“Dooo come in,” the fop sang, holding aside the beaded curtain as Jezebel entered the strange
cave-like sanctum. There were no windows in the large circular room and it was difficult to
make out exactly where its borders were. There weren’t so much walls, but rather seemingly
endless nooks and alcoves that seemed to branch off each other; each one piled high with
cushions and draped with curtains and silks. Occasionally Jezebel would spy movement from
within the velveteen forest and every now and again a naked beauty clad only in body paint
and elaborate decorative piercing would emerge holding a platter of the finest seasonal fruits
or salted meats.
“Glass of wine?” The Fop offered, sensing Jezebel’s unease and beckoning towards
the decanter that seemed to be floating towards them. Jezebel stepped back, startled. The
decanter was placed on a large circular silver tray that, from the right angle, almost entirely
obscured the armless midget upon whose head it was balancing. The fop poured the wine into
an enormous goblet and handed it to Jezebel.
“Drink deeply my girl,” he said, “you’ll need it.”
He led her further into the den, deeper and deeper through the network of recesses
and niches. Jezebel looked around, aghast at the things she spied behind the vales of satin and
gauze hangings. Creatures with multiple arms and legs, reclining in ecstasy, midgets laughing
and dancing like pagans, Siamese twins making love to a pair of contortionists, and
everywhere women, the most beautiful women Jezebel had ever seen. She couldn’t be certain
if it was the wine going to her head or her eyes playing tricks on her, but behind one curtain
Jezebel thought she may have seen a minotaur. She shook her head to try and regain
composure. Finally the fop ushered her to sit down. She lay back into the enormous pile of
cushions that were scattered about the ground. The fop did the same. Relaxing a little Jezebel
thought it may be time to try and grasp the exact nature of her situation. She looked over at
the fop who was smiling serenely to himself and gazing off into the distance. His bright red
lips that stood out so fiercely from the white powder that coated his face, were pursed
somewhere between a grin and a smirk.
“So what now?” Jezebel asked, belligerently. “Am I gonna meet Mr. Tillinghast.”
The Fop looked at her in amazement for an uncomfortable length of time then cocked
his head back laughing hysterically. Jezebel heard high pitched giggling echoing around her.
She glanced around, realizing for the first time that they were surrounded by a menagerie of
midgets spying from behind curtains and beneath cushions.
“Oh no my girl, oh no!” The fop said, barely managing to rein his laughter into a
controllable level. “We have to cleanse you first.”
“Cleanse me?”
The fop clicked his fingers and from all around them emerged naked maidens
carrying jugs of iced water. One looked on, playing a lute. They gently unbuttoned Jezebels
clothes, untied her corset, which was growing ever tighter in recent times, and de-robed her.
Jezebel sat, naked and bewildered as six women poured water down her body. The water
dripped down around her and soaked into the cushions, scattering the floor. They lifted the
cushions and squeezed them over Jezebel, sponging her down tenderly. One of them poured
oils through Jezebels hair and massaged them into her scalp. A midget joined the lute player,
lulling Jezebel into a dreamy haze with a delicate panpipe melody. Jezebel let her eyes fall
closed. The maidens kissed her with their soft lips and gently caressed her nipples. It was a
heightened eroticism Jezebel had never before experienced. Not even with Gabrielle. This
wasn’t Carnal like their fervent lovemaking had been. What Jezebel was experiencing was the
spiritual gratification of every sensual impulse. It sent a powerful electricity deep down into
her feminine core. Not so much orgasmic as celestially beatific. She could have let it go on
forever. She opened her eyes. They were gone. She was sat in the same place still, bone dry,
clad in a light cotton robe. She felt a rejuvenation she had not felt in years. The Fop remained
beside her, the same enigmatic look plastered across his face.
“Better?” He asked.
“Yes.” Said Jezebel contentedly.
“They’re really very gooood.” He said, smirking. “Tillinghast lets no one else groom
him.”
Once again Jezebel remembered why she was there. Her alertness momentarily
rekindled.
“Where is this MrTillinghast? What does he want with me?” Asked Jezebel.
“Oh you can’t see him yeeet,” the Fop purred.
“Why not?” Jezebel said, “I’m cleansed aint I?”
“Physically yeees,” the Fop said, condescendingly, “but it’s not quite as simple as just
having a good scruuub. We have to cleanse you spiritually as well.”
He clicked his fingers and yelled off down a passage to his left.
“Huang Di! Zhencang madat caibao.”
Within seconds an oriental man rolled through on a small wheeled board. He was just
a torso, completely bereft of body mass bellow the belly button. His arms had grown long and
muscular. Taking up the majority of space on the plank on which he sat was a large Hookah
pipe. The man hopped off from the plank which was clearly designed for the pipe rather than
him. He maneuvered about the floor using only his arms. Jezebel watched intently. The Fop
sat back aloofly.
“Huang Di! Madat minjie!” The Fop screeched..
The man nodded and picked up his pace. He reached into his shirt pocket and
retrieved a small leather pouch. He unraveled it beside the pipe. It was filled with a crushed
up, yellow substance Jezebel had not seen before.
“What’s that?” Jezebel asked?
“Papaver Somniferum.” The Fop yawned. Jezebel looked confused. “Opium, my girl.
Opium.”
Jezebel grew nervous.
“I don’t do drugs.” She fibbed.
“Papaver Somniferum is no drug.” The Fop said, “It is a way of life practiced by
Shaman, mystics and mages. It is a portal to the inner truth; the truth of the soul. A
commodity long since exhausted in the deluge of American rapacity. At least that’s what
Tillinghast says. You wouldn’t want to hide the truth from Tillinghast would you my dear?”
“No…” Said Jezebel, nervously.
“Gooood… gooood. Then you may be the first to worship at the smoky alter.” He
said passing her the mouth piece at the end of the hose leading to the grand Hookah. Jezebel
put it to her lips and inhaled. She sucked the smoke down into her lungs and held it there a
second before exhaling. The Fop smiled.
*****
Agatha, Uddermina and Sonny traveled desperately along the banks of the Little Bighorn.
They knew not where they were headed, nor how to get where they wanted to go. Shortly
after their narrow escape from the great battle Agatha had become aware of the absence of her
map. The map they were relying upon so greatly to get her to Chicago and re-unite her with
her long lost daughter. She felt a wave of despair beginning to engulf her. Could it be Gods
plan that she should never meet the fruit of her loins, never feel a mother’s love for her
daughter? Agatha was beginning to lose hope. But it was no matter, for a new commander
had taken charge of their fortune.
“Don’t worry Lady Agatha,” Sonny said, bouncing up and down on the horse the
three of them sat upon. “I’m gonna get us to Chicago! Map or no map. Heck, I’ll get you to
your daughter even if I have to carry you there myself. Or my name aint The Great Sonny
Reingold the Brave.”
Since rescuing Agatha from a brutal and savage death a the hands of Injin chiefs,
Sonny’s image of himself as a brave, gun slinging cowboy had grossly inflated well beyond
the point of delusion.
“You saw me back there Lady Agatha,” Sonny continued, “I reckon I killed near two
hundred Injin’s. Why, I won the battle of Little Bighorn myself. Of course you all looked
surprised. But that’s just cause you hadn’t seen me in action yet. Oh yeah, I seen some action
before in my time, telling’ you that straight for a nickel or nothin’. I’m the man that killed
Wyatt Earp. True and all! And that was when I was just a babe, not even the great American
man you see before you today. I remember it like it was yesterday. He came into my father’s
saloon and held a shotgun to my Daddies head. I cocked back my pistols, I had two of them
mind, and I said ‘hey outlaw, you pushin’ round my pa, you pushin’ round Sonny Reingold!’
then I shot him. Kept his heart in a jar right beside my bed...”
No one was listening. Sonny jabbered on for hours, normally Agatha would have
stopped him or gagged him as they had earlier on in their trip, but today she was silent. All
hope drained from her weary body, her spirit sagging and deflated like the once proud bosom
across her womanly chest. It was finally Uddermina who interrupted Sonny’s incessant
babble. Uddermina also had something that was weighing heavy on her mind.
“Mam’ I have served you good and proper my whole life. We’s was born together,
we grew up together and now we grow old together and mam’ all da time I serve you and
love you like a sister. But mam’ I’sa wid my own child now. I’sa old. I’sa weak. Mam’ if my
child gonna make it to dis world through dis old brow beaten body den I can’t be crossin’ no
deserts, I can’t be chasin' no maps, and I can’t be fightin' no more wars mam’. Dis be your
journey to make Agatha, not mine. I gotsa new Noblesse Oblige now. As soon as we get to
Chicago mam’ I must leave you. I must go back to Hoagie and have dis chileb right and
proper.”
“As you wish Uddermina,” Agatha said softly. “You are not to do any more traveling
though. As soon as we arrive in Chicago I shall arrange safe and comfortable lodgings for you
and send passage for Hoagie to come and join you. You have been a faithful and loyal servant
and companion and there is no act of gratitude with which I can thank you enough.”
Uddermina wrapped her arms around Agatha and squeezed her tight.
“You’ll see your child Mam’. Gods tol’ me so… You’ll see your child and I shall see
my mine.”
Some hours later the light was beginning to wane. Sonny decided it was time for him
to take charge once more. He pulled the horse to a halt.
“We camp here for the night Ladies.” He said, jumping down from the horse.
“No,” said Agatha, “We ride on. We’ve no provisions. Time is of the essence.”
“With all due respects Lady Agatha, I think I’ve been around long enough to know
how to pitch a camp and source some food in the harshest desert climates. You rest you’re
heads Ladies and I’ll fix a shelter around you and set some traps. We’ll have a roast by
morning.”
By midnight Sonny had managed to suspend a stick above the ground where Agatha
and Uddermina lay. He had draped some scrubs across it for shelter, most of which had fallen
off covering the two sleeping women in dirt and vegetation. Now all Sonny had to work out
was how to catch a feed in this God forsaken desert. He racked his mind to think of what
animals he could hope to find in such a place. He remembered something from his days
following Barnham’s circus. Lions! Of course, Lions were a desert animal, Giraffes’ too. He
would have a feast of exotic desert meats before no time. He picked up his gun and set off
into the dark heart of the desert.
Agatha and Uddermina awoke from a restless slumber. The desert sun scorched down
upon them. Their lips were cracked and dry, their throats parched. They were covered in dirt
and dead grass from Sonny’s attempt at sheltering them. They looked around, naively hoping
Sonny may have come through on his promise of food and water, but he was nowhere to be
seen.
Agatha knew that all hope was lost. She sunk her face into the dirt and moaned. She
was going to die there, old, alone and afraid in the desert. Uddermina rubbed her shoulders.
“Don’t worry. We’ll make it through dis. Da good Lord tol’ me so.”
Her words floated out onto the desert breeze, they danced and trotted on the spiraling
winds and then dissipated into a wave of sand; the last remnants of their hope cast out to the
four farthest corners of the great Wapitoke. The Grey Wolf sounded the cries of the damned
and the vultures circled and snapped their beaks. The Wapitoke would claim another poor
soul, another hapless victim into its great cycle of murder. With every creature spawned
another was claimed, the centrifugal motions of life grown too strong, too powerful for any
person to fight. The unrelenting sun gazed down over Agatha and Uddermina and smiled; two
insignificant specs, two more grains on the great sandy plane, two more ink blots in the
history books. Agatha lay there and wondered. Would her story be told? Would the truth be
known? Or would she become one more fiction of the past? Her life’s events doctored and
corrupted by those perverters of history, those meddlers of fact who bastardize truths and
names to paint their fanciful fabulations, and muddy the waters of human knowledge. Hours
passed, life drained, the sun shone, the earth turned. Sonny returned.
Sonny’s return was not the heroic arrival he had envisaged himself making; striding
over a hill as the sun rose behind him; a lion slung across his back, dragging a giraffe by the
neck. Rather his hands and feet were bound with vines and tied to a large pole which hung
between the two Iroquois men who carried it. They had not wanted to gag him and wouldn’t
have had he not kept yelling at them that he was the man who killed Wyatt Earp and single
handedly won the Battle of Little Bighorn for the Americans. After several hours of this a
motion had been agreed upon throughout the tribe and a large piece of onion root had been
shoved in Sonny’s mouth and fixed in place with dried grass around his head.
Uddermina spotted them. She tried to get up from the ground but was too weak. She
shook Agatha desperately but Agatha was too far-gone into the depths of depression and
dehydration to respond with anything more than a guttural groan. The Iroquois surrounded
them. There were about ten of them; two younger men carrying Sonny, an elderly man,
wizened and withered, a strong, fierce looking younger man who seemed watch the old man
closely, two young boys and four women all of similarly corresponding ages. They could well
have been a family Uddermina thought.
“W… w… waddya wan wid uss…” Uddermina managed to stammer. She still did
not know if the could even understand English.
“We wish to offer you our help,” the older man said in a voice of such deep
resonance that it made Uddermina jump slightly, “but we do not know if you mean our people
harm. Your halfwit boy has made many threats. It is not our practice to tie people up in this
manner. It is not the way of the hawk.”
“He… he’sa fool. Pay dat boy no heed. My master is a good woman… Please, show
some mercy, I is… I is wid child…” Uddermina all but choked.
The old man came and inspected Agatha. He ran his hands over her body as though
an invisible force field emanated from her very skin and sang from deep within his throat.
The young man interrupted…
“I don’t know about this father. It could be a trap,” he spat, “the boy spoke of Little
Bighorn did he not?”
“Be calm Striking Wolf. The spirit of the bear is strong in her. These people are safe.
They do not carry the markings or ammunitions of soldiers, nor the guile. These are good
people and we shall care for them in the great tradition of our people.”
As the days passed the Iroquois family accepted the three strangers like their own.
They nursed Agatha who was suffering a temporary coma from dehydration and fed and
sheltered Sonny and Uddermina. They were Kanien’Kehaka people or ‘People of the Great
Flint’ from the Mohawk river. Their tribe had been a member of the British Indian alliance
and most of their ancestors had been massacred in the expeditions against the Iroquois nations
in 1779. The few who had remained had become nomads, traveling America, living in the
wilderness and in the deserts. The members of this small family were the last descendents of
the Mohawk River people of the great flint. They were the last of the Mohicans. Their lives
had become about each other, survival their only necessity. They had been very careful not to
become affiliated with the Arapaho, Cheyenne and Sioux people who had fought so violently
against the whites at Little Bighorn. They cared not for war, nor conquest, only for today.
The eldest man of the tribe, Wise Deer, was the chief. His son, Striking Wolf, was
next in line and, though he loved his father, he thought his views on how the nomadic
Iroquois should live were old fashioned. He believed they should change with the times,
move into trading, perhaps furs and skins. But after a hundred years of nomadic living,
stillness does not come easy. They had grown lithe and swift like the desert winds, their skin
leathery and hardened like buffalo hide, their fingers coarse and solid like the great boulders
of sand rock that lined the Wapitoke plane. They moved with the flow of the river and the
turning of the earth, life forever waltzing to the music of the spheres.
The few days spent in the presence of these noble, spiritual peoples had matured
Sonny. Striking Wolf had taken him under his wing, taught him the way of the Iroquois. They
had even given him a traditional name; ‘Clucking Goose’, which Sonny had insisted on being
called at all times. Striking Wolf had taught him well in the skills of hunting and of combat.
They practiced for many hours, sparring each other with large Tukkah Kirri sticks till one or
the other was pinned to the ground. In the few short days while they waited for Agatha to
wake Sonny had become quite a proficient hunter also.
Uddermina spent her days with the women folk. They taught her natural birthing
techniques and showed her what roots and grasses would provide her unborn child with ample
nourishment while they traveled. After four days and nights Agatha regained her strength and
awoke from her coma. Wise Deer sat beside her, sweeping her body with smoke that was
smoldering from the small fire burning at the center of the Tepee.
“Where am I?” Agatha asked, blinking her eyes open.
“You are with the family of Wise Deer, the last Iroquois People of the Great Flint of
the Mohawk River. We are kindred spirits of the Bear you and I. No harm shall come to you
under my care Agatha Monterey McChristie” Said Wise Deer.
Agatha looked at him, confused.
“Spirit of the Bear?” She asked.
“There is a Spirit that binds all the peoples of the earth” Wise Deer husked,
beckoning smoke over his face. “You and I are people of the Bear; strong, determined,
sensual beings. We are leaders of men, followers only to the stars and the Soaring Eagle. We
are a rare spirit and we must help one another in times of need. You are in need and I intend
to help you. My family and I will accompany you across the treacherous Wapitoke Plane and
in to Chicago. The star of my father shall be our guide.”
Agatha lifted herself upright. The two kindred Bear spirits looked at each other
through the smoke. A silent understanding flashed between them, a mutual strength and
determination, their tribes people scattered and separated leaving only them as beacons of
their bloodlines. They were one creature, the great Bear, forever roaming America fending for
its kin.
****
The Fop dropped a burning sugar cube into his Absinthe and stirred it round. A cloudy
tornado spun its way through the translucent green liquid. The Fop took a deep puff on the
Opium pipe and then blew it into the eye of the spiraling beverage. The concoction frothed
and bubbled. The smoke charged down to the bottom of the beaker and then fizzed up from
the surface. Jezebel leaned back into the cushions, watching the white wisps of pale green
smoke form ghostly shapes and images above her head. They told strange and ancient stories
of other times and distant lands. Jezebel squinted intently to try and gage the meaning of the
strange visions dancing before her eyes, but her eyes were slow and lethargic, her mind heavy
and languid with smoke. The Fop smiled. The Papaver Somniferum was having its desired
effect.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” he said, splaying a hand out towards the smoky figures
marching around her head.
“Yes.” Said Jezebel, “who are they?”
“These are the shadows of the paaaast. All personal friends and acquaintances of
Tillinghast.”
Suddenly a face exploded into the smoky haze. It was an oriental man. He had a thin,
pointy beard on his chin that floated off into nothing. His eyes were sharp and angry, his face
severe. Jezebel felt as though he was looking straight at her, accusing her of a crime she was
not aware she’d committed.
“Who’s that?” she asked, clutching the Fop by the arm.
“Thaaaat,” the Fop whispered, “is Arch Mage Tsung.”
“Who?” Said Jezebel.
“Arch Mage Tsung.” Said the Fop, “The great warrior of the Shang dynasty.”
“Why is he here? Why is he looking at me like that?” Jezebel panted.
“He appears only to those he has unfinished business with.” Said the Fop “Perhaps
you have wronged him in some way.”
“But that’s impossible.” Said Jezebel.
“Magic is the art of the impossible Jezebel. That is the legacy of Arch Mage Tsung.
That is why his legend lives on.”
The Fop took a deep puff from the opium pipe and blew it into the face of Arch Mage
Tsung. The face dissipated into a thousand pieces and the smoke cleared reforming into the
image of an ancient Chinese city. The Fop proceeded to tell Jezebel the legend of Arch Mage
Tsung.
Arch Mage Tsung was the chief protector of the Shang Dynasty. The Shang Dynasty was
established 1776 BC when Tang of Shang overthrew the despotic reign of Jie, the last king of
the Xia Dynasty. Jie’s killer was Arch Mage Tsung.
At the time he was just a young man, a Shaman apprentice under the tuition of Arch
Mage Tsin Zu. Zu had been enlisted by Tang of Shang as to assassinate Jie. But King Jie was
not without his own devices. Having discovered Tang of Shang’s plot to kill him, King Jie
forged a sword of such powerful and dark magic that only he who possessed it could rule over
the lands. Of course Arch Mage Zu was slaughtered in his assassination attempt. The great
sword was too powerful and Zu’s magic was no match for its sinister power. Jie filleted the
Arch Mage and feasted on his flesh in the temple of his ancestors. Little did he know he was
being watched. Zu’s favoured apprentice, Tsung had witnessed the battle. He had seen the
Great Sword of Xia. He knew it’s power, and what’s more he knew how to fight it. Zu’s
legacies to Tsung had been many and varied. He could not, however, have known the great
impression this simple piece of advice could have had on his pupil:
“Your enemy may be stronger than you. That is of no concern. The great warrior
finds his enemies strength and does one of two things, steals it or destroys it. He does not
have to equal it.”
Tsung realised he could never equal the power of the sword. He had seen it in action,
beheld it carve his master to slithers like a crispy duck pancake. He knew he would never be
able to destroy such a weapon in combat either. But, he could steal it. He could steal it
And so it was that for the three months leading into harvest season Arch Mage Tsung
watched King Jie day and night. He became a creature of the shadows, a snake beneath the
floorboards, a spider in the rafters. He waited. He waited and he watched for King Jie to leave
the great sword alone, to turn his back, steer his gaze, release it from his grip if only for a
second. He had to create a diversion. He knew this much. But what, what could he do that
would not risk him being discovered? He had beheld the fate of his mentor and he did not
wish to meet the same end.
One evening the answer came to him. He felt a rare presence in the air, a presence
that only he was particularly receptive to. He could feel the heat approaching, hear the strong
rhythmic beating, sweeping over the rice fields. It was the heart of the dragon, its fiery
nostrils burning out across the autumn winds. Tsung was a practitioner of the ancient dragon
magic. He signaled to the great beast across the astral plain.
Eyes
Of vision distance shall not dilute
Ears
O’er music’s reach shall melody sing thy song.
Kith and Kin
Forged of fire’s bond
Spirits
Guardians of the land
Tsung sang this mystic tune to his winged brother and the ancient magic of the past
studied and scrutinized the sinister magic of the present. The mighty dragon swooped down
upon Jie’s kingdom and burned the temples of his ancestors to the ground. Jie cried with rage
and clutched his sword but the heat of the burning spirits had grown too strong. The sword
was red hot. Jie dropped the sword and fell backwards. His hand was charred and blistered.
Tsung jumped from the dragons back and picked up the sword with a piece of cow hide. He
stabbed it through the heart of King Jie, claiming the land for Tang of Shang and ushering in
the dawn of the Shang dynasty. Then he threw the sword into the fires of the burning temples
where it melted before his very eyes.
All who watched believed it to be destroyed and praised Arch Mage Tsung as the
victor over such dark and powerful sorcery. But Arch Mage Tsung knew such magic could
not be destroyed. Once the fires had burned out he retrieved from the ashes a small ball of
blackened silver. He swore an oath to the dragon Gods never to let the remnants of the sword
fall into the hands of another. He would be its keeper for all eternity, guardian of its secrets
and protector of its power. He would not wield it and he would tell no other of its lineage. It
was to be his burden for all eternity. The Gods took him on his promise and swore that should
the silver be lost Arch Mage Tsung would suffer the consequences. He would be confiscated
of his human form and forced to roam the lands forever in search of the swords remnants.
Tsung accepted the consequences of his fate, firm in the belief that under his watch no man
should ever get his hands on the remnants of the sword of power again. He was wrong.
The Shang dynasty reigned for seven hundred years and Arch Mage Tsung served as
it’s chief Shaaman warrior for all of them. He fought many battles, killed many men, but
revealed to no one the truth of the sword of power. It was his secret. He kept the small ball of
silver in a tin beneath the bamboo floorboards of his hut. Then, in 1050 BC, the last ruler of
the Shang dynasty, Zhou of Shang, was overthrown. There were great battles, men fought in
every field and every street. Arch Mage Tsung was at the centre of the greatest battle of all.
Some say the greatest battle in all Chinese history; the battle for the Palace of the Shang
Dynasty. Armies of men mounted atop elephants stormed through the city streets. Dragons
flew overhead breathing down fire upon the warring soldiers below. Chaos became the
natural order. The law of man forgotten, brushed aside, replaced with bloodlust and murder.
Tsung fought for many days and many nights defending his King. But in his duty to his King
he made the age old mistake of the mortal. He neglected his duty to his Gods. Enemy militia
sweeped through the palace. They turned up every floor board, burned down every hut and
looted every box. No treasure was left unpurloined; including a small blackened ball of silver
hidden in a tin beneath the floorboards of Arch Mage Tsung’s sleeping quarters.
The Gods reaped a swift and unforgiving vengeance down upon Arch Mage Tsung.
He lost his human form, cast out into the worlds a lesser creature, forever doomed to search
for the remnants of the sword of power.
The Fop paused and looked over at Jezebel who was struggling to comprehend the
ancient folk lore. He placed a hand on her wrist.
“The sword’s remnants have taken on many forms, passed through many owners,
Kings, bandits, peasants, all of them blind to its true power. Arch Mage Tsung continues to
paddle through the rivers of time, always one step behind the precious metal. They say it is of
independent will, an object in control of its own destiny, sensing when he is near, when to
pass hands or change forms yet one more time.”
Jezebel reeled back at the gravity of the story The Fop had just relayed to her. She
was struggling to regain her composure through the thick fog of Opium and Absinthe
“Well that’s an awful nice story Mr. But I still don’t see what any of that’s gotta do
with me.” She slurred.
“All will soon become clear my dear.” The Fop said, stroking the backs of his fingers
against her cheek. “Tillinghast will see you soon.”
Jezebel was confused. He head was swimming. She leaned back again into the
cushion and gazed into the smoke for more answers. A song came floating out to her on a
pale green cloud.
Eyes
Of vision distance shall not dilute
Ears
O’er music’s reach shall melody sing thy song.
Kith and Kin
Forged of fire’s bond
Spirits
Guardians of the land
Through the thick haze and the faint music Jezebel could swear she saw the vision of
an old woman, much like herself in appearance though not in years, standing in a desert
singing to her. The soft voice instilled in Jezebel a memory, she could not pick the time or
place, just the sensation; safety.
****
The more time Agatha spent with Wise Deer the closer she began to feel to him. Agatha was
confused by it. It was not the sensuous, sexual bond that she had shared with so many of the
rugged, handsome, beautiful boys of her youth. This was something different, an
understanding, it was as though they were communicating on a subconscious level, answers
proceeding enquiry, action in advance of direction. The hot desert sands of the Wapitoke were
binding these distant souls under one Elysian fellowship; the fellowship of the divine
America. They were a clan for whom truth and virtue were the only absolutes, universal
acceptance the only toll for membership. Very few had found the price within their means.
Sonny too, was beginning to grow into himself in recent days. His voice had
deepened, he spoke softer now, reserved in his ways. The traveling and hunting with Striking
Wolf and the other men had hardened his body. His muscles were lithe and toned. Sonny was
becoming a man.
Agatha watched him chopping wood one afternoon as she and Wise Deer sat round
the fire.
“The journey into manhood is the greatest to behold.” She said, watching Sonny mop
the sweat from his brow.
“He is growing fast,” said Wise Dear, “but there is still much he has to learn in the
ways of man.”
“He will” said Agatha, nodding sagely, “he will.”
Uddermina was also blossoming under their new nomadic existence. The plentiful
supplies of food the Iroquois were able to collect while they traveled meant Uddermina was
beginning to put on weight again. Her Baby bump was beginning to show and she’d even
started to lactate again, which to the Iroquois had proved a great benefit. It was nigh on
impossible traveling with Cattle or Goats so milk was a rare indulgence.
But even with their inexhaustible milk supply and Mohawk know-how, the trek
across the Wapitoke remained a treacherous one. They became nocturnal, traveling many
miles at a time, always by night. This allowed them to avoid the hot desert sun and navigate
by the stars. By day they would rest, hunt and replenish supplies. Sleep was allotted to the
hottest part of the day, when the sun was highest in the sky, and it was possible to do little
else.
In the sweltering heat of midday siesta Agatha cautiously entered Wise Deer’s Tepee.
He was alone, sound asleep. She sat and watched him a while. His creased and craggy brow
twitching with activity, the gentle wheezing of his strong noble nose, he was a beautiful
creature, a body hardened of Flint, a soul tender and delicate as the lapping waters of the
Mohawk River. Her mind was awash with confusion. She had never felt so close to a man
before in her life, and yet she knew not the words to express it with. She had to show him in
the only way she knew how.
She crouched over him and stroked his cheeks gently. She nuzzled her face against
his feeling the warmth of his skin and the rise and fall of his breath. It was not a physical
hunger that she felt, but a closeness that she could not comprehend. To Agatha intimacy had
only ever spoken a romance language. Wise Deer began to stir. As his eyes opened Agatha
cupped his head in her hands and kissed him softly on the lips. Wise Deer’s eyes snapped
wide open. He gazed up at Agatha who was pressing now against his pelvis with her own,
gyrating ever so slightly. She leaned back down to kiss him a second time but was met
halfway by his finger against her mouth.
“Please... stop Agatha,” said Wise Deer, “this is not right.”
Agatha froze, suspended somewhere between embarrassment and shame.
“There are ties here that travel beyond the flesh, bonds of fire not of blood. That is
what you feel. Do not confuse it, do not take it for granted. It is a force that ties us to each
other, to the earth upon which we walk and to the great and noble creatures of that earth.”
Agatha sat down beside him and sobbed. Had it really come to this, a sad old woman
deluded of her wiles? Wise Deer placed a reassuring hand on her back.
“I know what it is you go through. It is the same folly that heralded the Red Man’s
plight. My people were once a strong and proud race. We wanted for nothing; we lived in
perfect harmony with the earth… Then the white man came. He brought with him his guns
and his liquor. He brought his diseases. He raped our lands and destroyed our women. At first
the strongest of us fought, we resisted, but a tribe is only as strong as its weakest member. We
began to see ourselves as the white man saw us, brutes, savages, primitives. We looked up to
him. We let him ‘civilize’ our children. We traded our belongings with him. We coveted his
treasure, ate his food, drank his liquor, wore his clothes… and caught his diseases. The White
man’s way was the Red man’s downfall. But still we tried to follow him, yearned to belong to
his tribe. My family learned the hard way. It took many deaths for us to realise we needed no
one but ourselves. Independence has been the key to our survival, and so shall it be for you
Agatha. Let not yourself be valued by recognition but by the virtues and integrity of your
actions. Sacrifice your flesh not to the appeasement of others but to the urgencies of self. That
is what it means to know freedom. That is the divine America.”
As he said this a host of faces flashed before Agatha’s eyes; John Wilkes Booth,
General Radcliffe, President Lincoln, her father. She had looked up to all of them, and all of
them had betrayed her trust. Her whole life she had thought herself an independent woman,
all the while validating her existence on the approval of men who thought nothing of her.
“It’s like a door has been unlocked in front of me” Agatha said, “my whole life I’ve
been looking for the key. I knew there was something important behind there, I just never
knew what. Suddenly I open the door only to discover the thing that was hiding there… was
me.”
Wise Deer reached into box beside him and pulled out a small wooden flask. He
uncorked it and handed it to Agatha. She looked down at the liquid contained within. The
smell made her stomach turn.
“What is it?” She asked.
“The water of the peyote cactus, my people call it the nectar of truth. To consume its
fluid is to see into the heart of all things. You have glimpsed through the window, caught
glance of the incandescent truth. It is now time to draw back the curtain and illuminate the
darkness of your days. Drink…”
Agatha put the flask to her lips and drank down the strange and pungent elixir. The
taste was repugnant, unlike anything she had ever come across before. She instantly felt
racked with nausea. She ran out of the tent and began to retch violently under the desert sun.
After a few minutes the retching passed. She sat there on all fours for a while spitting the bile
from her mouth as her stomach settled. She began to feel an inner comfort spread through her
body, like a wave of pins and needles pricking at her very soul. She sat back on her knees and
looked up at the desert sky. The heavens were a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors spiraling
off each other. Agatha watched the slow and deliberate undulation of these ethereal
constellations. There was a rhythm to their movements, a cumulative power of devastating
momentum. Agatha realized it was a machine, each figuration working off the next like great,
boundless cog propelling the machinery of the universe, the inner workings of the cosmos.
From out the eye of the great engine Agatha saw a bear walking towards her. It had the eyes
of Wise Deer. She heard its call echoing through the firmament:
Eyes
Of vision distance shall not dilute
Ears
O’er music’s reach shall melody sing thy song.
Kith and Kin
Forged of fire’s bond
Spirits
Guardians of the land
She recognized its ancient melody, though she knew not from where. As the bear
drew closer Agatha could see there was a figure riding on its back; a girl. She looked much
like Agatha had looked as a young woman but with one exception, the eyes. Agatha
recognized the girls eyes and they were certainly not her own. They were her mother’s eyes, a
deep and enchanting hazel, but they seemed somehow haunted. The girl looked lost, as
though she were reaching out for help. Agatha’s every impulse was telling her to help the girl,
to reach out, to comfort her. She sang out on zephyr’s wings:
Eyes
Of vision distance shall not dilute
Ears
O’er music’s reach shall melody sing thy song.
Kith and Kin
Forged of fire’s bond
Spirits
Guardians of the land
The girl heard the mother’s song. She dismounted the bear and tip toed down the
cascading verse towards the old woman. They stood face to face, lost travelers of the earthly
realm, colliding on the astral plain. Agatha raised her right hand and Jezebel mirrored the
gesture. They planted their palms against each other and for a brief moment they were
together, connected in time, a mother reunited with her daughter, until, like waking from a
dream, they disappeared from each other’s view.
****
Jezebel stretched her arms out, trying to keep a clutch of the old woman’s hand. She had felt a
oneness standing there, palm to palm with the mysterious elderly figure, a unity she had often
yearned for but never known. She tried to sing out the woman, give some signal that she had
heard her ghostly song, felt its earnest succor, but her mind could muster neither lyric nor
note. She was falling, rapidly into the present, trying desperately to bring the fragments of the
future with her. She pressed into the recesses of her subconscious, trying to etch a portrait of
the woman’s face somewhere on the cluttered canvas of memory. But the image was fading,
the ink running, till all that was left was blurred shapes and abstract textures, the faint
brushstrokes of familiarity.
“You can’t bring them baaack…” A voice lilted “…The figures of the other realm
hold no passport into ours. It takes a journey of many miles to cross that border.”
Jezebel turned to the Fop.
“Who was that woman?” She asked.
“Those we encounter on the astral plain are only ever those who are looking for us.
Just like Arch Mage Tsung, this woman of the desert seeks you out through the labyrinth of
time. It appears there are those who would place great value on their kith and kin to you.” The
Fop said, placing the hookah on its wheeled tray and patting the limbless creature steering it,
sending him off into the velvet catacombs.
“That’s not true,” Jezebel sulked, “I’m just a worthless girl of the streets. Aint
nobody got no credence with me.”
“You’d be most surprised” Said the Fop.
“What do you mean?”
“See for yourseeeeelf” said the Fop, rising to his feet. “Tillinghast is ready for you
now.”
Jezebel carefully stood up and followed the Fop deeper into the sanctum. Eventually
they came to a stone archway gated by a chain of identical Siamese quintuplets all joined at
the hand and foot. The Fop approached the one furthest to the right and kissed his lips. The
chain of brothers concertinaed in on itself to the left of the archway and Jezebel and the Fop
strolled through. Jezebel looked back in astonishment as they extended out again.
“Pay them no attention.” The Fop said. “They’ll get notions.”
They descended a long spiraling sandstone staircase that seemed to lead them deeper
and deeper into the earth. At the bottom of the staircase was a small semi circular landing culde-
saced by a solid stone wall. The stair case had led them to a dead end. On the wall was
carved the image of a cat. Jezebel studied it closely.
“The sacred feline.” The Fop said, as if by way of exposition, in a tone that suggested
he was stating the obvious.
The Fop brushed Jezebel aside, leant forward and kissed the carving on the lips.
Suddenly the ground beneath them began to rumble, the carving sank slightly into the wall,
and the semi circular cul-de-sac turned on itself, spitting Jezebel out on the other side of the
wall. She looked around her. She was standing in what looked to be a study of some sort. A
deep red carpet covered the floor. The room was crowned with a grand sandstone fireplace.
Above the fireplace hung the portrait of a face Jezebel had seen before. It was Arch Mage
Tsung. In the centre of the room was a large mahogany desk. Behind the desk a leather chair,
visible only by the flickering of light of the fire place to which it was turned. Jezebel could
hear the soft purring of a cat.
“Where is he?” Jezebel said, turning to the Fop. But the Fop was nowhere to be seen.
Jezebel was alone.
“Do not be afraid child.” A voice whispered from behind the chair. “I wish to see you
alone.”
“Mr… Mr. Tillinghast sir?” Jezebel burbled. She was white with fear.
“It is the fool who questions what their heart has already told them is so.” The voice
whispered again.
Jezebel was unsure how to respond to her invisible inquisitor. She always considered
herself a straight shooter, the sort of girl to look a person in the eye and have them clued in an
instant. She was finding the airy whisper and indefinable accent emanating from behind the
chair highly disconcerting.
“Sorry Mr. Tillinghast sir.” Jezebel said.
“Do you know why you are here Ms Radcliffe?” Tillinghast hissed.
“Not rightly sir. No. To be quite frank with you I’m getting awful tired of all this
dilly dally. I aint done nothin’ wrong. I deserve an explanation!” Jezebel asserted.
“My how feisty it is.” Tillinghast remarked. “If you find our ways tedious I can
always return you to the care of Mr. Sledge. I’m sure you’d find his business practices far
more… overt.”
“I’m sorry sir.” Jezebel muttered, remembering how she had come to be in this
position. “It’s been a long day is all.”
“No my dear, today has been no longer than yesterday and nor shall tomorrow be
longer again. An age is but the blink of an eye in the face of eternity.”
Jezebel knew not how to respond to this either and so she drew the high backed chair
before her from beneath the desk and sat down.
“I understand you made acquaintance with the Arch Mage?” Tillinghast continued.
“Um… I suppose so.” Said Jezebel. “I’m not really sure.”
“For a character of such ferocity it seems there is much you are unaware of. Did you
know your father is dead?”
“No.” Jezebel said before even registering the question. “What?”
“Your father has passed on to the other realm.” Tillinghast said nonchalantly.
“No… no that can’t be right. There must be some mistake.” Jezebel’s head was
swirling now. Her mind racing.
“I do not make mistakes.”
“How do you know this? How do you know he’s dead?” Jezebel demanded.
“I witnessed it.” Tillinghast said. “I saw it happen. I recognized not the man who did
it but I am quite certain of his motives.”
Jezebel was crying now. Deep down in her heart she had always imagined her father
would one day return from his hunting trips, realize the mistake he had made about Mme
Bouvoix and take her away from the jive talkin’, hustle bustle of Chicago city. They would
move to a farmhouse somewhere, maybe her mother’s farm. Her father would arrange a
marriage for her to a handsome neighboring farmer’s boy and they would be married in the
hills of their dual estates. She pictured her father living out his days smoking on the porch in
an old mahogany rocking chair, a grandson sat in his lap, telling him stories of the old
America, of his ancestors, of his grandmother. But Jezebel knew such dreams would never
find their way to her alone. She did not walk a path that was easily veered from. Her whole
adult life she had traversed nothing but the roughest terrain. She had gone too far to turn back
but one step in the wrong footing could be fatal. Her father had been her last hope, and now
he too was gone. There was no one in the world to whom Jezebel could say she belonged.
Jezebel paused in her grief for a moment. Something in Tillinghast’s words had
troubled her. Why on earth would someone want to kill her father? He was as benign a man
as Jezebel had ever known. She racked her brain for memories of her youth, anything which
might signal to her that her father had been involved in something untoward. She could think
of nothing. It occurred to Jezebel that she knew very little about her father. She knew he had
been a meat packer. He had been very successful for a time until the great crash. Jezebel
remembered overhearing men of business about the town referring to her father as a
‘dinosaur’, ‘one of the last fossils of the old American school of business’. She had
remembered the look in her father’s eyes from such comment. He would laugh them off in the
occasion but a wistful melancholy began to well in his eyes that grew deeper with every
incident. In his old age he had developed something of a stoop, as though the weight of the
world was carried on his shoulders.
She knew he had been in the army for a time, but this he spoke very little of; only to
say that he had been discharged on account of a bullet in the leg, though he had rehabilitated
to the point that no limp or scar was detectable. She had known very little of her mother. Her
father had rarely spoken of her and when he had it was only ever in fairy tail brushstrokes.
The details were always glossed over with a sugary sentimentality. From an early age Jezebel
had suspected her mother’s death had been very difficult for her father and that he had not
wanted to relive the feelings nor inflict them on his daughter. Other than these things she had
known very little of her father’s past. He had no friends outside of his business circles, no
relatives, Jezebel was not even sure where he had grown up. It was almost as though every tie
he had to his own past had been left behind at the point of Jezebel’s birth. Perhaps there was
more to her father than Jezebel had imagined.
“Who killed him?” Jezebel asked, suddenly.
“I told you. I know not the identity of his killer. I do, however, have well founded
suspicion of his motives, and if I am right you too could be in grave danger.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did your father possess a broach of a curious design?” Tillinghast asked.
Jezebel shifted in her seat. She knew exactly the broach Tillinghast was talking about.
It was the broach her father had gifted to her on her eighteenth birthday, the broach that had
belonged to her mother, the broach that just one day earlier Jezebel had traded over a pawn
shop counter for a piffling sum of fifteen dollars.
“Yeah.” Said Jezebel. “I believe he did.”
“That broach was forged of the silver of Arch Mage Tsung. It is that broach that your
father was killed for.” Tillinghast declared.
“You mean Arch Mage Tsung killed my father?” Jezebel gasped.
“No.” Said Tillinghast. “The man who killed your father is an imposter. One who
would covet the treasure of Tsung for his own dark purposes. He made only one mistake
though. You father didn’t have the broach did he?”
“No.” Suddenly panicking. “No. he didn’t.”
“You did.” Tillinghast hissed.
“Yes.” Said Jezebel, quietly, beginning to gage the enormity of the trouble she was
in.
“We cannot let the silver of Arch Mage Tsung fall into the wrong hands. It has to
remain protected. You have to tell me where it is.”
“I got it.” Jezebel lied. “I got it… I keep it somewhere. A hiding place… Where I
keep all my precious stuff.”
“You must bring it to me Jezebel. This is a matter of the utmost importance.”
Jezebel thought for a moment.
“How do I know to trust you with it. What if you’re just like this other feller. For all I
know it could be you what killed my father.”
There was along pause. Finally Tillinghast spoke.
“It is the fool who questions what their heart has already told them is so. Now go
Jezebel, bring me the broach. We do not have much time.”
Jezebel stood up and turned to leave. She put her hand up to the lever by the door.
“Wait.” She said, suddenly. “Before I go, may I see you?” She said, turning back to
him. But once again Jezebel was alone. The chair Tillinghast had been sat in was turned
towards her, completely empty now but for a fluffy white Persian sleeping on a pillow.
****
Agatha, Sonny, Uddermina and the family of Wise Deer came to a small clearing on the outer
borders of the Wapitoke plain. Ahead of them was a dusty red road. The first sign of
civilization Agatha had seen in many weeks. Wise Deer turned to Agatha.
“It is here we must leave you.” He said. “Our chapter in your story is over now. You
must follow this road alone.”
“I know.” Said Agatha. “I’ve known for some time. But fret not Wise Deer. For we
will never be parted. While the great bear walks upon the earth, his spirit unites the people of
his sign. We will see each other yet.”
She kissed him on the cheek and the two families parted ways. As Agatha,
Uddermina and Sonny walked up the road and off into the horizon the tribes people sang out
to them so that they might steer them in their course. Agatha returned the call and their
harmonies jousted and twittered into the American sky.
Eyes
Of vision distance shall not dilute
Ears
O’er music’s reach shall melody sing thy song.
Kith and Kin
Forged of fire’s bond
Spirits
Guardians of the land.
This work is protected by copyright and cannot be reproduced or distributed in whole or in part without the express written permission of its authors. Hands off the stardust, buddy! |
No comments:
Post a Comment