Marshsong

  MARSHSONG

  By Nato Thompson

  Marshsong

  ©2017 by Nato Thompson

  ISBN: 978-0-578-45998-1

  Published by Nato Thompson

  Cover image by Theresa Rose

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior written permission from Nato Thompson except for the inclusion of quotations in a review.

  Dedicated as strange as it sounds, to Occupy Wall Street, my mother, father, bird-winged brother, my child who holds his namesake, and to my life-affirming love Theresa.

  May our dreams find their way back into the world.

  Chapter 1

  Isabella woke up. She was small. Her brain was big. Sometimes it felt like a melon stapled to a leaf. But she couldn’t help it. She was just ahead of everything. It didn’t matter. She woke up the same as anyone—some strange drumming in her head, some peculiar space between fantasy and reality and then vaboom, life in the most peculiar iteration. Yes, the curtain opens. There begins the story. She wakes from a slumber without dreams.

  Just as the sun kisses goodbye the passing plane of the earth, Isabella’s very black eyes blinked open and stared across the riverbed where the glittering dance of fireflies played amidst the mangroves and salt grass. The air hummed electric with mosquitos, dragonflies, and wetland toads, burping and whizzing their saturated symphony. Isabella rose up straight off her mattress and just as she so often did, stomped out knee-high into the Aliber River letting her feet squish heavily in the mud. The silt rose up through her toes and the sensation of soil on flesh pleased her immensely. Isabella felt free for one of the first times in her life. He wasn’t around. That was that.

  She was in one of those odd moments where time stood still. For so long, she had possessed a tangible fear (a veritable backpack that she carried around), but that weight no longer existed. It was gone. Gone like the sun that had just tipped its hat to the moon. What was once was no longer. It felt good, she told herself.

  The staccato buzz of the marsh hummed on without care. The world, it seemed, cared not whether she was free or in a cage and she loved it nonetheless. It would go on and on until the moon and the earth collided again together to make a clumsy orb. She stared into the night and the night stared back with envy. Her eyes were much blacker and darker than anything it could provide.

  Fennel was back in the cave already, scrubbing away in the tub. She could hear him humming to himself a curious narcissistic melody. A strange bird he was. He worked feverishly on his fingernails and then moved with great determination to every inch of his pale frail frame. His top hat, cane, and coattails hung on a peg and Isabella shook her head at what an odd dandy he seemed to be.

  She headed back to the cave. They were twins, it was true, tied by some biological bond that made one wonder about nature versus nurture. It mattered not between them. He was a song and she was a lyric. She didn’t care. She just needed space.

  The twins prepared for their evening ventures locked in their thoughts with Fennel crooning and Isabella wondering. A ritualistic choreography, they exited the cave and entered their boat at the same time. They pushed themselves off the sand shore and slid like duck feathers into the black wet. Their small oak boat carried inside its diminutive hull two pieces of technology whose cranks and gears spoke of a time before the world had gone digital. A brand new record player sat in the corner near Fennel where they played records of gypsy songs—the jangling of bells, the strumming of mandolins and the melodic howling of women whose lives were full of magical sorrow. Isabella would crank the film projector, which projected black and white grainy images of birds hovering in the air over cities full of train cars and the bustle of people going to work, their day-to-day grind becoming a strange sad opera on the back of the Aliber River flickering in front of them.

  This was their land, a hovering aroma slightly on the air and less on the water. The air was thick with wet and the night beckoned them on. They were comfortable here. They laughed in regal appreciation knowing that as routine as it all was, the unexpected, the tragedy of it all, was all that could make them smile.

  Their boat slid wet as oil across the water where the marshes beckoned them. Alive with the frenetic buzz of insects and the humid sweat of ragweed and Manzanita, the swamps cradled them as they moved gently downstream. Fennel paddled soft as gentle night, the wood on the oars barely skimming the water making the slightest ripple along the river’s arched back. They glided toward the city that time forgot—past the drunkards and harlots, past the neon signs and the compost bins, past the patisseries and eggplant bushels. The gleaming of the gas lamps gradually peeked their way through the southern Cypress groves. The sound of carriage wheels and the occasional guffaw of a person having too good a time entered their extraordinarily acute ears. And most of all the smell, the combination of fetid dissolving vegetable matter, poorly mixed colognes and the not so faint hint of upturned sewage told them that their bodies would soon be again haunting Barrenwood.

  They docked their boat at Le Chevalier Noir. Fennel was dressed to perfection in his finest black suit. Everything he ever wore was black. His overly emphasized cravat billowed out below his small tucked chin. His tailored pants pressed perfectly against his thin frame. His short black hair was slightly greased and combed tight against his boyish head. His face was pale and resolute. A look of contempt shown on his lips, but faded as they pulled into port. Isabella stood slightly shorter than Fennel and her visage was just the faintest bit scrappier. Her face equaled his in its pale qualities and her hair was short underneath her silk cloak. At present, her mind was swimming in a pond with petal-winged gnats and wispy legged skimmers. Heinrich grabbed the rope Fennel threw and pulled them against the dock.

  “Good evening, monsieur and mademoiselle,” said Heinrich, making a customary bow.

  “Good evening, Heinrich. Expecting us?” said Fennel as he assisted his sister onto the dock.

  “It is your customary time, sir. I see you have a new phonograph.”

  “Isabella was getting very irritated with the last one. It tended to fade in and out.”

  “Well, it looks absolutely charming in your boat. I would have you know, Mr. Fennel, that the Barrenwood Festival Auxiliary Planning Meeting is coming up soon.”

  Fennel smiled and leapt on the dock. His feet landed solid and he twirled upon landing. “Now that is the kind of information I want to hear, my good man. You are ever worth your keep, dear Heinrich.”

  “Very well, sir. Shall we go?” said Heinrich, motioning toward the restaurant.

  “Yes.”

  Isabella headed toward the restaurant first and Fennel looked upon her. Her cape dragged behind her—her fragile figure like chalk in between the giant dark folds of her robe, her steps so articulated, her little boots so sure. Fennel smirked at the sight of his sister’s steps.

  “With such class,” he thought, “even being as little as she is she makes innocent Heinrich nervous.”

  Heinrich pulled at the ends of his moustache. His Turkish eyes were small grains of pepper below wiry, bushy eyebrows. Fennel patted Heinrich on the back and handed him an envelope. Heinrich smiled graciously and led them to their table.

  Le Chevalier Noir was their favorite establishment. Besides the fact that it was in convenient proximity to the Aliber River, the clientele was generally visiting from abroad. The local elite tended to frequen
t establishments in the Calliope District. It was equally understood by both that in order to eat in peace they would need a comfortable anonymity (with the customary sybaritic amenities, of course). Their corner table sat next to the roaring fire, gargoyle fountain and the pungent odor of meals yet to be consumed. Out the window, they could watch the crocodiles peek their yellow dead eyes out of the rippled river and the meat traders make their rounds in their ragtag ferries.

  “So, what shall it be, my dear brother?” asked Isabella.

  “Spinach ravioli,” said Fennel, having trouble focusing on the menu. “Tonight is a night for the ravioli. Wandering tasty delicacies floating about wishing to be contained. I sense out there in that hot, smarmy night small decadent spinach people.”

  “What if tonight is the night of the light bitter green salad with vinegar and oil? Something more slight and less obvious.”

  “Yuck, Isabella! Don’t be so vulgar. I can’t stand bitter greens, and plus, I want something overbearing. Someone wild with life. Not some sophomoric riddle. I want a little package full of zest. Little dolmas, grape leaves and surprises.”

  She laughed, her small white teeth glistening over her grape juice. “I like that as well. There is definitely something appealing in those dolmas. They are like tapas but like a burrito. Are you feeling Arab?”

  “Sort of. I think I am always sort of feeling that way. I always wished you and I were Arab.”

  “Me, too. I could see you as a bratty Arab boy. All full of tricks and silent laughter.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid this flat white existence is not nearly as aesthetic as I had hoped. You would make a terrific Arab girl. Like Rana. She’s very much like you.”

  “Yes, well, her problem is she is far too wild. And well, she is Turkish and not Arab.”

  “Well, of course, Isabella. I mean I would only take it so far. She obviously isn’t the illustrious you.”

  “Thank you. Comparisons don’t seem to work well with us.”

  “They simply require a modicum of impossibility. Heinrich, I would like the spinach ravioli and Isabella will have . . . dolmas?”

  “No, I will have the minestrone soup and more grape juice.”

  “As you wish,” said Heinrich as he took the menus and made his way back to the kitchen.

  They were in good spirits that evening. It was not in full measure due to the acquisition of the phonograph, though Fennel was very pleased with its snug fit in the corner of the boat. There was more. Marty McGuinn had not been at home for some time now. His business trip to the Muddy Carnival had apparently been extended. Not having to stop by his shack was a welcome weight off their minds to say the least. His absence left the twins with far more money than usual and an opportunity to get to know each other, and themselves, without much interference with all his to-do items. He always had them off doing something or other for some peculiar investment or misaligned plot that never truly made sense to them. They were his cogs in a machine that made no sense. At least that was how they saw it.

  With Marty gone they were able to sort of prance about. The world was a weekend and the world remained vast. Possibilities were available in every side street, every window, and every door. And like all sudden freedoms, its reception for each remained a strange new emotion. For Fennel, this gap in time lurched forward like a hunting call—a great bellowing horn that resounded across the coal smoked skies of Barrenwood. For Isabella, however, the sudden freedom had hit her in the face. The taste of time fell on her lips bittersweet. She was startled and confused by the feelings it stirred in her. Yes, there was pleasure for sure, but in her freedom, she found she knew very little of what she wanted. Her lack of clarity left her a bit beside herself.

  Marty’s absence obviously allowed more freedom to experiment. Fennel had already managed to drive the Laughing Bowler’s to drink, he had reworked the art commissioner’s plans in his favor, spent some time in the Pedigree District (which was a place that had always fascinated him) and was all the while slowly developing a new toxin with the help of mad Derrilous. Under ordinary circumstances, he couldn’t have achieved so much in a year’s time.

  It was a time when their limbs were allowed to grow. The rain of spring was nurturing their chittering roots. It was as though the gardener had left the Bonsai tree to its own frantic devices. For Fennel, such freedom meant a proverbial license to ill while Isabella allowed for proper distillation. She was courting her own pores, letting them open like lichen and spread across the husk of Barrenwood. Slower, measured, precise, her assault would be an adroit vanishing act. Poof! She looked at Fennel wiping his plum lips. What a caustic cherub he was. His cowlick slightly sticking up, resisting the hair grease lathered on his head.

  He gave her a wink and whispered, “Shacker.” He laughed. “Shacker! Yes, of that I am convinced. Down by the rail station there is that anarchist shacker. I saw him collecting bottles and cans the other day with his ragtag shopping cart. You can hear him for miles really. He is a loud so-and-so. He’s the kind of guy that is always in a fight with himself. Out loud, no less!”

  “He sounds like you if you ask me,” smirked Isabella and she meant it. In her opinion, Fennel was a hair’s breath away from a homeless lunatic.

  “I don’t collect neither bottle nor can, my dear,” said Fennel correcting her. “Listen, no need to be smarmy here. This shacker is our guy. Tonight is a night for a shacker. I’m sure of it. See, I was thinking, Izzy, I was ruminating on the qualities of hermits and then I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind. Shackers are brilliant! Are you with me?”

  “Slow down. You are doing it again,” snapped Isabella. She was used to her brother interrupting her thoughts with incoherent blubbering.

  “So, so sorry. I just get carried away,” he laughed and scooted his chair closer to hers. “Anyway, I am now coming to see the connection between beavers and shackers. They both have this kind of burrowing and biting and hiding thing going for them. As you know, I have always believed that on a few occasions the animal world slips over to the human world and we find ourselves with odd hybrids. Thus, introduce the shacker. The man who, unbeknown to even himself, is a relative of sorts with that gnawing creature called the beaver. You do follow me.”

  “Let me think on that,” Isabella paused and swallowed. Most of what Fennel talked about was a prolonged rhetorical question, but she enjoyed playing the game. “I follow you in that you believe that homeless people and beavers have a commonality. But I would simply say that you are talking about a reclusive tendency that could be found all across the animal kingdom. I mean it isn’t as though this particular shacker actually gnaws on wood. The comparison falls apart rather quickly.”

  “Well, they sort of gnaw. I mean they can often have a sort of nervous tick that has their mouths moving this way and that. A constant chewing kind of thing. It is most probably muscular. Some kind of ancient memory of past beaver lives evincing itself in their peculiar behavior. And I also really do believe that there is much more to a beaver than just their biting and chewing. It is a mistake to reduce them to their most unfortunate front teeth. I mean they are also nature’s architects. You have to give them that. A dam? A beaver makes a dam. That is amazing if you ask me. Yes, clever little bastards.” He gave his fork a tap on her plate.

  “But would you really call a shacker an architect. I mean, yes, this particular shacker did build an extremely unsafe house of discarded wood out along the tracks, but the human corollary of the beaver would be an actual architect wouldn’t it?“ asked Isabella. She really needed to stop this soon.

  Fennel stared at her—his eyes, like hers, pools of squid ink, unfathomable. “Ha! You’re right. But you know, there is nevertheless something special about this ol’ bloke and I gotta feeling he will give us our fill of water for the eve. I now declare that I will withhold judgment until this evening's chips are down!”

  Isabella squinted at Fennel. He was either too clever or too loose with his psyche’s bungee cords, but in
the chaos that was his head he did have a sixth sense for the water. He was a bloodhound for enticing undercurrents. He knew the kind of person that would crack under their mutual pressure and unleash a flow of delicious liquids.

  “So it is to the rail station, I suppose?” she said, tossing one of Fennel’s ravioli into her mouth.

  “Most astute, Iz the Wiz. To the rail station where we can hear the engines churn and smell the coal wind blow! I’m excited. I love hopping aboard. That is just too much. Please, let me handle the directorial requirements. Just follow my lead tonight. I am feeling o’ so at one with my twittering wits!”

  They finished their meal and were out on the street. The campanile struck midnight as they hit the road. They smiled. They enjoyed the clanging of the bell. It startled people in their sleep and shook them as they walked. The city’s clumsy inhabitants were not yet allowed to get the proper rest they so desirously needed.

  The streets of Barrenwood were wet. It was the rainy season. Fennel immediately opened his umbrella and wiped the smoke hazed raindrops off his Chesterfield lapel. Isabella kicked the puddles as she walked alongside him. She gazed at the littered road. What a grumbling dump this town could be. Sidewalk salesmen, corner deputies, and red-socked laundry girls all scurried in the hubbub of night. The oyster salesman was hard at work squirting lemon onto the alien innards of the mollusks—their shells a stormy sea blue—his coarse dirty scarred hands against smooth lift off lemon and the lugubrious beckoning of oyster meat.

  The Pig and Onion bar across the way was boisterous with the sound of eye-patched men lifting mugs, clink, clank and slurp as the beer hit the hardwood sawdust floors, throaty, raspy laughter, the ping pong clong of the Kalahari pinball game in the corner and the flipper catapulting steel balls into resilient flamingo bumpers. The evening clouds radiated a dull orange that reflected the city's recent gas lamp industrial victory. Bourgeois bearded men in bow ties were toasting the bubbly somewhere out there in recognition of the invisible hand. Above the twins a billboard shouted, Raise your glass, the world is watching!