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WHEN I die, Orson places his tiny wooden hands on my forehead. He speaks a language the onlookers do not know, and I come to life with ferocious zest, coughing and crying out in strained voices.
Startled, the bartender said, “Huh? Did you say something?”
I smiled at him.
“I didn’t even see you come in, fella.”
“I was telling you a story,” I said.
“Ah,” he flashed a smile, went back to watching the TV.
“I can see you’re not interested in the slightest what I am saying,” I said.
He wanted to ignore me. The local news was on. A very pretty woman with thick eyebrows was talking about odd occurrences of people dying of natural causes. No disease had been detected. No foul play. Children, young adults, teenagers, middle aged, old people. Gender didn’t matter.
They just collapse to the floor, dead.
I repeated myself in a louder voice. The bartender sighed. He grabbed the remote and stabbed a bulky round button. Killed the television. He turned around and glared at me. He smiled, chuckled, and shook his head profusely. His jowls moved like Jell-O.
“Your chuckle informs me that you think my dying is a joke,” I said. “That my story is just that. A story. Yet, you keep looking at me curiously.”
Our little play is not pretend.
“Something must be wrong with my ears,” he prodded eardrums with a finger. “ I keep hearing a voice, but I don’t see your lips move, and no one else is in here.”
“That’s very strange,” I said. “May I have a Pabst blue ribbon?”
He looked at me curiously again. “Yeah, sure. Not many people order a Pabst anymore. I was thinking of taking it off the tap.”
He placed a cold glass against the tap and the golden liquid filled to the top, froth settled. He handed to me, and I nearly dropped it. My hands don’t work so well those days.
I tell you. It is real. As real as the sky, the birds, the trees, and God’s love. More real than any man’s love for my mother or me, as father or lover. More real than any information teachers in all twenty-eight schools I stepped foot in before I quit at the age of sixteen.
And Orson’s truth is real too.
“Damn,” he said. “All of a sudden I have a headache.”
“I have a story to tell you. Seems you aren’t interested,” I took a sip, licked my lips.
The bartender shook off the headache steadied himself. He chuckled, felt better, and grabbed a towel. He wiped the counter down and murmured, “I’m just a bartender, buddy. I just serve drinks.”
“If that is true,” I said, “then why do you hang around and listen to the Patron’s stories?” I drained my glass and asked for another.
“I don’t know,” the bartender said. He poured me another Pabst, handed it to me. I jostled it, but managed to hang on to it. “The human side of me wants to lend an ear.”
I brought the glass to my lips, slurped up the foam. I snicker to myself. The beer makes me giddy. I’m not much of a drinker.
The bartender continued. “The non-human in me also wants to bash heads in after I throw you turds outta my bar!”
I said nothing, glared at him.
He tilted his head to the side, a wry grin crossed his rubbery face.
“I’m just joking, okay?” he said.
He threw the towel over his shoulder. We locked eyes and leaned over the counter. He saw the hurt on my face and felt guilty for trying to deter me from telling my story.
“Alright, tell me a story, buddy.”
I smiled hugely. I felt my large front teeth brush my bottom lip.
I’ll tell you about Orson’s love.
And his hate.
I WAS WALKING down a dirt road when a powder blue Lincoln with spray painted symbols of circles inside triangles and squares all over it pulled up beside me. Not sure what year it was. I’m not a car guy. I just know it didn’t look modern because the body was box shaped. A dusty window rolled down and this girl in oversized sunglasses was behind the wheel. Her strawberry blonde hair was in a messy bun, a few strands were pasted to her small round face and dripping with sweat. Her full, large lips were smeared with bright red lipstick.
She couldn’t have been more than twenty, which was a year older than me, if that really was her age. But then again, I’m not the best judge of people by just laying my eyes on them with assumptions.
She pushed the sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, her dark brown eyes looked me up and down. I stood there, nerves bumping my leg like I was gearing up for a run. The girl tightened her lips and her shoulders moved back and forth in silent laughter.
“Something funny?” I said curtly.
“You look like an orphan running away,” she said.
“An orphan? Why an orphan?”
“Your clothes are shabby and ripped,” the girl paused, fought back more laughter. “Your face is dirty and you’re dragging a potato sack behind you. Plus, you’re leaving town. I assume you’re running away, Little Orphan Andy.”
I wasn’t running away. I was going to the lake to sit and contemplate. I do that when I’m stressed. The sack she was referring to was the empty beer cans my mother emptied out in two weeks. You can say she has a drinking problem and nobody would dispute that. I was coming from the trading post. Old man Spigot wouldn’t give me any money for those cans. He ridiculed me for being so ignorant and I should know that stores don’t redeem aluminium cans, just bottles in this part of the United States.
All those old men, who just sit around the trading post telling stories and drinking soda pop, laughed at me. Made me feel so small.
The girl in the car said: “Get in.”
“What?”
“Get in, you dope! I’ll give you a ride!” She sounded like she was mad, but a sputter of laughter confused me.
“You shouldn’t go around offering rides to strange men,” I said. “Might be dangerous.”
“I don’t,” the girl said. “You’re the only strange man I’ve ever offered a ride and you ain’t dangerous. I can tell.”
I had nowhere else I wanted to go.
Somehow, my mother and I had made our way down the east coast, staying in vacant houses until someone ran us off. Finally, we settled in the Appalachian Mountains. A small town in Virginia, I seem to forget the name of. Clean air, clean water, always an air of strange ghosts at twilight no one believes they see. Also, plenty of abandoned houses we could stay in.
There was no food in the one-bedroom shack I shared with my mother and I was certain she was drunk, passed out or cursing at invisible enemies, past and present. She broke the TV that was in the house when we moved in. Mother never explained how or why we could stay in the flimsy shack since we had almost no money for rent. Just three hundred dollars the government gave her every month for an ailment I didn’t know she had.
I decided to go with the girl. I jumped in the car after her second prompting and slammed the car door. The car rattled. I ingested part of the cloud of dust that rose up when I sat on the ripped vinyl seat. The black smoke emitting from the car nearly choked me to death.
The girl stared at me. I was a mystery. I also must have offended her somehow, though she never vocalized those concerns.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Bean,” I said.
She laughed. “What kind of name is that?”
“A name my mother gave me,” I said, indignant.
“Okay,” she scoffed. “I’m Jinni.”
“Jenny, huh? I knew a Jenny in school. She wasn’t very nice.”
Jinni shrugged. “I’m a different Jinni.”
“Oh? How?” I asked.
“First off, my name has a different spelling than the usual Jenny. J-i-n-n-i. Names can tell people a lot about their souls.”
I’d never thought of that. I was puzzled in my brief silence. My brainwave swirled around the idea, curling its feverish tongue around the sugary memories for understanding.
None came.
She broke the spell of my prodding the dead body of thought when she spoke.
“Well, Bean, where do you need to go?” Jinni said.
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” I said. “Or anywhere I want to go.”
“Interesting,” Jinni said.
“It is?”
“Not particularly,” she cackled. “But... the person I am working for is looking for a P.A.”
“P.A.?”
“A personal assistant,” she said.
“What does he need assistance with? I’m not too bad at painting houses or cutting grass.”
“No.” She put the car into gear and pushed the gas pedal gently. Car tyres spun dirt clogs, and the undercarriage bounced. “You don’t know what a P.A. is?”
I shook my head. I felt small again, just like when those old men in the trading post berated me for trying to get money for empty cans.
She touched my arm. “It’s okay. I’ll teach you the ropes of being in Orson’s group.”
“Who is Orson?” I heard myself say.
Jinni smiled at me. Her gaze drifted into rapturous thoughts. “You’ll see.”
The car spurted and kicked out black smoke as it jostled along a fire lane hidden between overgrown wooded areas and trees lassoed by black moss. We rode about a mile or so before we came upon a flop camp. People, now just shadows of their former selves from hard living, or beaten down by life and regarded by society as the dregs of life; men, women, children, some clothed, some not, slowly drifted from their makeshift tents and shovels in the ground to gather around the car.
They came out in droves. Barefoot and seemingly hadn’t bathed in months, if ever. The stench was overpowering as much their solemn demeanour was overwhelming. They glared at me. Those deep dark liquid eyes peered into my soul.
“What is this place?” I asked.
She smiled. Lost in a trance, she said almost in an orgasmic whisper: “God’s country.”
And then a very small person stepped out of the shadows the popular trees casted and into the blurred glare of the sunlight. This strange little person moved an inch to the left and I could see the pale slick plastic face, the almost maniacal smile and dead black marble eyes.
For a brief second, those eyes glowed yellow, then morphed back into deep black.
He was in a gunfighter stance, tiny hands on his tiny hips, head tilted. He was ready for a fight. He was clean, pristine, compared to the others in the camp. He wore a green and orange striped sweater vest over top of a white turtleneck, purple corduroys, and black and white three-inch Freddy platform shoes.
Without the shoes, the person himself was only three inches tall.
WHAT I DIDN’T understand was why he wore that creepy plastic mask. Then I realized he wasn’t a person. He wasn’t human at all. He was a ventriloquist dummy. But he was alive. No strings. No human hands guiding his movements.
Jinni jumped out of the car, ran to the dummy, picked him up and held him close, showered him with kisses. I felt sick to my stomach at the sight of that. It was so... weird.
“I missed you so much, Orson!” Jinni shrieked.
“And I you, my darling.” The voice was smooth as silk, and as razor sharp as any blade slicing through flesh.
Jinni carried this human doll in her arms, cradling him as if it were an infant. Her strikes were quick, and she was at the car on my side, leaning Orson in through the open window. I backed away slightly, waves of uneasiness churned inside my stomach.
“Who, pray tell, is this?” Orson said.
I heard his voice say the same thing in my head. I swear to you. It was like an echo. Suddenly I had a terrible headache. The voice faded away.
I didn’t like the way he spoke. He reminded me of a teacher I had in the eighth grade. This teacher chided me because I had a hard time reading The Catcher in the Rye. He told me, as well as the class, that maybe Charlie and the Chocolate Factory was more my speed, or possibly I could handle See Spot Run. The class laughed, and I left the room, walked down the hall, and out the front door. I never returned to that school. A week later, Mother and I moved to another state, and I was enrolled into another school.
“This is Bean,” Jinni said, stifling a giggle.
“Bean?” Orson screeched. He cackled. “Would that be your surname?”
“I... I don’t know what that is,” I said
“No matter! You are welcome to my world, Sir Bean!” the ventriloquist dummy exclaimed. He turned to the crowd and said: “Everyone welcome, Sir Bean, to God’s country!”
The derelicts cheered, danced, waved their arms wildly like puppets in a Punch and Judy show. They didn’t look like they had control of their bodies, or their minds for that matter.
“Come, Sir Bean,” Orson offered his tiny wooden hand. “Join us and be happy for the rest of your life.”
I took it, and found myself climbing out of the car and following Jinni as she went inside a rundown, weather beaten trailer, still cradling him. Inside, it was as clean and pristine as the dummy. There were stacks of books on five bookshelves and several on a coffee table. Two recliners, a couch and footstool much nicer than any furniture my mother had in our living spaces. To the left was one bedroom, in the centre was the bathroom, and on the right another bedroom.
Never mind the outside with the brown paint chipped away and rust on anything silver, this could have been a show trailer for any mobile homes and Units lot. Walking around the trailer, I noticed electronics were missing from the living quarters. No TV, no radio, no video game contraptions, no computers.
Strange.
“I hear you are looking for a job,” Orson said, after Jinni placed him on the couch.
“Not really,” I said, still looking around. “How come you don’t have a radio or a TV?”
“Does one require such things to live a happy life?” Orson said. “I believe you have been misinformed, young Bean.”
I shrugged.
“I haven’t seen much television,” I said. “Mother and I could never really afford one. Unless folks left them in the houses we stayed in. We had a radio. Only because we could carry it easily if we had to skedaddle quickly.”
“You had an unusual... life, I take it,” Orson said.
“No,” I shook my head. “I’d say it’s as normal as hers,” I motioned toward Jinni. “Or yours.” I told him.
A menacing rumble erupted from Orson, something resembling a chuckle, but it unsettled me.
“I highly doubt it,” he said. “Free room and board. You may eat the food here as well.”
“What’s all that mean?” I asked.
“Orson is hiring you as his personal assistant,” Jinni said. She leaned in and kissed the dummy’s plastic face. He snarled but quickly turned it into a sick leer. “Means you live here in the trailer with us.”
“I don’t know what an assistant does,” I told them.
In slow, concise movements, Jinni and Orson turned and glanced at each other as if they were harbouring some silly schoolgirl secret.
“It doesn’t matter,” Orson said. “Just... say... You’ll take the... job?”
Good, you are here.
I heard a voice in my mind.
I felt odd.
His eyes were burning into my soul. My heart beat faster. My mind raced, but couldn’t focus on one thought, and harvested a thousand images, all of a time and place so far into the past, it didn’t seem tangible. Yet, I could taste, smell, and feel its existence.
My legs went from under me. I fell sideways, hitting my head on the floor. I saw tiny platform shoes and bad bare legs and sandals in my face. They were replaced with an extreme close-up of Orson smiling at me. Suddenly, darkness overtook me.
It was like a smouldering haze. I saw the world that was not like it is now. People in robes, sandals, and dirty faces. Buildings were flimsy wooden structures. Livestock roaming freely through sand-covered streets. Naked women carrying water vases on their heads, market men bartering with their patrons. They were speaking a language I’d never heard of.
These people, mostly men, had gathered in groups of tens. They were screaming and throwing stones at a dark curly haired man, who was being dragged by three other men. The victim of this mob justice was pleading, sobbing, even praying. The three men beat and kicked this other man. They made him kneel and held his hands out.
And then the axe fell, the blade severing the man’s hands from the wrist. The screams inundated my dream as the decibel level rose to a frightening capacity.
When I came to, an old grizzled man with long greasy hair was crouched over top of me. Jinni stood behind him, smiling, and flustered. Her eyes were worried, her voice was upbeat, happy.
“Is he alive?” she squealed.
“He’s alive,” the grizzled man grunted.
“That’s good, Gunnar.” Jinni breathed a sigh of relief. “Remember what happened with the last one. Orson took it out on the whole village.”
“Village?” Gunnar barked. “This ain’t no damn village, Jinni. It’s a fucking hobo camp!”
Gunnar calmed down, cleared his throat. “You okay, boy?”
I nodded slowly. The old man, who resembled a washed-up captain of a fishing boat, helped me to my feet.
“I’m... okay... I think,” I said wearily. I staggered and Jinni and Gunnar helped me to a plush leather sofa.
Jinni sits too, crowds in on me. She smells good. Like strawberries, not like everyone else. They all smell like sour milk and body odour. Gunnar stared at us. He peered out the window through the blinds.
“I see his majesty is holding court with the fools,” Gunnar said.
“Better not let Orson hear you say that,” Jinni said.
I felt her hand brush back hair from my forehead. I flinched, she giggled. I didn’t want her to stop. I was just not used to anyone touching me in that way. So gentle.
Gunnar scoffed. “I ain’t worried about him.”
“Why are you here anyway? I thought Orson banned you from the village.”
“He can’t keep me from all this.” Gunnar waved a hand. “I started this, I’m the one who helped all those people. Remember? I found God’s country.”
“I remember,” Jinni said. “What do you want to talk to Orson about?”
“Little Foot,” Gunnar said. “I think he can help him.”
“I don’t know, Gunnar,” Jinni said.
“He owes him.”
Jinni sighed. “Not for me to say.”
Gunnar chuckled. “You wouldn’t anyway. Very loyal, aren’t you?”
“To Orson. Yes.”
Gunnar snarled. “You never were with me.”
“I was. Until you tried to destroy him,” Jinni said. “Go ahead. Go talk to him.” Her demeanour became malicious. “I’m sure he’d love to see you.”
“I will,” Gunnar said, smiling. “I’ll go see him now.”
Fear caused Jinni’s voice to rise in pitch.
“Now? While he’s performing?”
Gunnar didn’t answer. He just chuckled. That sick smile plastered on his face. He turned and touched the door knob of the front door.
Alarmed, Jinni rose from the couch quickly. “Gunnar! You can’t!” She trotted towards him, but he was halfway out the door.
“Just watch me!” he screamed.
The door slammed shut behind Gunnar. Jinni rushed to the door, placed a hand on the knob and leaned her head against the wood frame. She closed her eyes and said, “You ever realize how dumb your parents are?”
I thought about it. “Wait... Gunnar is your father?”
“Yeah,” Jinni said softly. “He doesn’t understand what powers Orson has.”
“Like what?” I asked.
My brain couldn’t comprehend all this. I started to think I shouldn’t have accepted a ride from Jinni. The homeless trailer court, the little doll-man running around, talking. Too weird. Too bizarre. Still, I had to admit, even now, I was lonely. Lonely for someone my age. Lonely for a girl. I’d never thought of girls until I met Jinni. I never thought of love. I thought love and lust and desire, what anyone wanted from me, was the same thing.
And I didn’t want any part of that world, but I had no choice with any of my mother’s boyfriends.
“Magic,” she opened her eyes and glared at me. “I’m talking about real magic, Bean. Not those phony guys in capes who pull rabbits out of hats, or paper flowers from under their sleeves. Real life shit. Orson has powers you, me, or anyone out there watching him now, can’t comprehend. He can create cities out of sand. He can raise the dead. He can create food... but... to do food... takes most of his energy, and Orson has to rest for a week. Still, I’ve seen him bring a rain shower of toads on us. I’ve seen him kill.”
I stood slowly. I was going to get out of there. Either she was crazy, or I was. Whether what she said was real or not, it was scaring me. When I get scared, I only know one thing to do. Run.
“I have to go,” I told her. “My mother needs me—”
“You don’t believe me,” Jinni said.
“I didn’t say that.”
“I don’t care. You’re like I was when Gunnar first brought Orson to us. I had to see it to believe it.” Jinni opened the door and pointed. “See for yourself, Bean.”
I meandered over, careful with my steps. I was still weak in the legs. I stood very close to Jinni. My heart beat faster. I had this sudden urge to kiss her. But I didn’t. My eyes followed her pointing finger.
Orson stood on the hood of the car Jinni drove. He was aggressive in his jerking body movements. His black eyes were closed. His tiny wooden hands created beautiful, waving motions and his plastic throat made long guttural sounds. Several voices spoke, but they did not come from Orson’s red painted lip, though his hinged slack was hanging open.
The words were unrecognizable. The language died long before Christ was born. The voices of thousands echoed from a low decibel that human ears could not hear, and reached crashing crescendos that stabbed the musty humid air. Dark clouds above hijacked a blue sky, breezes quickly became whirlwinds.
Particles emitted from Orson’s fingers. An orange haze swirled around him, rising slowly above his head. The particles trickled slowly through the air. The voices continued, multiplied to another thousand voices. Something started to fall from the sky.
At first it was random. One, two. Plop! Then in threes. Plop! Then dozens. Plop! Plop! Plop! I thought it was debris from an oncoming storm. I saw what fell to the ground piled up on top of each other, squirming.
It was fish!
Piles and piles of fish littered the ground. Not just catfish, but bass, rockfish, you name it, that’s what was flipping and slithering around. The derelicts, transients, homeless, those who listened to Orson preach and tell fables, either ran toward the fish, or fled. The results on a few were the same. Catching the fallen meal, or were bludgeoned.
The storm cleared. The winds slowed to a gentle breeze. Blue skies and white, puffy clouds returned, and the sun blazed even hotter than a few minutes before. Orson’s followers were ecstatic. They pushed and shoved each other to gather as many of the fish in their arms. They laughed, cheered, sang unrecognizable songs. One of them had the great idea of piling the fish into a muddy Styrofoam chest.
Orson was still standing on the hood of the car. He was proud of himself. He provided for his people, and he said so in a blustery, loud voice.
“My children are happy!” he exclaimed, his body convulsed in bursts of machine gun laughter.
“They sure are,” Gunnar said.
Orson looked surprised to see him, maybe a little agitated.
“What brings you to God’s Country, Gunnar?” Orson exhaled deeply, as if he was releasing anger, yet containing it to a certain level.
“I can’t visit what I created?”
I wandered over to hear more of their conversation. Orson almost immediately changed his demeanour. He raised his eyebrows and chuckled happily.
“Why, of course you can, my friend! Sir Bean, what did you think of the miracle you just witnessed?”
I was still confused. Mostly, I was weirded out. I answered him the best I knew how. “I don’t know what a miracle is. I’ve heard the word a lot. That’s what that was? A miracle?”
Orson chuckled. “Oh, it most definitely was a miracle, Sir Bean.”
“Well,” I ran a hand through my hair. “It was kinda... weird, Orson. But... I guess... what’s the word?”
“Awestruck,” Orson said.
“Hmmm,” I thought about the word. I nodded, and felt the cloud of confusion fade away. “Yeah. That’s it. Awestruck. How did you do it?”
“Magic,” Orson strung out the word. “Magic, my boy.”
We were silent for a bit. Angrily, Gunnar threw himself back into the conversation.
“Orson, can I talk to you about Little Foot?” Gunnar interjected.
Orson turned his gaze slowly toward Gunnar. He was snarling, rabid teeth bit down on his bottom lip, those strange, bushy eyebrows arched down. I could’ve sworn I saw his eyes go a deeper shade of black.
“What about Little Foot?” Orson growled.
“He ain’t been right since you had him work for you,” Gunnar said.
“Not... right?” Orson feigned ignorance in the worst playacting I’d ever seen. As if he did it on purpose. “What do you mean?”
“The boy ain’t right in the head! He drools on himself! He-he can’t put two sentences together and those dark hollow eyes just stare off in the distance.”
Orson gestured with a slight, dismissive wave. “What do you propose I do for him, Gunnar?”
“You can fix him.”
“Gunnar, I am not sure I can...”
“You can make apple trees fertile. You can make cars run on nothing but dust.” Gunnar slapped the fender of the car. “Hell, you can make fish fall from the skies! But you can’t fix a poor young man’s brain?” Gunnar scoffed. “No. Not that you can’t. You don’t want to.”
“Hmm. You have a love for him?” Orson asked.
“He’s just my stepson, Orson. Just like Jinni is my daughter. I love them as a father. Not in a sick way you might think.”
“Oh, that’s all I implied, Gunnar,” Orson said.
“Yeah, sure, you did.”
“I’ll make something of a deal with you. You bring the boy here, and I’ll see if I can help him.”
“In exchange for what?” There was trepidation in Gunnar’s voice.
“You give me something of yours.” Orson peppered that with a tinge of maliciousness.
Gunnar laughed. “What? My soul?” He laughed again. “I’m afraid I don’t have much of one, Orson.”
Orson shook his head slowly. “No, not your soul.”
Gunnar was perplexed. He shrugged. “Then what?”
“Ahhhhhh...” Orson wagged his finger and that sick smile crossed his face. “When the time comes. Yes, Gunnar. I will help Little Foot. It will be... my pleasure.”
At first I didn’t want to stay in the trailer with Orson and Jinni. That was strange in itself. I could hear them in their bedroom. A woman sleeping... well, doing what she does, I suppose, with a doll. Even a... oh crap. I was so confused. How did he walk and talk, do the things normal humans do? I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. They were very loud. The walls between the rooms were very thin.
I had so many questions, I couldn’t sleep. I did eventually fall asleep and had one of those strange dreams about that ancient world. I saw that black curly haired man in a golden robe, performing for a crowd of onlookers. He scooped up a handful of dirt and threw it in the air as he spoke that ancient language. The dirt scattered above him and fell like rain before changing into a dove.
The scene shifted quickly and the black curly haired man sat on a silver chair, a naked blonde woman at his feet, lovingly caressing his legs. Another man, older, with a white beard, was addressing the curly haired man. Telling him his hubris would be his undoing.
The scene shifted back to the previous one.
The Dove landed on the ground and a crowd gathered around it, fenced it off before the poor fowl could flee. They tore it apart fighting over the Dove. In seconds, feathers, blood, and flesh became a second wardrobe for the hungry, crazed crowd. Some of them even ate the flesh raw, sank their rotten teeth in the fresh meat.
I awoke to black eyes inches from me. The sounds of hissing like rattlesnake tail. A sweeping melancholy voice whispered, “Awake child... it is time for you to earn your keep…”
I leaped up in bed. A scream tore from my throat. The next thing I knew, I was whisked away by Jinni and Orson in that shabby car that ran not on gasoline, but sheer will of Orson’s powers.
Jinni wasn’t driving. Gunnar was. He was quiet, as was Jinni. In the front seat beside Gunnar was Little Foot. He was younger than I was, taller, no hair on his head, chalky white skin, deep black eyes that seemed to be watching a reality the rest of us were not part of. The boy never said audible words. In between grunts and the occasional squeal or yelp, he constantly drooled on himself. He didn’t wear clothes, he was in a terrycloth robe that was partially open, and anyone could see red splotches and huge black sores on his chest. His breathing was irregular with soft whispers of wheezing.
Orson snarled at the boy. I was fearful the doll would leap into the front seat and tear into him with his tiny sharp teeth. Thank God that never happened. However, Orson was very talkative. Occasionally he leered at me with those black eyes burning holes into my soul.
We rode in the back, leaving the passenger seat next to Gunnar empty. Orson sat between Jinni and I. She didn’t pay attention to anyone in the car. She steadied her eyes on the passing scenery.
“You are worried, eh, Sir Bean?”
“Just had a fitful night, is all,” I told Orson.
He placed a tiny wooden hand on my knee.
Trailing close behind the car was an old skeletal farm truck with a wooden bed carrying ten of Orson’s derelict disciples. Who exactly was driving, I couldn’t tell, unless some ghost was there. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Every time I would look back to see, no visible person was manning the wheel. It seemed to turn or steady by itself.
“Whose truck is that?” I asked.
“Mine,” Gunnar barked. “I stole it from a farm ten miles east of here.”
“I don’t think anyone is driving that truck,” I said worriedly.
The three of them exchanged glances and broke off into wild laughter.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, peeved there was an inside joke at my expense.
“There is no need for bitterness,” Orson said. “Nor concern. Remember, Bean, you are with friends.”
“We care about you, Bean,” Jinni said. “The reason I picked you up is because I could tell how loving and caring a person you were. You mean so much to us—to me.”
Her words carried more weight than anything Orson could’ve said at that time. Am I a loving and carrying person? I didn’t know. All I knew was being with my mother, and more times than not, I really didn’t care about her and vice versa. She just wanted control of everyone.
I liked Jinni’s words. I liked her touch more. She reached out and squeezed my hand. Orson shot her an annoyed glance and Jinni removed her hand. The air went out of me.
Or better, my heart skipped a beat. Isn’t that what they say when a person you are falling for touches, or even looks at you? I wasn’t sure. I have to admit, I was upset with her. I mean, what was she doing with that... doll?
Having... relations with it, as one of my mother’s boyfriends used to call his time with me when my mother was at work. Well, back then she worked, briefly. Anyways, Jinni lowered herself by being with Orson. He wasn’t even... human.
“Trust me,” that stupid talking doll said. That ridiculous wooden thing that is supposed to sit on someone’s lap and mime to a disembodied voice had the nerve to say, “I will make your life better. Enriched.”
The anger inside of me was building. I wanted to wring its tiny mechanical neck. All I did was scowl at him.
“We love you.” Jinni smiled a perfect rainbow.
Orson gave her a cool look, and Jinni’s face fell. She went back to staring out the window. She rested her chin on a closed hand, and the sleeve rode up. I saw tiny circular bruises marks on her forearm. They looked like tiny bite marks.
I felt white hot anger rise up inside me. Ohhhh, I wanted to reach over and pull that ugly wooden head off that screwed down neck.
We entered a dusty town named Elysian. It was even more desolate and poorer than where we left. There were three concrete buildings on the only street. A grocery store of some kind. A post office/sheriff office/school house. The other modern looking building was a small one storey stucco design, the sign indicated it was a bat. The other buildings were old run-down track houses, and from a close-up view, they were mostly abandoned.
The truck parked next to us by the grocery store. The derelicts all hopped out and carried trash bags, duffle bags, and cardboard boxes full of gear. Dull, simple eyes stared past me to Orson. He smiled and leered at them. Without words, they understood to start emptying the boxes and bags, immediately set up for a show.
Yes, show.
The equipment they unloaded turned out to be for jugglers, fire eating, a wardrobe for strange dance practices, and a woman with blank stare recited poetry in the same language that had been in my dreams and what Orson spoke when he made it fish.
I stood by myself on a street corner and watched the show. Jinni and Gunnar stood next to the vehicles. Orson was nowhere to be seen. The show attracted attention. Townspeople gathered, watched in silence, in awe, or sheer confusion. It was hard to tell by their mannerisms.
Gunnar wandered over during the fire breathing segment.
“I trained these people,” he said nonchalantly.
I shrugged. I didn’t care. I wanted to leave. Maybe wander off on my own. Explore the country. Or maybe just go back to Mother and be miserable. I didn’t know what I wanted except to get far away from these people. The weirdness made me sad.
“He’s my fault,” Gunnar said.
He was desperate to talk to me about something. He was so fidgety. Chewing on his lower lip, picking his nails, running a hand through his thinning hair. Finally, I gave in.
“How is he your fault?”
“I found him,” Gunnar said. “I brought him here.” He sighed. “I found the little monster on the side of the road in Germaine. I went out there to collect aluminium and copper to sell. I found an old telephone booth still intact. I started to strip the phone when I saw this doll. Or to be more exact,” Gunnar paused, a pained expression crossed his weathered face. “A fuckin’ ventriloquist doll. I don’t know why I picked it up. I felt... something propelled me to do so. A presence.”
“A presence?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if I believed Gunnar’s story. In retrospect, that wasn’t even the weirdest thing for me to tell you. He went on.
“A voice in my mind,” he said. “It was faint... sounded like it was on its last leg. I should’ve tossed the fuckin’ doll outta the phone booth!”
We were silent for a few minutes, our eyes were on the townspeople throwing what little money they had into a stainless-steel bucket one of the derelicts had in his hands. The man was tall, no hair on his head, his skin chalk white, and no life in his dark eyes.
Gunnar continued.
“God can be a cruel son of a bitch. I picked Orson up and stared into those awful black eyes. I could feel my mind and my body being drained. I threw him down and punted the damn thing onto the blacktop. He screamed out in pain. Oh, sweet Jesus,” Gunnar rubbed his face slowly. I saw tears well up in his eyes. “I wish I had tossed him in a ditch and left him. But I went and investigated why this inanimate thing was talkin’. The rest is fuckin’ history. He took over, turned everyone I had rescued against me.”
“I’m kind of confused about what this is? Why would you guys fight over it?” I said.
Gunnar was taken aback. “This,” he waved. “Is God’s country. Them,” he pointed at the derelicts “I was a preacher man before the world fell apart. I didn’t want to hear God anymore. Me, Jinni and Little Foot, we set out to see the country. we found all these homeless people, and they became my flock before he took them from me.” Gunnar paused. “What don’t you understand? He who controls the land controls the people in it.”
“I still don’t understand,” I told him.
“You don’t need to I guess,” Gunnar whispered. “Bean, you can help me destroy Orson.”
“What? Why?”
“He hurt my son... he destroyed my son’s mind... he drains everyone for his magic. That’s what he did to Little Foot, that’s what he’s doing to you.”
I laughed. “That’s a little odd, isn’t it?”
“You don’t believe me?” he asked. I said nothing. His eyes became small, full of hate. “He hurts Jinni.”
Before I could say anything, a thunderous voice called my name. I turned quickly to see who belonged to the voice. Orson was standing on the roof of the car. More townspeople gathered. By then the Sheriff and his deputy were watching with errant disdain. He called out to me again, and offered a tiny wooden hand.
Reluctantly, I padded toward him. I swallowed hard and stopped at the car. He moved to the hood, stood near the edge with those silly black shoes hanging off Orson, bent down and offered his hand.
“Are you ready?” he said.
“For what?” My voice cracked.
“For infamy,” he said.
Orson closed his, hunched down and bent his legs awkwardly. He whispered two words and I immediately fell to the ground and slipped into complete darkness.
When I died, Orson placed his tiny wooden hands on my forehead. He spoke a language the onlookers did not know, and I came to life with ferocious zest, coughing and crying out in strained voices. The darkness cleared away. I flopped around on the dusty ground like a dying fish out of water, gasping for air.
I laid there for what felt like an eternity. Wheezing, coughing, fluid ran from my nose, blood trickled down my chin to my neck. Jinni came to my rescue. She held me in her arms as I tried to recover. I looked in those eyes, pleading with her to go away with me. She told me, with those luscious eyes, she would never be free of Orson.
AT THAT MOMENT, I knew I had to help Gunnar destroy that awful ventriloquist doll.
The ride home was very uncomfortable. Once again, I was in the backseat with Orson in the middle to separate Jinni and I. Orson was preoccupied. He glared at Gunnar and Little Foot. Gunnar was lost in his thoughts, mechanically driving, not particularly caring what else was going on. Little Foot was staring straight ahead, those deep black eyes, emotionless, not really fixated on anything, drooling on himself.
I had to share my bedroom with Little Foot. He just sat in a corner of the room on the floor, rocking back and forth. He kept me awake with his stupid humming. Who does that? Not talking was more annoying and unsettling than a person could think.
Later that night I heard a screech and a door slam shut. I’m not sure what happened between Jinni and Orson, but I heard him scream and call her a bitch. I leaped from my bed and rushed out of the bedroom. I saw Jinni pad through the living room, her nightgown barely hanging on to her slender body. She flung the front door open and ran out of the trailer.
Then I saw him.
My jaw dropped. I was freaked out beyond imagination.
Orson trotted out of the bedroom, completely naked. The top half of him was wooden and plastic. The bottom half was human, flesh and blood. He looked like a toddler, except he was not anatomically correct. Just an airbrushed V, no genitals whatsoever.
He pushed me out of the way. I fell hard against the door frame. He sprinted out the door and let loose an ear shattering cry that injured creatures exude.
I’d never seen anyone so angry. Not only did I see his anger on his face, I felt it. Lately, ever since the last dream, I’ve been able to feel, taste, and know what Orson was thinking.
At that moment, Orson had murder on his mind.
I ran after him to stop him from harming Jinni. He was fast but I was on his heels. I chased him all over that rundown trailer park. Our bare feet tipped through trash, car parts and used tyres; tall grass and weeds, and I know I cut the bottom of my feet running over shards of glass. He stopped suddenly, jerked his head around, those dead black eyes scanning the area for Jinni. Realization that she was nowhere to be found, a screech emitted from his gaping mouth
And then...
Everyone in the trailer park felt Orson’s fury.
The wind picked up. Thirty-mile hour gusts blew trash and limb debris everywhere. A front bumper blew past me, caught me in the shoulder before becoming a thing of the past. I dropped to the ground and crawled to a ditch. Orson never moved, he was unmovable by the winds.
Two tents blew over and sailed over top of me. I heard the screams. I looked up and that tall, pasty white bald man had been carried into the air and impaled by a hook from a downed powerline. He bled out immediately.
More debris filled the air, caught in a funnel along with the car and two more of Orson’s followers. I just put my head down and prayed I wasn’t taken as well.
Thirty minutes later, the storm was over and Orson collapsed. All of his energy had been drained from his mind and body. Still, I heard a voice in my mind.
He needs to be destroyed.
Everyone gathered around us. We stood and stared at the little half man/half doll. Gunnar appeared. We exchanged glances.
“Is he dead?” someone asked.
Gunnar kneeled, placed a hand on a smooth wooden arm.
“No,” he said. “He’s not dead.”
The trailer door opened and Jinni stood on the threshold. She padded through the wet grass, carrying a towel. She parted the crowd with a gentle nudge, stooped down and wrapped up Orson like a baby, and carried him carefully back to the trailer. She kicked the front door shut.
Gunnar and I locked eyes. He started to say something, but I walked away from him. I was worn out. I circled around the trailer and used the backdoor to enter. I went into my room. I didn’t bother to turn on the lights. I sat on my bed and was ready to lie down when two glowing yellow eyes caught my attention.
I heard the humming and the ruffling of clothing. From the light of the moon, I saw Little Foot. He was rocking back and forth, a droning hum passed his parted lips. Those eyes continued to burn brightly until I heard the humming fade into a light snore and those eyes dimmed.
I laid down, closed my eyes, and wished I was back home with my mother.
It was late in the morning when I awoke. Little Foot was not in his corner. I rose from the bed, went to the bathroom, and nearly fainted. I held onto the sink for support. I lifted my head and caught my visage in the mirror.
My eyes were glowing yellow.
I closed my eyes and shook my head. When I reopened my eyes, they were no longer glowing. Slowly, I made my way from the bathroom to the living room. The trailer was empty. A plate of eggs was on the coffee table with a note. It read: “I made these especially for you,” signed Jinni.
I tossed the note on the floor. “So what,” I said to that plate of eggs. Still, I was no fool. I was hungry and I sat on the sofa and gobbled the eggs in just a few minutes.
I heard cheering and laughing outside the trailer. I looked out the window and saw two lawn chairs. Several derelicts were sitting on the ground in a circle surrounding the lawn chairs. I saw Jinni in a zebra striped chair and Orson in a lime-coloured plastic and nylon chair. He was speaking and the derelicts would cheer or titter on cue. A farm truck pulled up and Gunnar got out quickly, nervously scanned the area as if someone had been watching him.
It’s time.
The voice sounded off inside my head like a gong. I felt faint, my legs were like rubber. I held onto the window seal to keep from falling. I shook it off, flung the front door open, and ran out of the trailer quickly.
Whatever time it was, what special event was supposed to happen, I had to be there to see it, per the voice in my head. I still wasn’t sure it was Orson. Didn’t sound like him? It was grittier, more... hateful... full of resentment.
Gunnar opened the passenger door and helped Little Foot out. Hand in hand, he took the vacant, addle-minded boy to the lawn chairs where Orson and Jinni were relaxing. The derelicts glared at them, expressionless.
“You said you would fix Little Foot,” Gunnar said. “So do it!”
Orson smiled maliciously. “With pleasure, Gunnar. Do you accept the terms?”
Gunnar swallowed hard, nodded once. “I do,” the words almost didn’t pass through his lips.
Jinni gave Gunnar a worried glance, and turned away quickly.
“No tricks,” Gunnar said.
Orson gasped. “Tricks? Why Gunnar, that was a hurtful accusation.”
“Don’t be cute, woodenhead. You know what you do.”
“To the point as always, Gunnar.”
“Well, you sure as hell never get the point. There’s syllables still hanging in the atmosphere from the last time you gave a fucking speech.”
Orson chuckled demonically. “Choose your words carefully, old friend,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Gunnar lied. He was stone faced, but anyone could see fear dancing nervously in his eyes.
“Never mind the machismo, Gunnar,” Orson said. “You are speaking to me because your son needs my help. Correct?”
Gunnar nodded.
“Hmmm, and our agreement is in place,” Orson said. “Bring him to me.”
Gunnar took Little Foot’s hand and walked him to the car. Orson climbed the hood. Gunnar eased Little Foot to crouch down so Orson could reach him. Slowly, those tiny wooden fingers traced the chalk white skin on Little Foot’s face. Orson closed his eyes and his plastic lips moved around, speaking, but no words were audible for several seconds.
Then the voices came in unison, filling my mind, echoing, forming vibratos.
I fell to my knees. The pain was so great, I nearly lost consciousness. But I managed to bring myself in and out of the darkness. I couldn’t give in, no matter how strong the pain was, how much my mind bled from the razor-sharp voices.
Orson opened his eyes. A malicious sneer crossed his face. His hand shot away from Little Foot and towards Gunnar. Those plastic lips moved again, his hateful face twisted. Gunnar froze. His body stiffened. His eyes became dead, hollow. He made one gurgle, a slight screech escaped his mouth before blood trickled from his nose.
Gunnar fell to the ground. His vital organs were all ruptured, and his life and spirit existed no more.
Orson screamed a warrior’s victory. His laughter cut through me. The winds picked up and the sky became dark.
But the storm was cut short.
I heard their voices.
All of them filled my mind.
The derelicts... even Jinni’s... and Little Foot.
Destroy him!
They gathered around the car, their eyes glowing yellow.
“You do not frighten me!” Orson told them. “I am the lord and master of your souls! You adhere to my commands!”
Destroy him!
They reached for him. He ran to the trunk of the Lincoln. More of the derelicts had gathered there, hands reaching out for him.
“I own you!” Orson screamed.
Destroy him!
Hands took him from the car. Hands that belonged to Jinni. She was emotionless, and her yellow glowing eyes reflected in Orson’s plastic face.
“No, Jinni! No!” he begged. “Don’t do this, Jinni! I love you!”
She laid him down on the trunk of the car. The others helped hold him down. I had joined them without realizing it, carrying a small hatchet I found in Gunnar’s truck. My yellow eyes burned deep into Orson’s dark black eyes.
Destroy him!
I raised the hatchet and brought it down swiftly. The blade severed Orson’s left hand. He screamed, and we all sang the praises of the new lord and master.
And I heard Little Foot in my mind:
You’ve all done very well...
We all chanted
Destroy him
The blade of the hatchet came down fast on Orson’s right hand.
THE BARTENDER STARED at me in disbelief.
Or is it that he had no more energy for me to drain? I watched you double over with a terrible coughing spell. He bolted straight up, one last wheeze and fall to the floor, lifeless.
Several yellow glowing eyes appear behind me. I see Jinni front and centre. A hand is on my shoulders, and I hear Little Foot’s voice in my mind.
Come, Master, we have much to do.
I set the glass down on the counter as carefully as I can. No easy feat when you have tiny wooden hands.
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