Monday, March 21
Monday morning Sully woke with a migraine. His mouth tasted like bilge water. His sight was clouded by blood in his eyes. He made a note to avoid returning to the Strict Particular Baptist Church of Elwha, then forgot where he put the note.
He walked to the pay phone at the Eagle Café to call his boss at Port Angeles Parks and Recreation. He felt like a Sherpa humping a pack up the Himalayas, gasping for air. He listened to a five-minute lecture before learning he still had a job. Apparently, guarding a centuries-old graveyard where the dead were piled like cordwood didn’t appeal to many people even in the depressed economy of Port Angeles.
Hattie Malept served him his usual breakfast of poached eggs and dry toast.
“You look rough today,” she said.
“I feel like roadkill.”
“Too much fun on the weekend?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t describe it as fun,” Sully said. “More like perdition.” He opened the newspaper he had bought from the vending machine on the wharf.
Harry Wry sat down opposite Sully.
“Coffee?” Hattie asked.
Harry nodded and rubbed the gray stubble on his chin with his knuckles. “Looking for a job?” he asked Sully.
Sully nodded, swallowing.
“Don’t,” Harry said. He waited until Hattie was beyond earshot. “I got a job hauling cargo from Canada, no customs and no questions asked. I need a place to land it. Someplace quiet with no one looking late at night. Someplace like Tse-whit-zen,” he said, pronouncing each syllable like a separate word, drumming the Formica tabletop with a scarred forefinger. Tse. Whit. Zen.
Harry owned an aging schooner at anchor in the bay. He spent most of his time trying to keep her afloat. He was also Sully’s only friend.
Harry stole a piece of toast from Sully’s plate, took a bite, grimaced, and returned it to the plate. “I don’t know how you can eat burnt bread without butter. Tastes like a roof shingle.”
Sully took his fork and pushed the piece of toast off his plate and onto the table. He leaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice. “I’ve seen things. Things that couldn’t possibly be. At Tse-whit-zen. And something like a black hole. It knew my name, Harry.” He shook his head. “I’ve got to find another gig.”
He didn’t mention his ayahuasca vision. It would only mislead Harry into suspecting his experience at Tse-whit-zen was drug induced. Harry went there anyway.
“I’ve seen plenty of things like that, kid,” Harry said. “You just need to dry out for a while.”
“I wasn’t drinking. Not until after I saw it. I don’t think I can keep working there. Damn place is haunted.”
“Well, yeah, it’s a graveyard,” Harry said. “Every graveyard is haunted. Comes with the territory. Makes no difference. Ghosts can’t hurt you. Rattle a few chains, moan in the night. Child’s play.”
Harry had no appreciation for the more arcane aspects of existence.
“I didn’t think your boat would float, much less haul cargo,” Sully said. “What kind of cargo needs to be landed in the middle of the night?”
“The kind that pays well with no questions asked,” Harry said.
Harry wrote something on a paper napkin, turned it over, and slid it across the table to Sully.
“A bit dramatic,” Sully said before he read the napkin. “Holy shit!”
“Keep your voice down. We don’t want to draw attention.”
They had already drawn Hattie’s attention. She came with a coffee pot. “You sound excited,” she said to Sully. “Find a job?”
“What do I have to do?” Sully asked Harry when Hattie returned to her other customers.
“Something you’re very good at,” Harry said. “Nothing. Just look the other way. You can do it in your sleep. Mostly what you do anyway.”
Sully looked again at the underside of the napkin. “If you’re paying this much, it can’t be legal. What happens if we get caught?”
“What do you think? We go to jail. Look, we make a few runs, make a boatload of money, then sail away before anyone’s the wiser. We refit the old girl and sail someplace where we can live like kings the rest of our lives. I know places that aren’t even on the charts.”
“Hard time,” Sully said, frowning. “The big house. Plastic sporks. Institutional rape. It’s a big risk.”
“What do you have to lose?” Harry said, eyeing Sully’s eggs. “You live in a chicken coop floating in a cesspool. You spend your nights guarding a bunch of bones. And you’ve got the social life of a leper.”
“My freedom?” Sully said.
“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”
“Don’t you dare break into song,” Sully threatened the back of Harry’s hand with his fork. “I swear, I’ll gig you like a toad.”
“Take a breath, man. Like I said, we do a few jobs, then get out. What could go wrong?”
“This is the part in cheap horror movies where the ditzy blond opens the door to the basement and the soundtrack turns ominous and everyone in the audience thinks ‘Don’t do it,’” Sully said.
“The blond always goes into the basement,” Harry said.
“Yeah. It’s in the script.”
“So you’re in?” Harry said.
“Sure,” Sully said.
“A few jobs and we’re gone,” Harry said. “Scout’s honor.”
Sully doubted Harry Wry was ever a Boy Scout.
On the way home, Sully saw Sprout ushering people into Riddlepit. It seemed an unlikely amount of activity for Shantytown before noon. He investigated.
“You having a wake?” he asked Sprout.
“A war council,” Sprout said. “The city council is making a move.”
“They’ve made moves before and nothing ever comes of it,” Sully said.
“It’s different this time,” Sprout said.
“Different? How?” Sully said.
“Rezoning,” Sprout said.
“Rezoning? What the hell does that have to do with anything? I thought we were outside the city’s jurisdiction. Harbor of refuge and all that.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me,” Sprout said. “Something to do with our connection to the shore. From what I’ve heard, they claim anything that floats but can’t move on its own power is landfill, and landfill is under the city council’s jurisdiction.”
“Floating landfill?” Sully said. “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”
“They don’t elect city council members for their language skills,” Sprout said. “Or their reasoning.”
Sully changed the subject. “What happened with Dr. Rathskill?”
Sprout shook his head. “The usual. HP read his cards, then rolled her eyes. I didn’t understand a word of it. I drove him home and a bunch of dead birds fell on my car.”
“Purple Martins. That’s what Rathskill said. I don’t know birds from tree toads.”
“They just fell out of the sky? Dead?”
“Dead as doornails,” Sprout said. “Bounced when they hit the ground. And they crunched when I drove over them.”
There was a rumbling sound in the distance. The sound registered subconsciously on Sully. He cocked his head without knowing he was trying to triangulate a sound he wasn’t even aware of. The sound grew in volume as the distance diminished. It rose above his horizon of consciousness.
A truck. It sounded like a truck. It took several more microseconds to recognize the incongruity of a truck in Shantytown.
Qwackers rumbled into view, a boatload of tourists with duck bodies. Sandy Crab was broadcasting on the PA system. “…a lumbermill.” His voice drifted away and returned. “…lucky you came in time…all be gone soon. Oh, look. It’s the dwarf I told you about.”
Sprout raised a single finger salute.
“Randy little bugger,” Sandy broadcast.
“I’ll show you randy,” Sprout muttered. He turned his back on the tourists, dropped his trousers, and bent over.
There were several audible gasps from the tourists and a few expletives. Sully saw one mother cover the eyes of her child.
Sandy Crab’s voice boomed across the water. “Howdy Doody, folks. You don’t see that every day.”
In mythology, the hero descends to the underworld. What happens when the underworld ascends? Whistlepig, a serialized fiction. Table of contents.
@ Copyright 2018 Charles Thrasher All rights reserved.