Then the grim phantom stepped slowly into the square – at least, ah guess that’s what happened – ah mean, well – what ah mean is that ah mahself had been temporarily arrested by the increasingly swollen tides of terror, and, well, ah don’t know exactly, but ah lost some minutes to deadtime – have ah told you about deadtime? Yes? No? Well ah did lose some time to mah other sel… shit, forget it – suddenly ah took control of mah consciousness again, alerted by the smashing of glass, and ah found mahself crouching behind the drinking fountain with Death, the wraith in the dirty blanket, still in mah sight.
And, well – Hell’s pale agent – that is, Death, the king of terrors – yes, that frightful, formless, faceless phantom, Death – yes, Death – why, Death had entered the circle of yellow light that flooded the sepulchre and the monument – but not only that – Death, Life’s hooded hangman and time’s earnest executioner – yes, pale, pale Death had grown two flesh-and-blood, skin-and-bone hands. And what is more, those two mortal hands nursed a curious bundle the shape and size of a large loaf of bread. Wrapped around the bundle was the dry but rotting robe of the Prophet, Jonas Ukulore. Ah could see from where ah squatted that the glass display case of the sepulchre that housed the crown, sceptre and robe worn by the Prophet had been broken into – ah remembered the sound of breaking glass which awoke me – and, having compared the size of the hole in the glass to that of the rocks that lined the side of the sepulchre, it was clear to me that whoever or whatever it was that busied itself so openly in that circle of spilled light was no cat burglar or professional thief – no – nor was it Death – o no sir – o madam ah say no – it weren’t the Grim Ripper – it sure weren’t Death.
Ah watched this fraud – this wretch masquerading as the final Enigma, its face still hidden in the shelter of the hood – place the bundle on the second step of the monument. And with hands now free of their burden, the impostor began to execrate the heavens. And ah noticed that one hand seemed to be bent out of shape, deformed. Ah could not help but wonder what freakish deformities could be concealed within the hood and the sackcloth, to allow so readily the display of such a hideous appendage.
And suddenly the hill of sackcloth and the two mismatched hands were joined by a voice – and it was a boy’s voice – and it was a boy’s voice – a terrible screeching soprano.
And though ah could not make out a single word of his tirade, muffled as it was by the drumming rain, ah could tell by the furious pace of its delivery and the mad raking gestures of his hands that this boy was something of a kindred spirit – a fellow outcast, a brother in pain. And – well, you can imagine the excitement that ah experienced at having found someone to share the strafes and stripes of public rebuke – a companion to cling to through the long dark night and through the longer, darker day – someone ah could plough mah lonely furrow beside – a companion through the laughter and the tears – in short, a friend – and ah awaited an opportunity to present mahself without him becoming scared and taking flight.
But at that very moment, the light in Doc Morrow’s surgery window lit up, followed by the porch light spilling on to the street.
The stranger, having ceased his ranting, leaned back against the monument, thoroughly drained. And it was only when the doctor emerged from his surgery and stood on the edge of the porch, probing the rain with a flashlight, that the boy in the dun-coloured blanket began to limp painfully down the steps. As one crabbed claw pulled back the hood and he cast a furtive glance in the direction of the doctor, a strip of tell-tale light betrayed a woefully disfigured countenance.
It took me a full minute before ah could put a name to that savaged face.
‘That ain’t no goddamn boy!’ ah thought, as ah watched the figure move away. ‘That ain’t no goddamn little boy!’
Doc Morrow crossed the street and entered the park, so ah was forced to remain crouched behind the water fountain, while… while… while Death left by the side-entrance.
Dressed in a big blue rubber mac and matching hat, the doctor walked toward the monument, picking up his pace a little more with each approaching step. He was running by the time he reached it.
Stooping, he scooped up the bundle wrapped in the Prophet’s robe that had been dumped on the steps. Then, hunching over the bundle, he urgently retraced his steps back to the surgery.
By the time ah stumbled on to Maine, it was pitch black and pissing down, and though ah searched the northern end of Maine ah could not find her again…
Ah returned to the shack alone, where ah passed the night in restless pursuit of her memory – of when her face was more beautiful than anything ah had ever seen.
And ah cursed mahself for having lost her.
And ah cursed mahself for having lost her again.
XVIII
Euchrid sat in the cold cloisters of solitude, eyes screwed shut. Cut adrift in a plethora of sensation, he surrendered wholly and completely to the murk of his chosen sanctum: The Swampland.
He heard the shrinking corset of kudzu bruise the mighty main-stem of the cedar tree. He listened and heard the tree’s ancient limbs groan as it surrendered to the killing woven vine. He heard, too, the harping song of the tarantula, crouched in a corner, plucking each dew-dipped string of his web. Nor did the crackle of leaves in a stump’s hollow heart go unnoticed. Or the bones and beaks of dead birds. The mad scrabble of a trapped wing. Eggs opening. Nests burning. A tumbling clump of fur. A dislodged feather. A squall. A trickle. A shrill.
He listened now to the sound of his own body in bondage, his spine and costal crumbling, his tested plexus straining, his innards’ hissance and the business of his skin and bones all moaning, all collared, all grounded upon the grim pin of existence.
Then he asked for his angel and henceforth an effluence of ultramarine light spilled across every log and knoll, each stump and knot and knurl, the blue luminary swamping the nook and the crack, the crack and the burrow, every dark and squalid hollow, each and every bog or mire or wallow, from that which is deep to that which is shallow; Euchrid’s world, all echo and rhyme, all touched by shivers of hyacinth light.
The angel, now at his fingers’ trembling tips, hovered on coral pinions, and her pinking robe of slippery silk billowed with upfanned air. Her dark tresses tumbled down her breasts, swollen now and heaving to his touch. Her lips just slightly parted as she came bending forward to plant a dizzying kiss upon his mouth, and to fill his hands with her warm breasts – fondled and gripped through the spasms and curds of love.
Euchrid put his face into the empty cups of his hands, and rolled on his side to face the wall, plunging deeper and deeper still into the bathos of the spent.
A blustered branch scratched at his window. Euchrid sighed and fell asleep.
XIX
That night ah found little sleep. Torrid bloodings, spontaneous emissions, deaths-heads sweated into mah bedding…
Ah rose early to find Pa hitching Mule and setting off down the mudded track to Maine, head bent low, swiping the folds of rain with his stick. Mule shuddered and twitched neurotically, as numb to the old man’s rod as it was to the rain. Ah was consumed by an urge to follow – drawn on, you might say – and, unnercover of the grey rain, ah did so.
Turning off the track and onto firmer ground, ah saw mah father stop suddenly by the side of the road and bark at Mule – and even from where ah stood ah could detect a certain urgency in his voice. And after beating the brute to a standstill, ah saw him throw down his stick and squat by a ditch at the roadside, transfixed by whatever it was before him.