if that were at all still possible, Mister
Elijah Hatch wavered. He was not only openly questioning the Captain
Morgan's overall plan regarding the current monarch of their Island
destination, but the ancillary affects it may have on the politics
of the region. The mission was in serious jeopardy at that point,
and so was their friendship.
While still gazing out the
tiny stern window of the Maria Aurora, the merchant could presently
see a new moon waxing darkly over the troubled waters of the bay. It
was a bad omen; and sailors, as we all know, are generally prone to
such superstitions. He removed his hat and placed it on the table
for a second time that evening. Perhaps he did it as a sign of
complacency, which was not an uncommon practice at the time among
officers and gentlemen, and one Morgan was well aware of. Maybe he
was just hot that day. The truth, however, was that Mister Elijah
Hatch still considered Morgan's plan a conspiracy of one; and that's
all there was to it. But he would go along with him anyway. Not for
himself. Not for the Navy. And certainly, not for Roger Morgan. He
would do it for one reason and one reason only: to save his captain,
a son of a sailor. And as he stood up and lowered his head to make
his exit, Elijah hatch turned to Roger Morgan and said, "Don't
forget Max."
Morgan took it not as a
suggestion, but a warning. He picked Elijah's black hat up off the
desk and brushed it off on the sleeve. "Don't forget your hat," he
said while tossing it into the hands of the merchant who placed it
gently back on his head.
"You're right, Hatch. You do
look better in black," noted the captain of the Maria Aurora.
Chapter Nine
Charlie Bow's Dragon-Fish
(and drinking and eating emporium)
IT WAS LATE IN THE AFTERNOON when the two Harlies suddenly found
themselves back in Shadytown, on Avenue 'D', right where they were
the day before. They were hungry and tired, and still they weren't
sure which way to go.
"I thinks it's this a'way,"
said the turtle, sounding a bit more confident than he did the night
before when they got lost and fell asleep in the wagon.
"I hopes you right this time,"
replied the raccoon, wondering if he'd made the right decision by
going along with Sherman in the first place. He was still thinking
about the painted lady he'd seen the night before on Avenue 'D' and
the boarding houses. He had never met Alma Johnson, and wasn't sure
if he would even be welcomed at her house, wherever it was... and if
they ever did get there. And besides that, he had a boat... I mean
ship, to catch the following day; and maybe he would've been better
off just staying in Old Port Fierce. But Sherman Dixon simply
wouldn't hear of it. He was determined to find the little house with
the white picket fence at the end of a dirt road somewhere in the
north end of Shadytown. "Just a little ways up the road..." he kept
reminding his suspicious passenger as they rolled over the cobbled
stones on a moonlit Saturday night , "I knows it's up yonder...
somewhere."
Bringing his wagon to a
sudden and abrupt halt in front of one of the many commercial
establishments lining the avenue that evening, the farmer motioned
for the raccoon to, "Wait here... whilst I goes inside for a
look-see," he further explained, suspiciously but deliberately
climbing down from his lofty perch on the buckboard. He walked
across the street, cautiously, and perhaps even a little painfully,
as Elmo silently observed from the back of the wagon; and there he
found an old wooden building with a high-pitched roof with its eves
turned sharply up at the corners, in a distinctly oriental fashion.
And there was the huge wooden door, just beyond the overhanging
pagoda with the lanterns glowing like little yellow suns either side
of the trellised walkway; and there was the same inscrutable image
he spied earlier that evening from across the street as he sat
silently in the wagon, all broken and bruised, while the raccoon
sewed his trousers back together. As he cautiously approached the
front entrance to the building, it soon became clear to him that he
was at the right location. He was exactly where he wanted to be. He
could tell by the distinctive lettering over the door.
The letters were painted in
the long black stokes that tapered at the ends like the pointed
blade of a knife; the same kind formed by the by the soft subtle
stokes of a calligrapher's pen, and with ease and equal artistry.
The words read: 'CHARLIE BOW'S DRAGON-FISH'. And just below, but in
smaller letters done in the same oriental motif, almost as an
afterthought by the artist one might wonder: 'and drinking and
eating emporium'. They were same enigmatic letters the turtle
had observed once before through blackened blood-shot eyes, only
from a greater and more comfortable distance.
He'd found it! Sherman was
almost sure of it. It had to be the place; he was depending on it.
And it was. For there on the great wooden door, just below the
calligraphic letters, was a painting, or rather an image, he
recognized immediately. It was the same red, white and blue image he
had committed to memory earlier that evening for his own private
use. And there it was, swimming, as it were, in a quiet pond of
shimmering rosewood that had been sanded down so finely it appeared
almost as glass, the soft yellow glow of the lanterns creating
concentric ripples around a prehistoric sea-creature that had
somehow escaped the extinction that had certainly doomed its
antediluvian ancestors, finding its fishy way, by whatever
evolutionary means that allow such metamorphic migrations, to the
front door of Mister Charlie Bow's Dragon-fish and drinking and
eating emporium.
With the aid of a full faced
moon glaring down on the avenue like madness magnified, Sherman
could make out the smallest and most intricate details skillfully,
and perhaps painstakingly, incorporated into the obscure painting.
He recognized it immediately. But still, the farmer wasn't quite
sure as to what the painting represented, or what it might actually
stand for, if it stood for anything at all. But upon closer
examination and with a clearer and not-so-throbbing head, the
captivated turtle could presently see that which he was so
desperately hoping to find. And what exactly was it that made the
fat-man so certain, so absolutely convinced, that he was in the
right place at the time. Well, I'll tell you what it was. It was
staring him right in his fat swollen face, right there on Avenue 'D'
in the in the middle of Shadytown in all mystical and mythical
intricacies. Why, it was a dragon-fish, of course! in all its
anatomical preservations. There was none other like it, anywhere on
earth. Mister Dixon knew where he was; he was exactly where he
wanted to be; where he had to be. It was his destiny. The turtle was
back... with a vengeance. And he knew who was inside.
As for the image itself, the
dragon-fish, that is, further elucidation may be warranted. Let's
see – how do I describe it in a few short paragraphs and still do it
justice? Allow me to begin by saying that it was indeed a work of
Oriental art, the product of a highly skilled and professional hand,
inspired perhaps by the same antiquitous sea-creature for which it
was modeled after. And if not for the actual design of the piece,
the ambiguity of which some may've found reproachable at first
glance, the painting might well have indeed passed for a genuine
masterpiece, or at least appreciated to one degree or another by
some collector of such oil based abstractions. It was not so much
what was lacking within the framework of the painting that made it
so distinctive, so unique; but rather, what had been added, either
by accident or design, to its general make-up, by God or by man. No
one may ever know.
In order to better explain
this strange and wonderful rendering, one would first have to
imagine someone, for whatever biological reasons, taking the severed
body parts of a fish, a bird, a crab, and a lobster, mixing them up
randomly and then somehow splicing the severed pieces back together
again in such a Frankenstein fashion as to fabricate a totally new
species. Naturally, or un-naturally, as the case may be, the
finished product would possess certain characteristics of each of
the four individual species while maintaining a uniqueness all its
own and, as in the case of the dragon-fish at least, captured on a
canvass of fossilized wood for all the world to see.
But it was a skillful
operation (as all operations should be if they are to be successful)
combining the talents of both the artist and the surgeon, a work of
the brush as well as the scalpel. Was it genius or madness that
dictated such a wondrous work of biological art? We may never know;
the two minds overlapping at times, becoming practically
indistinguishable, like the fine thin line that separates certain
species. You might even say that genius and madness, like the
antiquitous Ying and the Yang of Chinese philosophy, actually
complement one another on a certain cerebral level and, in some
darkly symbiotic gesture, combine their talents which, ambiguously
applied and ambitiously pursued may very well be the inspiration, if
not the invention, of such diabolical creations as Krakens and
Medusas, or, on a more human scale, a master-race of superhuman
hybrids; a red-beaded reprobate, perhaps, with delusions of grandeur
and dreams of immortality. For it is often the case whereupon genius
and madness sometimes stumble across one another's irresistible
wake, either by accident or design, or perhaps under the satanic
influence of powers and principalities, these rivaling giants
discover, despite their egotistical nature and natural contempt for
one another, that two heads are indeed better than one. They may
even call for a truce, if only for a little while, splicing hands
and heads together (and maybe even their hearts, if they have any)
just long enough to fabricate such fantastic works of wonder, like
the fire-breathing amphibian depicted that Saturday night on the
storefront of CHARLIE BOW'S DRAGON-FISH and drinking and eating
emporium right there on Avenue 'D' in a place called Shadytown.
That's right – a dragon-fish! in all its complex and ambiguous
glory. In other words: That's one freaky fish, man!
In its presently preserved
state, as observed by Mister Sherman Dixon that particular night on
the illuminated storefront, the dragon-fish possessed, in no
preferential order, the fins and scales of a fish, the feathered
wings of a bird, the crab-like claws of a crustacean, topped off
with the reptilian head of a dragon, the kind often portrayed in
children's story-books devoted to that specific genus long thought
to be extinct, and all rolled up into one fantastic creature which
may forever and anon be classified as the 'dragon-fish'. No other
words or introduction are necessary; and so, no further attempts
will be made here and now to describe what species, if any, is
depicted such a transmogrified illustration. For now all we can do
is speculate as to whether or not such an exquisite creature ever
existed at all; and, if it still does exists, could it be that, not
unlike our own unfinished selves, it is but a work in progress,
occupying a certain space and time, however long or short, on the
evolutionary scale until such a time we are all called, either
through Divine intervention or biological necessity, to a higher
plane and purpose? Or perhaps, like all other incredible and
inscrutable things, it is merely an illusion, an abstraction, a
fleeting fading glimpse of things that were and still to come,
scribbled on the wall of a cave, along with wooly mammoths,
saber-tooth jack rabbits, and men with wings and space helmets who
can fly in the air and breath under water, encapsulated in a
futuristic monolith found on an unnamed moon in some far away
galaxy; or maybe it could be found right there on the front door of
a Chinese restaurant on Avenue 'D' in a place called Shadytown, and
for all the world to wonder. You just never know.
The farmer knew instantly that
he was at the right place, and for the right reason. He just didn't
know if he was there at the right time yet. Whatever or whoever he
was looking for that night would have to remain a secret to Elmo
Cotton, for the time being at least. Besides, they didn't have to
know, Sherman was thinking to himself as he approached the
dragon-fish that starry moonlit night; and hopefully, they never
would. With the light of the Chinese lanterns bathing his shell in a
warm orange glow, the turtle put one hand on the iron claw of the
dragon-fish which served, rather inconspicuously and somewhat to his
surprise, as a door handle. He cracked open the door just enough to
hear a few voices from within. They were faint but familiar. But he
was too afraid to go any further.
As he sat in the wagon night
on Avenue 'D' outside the pagan palace, the raccoon didn't like what
he saw. He knew Sherman was up to something; he could tell by the
way the turtle walked up to the door (a little too boldly perhaps,
for Sherman anyway) and looked inside. He could also tell by the
look on his neighbor's face: a look that said, for all intents and
purposes and despite his swollen head – 'Ahah!' although not so
loudly, and not in so many words. And still the turtle didn't move.
Sherman then walked slowly
and deliberately all around the oddly shaped building that night,
looking for another door, perhaps, or a window at least from which
he might get a better and closer look inside. He found one! It was a
small window that opened up into a large kitchen attached to the
rear of the building, so it seemed. He could tell it must be the
kitchen by the amount of smoke pouring out of the open orifice which
apparently doubled as some kind of chimney. And along with the smoke
and the fumes there came an odor, a smell which he found both
familiar and peculiar. It reminded him of... of what? Sniff... sniff.
That's it – Fish! No... catfish! Sniff... sniff. Well, not exactly. But
it was some kind of fish, he reckoned, sniffing the air like a
hunger alley cat in search of a meal which, under the circumstances,
was actually quite an accurate description at the time.
Meanwhile, Elmo Cotton sat and
waited in the wagon wondering perhaps what was really going on
inside the turtle's slow but fertile brain. He had a bad feeling
that he would soon find out.
Wiping his eyes and propping
himself up on an empty wire-mesh cage that might have once been used
as a lobster trap, he gazed into the steamy kitchen through a
curtain or unctuous white smoke. On the far side of the kitchen,
which was well equipped with so many copper pots and pans hanging
down from every square inch of the ceiling and a battery of wood
burning stoves all at full flame, Sherman noticed a large
double-doorway that apparently served as both ingress and egress to
the that particular part of the building. And in the wooden doors,
which appeared to be entirely covered in gold tinted paint, there
were two glass portholes, one in each door, circumscribed roundly
into the golden leafs thereof. And just at that moment, the doors
simultaneously burst open, and in stepped an oriental gentleman of
generous proportions dressed in a long black robe carrying a number
of empty plates which he quickly deposited into a nearby tub of
milky white water. He then quickly turned and exited in the same
accelerated fashion, a long black pony tail trailing down his
expansive back like a serpent hanging from the bough of an apple
tree. And as he made his way back into the noisy dining room,
causing the golden leaves to swing back and forth for a moment or
two like the hinged doors of a saloon, the observant turtle was able
to catch a quick discerning glimpse of exactly who, and what, lay
beyond the golden gates. For in that split second in time, which was
all that was needed, Sherman Dixon could clearly make out the faces
of three sailors lounging around a table at the far end of the
dining room; among them was the sleeveless master-at-arms who'd had
blackened the turtle's eyes and boxed his ears earlier that day. He
could tell by the tattoos. The others were obviously the prune-faced
boatswain and the pony-tailed mast-header, the two other skunks he'd
also met that day who accompanied Finch, almost everywhere it
seemed, in their customary white and black attire. There was a
woman, too; as dark and dangerous as the night itself, seated
dangerously close to the foul smelling mariners, looking Delilah
with long, red fingernail shears. And it wasn't their hair she was
after. The turtle had seen it all before.
Cautiously and quietly making
his way back to the front of the pagoda, he once again approached
the dragon-fish by the light of the silvery moon and half dozen
little yellow lanterns. With valor and determination uncommon for
any man (or turtle for that matter) of such humble and unassuming
origins, Mister Sherman Dixon grabbed the dragon by its claw, opened
the door and stepped boldly into CHARLIE BOW'S DRAGON-FISH and
drinking and eating emporium and into his own destiny. Some
might even say that the fat man from Harley walked into history that
night; but that might be a stretch, and something for scholars and
academics to decide, if they ain't too busy discussing their own
historical achievements, or debating one another in the safety and
security of their own self-imposed ivory tower prisons. Once inside
the eating and drinking emporium, the turtle lowered his head and
looked away. He was hoping to remain anonymous, for the time being
anyway. He had his reasons. He quickly and quietly sat down on a
stool at the front end of the counter and picked up a single sheet
of paper with numerous depictions of many strange animals, some more
familiar than others, imprinted on the papyrus, along with the same
calligraphic lettering observed on the sign outside. Among them were
a chicken, a goat, and a dog, along with some odd looking creatures
that looked not unlike the queerish image of the dragon-fish he'd
gleaned from the door earlier, including that of a rat and a horse;
although he had no idea that it actually was a dragon-fish,
having never seen, nor heard, of one before. He pretended to read
what appeared to be some kind of Mongolian menu astrologically set
in the signs of some zoological zodiac.
Meanwhile, the three sailors
continued eating and drinking, in the crude manner sailor often do,
at a table near the far end of the long wooden counter top, which,
apparently also served as the bar. They were not alone. It was just
as the turtle had expected. There were other men inside the building
that night, most of them standing at the bar, footing the long iron
rail which ran the entire length of the bar about six inches off
the ceramic tiled floor. They were sucking on pipes and smoking big
fat cigars, talking between cumulous clouds of exhaled smoke and
mouthfuls of foreign food. Most were drinking from tall pitchers of
beer indiscriminately placed at each one of the tables, along with
steamy red heaps of brightly boiled crab-legs, and mountains of
fluffy white rice served in large bamboo bowls, and all in a
constant state of replenishment. They were eating and drinking, of
course, which, as the sign outside clearly indicated, was the reason
they were there in the first place. After all, this was CHARLIE
BOW'S DRAGON-FISH and drinking and eating emporium. Wasn't
it? They were in Shadytown, on Avenue 'D', no less. And hey! where
else would you expect three thirsty skunks and a hungry barracuda to
be to be on a Saturday night – Church?
Not much to the farmer's
surprise, the woman with the devilish red fingernails sat down at
the table right there with the three sailors of the Maria Aurora. It
was the same whore his friend the raccoon would have propositioned
earlier that night, he realized by now, if he ever did find the
nickel that nickel he was so desperately lacking. She was a
prostitute, of course, plucked from the streets of Babylon,
transported through time and space, or so it would seem, to the
infamous city by the bay where she was free to roam at will and
leisure as she would in Old Gomorrah – a black Aphrodite in the land
of Lincoln a million miles from home. Or maybe she was one of those
other ladies of the night mentioned in the Bible who had been
redeemed through some Divine intersession, like the famous Magdalene
whose legalistic accusers were forced to walk away with in silence
and shame as the stones fell from their hypocritical fingers,
reminding us of our own iniquities. Not all who fall from grace fall
out of favor.
One of the most amazing stories of Joshua is not the famous battle
in which the sun stood still in the heavens until the battle was
won, but that of Rachav, the prostitute who risked her own life by
hiding the Jewish spies from the king's soldiers, and who, as the
Talmud also relates, eventually married the great Jewish leader. And
wasn't it the
prophet Hosea who wed a prostitute, under orders of the Most High,
named Gomer? Gomer! Who says God has no sense of humor? And they all
seemed to be having a good ol' time of it, the sailors in
particular, appearing even more inebriated than they were just a few
short hours ago; which is exactly what the farmer, and the
prostitute, were hoping for that night.
Dressed in their distinctive
black and white navy uniforms, the sailors appeared just as they did
before, like three drunk skunks who were obviously attempting to win
the favors of the fair feline they might've mistaken, as un-natural
as that may sound or appear, for one of their own. They were all
quite intoxicated by then, except perhaps for the Babylonian sister
who would remain just sober enough to drain the last penny from the
pockets of the three unsuspecting skunks, along with anything else
she might find in the bell-bottomed trousers. And before the night
was over she certainly would drain them, as all Delilah's do, not
only their money but their manhood was well, and fit for the
Philistines. This cat knew exactly what she was doing. You see, hers
was a sober profession, a dry business, not unlike that of the dry
and thirsty fishermen she sometimes catered to, and just as
dangerous as the deep dark waters they both sounded in. It required
quick, clear and clean thinking. It relied on stealth rather than
force, for the most part, and just enough speed for a quick and
profitable get-a-way. She'd done this before. She knew all the
tricks, and most of the Johns. She would be gone before they knew
what happened, long before they staggered out of bed looking for
their trousers which she also took, leaving them with nothing but an
empty gun and an aching head. And in the end, just like her
fisherman clientele, she'd pull in her sails and put out her rigging
one more time, swaying down the watery avenue late at night and
trolling for one last 'hit' before retiring to her Babylonian bed.
The three skunks at the table
had seen this fisher-woman before. And they knew what she was up to;
but, in their inebriated condition, they either couldn't remember or
simply didn't care who she was, or consequences of her company. In
fact, there was only one thing left on their collective numb-skulled
minds at the time: and that was to take the bait and have their way
with the famous prostitute of 'Avenue 'D' that particular evening in
Shadytown. It was all they could think about. They really had no
other choice.
And it didn't really matter
how long it took, either; or how much money they had to spend; which
was just fine with Delilah simply because she knew from experience
that the longer it took, the more they drank and the higher her
price went up. It not only made sense, but it also her job that much
easier, and profitable; for as everyone knows: a fool and his money
are soon parted; the alcohol merely accelerates the process. It's
the nature of the business, the politics of prostitution, you might
say; and it worked – every time! It was a sure thing, a done deal;
as good as money in the bank and a fish in the frying pan. This
Delilah knew what she was doing; and she never came home
empty-handed. She'd been in these waters before, and at this point
was merely trolling for another 'hit'. See how she does it? Look at
her, lads! She's cutting bait and fishing deep. Look at her chum!
That's blood in the water. See it? And would you look at those
outriggers. Watch 'em bend, my boy! Like a Lucifer's rod. Hold on
tight. Don't let 'em get away. Easy... Easy... Give 'em some line. Easy...
A little more slack now. Easy... There you go. Easy...There! You see it?
Why! Why! It's a sucker-fish! No. Make that three; all on one line!
She could spot them a mile away. Now all she has to do is reel 'em
in. Among them was the biggest fish of all: Peter Finch, the
master-at-arms of the Maria Aurora, his sleeveless shirt fully
undone by now, exposing in all their satanic imagery, and more
detailed than ever, the hideous renderings so darkly tattooed on his
hairy, heaving chest.
Sherman couldn't help but sit
and stare, but did so from a comfortable distance and not so long
nor so intensely as to draw any un-necessary attention to himself at
the time. He looked down at the paper leaf in front of him, which
was actually a menu and a horoscope rolled into one, and could see,
chiefly by way of the large beads of sweat falling on the paper,
that he was indeed sweating profusely. He was afraid. His shell was
clammy and soft by then, so soft in fact that he didn't even think
he would need it anymore. He'd changed somehow – exactly how, the
fat farmer wasn't quite sure yet. Maybe it was the slap in the face
that finally did it. In retrospect, Mister Dixon now realized that
it was worse than the beating he took afterwards on Avenue 'D',
worse than a whip across the back, he imagined, thinking of his
friend the raccoon who surely knew how it felt. And that's what made
it so meaningful. Wounds heal, eventually, even the deep ones. And
as the German philosopher turned narcissist so keenly observed:
'That which doesn't kill me only makes me stronger'. Maybe he's
right. But Nietzsche never had his ass kicked by a drunken sailor.
Perhaps he should have. It may've done him a world of good, or at
least have knocked a little sense into his superior Aryan brain.
There are some things that just have to be experienced before they
can be fully appreciated, I suppose, like the taste of humble pie.
Pride's a different story, however; it can be hurt, and often is.
Hold a knife six inches from it, and it bleeds. Even a scratch can
be fatal at times, depending upon who holds the weapon. And when it
is damaged, Pride always takes just a little longer to heal.
Sometimes it never does. And when that happens, no philosophy in the
world can save Superman. He is doomed, just like all the rest of us.
Sherman didn't seem to mind so
much that he was robbed anymore, either. Money, however scarce it
was in Harley, or anywhere else for that matter, could always be
replaced. Even pride he could live without, which he never really
had in spades to begin with, and was always suspicious of anyway.
What the master-at-arms took from the turtle that day was something
far more valuable, and more personal. He took the farmer's soul. And
that was something you just didn't do to a Harley bean farmer, or
anyone else for that matter. It just wasn't that easy; at least not
as easy as Peter Finch made it seem the night before on Fat Moon
Friday. Remove a man's soul and you take away the only thing a man
can truly call his own, the only thing he really owns; in essence,
what makes him a man: his free will; that invisible metaphysical
organ that separates him from the lesser animals and mirrors the
face of God. It was something that even a fat dumb turtle could
understand.
Whether or not this is what'd
actually happened to Mister Dixon that night is hard to tell; but,
as previously stated, he'd changed somehow. And he wasn't entirely
sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. But he knew it was
necessary. He was where he was supposed to be; where he wanted to
be. And that was all that mattered, at least for the moment.
While waiting patiently at the
bar inside CHARLIE BOW'S DRAGON-FISH and drinking and eating
emporium that night, the farmer discretely removed one of
his shoes. Then, digging a fat finger into the soft leather soul, he
came up with five single coins totaling the princely sum of one five
dollar. It was the money he kept just emergencies, half of which he
was still determined to give to his friend the raccoon for all his
troubles. It was all he had left. He reckoned that this was as good
of an emergency as any. It would be money well spent.
Exactly what happened to
Mister Dixon next was hard to describe. Something stirred from deep
within his Harley heart that night; something new and different,
something no one, not even his own wife, had ever seen before. It
was something he'd never experienced, at least not in such generous
portions anyway. It felt surprisingly good, like the time he shot a
fox for stealing one of his best egg-lying hens. It was simple and
sweet. It was raw and natural. It was personal. It was right. And it
had a name. It was called vengeance. And however alien it was his
natural disposition, it was something the fat farmer suddenly found
pleasing to him inside CHARIE BOW'S DRAGON-FISH and drinking and
eating emporium that night.
Actually, Avenue 'D' was the
last place Sherman Dixon expected to find himself, and in such a
precarious and unusual situation. But he'd already made up his mind
by then and was determined to, as they say in Harley 'Split the pig
right down the middle'. In other words, he was ready to even the
score and maybe, just maybe, get some of his money back. He wasn't
exactly sure how he would accomplish this, or when. He wasn't even
sure if it was the right thing to do. After all, he was only a
Harlie sharecropper who'd already proved he was no match for three
sea-hardened, let alone the master-at-arms. But he wasn't feeling
like a Harlie sharecropper just then. He felt different; like the
way felt when Captain Morgan looked him the eye and said to the
merchant: 'pay the man.' He liked the way it felt, and he liked the
way it sounded.
And so, with one hand on the
countertop and one foot set firmly on the iron rail below, Mister
Dixon did what any other man, or turtle, would've done under the
circumstances – He waited... for something else to happen, that is.
And he didn't have to wait long; for within mere moments the
proprietor of the establishment burst forth from behind the two
gold-leaf doors that swung both in to and out of the kitchen,
hopefully no at the same time. His name was Charlie Bow, and he
proceeded from the kitchen in a cloud of smoke, not unlike a Genie
from a bottle to use the proper metaphor, carrying his honorable
arms a steamy bowl of freshly boiled crab-legs.
They were crabs, of course;
blue-crabs to be more specific; the kind that were famously found
crawling up from the beach that time of year to freely roam the
streets and avenues of Old Port Fierce at will as they've done for...
well, for as long as anyone could remember. Like an army of
blue-clad mariners storming the beach with bayonet claws and
telescope eyes, the invading marauders would ascend upon the city by
the thousands. From there they would proceed, either collectively or
individually, with heroic effort and at great risk, all the way up
to the cobblestone streets of Shadytown to which they were somehow
irresistibly drawn, like moths to a flame, compelled some would
suggest by the luminosity of the many street lights lining the stony
pavement; propelled, perhaps, by those same gravitational forces
produced by the lunar satellite. And under such astrological
conditions the great migration would thus commence on such
auspicious night as these, culminating in a grand parade of crabby
crustaceans marching onward and upward, and overcoming every
obstacle along the way, man-made or otherwise, just to get there.
Little did the blue-armored
crustaceans know, or even realize, of course, that their 'blue'
parade was nothing but a death march: one that was about to end with
a good many of them being ceremoniously cooked, or boiled alive in
their own saline juices, especially if Charlie Bow had anything to
say about it, and done to a crispy red turn. And even if, in their
own cold-blooded and miniscule brains, they suspected as much, it
wouldn't have done them any good; for their fate, you see, was
sealed long before they breached the foamy shoreline; destined, as
it were, to abandon the safety and comfort of the sea for whatever
instinctual reasons, in exchange for one of Mister Charlie Bow's
famous cooking pots, which he kept neatly strung up over the stove
behind the swinging doors of his well-equipped kitchen like little
copper coffins waiting to be filled. And once inside the mortuary,
the unsuspecting creatures would be slowly and properly boiled alive
until their cold blue shells burned a bright fiery red and the meat
within was done just right, white and moist, and suitable for
serving at CHARLIE BOW'S DRAGON-FISH and drinking and eating
emporium (crab legs a specialty on Wednesdays and
Sundays) along with a generous serving of Charlie's own special
fried rice, of course.
Charlie Bow was a large man,
not unlike an Oriental version of Elmo's dead uncle; only with
longer and droopier whiskers, more narrowly defined eyes, and a long
black ponytail making a line down the arch of his massive back. He
also wore a thickly lensed pair of eyeglasses that appeared to be
made of tortoise shell and mason jars, indicating, if nothing else,
that Mister Charlie Bow was indeed and in fact nearsighted. He was
also wearing a long silken pants-suit by then, so loosely fitted
around his tremendous bulk that it made him look like a big yellow
walrus dressed in ladies' pajamas, or underwear, the turtle boldly
blushed.
Joseph Cotton and Charlie Bow
had actually known one another for many years. They were very good
friends at one time who had more in common than most would know or
even suspect; cooking being only one of the many interests they
shared and the topic of many pleasant debates. To this very day, not
a few of Spider Cotton's skillets still grace the wall of the
Mister Bow's kitchen, including one with a noticeable dent hat was
said to have famously cracked the skull of a would be assassin. At
one time Joe Cotton was one of Mister's Bow's best customers – when
he was still alive, that is; and the two would sit for hours in the
kitchen exchanging recipes and philosophies, or just passing the
time of day while feasting on crab legs and oysters, washed down
with gallons of Charlie's homemade beer which he made from rice. It
was no wonder that when he finally died on his front porch in Harley
one day, the old fly-catcher weighed in at over four hundred pounds,
about the same as your typical Sumo-wrestler, which may have
actually contributed to Joe's unfortunate demise. We may never know.
When news of the fly-catcher's untimely death finally reached
Shadytown, by means of a few relatives who'd returned empty-handed a
few days later, Charlie cried for a week and a day; the usual
grieving period as prescribed by Chinese culture. He would have
attended the funeral, of course, had he'd known earlier, and no
doubt would gladly have carried the black man to his grave on his
own heavy shoulders. Naturally, Joe would have done the same for his
oriental friend, and would have cried even more.
"You want something?" squinted
the walrus through the huge black frames making up the bulk of his
reading glasses as he bowed almost reverently. He rested the steamy
metallic container down behind the counter and, reaching into the
bowl with a dainty but claw-like hand, retrieved a boiled crab that
at first appeared not completely cooked yet, as evidenced by one of
its appendages that still exhibited some sign of life left within it
despite the boiling bath it had just taken in Charlie Bow's kitchen
and, after carful removing the outer shell of the crustacean,
devoured right there on the spot.
It was at that point when
Sherman first noticed something else peculiar about his oriental
host. For just as the walrus finished off the tasty morsel, another
crab suddenly stuck its head out from Mister's Bow's yellow pajamas
and stared curiously for a moment at the turtle through its long
telescopic eyes. Obviously, the lucky crustacean had been spared,
for whatever providential reason, the same fiery fate and
gastronomical adventure of its former blue twin, but still it did
not like what it saw. And so, instinctively fearing the sudden and
deadly snap of turtle's head, the lively little crustacean quickly
disappeared back into its silken sanctuary beneath the many folds of
the Mister Bow's magnificent nightgown, never to be seen again.
The turtle whispered under his
shell, "Peculiar... Mighty peculiar," just loud enough to be
overhead by the bi-focal walrus.
"Good ruck clab," explained
Mister Bow to no one in particular, referring of course to the
pocketed hermit crab he was obviously keeping as a pet inside his
pajamas, "No eat yet!" He then picked another freshly boiled crab
from out of the bowl and began the ritual all over again.
Sherman was amazed at just how
easily and quickly the walrus cracked open a big red claw, and how
gingerly he picked out the tender white meat with his long and
delicate fingernails that rivaled even those of the painted
prostitute. The fact that Charlie was so big only added to the
absurdity and made the turtle smile. He then popped the fleshy
substance into his large gaping mouth, which, for all intents and
purposes, may've looked more appropriate with a fishhook dangling
from it, and casually chewed it while waiting patiently for the
turtle to order.
"Name's Dixon," the farmer
proudly pronounced, but softly enough so as not to be heard by
anyone else at, or near, the counter at the time.
"I Charlie Bow! I own place,"
said the yellow, bowing slightly at the waist before pulling yet
another crab from the large copper pot. He spoke in a rather
peculiar accent that was noticeably short on prepositions, long on
vowels, and full of exclamation points, which seemed go along very
well with his peculiar Asian appearance. "You want something?"
The turtle was looking around
as the walrus finished a seafood supper, bite by bite.
Understandably, he was a little nervous. His stomach ached and he
still wasn't seeing straight. He felt dizzy. But he tried to remain
as cool, calm and collective as a turtle possible could under such
uncertain circumstances.
The walrus could obviously see
that his customer was a little uneasy. He also couldn't help but
noticed just how battered and bruised the turtle appeared, and took
pity on him in his own unassuming way. "What happen you?" he spoke
with a crab-leg dangling from his whiskered mouth.
Feeling slightly embarrassed
and in no mood for small talk or even polite conversation, Sherman
merely shrugged and said, "It's a long story."
The walrus seemed to
understand. "You order?" Charlie acquiesced.
"What you got, boss?" Sherman
asked, with his back turned to the three mariners who were still
sitting at the table in the back of the room. They'd just polished
off a large bowl of crab legs and three plates of oysters, or so it
seemed, and were just then passing around a bottle of rum, which
Peter Finch had stealthfully produced from the leg of his
duck-pants. Obviously, Mister Bow's homemade brew was not to the
sailors' taste, or liking; but they drank it just the same and then
hollered for more while taking generous sips from the little brown
jug.
"Seafoods!" Mister Charlie Bow
sharply replied, his magnified eyes appearing as two narrow slits
peering through the glass resting on a bridgeless nose. With a low
sloping forehead, he then leaned over the counter and replied: "All
kind fish! – Clab-reg! Robster! Oyster! You name it! All very good!"
"'Er... 'Scuse me?" said the
turtle.
"Seafoods – all kind!
Clab-reg! Robster! Oyster!" regurgitated the yellow walrus in the
same rapid and exclamatory speech that seemed to come to him so
fluently, and naturally.
"They's fresh?" wondered the
farmer out loud, thinking that maybe he should be stalling for more
time, and feeling just a little hungry by then.
"Caught by fisherman. Today!"
"What else you got, boss?"
"Lice!" squinted the big man
behind the glass, deliciously.
Of course, what Charlie Bow
really meant to say was 'rice'; but the word somehow came out as
'lice', just as it always did every time he tried to pronounce it.
"What!" ejaculated the turtle,
wringing out his right ear with his pinky finger just to make sure
that he was hearing correctly, which, considering his earlier
encounter with the master-at-arms was never a sure thing.
The walrus was beginning to
look a little annoyed. "Lice!" he reiterated, a little more
forcefully.
"Lice?" he wondered out loud.
"Fresh lice!" Charlie
responded, scratching his head.
It was too much, even for a
man who'd once eaten a five day old dead cat-fish he'd found by the
side of the road and a carrot that had been vomited up by a mule.
Sherman suddenly felt sick.
"Plain or flied?!" the cook
continues in what some might consider an argumentative tone, which
somehow, and in a strange and almost paradoxical way, sounded quite
polite. "You order now!" And then he bowed again, slowly and
gracefully at the waist. It was an ancient custom Charlie had
brought along with him from the east. And it was a good one too!
like that of a noble Samurai warrior who respectfully bows to his
opponent just before chopping off the most honorable head of his
victim.
With his turtle-head still
swirling in a daze of confusion, Sherman respectfully returned the
gesture and, without meaning to mock his oriental host, squinted
right back at Mister Charlie Bow while clearing his throat. "You
mean fried rice..." he gulped. "Don't you, boss?"
"That's what Charlie say –
Flied lice! Something long with you, Mista?"
The turtle was both baffled
and bewildered. He looked exasperated, and maybe even a little
nauseated. He really didn't know what to say, or think, anymore.
Apparently, there was a serious problem here. And then it suddenly
dawned on him what might be the cause of all his confusion. Leaning
over the counter and looking the walrus directly in the eye, he
asked, "Got any robster, Charlie?" He deliberately accentuated the
letter 'r' in the word 'robster', which he took for lobster, as he
enunciated his request just to make sure he was hearing his host
correctly; or incorrectly, as the case may be.
"That light, Mista! Robster!
You want some? Order now!"
"Er... No...Thank you," the
farmer politely responded, understanding by now the source of the
verbal dilemma. It was a simple failure to communicate; a common
occurrence in all port cities where languages and customs sometimes
collide with one another like so many fish caught in the same wide
and inescapable net. It was a cultural problem, actually, with no
immediate solution; the kind that is sometimes brought about by too
much diversity and not enough unity. Sometimes it is merely
embarrassing, for both parties involved; other times, it only added
to the confusion, making an awkward moment even worse. But if
handled correctly, and taken for what it's worth, cultural
differences can often be a good, or at least interesting, thing; as
witnessed by many of our early ancestors who, through charity or
necessity, managed to bridge the gaps and break the racial barriers
we've all encountered from time to time, slavery not-with-standing.
It was the American way; a noble idea, a right democratic experiment
with long Biblical roots, unique, charitable, and, for the most
part, inclusive, despite our independent leanings and capitalistic
tendencies. We are a nation of immigrants! No doubt about it; all
thrown and mixed together in the same simmering pot, just like the
blue-crabs at Charlie Bow's Dragon-fish and drinking at eating
emporium, I suppose. But the melting pot doesn't always melt.
Sometimes it just boils, no matter how carefully it is watched. And
then there are those you just like to stir the pot, which only makes
matters worse.
The problem confronting the
walrus and the turtle that night was really no different, and maybe
just as difficult to correct. It was not merely a difference in
dialects, phonetically speaking of course, that had put them both at
a similar disadvantage that evening (perhaps one just a little more
than the other) but also one of culture. Simply stated, it was
Mister Charlie Bow's repetitious and somewhat annoying habit of
pronouncing, either consciously or unconsciously, all his R's as
L's, (and visa-versa, of course) that was the real root of the
problem. It was what made conversing with the walrus so confusing,
and difficult. And it happened all the time! It was often greeted
with incredulity and bewilderment. Most of the time, however, the
man behind the counter was greeted with only silence, especially
from those who weren't accustomed to such verbal challenges. But as
in all social intercourse, familiarity sometimes breeds friendship
as well as contempt; and friendship, if it true and charitable,
typically leads to understanding, both culturally and
linguistically. And in the case of the gregarious walrus chef , it
usually led to tasty treat of 'boiled crab-regs and special fried
lice', no matter how you say it. I suppose, it's just one of those
things you learn to live with... like bad novels and German
metaphysics.
"What you got to drink, boss?"
the farmer then asked in a friendly enough manner, obviously buying
more time while trying to decide how he was going to deal with the
real real business at hand, the business he came for in the first
place, the business of Vengeance.
"Beer and wine. Home made! You
order now?!?" barked the walrus.
"What! No Rum?" questioned
the, having already observed a bottle of the spicy island elixir
being passed around sailor's table, and wondering if he might try
some for himself.
"Lum?"
Sherman acquiesced. "Yes! Lum."
"Ohhhh, lummmm!" acknowledged
Charlie, with a small and subtle smile appearing of his fat round
face. "Sailor man bring lum inside with him. Charlie no serve lum.
Make sailor man toooooo crazy. Only beer and wine serve here! Home
made! No rike sailor man. Tooooo... how you say? Rove-sick!"
The farmer paused for a
moment. "Ohhhhhhhh," he smiled. "Love... You mean love sick," he
politely corrected his host, darting his eyes quickly at the painted
woman seated at the table with the three skunks without moving his
head, "...not rove sick."
"Light! Rove sick! That what
Charlie say. See woman over there?" continued the walrus, pointing
to the end of the bar with a fingernail so wickedly long and curly
that it may well have sprouted from Satan's own evil claw, "She bad
woman! Sailor-man in rove with her."
Having sown his share of wild
oats, mostly in younger days and before he was married of course,
the turtle knew exactly what the walrus was alluding to, or at least
attempting to in his own presumptuous and inarticulate way. Sherman
knew love, and he knew lust; but he also knew the difference between
the two, and simply could not agree with the wise man from the East
on one fine and delicate point. "That's not love, boss" he
cautiously spoke. "That's lust..."
"Rust?"
"No," Sherman insisted. "Not
Rust.... Oh, never mind."
"Whore!" Charlie Bow suddenly
exploded in a voice that quickly drew the attention of everyone in
the room, including the woman to whom the comment was obviously
directed. "She take away all sailor-man's money," the proprietor
added; which, of course, was probably the truest and most accurate
statement he'd made so far.
The painted lady reacted to
the sudden outburst with a quick and scornful sneer. It was obvious
she'd heard the word before; and so had the three skunks sitting
next to her. It didn't seem to bother any of them, however.
"You mean my money," corrected
the farmer, in a voice heard by no one but the yellow walrus.
"Huh?"
"For'git it," the exasperated
turtle resigned. "It don't matter anyway."
Charlie seemed to understand,
and said so in yet another graceful bow. "You order now. Okay,
Mista?" he then spoke in a sympathetic, and perhaps more civilized,
tone.
"What you recommend, Charlie?"
"Special today – Clab-reg!"
"Crab legs?"
"That what Charlie say.
Clab-reg! What long with you, mista? You no hear light?"
"Light?" You mean... Oh never
mind," Sherman apologized once more. "How much?"
"One bowl – ten cents.
Ahhhhhh!" the walrus exclaimed, reaching down into the copper bowl
once more, "Very dericious! Charlie eat too! You see?" Whereupon he
cracked open another red claw and began picking out the meat with
his long manicured nails.
As it were, the farmer was not
quite as hungry as he thought he was, and was actually feeling quite
sick. Obviously, he was still stalling for time. Observing a sign
hanging over the bar, Sherman thought for a moment and then said,
"You cook me one of those?" He was pointing directly to the red,
white and blue dragon-fish hanging directly over Mister Bow's
pony-tailed head. It was an identical rendering, an exact duplicate,
in fact, of the same weird and wondrous creature painted on the door
just outside the restaurant, only smaller, and engraved in solid
bronze painted over in so many fantastic colors.
Bow laughed and bowed.
"Ahhhhhhhhh," he said with a small but reverend smile. "No eat
dragon-fish! Tooooo...Honorable! Just seafoods: Fish! Robster! Oyster!
Clab-reg! Flied lice! I make special just for you. Beer and wine!
Home made. You see!"
The farmer then placed two
buffalo-head nickels on the counter and said, "Okay then, flied lice
it is, boss... or whatever you call it. And give me a bowl of them
there crab-legs... I mean clab-regs, while you're at it," he
presently joked.
"Flied lice! Special! One bowl
clab-reg! Coming light up! You want something drink?"
"Er... no thanks," said the
turtle, respectfully declining the offer, even though he was quite
thirsty by then and certainly could've used a good stiff drink to
settle his nerves and soothe his aching head. He knew all along that
he would need all his wits about him that night, if things were to
come out the way he was hoping and planning they would. "I just come
in fo'..." And here the farmer hesitated for a moment, throwing a
quick and calculating glance back at the painted lady who, for
obvious reasons, seemed to be having second thoughts about three
drunken sailors at the time, "Well, you see..."
Even as he tried to explain,
the hospitable walrus floated back to the golden gates and
disappeared into the kitchen in a cloud of vaporous white smoke like
a genie going back to his bottle. And at that same moment the
raccoon suddenly appeared. He'd been getting anxious and annoyed
waiting in the wagon, and perhaps a little worried; and so, he
decided to go inside to see what, if anything, was taking his
neighbor so long. However, just before leaving the wagon and
realizing, of course, that Avenue 'D' was no certainly no place to
leave anything of value carelessly lying around, he wisely decided
to bring his suitcase with him. He wasn't in Harley anymore; and,
even if he had been, probably would've taken similar precautions,
especially when it came to the Motherstone and its safekeeping. As
an additional precautionary measure, and for reasons he may one day
wonder about, he took the precious black stone out of its leather
housing and placed it the breast pocket of his overalls where he
always preferred it to keep it anyway. And so, with suitcase and the
sailin' shoes in hand, the Harlie walked through the doors of
CHARLIE BOW'S DRAGON-FISH and drinking and eating emporium on
Avenue 'D' in a place called Shadytown.
Naturally, this did not sit
very well with the turtle who, despite all natural instincts to do
otherwise, was still in the process of plotting his revenge on the
skunk that stole his money. And, for personal reasons, perhaps, he
didn't want Elmo, or anyone else for that matter, involved in what
he considered his own private business and personal affairs.
And as soon as Elmo saw his
neighbor standing there at the bar, he knew what was going on. He
could see the three sailors sitting at the table in the back of the
room, along with someone else he immediately recognized. As he
approached his friend and neighbor that night, their eyes locked and
Elmo knew instantly why the turtle had returned.
Sherman spoke first. "This is
between me and him, Mister Cotton."
The raccoon understood
immediately. It didn't take a demi-god to figure out what was about
to happen. There was nothing left to say. And so, along with a
re-assuring wink and a simple nod, he replied, "I know, Sherman... I
know."
That was good enough for the
turtle. This was his problem. It was his money, well most of it
anyway; and it was his fight to win, or lose. He could handle all by
himself, or so had convinced himself by then standing at the bar in
the heat of the night as the temperature rose and the sweat soaked
through his soiled shirt. It was a question of right and wrong. But
it went a little deeper than that. This was personal matter, as all
matters are, great and small, when you get right down to it,
business not-with-standing. And not unlike war itself, the outcome
of which is sometimes uncertain right up until the very end and
often decided upon not by the numbers of casualties but by sheer
guts and determination, it all comes down to that one pen-ultimate
and unavoidable conflict – the battle of wills; the ultimate battle
to be waged in the biblically prescribed valley of Megiddo on some
dry and dusty battlefield, whereupon generals and principalities are
already mustering their armies in preparation of the final battle
which will, once and for all, now and forever, decide our collective
fate in knee-deep blood. And like all warrior-generals, including
those who'd fought so valiantly and bravely on both sides of the
Mason-Dixon from Vicksburg to Gettysburg, so too would Mister
Sherman Dixon make his final stand in the same warrior spirit of men
like General Armstrong Custer and his Seventh Calvary who, despite
overwhelming numbers, marched into glory that day at the Little Big
Horn to the tune of the Gary Owen, where, as History rightfully
records, they died with their boots on, but live today in legendary
ink.
This was Sherman's Dixon's
war. It was a battle he would win or lose depending, of course, on
how much he really wanted it and, as in the case of the long-haired
horse soldier with the braded sleeves, regardless of the outcome.
It's the price we pay, I suppose; the cost of glory. And it don't
come cheap. But in the prophetic words of the warrior-poet, the
great General George S. Patton who, in one of his many magnificent
reincarnations and through a glass darkly, would suggest some
decades later as he triumphantly marched his troops and rolled his
tanks through the war-torn streets of a defeated Nazi Germany,
echoing words once whispered by a charioted slave into the ears of
the conquering Roman: '... all glory is fleeting'. But the fat-man
wasn't necessarily looking for glory that night. He was looking for
vengeance, a pound of flesh, and perhaps his stolen money. And he
would have all three by the end of the night. He just didn't know
how to go about getting it. Not yet anyway.
Exactly what was it that made
the fat man from Harley so confident that night at CHARLIE BOW'S
DRAGON-FISH and drinking and eating emporium in a place
called Shadytown, you may be asking? Why, it was Roger Morgan, of
course; the captain of the Maria Aurora. And it wasn't so much the
man himself. No. It was his eyes! It was all in the eyes; those...
those ' patriotic eyes' Elijah Hatch so proudly spoke of not too
long ago, as cold as American steel, and hot as Satan's hooves. The
spoke to Sherman even now, as though thru time and space; and they
told him exactly what to do. Not in so many words, perhaps; in fact,
not in words at all! It was all in the eyes; blue eyes, as deep and
daunting as the sea, and cold as Arctic ice. They were the eyes of
the Maria Aurora; eyes that shot forth their liquid flame like Greek
fire from a cannon, and pierce like Roman nails. They were eyes that
did not blink; eyes, as Sherman just now recalled; eyes that meant
'zackly' what they said. And how did the slow fat turtle suddenly
come upon such an apocalyptic revelation? Simple! It was the way
Roger Morgan looked into the eyes of Peter Finch and brought him to
his knees that very same day with no more than a stare. That's all
it took. Just one look! It was almost like watching a dog being
kenneled or a mule being yoked, thought the fat-man from Harley. And
he did it all with his eyes.
But there was another set of
eyes present that night the turtle was also well aware of by now.
And they also spoke with authority, but in a softer, subtler, and
more feminine way that was perhaps even more penetrating. They were
painted red, just like her fingernails, and had been following Elmo
Cotton from across the room ever since he'd entered CHARILE BOW'S
DRAGON-FISH and drinking and eating emporium. Occasionally,
but only for a second or two, the black Aphrodite would throw a
quick and suggestive glance over at the raccoon, which did not
un-noticed.
Although he would be the last
one to admit it, Sherman had that same look in his own eyes that
night. Elmo could see it. It was right there. It was the Captain's
stare. He noticed it as soon as he walked through the door that
night. He'd also noticed the woman seated at the table in the back
of the room, along with the three sailors of the Maria Aurora. The
raccoon looked over at her, and she looked at him. Their eyes met.
They locked. It was a lover's embrace. They spoke to one another;
not in so many words, perhaps, but they spoke just the same, soft
and low, just like they in the back of old man Simpson's barn that
day on a bed of freshly cut hay. It all came back to him; and he
knew. Regina Johnson! He felt strange, and warm; there was a
tingling sensation creeping up his leg which he seemed to have no
control of. It was not an unpleasant feeling. He'd felt that way
before – with his own wife, in fact! But he was never so, so guilty
about it. And then, just as he was about to...
Suddenly the walrus
re-appeared from behind the double doors in another cloud of
vaporous white smoke. It seemed, to Sherman at least, that this
particular genie not only had an uncanny way of un-corking himself
from his bottle, but would do so in a most graceful and gentlemanly
manner that would make any master pleased and proud. And this time
he was holding Sherman's supper, consisting of a broad bamboo bowl
brimming with steamy white rice, alongside a hot metal plate piled
high with freshly boiled crab-legs, which he placed before his new
master with yet another ceremonious bow. With that done, the gentle
genie leaned his bulky mass over the countertop and stared directly
at the raccoon through his thick steamy lens. "You want something?"
he enquired in the same subservient manner afforded the turtle only
moment earlier.
"Huh – ?" replied the raccoon,
as though he'd just been rudely awakened from some erotic dream he
was did not particularly want to leave just yet.
"You want something," repeated
the walrus.
Elmo responded, " – Who, me?"
"You!" ejaculated the walrus,
with a suspicious smile.
"Well..."
"You just rike sailor-man,"
the walrus observed."You rove-sick!"
Not knowing what to say, or
do, at that moment, Elmo looked at man behind the counter (whom he'd
first mistaken for a near-sighted fat woman with whiskers chiefly on
account of Charlie otherwise soft and subtle complexion; not to
mention the long sculptured fingernails and silky yellow pajamas
he'd likewise mistaken for a ladies night-gown) then back at his
neighbor, as if an explanation might be in order. Then he looked
over at the three sailor-skunks sitting at the table, along with the
painted lady who he just couldn't take his eyes off, and then back
at the turtle again..."Sick?" responded the raccoon, pawing at the
countertop with his bandit eyes feverously fixed on the familiar
woman seated in the back of the room. "Who me?"
The walrus smiled. And then he
laughed in a distinctively high voice; the kind of laugh you might
hear coming from the virgin lips of a school girl who'd just
experienced her first kiss and wasn't exactly sure what to make of
it. "Yes, you!" repeated the yellow walrus, quickly regaining his
former countenance. "You rove-sick!"
Elmo looked at Sherman and
shrugged.
"Never mind, Mister Cotton,"
the turtle rejoined, tilting his head ever so discretely in the
walrus's direction if to suggest he was not 'all there' or perhaps
had little too much of his own rice beer that evening, "I'll 'splain
later."
The proprietor asked him
again, "You want something eat?"
The raccoon was hungry that
night, and not just for food. It showed. "Well... I reckon that
depends," he casually replied, resting one foot firmly on the iron
as the turtle nervously looked on.
The walrus bowed. "You wait
here! Charlie be light back," he insisted before summarily
disappearing behind the swinging kitchen door in a yet another puff
of steamy white smoke. Occasionally, he would stop whatever he was
doing in the kitchen to peer suspiciously out of either one of the
two portholes, his flat round face taking up the entire
circumference of the glassy globe not unlike the moon itself.
The turtle then heard a
noise that suddenly made him cringe. Elmo heard it too; in fact,
everyone in the entire room had heard it, including the three
sailors in the back who, even in their self-sedated condition,
appeared equally disturbed by sounds they were all too familiar
with. They were natural noises, mostly of cats and dogs, and perhaps
some other domesticated pets, emanating from somewhere behind the
two golden doors leading directly into Mister Charlie Bow's kitchen.
It was a most disturbing sound; difficult listen to, as evidenced by
the sour expressions that suddenly appeared on the fallen faces of
all those inside the eating and drinking emporium that night. To put
it more accurately, and without getting too graphic or over
descriptive, the sound they found so disturbing, so disquieting,
that particular evening was not unlike that you might expect to find
inside a kennel: like the cacophonous sounds of so many cats and
dogs collectively barking and biting, whimpering and whining,
scratching and clawing, or just crying out loud as they were
mercilessly and systematically slaughtered, without the aid of
anesthetics no doubt, for their meat. The sound was gruesome, even
in its most charitable imagination, and all too apocalyptic.
Apparently, the unfortunate animals were being butchered alive, in
preparation for their ultimate destiny: to be baked, boiled,
stir-fried, barbecued, or perhaps a concocted combination of all
four, inside the sadistic walrus' hellish kitchen that evening.
There was simply no other explanation.
It certainly did little or
nothing to whet the Harlies' appetite, or any of the other patrons
of Charlie Bow's drinking and eating Emporium, that particular
evening. If anything, it only made a few of the customers queasy
and, perhaps, even little nauseous, as they stared down at their
half-empty plates in metaphysical certitude that they had just
partaken, thru no fault or knowledge of their own, in some
heathenish and barbaric ritual they might otherwise have avoided had
they chosen to dine elsewhere. They weren't alone in their morbid
speculations; for just then, as the familiar sound of a healthy
barking dog was suddenly cut short, in one quick and decisive blow,
followed by a whimpering noise that suddenly gave way to an eerie
silence, the reticent raccoon looked down at the turtle's half-eaten
plate and swallowed. Meanwhile, oblivious to all sights, sounds, and
suggestions, the hungry turtle chewed his supper in blissful
ignorance to all his immediate surroundings. Apparently, the fat-man
hadn't notice, or maybe he did and just didn't care which, for
someone used to such delicacies as road-kill cat-fish and
regurgitated carrots, was not that unusual. As a matter of fact, and
much to his own surprise, the turtle's appetite had since returned,
in all its undiscriminating voraciousness. To put it bluntly, and in
keeping with Mister Dixon's unprecedented reputation, the celebrated
fat-man from Harley would surely have eaten his own overalls at the
time, never mind a cat or a dog, if, as the song clearly suggests in
all its Celtic connotations, they were properly boiled and stewed in
Mrs. Murphy's famous chowder and served up, of course, with a
generous side-order of potato pancakes and a tall glass of beer. But
there more on the turtle's mind that night than food. Still, there
are some things that just have to wait.
Many in the establishment
were just as flummoxed and surprised and Elmo Cotton that night and
equally disturbed, backing away from their tables and chairs, as
well as their plates, just a little bit and looking at one another
in suspiciously raised eyebrows. By then Elmo was just curious
enough to have stepped a little closer to portentous portholes in
order get a better look of what might, or might not, be going on
inside the kitchen kennel. He'd heard sounds like these before,
coming from inside mother's own kitchen as a matter of fact, and
suspected no less. It was no secret that during hard times, the good
folks of Harley, and other such places vulnerable to the
debilitating effects of droughts, floods and other natural and
man-made disasters, including a war and the down-turn economies that
accompany such catastrophies, would sometimes resort to eating their
own family pets, including but not limited to: cats, dogs, rabbits,
rodents, hamsters, gerbils, and basically anything else they could
prey from the hands of a screaming four year old who didn't quite
see it that way and could fit on top of the stove, provided there
was no other source of food available, that is, and it was
indispensable to do so. It didn't happen all too often in Old Port
Fierce, however, whose natural resources precluded such calamitous
events, but it did happen: once when an angry hurricane once blew
in from the southeast destroying the local crop and killing off most
of the livestock. Disease was soon to follow, leaving many
impoverished citizens, including some fishermen who were used to
such tempests, bedridden or worse. Shadytown, bearing the full
impact of the northern eye-wall of the gale, was hit the hardest.
Food became scarce; many died; some were never seen again. After the
calamity had subsided, things slowly returned back to normal in and
around Old Port Fierce. The only noticeable difference, however, was
the complete and total absence of cats, dogs, or any other animals
normally seen roaming the cobblestone streets in the immediate
vicinity. Curiously, it was not too long after the hurricane hit
when Mister Charlie Bow hung his Dragon-fish outside the
newly-decorated emporium, officially opening the doors of his famous
drinking and eating establishment to all the general public. And
ever since then, the folks of Shadytown never had another problem
with stray cats and dogs. Coincidence? You tell me... just don't tell
the customers. Please!
When the cruel sounds of
animated death finally subsided, the walrus reappeared once more
behind the counter in the same manner as he'd left, in a vaporous
cloud of smoke.
No one said a word.
"Something long?" enquired the
walrus, suspiciously. "What matter? Cat got tongue?" He almost
appeared to laugh when he said it, which only gave way to further
concern on the grizzly matter.
After a long and pregnant
pause, the Harlie finally spoke up. "Uh... what's for supper?" he
gulped, with a noticeable amount of hesitation.
The walrus appeared to smile
again and exclaimed: "Foods! All kind! Seafoods! Fish! Robster!
Clab-reg! Special tonight – flied lice! You rike?
Elmo quickly removed foot from
the iron rail. He backed slowly away from the counter. "What the –
!" he gasped.
"Don't worry, Mister Cotton,"
said the fat-man without attempting to explain, "It ain't what you
think." He then reassured the suspicious raccoon by cracking open a
red crab-leg and gulping it down with a handful of special fried
rice. "I'll order for ya'll."
After ordering supper that
night the two Harlies turned their backs to the three sailors while
the pony-tailed genie quickly disappeared once more behind the
double swinging doors in the usual puff of smoke. It was amazing
just how quickly and silently the big man could move when he wanted
to, and how gracefully! It reminded Elmo of how his Uncle Joe used
to catch horseflies in mid-air with a wave of his big beefy hand. It
was almost like magic; and he could do it as easily as... as pulling a
rabbit from a hat
While they waited for their
dinner that night, the painted lady would occasionally smile back at
the raccoon with the inviting eyes of an adulteress whose heart no
make-up could mask. The sailors were all too busy drinking at the
time, or maybe they simply hadn't noticed, or just didn't care.
Meanwhile, the turtle stood firm, holding his ground, still waiting
for the right moment to make his next move. It won't be long now, he
thought.
It was getting was late in the
evening; and by the time he returned from the kitchen with two
additional plates of food, Charlie Bow looked slightly distressed,
which the observant turtle took as a bad omen. Apparently, something
had been bothering the busy walrus; Sherman only hoped he wasn't
getting suspicious of what was really going, as the Oriental mind
sometimes does in these situations, especially in matters of
hospitality. Handing over another two dozen of his famous boiled
crab-legs served in steaming metal bowls, along with a side-order of
his special fried rice, he began nervously toweling off the bar
while mumbling incoherently in his own native tongue. From previous
experience, the pony-tailed proprietor knew that the sailors would
be trouble; he'd seen their like before. It was a simple matter of
probability and statistics. Charlie possessed an uncanny and
reliable knack of predicting such disturbances; and, from a purely
mathematical perspective, he knew the odds were already stacked
against him. The fact that there were three of them and only one of
him (not to mention only one woman) only made matters worse. It was
only a matter of time, he mathematically concluded. Fortunately,
Mister Bow had a way of increasing the odds more in his favor; and
it actually had more do with physics than mathematics; if, in fact,
the two can ever be totally divorced and separated. It was an old
Chinese invention called – gun powder.
Mister Bow had seen this play
before and was taking his own precautionary measures just in case,
even if no one else had noticed them at the time. Although the two
Harlies standing at the counter didn't appear particularly
dangerous, the owner and manager of CHARLIE BOW'S DRAGON FISH and
drinking and eating emporium thought they did look suspiciously
out of place, which seemed to worry him just a little bit; but not
nearly as the tree drunken sailors who he'd seen before. Fat brown
turtles and bearded raccoons in overalls were indeed a rare sight to
behold on Avenue 'D' or anywhere else in Old Port Fierce or
Shadytown, and not to be taken lightly. As it were, Mister Bow was
just than beginning to think that they might be, in his own
superstitious mind at least, 'bad ruck!' The fact that one of them
had already been badly beaten up, only gave him further pause for
concern. After all, this was Shadytown, and they
were on Avenue 'D'; and it was Saturday night.
Even a near-sighted walrus with glasses knows what that means. He
also couldn't help but notice how his other customers were suddenly
looking at one another in a most troublesome manner, as if they knew
something was about to happen. "Charlie no rike..." the walrus quietly
spoke to the hermit crab that kept popping its curious head out from
under the satin folds of the yellow pajamas, "Something not light
here... Bad ruck!' he was overheard more than once by several at the
bar that night.
After devouring an entire bowl
of boiled 'clab-regs', along with several servings of special 'flied
lice', the fat turtle immediately begged for seconds; for all three
of them! as a matter of fact. He hadn't eaten in quite some time and
found that his appetite had suddenly and miraculously returned –
bigger, and as indiscriminate as ever. But it would take more than
crab-legs and fried rice to satisfy such an enormous appetite, that,
or any other, night; and never knowing exactly when or where his
next meal would be coming from, especially when he was out on the
road, the fat man from Harley was determined to 'get his fill' and
suggested Elmo do the same. He only hoped that he would have enough
money in his shoe to pay for it all.
As you might already suspect,
food was the last thing on Elmo's Cotton's mind that night; and as
previously disclosed, the raccoon's hunger ran deeper than that,
much deeper. He was still thinking about a woman behind the liquid
mask, and a nickel that just wasn't there. Never-the-less, he could
use a bite to eat.
"Go ahead, Mister Cotton,"
insisted the turtle, cracking open a bright red crab-claw and
popping it into his mouth, "It won't bite."
Elmo held the long red pincher
up to nose and sniffed. "Well, at least it don't smell like no damn
dog," he replied.
"Tastes... kinda like cat-fish,"
said the turtle.
"Everything tastes like
cat-fish to you, Sherman."
"No 'zactly, Mister Cotton.
Harley beans don't taste likes no cat-fish....and neither do throwed-up
carrots," gulped the turtle. "More lice?"
Elmo didn't have to count the
number of crab-legs and bowls of rice Sherman consumed that night to
know it was more than enough, even for him. It seems that, along
with his courage, Mister Dixon had also found his appetite, and it
was as voracious as ever. "Best take it easy, Sherman. You know what
they say 'bout them ol' crabs – don't you?" admonished the Harlie.
"What's that?' burped the
turtle.
"They comes back... and bite
you!"
The fat-man didn't heed the
words, or the warning; he was too busy devouring his meal. He'd
eaten crabs before, on many occasions; and he'd never once gotten
sick from them. Not even once. But that was in Harley, and they were
actually fresh-water crawdads, which, as everyone knows, are
actually quite different from sea crabs, especially the blue ones
that crawl up out of the ocean from time to time and have to be
properly prepared. But none of that seemed to matter at the moment,
and the hungry turtle kept right on shoveling the tasty crustaceans
into his mouth and washing them all down with large quantities of
rice beer served to him a tall glass that was constantly being
re-filled by his mindful host.
Elmo Cotton was treated no
differently, of course; and he sipped his beer slowly in between
mouthfuls of crabmeat and plain white rice – the idea of 'flied
lice', special or otherwise, making him a little queasy at the time.
Peter Finch was as drunk as
any self-respecting sailor should be on Saturday night in a place
called Shadytown, and just sober enough to know it. And it was in
that semi-conscience state of inebriation, which he appeared to be
all night, he could be most unpredictable and dangerous. Like a
shark in shallow water, whose primordial brain can detect a single
corpuscle of blood miles away, this fish was ready to fight. He'd
actually spotted the turtle the moment the fat-man walked through
the door that night and was merely waiting for him to make the first
move. Suddenly, their eyes met. And at that moment, Sherman Dixon
knew there was no turning back. But things would be different this
time; this time, Sherman was ready. And he was thinking not only of
vengeance, but also his money. He looked the sailor directly in the
eyes, just like Roger Morgan did on the dock that same day. The
sailor's eyelids appeared to be drooping, half-mast as the sailors
say, almost as if he were being held in some mild hypnotic spell,
the kind that makes a man appear weaker, and perhaps less dangerous,
than he actually is. It was beguiling.
"So, you want some more – Eh?"
Finch sneered at the turtle, hoisting himself out of his chair like
a ship coming in from a storm: his timbers all a'shiver and his
sails all a'foul. Glancing down at his two mates, who by then were
very much aware of what was going on, he winked at the woman and
slowly began making his way across the room towards the bar.
The farmer gulped his breath,
still not sure what he would actually do, if anything, now that the
time he'd been waiting for had finally arrived. Biting down on his
lower lip, a nervous habit he'd acquired while trying to explain to
his wife what happened to the last pork chop, the turtle noticed
that his stomach was growling.
The raccoon heard it as well;
as did a few other attentive patrons who'd suddenly began to take
interests.
And then he began to sweat.
That's when Sherman knew he was really scared. And in the heat of
the moment, the perspiration soaked through the farmer's bright red
shirt, making it cling to the rolls of fat cascading over his belt.
He looked down. He was embarrassed. He wanted to run away. He wanted
to hide. But it was too late for all that. Where would he go? Home?
What would they say? What would they think? But more important, what
would Captain Morgan say if he ever found out? The turtle opened his
mouth to speak. "I w-wants my m-money b-back," he nervously
stuttered, loud enough for all in the room to hear, but soft enough
to let everyone know, particularly Peter Finch, that he meant
business. And as he did so, the farmer's stomach suddenly heaved and
his knees buckled beneath him.
By then the master-at-arms was
standing directly in front of the fat-man, and laughing. Sherman
couldn't move a muscle. He was too scared. And he was sick, too.
Some of the others began to
laugh as well, as Charlie quickly and quietly disappeared behind the
golden doors in the usual puff of smoke.
Peter Finch took one step
closer, which put him face to face with the frozen turtle. The room
had turned eerily quiet b then. Sherman could hear his heart
pounding in his breast. Someone in the room gasped. Curling his
upper lip raising a hairy eyebrow, the sailor's face contorted as he
spoke in a clearly mocking gesture: "I w-wants my m-money b-b-back,"
he mimicked the turtle's stutter with laughing eyes and a drunkard's
smile.
There was some snickering, a
laugh or two, the sound of chairs being shuffled about, glasses
being emptied; and then, all was silent once more. It seemed they
were all, especially Peter Finch, waiting for a response.
And they got one. It came,
however, not in the way most would've expected, or even imagined at
the time; but it came just the same. And it came quickly; without
warning and without hesitation, like an erupting volcano spewing
forth with so much fire, smoke and gas. And it couldn't have come at
a better time. You see, the raccoon was right after all: Crabs do
come back and bite! particularly when they're a certain variety of
salt-water blue crab, and especially those that hadn't been properly
prepared and boiled long enough to kill-off a strain of bacteria
known to inhabit the blue host of that particular species which was
accused, more often than not, of being both cause and culprit of a
very serious stomach virus, among other infectious diseases. And
that's exactly what was going deep inside the turtle's intestines
just then, although in an accelerated process that simple could not
be explained even in modern medical terms, as the stomach slowly
churned and turned in its own gastric juices and gyrations. The
crabs were merely doing what they were supposed to do, what they
were expected to do, what they were made to do in their own
Darwinian defense. They were only doing what came natural. They were
coming back to bite. And they were doing with a vengeance.
Staphylococcus
is a common type of food poisoning caused by bacteria that thrive in
spoiled meats and other foods that have gone bad. Spoiled crabs legs
often become the host for these particular bacteria, the symptoms of
which can be experienced either immediately or within a few hours
after ingestion. The usual symptoms of this type of food poisoning
include coughing, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, weakness, abdominal
pain and shortness of breath. Symptoms usually go away within a few
hours but can be quite severe while they last.
It began as a slight and
somewhat burning sensation, deep down in the turtle's entrails.
Something was happening. In a cesspool of bile, acid, and other
digestive juices, the blue crabs had somehow, or so it seemed, been
brought back to life! not unlike their protozoan prototypes that may
very well have been 'sparked into existence' by a similar chemical
exchange (Indeed, before life evolved on Earth, most scientists
agree that amino acids–molecules that are the basic building blocks
of life–were first formed via interactions on Earth or brought to it
via collisions with comets and meteorites) ignited perhaps by some
pre-organic lightening from the sky, or boiled in the bowels of a
fiery volcano so many millions of years ago in their own primordial
soup.
Then came the churning;
accompanied, naturally, by nausea and a sudden shortness of breath
that made the turtle sweat even more. Engulfed in voluminous clouds
of noxious gas, the human stew quickly began to boil. The pressure
increased until there was nowhere else to go, but up. And so was
elevated the thick volatile mixture of rice and beer and clawing
crustaceans, all rising steadily upward, along with everything else
that happened to be inside the turtle's stomach at the time.
Exacerbated by fear and anxiety, the symptoms worsened as the vile
liquid breached the esophagus, causing what is described in medical
textbooks as acid reflux. It was a classic case of indigestion.
And that's when the coughing
began. A sure as sign if any that the crabs were back, and biting.
They were live! Well, figuratively speaking, anyway. And they were
back with a vengeance; the same vengeance the turtle was hoping to
find that night, only on a more personal level, and without so much...
er, discomfort. The farmer could feel it. He could taste it. They
were attacking from within: snapping at his intestines, pinching his
bladder, tearing away the lining of his stomach bit by tender bit,
and clawing at anything that got in their undeniable way. They were
obstructing his wind-pipe by then as well. It was difficult for
Sherman to breath. They were in his mouth! There was blood and bile
forming and foaming on his tongue.
It was an agonizing
experience, and one that left the fat man helplessly choking on his
own vomit that night in CHARLIE BOW'S DRAGON FISH and drinking
and eating emporium. And to make matters worse, everyone in the
room was laughing by then, most of all the two other sailors who
were still seated at the table along with the painted prostitute.
Needless-to-say, Peter Finch was laughing loudest by then as the
turtle's coughing spasms grew worse, and even more intense, until it
actually became quite alarming. The walrus, who'd suddenly
re-appeared from his magic bottle, appeared not a little a little
nervous by then as noticeable beads of sweat began forming on his
forehead and trickling down into his wilting mustache like water off
a leaf. Charlie Bow had seen this sort of thing before, and he
didn't particularly like what he saw; it certainly wasn't good for
business. And it didn't look too good from the turtle's perspective,
either. They both knew they would soon have to take matters into his
own hands, one way or another.
Supposing that his poor and
unfortunate neighbor might be choking to death by then, at least by
the sound of his heavy breathing, Elmo Cotton attempted to stop the
convulsions by simply putting his arms around Sherman's waist to
settle him down a bit, which, as you may've already guessed, was not
exactly the easiest thing to do; in fact, the farmer's fat belly was
so big around that the raccoon's hands never actually met.
Meanwhile, one of the other patrons, a thin man with a pale
complexion, offered the sick turtle what was left in his half empty
beer glass, thinking perhaps that it could only help his dyspepsia,
which Sherman was all too happy to oblige. It did help, apparently,
but only momentarily; for not long after the temporary reprieve, the
convulsions began all over again, more forcefully than ever. And so
did the laughter. The turtle looked as though he was on the verge of
eruption; and in fact, he was.
Suddenly, the turtle stopped
coughing. He then began moving his arms, frantically, as if he
wanted to speak but... but just couldn't. The words simply wouldn't
come out, no matter how hard he tried. What Sherman really wanted to
do just then was fight; but he couldn't do that, either. All he
could do was stand there, looking like a big fat damn fool, and
suddenly wishing he'd never came back. Still, he wanted to fight
back, or at least say something. But he was just too sick. And
everything around him was making him even sicker. And he was sicker
he got, the more sick he became. There was just no stopping it. He
was getting sicker by the second, and he knew it. But what was
really making the turtle sick, although he may not have known it at
the time, was what was still swimming around somewhere inside his
stomach just then: a vile and volatile mixture of the rice, crabs,
beer, along with whatever else might be floating about the great
bubble of liquid gas, seasoned with fear and stirred with the proper
amount of anxiety. All Elmo managed to do by putting his arms around
the bloated blubber was compress the gas even that much more, like
clamping down the lid on a pressure cooker or applying more heat to
a whistling tea kettle. The humiliation Sherman was experiencing at
the time only made matters worse. Everyone was staring at him; and
Peter Finch was still standing right in front of him, right there in
his face, laughing like a village idiot and enjoying every miserable
moment of it.
Sherman was more ashamed than
ever, and even more nauseous. He was sick and tired. And he was sick
and tired of being sick and tired. He was sick of just thinking
about it. And they were all laughing at his sickness by now, people
he didn't even know who were acting as though everything happening
was being staged for the benefit of their own private and perverted
amusement. And what better place for that to occur than inside
CHARLIE BOW'S DRAGON-FISH and drinking and eating emporium on
Avenue 'D' in a place called Shadytown.
And all the while the raccoon
just stood there, just as he did before when the turtle was beaten
to a big brown pulp on Avenue 'D'. He knew what was going on, of
course, and what the turtle had told him earlier that evening, which
is just one of the reasons he hadn't done, or said, anything just
yet. He would not to interfere. That's the way the turtle wanted it.
This was between Sherman Dixon and Peter Finch, and no one else.
Elmo knew that as soon he walked through the door. He could see it
Sherman's blackened eyes. He'd seen that look before; and he knew
what it meant. It was the captain's look. Morgan's eyes! And it was
still there, even as the turtle stood there shaking in the shell.
'This one's mine' the eyes seemed to say. There was no mistake about
it.
The Harlie held himself back.
He'd promised his neighbor he wouldn't interfere, and it was one
promise he intended to keep. Under different circumstances, Elmo
might've broken that sacred vow, and would've been just as wrong to
do so. But things were different now. Sherman had changed, and Elmo
knew it; he could see it, even if no one else could at the time.
Sure, Sherman was still a turtle, that much as obvious; but he was
no longer hiding in his shell; this was a turtle that meant
business. This time it was personal, man-to-man, one on one. This
was real. This was it. This was what wars were all about, imagined
the Harlie; the stuff men die for; something Red-Beard might have
appreciated, if he was still alive to witness the Homeric event.
This was Sherman's last stand. It was his fight to win or lose,
alone and by himself. This is the way he wanted it; the way it had
to be. And he would have it no other way. Elmo knew that by now; and
he knew he would only be getting get in the way.
The other two sailors sitting
at table suddenly appeared not so as drunk as they did only moments
ago. They saw what the raccoon saw and had stopped laughing by then.
They'd no intention of interfering either; they knew wouldn't be
necessary; unless, of course, someone tried to step in and do
something foolish, in which case they would have no choice. This was
strictly between Peter Finch and Sherman Dixon. It really didn't
matter who started it; it never does in these situations – only who
finishes it.
There are times when a man has
to do what a man has to do, even if he is just a turtle. And that
was exactly what the Harlie relayed this friend and neighbor through
a long hard stare of his own that night. It was the kind of look
Roger Morgan would appreciate; cool, confident and bold. And if the
captain of the Maria Aurora were there that night at CHARLIE BOW'S
DRAGON FISH and drinking and eating emporium on Avenue 'D' in
a place called Shadytown, he would certainly have approved.
Although he was indeed quite
sick by then, Sherman acknowledged his neighbor's stare with a
tightening of his lip and a flare of the nostrils. He knew by now he
would get no help from the raccoon. That's the way he wanted it. He
never even asked. And just as master-at-arms was about to make his
final move, Sherman did 'zackly' what he had to do; and he did it
this time without stuttering a word. Hell! He didn't even flinch. "I
want my money back," demanded the turtle, as clear and loud as the
first shot heard around the world at Lexington. And the shot fond
its mark, as it silenced the entire room once and for all. Suddenly,
every glass and fork fell at once. Not a sound was heard after
that.
The sailor blinked, as the
smile fell from his face. He was caught off guard, temporarily at
least, and slightly confounded. There was hardness in the turtle's
voice the master-at-arms hadn't noticed before. At first, he wasn't
quite sure what to make of it. It sounded almost like... a threat?
he began to wonder; which Peter Finch actually might have found
amusing at one time, but not now; not at that point."That's more
like it, matey," he calmly answered in return. What he actually
meant by 'That's more like it, matey,' was different to tell. More
like it? More like what? And what was with the 'matey'? Maybe it was
just the rum talking. Maybe not.
Like two ships-of-the-line
squared off and ready to discharge their cannons, the farmer and the
sailor stood before each other toe to toe, bulwark to bulwark, so to
speak. By then Sherman could make out every tattooed line on Finch's
infamous arms, and every scar on his square-rigged face. He could
even smell the alcohol on the sailor's heavy breath. It only made
matters worse. But even as his stomach heaved and rolled within, the
turtle was more determined than ever to do what he had to do. "Give
me my money back," he insisted again, more adamantly than before.
A slight wicked smile returned
to the master-at-arm's distorted face. "Well, then..." he replied,
pausing for effect, "come and get it." And he said it in such a way
that made everyone, including Elmo, think that it actually might
happen.
There really was no further
need for talk; but Sherman decided to give him one more chance
anyway. What did he have to lose? He opened his mouth and spoke once
more, only slowly, and more deliberately than ever, accentuating
each and every syllable: "Give! Me! My! Mon! Nee!
Baaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
As the last word was
ejaculated from the turtle's quivering lips, so were the entire
contents of his sour sick and sour stomach which he vomited up all
over the master-at-arm's ugly face, which, depending on one's point
of view, may've actually have been quite an improvement. And it all
came up in one volcanic eruption of the crabs, rice, bile, blood and
the beer, along with anything else that happened to be swimming
around in the turtle's gut at that time.
Wiping the regurgitated
remains from his twisted and contorted face that night, along with
other partially digested food particles, the master-at-arms cursed
the turtle with every vile and degrading word he could think of –
and being a sailor that naturally took a great deal of time, and
came very little effort. He was ugly, drunk, mad, and mean; like a
wet cat crawling out a sewer hole. And he stank, too!
Sherman stepped back, almost
apologetically it would seem at first, not only to put some distance
between him and the mad mariner, but also to escape the stench of
his own vomit, which, not surprisingly, was suddenly making him sick
all over again. And just as the last explicative left the sailor's
puke-caked lips, he assaulted his victim like a mad bull springing
from its stall. And just as he did before, the master-at-arms went
straight for the turtle's head. It was easiest, if not the most
obvious, target.
Sherman saw it coming this
time and braced himself for a full frontal assault. And just before
the initial impact occurred, the turtle simply swung his massive
body to one side, thus gracefully avoiding the eminent collision. He
wasn't even thinking of it at the time; it just came natural to
him.
Like a mindless projectile
with no target and no purpose, Peter Finch simply passed the turtle
by. The farmer had escaped the blow, just barely, but not without
coughing up the last remains of his supper in the process. The
sailor's forward momentum carried him forcefully across the floor,
propelling him directly in line with a more stable and stationary
target, Elmo Cotton, the raccoon on the run. Only he wasn't running
this time.
True to his word, Mister
Cotton hadn't moved. He'd been standing there all along. And at the
time he just happened to be holding a scalding metal bowl of Charlie
Bow's famous crab-legs, straight from Hell's kitchen, and still
sizzling.
Unlike the nimble-footed
turtle, Elmo Cotton knew exactly what to do. And he didn't even have
to think about it. As the raging bull rushed forward with a full
head of steam, the Harlie held the hot metal container high over his
head and, with the skill and precision of a Spanish matador, brought
it down directly on Finch's head. It stopped the rushing bull dead
in his tracks. And it happened so quickly that some at the bar
didn't even notice. The master-at-arms then dropped to the floor
like an anchor, and stayed there. Apparently, he'd been knocked
unconscious, for the time being anyway.
Looking down on his fallen
foe, Elmo suddenly noticed something bright and shiny lying on the
floor not far from the sailor's immobilized head. It was his Bowie
knife, the same one he had carried with him all the way from the
cabin. He could only guess that, somehow, in the course of all the
commotion, it had slipped out from under his overalls where he'd
tied it to his leg. He was going to retrieve it at one but, glancing
over at the two remaining skunks who looked like they might take it
as a sure sign of further hostility and perhaps aimed at themselves,
decided against it. He would come back for it later.
The bald-headed boatswain and
the pony-tailed mast-mate were just as surprised as everyone else in
the room when it happened. Obviously, they weren't nearly as drunk
as their senior officer and, after talking it over a bit, pronounced
the incident unavoidable and concluded that it probably all worked
out for the best anyway. It wasn't the first time Peter Finch was
put in his place; and it certainly wouldn't be the last, although
they wished by now that the incident had never taken place. However,
having the master-at-arms in such a compromised and incapacitated
position did have certain advantages. For one thing, they didn't
have to worry about getting thrown out of CHARLIE BOW'S DRAGON-FISH
and drinking and eating emporium that night... well, at least not
for the time being. And for another thing, it only increased their
chances (the odds suddenly appearing much for in their favor with
the master-at-arms fin-out and on the floor) of walking away with
the painted prostitute of Avenue 'D' that night, which is all they
really wanted anyway; although they suspected all along that they
would most likely be spending a good portion of the night, and most
of tomorrow, inside the brig of the Maria Aurora – with or without
Peter Finch. But for now, all they could think about was the painted
harlot, and their more immediate plans.
The harlot had different plans
however, and was giving the raccoon even better odds that night.
She'd been hoping for something like this to happen all along, and
was actually prepared for it. She knew many of sailors of the Maria
Aurora who were in Shadytown that evening (not necessarily in the
Biblical sense) including the captain himself, Roger Morgan, as well
as the tattooed master-at-arms. He was a rough customer she
suspiciously recalled – something about darbies and bull-whips – and
certainly no gentleman. He was probably not much of an officer
either, she was thinking at the time. But she needed the money, then
as now, and still had a mother and child to support. And so, ever so
discretely, but with just enough bait on her lure, she cast out her
rods while trolling her way over to where the two brave Harlies were
presently standing over the fallen Philistine.
She first approached to the
turtle and gently put her hand on his broad shoulder as a sign of
gratitude, if nothing else, and maybe even a little affection. But
when she reached for the raccoon, the black Aphrodite kissed Elmo
squarely on the on the mouth, while at the same time taking his hand
and placing it gently but firmly on the back side of her bulging
skirt. The Harlie had made no effort to encourage such a bold
reaction; neither did he do anything to prevent it. He knew who she
was by then, and that, somehow, made it all the more confusing.
Naturally, the sailors were
quite angry by then; but not without having gained a new and healthy
new respect for a couple Harley dirt famers who, despite their
previous engagement, suddenly appeared to them in a whole new light;
and not without a certain amount of envy attached. For it was quite
clear by now that the woman's affections were currently being drawn
in a direction not to their satisfaction, forcing the mates to
realize that the odds in favor of either one of them sharing the
adulterous bed that night had just decreased dramatically, even with
the master-at-arms out for the count. They were jealous of course,
as most sons of sailors often are in these desperate situations.
Still, they were willing to let bygones be bygones. It wasn't the
first time someone got the better of Peter Finch; but it was
certainly the most entertaining. Sometimes, you get what you pay
for.
Mister Nathan Scrubb filled a
couple of empty beer glasses with whatever was left of their bottle
of rum. The other sailor, the younger man with the distinctive limp
and the blonde pony-tail stood up and brought the freshly charged
glasses over to where Elmo and Sherman were still standing. The
Harlie accepted the drinks, hesitantly at first, but with a final
nod of gratitude, and a look of 'no-hard-feelings'.
"S'been asking for it all
along, if you ask me, mate," spoke the man with the gimpy leg,
showing little or no remorse over what'd just happened.
The boatswain agreed. "Don't
borry – Hic! – Woys," he said, slurring and mixing his words as he
spoke in a semi-drunken stupor. "Cap'n'll never know. It's 'tween
you and us," he then belched, pointing in the opposite directions he
intended to.
"Finch'll get over it," Nelson
insisted. "He's not such a bad ol' salt, you know. All wind and no
sail, you might say. Ay, that's Pete alright! We'll take him back
to the ship and put him straight to bed, nice and proper... just
like a baby."
"Aye," grinned the bald man,
"likes a bittle litty baby."
"Little bitty baby," Nelson
corrected.
"That's wha'I said Nels...
likse a bittle – Hic! – itty...bitty... baaaaaaaaaaaa – Hic!
Sherman swallowed his glass in
one brave gulp, feeling the shell on his back grow a full inch
thicker as the potent potable put out the fire in his belly. He was
still a little sick from the crabs, but reckoned the worse was over.
Elmo did the same; however, as he went to wipe his mouth with the
back of his hand, he noticed something disturbing. The man on the
floor was just then beginning to move.
Meanwhile the walrus had
disappeared, again, into the sanctuary of his heathenish kitchen
behind the golden gate. All seemed calm, for the moment anyway.
Everyone else in the room simply went back to their crabs and beer,
or doing whatever it was they were doing, just as if nothing had
happened; at least nothing they weren't expecting to happen and
hadn't seen before.
But Sherman knew better, and
was already bracing himself for round two, which he knew would begin
as soon as the master-at-arms regained consciousness. It was only a
matter of time, he imagined.
Elmo was thinking very much
along the same line. And so together, the turtle and the raccoon
waited for something to happen. Again, they wouldn't have to wait
very long.
The senior officer, who was
just then was regaining consciousness, didn't even know what hit
him. Protruding from the master-at-arms' hair, like so many crusty
red spikes, were the regurgitated remnants of so many broken crab
legs dripping with slime and mucous. His shirt was likewise covered
in vomit, the aggregate of which consisted chiefly of a soupy
mixture of rice and crabmeat, along with other unidentifiable chunks
of yellow flesh.
As if awakened by the stench
of his own vomit, Peter Finch blinked and slowly opened his eyes. He
stared straight up at the ceiling in a bloodshot daze not knowing
who, or where, he was for a moment. He then turned his head to
either side, innocently enough perhaps, like a baby waking up from a
mid-morning nap and feeling for its mother's breasts. But it didn't
take long for the puke-stained master-at-arms to remember who, and
where, he was. Struggling to a knee, with one hand holding his
hideous head and the other his soiled trousers, the drunken sailor
looked over at the proprietor, Mister Charlie Bow, who had by then
returned from his steamy kitchen with a single barrel shotgun in his
manicured hands he'd kept there for just such emergencies.
The weapon held in those small
and delicate hands looked more like an old fashioned blunderbuss, or
musketoon, the kind Elmo once owned with a short wooden stock and a
funnel shaped barrel specifically designed to increase the spread of
the shot, the same kind that was said to have killed Red-Beard. It
wasn't the most powerful gun Mister Bow had ever owned or fired, nor
was it the safest (on the contrary, the blunderbuss was a weapon
known to sometimes be almost as fatal to those pulling the trigger
as it was to those it was aimed at), but it certainly was the
loudest, and sometimes that's all that was needed. And the fact that
one of these antiquated firearms had somehow wound up in the fatal
hands of a near-sighted walrus wearing quarter-inch thick eyeglasses
made it only that much more dangerous; at least for anyone standing
within a quarter mile radius of the gun-toting Mongolian. Charlie
claimed that he never missed. He was right, of course. But then
again, how could he miss? How could anyone miss with such a weapon?
Why, even at close range, the spread of the buckshot, or whatever it
was the walrus stuffed down the throat of the fire-belching
mechanism, was wide enough to measure with a twelve inch ruler. In
truth, the gun looked more dangerous than it actually was; but that
was usually enough to get the point across. And even when it was
lethal, it still hurt like hell!
Back on his own two feet by
now, the master-at-arms turned his attention once again to the fat
farmer who appeared as though he would become ill all over again by
then. Finch's legs were still a little wobbly, like those of a
sailor who, after many months at sea, finds himself back on solid
earth only to find it moving no differently, and with the same
waving undulations, as the deck he'd recently left behind. He then
glanced over at the painted lady of the night. There were signs of
resentment on his face, along with the turtle's regurgitated supper.
And then, looking directly at the matador himself, Mister Elmo
Cotton, who was still holding the bloody but now empty and dented
bowl in his own formidable hands, the sailor snarled and smiled. It
was an oxymoronic expression, the kind that occasionally crosses the
face of the mentally insane or some other demonic, such as that of a
gargoyle you might find still functioning as an ornamental roof
drain on some old cathedral. It was not a contrite smile, nor was it
a healthy one. It was more like the grin of a madman, full of
ambiguities, mischief, contradictions, and silent rage. And whatever
evil thoughts lie hidden beneath the master-at-arm's cracked and
crazed cranium that night would quickly become manifest, as the
madman instinctively went for the Harlie's Bowie knife that was
still lying on the tiled floor well within his reach. He picked it
up and held it to his face for a moment, the serrated edge of the
blade glistening in the lamplight like twin rows of steely white
teeth, and sharp as razors. But the sailor wasn't interested in
raccoon any longer, as perhaps he should've been, his glassy-eyed
attention presently being drawn back to the fat man who was the
initial object of his animosity, the source of his hatred and, of
course, the target of his knife. He raised the blade. He knew he
couldn't miss.
But in a moment of weakness
and lust, and perhaps a temporary lapse in judgment that would
ultimately prove to be his undoing, the master-at-arms of the Maria
Aurora did something very stupid; perhaps the stupidest thing he
ever did in his whole stupid and perverted life – He hesitated. And
thus the sailor's fate was sealed by throwing one last longing
glance back at the painted Aphrodite who, for reasons known only to
herself had suddenly and quite deliberately lifted the hem of her
pleated skirt, exposing, for but one brief, tantalizing and
titillating moment that perfectly formed triangle famously enfolded
in those fleshy brown thighs in all its marvels and mysteries. The
devil's triangle! The same furry image gynecologically imprinted on
the sailor's tormented brain only hours ago as he lay in the gutter
staring straight up into the abyss. It was an old trick of the
trade. And it worked! It not only spared the life of a sick fat
turtle, but that of a bold blue-eyed raccoon as well who once put
his hand down a young woman's dress one hot summer evening in the
back of Fred Simpson's barn. It was the least she could do.
As for the shameful act
itself, however lewd and lascivious it may have appeared to anyone
who might take offense to such pornographic exhibitions, including
an elderly minister who'd stopped by that evening for his usual
take-out order of fried rice and crabs, and several pious looking
patrons who turned their heads in stunned silence. Also present that
night was a ten year old boy who, although not entirely ignorant of
such shameless spectacles, having seen his wayward sister in far
more compromising positions, particularly when she was taking a
bath, appeared coolly quite, oblivious, it would seem, to the naked
truth of the moment. For others, however, it was nothing more than a
brief and bawdy peep show, and nothing they haven't seen before.
Best of all – it was free! And it worked just as it was supposed to
work, just the way she wanted it to – Perfectly! For it allowed the
fat man just enough time to jump for cover before the sailor even
knew what'd happened. And jump he did! Right over the bar, in fact;
and then under it, positioning himself well out of the sailor's
deadly and accurate range.
It was not so much what
Sherman did that night (which in and of itself was a sight to behold
and the stuff legends are made of) that commanded such undivided
attention; but rather it was the way in which he did it that was so
impressive and indeed worthy of further description: like a Chinese
acrobat hurdling himself through a flaming ring of fire, or a
Olympic gymnast vaulting the high beam in Old Athens, the turtle
jumped. And he did it just like that! quickly and quietly, with
grace and agility unknown to more common turtles and nimbleness that
earned him a sudden round of applause seldom heard under the roof of
the famous pagoda. Why, even the walrus was impressed, approving of
the performance with a long and graceful bow the turtle never even
saw. And that was how Sherman Dixon, the bean farmer from Harley,
escaped the sailor's wrath, as well as the knife, that one
particular night in CHARLIE BOW'S DRAGON-FISH and drinking and
eating emporium on Avenue 'D' in a place called Shadytown, and
became a legend in his own time.
Although his first target had
escaped, the master-at-arms quickly found his next mark. And with
one quick flick of the wrist, Peter Finch put that same fated knife
into flight, aiming the deadly dart straight for Elmo's beating
black heart. The raccoon would not be so quick and nimble as his
friend the turtle that night, but he would be lucky; if, in fact
luck and Providence are indeed one in the same as some suggest they
are, and had anything to do with it. Striking the Motherstone
instead, which was hidden all along in the breast pocket of Elmo's
overalls, the knife bounced off the cloth with a faint but
distinctive 'ding' and fell harmlessly to the ground.
And at the same moment the
sailor's misguided weapon hit the floor, the yellow walrus popped up
from behind the bar with his shotgun. The sailor turned to walk
away. But before the second foot fell, Mister Charlie Bow pumped a
single barrel of his specially formulated gunshot directly into the
master-at-arms' broad backside. Peter Finch fell flat on the floor
face down. After that, he didn't move for quite some time. He just
lay there, bleeding from the rear and whimpering incoherently. It
was the only sound suggesting that he was still alive at all.
Charlie Bow didn't want to
kill the sailor; he only wanted to teach him a lesson, in his own
Oriental way, of course, which included, among other things –
gunpowder. The payload he delivered that evening was a special
formula; an old family recipe consisting chiefly of crushed coquina,
dried rice, and tiny fragments of crab and lobster shells (along
with anything else found lying around the kitchen that suited the
occasion) all mixed together and ram-rodded down the tapered barrel
of his famous blunderbuss. It was a dangerous dose of ammunition,
but not necessarily a lethal one; the spread of the shot being so
wide, in fact, that it seldom, if ever, did any lasing or fatal
damage. The explosive bark of the barrel was far worse than the
actual bite, and was usually more than enough to scare the pants off
anyone before the real trouble began, and sometimes their shirts as
well. It was a powerful message, a sever warning, and one that never
failed to leave a substantial wound, even at long distances.
Naturally, the master-at-arms' backside made an easy target for the
near-sighted walrus. And just like he said, Mister Charlie Bow never
missed.
A more pitiful and pathetic
sight one could not imagine. It was almost beyond description. Many
who'd witnessed the debilitating act that night were actually amazed
that Peter Finch was still breathing at all, as some of the gunshot
had apparently also caught part of the sailor's face, leaving a
gaping wound from chin to cheek which might have affected his
respiratory system. His rear end was all black and bloody from the
ensuing blast; there was tiny holes smattered all over his
sleeveless arms, many oozing with blood. Many present had witnessed
the devastating effects of gunshot wounds before, particularly in
that part of Shadytown that was known for such disturbances, and
wondered if the damage could ever be repaired, short of surgery. The
take-out preacher shook his old grey head, and perhaps said a
prayer. From previous experience he knew that it would be a long and
painful recovery, which only made his job that much more difficult.
The skunk only got what he deserved, was all the raccoon could think
of. But he also knew they would meet again, on the Maria Aurora,
perhaps. But first he had some other business to attend to. He was
thinking about a woman; and it wasn't his wife.
By then Sherman had crawled
out from behind the bar, slightly disheveled and out of breath but
otherwise fully intact and standing over the tattooed sailor like a
conquering conquistador over Montezuma's Inca remains. There was
only one thing left on the turtle to do. And he did it. Before
leaving CHARLIE BOW'S DRAGON-FISH and drinking and eating
emporium that evening, which by the way everyone else in the
room was suddenly in a hurry to do, Sherman Dixon kicked Peter Finch
right where he thought it would do the most damage, or at least hurt
him the most. He kicked him in the ass. And he did it for the same
reason it was done to him: simply because he wanted to. And he
wanted it to hurt. It was supposed to hurt, physically as well as
psychologically, just like it hurt him.
But the turtle missed his
mark, which, for a sure-footed Harlie farmer with a size thirteen
double wide shoe was actually quite remarkable, and landed instead
in a much more sensitive area: right between the sailor's legs.
Finch's whole body quivered, like he'd just been hit by a bolt of
black lightening. He cried out in an excruciating burst of pain, and
after that began crying like a child as he rolled himself into
whimpering white ball of blood and vomit. And then, he became eerily
silent. Reaching down to the floor, Sherman quickly found his money
stuffed deep inside the sailor's pocket and retrieved it. It was all
there. Then he kicked the master-at-arms one more time, "...just to
balance the scales," he said to no one in particular. And this time
he was right on target.
After that there was no more
sound and very little movement coming from the master-at-arms broken
body which made everyone, including and most of all Mister Charlie
Bow, just a little bit apprehensive. It was difficult to tell if he
was still breathing at that point. As far as anyone else was
concerned, Peter Finch was as good as dead – and rightfully so, some
at the bar were already thinking. But Finch didn't deserve to die –
not for beating up a slow fat turtle and stealing his money – even
the raccoon on the run knew that; although that didn't stop him from
wishing it was true.
As it turned out, Peter Finch
was not dead, only traumatized, much to the amazement and relief of
his shipmates who figured they already had enough explaining to do
once they got back to the ship. And upon closer examination of the
master-at-arms bloodied backside, which still appeared to be
hemorrhaging profusely, Mister Nelson officially pronounced his
senior officer: "Alive, just barely; and well...I think."
"Oh, he'll be alright. Hic!
See, it's only a flesh wound," stated Nathan Scrubb, reaching down
to pick the drunken sailor off the floor as he'd done a thousand
times before, "...in the fleshy part of his arse." He then threw the
master-at-arms judiciously over his shoulder like he was a tattooed
rag-doll in need of another patch. "Com'on Finch," he ordered with
an unusual amount of affection. "We'll get you back to the ship and
take care of that nasty ol' cut. Let's go, Nels."
The mast-mate finished his
drink, got up, and limped lethargically across the floor to where
the Harlie's Bowie knife lay lifelessly on the ground. Bending down
with obvious difficulty, he picked it up, smiled, and looked Elmo
directly in his raccoon eyes from across the emptying room.
Elmo stood there for a moment,
wondering what, if anything, might happen next. Much to his relief
and surprise, the pony-tailed mate simply limped over and handed the
knife back to its rightful owner as if nothing at all had happened,
which, as evidenced by a noticeable twinkle in his bloodshot monkey
eyes and the way gave up the weapon so freely and easily, was
probably what he wanted to happen all along. "I believe this belongs
to you... matey," was all he had to say as he limped silently towards
the door.
"Much obliged," murmured the
raccoon, slipping the knife back into the leg of his overalls where
it belonged.
The only thanks the loyal
boatswain received for his efforts that night was a gurgling "Son of
a...." from his unrepentant commander. He then proceeded toward the
door as if carrying a two hundred pound sack of leaking manure;
which, given the choice, he certainly would have preferred under the
circumstances.
The walrus barked, "No more
food for you!" at his exiting customers, while placing his single
barreled rice-gun back behind the bar. He then reached for the broom
and said as he swept, "Bad sailor-man! Rove-sick! Don't come
back...Ten week!" It was a severe admonishment, and one not to be
taken lightly, as many at the bar would surely agree, already
clamoring for more food and drink by then. Turning to the two
Harlies, Mister Bow gracefully bowed at the waist, as was the custom
of his culture, for perhaps the last time; and for a yellow walrus,
whose waistline was only exceeded by the size of his own magnanimous
heart, it wasn't an easy gesture to perform, at any age. In fact, he
bowed so low that the tapered end of his braded ponytail fell to the
floor like a long black snake serpenting the tiles.
The entire night cost Mister
Dixon the princely sum of two dollars and fifty-cent, which was
exact the amount he'd hidden in his shoe for emergencies. As for his
purse, it was still there, surprisingly enough. The only thing
missing was his moneybag, which the sailor had disposed of earlier
and was presently resting on the proud head of one of the
street-urchins as if it were the Royal Crown itself. He gladly paid
the man in full, and returned the walrus' bow with one of his own,
which, despite all his many aches and pains, he was able to pull off
quite well, much to the amusement of the hungry fishermen.
And so the turtle and raccoon
headed for the door with a bag of rice, a bowl of crab legs and two
bottles of homemade beer, all compliments of Mister Charlie Bow.
Sherman waved thank you and
good night to the friendly walrus with the mason-jar eyeglasses as
he climbed back on the buckboard of his little painted wagon
Meanwhile, the raccoon stood
in the street, starring at the woman with the painted mask who was
by then standing all-alone under a street lamp outside CHARLIE BOW'S
DRAGON-FISH and drinking and eating emporium. As the two
other sailors disappeared into the night with their wounded mate,
the raccoon finally made his move. "I'll be back in a minute," he
said to the driver of the wagon, being drawn to the street lamp like
a moth to a flame.
Then he was gone. And so was
the woman.
Meanwhile, Sherman opened a
bottle of beer and waited for the raccoon to return. He would be
waiting a little longer than he thought.
By the time the Harlie
returned that evening from... well, wherever he was returning from, he
appeared satisfied and relaxed. He jumped up on the buckboard
alongside of the fat man who was looked at him a bit suspiciously
from the corner of his eye. "Where you been?" Sherman demanded to
know, feeling a bit betrayed by now, as a stupid grin formed on the
face of the raccoon.
"I just had to say goodbye to
somebody," he answered, settling into the back of the empty wagon
for a good night's sleep, "That's all."
"Who?"
"Oh, just a woman," the
raccoon replied, cracking open up a bottle of beer he found lying in
the bed.
"You don't mean...?"
Elmo didn't say a word; he
didn't have to. He just pointed the bottle in the direction he'd
just came from. And together the two Harlies sat and watched as the
painted woman made her way back down Avenue 'D', her broad red
backside bobbing up and down and swaying rhythmically from side to
side. It was a beautiful thing to watch, they both could only
imagine, like a ship weaving its way gently back out to sea on a
moonlit night. It almost looked like she trolling for one more bite.
"So, Mister Elmo, 'zactly
what did happen?" Sherman had to ask, his curiosity finally
getting the better of him.
"Nothin'," shrugged Elmo. "I
lacks nickel. 'Member... Mister Moneybags?"
"That's not all you lacks,"
reminded the turtle, recalling to mind the scene at the bar. "Ain't
that right, Abraham?"
The horse nodded from the head
of the wagon.
Elmo finished his beer and
then fell fast asleep. The turtle was soon to follow.
Chapter Ten
The Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D'
"SEE!" beamed the turtle as he pulled upon alongside the white picket
fence. " Told you I know hows to get 'chere.
Alma Johnson's house was
located at the dead end of a dirt road surrounded by a white picket
fence in much need of paint and repair. It was early in the morning
and still dark outside when the two Harlies arrived. There was a
soft yellow light coming from an opened bedroom window.
The raccoon, who was still
half asleep, simply looked the driver with an expression on his face
that could only be described as bewildering pity.
It was Sunday morning. Sherman
lumbered off the buckboard, telling Elmo to wait in the wagon, "just
for a little while," he re-assured the sleepy-eyed raccoon, 'so's I
can make sho' everythin's all right."
There was a wooden gate
attached to the fence in front of the Johnson home that was half
swung open. Sherman walked right in. He approached the front door
and knocked several times. After a moment or so, a small young boy
slowly opened the door, his head peering curiously through a four
inch opening. Sherman smiled, hoping that the boy might recognize
him. He didn't.
The boy had blanket draped
over his shoulders, as though he might have been sleeping and was
just woken up. He thought he recognized the man on the other side of
the door as his own Uncle Sherman, but he wasn't quite sure. It
looked like him, but with all those cuts and bruises, not to mention
a swollen head and puffed eyes, it wasn't all that easy to tell,
especially at so early in the morning when people, and things,
always look just a little bit different than then do in the full
light of day. He wasn't exactly scared; but still, he was still
reluctant to open the door the rest of the way, chiefly on account
of what his mother had told him on more than one occasion about
letting strangers, even familiar looking ones like the overweight
turtle, into the house when she and Regina were not there, which,
for a variety of reasons, was a lot more often than the boy would
otherwise have liked. 'Now don't be lettin' nobody inside the house
when we's gone – You hear me, Oley!' she'd warned the boy on many a
night like these. And she meant it, too! He wasn't exactly sure if
that rule applied to his Uncle Sherman who he hadn't seen in over a
year, or any other relatives for that matter, and thought about
asking him himself; but he was just too afraid. For one thing , he
still wasn't entirely convinced that it was, in fact, his Uncle
Sherman; and for another thing, even if it was, and his mother found
out that he did let someone in (which, of course, she
eventually would) he would still be in a peck of trouble. And
viewing yet another man sitting in back of the wagon, who he didn't
recognize at all, only made him that much more apprehensive.
"Howdy, Oley!" Sherman
grinned, greeting the boy in typical Harley fashion as he did just
about everyone. Only now, in the errie glow of the moonlight that
cold dark morning, the grin appeared more like a grimace, and
perhaps a little sinister.
But the boy just stood and
stared. What else could he do?
The puffy-eyed turtle smiled.
"Sumpin' wrong, Oley? You looks like you just seen a ghost," he
said.
The boy pulled the blanket a
little tighter around his shoulders.
"Well then," the Sherman tried
again, tilting his head slightly to one side while pulling it back.
"Is you gonna say sumpin'? Or is you just gonna just stand there?"
The boy in the blanket shook
his head: No. And then – Yes.
Sherman didn't know what to
make of it. And so he simply asked: "Is you gonna at least lets me
in then?"
The boy hesitated for a moment
and then, a little nervously perhaps, answered, "I don't know... my
Momma, she ain't home."
Sherman knew all along that
Alma Johnson was not really the boy's mother, but was never quite
sure if Oley had figured that out yet. And he was never exactly sure
why his nephew was never told that Regina Johnson, who he thought to
be his sister, was actually his real mother; but he'd always assumed
it had something to do with the fact that Oley was bastard child,
and nobody, except Regina Johnson, knew who the father was; and
perhaps she didn't even know. It was not uncommon for children to
know little about their parents in the 'shady' section of Old Port
Fierce; it was even less uncommon for bastards to be born there in
the first place. But it was uncommon in Harley; and that's where the
Johnson's were originally from. Obviously, the boy in a blanket
still didn't realize (or perhaps he was never told, which, all
things considered, was more likely the case) that Alma Johnson was
indeed his actual grandmother, and that Regina Johnson, whom he'd
grown up to believe was his sister, was really his biological
mother. He didn't know because... well, because he didn't have to
know. It was as simple as that; and he was simply never told. It
wasn't necessarily a bad thing, despite the strange circumstances
surrounding the birth of the bastard child and his father's unknown
identity, which is probably why we have so many bastards to begin
with; but it wasn't a good thing, either. Maybe there are some
things little boys shouldn't know, at least not until they're old
enough to understand and wise enough not to care. Perhaps they just
don't want to know.
"You mean Miss Regina – Don't
you, Oley?"
Oley Johnson shook his head
again; only this time he looked even more confused. "She my sister,"
he said, "But she be gone, too."
"Oh! 'Scuse me, Oley. That's
want I meant to say..." said the turtle, falsely correcting himself
for the sake of the child, " – Yo' sister."
Oley Johnson accepted his
uncle's apology with a nod and an unsure smile; the way he would
accept any apology coming from an adult, and without knowing what it
was really all about. But he did know the fat man standing in the
doorway that cold dark morning, despite his unseemly appearance; and
he also knew that he always welcome at the Johnson house, at least
whenever his momma, or his sister, was at home. He'd also been given
strict instructions not to let anyone inside the house, particularly
when it was still dark outside, and especially whenever his grandma
and momma... I mean his mother and sister, were not at home. 'And
that's goes double when there's a full moon outsides!' the old woman
admonished the little boy, throwing a blanket over his bare naked
shoulders as she ran out the door and off to church that cold dark
morning. Oley's mother, Regina Johnson, wasn't with her at the time,
but she was expected to meet up with her mother later on inside the
little church on Avenue 'D' where they both sang in the choir; after
she had taken care of business, that is.
Oley was only doing what all
good little boys in blankets should do at times like these. He did
exactly what he was told: nothing more and nothing less. Besides, he
could still clearly see the moon shining brightly outside, hovering
over the turtle's right shoulder like a big grey and white ball. It
was a full moon, of course; and he exactly knew what it meant: It
was that special time of the month when everyone seemed to act just
differently – especially grown-ups People were not the same. They
acted a little odd, in a suspicious sort of way, like they were
crazy or something, he sometimes imagined; it was almost as if, in
the painfully accurate words of a little bastard boy who'd grown up
in a world that made little sense and sometimes seemed up-side-down,
'... almost like they done lost their minds...'
Not that Sherman was a
stranger, of course... well, not really. Oley Johnson had met his
uncle several times before; but he was even younger back then and
remembered Mister Dixon as being much bigger at the time (or maybe
it was just that he was much smaller himself and hadn't figured it
out yet) and perhaps not as ugly, or at least not so beaten-up.
Either way, the boy was glad to see him. But he still didn't know
who the other man was sitting in his uncle's wagon that cold grey
morning; and he didn't particularly want to know, judging from what
he could already see peering out from under the blanket and from
behind his own front door. And even if he did know who this
peculiar-looking stranger sitting in the back of the empty wagon,
Oley Johnson also knew, by appearances alone, that he definitely
would not like him. He looked evil, and dirty, he was thinking to
himself just then, hiking the blanket further over his head so that
he looked like some helmeted extraterrestrial who'd recently landed
on the third planet of the sun, and, having finally laid eyes on one
of these inscrutable earth creatures he's heard so much about,
simply could not decide whether to approach the specimen with the
usual precautions, or just set his photon gun to maximum and kill it
on the spot. He decided to do neither, at least for the time being.
Whoever or whatever he was, he
definitely wasn't from around Shadytown... or Old Port Fierce for that
matter, thought the boy beneath the safety and security of his wooly
white armor. Not in those clothes, anyway, he warily imagined,
eyeing the frayed and faded overalls adorning the raccoon's
otherwise naked body. And even if he was from Harley, Oley Johnson
also began to wonder, noting with not a little concern the paleness
of the raccoon's skin, which, even in the moonlight looked a shade
lighter than perhaps it should have, was simply the wrong color. In
fact, at second glance the man inside the wagon looked more like one
of the sailors he would see from time to time roaming the streets of
Shadytown, or the white men that would occasionally show up in on
his doorstep, usually late at night, looking for his sister, Regina.
And he was dirty, too! How could he let anyone like that into the
house?
There'd been strange goings-on
in Old Port Fierce as of lately, which, one way or another, always
seemed to find their way into Shadytown. There was talk of pirate
ships, soldiers, and strange men from faraway places with even
stranger sounding names who were making their presence know more and
more, particularly around Shadytown and especially on Avenue 'D'.
The full moon only seemed to attract more of them than usual; like
flies to molasses, one could imagine, or some other natural organic
substance that need not be mentioned. But it was all to be expected,
Oley Johnson finally concluded. It was something he was all too
familiar with. It's just one of those things, I suppose.
"Where they at, boy?" Sherman
impatiently enquired, wondering himself by then and thinking that it
might be a good idea to come back later on, when Alma was home.
"They goes to church," blinked
the boy.
"Church?"
"Uh-huh."
"This early in the mornin'?"
questioned the turtle, thinking odd that Alma Johnson would leave
her child all alone, even for a short period of time; and so early
in the morning, before breakfast, before he even woke up and had a
chance to put on some proper clothes. "And you mean to say she left
you here, boy? Sherman further enquired, not a little concerned
under the circumstaned, "all by yo'self. All alone?"
Again, the boy in the blanket
nodded, "Uh-huh."
Sherman was more than a little
suspicious, and it showed. "Hmmmmm..." he mused out loudly,
wondering why Alma, or Regina Johnson for that matter, would do such
a foolish thing. "Well, I guess they knows what they's doin'," he
finally spoke, meaning to have a talk with both of them later on, if
in fact, he ever saw them again.
"Uh-huh," agreed the boy in
his typical two-syllable response. Oley had been told never to argue
with grown-ups, and he was not about to start right now, especially
with one so big, fat and ugly... and who had a head like a snapper
turtle.
"Where the church at?" Sherman
was obliged to ask.
The blanket shrugged.
There were actually many
houses of worship, or churches, in and around Old Port Fierce at the
time; many of them located right in Shadytown, and on avenue 'D',
where the rent for such establishments was reasonable, or at least
more affordable by those who sought them out. But there were few, if
any, that actually offered services that early in the morning,
especially during that particular time of the month when the moon
was full and bright.
"I don't know, Uncle Sherman,"
said Oley, hugging the blanket tightly around his naked shoulders
while continuing to look straight across the yard at raccoon sitting
silently in the wagon.
"I's glad to know you still
remembers my name," Sherman smiled. He'd met the boy several times
before, and not under the most hospitable circumstances. "For a
minute there..."
"They's left just a whiles
ago, Oley interrupted. "Momma told me to wait here... and not let
anyone inside the house 'til she come back," he said with a
noticeable amount of trepidation in a weak but steady voice.
Sherman scratched his wounded
head. "Well, I thinks I knows where they go," he said after some
careful recollecting. "It's that there miracle church... the one they
calls the Miracle Temple... where they severs thems.... thems... ribs!" he
grinned with a big juicy smile that reminded the boy of raw red
meat clinging to bare bone. "I knows 'zactly where it's at."
Meanwhile, Elmo noticed the
boy staring at him from across the front yard. How could he not? He
was feeling tired and dirty, looking like some vagabond the friendly
farmer might've picked up on the road along the way and thrown into
the back of his wagon either out of pity or sheer stupidity; and
knowing his Uncle Sherman the way he did, Oley Johnson suspected it
was probably a little bit of both. But Elmo didn't care; there were
alot of things he didn't care about anymore; least of all some
little brown bastard in a blanket looking at him like he'd just
stolen his last piece of candy. All he cared about just then was
getting as far away from Shadytown and Old Port Fierce as
possible...before something else happened.
Sherman thought for a long
hard moment before suddenly remembering something he thought might
help. "Ohhhhh," he beamed with a big broad smile, after spitting out
a broken tooth he just then discovered hinged to his gaping gums. "I
think I knows where they went. They's at the Miracle Temple and
Barbecue pit. Ain't they, boy!"
Oley Johnson knew of the place
his uncle was talking about. It was a church. He'd been there
before; many times, in fact; but never when the moon was so
frightfully big and bright; and he was always with his mother and
sister, not a fat turtle and a bearded raccoon who looked like the
devil himself. But it was Sunday, and there was a service going on
inside the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D', just as it
always had been for as long as most folks remembered, or at least
ever since the Reverend Willie B. Wright first arrived in town one
fateful Friday night when and where he began his famous ministry
right there on Avenue 'D' under that same pale pagan moon. Of
course, there was no church at the time; the Temple would come
later. But that didn't stop Willie from setting up a small
make-shift altar he'd constructed out of an old steel oil drum that
was cut in half and just happened to be laying on the infamous
cobblestones at the time, and a couple of two by fours . And so,
after offering up a short but soulful doxology, Willie delivered his
first of many famous homilies on the subject of (what else?) Divine
Providence. It was followed, of course, by a generous supply of
barbecued pork ribs which he cooked over an open flame, right there
on the make-shift altar and barbecue pit, shortly after the moonlit
liturgy, and served to his grateful parishioners between two thick
slices of day-old bread provided by a local baker who just happened
to be passing by at the time with some leftover loaves that might
otherwise have gone to waste. He called them 'Miracle ribs!' And to
this day, the Reverend Wright still couldn't explain exactly how it
all happened; moreover, how he was managed to feed so many people
(by the end of the night there were at least a hundred hungry souls
gathered around the metal altar and barbecue pit) with a only
handful of ribs, a few loaves of stale bread, and a pray. But it did
happen! And it happened right then and there on Avenue 'D' in a
place called Shadytown, and on a Fat Moon Friday night.
For reasons that were never
fully explained, at least not to his own childish satisfaction, Oley
Johnson was never allowed to attend the Friday night service at
Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit. And for good reason!, as we will
soon find out. For not only was the grand old temple located in the
very center, the heart, of the infamous city where the imaginary
Lion of Avenue 'D' was known to take up his infernal residency, but
also because the homilies alone were known to last well into the
night, sometimes until the break of day, which, of course, was way
past Oley Johnson's bedtime.
All the while, the turtle
couldn't help but notice that his blanketed nephew kept gazing out
at the wagon and its one lonely passenger. He knew what the boy
thinking, of course; and he would probably be thinking similar
thoughts himself, had he been under the blanket (although he would
have preferred a much larger one) and standing in the doorway of a
church on a cold and dark morning on Avenue 'D' in place called
Shadytown. "Oh, that's all right, Oley," responded the turtle in the
friendliest voice he could find, "That's just yo' Uncle Elmo – Elmo
Cotton! You 'member him now – Don't you, boy? He and yo' momma use
to... well, never mind 'bout that," he quickly retreated after
considering what may, or may not, have happened in the back of
Mister Johnson's barn so many long hot summers ago.
Naturally, Oley Johnson was
far too young to understand exactly what his uncle had
(unintentionally, of course) let slip out of his mouth just then. He
wasn't even around at the time it, whatever it was, happened. In
fact, he hadn't even been born when it did, or didn't, happen. But
that didn't prevent him from staring even longer and harder at the
strange looking man in the wagon, and more suspiciously than ever.
What happened between Elmo
Cotton and Regina Johnson one long hot summer night in the back of
old man Simpson's barn in Harley would remain between one man and
one woman... if anything did happen at all, the turtle still wondered
with one eye on the raccoon and the other on the boy in the blanket.
"Okay if we comes inside, Oley?" he finally asked, thinking by then
that he might just have to wait there, out on the porch, until Alma
and her daughter return home from church.
Suspecting he was being asked
just then to make an important decision in his mother's absence (one
he might later come to regret, and would certainly rather not have
to make at the moment) the boy simply shrugged beneath his blanket
as if to say 'Okay, Uncle Sherman'. And by doing so he was, of
course, leaving the decision entirely up to his Uncle whom, he
innocently imagined, would gladly take the blame, as well as the
consequences, if and when that decision turned out not to be the
correct one. Naturally, Oley Johnson was only trying to 'do the
right thing', as little boys often do in uncertain situations such
as these. What else could he do? But then again, what would
any little boy do with big, ugly, tooth-spitting, puffy-eyed,
swollen-headed, brown giant turtle that could easily snap off his
head and swallow it in one great greedy gulp, and have the rest of
him for breakfast the next morning. Run! If he knew what was good
for him.
Although he knew Alma Johnson
wouldn't mind if he and Elmo were to wait for her inside, Sherman
decided it was in the boy's best interest, and perhaps his own, to
honor the mother's wishes by setting a good example, as any
respectable turtle would do under similar circumstances, and just
wait outside for her to return. "Oh, that's alright, son," the
turtle softly sighed, turning his telescopic head sideways so that
Oley could clearly see by now how badly blackened his eyes actually
were, along with other visible bruises and contusions Sherman had
suffered at the bare-knuckled hands of the tattooed sailor. He
suddenly wished he'd never woken the boy up in the first place, if,
in fact, that's what he'd just done. "I understands," said Sherman
as slowly turned to walk away. "I just goes and waits in the wagon...
with yo' Uncle Elmo... and ol' Abraham... leastways til' your momma and
Miss Regina come home... with aaaaaaaaaaaaaaall that there
religion!" stretched the turtle.
Oley Johnson really wanted to
let his uncle come inside by then; but he knew his mother and sister
would eventually find out, as mothers and sisters always do; and
that, of course, would mean a whopping, even if it was 'the
right thing to do', and even if it was Uncle Sherman. That's just
the way mothers are, imagined the little boy in the blanket; and
sisters can sometimes be worse. They don't take kindly to strangers;
and they just don't like having mens around the house that don't
belong there; especially when they's not at home, and even when it's
somebody they knows, Oley was thinking to himself just then. But
these were not really strange mens...and they weren't real mens at
all. Not yet anyway. Leastways not 'til they's can can grows some
proper whiskers – and even then, he wondered in silence. But he'd
see this turtle before. It was Uncle Sherman! And even the raccoon
in the wagon was beginning to look a little more familiar b y then.
'That's the one bad thing about relatives', Oley Johnson remembered
his mother telling Regina one day when they thought he wasn't
listening, of course, 'You gots to take them in... whether you wants
to or not'. And all these thoughts raced through the little boy's
head as the fat turtle slumped sadly in his shell and slowly
slouched back to the wagon.
But before he reached the
white picket fence, Mister Dixon had a brilliant idea; which
actually happened much more frequently than some folks might
imagine, considering, of course, what has already been said about
the friendly fat farmer from Harley. "You know, Oley," he said,
stopping just short of the small swinging gate, "I thinks maybe I
might could use a little of that there religion my'self. Wouldn't
hurt! And ol' Abe might could use some, too," he winked at the pious
old horse. "All God's creatures gots to be saved, you know. Say so
right in the Bible. That's why brudder Noah makes himself such a big
boat, I 'spose... Calls it an Ark! And it be a big one. Gots to be....
to fit all them damn critters in. Ain't that right, Abraham?"
As if somewhat familiar with
the old Biblical verse, the horse nodded its long tired head; almost
as if one of its antediluvian ancestors had indeed been onboard that
fateful rainy day when God Himself, in the form of a great white
stallion no doubt, sealed the door of Noah's Ark and rained down his
righteous wrath on a doomed and deserving earth, and lived to talk
about in its own equestrian tongue. Naturally, Sherman was only
trying to make the boy in the blanket feel a little bit better about
himself for not letting them inside; which, under the circumstances,
was certainly the right thing for him or any other little boy to do
whenever a fat ugly turtle comes knocking on the door with a strange
and rather shady looking raccoon sitting in the back of his empty
wagon. He had no idea what the raccoon would think of his brilliant
idea – or Abraham for that matter, who could have used a good long
rest by then, or at least a pail of oats. And so, he approached his
passenger with the same redemptive proposal. "How 'bouts it, Mister
Cotton!" he hollered over the white picket fence, "Wants to go to
church?"
Elmo Cotton was too busy
contemplating his own uncertain predicament to be paying much
attention to what was going in front of Alma Johnson's house on that
particular morning; and he still wasn't sure if he should even be
there in the first place. He was also still thinking about the
certain woman they'd left behind on Avenue 'D', and a boat... I mean
ship, he still had to catch that evening. And what's that he heard
the turtle say just then? Something about a church.... For reasons he
couldn't quite understand, it made the raccoon uneasy; suspicious,
perhaps; and maybe even a little scared. But he was too tired to
argue, and knew it probably wouldn't do much good anyway. Once
Sherman had made up his mind on something, there was nothing
(except maybe a meal) that could change it. Besides, he didn't like
the way the little boy kept staring at him, and would just as well
go back into town and stay there until the Maria Aurora was ready to
leave on the evening tide. With a simple but nervous wave of his
hand, the Harlie raccoon acquiesced. "I reckon," he finally said,
just loud enough to be heard over the silence of the night, not
knowing exactly what the driver of the wagon was talking about at
the time, but fully aware of the fact that he was still, after all,
just a passenger.
The turtle smiled. He knew
he'd made the right decision all along
All Elmo really knew by now
was that he was going away, somewhere; and there was nothing anyone
could say, or do, to stop it. What he didn't know, however, and
probably never would, was that he was exactly where he was supposed
to be; and that he actually had little, if anything, to do with it
at all. Perhaps that was just the first miracle. Elmo hadn't been to
church in such a long time that he often wondered if God would ever
allow him back in, or even recognize him for that matter. But
knowing that it would be his last day in Shadytown, he thought he
should at least have the courtesy to go along with the farmer's
reverent request, which, under the circumstances, was the least he
could do after all they'd been through together. Realizing just then
how much Divine Providence, along with a little help from a friendly
fat turtle, may have played in getting him this far, the Harlie
raccoon reckoned it was probably the right thing to do, despite the
fact that he was once a demigod himself who, by virtue of his
apotheosis and the protocol governing such metaphysical affairs, was
not obliged to suffer such homilies. But he owed it to his good
friend and neighbor, especially after the beating he had taken on
the Harlie's behalf, which he probably received for picking up a
raccoon on the run in the first place. But as the saying goes: '...No
good deed goes unpunished'. How True! And since he hadn't been to
church in quite some time, he also thought it might just do him a
world of good; although not nearly as good, he warmly imagined, as a
home-cooked meal, a few strong drinks, and a fat-bottomed girl with
a red-painted face. And once again, perhaps not for the last time,
Elmo Cotton found himself going through the pocket of his overalls
in search of a nickel that still wasn't there.
There was one small problem
with Mister Dixon's brilliant idea: Little Oley Johnson. The boy in
the blanket simply would not budge from the front door of his house
that cold grey morning; and he wouldn't exactly go back inside
either, as Sherman had hoped he would. He just stood there – caught,
it would seem, between two opposing worlds: one in which he had to
do exactly what his mother told him; and the other where he could
indeed do whatever he wished or wanted, including allowing his
favorite uncle (never mind the fact that he'd only met his fat uncle
only twice before; once when his mother had to drag him down the
stairs kicking and screaming in the night to say greet the grinning
bean farmer; and another time when she brought him to her daughter's
house in Harley under similar protestations; and even then he was a
afraid of the giant brown turtle) to come inside the house, along
with the ratty-looking raccoon he thought might actually prefer
sleeping outdoors with the snakes and lizards, and other wild
creatures of the night, or at least stay inside the wagon where he
otherwise belonged.
The boy looked frightened,
upset perhaps, and a little confused. The turtle could feel his
frustration; he could see it in the little boy's eyes; and, having
found himself in similar situations at times, especially when
important decisions of consequence had to be made, Sherman seemed to
understand. But as he turned to leave for a second time that cold
grey morning, the fat farmer was suddenly stuck with yet another
bright idea, even more brilliant that the first! he proudly praised
himself; and one that would solve their entire problem in one bold
stroke of genius. Why, he didn't even think he had it in him. "Say,
Oley!" snapped the turtle, quite optimistically. "Why don't you go
puts on some britches and come along with me and Mister... I means,
Uncle Elmo? I'm sure your momma won't minds. You likes to go to
church – Don't you, boy?"
Oley Johnson looked up from
under his blanket and smiled. "Alright then," he said,
unemotionally, as if he'd been waiting to hear it all along, and was
just too afraid to ask. He actually did want to go to church
earlier; but his mother told to stay home. 'Shadytown is no place
fo' little chil'runs to be this time in the morning', she admonished
the boy in the usual tone and temperament mothers reserve for such
occasions. 'And besides,' she added that same celestial evening, as
mother often do in these delicate situations when they suddenly come
to realize that their little boys are not so little anymore and
should, if they are ever to become men that is, be left on their own
now and then,'...you's a big boy now! ' Still, Oley Johnson refused to
take off the blanket, and kept it draped over his shoulder all the
while as if it were the Shroud of Turin and he, the proud and
protective custodian of the most of holy of relics.
And so, they all rode off
together into the cold grey morning: the turtle, the raccoon, a
horse named Abraham, and a boy wrapped in a blanket. They were on
their way back to Avenue 'D', and Shadytown.
On the way to church, Sherman
Dixon was forced to drive the wagon back down the infamous avenue
from where they had just came. Elmo sat in the back in the back
while Oley rode shotgun on the buckboard with the giant brown turtle
who was hoping to avoid the area altogether, not only after what'd
happened to him earlier that evening but also because he didn't want
to expose Oley Johnson to what might still be going on there. But he
had no choice; there was just no other way to get to the Miracle
Temple and Barbecue Pit, at least not that he was aware of, other
than by Avenue 'D', simply because... well, because that's where it
was. Right there! smack dab in the middle of Shadytown, along with
many other houses of worship standing, ironically enough, right
alongside so many saloons halls, gambling parlors, boarding houses,
cat-houses, out-houses, and other houses of ill-repute located in
the red-light district of town that need not be mentioned in any
further detail. And that was precisely why Alma Johnson had wisely
ordered her grandson to stay at home that particular evening rather
than bringing him along where he would inevitably be exposed to such
corruptible sights and sounds; not to mention the most incorrigible
one of all: that dreaded old serpent, that feline demon of the night
that had already claimed so many innocent souls, including that of
her own flesh and blood daughters who, as Alma was well aware of by
now, walked those same salty streets just outside the holy Temple,
especially on dark mornings such as these when the moon waxed full
and thick with blood, every thirty or so days it would seem, not
unlike a woman's monthly menstrual flow. She simply did not want to
let any one of her children, or grandchildren, anywhere near such a
formidable foe like the Crouching Lion of Avenue 'D' that prowled
the streets of Shadytown, looking for fresh young meat. Naturally,
Regina Johnson would agree, as any good mother would and should in
these circumstances; but there are times when agreeing just ain't
enough. And sometimes the lion, like the dreaded dragon, wins... no
matter how many brave young knights we send off to defeat the old
serpent. That's just the way it is.
Ironically, churches as well
as other denominational places of worship were the Lion's favorite
place to lie in wait for its next vulnerable victim. And the Holier
the better! as far as this demoniac was concerned. For reasons that
are difficult to explain, but easy enough for some to understand,
it's usually the most recently saved souls that prove the easiest
prey for such dangerous demons. Like most professional prosecutors,
this particular solicitor is most clever; and he's patient, too; and
his accusations are true. He knows our weaknesses as well as our
strengths and takes advantage of them all. Like old Emancipator
himself once said. 'Know your opponent's case better than your own'
and you'll win every time. But there are many things he doesn't
know, and that.... that is what makes all the difference. But this old
accuser is not so prejudice; nor does he discriminate; although he
prefers his victims young and tender, the older ones leaving a dry
and foul taste in those jowly jaws that are accustomed to more
nourishing nutrients, like the juicy blood of saints and the marrow
bones of martyrs.
They would sometimes bring the
tasty little morsels right into town with them, just like the turtle
was doing on that particular morning by bringing little Oley Johnson
along with him and the unsuspecting raccoon. Although to be fair,
neither he nor Elmo had any specific knowledge of this mythical and
legendary feline that was said to pounce upon its prey so
mercilessly and without warning, and probably wouldn't have believed
anyone who told them it was true. But then again, there was a time
when Harlies didn't believe in hell-hounds either. So, there you
have it...
* * *
"LISTEN... YOU HEAR IT?" said the turtle, cupping an ear in palm of his big
brown hand.
Elmo was a still a little sore
from sleeping in the back of wagon for the last two days. And it
showed; but not so much that he didn't suddenly jump to his feet
when he heard something going on just up ahead, even though he
really couldn't make out exactly what it was. "Sounds like...like," he
thought out loud.
"A wang-dang-doodle!" shouted
Oley from under his blanket, realizing, of course, that they were
almost there.
"Now what make you go and say
sumpin' like that, Oley?" questioned the turtle, thinking that
perhaps the boy should have been asleep by now, and still wondering
what he was going to tell his mother.
"I dunno," shrugged the boy
under his blanket. "It just do."
"Don't sound like no damn wang-dang-doodle
to me," the raccoon opined. "Besides, ain't no wang-dang-doodles
goin' on this early in the morning anyhow. Sounds more like..."
"Church?" Sherman wondered out
loud.
Sherman Dixon had been to a
'wang-dang-doodle' before, and so had Elmo Cotton for that matter
(although you might not be able to get either one of them to admit
it, at least not in front of their wives) and he'd also been to
church. And a wang-dang-doodle was perhaps the furthest thing from a
church service they, or anybody else who'd been to both and new the
difference, could possibly imagine; although to be fair, both could
be equally loud at times and last well into the night. The words
Sherman's young nephew had chosen (rather poorly, the turtle was
thinking by then) to describe the jubilant noises they were all
hearing by now, and which seemed to be growing louder and stronger
each horse-step along the way, was what most folks would simply
refer to as a party; and a lively one at that! And not just any
party; but one typically reserved for adults only: the kind where
alcohol and tobacco were served, along with all the things adults
would come to expect at...well, at a wang-dang-doodle.
But the raccoon was right:
this was no wang-dang-doddle. This was the sound of salvation. This
was church. And it could be heard loud and clear even though they
were still many blocks away. And it was all emanating from a small
wooden structure just up ahead, and came marching down the avenue
like rolling thunder.
It was a good sound; holy and
natural; a happy noise. And it was a loud too! It was a righteous
sound; a sound that sounded something like... well, if I may be so
bold, the right-wing of Judgment Day! All in all, it was a joyous
sound – a real celebration! There were hands clapping, feet
stomping, drums drumming, horns blowing, and so many colorful voices
rising and falling in precise cadence with the whirling crescendos
of the old pump organ which seemed to override all other sounds. And
it was all happening right there at Willie B. Wright's
Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D' in a place called
Shadytown, right there in Old Port Fierce.
The sound
may have been a little unfamiliar, as loud and overwhelming as it
was, but they knew words immediately. It was an old song, one they'd
had heard many times before, in both the churches and bean fields of
Harley. It was a song sung mostly by the older women of Harley as
they toiled in the sun in their long white aprons, bent backs, and
black faces. They knew it by heart, not unlike the scared Psalms of
the Scripture which they would add their own special melody to as
well. The name of the song they sang was 'In the color of the Lord'.
It sounded just the same. And it sounded something like this:
In the house of the Lord, I'm a'prayin'!
In the light of the Lord, I see!
In the fields of the Lord, I'm a'singin!
In the color of the Lord, I'll be!"
The only difference is that
the woman of Harley sang it just a little differently. When they
sang 'In the color of the Lord', their voices sounded softer,
sweeter, more reverend perhaps, and maybe even a little bit sadder
than what was heard on Avenue 'D' just then by the three passing
pilgrims. But the song remained the same, and so did the words; and
the passion overflowed, like a breaking levee cascading down the
streets and all along the boulevard; spilling into side streets
alleyways, smashing in windows and breaking down doors, and waking
up the store-keepers (at least those who weren't already awake by
then) in the color of the Lord. It was sung in the key of life, with
all its blues, reds, yellows, greens, purples, pinks and oranges,
and all the other notes in between – a cacophony of colors; a
virtual rainbow of sounds blended together so harmoniously, so
perfectly, that it was difficult, if not impossible, to tell where
one note end and the next one began. And such was the sound the
raccoon heard that morning outside the little church on Avenue 'D'
in a place called Shadytown,
There was Holiness in the air.
It was intense, ubiquitous and omnipresent; and it was all coming
from just beyond an old mahogany door forming the grand entrance to
the temple. The entire congregation was there, of course; and they
were all singing together in one long and glorious alleluia chorus:
"In the color of the Lord!"
And it didn't stop there. The
church was alive and well on Avenue 'D', right in the middle of
Shadytown, just as it had always been. And it would be there for a
long, long time to come; if Reverend Willie Wright had anything to
say about it; which, of course, he always did.
The doors of the church were
rattling off their hinges as the turtle, the raccoon, a boy with a
blanket, and a horse named Abraham stood together on the consecrated
steps of the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D' smack-dab
in the middle of Shadytown. The street itself was relatively
deserted by then, except for a few wayward pedestrians who would
occasionally stop for a moment or two in front of temple as if
trying to decide whether or not to go inside, which, come to think
of it, is probably exactly how they might appear on Judgment Day
when these same vacillating souls stand before the famous Pearly
Gates still trying, and in some cases simply unable, to make
up their muddled minds as to exactly where they would spend
eternity; as if they really had a choice to begin with. And Saint
Peter thought he had it rough on earth... Some eventually went inside;
some didn't. Others simply walked on by, perhaps thinking to
themselves: 'Lord, make me chaste, but not yet...' Maybe they just
weren't ready, or simply considered themselves unworthy. But as the
old bishop of Hippo himself was quick to point out in one of his
many celebrated confessions: 'There are no saints without a past...
and no sinners without a future'. It all depends on how much really
you want it, I suppose.
Elmo and Oley waited outside
as Sherman went to park his green and yellow wagon in the back of
the Miracle Temple as he'd done on previous occasions. He wasn't in
Harley any longer, and wanted to make sure that Abraham would be
safe. He would be gone longer than they expected, or so he thought.
In the house of the Lord, I'm a'prayin'!
In the light of the Lord, I see!
In the fields of the Lord, I'm a'singin!
In the color of the Lord, I'll be!"
Meanwhile, Elmo reached into
his suitcase, which he'd decided by then never to let out of his
sight again, and removed his uncle's sailin' shoes. Since he would
be entering a holy house of worship, possible for the last time, he
thought that he might just put them on as a sign of respect. Going
to church bare-footed just wasn't proper, or polite; even in Harley
where shoes were said to be 'scarce as hens' teeth'. They actually
fit better than he thought they would, better than they did before,
even though they were still a little loose around his toes. It was
just 'the right thing to do', Elmo imagined. It was something his
grandmother would've wanted him to do... whoever she was.
He kept the Motherstone inside
his overalls, however, where he knew it would be safe. It had saved
his life once so far, just like his uncle said it would; perhaps it
would save it again. And if not, he always had the Bowie knife,
which he still had plans for, later on perhaps. He kept it tucked
safely and securely inside his trouser leg; and for good reason. In
a place called Shadytown I suppose you can never be too careful.
Elmo was beginning to think that it, the stone, might actually be
some kind of lucky charm after all: like a rabbit's foot, perhaps;
or a four leaf clover. And if that were the case... well then, who
better to have a lucky charm in his personal possession than the
'Lucky Number' himself! And while he waited for the turtle to
return, the raccoon stood in front of the church thinking of an old
man who'd first called him that on his own front porch back in
Harley one day. It seemed like a hundred years ago, he imagined. He
was also thinking of a dead soldier, the one they called Red-Beard.
And he was thinking about a gun. He reached into his pocket and
touched the stone. He couldn't help but think that somehow they were
all connected. But exactly how, he thought he'd never know. 'Take
care of this here stone, boy', his uncle once told him, 'It just
might save your life someday'. Joe Cotton was right; he usually was
in matters of great consequence. He seemed to always know what was
important and, more importantly, what wasn't. Elmo was only just now
beginning to understand that.
The back yard of the church
was dark empty; but Sherman could clearly make out, perhaps because
of the ensuing darkness, the distinctive glow of so many hot coals
burning brightly in the near distance.
The barbecue pit was actually
an old converted oil drum sawed in half that sat on three legs in
the customary design of the day. It should be noted, however, that
the term 'pit', at least in this particular case, may be somewhat
misleading, although not intentionally so; for in fact a real
barbecue 'pit', for those who may not know any better, is actually
and exactly what the term implies: a long deep hole in the ground
specifically designed and constructed for the sole purpose of
cooking meat. But more about that latter.
Having vomited up most of his
previous meal the night before at CHARLIE BOW'S DRAGON-FISH and
drinking and eating emporium, and having purged his stomach in
the process, the turtle was now ready for his next gastronomical
adventure. And he could think of nothing better just then than a
sizzling slab of barbecued pork ribs served up with some freshly
baked bread, and maybe a side order of Harley beans, if that
wouldn't be 'axin'' too much. He'd been to the Miracle Temple once
before and had heard of the celebrated pastor, along with his famous
pork ribs, on many times over, usually from Lester Cox who boasted
of having the privilege of knowing the Reverend Willie B. Wright on
both a personal and professional level; need-less-to-say, the
undertaker and the preacher often go hand in hand – prostitutes and
Johns, I suppose. In fact, he'd already designed a special coffin
just for Willie that included a detailed rendering of Moses leading
the Israelites across the Red Sea hand carved on the lid. He never
did tell Willie, of course; it was going to be a surprise; whenever
the fateful event happened, that is; not only for many years of
faithful friendship, and so many suppers of mouth-watering barbecue
ribs, but for all satisfied customers Willie had provided the
Creekwood undertaker with over the years. Death is not only a
self-sustaining business... it can also be quite profitable.
Naturally, Sherman would agree – about the ribs, that is. And he
expected nothing less that particular day. The meals there were
always satisfying and delicious, and he could almost taste the ribs
already, along with Willie's special barbecue sauce, the ingredients
of which was an old family recipe given to him by none other than
Mister Charlie Bow who, despite his Confucius philosophies, was
known to frequent the famous Miracle Temple from time to time, where
he sometimes helped Willie prepare the sacred ribs and barbecue the
turtle was presently finding so irresistible. But Sherman knew he'd
have to wait. And it would be well worth it.
So he parked the wagon under
an apple tree in the back yard next to a small shed that might've
been used for a barn at one time. "Now you wait here, Abraham," the
turtle quietly spoke to the horse as he yanked several golden apples
off the nearest branch which was conveniently hanging directly over
his head at the time. He fed one of the golden globes to the horse,
as was his habit, and then ate the other three right there on the
spot in the manner he was accustomed to: in one great, gaping and
gulping bite; along with seeds, skins, stems and cores, including a
big juicy worm that'd somehow managed to find temporary lodgings
within the soft brown pulp of the forbidden fruit. Before leaving
his horse and wagon for the evening, the turtle picked a few more
apples, not only for himself but for Elmo and Oley, stuffing at
least a dozen more into his pockets, which were bulging by now with
the pilfered produce, one in his mouth, and carrying two more in
each one of his free hands. "Now let that be a lesson to you,
Abraham," he admonished the horse, temporarily removing the fruit
from his pearly white canines, "– Don't never turn down a free
meal!" He stuffed the apple back in his mouth and then quickly and
quietly walked away, like a pig fit for the barbecue pit. And just
he was about to make his escape from the scene of the crime, as
perhaps poor Adam and his disobedient wife tried to do under similar
circumstances in their own idyllic Paradise, a voice was heard in
the darkness. And it didn't come from Abraham.
"Thou shall not steal," spoke
the voice, rather calmly at first.
The sound seemed to come out
of nowhere – and everywhere! – so ubiquitously omnipresent in that
crucial acoustical sense. And it stopped the frightened apple
burglar dead in his tracks. "Who dat?" he whispered in the dark as
the apple fell from his mouth, hitting the ground with a soft thud.
He waited for a moment before
resuming his stealthful get-a-way. He hadn't gotten two more steps,
however, before.... "Seek and ye shall find," sounded the faceless
apparition in the same admonishing tone.
Sherman was beginning to think
that he might actually be dreaming, and just didn't know it yet; and
would perhaps wake up any moment now next to fat snoring wife. Or
maybe it was some kind of hallucination, a sickness, something that
happens after throwing up your guts in a Chinese drinking and eating
emporium, or whatever the shotgun-toting walrus called it, and being
beaten half to death by an irate sailor with no sense of humor.
Either way, he couldn't help but think that he would soon find out,
and wished by then that he'd simply parked the wagon out front along
with the patriarchal beast. And to make matters even more
metaphysical, if that's the right word, the voice in the dark was
also quoting Scripture! The fat farmer froze in his own fat
footsteps as another apple fell from his hand. He waited. What else
could he do?
Before long... there it was
again. Only this time with a greater sense of urgency in the voice,
along with the slight but still very distinctive sound of someone
knocking on a piece of lumber. At first, Sherman thought the wooden
sound might be coming from his own knees which were indeed knocking
together by then. It was not, of course. "Knock... and the door will
be open," spoke the nocturnal spirit in those same ubiquitous
vibrations that had the turtle standing in a pooling puddle of his
own perspiration by then. "W-who dat"? he whispered once more,
hoping beyond hope there would be no answer, and that would be the
end of it; and he could just go about his business But that was just
not to happen as the invisible ghost suddenly cried out, like a
voice in the wilderness, in a loud and thunderous tone. "Ask! and
ye shall receive." It was not a request. It sounded more like... like
an order. Something Captain Roger Morgan might say.
And it was just than Sherman
thought of something that perhaps would change his life forever; if
he was still actually alive that is, which he still was not so sure
of anymore. For it suddenly dawned on him that the voice he'd just
heard, that same deep and omnipresent voice, that sweet and terrible
sound, might very well, indeed and in fact, belong to none other
than God Almighty Himself, the maker of Heaven and Earth , and of
all things, visible and invisible. He let go of the last apple he
was carrying in his sweaty palm; and then, not knowing what else he
could do to mitigate the punishment he would certainly receive for
committing such a bold and villainous act as stealing apples from
God's own apple orchid, he quickly emptied his pockets of the
incriminating evidence. He was scared. Really scared! More scared
than he was at Charlie Bow's Dragon-fish and drinking and eating
emporium; and it showed. He then quickly covered his face with
trembling hands, in perhaps the same sinful manner Adam once covered
his own shame, as well as that of his naked wife, with fig leaves,
so that he wouldn't have to look into the face of his Creator. He
simply wasn't ready for the Great White Throne; not just yet anyway.
Indeed, had there been a sizable hole in front of him at the moment,
Sherman surely would've jumped in it by now, piled the dirt on top
of his head, and somehow managed to have buried himself in his own
iniquity. What else could he do? He'd been caught red-handed.
Stealing apples! In the back of a church. And by God Himself, no
less! In a slow and shaky voice the turtle responded in the only way
he knew how. "Dat you, Lord?" he just had to ask.
God answered in return, but
not in the way the frightened turtle quite expected. "What's it to
you?" spoke the voice with all the authority invested in its Holy
aspect. And this time, it sounded like it was coming directly from
the barbecue pit; and it sounded a little angry, too. The coals were
getting hot. The fire was burning.
"Uh... nothing, L-Lord,"
stuttered the turtle, apologetically, still much too afraid to pull
his hands from his frightened face. "I was just gettin' some apples
for... for ol' Abe here!" he said, attempting to extricate himself
from the criminal act, which even to him sounded a bit ridiculous
considering exactly who it was he was talking to at the time, and
the fact that he was taking the fruit for himself as well.
"Abe?" questioned God,
angrily.
"He my h-horse, sir. We just
c-calls 'im that. His real name is Abraham."
"Now that's a mighty peculiar
name for a horse," God mused out loud. "I wonder what Sarah would
have to say about that?"
"Ol' Abe here...I means
Abraham...Well, you see, Lord, he ain't married," replied the
frightened turtle, misconstruing the divine comment and missing the
joke entirely.
God laughed. "But hung like a
horse, I see!"
He had to think about it for a
moment, but finally got it. Naturally, Sherman was too embarrassed
to respond.
"And who are you?" the voice
suddenly demanded to know.
It was a question the turtle
felt compelled to answer, even though he really didn't want to.
"M-Me?" he stuttered once more. I's Dixon, sir... S-S-Sherman Dixon.
But I thought you already knowed that, Lord," he continued in true
Jobian fashion. "You is who I thinks you is – Ain't you?"
God did not answer. But then
again, why should he? He's God.
At that point the apple thief
thought that he could hear God approaching; or at least he thought
he heard His holy footsteps. They sounded like.... Like death! He
wanted to run. He wanted to hide! He was feeling sick all over
again, just like he did before. Only this was no drunken sailors.
There were no raccoons, no street-urchins or painted ladies, no
gun-toting walrus'; and there was certainly nowhere to run, and
nowhere to hide. This was God Almighty! The Creator of the Universe,
and everything else for that matter, reckoned the frightened and
lonely turtle as the divine footsteps came ever closer. He could
feel it: the power, the passion, the omniscience and oomnipresence
of God Almighty Himself in all His omnipotent power and undeniable
glory; the infinite, the majesty; all seeing and all knowing. The
ultimate Judge! Sherman was suddenly overwhelmed by it; enveloped in
it. He was taken a'back. He was humbled. And it was standing right
there in front of Him. He could feel the heat. It burned. He was
scared. He just couldn't look. But he had to look. He had no choice.
He just had to see it for himself; even if it meant instantaneously
bursting into great big ball of burning blubber, his own untimely
but inevitable death. So be it. And so, one by one, Sherman Dixon
began lifting each the fat fingers from his horrified face, slowly,
deliberately, nervously, delicately peeling back each individual
digit as though he were unraveling the mummified rags of a dead
Egyptian king. And what did he see?
You guessed it! He saw God.
And not only His Holy face, which was all Sherman ever imaged to see
this side of Paradise, but God in all His incarnate glory, complete
and whole, and stepping right out a cloud of smoke it suddenly
seemed. He looked just like the Son of Man as He once walked through
Nebuchadnezzar's fiery furnace, as well as on earth and on waters of
the Galilee. He was real. He was man. He was God. And he was black!
But what's this God is holding in his omnipotent and venerable
hands?" the turtle couldn't help but wonder just then. What exactly
is it? What! Why... it's... it's... a spatula?
The turtle recognized him at
once, and smiled.
And so did the man holding the
spatula.
It wasn't God after all, he
quietly sighed. Sherman knew that by now. But it was perhaps the
next best thing, if there is such a thing, or person. It was none
other than Willie B. Wright, pastor and grand master chef of the
Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D'. Some folks called him
'The Miracle Maker', and for good reason. Sherman had seen this man
before. And it suddenly dawned on him that this might, if fact, be
the same man Elmo Cotton had been searching for all along.
He was dressed in an old gray
suit with long white apron strung in the back, which he would
customarily removed before each and every the service before placing
on the back of his holy high chair. It was visibly stained with
Willie's famous barbecue sauce, as evidenced by so many dark red
splotches stigmatized in the linen fabric as deeply and thoroughly
as those imprinted on the Holy Shroud itself. He was also wearing a
small white cap, the kind seen adorning the hallowed heads of older
sailors who still worn them in such fashion, buttoned down in front
and adjustable for all kinds of weather. Some folks called it a 'pea
cap'; perhaps because it matched the navy blue pea-coats often worn
by sailors at sea to protect them from the harsh elements. Whatever
the purpose, it suited Willie just fine; along with covering up a
small but noticeable bald spot that was forever protracting on the
back of his venerable old head.
The famous pastor had come out
just before the service began to check on the coals in his even more
famous Barbecue pit. Hopefully they would be good and hpt by the
time he finished. Using a spatula he'd found in the kitchen to stir
the fire, he noticed that the coals were already white around the
edges, just the way he liked it. It wouldn't be long before they
were as hot as Satan's hooves, and ready for the meat.
Sherman was ashamed of
himself. He felt embarrassed and guilty; but he was still very
hunger, especially having thrown up his supper earlier that evening
along with half his intestines. He wanted to apologize, and was
going to when, just then, the old preacher reached down and began
picking up the apples Sherman had dropped on the ground out of fear
and shame. "Mens don't live by bread alone..." he quoted once more
from the Holy Text, handing the stolen goods back to the hungry
thief.
"Or apples..." agreed the
turtle, stuffing the forbidden fruit back in his pocket.
A warm smile creased the face
of God and man. "And don't forgets these here ribs," reminded
Willie, turning his attention back to the barbecue pit which was why
he was there in first place. "But first you gots to go to church,"
admonished the spatula.
"I won't, Lord," replied the
turtle. "I mean... I will!" And he meant it, too.
It takes a great man to cook a
great rib. Nobody knew that better than Willie B. Wright. And just
as in great comedy – timing is everything. The flames had to be just
right. It was something Willie insisted on; and the meat, typically
made up of beef or pork (although not exactly Kosher in the later
case) had to be prepared to Willie's exacting specifications which
included, among other circumcisions, trimming away the excess fat,
while leaving just enough marble in the meat to bring out all its
savory flavor. Tenderizing and seasoning was also an indispensible
part of the ritual, the details of which are a close kept secret
even until this day. It was at this crucial juncture when Willie
would usually say prayer or two over the butchered animal, just as
he would have done before slitting the sacrificial throat. It was a
matter of protocol, not unlike the Levitical practice of burnt
offerings; a tradition Father Abraham would be most familiar with
and one Melchizedek surly would have preformed in the Holy of Holies
on those same blood-stained altars. This was serious business, and
not for armatures.
Barbecuing was nothing new to
Willie; he'd been doing it all his life, or so it seemed. And he
knew exactly what he was doing, having come, so he would boast in a
most humble manner, from long line of barbecue chefs who'd prepared
their food, especially their meat, in that famous fashion both
before and during the war. Only back then it was done not in
converted oil drums, such as the one presently employed by the
Mister Willie Wright to cook up a batch of his famous pork ribs, nor
on any other conventional stove or over; but rather it was done in
long barbecue 'pit' dug directly into the ground and ceremoniously
covered with a grill, typically constructed of chicken wire, or
perhaps a few pieces of scrap metal left lying about the docks. A
common material used for fueling 'the pit' was wood. Hickory was a
favorite and by far the most popular at the time, chiefly on account
of its high density and sweet smelling aroma. It's what gave the
barbecue a uniquely 'American' quality, that distinctive flavor for
which it is so well-known and rightfully deserves. Other
combustibles were often substituted for the organic fuel of the
barbecue pit, such as charcoal which, although not as easy to get at
or accessible as wood, was relatively inexpensive and, as the old
coal miner once exclaimed to a suspicious audience on-lookers in
front of his own blazing barbecue pit, '....it's a helluva lot easier
than chopping wood!' And he would know, I suppose. But don't tell
that to the woodchopper! At least not until he puts the axe away.
And if hickory wasn't available, most any other wood would do;
although volume, as well as the burning quality of the genus, was
also an important factor, as illustrated quite eloquently, and
convincingly, one fine day in Old Port Fierce.
And it happened one day, of
all places, at a wake! whereupon a great barbecue had been planned
directly after the funeral for a friend. The deceased was a local
fisherman, a hired-hand who had apparently drowned after being
washed overboard in a gale, and whose limp and lifeless body was
later fished out of the sea by a passing shrimp boat. The captain of
the vessel, a modest fisherman man of Irish ancestry with limited
resources and a large gregarious heart arranged for the funeral
which included, among other appurtenances, several fiddle players to
provide just for the occasion: one with a violin; and the other, a
viola, which, as we all know, is very similar to the violin but a
slightly larger instrument. The only thing that wasn't planned for,
however, was that the barbecue pit would soon run out of fuel –
wood, that is – much earlier than anyone expected, which indeed it
did! Need-less-to-say, this created quite a stir among the hungry
mourners who had their hearts and minds set on barbecued pork-loins
which presently remained lying uncooked on the open air grill. And
let's face it: once you have your mind and heart set on barbecued
pork-loins, well.... Meanwhile, the frustrated host instructed the two
fiddlers to play a few lively tunes until he could figure out what
to do. Luckily, he had an ample supply of beer and whiskey on hand,
which should be expected at any wake, especially those of the Irish
variety, so things weren't quite as bad as they seemed. But as it
turned out, neither one of the two fiddle players were actually any
good at their chosen profession; in fact, they were terrible! And to
make matters worse (if that was even possible by now) they began
arguing with one another over such things as who was the better
fiddle player and which was the superior instrument – the violin or
the viola? This went on for quite some time, long after the dead
fisherman had been planted in the sacred soil, which was probably
the safest place to be under the sour circumstances; and to prove
their points (if indeed, there was a point to be proven at all)
these two tin-eared virtuosos played every tune they could think of,
and then some! one more horrible and loathsome than the other.
Fortunately, the alcohol helped to mitigate the cacophonous noise,
but only up to a point. And it was at that point the host, an old
fisherman himself and a lover of good music, took matters into his
own gnarly hands (both literally and figuratively) and rushed over
to were the two fiddle players were still going at it, much to the
annoyance of his impatient guests who had also heard enough. And
then, grabbing both instruments from the beleaguered hands of the
prodigies, he summarily tossed them both into the smoldering
barbecue pit whereupon they instantly burst into a bright orange
flame, providing just enough energy within the fiery furnace to
properly cook the prized pork-loins. The wood from the two vintage
instruments (a tightly grained spruce as a matter of fact) also gave
off a most pleasant odor, along with a customary snap, crackle and
pop associated with burning timber. And so everyone was happy
(except for the pig, of course, who provided the pork-loins; and
perhaps the two fiddle-less fiddlers who never-the-less continued to
argue, more adamantly than ever it seemed, over exactly what the
difference is between a violin and a viola) and a good time was had
by all... well, as good a time as one might expect to find at a
fisherman's wake. Upon hearing all this, the old fisherman rose from
his table and settled the matter once and for all. 'The difference,
you see...' he began in that slow, didactic and deliberating voice you
would expect to hear from the sun-cracked lips of a salty old Celt,
'between a violin and a viola is this...' And here the old Jonah
looked directly into the eyes of the two arguing idiots and smiled,
'The viola... burns longer.' And nothing could be more obvious as
the wood from larger of the two incendiary instruments burned
brightly into the night long after the lesser violin had turned into
a small pile of powdery white ash.
From Wikipedia, the free
encyclopedia: Barbecue (also barbeque, abbreviated BBQ or Bar-B-Que
or dimuated chiefly in Australia to barbie) is a method and
apparatus for cooking food, often meat, with the heat and hot gases
of a fire, smoking wood, or hot coals of charcoal and may include
application of a vinegar or tomato-based sauce to the meat. The term
as a noun can refer to foods cooked by this method, to the cooker itself,
or to a party that includes such food. The term is also used as a verb
for the act of cooking food in this manner. Barbecue is usually cooked
in an outdoor environment heated by the smoke of wood or charcoal,
or with propane and similar gases. Restaurant barbecue may be cooked in large
brick or metal ovens specially designed for that purpose.
Barbecue has numerous regional variations in many parts of the world.
Notably, in the South and Midwest of the U.S.,
practitioners consider barbecue to include only relatively
indirect methods of cooking, with the more direct high-heat methods
to be called grilling. In other countries, notably Australia
and many parts of Europe, barbecue is either fried or grilled,
and most barbecue appliances do not have a lid.
The etymology of the term
is vague, but the most plausible theory states that the word
'barbecue' is a derivative of the West Indian term 'barbacoa,' which
denotes a method of slow-cooking meat over hot coals. One popular
publication on the culinary subject blithely informs its readers
that the word comes from an extinct tribe in Guyana who enjoyed
'cheerfully spitroasting captured enemies.' The Oxford English
Dictionary traces the word back to Haiti, and others claim (somewhat
implausibly) that 'barbecue' actually comes from the French phrase
'barbe a queue', meaning 'from head to tail.' Proponents of
this theory point to the whole-hog cooking method espoused by some
barbecue chefs. Some say that the word 'barbecue' comes from a
nineteenth century advertisement for a combination whiskey bar, beer
hall, pool establishment and purveyor of roast pig, known as the
BAR-BEER-CUE-PIG. The most convincing explanation is that the method
of roasting meat over powdery coals was picked up from indigenous
peoples in the colonial period, and that 'barbacoa' became
'barbecue' in the lexicon of early settlers.
When the first Spanish
explorers arrived in the new world they found the indigenous peoples
preserving meats in the sun. This is an age old and almost
completely universal method. The chief problem with doing this is
that the meats spoil and become infested with bugs. To drive the
bugs away the natives would built small smoky fires and place the
meat on racks over the fires. The smoke would keep the insects at
bay and help in the preserving of the meat. The process began to
evolve with the migration of Europeans and Africans to the region of
the Southern United States. European pigs and cattle were
transplanted to the new world and became the primary meat source for
the colonies, pork being the meat of choice in the South due to the
ability of pigs to thrive with little care. The racks used to dry
the meat were replaced with pits and smoke houses.
Now pit cooking is by no
means new at this point in history or specific to any particular
region of the world. If we define Barbecue as a process of cooking
meat (or specifically pork) in pits then the inventors of this
process are probably the Polynesians who have been masters of slow,
pit cooked pork for thousands of years. So we will have to leave the
definition for another time. The process of slow cooking meat in
early colonial times was often reserved for poor cuts of meat left
for slaves and low income peoples. Higher quality meats had no need
for a process of cooking that would reduce the toughness of the
meat. Throughout the south Barbecue has long been an inexpensive
food source, though labor intensive. One thing to remember that
without a process of refrigeration, meat had to be either cooked and
eaten quickly after slaughter or preserved by either a spicing or
smoking process. Traditionally spicing requires that large amounts
of salt be used to dry the meat and lower the ability of
contaminants to spoil the meat. Smoking in this period of time had
much the same effect. The indigenous practitioners of Barbecue, cold
smoked meat.
The Taino say the word
barbecue comes from the Taino language. 'Ba' from Baba (Father),
'Ra' from Yara (Place) 'Bi' from Bibi (Beginning) 'Cu' from Guacu
(The Sacred Fire). Or, 'The beginning place of the sacred fire
father.' they further explained that, 'Taino Barabicoa' means 'The
stick stand with four legs and many sticks of wood on top to place
the cooking meat.' And that, 'Taino Barabicu' means 'the sacred fire
pit'.
The history of barbecue
before the Civil War, aside from its murky etymological origins, is
clearer. For several reasons, the pig became an omnipresent food
staple in the South. Pigs were a low-maintenance and convenient food
source for Southerners. In the pre-Civil War period, Southerners
ate, on average, five pounds of pork for every one pound of beef.
Pigs could be put out to root in the forest and caught when food
supply became low. These semi-wild pigs were tougher and stringier
than modern hogs, but were a convenient and popular food source.
Every part of the pig was utilized-- the meat was either eaten
immediately or cured for later consumption, and the ears, organs and
other parts were transformed into edible delicacies. Pig
slaughtering became a time for celebration, and the neighborhood
would be invited to share in the largesse. The traditional Southern
barbecue grew out of these gatherings.
At the end of the colonial
period, the practice of holding neighborhood barbecues was
well-established, but it was in the fifty years before the Civil War
that the traditions associated with large barbecues became
entrenched. Plantation owners regularly held large and festive
barbecues, including 'pig pickin's' for slaves. In this pre-Civil
War period, a groundswell of regional patriotism made pork
production more and more important. Relatively little of the pork
produced was exported out of the South, and hog production became a
way for Southerners to create a self-sufficient food supply.
Southern pork for Southern patriots! Hogs became fatter and better
cared-for, and farmers began to feed them corn to plump them up
before slaughter. The stringy and tough wild pigs of the colonial
period became well-fed hogs. Barbecue was still only one facet of
pork production, but more hogs meant more barbecues.
William Byrd, in his
eighteenth century book writings The Secret History of the Dividing
Line Betwixt Virginia and North Carolina has some pretty snippy
things to say about some Southerners' predilection for pork. He
writes that hog meat was: the staple commodity of North Carolina...
and along with pitch and tar makes up the whole of their traffic...
these people live so much upon swine's flesh that it don't only
incline them to the yaws, and consequently to the...[loss] of their
noses, but makes them likewise extremely hoggish in their temper,
and many of them seem to grunt rather than speak in their ordinary
conversation.
Journalist Jonathan
Daniel's, writing in the mid-twentieth century, maintained that
'Barbecue is the dish which binds together the taste of both the
people of the big house and the poorest occupants of the back end of
the broken-down barn. Political and church barbecues were among the
first examples of this phenomenon. Church barbecues, where roasted
pig supplemented the covered dishes prepared by the ladies of the
congregation, were a manifestation of the traditional church picnic
in many Southern communities. Church and political barbecues are
still a vital tradition in many parts of the South. In later
centuries, as settlement pressed westward, the barbecue went along
with it, reaching an especially grand size in Texas, where a pit for
fuel might be dug ten feet deep. Present-day barbecue grills are
likely to be small and portable, fueled by charcoal or propane or
electricity, and capable of cooking only parts of an animal at a
time, but they still operate out of doors and provide a reason for
inviting the neighbors over.
Barbecue entered the United
States through Virginia and South Carolina in the late seventeenth
century by way of slaves imported from the West Indies. The barbecue
as a social event became very popular during the 1890s, when the
United States began building its national park system, and Americans
began socializing outdoors. However, the barbecue as a site for
political campaigning dates back to George Washington. Candidates
often held barbecues on the grounds of the county courthouse,
offering free food in return for an opportunity to share their
political platform with the dining public. Although initially
associated with poorer citizens, barbecue, as both a method of
cooking and recreation, spread to the middle and upper classes by
the middle of the twentieth century and continues to dominate the
southern United States's cultural landscape today.
According to estimates,
prior to the American Civil War Southerners ate around five pounds
of pork for every one pound of beef they consumed. Because of the
poverty of the southern United States at this time, every part of
the pig was eaten immediately or saved for later (including the
ears, feet and other organs). Because of the effort to capture and
cook these wild hogs, 'pig slaughtering became a time for
celebration, and the neighborhood would be invited to share in the
largesse. These feasts are sometimes called 'pig-pickin's.' The
traditional Southern barbecue grew out of these gatherings. In the
rural south, slaves were given the less desirable parts of the pig,
(such as the ribs and shoulders) which they would cook by either
smoking or pit barbecue.
In a history of Barbecue as
told by 'Big Jim' we learn the following: '...This is a history of the
cooking of meats, called Barbecue, as told to me many years ago by
my Great-Grandfather Charles Roy May (Uncle Charlie) of Penile,
Florida which is near Palatka, just north of the Ocala National
Forest near what is called The Scrub. Here in Uncle Charlie's own
words, as best as I can remember after 50 years, is the account of
this historic event: 'Barbecue has been around, in one form or
another, for a long time. In fact some of my ancestors, living near,
what is now Micanopy, Florida, about 12,000 or so years ago
discovered 'Q' one day when lighting struck a Blackjack Oak tree
under which they were eating some raw meat, when the lighting struck
the tree it scared them so bad that they ran away, leaving the raw
meat lying under the tree. As the tree burned some of the limbs fell
onto and around the meat. After a while when their wits returned,
they snuck back to the tree and discovered the meat had been
transformed into black chunks. Since they were still hungry, and
would eat anything that wouldn't eat them first, they started to eat
the meat. Man O Man was it good. Afterward every time they found a
fire and had some meat they put it in the fire. After a while they
found that if they stuck a sharp stick in the ground and stuck a
chunk of meat on the end of it, it didn't waste so much of the meat
by burning it and there was more to eat.
By the time that Columbus
reached the Americas he found that the natives as far away as the
West Indes were cooking meat on racks over coals. They called it 'BARBACOA'.
Columbus or one of them guys from Spain brought hogs with him to
Florida and since they breed like rabbits they soon spread as far as
North Carolina. Where years later, Dave Linebacks kinfolks, learned
how to cook pig shoulders in closed pits over hot coals using a
mixture of oak and hickory Some Italian neighbors of theirs had some
wine go bad (turned to vinegar) so they gave it to Linebacks kin and
they mixed it with some red pepper flakes they had and found that it
was good on the pig shoulders after they were 'Q'ed'. These people
were real poor and hungry and didn't want to wait for the meat to be
sliced so they just grabbed pieces and pulled it off the bone and
ate it. This is how the term 'pulled pork' originated. You might
hear one of them say 'Woman pull me some more of thet thar pork ofen
thet thar bone.'
Meanwhile, more of
Columbus's countrymen came to Florida in bigger boats. They brought
cattle with them. Some of them got loose and wandered off to Texas.
When they got out near Glen Rose, there was a hungry bunch of folks
name of Maynard that found one and put it on a spit. They had one of
the little kids turn the spit. Well the little kid got bored and
started to play with the meat. A couple large pieces fell off the
carcass into the fire. Little Belly didn't want a whipping so he
just covered the meat up with dirt and ashes and coals and the rest
is BBQ history. He had discovered Beef Brisket. They did not have
BlackJack for the cooking so they used Mesquite.' One weird thing
they started doing to briskets was to pour Dr. Pepper on it. So you
can see there is a lot more to the history of our Great Nation's
Barbecue than is given credit for in the history books. As we can
see all BBQ started in what is now North Central Florida and spread
to other areas where they have tried to take credit for this most
wonderful of discoveries. To the best my knowledge this is a true
and accurate account of the development of the cooking process
called Barbecue. I was only 6 years old then and that is the way I
remember it.'
Meanwhile, outside the golden
gates of Paradise (or in this case, an old mahogany door) Elmo and
Oley impatiently waited for Sherman to return. They wondered what
was taking him so long, the raccoon becoming a just little worried
by then. In the moon-glow of the early morning hours, he noticed
something peculiar about the old wooden church. And that this: it
really didn't look like a church at all! at least not from the
outside; it certainly didn't not like any church Elmo had ever been
to lately, which was actually only two if you include The Catholic
Church Mrs. Skinner once dragged him off to one day while Homer was
away on official business. And if not for a small steeple and old
rugged cross fixed conspicuously to the gabled end of the roof,
along with the continuous sounds of salvation emanating from within,
Elmo Cotton might've thought that he was back at CHARLIE BOW'S
DRAGON-FISH and drinking and eating emporium; for the
structure itself appeared not unlike many of the other buildings
lining the crooked cobblestones of Avenue 'D' that morning:
weathered and worn, many in need of repair or re-placement. He then
looked up at a sign nailed to the side of the great wooden door that
let him, or anyone else for that matter, know exactly where they
were. It was plain and simple, and read in big black letters of
varying shapes and sizes:
THE MIRACLE TEMPLE AND BARBECUE PIT OF AVENUE 'D'
THE MOST HOLY REVEREND WILLIAM B. WRIGHT
PASTOR, MASTER OF CEREMONIES & SUPREME CHEF
DAYTIME SERVICES: SUNDAY AND WENSDAY
FROM SIX AM TIL NOON
NIGHT TIME SERVICES: TUESDAY AND FRIDAY
FROM SEVEN PM TIL THE LAST ONE GO HOME
AND ALL HOLY DAYS OF OBLIGATION.
BARBECUE AFTERWARDS!
(Weather permitting, that is)
AVAILABLE FOR WEDDINGS, WAKES & BAPTISMS
All donations accepted! Special consideration to widows, orphans, policemens, and sailors...
The sign said it all. And even
though Elmo had trouble reading some of the words, he knew he was in
the right place, which was exactly where he wanted to be. For it was
just then when he suddenly recalled the words his uncle uttered just
before he died: "Go south, boy! There's little choich... down 'round
Avenue 'D'... in a place they calls Shadytown. There's a man there... a
preacher-man. His name is Willie... Willie B. Wright. They calls him
the 'Miracle-Maker'. He's a good man, Elmo. Find him and you just
might find what you's lookin' fo'... and everythin' else, too, I 'spose."
And that was the last thing Joe Cotton would ever said to his young
nephew.
Suddenly, it all made sense.
The Miracle-Maker! Avenue 'D'... And a place called Shadytown! Elmo
was still studying the sign when his raccoon eyes suddenly focused
on that part of it that referenced something about 'policemens'. He
recognized the word, of course, and knew all along that 'policemens'
was just another word for sheriff. It merely served to remind him of
who and what he really was: a raccoon on the run, a fugitive. And he
made it a point never to forget it. He reached down to his pants leg
for his knife. It was still there; he was almost hoping it wasn't.
By then Sherman had returned
with a dozen or so apples stuffed inside his pants and his cheeks
full. He looked like big brown pin-cushion, thought little Oley
Johnson who once sat on one, by accident of course, which he still
hadn't forgotten "Well," said the turtle with a big gulping grin –
something the Harlie hadn't seen since they left Old Port Fierce –
"looks like we's gonna gets us some mo' supper tonight!"
"Apples?" the raccoon wondered
out loud.
"Better than that..." Sherman
replied, biting into another golden apple he'd fished out of his
pocket – "Ribs!"
Over a deafening chorus of
ALLELUIAS! resonating from within the vibrating walls of the temple,
Elmo inquired, "You mean barbecued ribs?"
Before the turtle could
answer, a second chorus suddenly erupted from beyond the mahogany
door. "ALLELUIA!!" it rang out in unmistakable righteousness
Elmo pointed to the sign next
to the door, the one he'd just finished reading. "You mean it's true
then?" he wondered out loud.
"Huh-uh," nodded the turtle.
"They calls 'em Miracle ribs!" he shouted over the noise. "I eats
'em before... last time I comes this way. Best dang ribs in the whole
dang world! And that ain't no lie..." he gulped, " Mister Cotton."
Elmo was suddenly intrigued.
"Well, as long as it ain't no damn crab-legs," he insisted, having
seen firsthand what the questionable crustaceans could do.
"And don't – Burrrrrrrrrrrrrp!
– forget the fried rice" the turtle likewise regurgitated.
"You means flied-lice – don't
you?"
"And clab-regs!"
And then they both laughed.
Strange, thought the raccoon:
with all he'd eaten the night before at Charlie Bow's drinking and
eating emporium, he was still inexplicably hungry. Maybe it was all
the excitement, he reckoned, along with the fact that it was the
first real meal he'd eaten in quite some time. And what was that the
turtle said? Something about.... Ribs! The mere thought of it set his
mouth to watering. Ribs were a rare treat in Harley; even the
cheaper cut of 'pork' ribs which were sometimes served with Harley
beans on special occasions such as holidays and anniversaries.
Harlies, in general, were actually more accustomed to the other
parts of the fatty pig, such as hog-jowls, pork-rinds, and the ever
popular pigs-knuckles that were often pickled and stored in mason
jars where they would keep for many years.
Oley Johnson appeared just as
excited upon hearing about the ribs. Apparently, he'd eaten them
before. And they weren't just any ribs. These were Miracle Ribs! And
even Oley Johnson knew what that meant. For you see, not only did
the Reverend Wright serve the sacred ribs to his own congregation
after each and every service; but he also wise enough to always
prepare more than he actually needed, which he would sell to
selected shop-keepers and store-owners who would pay a handsome
price for the miracle ribs with the special sauce which, over time,
also became known as Willie's 'spare' ribs, for obvious reasons, of
course. Spare or miracle, no matter what you called them, little
Oley Johnson could already taste the succulent red meat between his
tender young teeth, which, unlike the crabs he'd eaten earlier, did
not have the unique and distasteful habit of 'comin' back to bite
you', as the raccoon so keenly observed and the turtle so painfully
experienced not too long ago; and besides that, they just tasted
better.
"But first we gots to go to
church," reminded the repentant turtle, remembering, of course, the
promise he'd made earlier. He knew Reverend Willie B. Wright would
certainly be looking for him, especially after what'd happened out
by the barbecue pit. And so would God.
The raccoon obliged. "Well,
what are we waitin' for?"
"Just one more..." said the
turtle, stuffing one last apple into his fat face, which he
swallowed, pits and all, in yet another great gulp as he headed for
the old mahogany door.
Elmo grabbed one of the two
brass knobs. "After you... Mister Moneybags," he insisted.
Sherman was the first one
inside the church. It took all the strength he had just to swing
open the old mahogany door. He was badly bruised and beaten from
what'd occurred earlier at the emporium, and still slightly sick;
although the apples did seem to calm down his stomach a bit. But all
that was forgotten once he entered the Miracle Temple and Barbecue
Pit.
The Harlie pushed his way in
next, even though he was a little apprehensive at first about
entering a strange new church. He was actually wondering by then if,
perhaps, he might better spend his time pursuing more corporal
enterprises, like the one that had kissed him on the lips not too
long ago outside the Dragon-fish, even though he still lacked the
fifty-cents required to further his amorous ambition. It had been so
long since he attended church that he wasn't even sure if he
remembered what to do, other than just sit there and listen; or if
would be welcomed at all...and not just by God! In fact, now that he
thought about it, the last time he'd been to church was when he
first got married. And even then he wasn't exactly sure what say, or
do, at the time; except, of course – 'I do', which was difficult
enough.
Oley was not far behind,
dragging his blanket behind him by now like a plaything he'd
suddenly lost interest in, but sill something he just couldn't quite
let go of. He could feel the floorboards shaking beneath his bare
naked feet, moving up and down, it seemed, to the rhythm of the
music vibrating within the walls of the temple. It made him a little
scared at first; but he was happy to be there all the same. In fact,
he could think of no other place he'd rather be just then, except
maybe a real Wang-Dang-Doodle! which his sister had brought
him to one hot summer night without telling their mother; but we
won't go there right now. As previously mentioned, Oley Johnson had
been to the Miracle Temple before; but not at night, and certainly
never on Fat Moon Friday when children his age were generally in bed
by then, safe and secure from the 'Crouching Lion' of Avenue 'D'
their parents so often warned them about; the one that filled them
with so much fear, haunting their dreams ever since they were old
enough to comprehend such an abominable creature, real or imagined,
and shun with all expedition. All in all, Oley Johnson was glad that
his uncle Sherman decided to take him along. Even under a blanket,
or a bed for that matter, being left all alone in an empty old house
so early in the morning when it's still dark outside has a way of
conjuring up demons in a young boy's imagination far more terrifying
than anything he might expect to come across outside where at least
he wasn't alone. It made him feel safe, secure; and he wasn't even
afraid of the strange looking raccoon anymore, the one with the
suitcase and the funny looking clothes. Besides, he was still
thinking about the big yellow walrus, the three drunken sailors,
and, of course, the woman with a painted face and big round butt who
he knew by now to be none other than his own big sister, Regina
Johnson. Whether or not Elmo Cotton had figured that out yet remains
to be seen.
In comparison to other
religious institutions in and around Old Port Fierce, of which there
were many, the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D' was
substantially smaller. It was constructed entirely of wood, despite
the fact that it was located in that central part of the infamous
city prone to arson known as the 'fire zone'. It had a high vaulted
ceiling with exposed rafters supporting the beams that were
sometimes used as balcony seats for the younger and more agile of
the congregation to view the packed-house services that at times
overflowed into the streets of the city. Standing room only was more
often than not observed, the twenty-four pews being filled long
before the first bell sounded calling the faithful to benediction.
Almost everything was white, except, of course, for the pews which
were constructed of the same thick red mahogany as the two entry
doors and a few crudely constructed stain-glass windows that Willie
had manufactured himself. There was no basement to speak of, chiefly
on account of the water table of the general area being so high, and
so close to the ocean. Instead, the Temple mount consisted of so
many bricks and cinder blocks, along with some old tree stumps,
supporting the weight of the entire structure throughout. It was
also much older than most of the other structures, which only added
to its credibility, and perhaps its holiness.
Exactly how the little church
on Avenue 'D' actually earned the prestigious title so proudly
displayed on the plaque outside the mahogany door just beyond the
rat-infested streets of the city, should be rather obvious by now.
But even if it ain't, there was no mistaking what it meant; and
moreover what was to be expected if and when you finally passed
through the mahogany door and into the Temple itself. And that
wasn't enough... well, all you would have to do was stroll around back
to where the Barbecue Pit stood in all its flaming glory, and see
for yourself. And there it was! like some newly designed Ark of the
Covenant: an old rusty oil drum sawed in half and propped up on
three wooden legs. It's an American invention, no doubt, and a
fitting altar for any high-priest. Melchizedek would feel right at
home. But wait! Don't get to close... this is Holy ground,
consecrated soil, and for some too hot to handle. The fuel that
burns within the rusty tabernacle is white hot! not unlike the coal
that touched the lips of the prophet purging him of sin and removing
the last doubt. Perhaps what's needed here are a Cherubim or two,
like the ones standing guard this very day at the east end of Eden
with flaming swords and angelic smiles.
As far as miracles go...well,
suffice it to say that fitting such a large congregation into one
small and modest building, and for such long periods of time, was
indeed a miracle of the first order, and perhaps the greatest one of
all. For at any given service, the Miracle Temple could accommodate
as many as three hundred people, and that's not counting the ones
squeezed in the vestibule and bathrooms or standing outside on the
lawn, which was a common occurrence, particularly on Friday night
when Willie was known to be in rare form, and his homilies, like the
barbecued ribs, were particularly hot – and spicy. By comparison,
the church was actually not much larger than your typical classroom,
and at times just as noisy. The pews were always packed, many
members attending services on a regular basis. Willie knew them all
by name, along with their families, and would mention them by name
in any one of his many famous sermons. Of course, there were always
new faces to be found among the faithful at the Miracle Temple and
Barbecue Pit, just as there were on that particular cold grey
morning. They came all over, from far and wide; and they came by the
thousands; although not all at once, Willie was relieved to know.
And they came not only for the ribs (although Reverend Wright's
famous barbecue pit was often cited by many as the best to be found
anywhere and main reasons for such a high attendances; and they were
probably right in that regard) but for every word that flowed from
sanctified lips of the holy pastor himself..They were never
disappointed.
They called them 'Miracle
Ribs'. And they were said to be the best in town – any town!
Probably the best in the whole world! Moreover, it was rumored that
there was a certain healing quality about these, these 'Miracle
Ribs' that even Willie was at al loss to explain: a power beyond
their natural nutritional value, which many claimed to be a miracle
in and of itself. But more on that later. Let's go inside. Shall we?
Within the Miracle Temple were
two rows of simple wooden pews equally divided on either side of the
auditorium within. The congregation stood or sat, depending on their
age and constitutional make-up; and perhaps their gender as well, as
the men of Old Port Fierce, would, more often than not, offer up
their own seats to all standing women, particularly when they knew
they were being watched, and especially if that woman happened to be
someone they knew, like their wives for instance. And there always
seemed to be a seat or two left vacant for the elderly, the infirm,
or anyone else who was obviously, or not so obviously, handicapped.
Most of the time, however, it was standing room only at the Miracle
Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D'.
Typically, Willie's services
lasted for about two to three hours, depending on, among other
things, the length of a particular sermon and, of course, the mood
of the audience, which Willie was always aware of and quick to
gauge. The services, especially that portion consisting of the
homily, had evolved over the years like some never-ending symphony
that takes on new different and dimensions each time it is
performed, dynamically adjusting itself with the times, and tastes,
of the day. They went on indefinitely; sometimes well into the
night; even until the break of day when the participants would
gather outside on the lawn to watch the sun rise over the waters of
the bay like some pagan god; Neptune perhaps! calling the fisherman
out back to sea to earn their daily bread. Naturally (or
supernaturally, I suppose) the length of any given church service
had much to do with the movement of the Spirit, as oppose to that of
the flesh, and less to do with that of the will – the Spirit usually
proving the stronger of the three, but not always, as Willie knew
all too well.
His was a diverse congregation
of young and old, rich and poor, male and female, and everything in
between, with an affinity for one another one would come to expect.
Almost all were black – colored, that is, of African ancestry; but
not always, as we shall soon see. But it was the poor of the
community that made up the majority of the reverend's faithful
flocks. They were the first to come and the last to leave; they
needed neither crook nor staff. Naturally, they were the hungriest
of the Willie's sheep, and not just for food. It seemed they were
attracted to the Miracle Temple like moths to a flame, or fish to a
lure to use a more appropriate analogy; and they hung onto each and
every syllable that flowed forth from those sanctified lips as if
their very lives depended on it, which in many cases it often did.
Willie Wright was a good
shepherd; make no mistake about it. But it was the fisherman they
chiefly came to see – everything else being, in the vernacular of
the fishery 'bait for the catch'. And Willie cast a wide net; his
pole was forever bent, even when all the other fishers of men had
abandoned their boats or simply gone home for the evening to take
care of their own domestic affairs. Rarely did Willie rest, and not
once did he have to say'...and you should'a seen the one that got
away!' But even when they did, it only made him cast his net a
little wider and bend his pole that much more, more determined than
ever to 'reel 'im in'. This was one serious fisherman.
And the fish were always
biting. They swam the fluid streets of Shadytown like so many sharks
and salmon looking for a mate or a meal, or just some place to rest.
They hid in alley-ways and basements, bottom-feeding off the dregs
of society, but always on the look-out for other predators that were
just as hungry and would devour them just easily, and without
remorse. The women wore wide-brimmed hats, colorful dresses, and
long white gloves painted all the up to their elbows. The men were
standing, all of them, including one crippled old gentleman who
could have been Methuselah's grandfather and just as proud. And they
would remain standing, for the entire service! So long as there was
one unseated lady left in the Temple. Those fortunate enough to own
them wore neatly creased pants, starched white shirts, spit-shined
shoes, and ties of various stripes and colors. Those who weren't so
lucky, or just too poor, wore their Sunday best, which usually
consisted of white cotton shirts and pressed denim. The children
were equally adorned in the finest hand-me-downs money could buy and
charity could afford, making them into miniature replicas of their
proud mommas and pappas. From the modest fig-leaf to the regal robes
of kings, pride and vanity often go hand in glove, quite fashionable
at times; and are seldom out of style.
By now the sun was up;
bringing with it the necessary energy needed to fuel the holy fire
within the Miracle Temple. As the heat began to rise, the women
cooled their perspirations with simple hand-held devices commonly
called fans, but more often referred to as 'angel-wings', a term
coined by a young girl in the choir who was first to observe the
angelic connection. Crafted chiefly out of paper and cloth, and
embroidered with fine golden thread, these marvelous contrivances
were as beautiful as they were functional, each wing uniquely
conceived and painstakingly manufactured by hand. They were
colorfully designed, emblazoned on the front and back with passages
from the Holy Text or perhaps a rendering of the Holy Spirit
descending to earth in the recognizable form of a simple dove.
Others bore the sacred images of the various saints, in particular
that of St. Martin DePorres, the venerable Negro himself and a
favorite of colored congregations throughout the South, depicting
the humble servant of God in the domestic pose he is most remembered
and revered for: with a crucifix in one and a broom in the other;
something the good women of Shadytown could certainly relate to as
they swept away the sin of the city. One was these 'angle wings' was
said to actually contain a small fragment of the old saint's tonic,
along with a several whisks of his celebrated broom. But that was
just a rumor, the kind of gossip that is sometimes smuggled into the
conversation whenever two or more women join together, and for
reasons only they might be able to explain. Still another one of
these fantastic inventions was said to contain, albeit in some
encrypted code yet to be deciphered, the secret recipe for Willie's
famous barbecue sauce. Naturally, the fact that it had never
actually been replicated, at least not to anyone's satisfaction,
ruled out any such possibility; but still, that didn't stop some
folks from trying.
Angel-wings were truly works
of art, the product of inventive minds mothered by necessity and
perfected in time, that rare combination of practicality, function
and beauty which true genius is so often associated with. Passed
down from one generation to the next, the 'fans of Shadytown', which
they were also known as in more distant circles, became something of
family heirlooms, jealously guarded and held in the same reversal
esteem as, say, George Washington's false teeth or Paul Revere's
spittoon, treated with all the delicate respect afforded to such
iconoclastic objects, and just as coveted. Whether housed in the
dresser drawers of someone's great grandmother or tucked away in a
cluttered old attic, along with a few faded photographs, these
cherished relics of the past would come alive at the Miracle Temple
and Barbecue Pit every Wednesday and Friday night, especially in the
hot summer months when they were most popular, and equally envied.
Coveted at times, these precious planes were highly prized and, not
unlike their Heavenly equivalent mounted so proudly the shoulders of
saints, and guarded with unrivaled jealousy. And their value only
seemed to increase over time, corrupted as they often were by man
and moth. Some of the 'wings' were even known to fetch a high
premium on the open markets of Old Port Fierce, being sold during
hard times by the same industrious hands that stitched them together
in the first place, and often at very generous prices. They were
also sought after by rich and poor, especially the high society
ladies of the Port who would go well out their way to purchase the
famous fans that were actually becoming quite rare. And they would
come around Shadytown looking for them with compassionate hearts and
greedy eyes, along with a few unsavory merchants who recognized
their true value and sought them out with equal enthusiasm,
especially on Fat Moon Friday when more than just fans were for sale
in the bazaar-like atmosphere of the infamous city. But it wasn't
always that easy; for not unlike the Holy Grail that once housed the
sacred blood of the Savior, the blood-stained vale of Saint Theresa
that wiped the face of the God just before he was crucified for our
sins, the Roman Spear of Destiny that pierced that same sacred flesh
and of which it is written 'Who so ever yields such a weapon shall
control his own destiny, or even the Holy Shroud itself which
neither moth nor flame could corrupt, these relics were jealously
guarded, and by forces more formidable than the Knights Templar
assigned to the holy crusade. At one time 'Miracle Wings', yet
another term liberally applied to these locally manufactured
devices, were plentiful and easy to find, mostly before the war when
cotton, cloth, and paper was more readily available. But once word
had spread of their home-spun charm and undeniable beauty they
became, in the words of an old farm-girl who had a way of expressing
herself in such rich and rural eloquence, '.... as rare as hens'
teeth!'
Angel-wings, in whatever form
or fashion they may have taken, or whatever name you wish to bestow
upon them, were not an entirely novel invention. Similar
contrivances have been observed in other parts of the sun-scorched
world, particularly the far-east where the unblinking star bears
down so mercilessly upon that industrious race of nomads, and held
in the equally high esteem. Open any ancient vault and you just
might find one: in Pharaoh's tomb, perhaps, gracing the mummified
fingers of a dead Egyptian queen, along with all her pagan
princesses. Go further east, to the Forbidden walled city, and you
will notice that the Emperor's face is more often than not
half-hidden by that same imperial mask as he sits on the dragon
throne. In more modern times, these same fans can easily be seen
adorning fair-skinned hands of Queens; Victoria comes to mind, in
all her British bulk, as portrayed in museums and emulated
throughout the empire. Did Cleopatra fan her famous profile as she
cruised the Nile in one of her floating palaces? Or how about
Nefertiti and Hatshepsut? Did Isabella greet the future 'admiral of
seas' in such a hand-held fashion? We may never know. Perhaps the
Queen of Sheba utilized similar aerodynamic means to vale her alien
colors from wise King Solomon until just the right moment. Marie
Antoinette surely must have waved a wing or two in court of good
King Louie, even as the rabble-rousing mob cried out for her head in
the bloody streets Paris. What blue-blooded debutante would be
caught dead without a fan in hand? And what would a poor Filipina do
without one on a sweltering evening in Old Manila? And they weren't
limited to the just fairer sex. It is recorded that these same
simple fans were more common-place than scepters among kings and
emperors, particularly in the yellow Orient where such delicacies
are considered not only appropriate, but masculine in their own
royal rite. It is said, although not without a certain amount of
incredulity, that Saint Francis of Assisi once held one of these
same fanciful fans in his own venerable hands as he tread those
bloody steppes of Asia attempting to convert the mighty Kahn himself
from his pagan practices. And why shouldn't he? Aren't megalomaniacs
in just as much need of Salvation as the rest of us? What better
place to spread those evangelical air-foils than over that unholy
empire? And what better breast to plant the cross of Salvation than
in the heart of the evil Hun himself? Who knows? Mohammad and his
murdering Muslim may be next. These wings know no boundaries; they
cross consciousness and continents. Simply put, there is just
nothing better to have and to hold on a hot summer's morning in Old
Port Fierce, or anywhere else for that matter, than a good
old-fashioned angel-wing. But enough of this! God and man can wait.
Right now, we have a service to attend.
Most in the temple were
standing by then, except perhaps for a few some elderly men and
women who would remain seated throughout the entire service, mainly
for health reasons; but even they would 'rise' to the occasion
whenever the Spirit moved them. The services hadn't even begun and
already everyone was singing out loud:
In the house of the Lord, I'm a'prayin'!
In the light of the Lord, I see!
In the fields of the Lord, I'm a'singin!
In the color of the Lord, I'll be!"
Everyone sang! There were no
exceptions. It was as if every lip had been transcendently touched
by the finger of God and anointed with Holy Spirit; all that was
missing were the Pentecostal tongues of fire that appeared over the
hallowed heads of the early disciples two thousand years ago.
Perhaps that would come later. Even those who, under any other
musical circumstances, could hardly hold a note if their mortal
lives depended on it, became instant prodigies with golden throats
and perfectly-pitched ears. It was only the first of many miracles
to occur, providing each participant in turn with talents,
particularly in the area of vocal abilities, far beyond their normal
range and natural capability of vocalizing such celestial sounds,
thus producing music so heavenly sweet that would otherwise, had not
the divine transformation occurred, have driven every cow in
Shadytown into the hills by now along with other beasts of the field
and birds of the sky sensitive to such unbearable caterwauling.
Leading the congregation in
song that particularly evening were twelve black angels standing on
the right side of the Temple interior. They were in a place and a
world all their own, equally divided, six men and six women, and
standing shoulder to shoulder in two separately elevated tiers.
Together they made up what was known as the 'Celestial Choir' of the
Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D'. Their voices rose and
fell together as one, high above all the others would seem, as if
amplified by God's invisible megaphone; and, unlike the
spring-loaded songbird placed before the joyful king of Mongolia in
all its mechanical wonder (a toy, perhaps, contrived by his
Majesty's royal engineers whose time may've been better spent
inventing more ingenious and effective ways of defeating the dreaded
Hun rather than placating the king with paltry play-things; or maybe
it was a gift from some foreign diplomatic dignitary) these lively
and colorful song birds made of flesh and blood never seemed to
tire; and their springs never needed winding, or mending.
And there they stood, faces
aglow, dressed from head to toe in long matching robes, purple and
white, flowing loosely and gracefully about their serpentine bodies
and moving in perfect synchronization to the lively rhythm of life.
Could the brave Ulysses, with his ears stuffed with cotton and so
many loyal sailors to restrain him at the mast, resist such tempting
sirens? Perhaps not; but of course, we will never know. The sound
produced by the Celestial Choir inside the Miracle Temple of Avenue
'D' was nothing less than symphonic. And it's been that way ever
since they were first formed, banded together like so many strings
and woodwinds in Willie's orchestra. They provided the audible
perfume, as pure and sweet as the oil used by the Magdalene to
anoint the holy feet of the God. Gabrielle's trumpet would be hard
pressed to produce such a magnificent sound; and not even the famed
horn of Joshua, the one that brought down the towering walls of
Jericho with one heroic blast, could duplicate a single note. No
heavenly harp could come close to such a magical melody, not even if
struck by the hand of Saint Patrick himself.
These were familiar sounds,
colorful notes, long-winded and scored, that somehow managed to
combine both major and minor scales in such new and varying ways so
as to create a whole new musical dynamic. It's what musicologists
would later come to describe as 'blue notes', which in turn would
later be shortened simply to 'the blues', sung not so much in the
contemporary style of latter-day 'bluesmen' such as the venerable
'Jelly Roll' Morton or 'Blind Lemon' Jefferson, but in its more
original and lively composition. It's that paradoxical mixture of
melancholy and joy manifested in its purest form which would become
a National treasure. It was homegrown, cultivated in our own
backyard, and sold on the streets like moonshine whiskey and home
made apple pie. It's the American folksong, later to evolve into
something we now call 'jazz'; a contradiction, perhaps, but a good
one; a hybrid, the bastard child of New York Irish immigrants and
old Negro slaves, born in Brooklyn and baptized in the muddy waters
of the Mississippi Delta – Pure Americana! a noble and righteous
experiment, not unlike the Republic itself that birthed it in the
first place, our own self-edifying and fledgling democracy, which
would last, as one founding father so eloquently admonished, '...as
long as we could keep it'. It can be heard in the crime-ridden
streets of Chicago all the way down to Bourbon Street in Ol' New
Orleans, and everywhere in-between. We all know the words; we've all
been there at one time or another. The melody never changes and the
song remains the same. It's the hymn of hope, the song of salvation,
the story of the simple and hard lives lived by simple and hard
people and put to music. It was a sound that would linger in the
hall of the Temple long after everyone was gone and the last note
faded away. It was the sound of glory, in all its reds, whites... and
blues.
At the head of the Temple
stood a plain wooden rostrum covered with a white linen tablecloth.
Behind the rostrum were placed four wooden thrones, conspicuously
inscribed with the names of each of the four canonized authors of
the Gospel: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. These were, of course,
reserved for the Deacons and Elders of the Church who were presently
standing on their feet and singing, rather stoically it would seem,
along with the Celestial Choir of angels as they waited patiently
for the mater of ceremonies to arrive. Between the sainted seats and
the holy rostrum was a small wooden table which served as a simple
but functional altar. It was covered with a white linen cloth. And
on the altar stood a small golden tabernacle arched by the wings of
two angels placed there in the traditional manner prescribed by
Hebrew Law. Altars as such, although considered an oddity in more
Fundamentalist settings, were commonplace in the Old Testament,
particularly among the old Jewish patriarchs, including Father
Abraham who built many of them, including the one reserved for his
own sacrificial son, himself. They were generally consigned to the
Roman Catholic Faith, along with their animated crucifixes,
confessionals, stations of the cross, and statues; particularly
those of the various saints and the Blessed Virgin which many found
equally inappropriate, if not offensive.
It was Willie's idea, of
course – the altar, that is – and one he insisted upon, quite
adamantly in fact, and despite numerous objections to the
sacrificial furniture which many considered too....well, too papal.
Solo Scriptura! was the voice of the new Reformation (never mind the
fact that Scriptures themselves were a product of famous first
century Catholics like Polycarp and Clement 1) and the cry of the
Baptist! There would be no room for statues of saints and martyrs,
let alone one of the Holy Mother, in the bare and barren halls of
the Calvinists. It seemed that their sympathies, as well as their
sensibilities, tended to agree more with their Protestant brethren
who viewed such idolatrous 'trappings' with an eye of suspicion, if
not contempt, which would explain not only their lack of reverence
towards such sacred images but their ignorance of Jewish history as
well, and the culture it so richly inspired. Nor would they know, or
even consider, all the great art, literature, and music produced and
carried on in the same Levitical tradition by the Holy Catholic
Church which provided them with not only a past, flawed perhaps as
all histories and institutions are, but their Bibles as well,
canonized by Constantine, printed in the King James Version they
clung to so dearly, and carried across the globe by priests and
missionaries when Luther was still studying his catechism. Surely,
King David would be more familiar, and perhaps even more at home, in
the grand cathedral of Saint Peter's Basilica, under the dome
surrounded by so much incense, gold and priceless works of art, than
he would be in the bare and barren austerity of Martin Luther's
cloistered monastery. At least there would be an altar... like the one
inside the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D'. And
perhaps, Jesus would too. "Besides," Willie would argue, quite
forcefully and logically in fact, and with that special blend of
brilliance and bewilderment recognized by those in the rural
community simply as 'good ol' fashioned horse sense': 'How can you
have an 'altar call'... without an altar?!" It just wouldn't work.
It actually came straight out
of Willie's kitchen and was once used as a chopping block for
cutting the famous pork ribs, the bloodstains of which could still
be seen upon close examination. On either side of the butcher-block
altar stood two great candles, each about half a foot in diameter
and tapering up approximately six feet off the floor. They were
caked in layer upon layer of hardened wax that dripped over the
sides like frozen rivulets of lava cascading down from the hallowed
summit that housed the inner mounting flame. The candles were white,
of course; pale and milky-white, like the surface substance of the
moon as viewed on a cloudless night, and as pure as the Heavenly
Host itself. Supported at the base by twin porcelain-lined brass
candle-holders large enough to have served as camber pots, which
they actually did in a previous utility, the vertical stems were
chiefly composed of that sappy white substance know in the whaling
industry as spermaceti. It was the main ingredient in many candles
manufactured at that time, as well as the most expensive, which,
when ignited, gave off a sweet and pleasant aroma. Sperm oil was the
fuel that kept a million lamps burning long in the night when all
other lamps went out in an otherwise dark and dangerous world. It
also gave off a distinctive orange glow that was both long-lasting
and penetrating, much, one could easily imagine, as the light of
Galadriel shining forth from the Frodo's phial in the deep dark
dungeons of Shelob's silky liar. In a Promethean sort of way, it was
nothing less than fire from the god's; not stolen like a thief, but
hunted, harpooned, boiled down and barreled, and sold by the ton to
the highest bidder. Time and charity permitted, the Deacons of the
Temple would empty out the glandular vessels, giving the excess wax
to the poor who in turn would recycle the waxy oil into hand-held
candlesticks: modest miniatures, you might say, of those former
white towers, and more suitable to their own domestic needs.
Behind the altar, hung a large
wooden cross. Not just any cross, but a full-scale Roman crucifix in
all its barbaric beauty and simplicity. It was gift, actually,
donated to the church by an old German family, the Gettlers, who'd
recently migrated to Old Port Fierce and who were, among other
talents, gifted in the classic art of wood sculpturing, something
they'd apparently learned and perfected in that part of the old
world where religion, Christianity in particular, and great works of
art are synonymous. And on the elevated cross was the life-sized
representation of the crucified Lord, lifted up like a Moses' bronze
serpent in the desert, just as he might have appeared almost two
thousand years ago on a hilltop outside Jerusalem as hung on a cross
between two thieves and perished. The detail was exquisitely
authentic, right down to the square-headed nails driven through the
wrist and ankles (as opposed to the hands and feet, as erroneously
depicted on inferior renderings of the Holy execution, which simply
would not support the weight of the condemned) along with the
traditional crown of thorns, the rivulets of blood, and so many
wounded stripes, well over a hundred, carved intricately into the
wood at various angles evincing a scourging which far exceeded the
typical thirty-nine lashes, the maximum allowed by Jewish law at the
time, marking the body of the crucified Lord. And if a picture can
tell a thousand words, then the image hanging at the head of the
Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit spoke volumes. And what was it said
was this: somebody, or something, didn't want it to go this far. It
was almost as if the scourging alone was supposed to have killed the
Nazarene before he was able to accomplish that which he was sent to
earth to do. It simply wasn't meant to happen this way. But it did!
And to the horror of the devil and all the angels in hell, the words
'It is finished' were finally uttered, once and for all, through
those cracked and blood-stained lips of the Crucified Redeemer,
fulfilling the Scriptures, conquering death on the cross, and
tearing the Temple vale in two in the process. And thank God he did!
It was the only way; it was the perfect way. Even from a good
distance, located as he was in the back of the church, Elmo could
make out each and every gruesome detail carved into the wooden icon.
Naturally, it made the Harlie think, more than once, of a similar
cross Homer had brought up into the mountains over a year ago, only
on a smaller scale; the same gothic crucifix he'd planted in the
consecrated soil of Mount Wainwright not far from the cratered cave
where it all began, and ended. The similarities were overwhelming,
and eerily so. He simply couldn't take his eyes off it. Nor would
he.
As previously mentioned, there
were two bronze statues strategically placed on either side of the
golden tabernacle centered on the wooden platform thereof.
Protecting the tabernacle and the sacred contents within, the wings
of the cherubim arched symmetrically over the arc of the covenant,
as they did three thousand years ago in the Holy of Holies, not
unlike the flaming swords posted at the threshold of Paradise.
Simply put, they were saying: You may come hither, but no further.
For within the blessed sanctuary were not twin tablet of stone, but
rather the heavenly Host Himself, in all his transubstantiated
glory, contained therein the bread of life he instructed his
disciples, the night before he died, to partake of in memory of His
Holy presence. And to further commemorate the prophetic events about
to take place, at which all His disciples, save one, would flee in
fear, stood another familiar statue not far from crucified Christ.
It was that of a woman, draped in gown of flowing marble, the folds
of the fabric frozen in time and place like those seen adorning the
Greco-Roman art of antiquity. The outer layer of stone was
hand-painted, or so it seemed, blue and white; the colors of truth
and virginity; the true colors of Israel. All that was missing was
the six-pointed Star of David. It was the image of the Madonna, of
course, the Mother of God, her head hung low, sadly, lips slightly
parted, praying perhaps; her eyes forever fixed on the her dying son
who once nursed at those same virgin breast. 'Mother, behold they
son.'
Directly over the life-like
crucifix, hung a long white banner nailed to the interior beam
spanning the width of the structure. And on that singular white
sheet was a message: an admonition, really; like a page torn from
the Bible itself and suspended from the ceiling for all to see and
take warning, only magnified. The letters were big, black and bold;
not unlike those solicitously painted on billboards and political
placards scattered throughout the legalistic landscape, the slogans
of which fade like flowers in the field, but with a far more potent
and powerful message, and with a much wider audience. The message
was crisp and clear, free from misinterpretation; there was no
ambiguity about it: JUDGE NOT LEAST YE BE JUDGED. It the first plank
in Willie's solidly constructed platform. He put it there himself;
nailed it to the wall, so to speak, and hammered it home four days a
week at the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit with the same thunderous
strokes heard throughout Christendom as when Martin Luther famously
tacked his 95 Theses to the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg,
only not as defiantly and with a little more sympathy and respect
than that the old reformer who may've had a few demons of his own to
exorcize.
It was a simple message; easy
to read and, for those who simply couldn't read and had to have it
read for them, just as easy to understand. It was also easy to
digest, just like the miracle ribs themselves, and pleasing to the
palate. JUDGE NOT LEAST YE BE JUDGED. It was a sermon for the ages;
one that never went out of favor or fashion. And it was Willie's
favorite; the same one he would deliver that day at the Miracle
Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D'. He knew it well – by heart!
He'd been rehearsing it for years; but, given the complexities and
prejudices of the human condition, it wasn't always an easy message
to deliver, especially in a place like Shadytown where judgments
were always at a premium and not only reserved for hypocrites and
fools, of which there was also a plentiful supply of. But hypocrisy
knows no boundaries and discrimination can be found anywhere, on
both sides of the invisible tracks, as well as the Iron Gates of
Harley, and all lands in-between. Prejudice comes in many colors, as
well as black and white. It is young and old, and has no gender. It
welcomes sinners and saints alike. Prejudice does not discriminate.
Sometimes it may even be justified; but never to be confused with
discernment. We deal with it as best we can, on our own terms, in
our own time, and usually on our own turf. Humility is often our
best defense; although at times, like the bully that it actually is,
Prejudice deserves a bloody nose, and gets it. But not all bullies
are bad; some just need a little more persuading than others. And
that's where Willie B. Wright came in. That's what he was there for.
Not to judge (although he'd be perfectly in his right to do so) but
simply to expose it, even if that meant exposing himself. That's his
job. That's what he does.
On the rostrum in front of the
pews was placed a small bottle of olive oil along with a Bible so
old and thickly worn that it may well have been penned by the
Evangelist himself, Saint Matthew; touched, perhaps, by the hand of
Constantine at the Council of Nicene, approved by King James, and
blessed by the Pope. Dog-eared and thumb-marked by pious preachers
of the past, long since dead and buried, the Holy Text presently lie
face open where it would be read from four days a week as Willie B.
Wright pounded the sacred parchment, turning sinners into saints and
flesh into spirit just as he'd been doing for over ten years now
with the same zealous conviction. And he wasn't alone. Shadytown was
full of such Evangelists, some more effective than other; all with
their own congregations and their own special recipe for saving
souls; although none could compare the Miracle Temple and Barbecue
Pit of Avenue 'D'... especially when it came to the ribs.
They came from all over, these
colorful men of the cloth, and from every walk of life. They could
be found on almost every street corner, along with the pimps and
prostitutes, the hustlers and has-beens, preaching to the choir,
so-to-speak; the street-urchins and passers-by, or whoever else they
could persuade with their tin-cups and silver-tongue oratory.
Typically, however, they could be found heading up the many churches
that sprung up in the northern part of town ever since the days of
Erasmus Harley, the old slave himself, a self-ordained minister in
the ubiquitous, efficacious and non-denominational Universal Church
of God, and a foot-soldier in Jehovah's ever-expanding army.
They were Negroes, of course;
but there was always a white face to be found among the black
shepherds of Avenue 'D', along with the occasional stray white sheep
that would eventually finds its way into predominately colored
parishes of Old Port Fierce .These were the high-priests, the
rabbis, the imams, the bishops, the holy men of Shady town,
although, as it is all social experiments, Democrat or Republican,
some were more holy than others; and they were legion. They spelled
out each and every word of God on a daily basis, usually on Sundays
and holy days of obligation; and each in his own unique style. But
the message was always the same. It was the song of Salvation! And
it was preached with all the passion and enthusiasm as it once was
by a handful of frightened fisherman from Galilee once their eyes,
and their hearts, were opened by the Holy Spirit. It was a personal
invitation signed, stamped and sealed by Saint Peter himself;
delivered by the apostle Paul, perhaps, on his way to Damascus, like
a one-way ticket to Paradise, paid in advance and with no expiration
date. And it worked. It still worked! – right there on Avenue 'D'
in a place called Shadytown, even on a Fat Moon Friday when divers
dared to dive so deep, and all the world an oyster. In reality,
however, it was a sinful and shameful time in Old Port Fierce; and,
of course, that included Shadytown. Times change, and not always for
the better many would woefully agree; unless, that is, you happened
to be the owner of one of the many bars, brothels or gambling halls
presently lining the infamous street better known as Avenue 'D'. And
if that were the case... well, then business was never better.
As it were, the old port
city was currently overflowing with corruption; a city in decay,
slowly backsliding into a place the original founders would hardly
recognize if somehow stirred from their sleepy slumbering stones.
Old Port Fierce had always been a busy port; that much had not
changed. But along with their hopes, aspirations, and whatever
baggage they dragged along with them, including the kind that eat
and breathe, many of the local transients brought along their sins
of the past: transgressions that were unwelcome at first, tolerated
at least; and finally, accepted at last. The most dangerous of these
transgressions, and the one most deleterious to the social fabric
that made up the colorful tapestry known as Old Port Fierce, was the
latest to arrive on the docks of Old Port Fierce. It had no
particular face; but it did have a name. It was called Complacency.
Simply stated: No one cared; at least not as much as they used to,
and certainly not as much as they should have. For under the
decadent orange lights of Shadytown, the criminal elements and their
sinister sisters prospered in all their ignominious glory; and they
too had a name. They were the pimps and prostitutes, the muggers and
murderers, the merchants and mercenaries, the con-artist, the
panhandlers and, of course, the street-urchins. They lived, for the
most part, in squalor, in saloons and gaming houses, bars and
brothels, or wherever else they could hang their stolen hats and
survive in the self-imposed prisons they'd not only created for
themselves but felt most comfortable in. They had many voices, many
faces. Their vices were legend; their numbers, legion. They called
the streets their own. Who would deny them? Where else would these
poor hungry souls go to rest their homeless heads? And who would
protect them from the 'Crouching Lion' that lay in the guttered
streets like the Biblical roaring beast of antiquity waiting to
devour each and every one of them?
Crouched in the filth and
squalor of human degradation and ready to spring, this mythical
beast of Shadytown waited patiently for its victims. And just like
the Hellhound of Harley that posed an equal, if not identical,
threat to the citizenry of that particular township, the Crouching
Lion of Avenue 'D' could, and would, be just as lethal and difficult
to avoid. No one was safe, and few were spared, even at the
consecrated doorsteps of the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit. This
was one hungry cat, folks. And it would stop at nothing; sniffing,
scratching and clawing for every last morsel that might slip through
the tiniest cracks of the old mahogany door. It was there, even in
the very sanctuary of hope, the lion would make its deadly move, and
spring! – devouring men, women, and children alike, crushing their
bones, drinking their blood, and spitting out the remains back into
the sewers that lined the cobblestoned street known as Avenue 'D'.
But through it all, the Temple remained (perhaps in need of a little
repair now and then as all institutions are – secular and religious)
and stood tall, which was indeed the greatest miracle of all. It
worked. It had to work. And it worked because Willie made sure that
it did work, each and every day and night, at the Miracle Temple and
Barbecue Pit in a place called Shadytown.
Standing conspicuously on
either side of the four seated apostles, at the very head of the
Temple were two closed doors: one specifically designated for men;
the other, for women only; and each marked accordingly. These were
the personal facilities, the toilets of the Temple, if you will,
that provided relief and comfort to the congregation whenever they
were needed. They were frequented as often as necessary and as
physical needs demanded. Naturally, the door marked 'WOMENS' was
perpetually opening and closing during any given service and locked
from within when in use. The 'MENS' facilities, however, were not so
frequented and seldom indispensible; in fact, they were hardly ever
in use; many of the male parishioners preferring to relive
themselves, if but for one brief and satisfying moment and providing
no one was looking, outdoors, especially on hot summer days such as
these when a cool breeze was a welcomed relief from the fire and
brimstone Willie was sometimes known to shower down on his faithless
flock as a grim reminder of things to come on that great and
terrible day of the Lord! It also happened to be the fastest and
easiest way to escape the simmering odor of so many perspiring
bodies concentrated together in such close quarters which could,
especially in the heat of the night, be almost as unbearable as the
fire and brimstone itself. Possessing no particular preference in
that early stages of physiological development, the children of the
Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit simply used whichever door happened
to be the open at the time and closest at hand, with little
deference given to modesty and hardly an ounce of embarrassment. But
sometimes even they would have to wait in line, as children often do
in these situations, regardless of the urgency.' Suffer the little
children...' so sayeth the Lord. But just don't make them wait too
long. It could get rather messy.
Naturally, these lively
services, which would sometimes last right up until the early hours
of the dawn, required large volumes of water to quench the thirst of
the faithful and keep dehydration to a minimum. These precious
fluids were kept in a large vase-like cistern, embossed with the
seal of David and, not unlike the Arch of the Covenant itself,
plated in gold-leaf. The container stood stoically in between each
of the two restroom doors, like an oasis springing out of an
Egyptian desert, and was frequented throughout the service in order
to put out the tongues of fire whenever the flame became a little
too high, and perhaps a little too hot to handle. The Samaritan
woman at the well surely would have been overjoyed at such a
thirst-quenching experience, and drank of it just as freely as she
would from Jacob's well over two thousand years ago in the presence
of the Lord. The ceramic cistern was periodically refreshed by any
one of the four apostles and blessed by the hand of Reverend Willie
B. Wright himself. For this was holy water! as pure and fresh as the
life sustaining liquid that was forced from the rock by Moses'
disobedient hand in the scorching sands of the Sinai. Like the
purifying water of the Jordan that once baptized the head of God, it
was meant to quench the both body and soul. No wonder it was so
popular! Naturally, the sanctified jug was highly appreciated and
frequented often, especially during one of Willie Wright's more
heated and emotional sermons which were famous for their longevity
as well as the draining affect they had on his captured audience. It
was usually during such fiery oratory, when physical and spiritual
planes collide, often violently, as a force bursting forth with
great efficiency and the subsequent energy release thereof,
ejaculating, as fire from the mouth of a cannon, in one
orgasmic-like explosion, when, in the throes of such an eruptive
event, the sacrosanct cistern was put to its most utilitarian use.
As in all highly combustible situations, water is often the
substance of choice to put out the fire. Needless-to-say, no one
ever went thirsty at the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue
'D' – or hungry for that matter, as we shall soon see.
From the back of the church,
and looking over so many hallowed heads bobbing up and down, this
way and that, Elmo Cotton observed this magnificent vessel and the
many mouths that drank from it so freely. He also noticed a half
dozen or so feminine bodies forming a line on the left side of the
rostrum in front of the bathroom door marked 'WOMENS', which was
presently being exited by an enormously large woman with cannonball
breasts. She appeared pleasantly satisfied and refreshed, ready to
resume her previous position in the front pew of the Miracle Temple
as she forcefully made her way back through the crowd like a mother
hen carelessly stampeding her own chicks in the process. With
man-like hands, the fat woman picked up her angel-wings, reclaimed
her wooden throne next to her exasperated husband, and continued
where she'd left off, fanning her own famously fat neck and singing
in the most high-pitched voice the Harlie had ever heard come from
such an enormous mass of Humanity, male or female. Meanwhile, the
lines at the head of the Temple grew longer as the saturated souls
waiting patiently, albeit nervously, for their own chance to relieve
themselves in the comfort of the Lord. When the door on the right
finally flew open, the one marked MENS, in rushed a tall young man
all dressed in black. He ran inside so quickly, in fact, and so
gratefully that anyone with a Biblical imagination may've wondered
if Saint Peter had not, out of sheer pity perhaps, flung open the
door and ushered the poor fellow in himself.
The pump organ stood not far
from the Celestial Choir. A tall lanky fellow with a slightly
balding head was seated at then bench, riding his long ebony fingers
up and down the keyboard as though his very life depended on it.
Beside him sat a young woman with blossoming breasts. She was
beating to death an old snare (one she claimed to have pried from
the cold dead hands of a Yankee soldier) with long wooden
drumsticks, presumably confiscated from the same fallen foe. The
sound of the paradiddles echoed throughout the building, just as
they once did on the bloody fields of Antietam. For reasons we can
all understand, at least those of us who have survived the
challenges of parenthood, the sound of the snare only made the
Harlie homesick. Naturally, it made him think of his son, Little
Ralph, and how boldly the boy would bang the copper kettle under the
kitchen table home back in Harley, in similar fashion and usually at
the most inappropriate time. He smiled at the virgin drummer whose
eyes, like those of a steadfast trooper beating a path straight
through enemy lines, remained forever fixed on the banner flying
overhead and the message it conveyed. Meanwhile Sherman placed his
nephew on top of his arching shoulders so that he might get a better
view from the back of the Temple. With his blanket still wrapped
about the boy's shoulder and draping a good portion of the turtle's
protruding head, together they looked very much like one very tall
man wearing a long overcoat with a body disproportionately too large
for his child-like head. If not so conspicuously odd and out of
place, it might even be considered comical.
Adding to the rhythm section
of the Temple orchestra was a lanky white man with a long, and
somewhat somber-looking, face. He was strumming an old beat-up
guitar, which, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how in
tune it was any given moment, was barely audible and, at times, out
of tune. This was perhaps due to the excessive volume of the other
instruments, both man-made and vocal, which seemed to overpower the
poor fellow at every stroke of the strings, but also because he
simply did not want to stand out, either visibly or audibly, and
thus restrained himself accordingly. He was one of those quiet and
shy individuals, a stranger in a strange land; an albino, if you
will, in a sea of so many black faces. And like the wing-weary
albatross aloft at sea that happens to light upon some wayward
island in the middle of the Pacific only to discover that it's
inhabited by a grim gathering of cannibalistic condors, he balks at
first, and then reconsiders, driven by hunger and fatigue perhaps,
and eventually finds a home among the savage birds of prey; all the
while, of course, keeping his anonymity, with its purity and
whiteness firmly intact, as well as his distance. Needless-to-say,
the reticent troubadour looked strangely out of place, and perhaps a
little nervous, as any Caucasian would under the circumstances. But
he was obviously a man of many talents and grace who, despite an
admitted lack of faith and low self-esteem, appeared happy enough
just to be there at the time, along with his trusty Gibson. And who
knows? He might even have gotten saved in the process.
The horn section of the
celestial orchestra consisted of one saxophone and two trumpets
manned (or wo-manned, as the case may be) by their corresponding
musicians. There was also an old man puffing on an old trombone who
looked as though he was having a difficult time just keeping up with
the younger and more long-winded members of the band as he slid the
long hallow tube in and out of its housing. But he somehow managed
under the improvised conditions, and actually seemed to be enjoying
himself, as most old men often do, regardless of the occasion or the
input they provide.
Standing in the Kingdom Hall
that evening, Elmo Cotton imagined he could've plowed forty acres in
the time it took for the celestial choir to get through the opening
doxology, In the Color of the Lord. And just when it looked like
they might finally be finished, the subsequent 'AMEN!' or
'ALLELUIA!' would suddenly sound out, from out of nowhere it would
seem, fueling the fire and forcing the choir to begin all over
again. It just didn't seem to end. And neither did the stomping, the
shouting, the clapping, the blowing, the beating, the strumming, or
whatever others sounds could be vocalized or produced just then at
the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D'. And even when the
volume was decreased to a decibel level low enough to accommodate
normal conversation, there always seemed to be someone in the crowd
who would suddenly and invariably, as if on cue, stand up and shout
out yet another 'AMEN!' or 'ALLELUIA!' thus starting the whole
process all over again, only louder this time. There just seemed to
be no end in sight, or sound.
And there, right there in one
of the mahogany pews, not too far from where the Harlie himself was
presently located, stood Regina Sophia Johnson. Only now, absent the
painted on face of lipstick and rouge that only an hour ago
concealed her true identify, Elmo finally recognized her. Oley had
seen right through the disguise all along, of course; but never
mentioned it. He was either too frightened or too ashamed, both
perhaps. The turtle noticed her as well, as he too penetrated the
mysterious red mask. Now, more so than ever, he was glad that his
good friend and neighbor never found the nickel he was looking for.
And so was Elmo.
As usual for such a
reverential occasion, and despite her previous attire, Regina
Johnson was presently dressed in her finest church-going outfit,
which consisted chiefly of a long blue dress, a pink hat, and a
wide yellow ribbon draped sensually about her slender waist, all
trimmed out all in white lace and gold. The hat she wore barely
exposed her long black hair, which, for reasons of anonymity, she
kept tied up in a bun in the customary fashion of the occasion. The
long-sleeved gloves she wore were as white as virgin wool, and went
all the way up to her elbows. Her eyes and hands were raised to
Heaven, her voice mixing and mingling with those of the Celestial
Choir. Evidently, she was taken up, or so it seemed, in the many
sounds and colors of the Lord, along with everyone else in the
Temple that day. It was a sight Elmo would remember for the rest of
his life. And suddenly, caught up in the moment as well, the Harlie
found himself and singing right along, familiar enough with the
words by now which his wife would sometimes sings while pumping a
churn or feeding the chickens.
In the house of the Lord, I'm a'prayin'!
In the light of the Lord, I see!
In the fields of the Lord, I'm a'singin!
In the color of the Lord, I'll be!"
Perhaps he thinking more about
Regina Johnson and less about his own wife than he should have at
the moment, not to mention the Good Lord Himself who'd brought him
this far. Holding an ambivalent attitude towards religion in
general, up until recently at least, Elmo Cotton had been to the
local Baptist church in Harley only a handful of times: getting
married was one of them; getting buried would probably be the last;
if he was allowed back, that is. He was beginning to wonder if he
would ever go back at all. It would take more than a miracle, he
sometimes imagined, and perhaps a coffin, supplied by Lester Cox no
doubt, along with the standard money back guarantee, which his poor
wife would probably end up paying for anyway. Not that he still
didn't believe in them, mind you – miracles, that is – along with
coffins and money back guarantees. He did! He just didn't
understand how or why they happened; or why they happened to some
folks some of the time, and not to all the folks all of the time.
And they always happened to some folks more than others. It just
weren't fair, and neither were miracles. It wasn't right, he
sometimes argued with the mule. And most troublesome of all, he once
shouted at the animal for no reason in particular: 'Now how comes
it's always thems that needs a miracle the most, who got them the
least? While thems that don't needs them at all, or even asked for
thems in the first place, sometimes gets them the most? It was all
very confusing; as confusing back then as it was right now for the
disheartened Harlie; and perhaps the mule as well. Maybe the spirits
of the night were right after all, Homer would surely agree; if he
was there at the moment, that is, to explain to Elmo the simple
secret he'd learned himself not too long ago up on top of a mountain
at the end of a long dark tunnel: 'Themes that wants, don't get...'
The spirits of the night knew. They always knew. That's why they
were spirits.
For whatever reason miracles
always seemed to happen to someone else, never to Elmo Cotton;
especially when he needed one the most, like the time he beaten like
an animal and thrown into prison, or up on top of the mountain at
the end of his own long dark tunnel. He still prayed, however, but
not as often as he should have. And even when he did, his prayers
sounded more like compromises, a little give and take, as if God had
nothing better to do (as if He didn't have enough with a fallen race
and the entire Universe to worry about) than banter about with a
wayward raccoon that had no intention of living up to his end of the
bargain anyway. Lately, however infrequent and few, it seemed that
all his prayers were in vain; either that, or they were simply left
unanswered. There was nothing worse than being ignored by God;
unless, of course, what Elmo took for ignorance was actually
indifference, which was even worse, he couldn't help but wonder. It
not only weakened his faith, but made him more cynical over the
years. But he also knew that there was still much for him to learn;
not necessarily about religion, but about God Himself, if that was
possible. What the Harlie raccoon might have realized at the time,
had he been more open to interpretation of such spiritual matters
and knew what was good for him, was that prayer, like all other
petitions offered up to Heaven, often for good and righteous reasons
and not always in vain, is sometimes answered in the negative. There
are times when 'No' is not only the right answer... it is the only
answer. And thank God for that! Why should He have to prove
anything? To anyone! Wasn't one Miracle enough? And isn't that what
we are really asking for in all our meaningless mutterings – proof
of His eternal existence? Hey, be careful of what you ask for. You
just might get it; even though you don't know what it is at the time
and probably don't even deserve it. Look at Brother Job; or poor
Lazarus for that matter who, deservingly or not, was perhaps still
shaking the grave-dust from his bandaged feet as he was dragged,
against his own will some will suggest, back down to mortal earth to
die all over again; and by the same God who allowed him to perish in
the first place. But why? you may ask. Just to prove that it could
be done? Isn't that what miracles are all about, some will argue –
proof! Unfortunately, they still are; and most still ask. But not
Willie! In fact, despite a phenomenal reputation in that specialized
field of metaphysics that is so often co-opted by frauds and
charlatans who peddle their pricey miracles from the pulpit like so
many snake-oil salesmen, Willie held a different view on the
celestial subject all together. He actually looked forward to the
day when miracles, like our own measly bodies doomed to dust, are no
longer necessary. 'Oh! ye' of little faith'. As if one Jonah wasn't
enough.
But it wasn't so much Elmo's
lack of faith (although that too can ebb and flow even among the
saints) that'd caused him to be so hard and cynical at times, but
rather his lack of spirit. But as the real Miracle-Maker once
professed in his own beneficial and benevolent way at the Sermon on
the Mount: 'Blessed are the poor in spirit...' And surely, Elmo would
have liked to believe, He must've had a poor and frightened raccoon
in mind when he said it, 'For theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.'
Then, suddenly, from a small door fixed in the very back of the
Temple all but invisible to the congregational eye that was by then
dilating with eager anticipation, out stepped the Most Reverend
Willie B. Wright, supreme chef the grand master of ceremonies, and
Miracle-Maker deluxe.
But he was more than that. For
you see, aside from pastor, preacher, priest, bishop and pope, at
least within the confines of the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit
of Avenue 'D, Willie B. Wright was also butcher, baker, chief
custodian, guardian, gardener, carpenter, mason, janitor, and
general handyman all rolled into one humble and portly package, tied
up in an apron string, and capped with a navy blue pea-hat. Taking
to the rostrum, as he did so many times before, Reverend Wright
waited patiently to begin. It took a while, but finally, after so
many joyful choruses of 'In the Color of the Lord' and so many
jump-start shouts of AMEN!' or 'ALLELUIA! with Willie acknowledging
each and every open of them with a simple but solemn nod of the head
or wink of an eye, the service was about to begin. It didn't take
very long;, only long enough for all the singing, shouting,
foot-stomping, hand-clapping, drum-beating, horn-blowing,
guitar-strumming, organ-grinding noise to simmer down to a
reasonable level, which by then sounded almost like a prayer, a
whispering hymn, with organ humming softly, gently, in the
background, interrupted only by the occasional and obligatory
'AMEN!' That was not only welcomed but necessary, and to be
expected.
Removing the gravy-stained
apron and folding it in the customary fashion, the Miracle-Maker
placed it gently on the arm of his chair, an arm-stool placed behind
the pulpit which he'd borrowed for the kitchen, and one rarely
occupied. And then, for a brief and solemn moment, he turned his
back to the congregation and knelt before the wooden altar for a
private moment of silent prayer. It was the customary signal, known
to one and all, that Willie was officially assuming his
responsibilities and ready to commence with the benediction. As the
faithful flock sat anxiously in the pews, all eyes were cast upon
the altar; and, of course, the Most Reverend Willie B. Wright.
Hearts skipped a beat;
everyone exhaled. Suddenly, all was quiet inside the Miracle Temple
and nothing could be heard, except for the sound of the pump organ
humming softly in the background, the shuffling of a few stray feet,
the turning of a page and, of course, the solemn sound made by the
angel-wings as they silently stirred the holy oxygen within the
heated sanctuary. And right on cue, as if they'd rehearsed it for a
hundred years, the four apostles appeared, taking their appropriate
places in their thrones at the head of the church. They seated
themselves directly behind the pastor, each in his own personal and
designated chair, in much the same distinguished way the four
authors of the Holy Text will undoubtedly position themselves behind
the awesome White Throne on that great and terrible Day of Judgment.
Reverend Willie B. Wright was
not a large man; but he was big, with small brown hands and a
moon-shaped face. His complexion was fair, for a colored man that
is; and he had rather large nose, and his eyes were often red with
blood, which sometimes make him appear as if he'd been drinking a
little too much of the sacramental wine. Despite what others may've
thought, or preached, at the time Willie still regarded the
consecrated wine, along with the Eucharistic bread, as the actual
body and blood of the Crucified Christ. And why shouldn't he? After
all, it was Jesus himself who instituted the holy sacraments the
night before he was crucified. It was not a recommendation, nor was
it a suggested. It was never meant to be. It was a commandment:
'Take this and eat of it, all of you. This is my body....' And
likewise He took the cup... There is no ambiguity about it; no
mistake. 'My body... My blood'. Not a semblance of; not a substitute
for; nor any other metaphysical facsimile thereof! It was, and it
is, the real thing! Just like He said it was, and is Of course,
there will always be those who simply don't believe, But to all you
doubting Thomases out there (and you know who you are) consider
this: If the Creator of the Universe, the Maker of all things
visible and invisible, is able to plant Himself in the virgin womb
of a teenage Jewess and grow from a zygote, to a fetus, and finally
into a fully developed human being not unlike the rest of us, is it
so improbable then, or impossible, for that same omnipotent and
Almighty Being to perform the simple and undaunting task of changing
a measly piece of bread and a small cup of wine into his the same
un-evicerated substance as His own holy body and blood? It is
exactly what He said it is. Otherwise, He wouldn't have said it, nor
done it for that matter, in the first place.
Willie wore a simple and plain
gray suit that had stitched and patched over the years in many
different places. The jacket itself appeared to have been tailored
for a much younger, and perhaps thinner, man at one time; but it
seemed to fit him well and do him justice, in a comfortable, if not
fashionable, sort of way. Visibly seen beneath the Miracle-Maker's
coat were a plain white shirt and a bright red tie. Both were
stained with the same barbecue sauce and gravy previously ascribed
to the arm-chaired apron. Willie's pants were pulled well up over
his ever-expanding waist, the way older men prefer, and tied with a
simple knotted rope, in the spirit and fashion of the poor
Franciscan himself, Francis of Assisi; one of Willie's favorite
saints. The preacher's shoes were old, but had been shined so many
times that he could still make out his reflection on the
patent-leather surface every time he lowered his hallowed head,
which he often did during the service, chiefly out of reverence for
his holy surroundings.
His demeanor was that of a
simple and humble man; and, if you didn't know any better, you just
might take him for a janitor or general handyman, which, as
previously mentioned, he actually was. There was a quiet dignity
about the man, this friendly friar of Avenue 'D', which further
separated him from his fellow ministers in and around Old Port
Fierce. In many ways, he was just your typical unassuming colored
man; but there was an air about him (and I'm not just talking about
the smell of barbecue sauce and burning charcoal) along with a
noticeable 'heaviness', a certain gravitas, if you will, that
defined the old man in all his present character. Call it
experience. Maybe it was just the wisdom that naturally came with
years of caring and sharing, selflessly, with no expectations and
without ambition, that set Willie Wright apart from his
contemporaries who sometimes demanded more of their congregations
than they did of themselves, which made them not only hypocrites,
but liars and well. And Willie would often tell them so – right to
their sanctimonious faces! But he was also quick to forgive, and
actually felt sorry for these fools, many of whom he considered
traitors to the church who would break their vows, along with the
orders, in a holy heartbeat and were undeserving of the robes they
wrapped themselves in with the impunity, anonymity, and the
self-righteousness they so desperately desired. But Willie was
different. He was the real deal; the good shepherd; unpretentious
and unafraid. He knew who he was, and so did his sheep. They
recognized him. There was something about him... something a child
might hear in the sound of her mother's voice, or feel in the gentle
touch of her grandfather's otherwise knotted and gnarly hand. And he
was always there.
The pastor of Avenue 'D' was a
quiet man by nature, reserved, who sometimes spoke in whispering
thoughts. But Willie could also be loud, especially towards the ends
of his more urgently inspired sermons, when his voice could be heard
for miles around, booming at times like the sound of recoiling
cannon fire or thunder rolling over the rooftop. In many respects,
he seemed to possess a dual personality (not unlike a certain
Red-Bearded colonel we have all come to know, but in an entirely
different sense and by no means as diabolically possessed). His was
a self-controlled schizophrenia which Willie used to his advantage:
one aspect of his personality adopted for ordinary occasions, such
as socializing or performing the various administrative duties that
came with the cloth of his ministry; the other side, less observed
but by far the more dominant and dynamic, which was strictly
reserved for, and put into practice, whenever Willie took the stage
inside the temple. It was the voice of the shepherd, loud and clear;
and the sheep heeded it well. It was then when Willie was at the top
of his game: doing what he did best... what he was born to do. And
what was that, you may be asking? Simple! It was to preach the
gospel of Truth in the face of all falsehood, though it lead him at
times in the bloody footsteps of saints and martyred that went
before him: into the heathenish heart of hell, if indeed that's
where they led him, and beyond. He would do it gladly, willingly,
and usually with a smile on his face. It wasn't necessarily a holy
transformation, as some would suspect; although that too was always
possible. It was a natural one! not unlike the metamorphosis his
congregation would undergo four days a week at the Miracle Temple
and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D' in a place called Shadytown. It was
something the Miracle-Maker once eloquently described,
metaphorically at least, as the 'vital transformation.' Whatever it
was, Willie had it in spades. Some called it a gift, a miracle; and
perhaps that's what it was. And maybe that's why they called him the
Miracle-Maker.
When not conducting church
services, or cooking up ribs in his famous Barbecue Pit, Willie was
really little different than anyone else in his ever-expanding
congregation, modestly dressed and unassuming in all other physical
aspects. The only piece of clothing he wore that day that seemed to
stand out was the white apron tied about his waist which seemed as
much a part of his normal attire by now as his shirt and trousers.
It was stained, of course, despite the fact that it had been washed
many times over, as most aprons are. He also wore a simple navy blue
pea-cap that seemed to be inextricably glued to the top his hallowed
head. It was the kind of hat sailors often wore, usually the older
ones who never let them go out of fashion, buttoned down at the
visor and riding high and flat over the forehead. Circumferencing
the lower rim of the pea-hat was a thin line of tiny silver springs
which was all that remained of a once healthy head of nappy black
curls. A woman who thought she knew better once suggested that
Willie worn it – the hat, that is – merely to cover a bald spot on
the back of his graying head. She may've been right about that; but
it was something you would only noticed if and when Willie ever took
off the hat, which happened so infrequently, usually at night and
behind closed doors, that the chances of ever proving such a
scandalous proposition were improbable at best. So don't even think
about it. Willie never did. Not anymore anyway.
His face, clean-shaven most of
the time, was slightly wrinkled, particularly about the eyes, which
gave evidence to a mountain of worries and troubles Willie had
shouldered over the years, usually alone, always with a smile, and
often at his own expense. These were burdens that surely would've
broken the back of any other man, or woman; but, through the grace
of God, sheer determination, and perhaps just a little dumb luck,
the Reverend bore them well and, for the most part, successfully.
He'd single-handily held the congregation together for over twenty
years. It was actually the only real miracle he'd ever
preformed. It was the one he was most proud of; and one he took no
credit for himself. It may even be his last. But don't tell them
that. Don't tell that to anyone! Not at the Miracle Temple and
barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D'. Not yet! There were many there who were
expecting a miracle; they demanded no less. And they would have one.
Why shouldn't they? Willie was the Miracle-Maker. Wasn't he? And
they would get one... even if they had to beat it out of him, which
actually happened one night; but that's another story.
Others have claimed, and with
ample evidence to back up their assertions, that Willie was a sailor
in a previous life; and that the cap he wore was merely a physical
manifestation of that maritime fact; a reminded, if you will, of a
proud and noble profession he'd since retired from. They were right,
of course; but don't tell anyone! Willie never did; and he had his
reasons. He was a sailor alright, at one time; a cook as a matter of
fact. It was a long time ago, and something he rarely spoke of
anymore. But there are some things you simply cannot run, or hide,
from; like the past for instance, which, as we all know, has a way
of catching up with us now and then, no matter where we go or how
far we travel. Willie neither ran nor hid, however; he simply walked
away, and never looked back. He seldom talked about it anymore. But
beneath the shallow surface, the sea was still in his veins; that
same salty substance that runs through us all. It's what we are made
of. It's in his blood. He couldn't wash it away if we wanted to. It
was in his eyes and in his ears. He could smell it. He could taste
it. It beckoned! And it sounded something like this:
A sailor's life is like the sea
That rolls in with the tide
It comes and goes, then fades away
But never really dies...
As in all great love songs,
there was just enough truth in the old sailors' rhyme to make Willie
a little uncomfortable at times. But he would still sing it now and
then, whenever he was alone (especially when he was alone), lonely,
or just plain melancholy. The words came naturally, like the sea;
and it always happened whenever he sat watching the tall ships go in
and out of the harbor. It was the song for a sailor. And he knew it
well.
Unlike other church ministers
in Old Port Fierce at the time, particularly in and around Shadytown,
the Reverend Wright required no tithing and passed no plates.
Admittance was free of charge, and open to all. Instead of the
typical means of support, the Miracle-Maker of Avenue 'D' relied on
more innovative ways of paying his bills, of which there always
seemed to be a stack of sitting on top of the butcher-block table,
along with several uncut slabs of ribs and a few loose bottles of
barbecue sauce. And somehow they always worked; and there was
usually enough money at the end of the month to pay the rent and
cover his operating expenses, and maybe even a little left over to
but a few cigars, which was Willie's last and only vice, besides
partaking of the sacramental wine, of course, which he would do on a
daily basis. There were those, however, who considered some of
Willie's methods... well, unconventional; if not downright
'unorthodox'. But they worked; and even proved to be profitable, as
previously hinted upon. And they were legal, too! which is more than
can be said for other more 'orthodox' methods employed by and less
ethical ministers at the time who made a living, quite comfortably
by any standard, in the same city by the bay. But who are we to
judge? Willie never did.
And how did he do it? Simple.
He did it like this: To keep the place up and pay off his many
creditors, the Reverend Willie B. Wright gratefully accepted any and
all donations afforded to him by his good and grateful congregation
at the end of each and every one of his service. It was at that
time, typically at the end of the service, when every heart was
filled with the Holy Spirit, and every belly filled with the famous
miracle ribs, when Willie would gather his flock together for one
final prayer of thanksgiving and praise that would usually, but not
always, culminate with so many nickels, dimes and sliver dollars,
along with the usual amount of copper pennies finding their way into
a small bucket Willie left hanging from the side of the barbecue
drum. Occasionally, Willie would find some paper money, silver
certificates as they were called at the time, conspicuously mixed in
with the precious metal; not to mention a button or two, or a marble
perhaps, placed there by a well-intentioned child to whom they
represented nothing less than a king's ransom, and which Willie
could always make good use of. Talk about sacrifices! No donation,
no matter how small or insignificant, was rejected. It was the
thought that counted, as the woman with her mite clearly
demonstrated. And all were equally appreciated.
As previously described, 'the
pit' was actually an old copper oil drum that Willie had sawed in
half one day and hinged together along one edge to form the cavity
of what would become the holy oven in which he would bake his famous
barbecued ribs. It rested, questionably, on three wooden legs he'd
fastened to the base of the drum, appearing much like a moon-shiners
still without the external plumbing. Technically, of course, it
wasn't a real barbecue pit, at least not in the traditional sense,
since it was elevated off the ground, and not dug into the earth as
conceived and constructed by its original designers. But it was
really no different than any other barbecue pit strewn along the
steamy streets of Shadytown at the time; and besides, the basic
principle was the same: to cook the meat. It wasn't necessarily what
went into Willie's oven that distinguished it from other barbecue
pits, but rather, what came out of it.
No one knew exactly why
Willie's miracle ribs were by far superior to those cooked in
similar pits, or other cooking contraptions contrived for that
specific purpose, which in and of itself was a cause for much
debate. 'It must be the sauce...' some would suggest, and probably be
closet to the truth. That's it! That's what made them taste so good.
It was Willie's own special recipe: one he acquired, or so he once
let slip in a rare moment of reminiscence, from a carnivorous
cannibal, more commonly referred to as feral, he once made the
acquaintance with in a previous existence. He was a regular at the
temple at one time, Willie confessed with no small measure of
gratitude and sympathy in his far-away voice, who would sit down
with the preacher over a slab or two of the barbecued bones
discussing....well, things you might expect a cannibal and a cook to
be discussing at the dinner table; things that may not be suitable
for civilized ears; and I'm not talking about the sauce. It was as
thick and red as plum-pudding and sweet as molasses, the secret
ingredients of which remain a mystery even until this day. 'Sauce
for the Saints!' was a common expression used on many a moonlit
night after a particularly soul and stirring service. 'Sweet as
Adam's ribs!' many a female would boast while sucking the precious
marrow from each and every bone as though sucking out the very soul
of man himself, as if their very lives depended on it.
There was no question about
it. It was no contest. Miracle Temple ribs were undeniable the best
tasting ribs in all of Shadytown; the best in Old Port Fierce;
probably the best on the entire flesh-eating planet. It's no wonder
people came from as far away as Harley and Creekwood Green just to
partake in the carnivorous feast, and ten times a miracle that the
renown Reverend could feed so many hungry souls with such meager
provisions, meat being in short supply so soon after the war, many
of the herds having been decimated by roving bands of scavenging
soldiers, both Union and Confederate. But that's what the
Miracle-Makers do, I suppose; they make miracles. And when they
can't do that, they simply make do. That's their job. That's what
they do. And that's the business Willie was in, whether he'd chosen
it not; or maybe, it had chosen him. Either way, it really didn't
matter; so long as they were done – the ribs, that is: medium rare,
in most cases; cooked 'til a good vet could save it! as the cannibal
might suggest, if he's ever heard of a veterinarian, that is; and
still wonder why anyone would want to eat the flesh of pig or a cow
when there was a entire tribe of natives on the other side of the
island that were just begging for a fight, and a barbecue.
Needless-to-say, Willie would never resort to such pagan practices;
then or now, much to the chagrin of the pig and the cow. He
preferred an animal sacrifice, not unlike the Israelites of old who
slaughtered them in the tens of thousands – Kosher, of course – and
in keeping with the strict tenants of their ancient tradition; minus
the pig, of course, which would, as Willie was keen to pontificate
upon in one of his many self-edifying sermons, remain unclean until
Jesus Christ himself, no vegetarian by any stretch of the
imagination, declared all animals fit for the fire, as well as human
consumption, including the vile pig which He personally baptized by
sending a whole heard of the demonized swine over the cliff and
into the sanctifying water below as a sure sigh of his omnipotent
power and authority. Naturally, Willie would concur, holding the
fated hog to such a high standard, and blessing them many times
over, even as slit their fatty throats like a motel performing the
requisite circumcision. And no one did it better than Willie B.
Wright, Miracle-Maker deluxe, and of the Miracle Temple and Barbecue
Pit of Avenue 'D', a name, by the way, not of his own invention.
'Themes miracle ribs!' just happened to be the first words out of
one hungry parishioner's mouth the day he first tasted the precious
flesh drawn from the fire of Willie's well-renowned barbecue pit.
The name struck. So did the ribs. And pork was on the menu ever
since.
It was once suggested by some
misguided youth that Chef Willie supplement his menu to include
loaves and fishes, just as his Master himself had done two thousand
years before when he fed the five thousand. At first Willie merely
scoffed at such a pretentious proposition, perhaps in the same way
Saint Peter himself summarily dismissed the idea of being crucified
in the same manner as his Lord and Savior, and thus received his
dying wish by being nailed to the cross up-side-down. And this from
the man who sank into the Sea of Galilee and denied his faith not
once but three times. Willie quickly removed the temptation by
chasing the impetuous fiend away that day at the end of a pitchfork
he pulled from the smoldering coals of his holy pit, cautioning him
never to return, with a miracle rib still dangerously dangling from
the smoldering spike. "Get thee behind me Satan! Willie cried out
for all to witness as he tossed the young devil out of the Temple on
his ear and into awaiting jaws of the 'Crouching Lion of Avenue 'D'
whereupon, it is said, the young man was spat out just as quickly
back into the gutter where he undoubtedly belonged. Apparently,
Lucifer has more taste than we knowingly give him credit for. "And
don't never come back!" roared the Miracle-Maker on the front steps
of the Temple that day with a fork in one hand and waving his
spatula in the other. Needless-to-say, the young man never did, even
though Willie often wished he would.
Apparently, what had
infuriated the suspicious chef at the time (although he later come
to regret being so hard on the poor young man who was, after all,
only trying to help, albeit in his own misguided way) was the sin of
presumption; a sin Willie was quite familiar with himself. Although
it wasn't one of the seven deadly sins as recognized and defined by
the by the Holy Evangelist (in fact, there are those who question
whether presumptuousness can be considered sin at all, in as much as
there are no real victims other than the one doing the presuming)
but it was one of the easiest to surcome to, as are most sins
of self-indulgence, and a sin never-the-less, along with being
dangerously close to the major sin of pride, which many consider,
and rightfully so, the most deadly of all. 'And besides', Willie
would often say in regard to these so-called lesser sins which
Protestants find inexcusable and Catholics, who are a little more
lenient in such grave matters (an aspect of the papacy Willie could
certainly appreciate) label as mere venial, '– They do
add up!' No doubt the good Reverend, who could be presumptuous
himself at times, was including himself in his own personal
assessment. He felt the same way about Purgatory: a place, if it
actually did exist, he hoped and prayed he would first be introduced
to before entering into a Glory he knew in his heart of heats he was
certainly not prepared for. The whole notion of a 'half-way' house,
somewhere between Heaven and Hell where he had time to reflect upon
all his transgressions, past and present, sat well with the old
sinner. Surely, a good and merciful God would allow for such
accommodations, despite what anyone else might say; in fact, He may
actually insist upon it. Otherwise, how else would any one of us be
worthy? And who could survive it! Willie knew, better than anyone,
how fitly his rags actually were by now, and badly was in need of a
proper scrubbing. And what better place to clean such a filthy cloth
(which actually translates in the Holy Text as 'menstrual' rags)
than the fiery furnace of Purgatory? It was something he was more
than willing to endure, even if it meant enduring such a baptism by
fire for many more years than it took to soil those rags in the
first place, and even then there would be a few stubborn stains that
simply could not be expunged. At times, he imagined it would take a
tow thousand years and a day, which, compared to the eternal flames
of perdition, was actually quite a bargain. But who was he to Judge?
And who are we?
JUDGE NOT LEAST YE BE JUDGED
It was not a request. It was a
command; one Willie took seriously and would often incorporate, in
one way or another, into many of his famous sermons over the years.
It all came down to sin – Sin! in all its pride and prejudice; and
the fact that all sin, no matter big or small, is equally
offensive to God, even as the name itself implies: 'Sin' – from the
Greek 'to miss the mark'. And who among us have ever hit the target?
And he would explain this in his own nautical terms by relating a
story he'd once heard about a certain harpooner, a handsome young
fellow from the from the Island of Crete who, upon darting his iron
at the great Leviathan was in the strange and bewildering habit of
crying out the word 'Sin!' whenever he failed to strike the elusive
fish. Naturally, this did sit very well with his fellow shipmates
who, not knowing any better and being a superstitious lot by nature,
as well fine up-standing members of Deacon Farewell's First Baptist
Church of God, took the sailor's exclamatory remark as nothing short
of blasphemy, a curse, and possibly a bad omen, making him, in their
own 'judgmental' eyes at least, no better off than poor Brother
Jonah himself whose fate the poor young Spartan was soon to share.
And there was already a storm a'brewing on the distant horizon. It
was only upon learning through Willie himself, a cook serving at the
time on that very same vessel, and with a great deal of translation,
that what the brave Mediterranean really meant by 'Sin', in his own
vulgar expression, was exactly that: He'd simply had 'missed the
mark'; no more and no less, which is what we all do from time to
time, Willie went on to explain to the rest of the crew, whenever we
fall short of God's good graces. In other words, 'sin' is not so
much a matter of intent, although it can be under certain
circumstances, but of aim! We simply miss the mark.
It was just something Willie
felt obliged to remind his audience of now and then, as well as
himself, especially whenever he actually started to believe in his
own super-natural powers, which he knew deep down, were, at best,
only on loan from the He whom all power originates. Not that he
didn't believe in them – miracles, that is. He did! He simply knew
by now who the real Miracle-Maker was, and who ain't; and moreover,
what the difference was between the two. 'And just as there is only
room for one cook in the kitchen...' he would add at the end of such
eloquence, putting it into terms his domesticated sheep might more
easily understand, 'there's only room enough for one God in Heaven'.
It was one of his favorite speeches; in fact, he planned on using
it, to one degree or another, in the sermon he'd prepared the night
before. It was old subject, perhaps the oldest, and one he was all
too familiar with: it was the sin of Temptation. It's the only sin,
when you get right down it, that counts; all others sins being mere
minions, poor but potent imitations, ancillary agents, evil
off-springs, if you will, of some higher and more hideous power;
that malignant thing that leaves us, in the words of the peg-legged
captain, with half a heart and half a lung; the same old snake that
tempted the first man and woman in the Garden (quite successfully, I
might add) with the bite of an apple and a taste for immortality; he
who later prosecuted Job, to his infernal failure; and he who tested
God Incarnate Himself, with all the kingdoms of the word, as if they
were his to command. And it all came down to the sin of pride, the
first fatal step on the road to Perdition, familiar to kings and
tyrants alike, and a young ambitious fool who would upstage the Son
of Man, only to find out, perhaps too late, that God is a tough act
to follow.
Willie eventually forgave the
bold young man and welcomed him back into the Temple. The two even
became fast friends, and found out they actually had much in common,
as so often happens in these kinds of situations. As it turned out
the young man was a Roman Catholic from Creekwood Green who at one
time contemplated becoming a priest. He also knew a great deal about
the Bible, and was able to talk at great length about that
particular religion which Willie actually knew very little of at the
time. What especially intrigued the pastor was that part of the
papal liturgy described to him as the Eucharist: what Catholics
consider to be nothing less than the body and blood of Jesus.
Naturally, this had always been a source of great debate among the
believers of all denominations, if not downright contention, and one
that continues even to this day. And Willie struggled with it for
many days. But the one thing that finally convinced him that it
was true was so simple that he was surprised so many missed it.
And it was this: It is the body and blood of Christ because Jesus
himself said it was, and in no uncertain terms. Needless-to-say, it
didn't take long for Willie to incorporate the Blessed Sacrament
into his own church services, with not a few raised eyebrows and
even more defections. But, as the young papist was quick to point
out at the time, 'Didn't Jesus get the same reaction by many of his
followers when he first instructed them to partake of the holy
flesh? 'It's in the Book!' he quoted: 'I tell you the truth, unless
you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no
life in you. Who are we to argue with the Son of Man?' He was right,
of course. And so in the end, and despite the Calvinists' claim, the
young man was exonerated... and the body and blood of our Lord became
a staple diet at the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit, along with the
loaves and fishes – and the ribs, of course.
Along with the generous
donations generated by the miracle ribs, Willie had other ways of
supporting his ministry, some more unorthodox than others. It is
still talked about, even until this day, of one such occasion when
the pious pastor of Avenue 'D' judiciously, and perhaps reluctantly
at first, employed the services of three local prostitutes to serve
his more immediate and urgent needs... that is to say, the needs of
his church. Not in the usual manner prescribed to that particular
profession, nor what the ladies were accustomed to; but to be
preformed just as prudently and professionally; with equal pay and
at the going rate, of course. You see, it was Willie's idea from the
start to employ the talents of these three young socialites in a
more practical – or should I say, more law-biding – way?
As it were, Willie had hired
these three working girls one slow and uneventful Tuesday when there
were no services being held. The job was to paint the interior walls
of the Temple which were badly in need of a fresh coat. In exchange
for their efforts, Willie offered the ladies of the night their
usual rate of fifty cents – a figured that hadn't changed much over
the years as evidenced by a certain raccoon on the run whose name
need not be mentioned here. Exactly how Willie came upon such
confidential information is another matter and perhaps best left
undisclosed. He even threw in a slab of his famous barbecued ribs,
just to '...sweeten and the deal'. It was honest wage for a an honest
day's work, something new and unique for the three late-night
harlots who were usually, given the nature of their business and the
hours kept by their clientele, still in bed at the time. If nothing
else, Willie hoped it would at least get them off the streets, for a
while anyway, and away from the crouching lion of Avenue 'D'. Who
knows? thought the resourceful preacher, it might even be the
beginning of a whole new career! and not just for the three new
painters. It was worth a try. And the old walls really did need a
new coat of white anyway. It was a new and innovative solution to an
age old problem; and pragmatic one, at that. And besides, thought
Willie, it just seemed like 'the right thing to do' at the time.
All in all, the women
preformed their jobs diligently, admirably, and with the utmost
respect for their immediate surroundings which they were all too
unfamiliar with, at least from the inside. The church never looked
so good; and neither did the ladies, covered as they were by the end
of the job, with so much white paint that they may very well have
been mistaken for the handsome angelic beings who'd found refuge in
Lott's hospitable home one night in Old Gomorrah. Only these angels
would be of the female gender; which, although we don't know for
sure, may've prevented the lustful Sodomites from committing the
sinful act in the first place, thus sparing not only the doomed
cities, but Lott's wife as well, who, as the story goes, was turned
into a pillar of salt for merely looking back at the sinful cities
since turned to ashes. In the end, Willie held up his end of the
bargain by sending all three away not only with four dollars and
fifty cents, the agreed upon amount to be split equally among them,
but also with a slab of barbecued pork ribs, a jar of his famous
sauce, along with his thanks and gratitude, and a sweaty handshake
that came back as pure and white as the walls inside the freshly
painted cathedral. He then waved all goodbye, wishing them and
welcoming them back the following Sunday when the sermon would be,
ironically enough, on how we are all washed clean and white as snow
by the blood of the Lamb; or any other time they were hungry for the
Word, and the ribs, of course; or whenever the church needed a new
coat of paint. Unfortunately, the youngest of the three siblings, a
self-indulgent recidivist by nature, spent all her allowance on so
much lipstick and rouge, which she liberally applied before
regressing back into sinful habit of solicitation, that the her two
older sisters could hardly recognize her by now. Indeed, she could
still be found on evenings such as these, when the moon waxed big
and bright, strolling up and down the avenue in her own provocative
and professional way, swaying from side to side, and trolling for
that one last bite. Needless-to-say, Willie was very disappointed;
and he prayed for her immortal soul many times over; as did the two
repentant sisters; one who ultimately joined a convent of Catholic
nuns; the other, the wife of a bean farmer up in Harley and a mother
of many. Were their prayers ever answered? Well, as the fisherman
sighs at the end of a broken line or an un-baited hook: 'the one
that got away....' But take heed and take heart! all ye brave young
mariners with broken poles and bent rods. For this is one serious
Fisherman who doesn't give up so easily; and neither does Willie. On
numerous occasions he'd tried to bring her back into the fold (it
was the least he could do for one of the many stray sheep in his
wayward flock) but nothing seemed to work – not even the miracle
ribs. But, as he would remind the two sisters whenever they happen
cross the reverend's righteous wake, 'Hope springs eternal!'
Just before the Reverend
Willie B. Wright commenced his sermon for the evening a thin little
girl in tightly braided hair came forward and rested her head on the
pastor's holy and expansive stomach. The Miracle-Maker smiled and
gently anointed the virgin temples with olive oil that he poured
from the small bottle sitting on the rostrum next to the King James
Bible. "Suffer the little children..." he prayed out loud as the
young girl's mother quickly came forward, snatching her child back
from the Gates of Heaven just before the Michael and his angelic
troops came down to sweep her away in their Chariots of Fire. It was
just a little too soon, or so feared the frightful woman inside the
Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D'. Heaven would
just have to wait a little longer; at last until her breasts
blossomed, imagined the suspicious young matron.
As mentioned before, the theme
of the sermon was 'JUDGE NOT LEAST YE BE JUDGED." It was all Willie
needed. On most occasions, one passage alone from the Holy Text was
usually enough to keep the preacher on a roll for hours; the length
and longevity of his oratories not be being restricted to any
prescribed time limit. Willie kept no notes; he didn't have to.
Everything he had to say was rehearsed a thousand times before,
albeit in front of different audiences and at various churches and
temples throughout Old Port Fierce and beyond. He may have said it a
little differently at times; but the message was always the same. In
younger days and more agile days, during the early years of his
ministry, Willie would travel from town to town, peddling his own
brand of Salvation, along with his famous ribs and special barbecue
sauce, from the back of a wagon like some carnival snake-oil
salesman. But this was no snake oil! And it certainly wasn't not for
sale; although, donations were gladly accepted and put to the same
practical use as always. And the Miracle-Maker of Avenue 'D' was
welcomed almost everywhere he went. And if when he wasn't, which
was actually quite rare, as well as to be expected in this sinful
and fallen world of ours, the gregarious preacher would simply pack
up his wagon, tighten his belt and move on, while shaking the dust
from his boots as prescribed by the master salesman Himself. But
that was all in the past. Willie was getting old and, well, you
know... times change, not always for the better; and so do people
for that matter, even the reverend Willie B Wright. But the message,
just like the ribs and special barbecue, never changed.
JUDGE NOT LEAST YE BE JUDGED
It was a simple message. There
were no disclaimers, no qualifiers, no ambiguities, and certainly no
apologies about it. There were no exceptions, either; the message
was all inclusive, universally applied, not unlike the sacred words
inscribed in stone on the twin by the finger of God Himself. And
that's the truth. And it must always be remembered that, as the
author of all truth, God never writes for one particular age or
generation; nor does he address any one particular race or religion,
despite what the Sadducees might say regarding the royal priesthood.
No! When God takes up his mighty pen, the instrument he yields like
some ancient sword in the hands of a conquering king, the quill of
which would span a thousand suns, and oceans for an inkwell, He
writes for all: past, present, and those yet to come. His message is
eternal. It lasts forever, and beyond time and space. It is
boundless, not unlike his own infinite being, and knows no death.
When God speaks, He speaks to everyone, from Adam to the last man
yet unborn but still very much alive in the mind of God who knits
him in the womb though he die in childbirth, along with his fated
mother. Who can comprehend such unspeakable truths or penetrate the
limitless mind of God? And how else can God communicate such
immortal truths to mere mortal man in any of his many evolutionary
transmutations? Could it be that Creation, as defined and described
in the book Genesis, is God's way of explaining to the finite mind
such complexities and incomprehensible truths as origin of man, and
in such simple and comprehensible terms that even modern man can
understand and appreciate? Perhaps evolution is merely God's way of
creating; and the two may not be as mutually exclusive as some would
have it. In fact, one may actually validate the other; but only up
to a point, I suppose. Sooner or later the ape realized that he is
no longer an ape, stands up, and strikes out at any other ape or man
that might think otherwise. Or to put it in another perspective: how
do you justify the taking of another man's life to someone who
doesn't, or simply cannot, comprehend the difference between killing
and murder, any more than he understands the difference between war
and peace, or love and hate? Simple! By telling it to him the
unvarnished truth in a language he can, and does, understand, even
if it means condescending to his own superstitious beliefs and
primitive cultures; in much the same way the Son of Man once did by
taking on human form and flesh, however degrading, humiliating and
discomforting it may've been, and becoming one of us. Perhaps there
was just no way. Whether through Evolution or Creation, God creates,
in his own way, and in his own good time. You be the Judge. But
beware....
JUDGE NOT LEAST YE BE JUDGED
It's a drama that's been
around as long as man. It's all inclusive! And in the end, if they
know what's good for them, every knee will bend and every head will
bow in His Holy presence. His scroll stretches from the east of Eden
to the moons of Jupiter and beyond, to galaxies so far away they
will never be named. The ocean is His inkwell; His charts span the
Universe; His message is eternal; it supersedes time and space. It
is self-perpetuating. It cannot be measured. It defies computation.
It is the Truth. It is God. And look! The author places Himself
right in the middle of His own passion play. He's the star! The
hero! The main attraction! with all Mankind for an audience. But man
is constantly changing, which is precisely why God's Word cannot. It
must not! As in all great truths, whether they are chiseled in
stone, carved in wood, written on paper or nailed to the cross,
discernment should be cautiously applied here. Interpretation can be
a dangerous thing, and not to be taken lightly; it is usually best
left in the hands of the professionals. As any cleric will tell you,
if he knows anything at all about Scripture: 'discretion and
discrimination are useful tools when disseminating the word of God'.
And that applies to the Bible, the Koran, or any one of His many
bestsellers, some of which have yet to be written, and no matter how
many copies are sold.
JUDGE NOT LEAST YE BE JUDGED
But wait! The command
is not merely to 'Judge not! It is to 'Judge not, least we ourselves
be judged. And in that sense, it's really not a command at all. It's
a challenge! And it's nothing new, either. Didn't the prophets of
old hear the same challenge, and answer it as well? Unlike the
latter day saints, whatever we make of them and wherever those brave
souls now dwell, the prophets didn't ask for judgment – they
demanded it! And they received it, not unlike the martyred saints
who were murdered for it. And just like Brother Job who, despite his
wicked and ignorant counselors, was wise and humble enough to
finally accept it by repenting in sackcloth and ashes, so too would
they receive theirs. Judgment! It's something worth dying for. Homer
did... and so did Red-Beard. The only difference is this: one asked
for it; the other didn't. It's not the righteous who should fear
Judgment. On the contrary, they welcome it! It is the wicked man who
runs and hides at every accusation, true or false, and shutters in
the face of Truth and Justice. He dies a thousand deaths at the drop
of a gavel. He doesn't want Judgment. No! He wants acquittal. And
sometimes he gets it; or at least he thinks he does. But that's just
the way it has to be when dealing with things of faith. If God were
as evident as we would all like Him to be, all the time, we would
not love him; we would merely worship Him; out of fear, I suppose.
Either that or we would crucify Him.
JUDGE NOT LEAST YE BE JUDGED
But man must judge. Man will
judge. And man will be judged. It's the ultimate paradox, perhaps;
what separates us from the animals and the elements. But wait! Man
is mortal. He is finite, fallible, and therefore his judgment is
limited to corporeal things, and subsequently flawed. He cannot
grasp infinity, any more than he can grasp his own identity. It is
beyond his limited understanding to comprehend such truths. But
God's judgment is immortal, eternal and infinite, which means that
His judgment is final, ultimate, and therefore supersedes all
others. A man would be an idiot not to judge his friends wisely, and
ten times a fool and a jackass not to judge his enemies even more
so. Judge not least ye be judged? Well, consider the source. And if
the lips that first uttered those awesome words were not indeed of
Divine origin and substance, then they were surely the lips of a
madman, the devil incarnate, or perhaps something even worse. You
can't have it both ways. So judge that...! if you can.
Chapter Eleven
The Miracle-Maker
HE BEGAN SLOWLY, casually and comfortably, deliberately pausing for
each and every "ALLELUHIA!" and the obligatory "AMEN" that seemed to
follow each and every sentence that flowed from the anointed lips of
the Reverend Willie B. Wright. The sudden shouts of affirmation
seemed to come from out of nowhere, or so it seemed, and always at
the precise moment when they were most needed and appreciated, as if
to keep Willie's wheels in perpetual motion by continuously greasing
the axel with unctuousness and oil.
It was a matter of spiritual
protocol, an audible show of hands, the congregational way of
collectively priming the pump, so-to-speak, for what was sure to
follow. Fat for the fire! It was just the way things were done at
the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D', the way they've
always been done. The pastor knew, of course, that the accolades
were never meant for him; not that he didn't deserve them now and
then, and not that he didn't appreciate it; they simply weren't his.
The acclamations were actually for a much higher authority: the
power that drives all engines; the source of all energies; and the
God of all gods. Willie was merely a mouthpiece, one of thousands in
the celestial symphony of life who just happened to be in the right
place at the right time, and for the right reason. He knew that by
now.
In his leaner and more
athletic years, Willie would sometimes amaze his audience with feats
of acrobatic strength and pyrotechnical skills never before
attempted in the arenas of more traditional churches in and around
Shadytown and Old Port Fierce. These feats included, but were
certainly not limited to, such theatrical exhibitions as exiting the
stage in a vaporous cloud of smoke that was actually accomplished by
use of a secret trap-door concealed within the wooden floorboards of
the church; doing cartwheels and summersaults across the floor,
which at one time Willie was able to execute with a full three
hundred and sixty degree back-flip from a standing position, usually
as a grand finale to one of his more gesticulated oratories; or, the
handling live rattlesnakes that he somehow managed to transform into
innocent white doves before a captive, spell-bound, and sometimes
frightened audience. Some called it magic – an act; while others
claimed it to be nothing short of a miracle. But to Willie it was
all part of the service: food for the faithful! Call it what you
will; but whatever it was – it worked! Well, most of the time
anyway. But that was all in the past. Willie had grown since than,
spiritually, physically, and perhaps even intellectually. Like any
showman, Willie only gave them what they wanted; what came for;
their money's worth, so-to-speak, which was more than can be said
for some other preachers at the time, along with ministering the
Gospel. And he didn't charge admission! Besides, he'd once thought
it was expected of him; after all, he was the Miracle-Maker.
And miracles come in many ways, many disguises; some more
recognizable than others, and sometimes from the most unlikely
sources. So what else would you expect him to do? What else could
he do? They asked for a miracle...and that's what he gave them. No one
ever complained; and they always came back for more. But even
miracle-makers need a rest now and then. They grow old, and tired,
just like Willie. Not that he didn't perform them anymore –
miracles, that is. He did! Only lately, they were on a smaller
scale, few and far in-between, and without the accompanying
theatrics as previously described.
There came a time in Willie's
ministry when he wished there were no need for miracles, and that he
wouldn't have to perform them at all. It was a burdensome business,
a young man's game; and somehow... well, he always thought they were
over-rated, and really weren't necessary. Not for those who have
real faith, he liked to think, – the kind of faith that can move
mountains and walk on water. And Jesus would be the first to agree.
Just look at how reluctant he was at the wedding feast of Canaan,
where he performed his very first miracle of turning water into
wine, which he did chiefly to please his mother and officially
kick-off his ministry. And how many of those cured, including a man
full of leprosy and a girl thought to be dead, did he give specific
instructions to: 'Tell no one... but go and show yourself to the
priest, and make an offering for your cleansing, just as Moses
commanded, for a testimony to them'? Obviously, he had more
important, and greater, things on his mind at the time – like the
forgiveness of sins. He said so himself! And when the paraplegic
was brought before Jesus, he was asked: "Which is easier: to say,
'your sins are forgiven,' or to say, 'Get up and walk'?" Wow! What
kind of joke was that? Naturally, the man was there for a miracle...
not a debate! Never-the-less, he was healed. Not only for his own
sake, but the sake of God Himself. 'But so that you may know that
the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins...' Then he said
to the paralytic, 'Get up, take your mat and go home.' And again
when the woman of Canaan came out and cried unto him, saying, 'Have
mercy on me, O Lord, thou son of David; my daughter is grievously
vexed with a devil', did not Jesus at first refuse her petition by
answering, ' It is not meet to take the children's bread, and to
cast it to dogs'? To which the woman audaciously responded: 'Truth,
Lord. Yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters'
table. Then Jesus answered and said unto her, 'O woman, great is thy
faith. Be it unto thee even as thou wilt. And her daughter was made
whole from that very hour by her very persistence on the matter.
Likewise, didn't Jesus also refused, at first, to come to Martha and
Mary's house while their sick brother was still alive, instead
waiting two whole days before finally acquiescing and raising poor
Lazarus from the grave? Can God actually be coaxed? Or cajoled?
Seems that way. It reminds us of when Abraham bantered with God over
exactly how many righteous people were needed in order to spare
Sodom from his Holy Wrath – Fifty? Forty? Thirty? Twenty? Ten? –
Five? Five! righteous people? Hey! There's no harm in asking. Is
there? Well, apparently not. And to drive home the point, as far as
miracles were concerned, he also said "Verily, verily, I say unto
you, he that believeth on me, the works that I do shall he do also;
and greater works than these shall he do; because I go unto
my Father.' Needless-to-say, he was also talking about the power to
forgive sins, which he likewise bestowed upon the disciples that
blessed day, as well as all the other fisherman to follow in the
Saint Peter's faltering footsteps. Perhaps the only miracles we
really need are the ones we never ask for, or at least the ones we
never see. And maybe... just maybe, the only miracle we should be
concerned about is the one mentioned in the two most important
prayers documented in the Bible: One at the Mount of Olives where
Jesus Himself prays '... Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth
as it is in Heaven'; and the other in the Garden in Gethsemane when,
with blood sweating from his brow, he fervently petitions God '...if
it is possible, let this cup pass from me; but never-the-less, not
my will, but Thine be done.' Could it be more obvious? Could God
have made it any clearer just what we should pray for, and what
miracles we should expect from Him? It comes down to four simple
words: 'Thy will be done'. It's the only miracle that matters, and,
when you get right down to it, the greatest miracle of all. No
wonder, the Miracle-Maker often imagined, Jesus was so sad and
bewildered whenever they asked him for one. As if God's grace and
his Divine presence wasn't enough – more than enough! – to satisfy
every need and desire. Maybe they were only looking for proof, just
like the rest of us. Oh well, there will always be doubting Thomas',
I suppose; and Perters, Pauls and Marys. And we will always have our
critics; Willie was no exception.
There was once an inquisitive
Protestant minister who, owing to the suspicions of that particular
faith and having witnessed not a few of Willie's 'miracles' on
occasion, labeled such performances, and in no uncertain terms, as
'... a distraction at best, and blasphemy at worst'. In other words,
he was calling Willie a fraud, a fake, and a liar all in the same
baited breath. He was wrong, of course; and on all three counts. He
even went so far as to call it evil, magic, and maybe even the work
of the devil! Actually, it was none of these things. But was it
real? 'Well...' as Willie himself would say in the words of the
Evangelist: "You be the judge'. It's all part of the show, he may as
well have added at one time in his young entertaining life. But
that's another story all together, for a different time and a
different place. Perhaps Willie will tell you all about it someday.
But right now he had a church to run; and the service was about to
begin.
At first his tone was soft,
alluring, moderately paced, like that of a grandfather saying grace
at the head of the table just before the Thanksgiving supper. He was
the shepherd and they were his sheep. That's how he spoke to them;
collectively, for the time being at least, and in a calm, clear, and
confident voice, as any good shepherd would. He always began on an
optimistic note. It was his way of reassuring his flock that... well,
yes, in fact, the grass is greener on the other side of the
hill; and that perhaps one day they would all arrive there together
and 'graze', as he would say, 'on the good green grass of the Lord'.
It was a place, Willie insisted, where there would be no more
sorrow, no more fear, and certainly no more hell-hounds and
crouching lions; a place where they would live forever, in peace,
and 'in the Color of the Lord.' And he meant every word of it,
although the thought of ever giving up his beloved Miracle Temple
and Barbecue Pit, even for the eternal bliss of Paradise, made him
feel sad, and perhaps a little apprehensive. Naturally, Willie knew
there would be some – although he was never sure exactly how many –
who would be left behind at the time of the apocalyptic event, when
he and his faithful flock would, in the blink of an eye so that the
Evangelist, be raptured up into to those heavenly green pastures
But he also knew that there was little, if nothing, he could do
about it; except, of course, pray; which he did on almost a daily
basis, hoping that it would be enough. And hope, as the Evangelist
also tells us (if he's an honest one) springs eternal! Even in a
place like Shadytown.
Gradually, and with each
rhythmical beat of the drum, the shepherd's voice grew louder,
clearer and stronger until it resonated like a finely tuned
instrument: some vintage violin that had miraculously sprang back to
life in the loving and capable hands of the Maestro. And what a fine
old fiddle it be! As big as a house and with such a dynamic range.
It had an old tin roof for a diaphragm, with the structure itself
serving as the sound board, each grain of wood vibrating in perfect
tune and in perfect time, along with so many rusty nails that had
held the moldy walls together for over fifty years. It was a work of
art, in all humble aspects; an acoustical wonder with pulpit and
pews; a labor of love and, as demon sated above, a work in progress,
as all labors of love are in their eternal evolutions; it certainly
wasn't the easiest instrument to play, as any musician can, and
will, tell you. The strings were tight, and finely tuned; and Willie
was the bow that struck them. The Bible, of course, was the bridge,
without which there would be no sound at all, and thus no music. And
the sound heard at the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D'
was music to the ears, permeating the pews and filling the hall with
a joyous symphony of sounds that is sometimes described as
'Jubilation music' by those who know it best. "Can you hears it,
chil'runs?" asked the maestro, holding a finger to his ear like a
bow to violin. "Can you hears it?"
"Amen!" the faithful responded
accordingly.
"Amen, then" the Miracle-Maker
acknowledged in return, even though it was never really necessary to
do so.
As observed one day by a
passing Anglican from across the sea, the words of Willie B. Wright
'...pierced like swords and burned like cold iron'. Apparently, this
apologetic fellow, being unaccustomed to such verbal outbursts of
Faith in his own Protestant church, felt moved enough to comment on
the affair in one of his many outstanding books. 'Strong
medicine...' a traveling physician once opined upon undergoing a
similar experience. "But does the patient always survive?" the good
doctor enquired, half-jokingly, before making his leave the
following day unable to diagnose the strange phenomenon which not
only seemed to have infected the entire congregation by then, but
himself included. There was a healing quality in the words of the
pastor. Indeed, they were, in the words of the Anglican
'infectious!' And there was no cure.
It is a good and wise
pharmacist who adds a little sugar to his penicillin now and then,
and not just for the placebo effect. And nowhere was this more
applicable than in Willie B. Wright's Miracle Temple and Barbecue
Pit. With sympathy and understanding of the many deep and un-healed
wounds inflicted on his flock over the years by the crouching lion
of the night, the Shepherd spoke kindly to his sheep, gently. He was
never condescending, nor did he patronize them with words too heavy
to handle, or too forceful to endure, unless, of course, it was
indispensable to do so. And when chastisement was necessary, which
wasn't nearly as often as one might expect under the circumstances,
Willie did it with a velvet staff and a tongue as soft as lamb's
skin. The shepherd knew his sheep and they knew him. But beware! For
this shepherd has shears; and they're as sharp enough to make even
the whitest fleece fly for cover. No one was safe, not even his own
deacons; and no one was ever quite sure who would be next, not even
Willie himself. But sooner or later, all would have to face barber
and blade.
Judge not least ye be
judged.The words on the banner stung like a wasp. They cut deep,
and went straight for the jugular. They were as whiskey poured over
an open wound, with that same disinfecting quality. Sometimes they
acted as an anesthetic, like ether or morphine; other time, they
just plain hurt, because... well, because they were suppose to hurt,
like any good medicine. That's how it works. It was the cure that
kills. "And it boins... don't it?" admonished the shepherd to the
groans and grimaces of many in the church just then. "And fo' some..."
he pointed out from the pulpit just then in a voice tainted with a
slight southern drawl, "the woist is yet to come!" He was talking
about the terrible Day of Judgment, of course, when the Temple
high-priest would examine each and every fleece in the flock for the
slightest blemish, including his own, prior to being put to the
eternal flame.
Willie was not a priest; nor
did he pretend to be. He didn't necessarily consider himself a
Pastor, either; or even a 'holy man' for that matter, despite what
the sign said outside the mahogany door. Only lately had he learned
to pray properly. It takes time and practice, he would instruct his
flock; for some, it takes a lifetime. Willie had his vices (Who
among us don't?) as well as a past. They came with a price, the
amount of which was no doubt in the process of being tallied up at
that very moment, he sometimes imagined, by some heavenly accountant
with a long memory and a very sharp pencil. The shepherd needed
salvation as much as any of his sheep; perhaps even more so, he
often wondered, recalling to mind his own transgressions that
haunted him still from time to time, like ghosts from the grave who
simply refused to die, despite his many blessings. From those who
are given, much will be asked, so says the Judge; and even more will
be expected,' reminds the jury.
"Judgment ain't just for the
sheeps and the goats..." the Miracle-maker proclaimed out loud for the
sake of those who might think otherwise, "but fo' the shepherds
too!" And Willie had a few specific shepherds in mind when he said
it.
God is the judge of the
righteous as well as the wicked. It's a simple and sometimes
paradoxical fact that: It is precisely those who need Salvation the
most who seek it the least; and those that seek it the most who need
it the least. Salvation! We all need, and in equal measure; some
just more than others. And like the Miracle-Maker said: "Sometimes
it boins!" And on that painful and unavoidable note, Salvation might
be compared to marriage and circumcision in that: It may not be for
everyone, and you may not necessarily like it at first; but, as we
all know, at least those us who'd surcome to the wife and the knife,
and would certainly agree: – the sooner you get it over with, the
better.
"But you gots to be real
careful, chil'runs" Willie went on to explain, casting a long wary
glance over the sea of black faces before him, "Ya'll hoid 'bout how
the ol' wolf who come dressed up in sheep's clothing – Ain't ya?
"Amen," many in the temple
sheepishly agreed to that.
"Well, it's true, brudders and
sisters!" insisted Willie, meaning brothers and sisters, of course.
"So be careful now...'cause sometimes just you don't know who that ol'
wolf might be. Might even be yo' own neighbor. Could even be someone
you least suspect. Maybe yo' own husband...or wife. Amen?"
At that point many in the pews
simply looked at one another with long black faces, trying to figure
out precisely which one (or perhaps there were more than one) the
miracle-maker was alluding to at the moment.
"I said, Amen!" Willie
reiterated following the ensuing silence.
It was almost as if they were
searching.... for something: a tooth, a claw, or maybe even arrowhead
tail wrapped up in someone's trousers – anything! that might justify
their deepest fears and darkest suspicions that there just might
possible be a devil among them... right there in the Miracle Temple,
no less. In fact, one woman who appeared to be getting on in years
actually went so far as to examine the mouth of an elderly
gentleman, presumably her husband, sitting next to her at the time,
searching, it would seem, for the fatal fang she'd once seen in a
Guttenberg Bible depicting the devilish dentures in all their
satanic saliva. She never found one, of course, simply because...
well, simply because the old Negro had lost all of his teeth over
forty years ago, and they simply weren't there anymore. "Ain't no
debil in der, ol' woman..." he mumbled out loud as the old banshee
checked her husband's trousers as well for Lucifer's bright red
tail, which she thought she'd caught a glimpse of one sultry evening
when the old man was taking his bath.
Seeing all this made Willie
laugh; although he tried his best not suppress it, even though many
others in the Temple did not. Apparently, this was a familiar scene,
rehearsed many times before between husband and wife; and one that
always need with the same apologetic outcome: 'Ain't no debil in der,
ol' woman...' Still, she was never satisfied, and wondered even until
this day.
She, like so many others in
the Miracle Temple, were the ones Willie was actually taking about,
as if they didn't know; the ones he was always wary of and could
pick out in any crowd. Naturally, they were to be found occupying
the front row of the pews, not unlike the Pharisees and Sadducees of
old who Jesus warned his disciples about. They were the
self-righteous hypocrites of the flock, the back-biters and gossip
mongers, the ones that were always on the look-out for... well,
whatever it is back-biters and gossip mongers are always on the
look-out for, and never seem to find; unless, of course, it is so
up-close and personal that they never see it in the first place;
like the parabled 'splinter' in their own eyes', which they are
never aware of, as oppose to the two by four timbers they never fail
to find, somehow, in everyone else's eyes, along with demon teeth
and devil tails, and other such manifestations. Willie knew them
well, these pious purveyors of hate, these pedantic peddlers of
pride, these sanctimonious sinners; in fact, he counted himself
among them at one time, which is precisely why he had so much pity
and prayer for them, considering himself the biggest sinner of them
all, and speaking of it openly and honestly, in the same manner,
perhaps, that Luther, another honest hypocrite, once boasted on his
own sinful behalf: 'Be a sinner and sin boldly! Let your sins be
strong! Sin bravely! Or as the apostle Paul, when, in regard to his
own personal trials including, among other persecutions and
privations, being shipwrecked at sea, beaten (multiple times) with
whips and rods, stoned, drowned, going without food, water or
clothing, boasted in his own defense; not to mention that mysterious
'thorn in the flesh' he spoke so enigmatically and eloquently about.
And what exactly was that thorn? some may still ask. Well, don't!
Forget it. Paul did, and so should you. God's grace is sufficient.
But remember this, all you prayerful petitioners who painfully
ponder such mysteries and how they work to God's holy purpose,
particularly you spouses who are anchored in the holy sacrament of
matrimony, and mark it well, I say: Paul had a wife...or so we are
told. And so did Willie, at one time in a more domesticated setting.
But that was long ago, and before he was saved. It happened at a
time in his young and tempestuous life when his the tooth ached and
he was still digging for gold like another young deputy we all we
all know and love so well. "Amen?" confessed the prodigal priest
who's teeth, just like old man Skinner's, still ached a little now
and then; even the ones that weren't there any more – especially
those!
"But then again, brudders and
sisters..." reminded the sainted old sinner, as he so often did
whenever he felt the need, or desire, to do so: "we's all sinners...
just dirty ol' rags; and we all falls short of the glory and
goodness of God. Amen ?" he repeated one last time for the sake of
those who knew him better, and knew exactly what Willie was talking
about. It sounded almost like... like an act of contrition.
"ALLELUHIA!" absolved the
flock in one collective chorus.
"Now look'ye here," Willie
continued, taking another tack on an old familiar subject, "Ol'
brudder Job knew he was an innocent man. Amen? And that's why he
calls on God for judgment. He thinks God be testin' him; and in a
way, he might be right about that. But what Job don't know was that
it was really be the devil who be doin' the testin'. God only
allowed him to do it, you know. But listen up, chil'runs!" Willie
remonstrated, "The devil was not only testin' brudder Job. No sir!
Not by a long shot. He be testing the Lord, too." He then paused,
allowing the sheep to graze a little on his words. "And that ain't
right. Amen?"
"Watch out for that ol'
devil!" cried a man from 'Mens' room who, despite his personal
inconveniences, was listening intently and just had to speak his
mind. "Watch out now!"
"Amen brudder!" Willie shouted
right back at the indisposed individual. "But that ain't all. You
see, chil'runs," he continued in earnest, "Brudder Job ain't no
better than the devil himself at that point. He's playin' with fire.
Wants to know what went wrong...why the thing that scares him the most
finally comes upon him. Wants to know why God be punishin' him so.
It just ain't right, Job thinks to himself. And so, he turns to his
three friends fo' help; as we all do sometimes. Amen? Thinks they
might have the answer. Wants them to 'splain things to him, like
maybe they know sumpin' he don't. And so they do. But they's no
better than that ol' devil. They only tells Job want they thinks he
wants to hear, and not what he 'spose to hear. They call him a
sinner, a blasphemer! Say God be punishin' him for something he done
wrong. And they may be right about that, too; 'cause we all do wrong
sometimes. Amen?"
Only a few of the sheep
responded this time, shamefully lowering their heads and realizing,
perhaps, that the shepherd may very well be speaking directly to
them, and knows something they might not like to hear; or worse yet,
something they would not want any of the other sheep to hear.
"Amen..." they collectively bleated
"But remember, Chil'runs,"
warned Willie, with a twinkle in his eye that only served to
reinforce the admonishment, "there's a little bit of truth in all
lies. You see, it was really that ol' devil that be doin' the
talkin'. Job's friends... well, they was just being 'ig'nat, I
'spose; tho' I don't 'spect they knows it at the time. Say theys
only tryin' to help, the way some folks likes to do. Wants to put
all the blame on po' Job. Say he only gots what he deserves, and
some such foolishness. And ol' Job... well, he almost believes them!
But not quite. Not yet! You see, he don't quite see it that way; and
besides, he still needs proof. Has to hear it from God Himself. Yes,
sir! And so he picks himself up from the dirt, a beaten and broken
man by now, covered in all them nasty boils... and so many scabs he
gots to scrap them off with the broken edge of an ol' cider jug.
Scared from head to toe! All bone and no meat! Likes a walkin'
skel'ton! Can't nobody recognize him no mo'! Not even his po' ol'
blaspha'mous wife. And what does brudder Job do then? Well, he does
what he has to do. What any righteous man will do in those same
circumstances. He cries out to Almighty God! Calls on Jehovah-Gyra....
to do some 'splainin', you see. Now, ol' Job's so sick and pitiful
by now he can hardly stands up no mo'. But he still gots some fight
left in him – Amen?"
"Just like Ol' Red here!"
shouted a young man with a rooster he was seldom seen without
cradled in his well-tailored arms. It was colorful cock:
high-spirited, with a thick red plumage and matching tail-feathers;
an ornery old bird, bred for the ring, that never lost a match.
"Now that cock can fight!"
Willie acknowledged, although he would later wish he hadn't said it,
knowing that gambling was one of those vices in Shadytown that
certainly didn't need any encouragement. "Just just ol' Job" he
quickly added, and letting it go at that. "But brudder Job ain't
finished yet. No sir! Wants him some answers. He has to know! Gots
to hear it from God His-self. Amen? And what's that he wants?"
"Justice!" shouted a masculine
voice from somewhere within the wooden sanctuary.
"He want mo' than that!"
Willie insisted from the head of the church.
"Mercy!" cried several women
at once, appealing perhaps to a more benevolent power.
"Revenge? thought many more
out loud, not knowing where the shepherd was leading them at the
moment, nor from whom Job was seeking revenge, if anyone
Willie simply smiled. "Surly
justice and mercy will follow us all the days of our lives," he
quoted from the Psalms. "And revenge.... well, that belongs to the
Lord. Amen?
"Amen!" they all agreed in
unison, both male and female.
"You see, brudders and
sisters," continued the Miracle-maker in a more instructive and
authoritative tone, "what Job really be wantin' is Judgment. He
cries out for it. Judgment! He needs it! Why? 'Cause he can't lives
without it! That's what it's all about, chil'runs. Judgment! Amen?
You see, brudder Job don't runs away from it. Don't hides from it,
either. He wants justice! And he demands no less... just like them ol'
prophets do. It's in the Book! 'Judge me, oh God, and plead my
cause!' he cries out from the pit. And so do brudder Job. Now,
lookye here, chil'runs. Everything he has is gone, including his own
belov'd chil'runs. Done lost everything! Well, almost everything...
You see, he still has one thing left. It's the one thing he just
won't let go of. And I think ya'll know what that is - Amen?"
"I do..." whispered the white
minstrel in the Temple from behind his six-string Gibson, just loud
enough to be heard.
The Miracle-Maker acknowledged
the young man's confession by confronting it head on. "Pride!" he
loudly responded, pounding his fist into the pulpit, as if
addressing some formidable foe he'd grappled with over the years,
the cunning and cleverness of which he was only now beginning to
appreciate. "And it don't matter where it come from. Amen?
"Pride goeth before the fall..."
quoted the lone white dove just audible enough to be heard over a
sudden silence that had just then enveloped the temple like a death
shroud.
"Just like that ol' debil!"
reminded the toothless saint in the front row, as his suspicious
wife looked at him sideways.
"Like lightnin' from the sky!"
thundered Willie. He was referring, of course, to the famous passage
in the Holy Text where Jesus described Satan's eternal fall from
grace in all its electrifying wonder. "Now listen up chil'runs," he
continued without missing a beat. "By this time ol' Job ain't no
different than the devil his-self. And he finally gets his wish.
Amen?"
"Preach it, Reverend! Preach it!"
"And now what do you think that is?"
"Tell us, Preacher! Tell us!"
"Well, I'll tell you then."
"Go on now. Preach it!"
Willie looked out over the
congregation, past the pews, through the mahogany door, out into the
streets of Shadytown and beyond Old Port Fierce, as if peering into
all-seeing and inescapable eye of, of... "He sees the face of God!"
extolled the Miracle-Maker, his famous face shinning like the moon
itself in all its joy and rapture.
Then, as if on cue, the
choir of angels erupted in a thunderous chorus of spontaneous
jubilation, rising like a great purple tidal-wave from out of sea,
accompanied, of course by the celestial orchestra:
In the house of the Lord, I'm a'prayin'!
In the light of the Lord, I see!
In the fields of the Lord, I'm a'singin!
In the color of the Lord, I'll be!"
When the purple tsunami
finally abated, dying down into a gentle rolling of the waves, the
Miracle-Maker continued on his previous discourse. "And now,
chil'runs, it's really time for some splainin'," he spoke to the
continuous drone of the organ. "Time fo' some serious to talk. But
it ain't Job who be doin' the talkin'. No, brudders and sisters! You
see, God be doin' the talkin' now! The lord Jehovah his-self! The
great 'I am! Amen!
"AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!
ALLELUIA"
"And when God be doin' the
talkin'..." reminded the preacher, as if ever he had to, "everyone be
listenin''! Amen?"
"AMEN!!! We's listenin',
reverend! We's all listenin' now!"
"Gird your loins then..."
admonished Willie, howling out the holy words as if he owned them,
"and brace yo'self like a fighter!"
And with that, every seat
was left vacant as the entire congregation collectively rose to its
feet, stomping and shouting, some waving their fists in the air like
a prize fighter on his way to the ring, and certain victory.
"I gots to say you do look
brave, chil'runs," Willie observed in a proud moment of hope and
admiration for his little flock of sheep. "You do look brave."
"We's a'girdin', preacher!
We's a'girdin'!
And then, with all the authority
invested in him, Willie B. Wright put forth those very same
powerful, probing, and (as many have observed over the many
centuries since the book of Job was penned) paradoxical questions to
his congregation that once befell the poor old Patriarch himself.
"Where were you when..." and here Willie went through the entire
litany of Old Testament verses in which God, from out of the
whirlwind, demonstrates not only his omnipotence, but his
omnipresence and omniscience as well; and with so much truth and
beauty that Willie is almost lost for words. And the truth, as God
himself so eloquently puts it in his own rhetorical style, which is
somewhat humorous at times in a paradoxical sort of way, is actually
quite compelling: Where wast thou
when I laid the foundations of the earth? Declare, if thou hast
understanding. What color is the rain?
Of course, there were no
answer; other than the answer of Job, of course.
"Now I thinks ya'll know the
rest of the story. But just in case you don't," added Willie,
beginning to perspire a little in the heat of the moment as
evidenced by two noticeable dark stains forming under the armpits of
his gray suit that looked like two wet saddle-bags by then, "let me
just say this: Brudder Job done got what he ax'ed for. Amen?"
"He sho' 'nough did!" cried
the pregnant woman sitting in the third row, her belly ready to
burst open at any moment.
Every sheep in the Temple knew
exactly what Willie was talking about, and agreed with a solemn and
resounding: AMEN!!! They knew, not only because they'd heard it all
before, but also because they were asking for the exact same thing
at the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit – Judgment! And maybe a
miracle or two thrown in, if it wasn't asking too much.
Yep! That's what they came
for. That's why they were there... well, most of them anyway –
Judgment! They wanted to be judged. They needed to be judged. They
begged for it. They bleated and bled for it, just like the prophets
of old. "And so shall ye be judged," proclaimed the Miracle-Maker.
But, as the sign over his heard clearly stated, he would not be the
one to judge. That was God's job; and His alone. Willie knew that by
now, and so did his sheep. Unfortunately, there were still a few
lost souls in the Temple who simply didn't know that yet, and
weren't quite ready for Judgment; not to mention a blue-eyed raccoon
standing in the back of the church with a bowie knife stuffed in his
overalls who still had some unfinished business to attend to. Willie
had picked Elmo out of the crowd the moment he walked through the
mahogany door of Temple. It was an easy thing to do. As easy as... as
'falling off a log," he imagined at the time.
Their eyes met for only a
second or two. But that was enough; and they both knew why he came.
It was just another lost sheep sighed the shepherd, as if he'd been
expecting it all along, no different than any of the others. Perhaps
they just needed a little more time, thought Willie as he wiped the
sweat from his leaking forehead. He knew, of course, that Salvation
doesn't always come with the grace of God; often it comes with the
crack of a whip; or at the end of a rope; sometimes it doesn't come
at all. It may even require a miracle now and then. And it's not
always that easy. As they say: it's the vicissitudes of life that
build strength and character, and a little suffering along the way
never hurt. And that's why a good shepherd always carries with him a
stiff staff, or, as those Celtic highlanders would prefer: a
shaleighlee, to knock a little sense into their bleating heads now
and then. Sheep aren't the most intelligent animals, you know. Just
ask any wolf.
"Ol' brudder Job only got what
he deserved," rejoined the Miracle-Maker who was known to knock a
few heads of his own from time to time, "He done got his-self
judged." And here Willie paused; not for effect, but rather to wipe
his forehead with a small white handkerchief he magically produced
from the breast pocket of his coat. He continued, "You see, brudders
and sisters, only God can do that. Amen?"
"Got that right, preacher!"
cried a woman from the front row who was working her angel-wings in
the holy heat of the Lord, as though her very life depended on it.
"Think of it, chil'runs,"
Willie insisted, dragging a sweat-soaked handkerchief across his
leaky brow. "Think and pray! Only God be the Judge. Only he have
the right to do that! Ain't nobody's business but the Lord's. Ain't
no way. Ain't no how! There can only be but one Judge. And don't
ever let no one tell you any different, brudders and sisters. And
that be the God's honest truth! Can I gets a witness? " he further
implored, echoing the words on the black and white banner hanging
over the altar at the head of the church as he'd done a thousand
times before: "Judge not least ye be judged!" The words could be
heard all the way to the back of the Temple, and stayed there long
after the service was over
Many of the sheep sprang to
their feet. "AMEN!!!" they cried out in unison and agreement.
"ALLELUIAH!!!"
"And that ain't right!"
"Preach it!"
"Now listen up, chil'runs... "
"Here it come! Here it come!"
"When we judge others..."
cautioned the shepherd, stepping aside from the podium so that is
whole broad body could be seen in all its perspiring glory, "...we
only be judgin' ourselves. Amen?"
"I heard that!"
Another swipe of the forehead.
"Well?"
"Preach it!" begged the lost
sheep in one sincere and unifying bleat.
"Tell the truth!"
And that's exactly what Willie
was about to do. "You see, brudders and sisters," he continued,
"It's like this. When you judge others... well, then you's only
judgin' yo'self. Amen?"
"Amen!!" answered the sheep,
blindly it seemed.
"Tell the truth, preacher!"
"And that goes for your
neighbor, too. Amen?" added the Miracle-Maker, realizing, of
course, that it is usually those closest to us that we are often
most critical of, including those in our own families.
With bleating heads and
bleeding hearts, all the sheep nodded in agreement: "Amen, brother!"
And here Willie took it one
step further. The sheep were right where he wanted them to be; in
the palm of the preacher's hand. It was time to get busy; to get
serious; and, as they say in business: 'Time to get to the meat of
the matter... even if that meant cutting right down to the bone;
which, as all great chefs know, is sometimes necessary.
"Now don't be judgin' yo'self,
brudders and sisters," Willie warned his sheep. "Don't do it..."
"Tell the truth!"
"Don't go there chil'runs...."
"Preach it!"
"And if you do go to judgin'
yo'selfs... Drive it out of yo'mind! brudders and sisters. It only be
that ol' devil talkin'. Amen?
"He do like to talk," noted
the man holding his cock.
"He do that," reminded Willie.
Then he paused. " But right now, I's the one doin' the talkin'.
Amen? And I has something to say to you, chil'runs."
"Say it, preacher! Say it!"
"It's a question," Willie
explained. "I gots to ax' ya'll a question. Amen?"
Silence....everywhere. Even the
organ had stopped droning by then.
Willie wiped his forehead
again. "That's better, chil'runs. "Now", he said in a soft but firm
voice, "listen up." He paused. "When you judge yo' neighbor, and
even when you judge yo'self" Again, he paused. "What is it then that
you really be doin'?
It was a good question. And it
deserved a good answer.
But there was no answer. No
one spoke. They didn't even move.
"Don't shout me down now just
'cause I'm preachin' real good," Willie responded in the usual
manner.
One by one the fans fell and
the wings dropped. The only sounds heard came from the shuffling of
a few anxious feet and someone closing the bathroom door behind
them. If anyone knew the answer, they weren't saying; not just yet
anyway.
But someone did know the
answer; and it wasn't a sheep. No. It was a turtle! – a turtle whose
head had suddenly peeped out from behind the blanketed midsection of
a very tall and stranger looking man (at least that's the way it
would've appeared to anyone observing a little boy perched on his
uncles invisibly shrouded head and shoulders) standing in the back
of the Miracle Temple that particular evening.
His name was Sherman Dixon,
and he knew the answer. He knew it not because anyone had told him,
and not because he'd figured it out on his own. No. He wasn't that
clever; and he knew that too. The answer came to him from somewhere
else, somewhere deep down inside, where all right answers come.
Perhaps, it was the same place his courage came from when he'd
finally found it that night at Charlie Bow's Dragon-Fish and
drinking and eating Emporium, but without the stutter; for as it
were, that same debilitating affliction that had frustrated the
turtle on so many other occasions, had suddenly, and perhaps even
miraculously, disappeared; as if having been exorcized, or removed,
somehow from the turtle's vocal region by some invisible priest, or
surgeon; like it was never there to begin with. And so without
stutter, stammer, or the slightest hint of hesitation, Sherman Dixon
suddenly spoke out from beneath his blanketed shell with a
confidence that surprised even himself: "We be judgin' the Judge!"
he exclaimed in a loud clear voice that could be heard throughout
the Miracle Temple, and clear enough for every sheep to hear.
Faces turned and fans fell as
a hush hovered over the crowd; even the low drone of the organ,
which seemed unabatable at times, fell eerily silent. They just had
to see who it was that knew the answer; even though more than a few
had already guessed by now and were only too afraid to say it. Like
so many black-face sheep on the way to the slaughter house, they all
stood and stared. And who was this fat man poking his ugly head out
from under a blanket like some turtle-headed prophet exiting the
womb of a little black boy? Elmo knew. And so did Regina Johnson,
along with her mother and a few other distant relatives who suddenly
realized who the fat man was, and who it was that was sitting on top
of the turtle's conspicuous head. It was Sherman Dixon, of course!
and little Oley Johnson. And just as Alma Johnson was about to say
something to her daughter just then inside the Miracle Temple,
Willie suddenly cried out: "And who be the Judge... tall man?" he
inquisitively asked. He was looking directly at the Sherman Dixon,
whose head was still only half exposed through the folds of Oley's
cascading blanket when he said it.
The turtle looked a little
surprised, and frightened. Who be the Judge? He immediately wanted
to withdraw into the wooly cocoon, or better yet crawl back into his
impervious shell where he knew he was safe. Who be the Judge? Never
in his life had he received so much attention; and from so many
strange and foreign faces. He was scared, of course, just like
always; almost as scared as he was inside Charlie Bow's Dragon-fish
and drinking and eating emporium the night before; but not for the
same reason. Who be the Judge? He wanted to say something, anything!
but he reckoned he'd said enough already; and besides, he was also
beginning to feel sick all over again. Who be the Judge? What more
did they want from him? He'd given them the answer already; and it
was a good answer – the correct answer! at least judging by the
response he'd received. So what more did they want? he desperately
tried to imagine. And then Sherman knew. "God be the Judge!" he
boldly proclaimed, stepping forward, like a turtle crawling out of
its shell, as the curtain fell from his broad brown beam. Oley was
still sitting on top of his head when it happened and was as
surprised as anyone else, and perhaps a little embarrassed. And so
was Elmo who was standing right beside him by then.
All was silent again.
"Scuse me?" Willie spoke from
the head of the church, curiously.
Sherman took another step
forward as the sheep looked on in cautious anticipation, the way
sheep often do in these situations; their heads moving in unison, as
if being collectively drawn by the same invisible cord.
Sherman responded: "God be the
Judge," he reiterated; this time a little more reverently, but as
sure of himself as ever.
"What's that you say brudder?"
begged Willie, stepping down from the rostrum and slowly making his
way down the center aisle to the back of the church.
"God," the turtle
regurgitated. "God be the Judge. T'aint no other Judge but God."
"God?" questioned Willie,
solely for the benefit of those sheep who may not have heard the
turtle's solemn proclamation, "God did you say?"
"I say what I say," said
Sherman, taking a few steps closer.
As he approached the big brown
turtle, Willie stopped. He recognized him, of course, as the young
man he'd caught stealing apples in his back yard not too long ago.
Their eyes met. Willie winked. It was a good sign. It was almost as
if he was saying: Go on now, son. Keep talking. Keep it up. I hears
you...and so do everyone else.
Not sure what to do next, and
thinking he'd gone too far already, Sherman simply nodded and
starred heading for the mahogany door.
It was the raccoon that spoke
next. "He say God be the Judge," Elmo interjected, in a voice that
was not altogether conciliatory.
The Miracle-Maker didn't
smile; nor did he wink. He just stood there for a moment, staring at
the raccoon as he would a side of prime beef he was about to
butcher.
Elmo reached down for his
knife, even though he knew by now that everyone was looking at him;
including Alma and Regina Johnson who'd by moving towards the boy
standing dangerously close to the rabid raccoon.
God be the Judge. It was the
correct answer. It was the answer Willie had been waiting for all
along. And the sheep knew it. He responded accordingly, like he'd
done a hundred times before. Not in so many words perhaps (there are
times when the spoken word, even when delivered with eloquence and
grace simply comes up short) but with something even better. Willie
had something else in mind. And what the old cook had to say just
then... well, he said with a song. And this is what he said:
"Climb on board, step right this way.
Raise the anchor and sail away
Gonna sing! Gonna shout! Gonna jump and say!
Alleluia! On the Judgment day..."
As the congregation all joined
in, accompanied by the celestial choir of angles and their holy
orchestra, the shepherd turned his back on he turtle and the raccoon
and began making his way back, rather quickly it would seem, to the
head of the church. And there he resumed his lofty perch at the
rostrum, singing all the while in the color of the Lord. More than
once his gaze drifted back to the two Harlies still standing in back
by the mahogany door looking like two lost sheep; or, as the
Miracle-Maker keenly observed: two hungry fish in search of a worm.
Among his many other prestigious titles, Willie was also a most
capable fisherman, not unlike those famous Galileans in whose fishy
footsteps he followed, and a fisher of men as well. As previously
mentioned, Willie held a long rod and cast a wide net; and he seldom
came home empty handed. But all that would have to wait. He still
had a sermon to deliver.
All that evening the Harlie
had remained strangely silent. He realized, of course, that the time
was not right. He reached inside the trouser leg for his Bowie
knife. It was still there. He would have to wait for just the right
moment. But when? And where? He wasn't quite sure. And he wasn't
particularly concerned if anyone saw him; not even Sherman, whom he
suspected knew what he had in mind all along. One quick... He'd be
gone before the body hit the floor. It would all be over. But in a
church?
Chapter Twelve
Fire!
SUDDENLY, AND WITHOUT WARNING, Willie Wright cried out in a voice so loud, so
over-powering, and so irresistible that it seemed to come straight
from God's megaphone, "Com'on, brudders and sisters! Take my hand.
We'll walk through the fire together and cleanse ourselves of these
filthy rags in flames of righteousness!" he exclaimed. "You Feel it?
Do you feel it chil'runs? Does it boin? It's supposed to boin, you
see. But it don't boin forever. Just long enough to cook the meat.
Takes time, you know," he reminded the sheep in a way he thought
they might better understand, "... takes times to cook them ribs." And
he was looking directly at the raccoon when he said it, "'Specially
them ol' pork ribs. Amen?"
"I heard that!" agreed a plump
young gentleman sitting in the center aisle who, judging by
appearances at least, must have had some experience in the
time-consuming endeavor of properly cooking a pig, as well as the
consumption thereof. "Gots to cook it real slow... Cook the devil
right out of that ol' pig," he further insisted. And he was right;
for indeed pork was perhaps the most difficult meat to barbecue,
usually taking up the better part of a day to prepare; but well
worth it. And if done just right, the meat of the pig was so sweet
and tender that it could easily be peeled right off the bone, and
chewed, especially by the older folks of the parish who didn't have
the advantage of the younger ones, or the teeth.
"Take all day, it do!" Willie
whole-heartily concurred.
"Take longer than that.... if
you smokes 'im!" replied another older gentleman with skin so black
and eyes so red he looked as though he might have born and raised in
a smoke-house.
"Not like that ol' beef tho',"
reminded Willie.
"Just cook it 'til the cow
stop mooin'!" cried out another voice from somewhere in the back of
the room. It was Sherman Dixon! Apparently, his shyness had
miraculously been cured along with his stutter, or at least
temporarily abated by the mere mention of famous barbecued beef he'd
been anticipating all along and couldn't wait to sink his beak into.
"Leastways, 'tils a good doctor can saves him," elucidated the
turtle.
Willie agreed. "Don't take
long, brudder. But you needs a real hot fire. Amen?"
"Hot as Satan's.... " reminded
the banshee, suspiciously looking down at the old man's shoes for
any sign of the heathenish smoke.
"T'aint down der, either, ol'
woman," insisted the toothless old saint.
Willie nodded, "Amen, brudder
Isa. But she right 'bout one thing – the fire! it do have to be
hot. Like Satan's toes, I 'spose. But remember now, it only takes a
minute or two. Just..." And here, Willie pretended to hold up an
invisible beef steak between his own fleshy fingers to further
illustrate his point, "just long 'nough to scorch it a little... on
the outsides, you see."
What the Miracle gourmet was
actually referring to was an old culinary custom known as
'blackening'. It was a method of cooking meat, or searing it, over
an open flame for a minimal amount of time. It was meant to seal in
all the natural juices while leaving the meat itself practically
untouched by the fire, and still quite raw; so raw, in fact, that
had you not known it, you might actually think that it hadn't been
cooked at all; and even then, you wouldn't be too far from the
truth. It was a favorite way of preparing prime cuts of beef, which
most folks in Shadytown couldn't afford anyway, as well as certain
species of fish that tasted best when 'blackened' in a similar
manner. In fact, 'blackened' meat quickly became a favorite not only
in Shadytown but among the more wealthy carnivores in nearby Port
Fierce who would often go out of their way to find them; all the way
to Shadytown if that's what it took. Many would stop by Willie's
Wright's Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit for time to time, having
heard of the famous preacher and his famous miracle ribs. Willie
welcomed them all; and he never let them down. Some would even
return. And not only for the ribs! Willie would wait. He knew, of
course, that some meats, like some souls, take a little longer to
cook than others.
"Can you feel it, chil'runs?"
beseeched the shepherd as the flames got higher and the colas got
hotter. "Does it boin?"
"Help me! Help me!" cried
several voices out loud, as if being collectively shoved into the
fiery furnace themselves.
"Toin' it up!" answered the
preacher, fanning the flames with his own special brand of rhetoric.
"Does it boin?"
The flames were getting higher
and hotter. Does it burn? Of course, it burns! And all at once the
choir of angels broke into an endless chorus of 'Burning for the
Lord," as the celestial orchestra turned up the thermostat a notch
or two, along with the volume.
"Burnin' for the Lord!
I'm Leanin' on the Lord!
Burnin' for the Lord!
And waitin' on the Judgment day!"
"HELP ME! HELP ME!"
There were feet stomping,
hands clapping, guitars strumming, organ humming, horns blowing and
angels sing as they all burned together in the colorful flames of
the Lord.
"Spread yo' wings, sisters!"
Willie instructed his angels. "Keep on movin' now. Don't stop. Fire
needs oxygen! That's what keep it boinin', you know."
And with the holy orders
given, every angel-wing in the Temple took to flight, stirring the
air like a heavenly billow and providing the oxygenated fuel
necessary to keep the fire burning for as long as it took. Those
that didn't have one – a fan, that is – used whatever was handy,
including their own hands, along with prayer books and Bibles, or
anything else with a flat surface that could be found in the back of
a pew or the bottom of a purse. The sermon had only just begun, and
already Willie was on fire. Soon the whole church would be engulfed
in flames; and no one would get out alive at. No one ever did at the
Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D'; not if Willie had
anything to say, or do, about it.
"I'm burnin' up!" cried the
thin man. He was standing up in the front row next to a fat lady
with cannon ball breasts who, as it turned out, was his own
voluptuous wife. Grabbing the fan from her thickly gloved hand, he
then proceeded to cool his own smoking brow by vigorously working
his wife's angel-wing in a most urgent manner. The fat lady looked
at him with a long bewildering sigh, as if the fire in her own heavy
heart had long since diminished and was indeed in need of a spark,
or maybe even a match. An odd couple, it would appear, the thin man
and his fat flabby wife; but not the oddest. You might even say they
complimented one another, in the same shapely way and utilitarian
fashion a dish compliments a spoon. It was a partnership, a legal
contract, a covenant between husband and wife and, at least for the
most part, a rather healthy one, as most symbiotic relationships
usually are. They fed off one another, figuratively speaking, of
course; one more voraciously than the other perhaps, and careful not
to devour themselves in the process. It could be argued, at least in
this particular case, that it's the male of the species who is most
vulnerable; especially in matters involving procreation, in which
case he may be no better off than black widow spider who's fate, it
would seen, rested entirely upon the appetite, or lack thereof, of
its cannibalistic mate which was known to consumed the unsuspecting
bridegroom directly after the fatal act of copulation, and equally
doomed, which may also explain why we come across so few black widow
spiders and so many celibate men. But somehow the partnership
survived. They always do, of course... well, almost always. As far as
the thin man and the fat woman were concerned, marriage was made for
them; but, as it sometimes happens, even in the best of marriages,
something went wrong along the way.
For reasons undisclosed to
even family and friends, the fat dish and the thin spoon had long
since positioned their beds in separate rooms, on opposite sides of
the house, in fact, and so far apart that nothing short of a miracle
would ever bring them back together again. Physiologically speaking,
it may've been a prudent and wise decision at the time, on both
parts, but a sad one and disturbing one never-the-less. And if a
miracle was indeed what it would take to bring the beds back
together again... well then, what better place to find one than at the
Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D'? Amen?
To further exacerbate the
stress of the tenuous relationship, the emaciated spoon had been
plagued as of lately by a variety of illnesses, both physical and
psychological, which doctors were at a loss to explain, much less
cure; although they had long suspected they all had something to do
with... well, the one thing in which size really does matter,
despite what you may, or may not, have heard on such delicate
matters. And to make matter worse, the poor fellow could never seem
to escape from these debilitating ailments which, perhaps, were the
primary cause of his... well, his 'little' problem, chief among them
being his low self-esteem, particularly in the sensitive areas
concerning his libido, or the lack thereof. It seemed that over the
years, this slim spoon had simply lost all his affections for his
obese wife; and there was nothing he, she, or anyone else for that
matter, could do about it. The flame that'd once burned so brightly
in the honeymoon bed was dead. The fire was out. The spark that
ignited and kindled their inner-most desires had long since been
extinguished by some malignancy that had somehow found its way into
the couple's barren bedroom. The thrill was gone. And that's all
there was to it. Whether or not the fat woman was indeed the source
of her husband's many maladies, which some cruelly suspected,
remains unknown; but rumors never ceased, and neither did the
gossip. But to be fair to the withering spoon, obesity is never a
good aphrodisiac; and neither are the mental imbalances and mood
swings that are often associated with such physical abnormalities,
especially when it comes to fat women with healthy appetites and not
enough food on the plate.
The poor man was desperate;
but he was a good provider and a faithful husband, which may've been
what finally drove him to drink instead of into the arms of another
woman. As it were, and in lieu of ball and pistol, the thin man
became an alcoholic, a common drunk, which only added to his
miseries and frustrations. Those in the medical community suggested,
as much as science would allow them to, that there may indeed be a
direct link between the thin man's sexual anxieties and his poor
health in general. And they may've been correct in their clinical
diagnosis, as physicians often are, even when, either through
professional pride or sheer ignorance, they are unable to explain
such physical malfunctions, let alone cure them. The spoon's problem
may very well have been purely psychosomatic, a phenomenon not
uncommon in the specialized field of sexual impotence. Physiological
speaking, it does seem to follow that one could, and would, affect
the other. And in the case of the thin man and his fat wife, it was
at least a plausible explanation, if nothing else, for an on-going
problem which, left untreated, would surely end in an untimely
separation, if not a divorce.
But still, the marriage
survived when so many others have failed, which alone made the dish
and the spoon a match, well, 'made in Heaven' and perhaps, in that
sacred sense, one to be envied, celibacy not-with-standing. Maybe
that's what had held them together for so long; longevity being its
own reward at times, and perhaps the best medicine of all. It is
little wonder that married men generally out-live their bachelor
brothers... even the happy ones! It's no more of a wonder that the
dish finally ran away with the spoon. It's a love story, I suppose,
and perhaps one with yet a happy ending after all. We shall see.
Through it all, James and
Agnes Williams had produced nine children with plans, God willing,
to produce one more, despite the unorthodox sleeping arrangements
and their own physiological differences. And as far as 'number ten'
was concerned, well... let's just say miracles do happen. And they
can happen at any time, in a heartbeat! at the Miracle Temple and
Barbecue Pit; and especially on such hot and heavy nights when moon
is full and bright with all the aphrodisiacal powers and potencies
invested in that lovely lunar orb. It's the stuff love songs are
made of, penned by poets and sung by troubadours all over this
love-sick world we wallow in so blindly and blissfully. It happens
all the time, just like miracles, I suppose. And when it does... Watch
out! The old matrimonial bed, however broken and barren, will spring
to life and flower once again! more fruitful and potent than ever
before. And then, perhaps, another apple will fall from the Tree.
Depend on it!
"That's better," sighed the
thin man with a thankful sigh of relief, the cooling effects of his
fat wife's angel-wing having served its mitigating purpose by
putting out the fire, if only for a moment, that burned so
feverishly in his boiling brain. He then politely handed the holy
instrument back to its original owner. "Thank you, Agnes," he said
with a thin, weak, but oh, so sincere smile. "Awful hot in here!
Ain't it, dear?" he added.
The fat woman, whose juicy
jowls were by now covered in rolling streams of perspiration, simply
smiled. She was already thinking about number ten. "You think that's
hot, James? Just wait 'til we gets home!" she forewarned her nervous
husband. "I'll shows you hot!"
The Miracle-Maker smiled at
the estranged couple and said with all biblical truth and candor:
"What God has joined together let no man tear apart... Can I gets a
witness?"
"Here we is!" shouted the fat
woman, pulling her scrawny husband to his feet. "Ain't no man gonna
tear us apart!"
"Amen sister Agnes!" Willie
whole-heartily agreed, "And you too, brother..."
Having spent some time in the
burning bed of matrimony himself, if only for a while, Willie knew
exactly what he was talking about, and what was on the fat woman's
mind at the time. "Easy now, sister Agnes," he enjoined. "Brudder
James... he know what to do. Soon you be boinin' together. Just the
way it's 'spose to be. Amen?
The congregation applauded in
aggregated approval. "AMEN, Reverend! Preach it!"
They had nothing to be ashamed
of; and neither did Willie, who could still appreciate the joys that
went along with the Blessed Sacrament, if not the intimacies
involved. "Be fruitful and multiply! And by the way," he added for
the benefit of those who might hold differing views on the sensitive
and sometimes silent subject of celibacy as well as other matters
concerning the sexual relations between man and women, with all due
respect to pious Paul and his Catholic constituents, "That's a
commandment, brudders and sister... not a suggestion. Amen?"
"I HEARD THAT!"
"Let no mens tear them apart!"
But as the celibate apostle
might suggest: Marriage, like circumcision, may not be for everyone.
The Miracle-Maker knew that, too. And as far as he could tell,
celibacy was not a state of mine, it's a state of grace; like
marriage itself, he finally concluded. Ask any parish priest who is
true to his vows of chastity, or any elderly couple who'd had
remained faithful over the years despite the pains and lack of
passion that old age sometimes brings about. Ask the dish and the
spoon, for that matter. Love is not enough. It never is! If only the
doomed (and loving) citizens of Sodom and Gomorra had realized that,
then perhaps they might've been spared the fires of perdition that
ultimately consumed them not unlike their own unbridled passions.
But even if they had, it probably would've been too late. Just look
at Lott's poor wife. Look... and weep.
"Does it boin?" questioned the
Miracle-maker in the fiery furnace of his own inner mounting flames.
"Can you feels it, brudders and sisters? Can you?"
"Burnin' for the Lord!
I'm Leanin' on the Lord!
Burnin' for the Lord!
And waitin' on the Judgment day!"
"Help me! Help me! Help me!
cried many of the sheep as they baked in Willie's holy heated oven.
"We's on fire!!"
"Boins! Don't it, chil'runs?"
"Like... like potash!"
screamed a young man with scars all over his face.
What the disfigured gentleman
was referring to on that sweltering evening in Old Port Fierce was a
substance the women of Shadytown were all too familiar with. It was
called 'pot-ash', a chemical compound of potassium carbonate used in
the manufacturing of lye, and sometimes as a plant fertilizer. In
its more natural and stable condition, potash was relatively safe,
and, when properly administered, actually quite beneficial to the
user. But when mixed with other volatile substances, the exact
ingredients of which remain a well-guarded secret among those who
dabble in such homemade concoctions, potash could burn like sin and
peel the paint off a barnyard door. 'Like Lucifer's fire!' as it was
painfully and properly described by the same marked man previously
decried when it was topically applied to his epidural layers one
passionate evening by his suspicious young bride who'd inadvertently
caught him in bed that night with her own younger and, to be
perfectly fair and honest, much more attractive baby sister. It was
a painful experience that resulted in third degree burns not only on
his chest which was left singed and hairless, but other parts of his
naked flesh as well, some more sensitive than others, including a
once smooth and handsomely defined face. And he wasn't alone. As the
poet pontificates: 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.' How
true! The scorching substance was likewise applied to the exposed
bodies of cheating husbands all over Shadytown at the time
(preferably while they sleeping, and usually in the arms of the
'other woman' who would invariably feel the that same scorching
scorn) as well as gigolos, johns, vagrants, barking dogs, stray
cats, rats, and other vermin deserving no less of a treatment,
administered, in most cases, by jealous wives and suspicious
girlfriends in retribution for their unfaithful and adulterous
activities. It worked like acid and smelled like sulfur. And it
worked every time, like sin. It was the stuff devils and demons are
made of. "Boins! Don't it?" Willie admonished once more, as a
warning perhaps to those who might be contemplating the sins of the
flesh, which, in Shadytown at least, were never more than a block or
two away.
"Just like a woman..." sighed
the spoon, sounding as though he may've experienced the burning
effects of the homemade remedy himself at one time or another.
Standing in a protracting
puddle of perfumed sweat, the dish similarly sighed, "Oh... James," as
she yanked a small handkerchief out from under her husband's coat
and began blowing her nose. Then Agnes Williams suddenly began to
cry, mopping up a small pool of perspiration that had been forming
in the cleavage of her cannonball breasts all the while. She then
handed the soggy square cloth back to Mister Williams who, having
come to grips with his own demons by now, wiped away his own tears
as well. It was a tender and touching sight to behold; and a moment
neither would soon forget.
Excusing himself for a moment
in front of a curiously hushed crowd, the Miracle-Maker headed
straight to the cistern containing the anointed holy water on the
far side of the temple. He then pulled up a ladle full of the liquid
refreshment, which he poured into a large copper cup that had
miraculously appeared, out of nowhere so it seemed, right before so
many opened mouths and mesmerized eyes. Walking back to across the
aisle, he stepped up to the front pew where sat the aforementioned
couple still perspiring in a heated embrace, Agnes more so than her
frail husband. He gently pressed the cup to the fat woman's
quivering lips.
"Easy now, sister Agnes,"
cautioned the Miracle-Maker, noticing the woman's leaky condition,
"Don't spill any. That be holy water!"
"Water from the well, I
hopes," Agnes replied after dosing herself in the life-sustaining
liquid.
"Save some for me, woman!"
begged the thirsty spoon.
"Good..." Willie observed,
staring down into the near-empty copper cup, "almost drained." He
then offered the remaining drops to Mister Williams who accepted it
as if it were indeed the Holy Grail itself.
"Drink up, brudder James!"
insisted the shepherd as the spoon had his fill. "Drink.... and live!"
Many of the sheep soon cried
out: "Give us some water, Reverend. We wants to live too!"
Willie obliged, of course; but
miraculously, and without having to go back to the well, the copper
cup was instantaneously replenished, like the bottomless vessel! it
would seem. And it remained that way long after the last sheep left
the Temple.
"Pass it along," Willie
instructed as the miraculous cup went from one hand to the next.
"There you go. Don't be greedy, now. Plenty more where that come
from!"
And so the copper grail was
passed from pew to pew, row to row, across the aisle, up and down
and all around; mouth to mouth, from hand to glove it went, until
everyone in the Miracle Temple had their fill of the sanctifying
water. It was in fact a bottomless basin that sprang eternal, not
unlike the self-perpetuating spring from which the water flowed, and
with all the life-sustaining hope it had to offer. Many of the
congregation washed their feet and faces with Willie's holy water
just then, pouring the precious liquid over wounds old and new, over
broken hearts and broken bones, drinking it in, to cure an old
ulcer, perhaps, or a cancer the surgeons have long since given up
on. They bathed in it, all in hopes of seizing upon the healing
qualities the water was known to posses; and like the blind man at
pool of Siloam, they and washed away their sin. They took to it like
miners take to gold, or lepers to Saint Francis. Sometimes it
worked, sometimes it didn't. But that's the way it is with miracles.
That's how they work. It all comes down to a matter of Faith. Not
all prayers are answered in the affirmative. Sometimes the answer is
no; and for good reason! reasons we will may never know, at least on
this side of the grave. And even if they could be answered to our
own selfish satisfaction...well, then they wouldn't be prayers at all.
And God would not be God... only a slave.
When the cup had finished
making the rounds of the Temple, and all were satisfied, it finally
arrived back from where it began, at which point the Miracle-Maker
himself took a long, hard, and well-deserved sip. To further amaze
his flock, he then tossed the copper chalice high into the air,
whereupon it was instantaneously transformed into a graceful white
dove that hovered in the air momentarily as if suspended from the
Heavens on some invisible celestial string.
"See him, chil'runs? There he
go!" cried Willie, pointing to the rafters of high pitched ceiling
where the dove presently began circling above the up-lifted heads of
the faithful. "That's the Holy Ghost!"
"Watch out chil'runs!" warned
the shepherd. "He gonna git you!"
"Here he come!" shouted some
of the older sheep who'd been to witnessed the event in the past at
the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit, almost as if they'd been
expecting it all along. "Watch out now!"
Willie shouted back at them.
"He gonna get you! Watch it now! Here he come!"
"WATCH OUT! WATCH OUT!"
By then the white apparition
had circled the interior of the Temple no less than a dozen times
before flying out of an opened window and into the dark grey
morning. It happened just like that. And then it was gone.
Many in the church stood in
awe with stretched arms and open palms eternally turned upward.
Obviously, they'd seen this bird before. Whether or not the lone
white dove that circled the ceiling was, in fact, the Holy Spirit of
God, Willie just wouldn't say; even though he always liked to
believe it was so. But he couldn't say it wasn't, either; and
perhaps that's all it really took to believe in the first place.
Whatever it was, flesh or spirit, and where ever it came from, the
mysterious bird was always welcomed at the Miracle temple and
Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D', even if it was just another wild and
wandering bird looking for a place to rest its weary wings, not
unlike the starling that flew into Homer Skinner's window at one
time, driving his poor wife to sleep on the couch and had him pacing
circles on the bedroom floor long into the night. It was almost as
if they'd expected it all along; they just never knew exactly when
it would show up, or in what form it he would appear.
God comes in many guises,
some more natural than others; but He usually shows up in the forms
we can easily recognize: like a snow white dove for instance, which,
come to think of it, is the way many folks picture God in his that
particular state of incarnation, especially those of the Pentecostal
persuasion who, with Biblical references to back their avionic
observations, along with the tongues of fire that is known to
accompany the holy anointing, were accustomed to such frequent and
fanciful flights of the Holy Spirit; but not always, and not always
in that same fantastic form. It is still talked about, even 'til
this very day, of the time when this same apotheosized Spirit made a
similar appearance, although quite unexpectantly and in a most
peculiar manner, at the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit It came, as
it were, in the curious form of a creature (Petaurus breviceps) more
commonly known in its native habitat as a 'sugar glider' and
properly described as a small gliding opossum with membrane wings
originating from the marsupial family. Taken at first for either a
flying rat or a lost bat that had somehow infiltrated the sanctuary,
perhaps through a crack or hole in the wall, or an open window, the
bushy-tailed spirit summarily perched itself atop Willie's
apocalyptic head were it remained stationary throughout the entire
night. And there the sentry stayed, wings folded, wide-eyed and
alert, motionlessly adorning the pastor's hatless head like the
fashionable raccoon that once graced Crockett's profile even as the
famous frontiersman bravely battled his way through Congress, and
the Alamo. Exactly where the holy marsupial came from no one knows –
Heaven, perhaps! Not unlike the divine dove itself. Or maybe it was
brought here by some local fisherman or sailor who, having lighted
upon those aboriginal shores where such exotic creatures make their
nests, thought it might have the makings of good and proper pet; as
if mere mortal man could ever master the Third Person of the Holy
Trinity. Willie would have no part of it; and apparently, neither
would the sugar glider, as it finally departed at the end of the
night, perhaps to shed some light on an otherwise dark and dangerous
world.
Was it some kind of a
magician's trick? An illusion, perhaps? A trick of the light, or a
slight-of-hand? Well, no one knows for sure. It all came down to a
simple matter of Faith. Faith not so much in miracles (although
miracle themselves should never taken lightly, or for granted for
that matter; for as Jesus Himself tells us in John 10:38: "But if I
do it, even though you do not believe me, believe the miracles, that
you may know and understand that the Father is in me, and I in the
Father) nor in the Miracle-Maker himself who, in fact, actually
thought very little them and often wished they weren't necessary.
No. Willie's faith went a little deeper than that. It was based on
something quite different, and more human perhaps. What really
happened at the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of Avenue 'D', as it
did four times a week come rain or shine, was the miracle of life.
Life! It's only real miracle after all. And was all around them that
night! You could feel it. You could see. You could almost smell it!
You could certainly hear it. And you might even get to taste it. You
couldn't escape it if you wanted to. You see, the Reverend Willie B.
Wright had always subscribed to the simple and sacred secret that
all life, no matter how small or insignificant was precious, worth
preserving, and not be foolishly wasted or destroyed; especially the
life of the unborn, as demonstrated and defined by another local
legend, Johnny Appleseed who, in a uniquely American way, was able
to extrapolate from one tiny seed implanted in the fruited womb,
rows and rows of apple trees, as far as the eye could seen. It's a
lesson in life well worth remembering, as all myths and legends are,
especially in the modern culture of death we all must live, and die,
in.
It was the spiritual life he
spoke of with such great gusto and enthusiasm: the psyche, the soul,
the part of a man (or woman) that can only be touched by the finger
of God who created it in the first place; for it is that part, and
perhaps that part only, that will never die. And in the end, even
the old apple-farmer would have to agree: 'All this too shall turn
to dust... and all that's left is the husk."
The faith Willie Wright spoke
of was different. It was faith in something bigger than himself,
bigger than the Miracle Temple, bigger than any man. It was faith in
God. It's the kind faith that moves mountains, cures lepers, raises
the dead, and allows men to walk on water and do things they
otherwise would not dream of doing. It's what faith that kept them
coming all these years; and the same faith that would bring them
back; that, along with Willie's famous barbecued ribs, of course.
Faith! It renews the mind and refreshes the soul, like a cool drink
of water on a hot summer night. And it wasn't magic at all. It was
real! The sheep knew it because they believed it. They believed in
the Shepherd. And they believed in Willie B. Wright. What else could
they do – Amen?
Following in his Master's
footsteps, Willie was ready to take his sheep to the next level. He
was no longer a shepherd. He was a captain – Captain Willie! And he
would now lead them all to the ship of Salvation as he did every
Wednesday and Friday night at the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit of
Avenue 'D'. He had snatched them from the jaws of the 'Crouching
Lion', baptized them with water and the Holy Spirit; and now, all he
had to do was reel them in and get them all onboard, including a fat
turtle and one reluctant raccoon. And then he would put them to the
fire, just like all the others. That was his job; that's why he was
there. It might take a miracle. But that's what he was all about.
The coal was on fire, the
flames were getting higher, and the pit was burning white hot. The
ship was ready to sail and the tide was already coming in. Willie
knew what to do; he'd done it many times before, but not always with
the same results. He realized, of course, that there were some who
wouldn't come along. Not yet anyway; they simply weren't ready. But
he'd be back to get them when they were. "Never too late to go
fishin', you know' Willie spoke out loud. "Night time's always the
best... That way they can't sees the net. Amen?"
"ALLELUIA!" sang the fish as
Willie cast wide his net.
It was only a matter of time.
"Now listen up! chil'runs,"
cried the fisherman, his voice thundering through the Temple, "Ya'll
been baptized with water and the Holy Ghost. Amen? And so now you's
gonna be baptized with... with... Fire!"
The Spirit moved and the band
played on. Willie's Celestial Choir never sounded so good. Lifting
their voices in song and praise they all moved together, as one body
it seemed, their matching gowns flowing easily into one another
until they appeared as twelve black faces floating collectively on a
sea of purple silk; and when they all jumped together in unison at
the beginning of each and every chorus, a large purple wave came
crashing down all around them.
"Gonna sing! Gonna shout!
Gonna jump and say
Alleluia! On the Judgment Day!"
Like lightning leaping the
sky, precipitated perhaps by Willie's spoken word, great sparks
suddenly shot up from behind the stage in a sizzling white plume of
smoke. Tongues of fire appeared next, dancing in the air like two
inner mounting flames dressed in orange, red, and yellow. And there
they sat atop the two great candles standing on opposite sides of
the altar, only magnified a hundred-fold through God's great prism.
And there, like two flaming swords in the hands of the Cherbim at
the garden Gate, they would remain for quite some time. And in those
few explosive seconds, every knee in the temple was bent. As the
smoke began to clear, rising ubiquitously up to the ceiling and out
through the soffits of the old tin roof, not a sound was heard,
except perhaps for the breathing of angels and the beating of wings.
As usual, the captain's pyrotechnical skills had brought a sudden
silence from his frightened audience. But that fright was quickly
proceeded by awe; and then by glorious shouts of AMEN! & ALLELUIA!
along with other outward expressions of joy and jubilation, which
Willie naturally took as a sure and overwhelming sign of approval.
Still standing in back of the
Temple, the turtle and the raccoon looked on in mesmerized awe and
wonder. It was something they'd never experienced before, and likely
never would again. And from that point on, Elmo couldn't help but
notice how the man at the altar kept staring at him; not in a
suspicious manner which he might have expected by now, but rather in
a more subtle and 'shouldn't I know you?' sort of way. It only made
him suspicious, and perhaps a little nervous, but more determined
then ever to accomplish that which he came to do. He reached deep
down into his overalls again and ran a finger over the serrated edge
of the Bowie knife. It felt cold and clammy, like the scales of a
fish, and just as sharp...
"Do you feels it, chil'runs?"
questioned the fisherman, baiting the hooks as he'd done a thusand
times before. "You's can almost taste it. Amen?"
"I feels it, Reverend. I feels
it!" cried a middle-aged woman in the third row who was by now
holding her abdomen in both hands. "It's inside my...my belly!" she
screamed. And at that very moment, the woman knew she was pregnant
again; and so did everyone else for that matter. Whether or not
that's what she actually wanted was another matter. She had five
young ones already; and another little mouth sucking on her breast
was the last thing in the world she needed at the time. It was the
only thing her cheating husband had left her, other than a mortgaged
home and a broken heart, right after he ran off with another woman.
But that's the way it works sometimes at the Miracle Temple:
sometimes you get what you ask for; sometimes you don't. You may
even get what you want. But even the devil knows – sometimes you get
what you need.
"Amen, sister!" Willie
bellowed from the pulpit. "That's the second birth I done told you
'bout. You knew it was comin' – Didn't you? We's all God's chil'runs.
Does it boin? It's supposed to boin. That's how you knows it's
woikin'," he spoke in a voice that suddenly reminded the raccoon of
his dead uncle, Joe Cotton, and the way he would pronounce certain
words, or 'woids'.
"It's what some folks calls
bein' 'born again'," insisted the Captain Willie. "All God's
chil'runs gots to be born again. Amen?"
"AMEN!"
"YOU SAID IT, REVEREND!"
"PREACH IT!"
"WELL?"
"It hoits at foist. Amen? Like
a woman giving chil'bioth for the foist time. Ain't that right,
sisters?"
They collectively exclaimed:
"Lord knows how that hurts!"
"Like passin' a watermelon!"
cried an old worn-out woman who'd given birth to twelve children of
her own, "And that ain't no lie."
"Hum-Um," agreed the sister
standing beside her, "I heard that!" Apparently, the woman had
passed a few melons of her own at one time.
Every female sheep in the
Temple, especially those who'd been through the excruciating and
sometimes fatal experience of childbirth, knew exactly what the old
woman was talking about and nodded in agreement. Then, as if
attempting to replicate the labor their husbands were not only
solely responsible but strangely absent for when the blessed event
occurred, another woman in the back of the church suddenly stood up
and screamed, so loudly in fact, that had you been there yourself at
Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit just then, you might have thought
she'd just given birth to quintuplets... with no anesthesia!
"I heard that!" the pastor
likewise responded. Having delivered more than one child in his day
(at a time when doctors were as scarce as hens teeth and everyone
was a mid-wife) Willie seemed to understand and could well
appreciate their sacrifice, which was more than he could say for the
husbands of these brave young ladies who were usually, but not
always, nowhere to be found when the blessed event took place. But
in a strange and empathetic sort of way (you might even call it
masculine, at the risk of being labeled a chauvinist) he really
couldn't blame them. For Willie knew had been there; he knew what it
was like. And with the blood-stained shirts and countless births to
prove it, he could finally say, in all good conscience, that what is
often described as a miracle and the most natural act in the world
is, at least by all appearances, anything but that. In fact, and in
many unpardonable and selfish ways that only a man could understand,
delivering a slimy new baby from the gaping womb of a woman in utter
agony, with all the blood and giblets, amidst terrifying screams of
unbearable pain, was indeed the most un-natural thing he could ever
imagine. All I can say is: God help the human race if ever the roles
were reversed and the male of the species were forced, through some
biological transference perhaps, to bring forth life into this
painful and pitiless world. We would all become celibate, no doubt;
and doomed to certain extinction.
It happened one stormy evening
inside the Miracle Temple and Barbecue pit. It was Friday, around
midnight, and the preacher was on his usual roll. The reading was
straight out of Genesis – Noah and the Flood, followed by a sermon
that Father Mapple would be hard pressed to improve upon. Willie
provided the fiery oratory, along with a detailed account of all the
particulars leading up to the catastrophic event; Nature supplied
the rest, including lightening, thunder, and a torrential rain that
all but buoyed up the temple just as it did the Holy Arc that landed
on Mount Ararat four thousand years ago. All that was missing were
the two of each kind, Noah's sons and daughters, and the bewildered
look on Mrs. Noah face when her husband told her 'You'll get used to
the smell...'. And then, at the height of the tempest, as Willie
raised his sainted head to Heaven and God rained down His cleansing
justice on a corrupt and unredeemable world, a young pregnant woman
stood up in the very front row of temple, screamed, broke water and
went directly into a long and painful labor. With no time to waste
and feeling somewhat responsible for having induced the miraculous
event with his own special brand of rhetoric that was known to
'bring out the best in all of us', Willie B. Wright sprang into
action and, quite literally, took matters into his own course and
calloused hands just then. After all, it was nothing he hadn't done
a hundred times before. Right? Indeed many in the audience had been
brought into this sinful and wicked world by those same course and
callous hands. There was nothing to worry about. But wait! It was a
breach. And the umbilical cord was wrapped about the infants' head
like some in utero Medusa, a bloody boa, slowly but surely
constricting the undeveloped and still separated skull. But the
Miracle-Maker of Avenue 'D' was ready, and he knew just what to do.
And then, ever so patiently, and with a precision and skill only a
mid-wife could appreciate, he gently turned the infant patient in
the womb, untangling the cord and saving the lives of both mother
and child in the process. He then went on to deliver the child
naturally, healthy and unharmed, in what turned out to be nothing
less than a miracle. He cut the cord himself and went on to stitch
the poor woman back together in a most professional manner that is
sometimes necessary after such difficult deliveries. It was a boy!
Nine pounds, ten ounces. The mother christened him William Bernard.
He was only one of Willie's many godchildren.
"I know it hoits," reminded
the proud physician at the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit. "But
that's the way it gots to be. Pain! That's how we comes into this
would... And that's how we leaves it. Amen, brudders and sisters?!"
"Amen, Reverend!" responded
the single mother of five who knew for certain by then that another
was well on the way.
"Don't shout me down now,"
coxed Willie.
"Does it boin, chil'?"
It was a question praying on
the hearts and minds of many in the Temple by now, and one many were
still somewhat ambivalent about, or at least reluctant to answer
honestly by then. They'd heard of the fire Willie Wright was capable
of bringing down from Heaven. Many had seen it before: the smoke,
the fire, and the flames.
"Burnin' for the Lord!
I'm Leanin' on the Lord!
Burnin' for the Lord!
And waitin' on the Judgment day!"
That's the way it happens at
the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit. They'd been caught in this
fisherman's net before before, some only to be thrown back at the
last moment for reasons only Willie would know. And he wasn't
saying. Not yet. But that doesn't mean he was giving up on them. Not
this fisher of men. He'd be back, and so would they; perhaps when
they were a little bit bigger, and stronger. No small frys on this
trip.
"Does it boin, chil'runs?"
repeated the captain. "It gots to boin! That's how you knows it's
woikin'. That's what the fire is for. It's what the ol' miners calls
smeltin', Amen? Foist you gets the fire white hot! Takes a heap of
coal. Then you puts in all the ore and lets it cooks for a spell.
Takes time. And it hoits, too! But that's the way it woiks. Gots to
burn away all that sin, all that nastiness. And it keep on boinin'
'till all that's left is... gold!"
"GLORY! ALELLUIAH!"
"PREACH IT!"
"WELL?"
"Be careful now, chil'runs,"
reminded the sainted cook. "For some getting' saved is like goin' on
a cruise; a long voyage at sea, Amen? Take time it do; many
ports-of-calls, lots of storms, coral reefs, pirates, shipwrecks;
but through it all many mild skies and favorable winds, and
always...always a voyage that's goin' home. But it don't always happen
like that, chil'runs; and it don't necessarily happen overnight, the
way some folks claim it do; although that doesn't mean it can't.
Happened that way to Saint Paul: in a flash of lightnin'; but I
'spect ya'll know that by now. Sometimes for others it happens
slowly, over time. That's the way Salvation wioks. Sometimes it come
in a blink of an eye; for others, it take a lifetime. Amen?"
For a Harlie raccoon you might
say it was only the beginning. But everyone has to start somewhere.
And what better place to start than the Miracle Temple and Barbecue
Pit of Avenue 'D', in a place called Shadytown, and with Captain
Willie Wright at the wheel?
"Salvation can be a rocky
road," he continued. "And it ain't always that easy. Amen? Lots of
twists and toins, you know. Never know what's just 'round the bend.
"Don't know which way to go,
sometime," one of the black sheep audibly observed.
"Awful lot of back slidin'...'
reminded Willie.
"You got that right,
preacher!"
"Now the road to hell... that's
an entirely different story all together. Amen?"
"Been there, too!"
"Go down real slow," suggested
the Miracle-Maker who'd traveled down the road to Perdition himself
and lived to tell about it, "Lots of grass betwixt yo' toes. Amen?
Feel real good. Don't it?"
"Likes a new pair of shoes!"
grinned the well groomed organist while holding down a note and
holding up what appeared to be a size thirteen patent leather
shoe.
The spoon offered his own
analogy to that same hellish landscape: "Like walkin' on sunshine,
Reverend!"
Willie rejoined. "Ain't no
sunshine where that road go, brudder."
"Nothin' but fire and ash!"
acknowledged the dish.
Willie knew all about eternal
flames of Perdition. He'd been there himself; or so he once
imagined. But that's not what he was talking about. The fire he
spoke of so freely and passionately just then, almost as though he
was anticipating such a purifying purging himself, was nothing les
than the cleansing flames of Purgatory. He welcomes it! regardless
of how painful the process would be, and glad for it. It was, in his
own humble and contrite opinion, necessary. And it could be found on
earth, as well as at the Gates of Heaven where the flames of
Purgatory burned in perpetuity for those who need it, and want it,
the most; including himself, which he was never too ashamed to
admit.
"Fire!" he exhaled, as the
flames flowed forth from his mouth like a river of white hot
magma.
And so together, arm in arm,
and the dish and spoon jumped through the fire until all that was
left – was gold. Number ten was as good as got. Many more would
follow.
* * *
TO PUT DOWN ON PAPER all the things Willie spoke of that cold grey
morning at the Miracle Temple and Barbecue Pit would take volumes,
and perhaps more time than the author can spare; and besides, and
you may have heard them all before. He spoke not only of fire and
Judgment, but of forgiveness as well; the two never being mutually
exclusive. In the words of the Evangelist: And we know that all
things to work together for good to them that love God, to them that
are called according to His purpose. And the words of the
Miracle-Maker fell from the sky like rain on a dry and dusty road.
And through it all, the candles on either side of the altar burned
brightly, red, yellow and blue, and in all the other fantastic
colors of the Lord.
And for the first time during
the service, the shepherd turned his back on his congregation, but
only for a moment; he would never forsake his flock. The sheep knew
what he was up to. They've seen him do it a hundred times before.
Once again, a deadly silence permeated the four walls of the Temple.
All that could be heard by then was a single note, a B-Flat,
emanating from the organ. It hung in the air for what seemed like an
eternity. Every mouth was suddenly sealed, as if hushed by the
invisible finger of God.
Kneeling on either side of the
twin candles, Willie reverently lowered his head and said a prayer
which no one else could hear. He then rose to his feet, with a
little difficulty, and slowly approached the tabernacle sitting on
top of the altar. Reaching inside, beyond the golden door, he
withdrew a small bowl filled to the brim with thinly sliced
fragments of bread. Lifting the bowl high over his head, he gave
thanks and praise, his eyes forever fixed on the crucified Lord. He
turned and placed the bowl on the altar. Then he took the cup. Again
he gave God thanks and praised. He broke the bread and, after
placing a small piece into his mouth, gave it to his deacons. He
passed the cup, and likewise they drank. When they had finished, the
Miracle-Maker turned once more to his hungry sheep and smiled.
One by one they stepped up to
the altar: young and old, the rich poor, black and white; the lame
and the lonely, the sick and the dying, the forgotten; male and
female they came, one after the other. They all came. Everyone!
Well, at least almost everyone. And there they received the greatest
miracle of all.
Willie fed them by hand, in
the tradition of the Holy Fathers. "The body of Christ," he
proclaimed before each and every tongue before him. He then offered
them the cup, which they likewise partook of in the same reverend
manner. He also laid hands on each and every one of them, anointing
their heads with oil. It was the least he could do. Some were
visibly sick: crippled with old age and arthritis; hunch-backed and
broken. Others, including some children, were clearly in need of
medical attention. There were broken arms and legs. An old man with
a cane was led to the altar by his grand-daughter who opened his
mouth with her fingers; apparently, he was deaf and blind; or
perhaps in the late stages of senility. He was smiling as he walked
away. Was he cured? Well, we just don't know. Not yet, anyway. As
Willie often admonished his anxious sheep: 'Miracles don't always
happen 'zactly when, or the way, we wants them to. Sometimes they
take time; and they's usually the best kind. Amen? Could be we don't
recognize them at foist. But God hears all our prayers, chil'runs.
And he answers them all, too! Often times He tells us to wait.
Sometimes, He just say no. Either way, we best listen... and do what
He say. Amen?
Elmo was still standing in the
back of the Temple with one foot in Heaven, the other in Hell, and a
knife in his overalls. It was a hot and cold feeling; something he
rather found disturbing and didn't particularly like. He was looking
at Regina Johnson, and thinking about his wife. He glanced over at
the turtle standing next to him. Did Sherman know what he was about
to do? The fat man seemed to be enjoying the service as much as
anyone, almost as if he'd been there before; he already appeared to
have one foot in the fire. And Oley was right there with him,
blanket and all. The knife... The knife... the raccoon kept thinking to
himself.
Before he knew what was
happening, Elmo Cotton found himself at the very end of the
communion line, right behind Sherman Dixon and Oley Johnson,
bringing up the rear. At that same moment, he realized – or maybe it
was just his imagination – that everyone in the Temple was looking
at him; including Regina Johnson who, among all the nameless faces
in the Temple, seemed to stand out most vividly. He felt awkward,
almost ashamed; but he was right where he wanted to be. Right where
he was supposed to be. He felt for the bowie knife. It was still
there. He knew what he had to do. Heaven would have to wait; he was
thinking only of himself. And he still had a boat to catch. But
there was someone else watching him as well. It was Willie Wright,
the Miracle-Maker himself.
"The body of Christ,"
pronounced the high-priest, pressing the Heavenly Host on the
outdrawn tongues of his parishioners. Likewise, he offered the cup;
all the while keeping a close eye on the Harlie's imminent
approach.
By then many of the sheep were
back in their pews, along with the choir of angels and the Celestial
orchestra, all of whom, along with the four priestly apostles were
first to receive the body and blood of the Savior. Energized by the
holy sustenance, they resumed their previous occupations of singing,
shouting, stomping, strumming, blowing, banging, waving, praising
and praying out loud, with tongues and hearts on fire:
"Gonna sing! Gonna shout!
Gonna jump and say
Alleluia! On the Judgment Day!"
Willie's nets were full, and
busting at the seams. One by one he reeled them in. Step by step the
Harlie made his way up the aisle, like a lamb being led to the
slaughter. Only this time it was the lamb that held the knife, and
the shepherd who would be sheared. But still the fisherman fished,
casting his nets, bending his poles, and doing... well, doing what
fisherman always do – they fish! It's what they do best; what
they're supposed to do. And Elmo knew that by now. He could see it
in the fisherman's eyes, through the cold murky waters, the
blackness of time and space. He was up there on the surface,
somewhere, watching and waiting. It was the same thing the glow-fish
once saw just before... And still the line moved forward.
By then the turtle had made
his way all the way up to the altar with little Oley Johnson still
perched on his shoulders. He was shaking in his shell, so it seemed,
his large heavy head heaving up and down to the rolling beat of the
drums with the boy bouncing on top of his head. Oley's mother and
sister were both lost somewhere in the crowd and could no longer be
seen, nor found. Naturally, this made the boy very nervous.
With one hand on his heart and
the other firmly gripping the wooden handle within his trousered
overalls, Elmo approached the altar. He turned his head, slightly,
looking back over the sea of black faces. They were all still
watching. He glan