Tagged: Short Story

Chapter Seven

Angelo lost his boots and jacket, threw away his trousers too, and ran, almost flew, screaming himself raw. The storm had grown in strength again, and the horrible shadow had drawn nearer. It had made a horrible sound, distorted by echo, muted by thunder. A black figure that reminded Angelo of a great spider, eight legs twitching to push the thing forward as it threw itself in the direction of its prey.

It was with tremendous relief that, as he tried to understand where he had ended up, he recognized the neighborhood where Bard lived. He ran past the little café Bard had loved and Angelo had detested, now rendered a sad little ruin of shattered glass and broken masonry. It had once been full of old people who lined up for fresh bread.

Angelo recognized the broken tower of what had once been a newsstand, the same he had bought his smokes from more than once and received dirty looks from the vendor whenever he noticed the fresh bruises on Bard.

It was with relief that he ran inside the familiar apartment building, closing the door behind him. Unable to lock it, battered as the thing had become, Angelo pushed the heavy table used by the old receptionist back when the building had one. The thing was damned heavy, and Angelo strained himself mightily to push the thing against the door and bar himself from the outside world. He curled under the desk and shivered on the cold hard ground, which at least had been dry, listening for the thing that had chased him.

It had waited outside, making a sound Angelo was sure to have misheard as clopping. It snorted impatiently but did not make to break in, content with padding about, away and then back, away and back, again driving Angelo mad with terror.

He pathetically crawled from under the heavy desk and up the flights of stairs to Bard’s apartment.

“Please,” he begged at the door, “please let me in.” And on his knees, he slammed at the door with both fists. This slowly creaked open to the darkened apartment within.

“Where the fuck are you?” Angelo demanded. Shaken as he was, he quickly took to old habits; projecting the horror into violence and visiting that on another was easy. Angelo dived into the darkness, bumping into a chair and throwing it off. Angelo blindly reached for the switch while cursing but the light wouldn’t go on. He searched for his lighter and flicked it uselessly; it had become so soaking wet it was useless. Angelo flung it away. “Say something! I know you’re hiding, you fucking pussy! Come out!”

Lightning filled the silent apartment, and Angelo saw a figure standing by the window. Again, in the dark, blinded by the flare followed the thunder. Angelo rushed to where he had seen the figure, his hands hitching to find purchase on Bard’s neck. It was with a gasp and wide eyes he was surprised by the sharp stab into his gut. Another flash. “You crazy fuck.”

Bard had ducttaped a glass shard to the end of a headless broom’s wooden pole. The improvised spear had dug deep, and held in both hands, pushing Angelo and pinning him to the ground without uttering a word. Another flash.

Bard’s left eye was missing. His hair was long, and for the first time Angelo could remember, Bard’s facial hair was fully grown. Beard and mustachios that looked grey in the half-lit night. Thunder followed.

Freezing gales dragged shards across every surface and kissed Angelo’s limbs. Prostrated, the curtains billowing from the windows, a naked, blood-stained, one-eyed Bard stood erect against the distant lights of the thunderous night. Angelo shrieked as he bled on the floor, his cries muted by the thunderstorm.

 “Cur!” Bard shouted, pointing at the bleeding Angelo. “Traitor! Villain! You judge yourself above God and men? I need not both eyes to see you for what you are!”

“What are you doing?” cried Angelo, choking in blood, dragging himself away from Bard, who stepped forward, naked, his mutilated eye socket almost aglow.

“Silence!” Thunder and lightning overlapped. Hail pelted both men and washed away glass shards and broken furniture. Such strength the ice and wind had that Angelo was pushed across the floor; when this ceased Bard had a stage set for himself with the storm as his background. Naked but for the quilt over his shoulders, Bard pointed again at Angelo.

“Bitter is the wyrm’s poison, and wyrm you be!” Bard yelled even louder. “Wyrm! I punish thee! Shed thy liar’s pelt and return to the dirt that birthed you! Woe!” Bard uttered the word with a voice deeper than he had ever known, a command echoed from ancient caverns in his lungs, an echo chamber revived in his blood by an anger he refused to keep buried in the soil of his body, no longer an artifact but a living thing. “WOE!”

Angelo bled profusely, and nearly fainted. To his surprise, he felt himself numb to the pain, feared this was his end, only to have this followed by a terrible itch. Unable to control himself, screaming wordlessly, he tore at his clothes and his own skin; undressing himself, scratching until the skin was raw, torn, and bleeding.

“Crawl on your belly for all of eternity! Return ye to the dank pits of mud and shit in which you were spawned! Return! Return!”

Bone shattered; flesh peeled back as a fat undulating shape burst from Angelo’s gut. A great serpent heaved and hissed out of him, falling to the floor, shedding Angelo, leaving behind a withered mess as life escaped from him into this new form.

“Until the hammer lands on your skull, until men and gods must again walk the twilight roads! Remember you the form of man, doomed as you are to be a beast! Now and forever!”

Amber eyes cut with black slits, a thick rope of a body, covered in toxic green scales and a belly as white as a fish’s, Angelo hissed and slithered away into the darkness. He exited the scene through the apartment door he had left open, sliding down the flights of stairs and leaving behind him a trail of gore. His own screams receded to the back of his mind. If he had still a human body, if he dared even imagine himself within the new brain that housed him, Angelo would be wrapped in the serpent’s coil, those sharp fangs buried deep in his throat to pump dreadful poison into his blood.

Within the serpent he had become, he prayed for release, for forgetfulness, or at least for death—but none came. He wormed away, into the night, full of hunger. Angelo’s lizard brain and human mind only synched when they heard thunder. There! A heavy step, a gallop, drew near. Fearing to be trampled by a horse, the wyrm escaped to the bushes, and wormed into the ground. It would know the darkness of the tunnels well, and return to them to grow fat until the twilight dawned again upon the race of men.

Bard did not laugh, and this triumph brought him no warmth. It was with grim resignation he drew sigil upon sigil, and tore at the human remains for supplies with which to weave his next spell.

“I stand under the tree

Mighty branches

Parched roots

Take me winds

On raven wings

Carry me home!”

And a tree grew from the center of the sigil circle, hosted in the made-up spear and consuming the remains. The walls shook, both the ground and ceiling gave way to a great wooden hulk; with blackened branches, it pierced every body of those unfortunates who had been sleeping in their beds. Flesh was pierced by the branches and torn apart. Skin rendered apart and fused to the bark, blood absorbed into the tree to grow into its sap.

Soon it stood, massive, as the apartment building shuddered and all occupants were consumed and all they owned was scattered. Read leaves budded from dark branches, roots grew fat and coiled through the ground. Whooping, naked, danced Wotan reborn. All-father, old one-eye, alive within the hearts of men.

And he watches.

And waits.

Chapter Six

Wotan raised his arms, T-posing, and his skin became coarse. It had become bark, and Wotan grew and grew, his swollen head projecting forward, his body growing tumorous, expanding along with the wooden nods that split the bark-skin, along with the branches which sprouted leaves of red and green.

Change upon change, cycle upon cycle, Wotan was Yggdrasill, a nexus of myths, and kneeling at the roots was Bard as the next all-father. He opened his shirt, still drenched with rain, which had since ceased to reveal a starry mantle for which Yggdrasill reached out, meaning to touch those echoes of long-gone, distant bodies.

Bard exposed his chest and his old surgical scars. Thought and Memory, Wotan’s ravens, did not wait. Both dove in and clawed their way inside a screaming Bard. They nested within him and lived within him.

He had drunk the nectar, he had sacrificed his eye, he housed within him the elements of the human soul: the building blocks of knowledge, the fountain of art and science. Yggdrasill vanished, and despite his pain, Bard followed.

A confused and hurt receptionist found a broken statue, torn to rubble, glass shards everywhere, ragged clothes and blood. She was nearly sick at the sight of it but could not find the stranger’s body. She returned to her post to call the police, who did not answer, and an ambulance.

The storm had raised the town as if Indra himself had driven his chariot from the heavens to punish the wicked. No bad karma went unpunished that day; buildings had been toppled, cars dragged down the streets like barges.

Women wept for their lost sons, firefighters worked overtime pulling the living and the dead from the sodden ruins. Sirens played without stopping as miserable hosts took to pilgrimage towards high ground.

Angelo, like all good rats, always knew when a ship was sinking. He had been trapped with a host of drug-addled party-goers in a high-rise. The power had run out in the last hour, the toilets had threatened to flood, and the party people were thoroughly bummed out. Angelo skipped ship after draining the dregs of a bottle of expensive booze. He made the long descent down those seemingly endless staircases with anger in his heart, curses on his lips, and a bladder he had to stop and empty halfway down.

Not the first time he had relieved himself in a corner he ought not to.

“Stupid elevator,” Angelo muttered, as if the metal cage had a mind of its own. “Stupid shit. Fucking idiots.” Blaming others for his own excesses was intuitive and easy. His stench, his alcoholism and substance abuse, how he had become unable to get an erection, and his own piss splashing and soiling his boots. All these things and more were the fault of others; he was above them, and the world.

He was Angelo and he could do no wrong. Mistakes and consequences were the domains of fools and weaklings. Angelo was smarter than the smartest people he had met and had the insides of a man of steel. His withered muscles were not the product of a sedentary life and poor nutrition, his teeth which had become loose in his gums as of late were just so in his imagination; when his cock went limp it was the whore’s fault for not knowing how to do their job right.

There was something semi-sobering to the cold, moist air drafts and the reverse-Sisyphean exercise of descending those endless stairs. They shook under his feet from the strength of the thunder outside. Angelo stopped when a sound caught his ear, something behind him.

He turned to find a boy. He held a horse plush under one arm and a toy hammer in the other; rhythmically, the boy bounced the hammer on his leg to the thunder and the lightning. His toy horse looked strange, and to Angelo’s blurry vision, it seemed this plush had too many legs for a horse.

“What?” asked Angelo. He had always hated children.

“My father gave me his horse,” the boy said in a strange foreign accent, “and told me I could play with my hammer.”

Angelo spat in disgust. “I’m sure he did. My old man liked watching me play with my hammer too. Have fun with that, little freak.” Angelo resumed his descent, one unsteady step at a time, but the boy’s voice followed him.

“I used to have two goats, but they’re gone now. Mother kept father’s wolves.”

“Shut up!”

“I killed a snake once,” was the last thing Angelo heard the boy say. Rather than risk humiliating himself by stumbling up the stairs to slap the child into silence, he descended, his only light the flashes of lightning.

It seemed the worst of the winds and rain had come and gone, or perhaps he was in the eye of the storm. He was still hit by the cold and rain, but just enough to sober up. Flooded streets and broken buildings, river crossing with rain water up to his calves, Angelo began to realize he needed to find refuge close by.

The cold was eating at him already, his clothes soaking up and becoming heavier. Without the adrenaline, drugs and booze to burn in his gut, the pleasant numbing was turned into a chilling death growing in his bones.

It was when Angelo looked behind him and seemed to see some looming shadow following him that he began to panic. His steps splashed hurriedly across the haunted streets of a town that looked like it had submerged from the river. More than once, Angelo swore he saw massive catfishes break the surface of the rivers, greedy and hungry enough to try and eat a man. Angelo picked his directions at random, pushed back from a path by rubble or sudden thunder making windows shatter and rain glass shards that threatened to gouge the soles of his feet.

Chapter Five

He found what he had expected in such a museum. Uniforms, sabers, guns. Plaques decorated these objects to instruct visitors on the history and meanings of devices and colors, what years they belonged to, and the materials these things were made of.

Despite the black and white pictures and oil paintings, they presented war cleaned, sterile. Numbers of the dead and dying created the effect opposite to what one would expect: a sleepiness, a boredom rather than sadness and outrage at the loss of life. The shameful displays referencing the book burnings, camps and the common valleys appeared to have been temporarily moved, leaving behind only these tame passing mentions. It was left to other museums to fully display these horrors; here more conservative interests had been served.

To some other places were confined the image of the people who sought only to live, to become themselves, to love and grow. At the time, it seemed that the war museum was no place for mourning, or anything that could curb the fever of the next batch of human fodder.  

Bard worked his way through recent centuries into distant eras. An open semi-circular area displayed the Teutonic relics of brass swords and wooden shields, crude spears and mantles of fur, and at the center of it all stood like a monolith, the statue to Wotan.

Runic symbols were carved on the brims of his starry mantle. In one hand he held a spear and in the other a horn from which water spouted into a fountain. Upon each horn of his heavy helmet sat a raven; his long hair and beard were as clouds in a storm. Bard touched his face to feel his five o’clock shadow. He had failed to grow anything more substantial but this much had been enough, until Angelo mocked him for it.

“You look like a teenager.”

Angelo played it off as a joke, but his eyes were ice shards that betrayed the warmth of his body. Bard wasn’t allowed to feel comfortable or relaxed, to lower his guard. There was something of the magician to the act, almost a hypnosis, the power of making Bard believe every sharp cut and piercing thorn was always his own fault, or his imagination.

 Bard rubbed his wrists, haunted by the memory of Angelo’s hands holding them too tight, leaving marks he could feel even after they were gone.

“I know you like it; how about making me feel good for once?

“You’re always so greedy. Why is everything about you?”

There weren’t enough pages in the world to contain the poison poured on Bard’s ear, day and night, driving him mad.

“What good are you,” Bard wondered out loud, “your one good eye turned away from us? All we do is suffer and drag ourselves through the glass shards and the mud.

“I tried to push him away before and always let him back. I’m all alone now, dependent on the kindness of others more than ever before.” Bard held back from spitting at the foot of the statue. “Now you’re coming after me too? Didn’t I bleed enough? Didn’t I shed enough flesh?

Poured my soul into those pages until my veins were dry. What else do you want from me? Spewing your shit on my books isn’t enough? I gave it all.” Tears stung Bard’s eyes. “Now you’re trying to kill me. Why? Because I was weak? Because I wasn’t enough?”

Bard’s voice echoed in the empty hall. Lights flickered and muted thunder sounded outside, lightning flashing its blue hue through the glass. It was like a great hand crushing the poet’s lungs. Bard gagged and released the words from within, shouting:

“Talk to me!”

Thunder exploded with such force it was as if an earthquake had threatened to shake down the museum. Bard’s back arched and he gasped in pain and ecstasy, his mind carried away from his body. On another continent, and across six countries, twelve-year-old boys were armed and made to kill or die. Bard choked on dust and smoke, deafened by screams and blinded by flames. They lived and died, the young soldiers killing and raping like their adult counterparts. Tyrants touched bloody hands to sweat-drenched foreheads and entombed with fake pride:

“You are now a man. My son and pride.”

The tyrant repeated this litany, and behind him came another tyrant, and another in endless succession, rewarding with blood those who survived, and throwing the rotting corpses of the fallen into a ditch, limbs spewing from within the crevice like drowning men desperate not to sink under the waves.

Standing above them, Wotan watched. The one-eyed bastard looked different, his skin darker, his hair longer, his beard beaded. The smoke of his cigar blended with the ashen cloud of war. In his right hand he held a rifle like a long club, or a spear, leaning on it as he grimly monitored the endless slaughter.

“Why are you smiling, you bastard?”

Wotan pointed, and Bard followed the direction of the accusing finger of God to meet a march of unarmed people. They waved white flags, and above them glowed a symbol of two hands holding each other in a sign of brotherhood. One-eye smiled as the flags became red with blood. Without warning, the peace marchers were torn apart under hails of bullets, like gazelles in the mouths of crocodiles, body parts picked mid-air by birds of prey.

And as Bard looked the old man in the eye, the old man simply pointed away again. The world rushed by, red dust, rust, and blood taking to the air as they formed an oceanic tide that smelled of copper. Canon fire made for thunderstorms, war engines like beating hearts illuminated by explosions. From the war marched mechanical hounds, bright burning eyes, scouts for a thousand-thousand armies.

War had no end.

Each time the skies cleared, Bard was allowed sight of the broken world and piled up dead. Trapped amongst them were the dying, their parched throats wheezing cries for help that went ignored. Bard could not look away, his eyes protected only by the unsettled dust; curtains that would part now and again to reveal greater horrors. Atop a hill stood Wotan transformed anew, like a shadow with the burning light of his cigar reflected off his one eye, parting the seas of bloodshed, holding a staff—no, a harpoon— with which he stabbed the ground and shouted:

“From the heart of Hel, I stab at thee!”

Mortally wounded, Gaia screamed and wept blood, that vital substance surging like a geyser, forming a tidal wave that rose so high it threatened to drown all of humanity. Bard wiped the blood from his eyes and saw Wotan changed yet again, a pale corpse-like man, naked but for his mantel decorated with runes and stars, wearing a conic magician’s hat, holding the caduceus in one hand and a small metal globe in the other.

“Bodies are but corn,

One must harvest, scythe in hand.

Within me is the season of reaping.”

“Shut up,” Bard demanded, recognizing the words. He had many more such poems in his anti-war book. A book co-opted by those who exalted war and understood not the mockery, saluting the work, stealing it from its context, denying its author his identity.

“I am a maestro,

And this, my symphony of blood.”

“I was mocking you,” Bard shouted at the apparition. “Everything you represent; I never meant for any of this.”

Splashing in the blood, descending to Bard until they were at eye level, Wotan pushed the sphere through the air. This held itself suspended facing Bard. Not a globe, the world, but a demon core.

The following blast devoured sight and sound in a white flash. By the time Bard had recovered and he stood again, his sight and hearing recovered, he found himself back at the museum. The statue had been crushed to rubble, the glass ceiling had caved in, and the rain and wind threatened to drag him asunder. Wotan himself stood unarmed, wearing only his cloak, two dark figures circling the air.

“Enough, enough!” Bard spewed bile and spit. “I’m going to fucking kill you!”

Wotan keened madly and ran to Bard, in a room so briefly ago filled with weapons from wall to wall, Bard found himself lacking for weapons. He slipped and fell to the ground as the mad god threw himself on top of Bard, hands clawing at Bard’s neck and face.

Bard pushed Wotan from him but could not dislodge the god from atop him. They scrambled across the rain-sodden floor, and cutting himself on something sharp, Bard screamed and hit Wotan across the face with a bloodied hand. Wotan recoiled, more surprised than hurt, and in a flash of a moment, Bard realized what he had cut himself on. He drew it quickly to himself, unthinkingly. A great shard of glass, jagged, the point as sharp as a spear’s.

Bard stabbed upwards just as Wotan redoubled his attack, descending on him. That piece of glass as long as a grown man’s hand slid right under a rib, piercing a lung.

With the glass stuck in him, Wotan gasped—breathless—then clasped Bard’s hand in his. Bard hissed as the glass cut into his palm. Wotan on his knees, Bard half lying down, the god had the shard pulled out just enough that he could make Bard drag the impromptu blade to cut an upturned halfmoon-shaped wound under his breast. Before Bard could understand what was happening, Wotan guided Bard’s hand further. He plucked the glass out from his left breast to draw another such cut under his right. To Bard’s horror, with nothing but a small grunt, Wotan finished the grim task, releasing Bard’s hand to stand over him, his cloak gone. The old wretch swayed on his feet, blood pouring down his sides.

Wotan waited patiently like a statue and Bard, shaking and sweating, could only utter, “Why?” The old god worked his lips and his jaw, chewing for a long half minute. It was as if Wotan would speak for the first time in centuries, crunching pebbles long lodged between his teeth.

“In his body,” he recited, “holy, hides the knowledge. Heavenly alchemy, transmutation.

“Spirit made man. God in flesh.”

Bard was stunned and continued where Wotan had stopped: “Woman, man. Within my body, I’m simply becoming.

“I wrote that,” Bard said in disbelief. Of all the things God could have said to him, never had Bard dreamt of having his own words recited. He continued, “They think I was born another. One nearly wished it so. All-father, inhabit your son.”

Bard fitted the pieces. Terrible parallels were drawn, reflections that could never be dispelled once scried in the dark glass of the world’s suffering.

“Hold not your secrets,” Bard recalled out loud, “I bleed at the foot of the tree.”  Bard turned the bloody shard on himself. “Half-blind.”

The pain was horrible beyond what he had imagined. The glass felt so cold it burned against the mush of Bard’s left eye, pale liquid and blood flowing out of his socket. Bard screamed as he dug with the glass and pulled out the mangled piece of himself. Before it hit the ground, a raven plucked the eye in its beak, mid-flight, and separated the thing from Bard completely.

Kindly, careful, Wotan took the glass from Bard’s hands, and caressed his wounded face. The bleed eased and the pain was numbed a bit. Man and God looked upon each other. Only time separated them as one became the other, one twilight closing its final chapter so the next could begin.

“I should have called her while I had the chance,” Bard said, tired and sad.

Wotan nodded, and held the back of Bard’s neck, and drew him nearer until their foreheads touched. The raven returned with a friend, and the pair flew in circles around the scene.

Once upon a time, Bard could have written a scene like this. He preferred poetry to prose, but his one dive into a novel had not been a complete failure. He had called it Your Body in Mine, and it had been full of dreams that blended with reality. 

He wondered if he was dreaming then.