Sea Swallow Me and Other Stories Read online

  Title Page

  Sea, Swallow Me and other stories

  Craig Laurance Gidney

  Published by Lethe Press at Smashwords

  Copyright © 2008 Craig Laurance Gidney.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author.

  Lethe Press

  118 Heritage Ave, Maple Shade, NJ 08052

  www.lethepressbooks.com

  [email protected]

  Book Design by Toby Johnson

  Cover art by Thomas Drymon

  ISBN 1-59021-066-2 / 978-1-59021-066-6

  “The Safety of Thorns” first appeared 2005 in Say… Have You Heard This One

  “Her Spirit Hovering” first appeared 2003 in the literary journal Riprap

  “Sea, Swallow Me” first appeared 2006 in Ashé Journal

  “Circus Boy Without A Safety Net” first appeared 2001 in Spoonfed

  “Magpie Sisters” first appeared 2007 in the online journal Serendipity

  “A Bird of Ice” first appeared 2007 in So Fey: Queer Fairy Fiction

  ______________________________________________________

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gidney, Craig Laurance, 1967-

  Sea, swallow me and other stories / Craig Laurance Gidney. -- 1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-59021-066-2

  1. Magic--Fiction. 2. Fantasy fiction, American. 3. American fiction--African American authors. 4. Gays' writings, American. I. Title. II.

  Title: Sea, swallow me.

  PS3607.I275S43 2008

  813'.6--dc22

  2008041282

  To My Parents

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  The Safety of Thorns

  Etiolate

  Her Spirit Hovering

  Come Join We

  Sea, Swallow Me

  Circus Boy Without a Safety Net

  Strange Alphabets

  Magpie Sisters

  A Bird of Ice

  Catch Him By The Toe

  Acknowledgments

  About the Carl Brandon Society

  About the Author

  The Safety of Thorns

  Israel Jones first saw the Devil on Saturday night, rising out of the briar patch that was at the edge of Moonflower, the Joneses’ plantation. The cruel thorns of the briar patch parted, releasing a swarm of mosquitoes and a man-shaped thing. Nothing, of course, could live there, except for insects—the mosquitoes, flies and biting nits. Old Scratch dusted himself off, and picked off burrs from his suit, which was the color of kudzu. He was crowned with a black silk top hat that boasted a white feather. There was no mistaking him. His skin was as black as tar, a color that glistened, but did not reflect. His face was a beautiful, if inhuman mask. His skin looked as if it were made of a magical wood, one that possessed fluid properties. He had a guitar dangling from one hand. His fingernails were curved but clean. He walked across the top of the briar patch gracefully, not quite a parody of the Lord walking across the waters.

  “Hey, boy,” he called out. His voice was husky, but surprisingly gentle. “What are you doing out on a night like this?”

  Israel didn’t answer at first.

  “What’s the matter,” the Devil asked, concerned. “Are you a mute?”

  Israel shook his head. But he wasn't sure if the stranger could see in the dark, so he said, “No, sir. I’m just running an errand for Master Rufus.” He didn’t mention that the “errand” was to buy some moonshine from Cletus, who lived at the edge of the swamp.

  The Devil just nodded. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Hold this for a moment.” He handed the guitar to Israel. He hesitantly accepted the instrument, fret board first. Even in the feeble light of a half moon, he could see that it was no ordinary guitar. The hourglass body of the guitar was intricately inlaid with designs, in tones of ruby, sapphire and mother-of-pearl. At first glance they seemed to be abstract. But on closer inspection, Israel could make out shapes, human-like forms that shimmered back into vagueness. Jeweled faces were caught in the wood. These must be the trapped souls he harvested.

  The Devil reached into his jacket pocket, and produced a cheroot. With a snap of the fingers, the tip of the cheroot was sparked. He put it in his mouth. “The wife,” he said after blowing out a plume of smoke, “she don’t like it when I smoke down there. So I gotta do it out here.”

  Its smell was sweet and spicy, kind of like cinnamon, not at all like those nasty pipes that Master Rufus smoked. Isabel, the slave in charge of the female slaves (or Queen Field Nigger, as she was known) swore that he smoked dung mixed with tobacco. “Nothing but mule shit.”

  “The Devil has a wife?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  The Devil laughed at that, his teeth dangerous pearls. It was a dark sound, full of earthworms and the chittering wings of insects. “Boy,” he said when he was done, “I ain’t the devil. My wife might think differently, though.”

  “Then who are you?”

  The cheroot tip glowed a good, long while before he took a drag. The expelled smoke curled to the sky. Israel could swear there were faces in the smoke that broke apart as drifted upwards.

  “Call me Earl. Earl King.”

  Should he run? And where to? It seemed stupid to continue with Master Rufus’ errand, as if nothing had happened. And yet, to return empty-handed wasn't without risk.

  “Boy, you’re thinking too hard,” said Mr. King. (King of Hell, no doubt). “Now, I said I wasn't the Devil.”

  Israel nodded, moving away. “Ain’t no reason to be afraid,” Mr. King repeated.

  He bolted toward Moonflower’s gate, kicking up dust. Stars, clouds, grass all swirled past him. His dungarees would be filthy when he got back home. It was a queer thought to have, when he was running for his life. He didn’t get very far. A viselike grip stopped him.

  “Please, please sir, don’t hurt me. I’m a good Christian.”

  “I don’t care if you’re a good Christian or not,” Mr. King calmly informed him. “I just want my guitar back.”

  Israel wasn't aware that he still had it. But sure enough, the iridescent instrument was in his clutch.

  Israel handed it over to him, quaking. As soon as the guitar was in Mr. King’s hand, he was let go. His body tensed for flight, but he held back. The figures on the guitar mesmerized him. Leaves became faces became waves became wings. They resolved into a face, of sorts, with the hole in the hourglass’ center being the mouth. Two leaf-green eyes blinked at him from the hollow body. The eyes were feminine and full of warmth. They had the sparkle that he imagined a mother had for her child. This soul, at least, didn’t appear to be trapped. But it could be a trick. Mr. King calmly observed him.

  “Would you like me to play a song for you?”

  Israel, mute with wonder, nodded.

  Mr. King held the guitar against his body, and a strap appeared, a fabric-snake of night and stars. It slithered over his body, attaching and balancing the instrument. The first chord struck was clear and brittle, like Moonflower’s tobacco fields beneath an icing of frost. Mr. King’s voice harmonized with the guitar, in a deeper tone. The song he sang was a short one, unlike the gospel songs that the other slaves sang, or the hymns of the masters. This song was dark and hot, the sulfur stink of the bayou in it. It oozed over him, like soft black mud at the bottom of a creek. Yet, there was a beauty to it as well, with lilies afloat above the muck, the hot eyes of the
raccoon, watching. There were words to the song, words he tried to hold onto, but they escaped like mist. At the end, Israel only had a sensation in the pit of his belly, and fading images of moonlight spilled across water, the slick jade of leaping frogs, the filmy laziness of catfish. He saw the crumbling colors of the bayou: brown, blue and green. When the song finished, Israel found his eyes moist.

  The guitar-girl fluttered her lashes in sympathy.

  Mr. King smiled. His teeth glowed, starlight captured in a crescent. “She likes you.”

  Her eyes laughed in agreement.

  “What’s her name?”

  “It’s getting late, boy. Best be on your way back, before your master gets suspicious.”

  Israel, turned, heading for the gate. He’d surely be whipped, if he didn’t get that moonshine from Cletus.

  “Son, there ain’t no reason to be going to that shack in the middle of the bayou.” Mr. King reached into his bulgeless left pocket and withdrew a long bottle that couldn’t possibly been hidden there. The liquid within was fiery white and translucent. It stilled into a deadly clearness, with a faint green tint. Israel took the bottle from his hands. It was cold, the bottle. There was a purple-green label on it, scrawled with the finest script Israel had ever seen. He couldn’t read, but he wanted to very badly at that moment.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  Mr. King nodded. “I best be going,” he said. “The wife…”

  He melted into the night, color spilling out, tar-face painting itself onto the night. The last impression left were the giggling green eyes of the guitar girl.

  Israel walked up the dusty road, in one of the ruts left by the many carriages that visited Moonflower. His own father, long dead, was rumored to be one of the Joneses’ coachmen until he up and tried to escape. Israel walked around the front entrance of the manse, which was lantern-lit in the dark. White rhododendron bushes competed with dark magenta azaleas. The front porch of the house was empty; a porch swing creaked in the gentle summer breeze. The pale emerald liquid in the bottle sparkled in the moonlight. Israel hid the bottle under his ratty jacket; it wouldn’t do to let Sr. Master Jones catch him with hooch. Master Rufus wouldn’t protect him, not when his own honor was at stake. In a side window, he caught a glimpse of the lady of house. She was sickly, had that scarlet fever a few years back and never recovered. A tree of candles illuminated her, as she read the Bible.

  The path to the slave shacks was dark and muddy. The first shack, not much more than a lean-to, was a few feet away from the white folks’ fancy outhouse, with its tin roof and carved crescent moon on the door. The smell of shit hung in the air, along with the stinks of animal dung, lime and human sweat. Vengeful flies eddied around him briefly. Tansy lived in the third shack from the outhouse.

  Israel knocked softly and entered. Tansy’s mother, Bertha, sat in darkness in a rocking chair. She was as blind as a bat, her eyes a milky gray. She rocked by the stove, covered in shawls in spite of the heat. A kerosene lantern lay by bed at the opposite end of the room, casting light on the business at hand. Master Rufus’s pale, freckled buttocks shivered. Tansy knelt before him, her golden-brown arms encircling his waist. His hands were entwined in her thick hair, yanking her face forward.

  He muttered under his breath: “…take it, black bitch…”

  Bertha continued rocking. Was she smiling? Israel caught the beginnings of a smirk, as if she were laughing at a private joke. Maybe she was deaf as well.

  Master Rufus gripped Tansy’s face, as he shuddered. He swore, but he did not seem angry. When Master Rufus withdrew from her mouth, his wet thing dribbled. He pulled up his pants in a fluid motion.

  He turned around and grinned sheepishly. “Boy, you creep up all silent-like, like a cat.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Israel replied.

  “Ain’t no reason be sorry. I like your stealth—”

  Retching interrupted Master Rufus. Tansy bent over the wood floor, a frothed line of spittle joining a small puddle. She coughed.

  Master Rufus knelt over her. “What’s the matter, Tansy? Don’t like my taste?” He rubbed her shoulders.

  “L’il cat,” Master Rufus said, beckoning him over. “You got my stuff? Good, bring it here.”

  Israel handed him the bottle, with its spectral liquid. Master Rufus uncapped it, and handed it Tansy. “Here, drink,” he said.

  She looked at the bottle with suspicion.

  “I said drink it, gal. That’s an order.”

  She took a cautious sip. Of course the moonshine would burn whatever taste she had in mouth. Both he and Master Rufus tensed up for her spitting the hooch out. But it didn’t happen. Instead, Tansy took a long swig, as if it were the purest water. Master Rufus’ face changed from mischievous to annoyed. He snatched the bottle away from the girl.

  “What are you, a drunk? This stuff costs good money.” He snarled, and took a defiant swig himself. He immediately spat it out, clutching his throat. His pale face turned beet-red, and water poured from his closed eyes. Both Tansy and Israel endured his coughing for several minutes.

  “Damn,” he said when he surfaced from the fit, “that stuff’s strong. Like goddamn kerosene.”

  As soon as he could stand, Master Rufus left them in a huff, slamming the door to the shack. Bertha’s rocking rhythm was undisturbed.

  “He left his ‘shine,” Israel said.

  Tansy stared at it, left in the center of the floor. The liquid was bright, pale silver-green. “Izzy,” she said. “Taste it.”

  “Naw,” he said, fingering the right strap of his suspenders.

  “Please,” Tansy said. “Just a sip.” Her eyes were large and moist. They glowed, with the same luminescence that the liquid the bottle had. The green eyes of the devil man and the soul trapped in the guitar were distilled in the bottle. But it wasn't a poisonous green but the pale of young leaves.

  One sip, and he’d be damned forever. No pearly gates, no river of milk, no meals of honey for him. He knew it, and somehow he didn’t care.

  He picked up the bottle, still cool in this hot summer night, and paused. He put the bottle to his lips, and took a tiny sip. It was sweet and cold, and had the faint taste of honeysuckle. It went down as smooth as cream, coating his throat, his stomach, his soul in sweet soft velvet.

  “Izzy,” said Tansy, after he’d finished. “What did you taste?” She gently prized the bottle from his hands.

  Israel thought for a moment. “Summer,” he said. Tansy nodded as if she understood.

  “You best get to bed, little man.”

  Israel walked out into the steaming night. Crickets chirped, and bats whirred overhead, erratic in their flight. Why didn’t I tell her about the devil man? he wondered. It would’ve just worried her. And besides…Mr. King couldn’t be the Devil, could he? His elixir had gone down both his and Tansy’s throat as smooth as silk. It had been firewater to Master Rufus. But he still had the stench of witchery and hoodoo about him. Israel reached the shack that he shared with Old Mark. Mark was in bed, and woke up when Israel entered. He gestured toward the stove with his hand. A faint, glottal crackle sounded from his mouth—words strangled by spit and the stump of a tongue.

  In the belly of the stove, Israel found a tin plate of pigs’ feet, a thick slice of bread, a few chunks of sweet potato and collards.

  “Thank you.”

  Mark coughed in acknowledgement. Israel banked the embers, and began eating the food, using the bread slice as an edible spoon. After placing the empty dish with others waiting to be cleaned, he crawled into bed beside Old Mark.

  Behind his closed eyes, he saw laughing green eyes.

  - - -

  If he thought that there would be a visible change in himself, after last night, Israel was sadly mistaken. The day began as sullenly as any. A cock crowed, a dawn as red as a wattle, and Ebbitt’s morning work song threaded through the slave shacks. By the time he and Old Mark had splashed water on their faces from the pump, the insistent sizzle of c
icadas began. A fine sweat broke out on both their faces, as they left to their separate tasks, Old Mark in the tobacco fields, Izzy to the big house.

  He was, for now at least, a kitchen boy. The Summer Kitchen was a hot, close cave presided over with gleeful industry by Gilbert, also known as Giggles, for his frequent, nervous laughter.

  Giggles could have been the King of Hell—Izzy couldn’t imagine Hell being any hotter than here. It was still early morning, and already the men and women of the Summer Kitchen were soaked through with sweat from the roaring fires and bubbling pots. It beaded brows and formed irregular stains on linens. A few men, shirtless and glistening, rolled a barrel of something or other. The floor was already littered with peelings and the skins of onions. One of Moonflower’s many nameless cats played with the discarded potato sprout on the grimy floor. The cat’s coat sagged, its ears drooped. Giggles, on the other hand, was immune. His outfit, starched stiff and white, betrayed nary a fleck of moisture. His dark skin was shiny, but not slick.

  Presently, he was supervising one of the ladies in preparation of greens. “Now, you just warna put a little hot pepper in that there pot liquor. Miz Jones, she don’t like it too hot. A zap or two will help her constitution, ha ha!”

  When the woman was left alone with the greens, Giggles turned and surveyed his domain. His great black face split in a friendly smile at Israel. “Boy, you come here. I want you to get some cream from outta one of them prize heifers. I’m making a fancy French dessert, a blank mange, and I need a whole lotta cream.”

  While Israel didn’t look forward to hauling buckets of milk, at least he’d be free from the sweltering kitchen. The barn was about a quarter of mile away from the Summer Kitchen. Dark and close, smelling of sweet hay cut by sharp manure, it was hot but still a million degrees cooler. Flies frenzied over hidden piles of shit and the asses of the animals. Each lazy flick of a tail set another flurry in motion. Israel walked past stall after stall, until he found the one with Cristabel in it.