“It
is reverent to mention to the reader this self-contained story’s proper
chronological order has been kept throughout for the reader, which has never
made its appearance until now! “Osmoses” the process of alteration of a demonic
force into a human being!” —D.L. Siluk
Osmoses
(A Tale
Told >Only Once)
Dennis L. Siluk, Dr. h.c.
Andean Scholar, and Nine
Time Poet Laureate, and Recently, Poet Laureate of San Juan de Miraflores, Lima
Peru!
Author’s Prologue
Some folks
sport military garb, signifying being a Marine, or Army Ranger, or Seal, kind
of a cape for courage, who are far from their courage. As well as others who
sport a monkish cloak, or clergy collar, for Godliness, who are the very
reverse of that inside? I usually do not write a prologue for my short stories,
or for that matter, novelettes or novels, but this very prologue is the reason
you should read this story and carefully weigh up its contents, you may
discover the potency within is far more valuable than the title suggests. That
is to say, the subject here treated is not as foolish as the title promised.
Yes, it is written in a lightheartedness, but there is marrow in the bone to be
discover and once discovered you must guard it with eyes of a devoted dog. To
the dog the marrow is more delicious than the meat. For marrow is the perfect
food invented by nature. This is a dreaded mystery, concerning religion and
private life. Moreover, the manner of its writing and content are plain and
boorish, laughable, playful, and always concealing. Some invisible courage,
some over confidence, incredible contempt for what men struggle against. That
is the reason you must open this story and carefully and not be deterred by
what might look like nonsense, nor look at the literal meanings, but be like
Plato infers in his “Republic”, look for that marrow bone!
Analogue
Job
There
was a man in the land of Uz, a perfect and
upright man, one that feared God, and of substance, and God boasted of this
man. And there was a day the sons of God came to present themselves before the
Lord, and Satan was among them. And the devil told God, that yes Job feared
him, but should he take the hedge about him away, he would curse him after he
got through with Job. And so God gave Job over to Satan with one limitation,
not to kill him, otherwise to do with him for a short while, as he pleased, and
Satan took away all his substance, all he valued the most, and Job was
miserable but he knew God did not forsake him. And Job unaware of this meeting,
was steadfast through all the destruction Satan threw at him. Yes there was
difficulties Job never expected, but had he not taken a closer look at who was
the door-keeper, and the shadow of the devil with his big sharp nose and long
thin black beard he was so famous for, he might have thought what everyone told
him, he had a mark of some sin upon him, but he knew he didn’t, he knew he was
already weighed and balanced. His neighbor’s, sons and wife cursed his bad
luck. He even told his wife, “Can you not see the devil, he is right behind
you, following you like a serpent in heat”; thus, she in heart, abandoned him.
Many times the devil thought Job had reached his end, and thought he had let
his failing senses catch the words and roars in his ear of those around him. Job
knew, God did not cast any evil thing, so it must be something else, someone
else, some hidden counsel that might have taken place, who’s to say, I mean
when God asked Job “Do you know what’s in my storehouses,” and Job said “No”
well God simply put the brakes on there, said “Then you don’t know everything
do you wise guy?” Of course I’m stretching it a tinge. Well, in the long run, Job lived 140-years, and was given a double
portion of substance after the secret game was over between the devil and God, a
double portion from what he had lost that is, for his resoluteness, his
devotion, and forever after it became one of the most told tails ever told. Job
of course is only one book out of the Old Testament, we can go to the story of
Cain and Abel, and it turns out quite different, a little envy on behalf of
Cain because God chose Abel’s offering more satisfying. Matter of fact we can even look at Noah’s
grandson Canaan, who was inflicted by Satan and got Noah to drink until he was
drunk on his rump, and whooped it up bare flesh and all! So these stories are
worth remembering when reading “Osmoses” and perhaps we might somewhere along
the line as the question: why does God take the good and leave the bad? My best
guess is, to prevent the good from going bad, and hoping the bad in time will turn
out to being good.
If you find yourself asking the question, why the protagonist did what
he did, when he could have avoided the chaos, it was once said by an old wise
man, “Duty is like a man’s shadow.” And if you ask why the elder brother did
what he did, Wassermann,
along with his siblings, the answer may be: hot wind is like the devil’s
breath.
Osmoses
…
 |
| Wendell in Walking in Review |
Botis the Imp
1
It
started off
as a gradual unconscious process of assimilating, or absorption. As Wendell
Wormwood awoke one evening from a
nightmare, to find out, it was a real live demon espousing himself, like a
sponge into his flesh, —sitting on his chest—as if it was in the process of
demonic possession. The conjecture was to Wendell, that the demonic
rapscallion, was in the process of a middle state, or phase of osmosis of his
operation. Wendell continued to lay on his back as the terrifying creature sat
on his chest, Wendell feeling the weight to be liken to a hundred pound sack of
potatoes, and being no more the size of a bulky imp, resembling that of a
miniature triceratops. The nose much smaller than his horn like ears, but
widely spaced above his lips. Wendell
lifted his head some as to see the creature more restored, he had a beer-belly
as they say, brown and flabby, with pointed ears, as mentioned, like hooters, with
chicken-like legs and hawk-like feet, and he was trying to slide himself completely
in through Mr. Wormwood’s pours, like sweat coming out. And his tail was long
with a little shrub at its end, a pitifully thin looking lariat, in comparison.
As he moved to center himself better, his tail got caught on a spring under the
mattress and he tried like a: cow, sow, or hog stuck in barbwire trying to
wiggle it free, and that was when Wendell woke up, and there before his eyes, lo
and behold, was the netherworld creature called Botis, doing mêlée.
“What in tarnation is going on?” yelped
Wendell, eyes bigger than a car’s headlights. He was in the path of
amalgamation of course.
It was no nightmare, alias, it was
reality.
His bedroom was rather small, too small
to roll about in, so Wendell tried to pull, and push the demon out, by hanging
over the side edge of the bed. Then sitting upright the invader pushed deeper beyond
his forearm into Wendell’s ribs, and it vanished. Wendell’s eyes, seeing this,
turned crimson. No one in the house could hear him beating on the chest of the
demon to make him stop, or if they could, no one came to the rescue, for his
screams were quite mortified, loud, yet who would dare?
He was still tired and contemplative of
if this was a dream or reality.
“What malarkey is this,” he exclaimed to
the creature, looking straight into his stout ugly face that showed a mouth
wider than his forehead, with a goatee that dripped from the edge of his bottom
lip to the end of his neck, which ended up laying on his chest.
It was most difficult to turn right or
left in his present condition, which normally he slept on his sides,
nonetheless he found himself rocking and rolling to which he fell onto his left
side, after several tries, accomplishing it with a triumphal thump, shutting
his eyes as he did from the horrid face of the demon that nettled him, yet
still the demon struggled with his tail and you could see on his face a faint
dull ache, with a cynical looking demeanor, evidently he had never encountered
such a trial.
“Oh Lucifer,” cried the imp emphatically,
but only a figure of expression for he did not want the attention of Lucifer,
lest he be boiled alive for his ineffectuality, and slipup, “what a grueling
job you’ve given me.” Such was his work day, and throughout the night. It was
better, he had told himself, on many occasions: ‘It’s better than the actual
business in the warehouses of Tartarus, counting black sheep, day in and day
out’ which they called the new comers. Although his present job—earthbound—was
constant traveling or worrying about if the subject was going to wake up, for
seldom did they.
Lo, all of a sudden, Botis felt a slight
itching on his belly-button; slowly he let go of his left arm firmly attached
to Wendell’s shoulder, and as soon as he did, Wendell pushed the demon back nearly
all the way out of him, which caused an impediment for the ungodly creature (there was no discourse or dialog between the
two, and to be frank that tail was causing the imp to lose his repartee,
likewise, Mr. Wormwood’s wits where coming to its end, both now struggling
without thinking). Quickly
Botis identified the exact spot of the itch, and scratched it with his long talons, as thick and long as
an owl’s, and a cool and relief shiver
run though him, and then he mumbled in a gibberish tone, “This getting one’s
tail caught in a bedspring makes a person look stupid,” contemplating his
comrades controversy should they find out in Tartarus, which they’d never see
as a mishap, rather a screw-up, —for eventually he’d have to go back to make
out his report, or better yet, his account,
while sitting down around the breakfast table telling his story… (While everyone would be chewing on a good
portion of fried cow guts. He knew this for a fact for they had century after
century accustomed themselves to it, they said it was good for the memory, so
the total health of the demon race of earthly spies, consisted in eating this
cuisine and gulping it down like ducks do water was ideal for their health they
believed... this was also said to disinfect their horrible breath! They also
ate this until their bellies were tight, and their navel would pop out,
agreeable for the long journey ahead. Then after picking their teeth with a
pig’s trotter, and their chatter was all complete, and the dice put away and
the stock of cards hidden in some dry place, they’d go to work again.) anyhow, as I was saying, while sitting down
around the breakfast table telling his story, that is to say, his encounter
over and over to each and every one, to one another of his pals, his chums, his
comrades in arms, whom would gossip like demon more often do, than not, and
like: pile lie upon lie, invention upon invention, propaganda upon propaganda, like
demon do until it is so unreal he’d become the pun and the laughing stock of
Tartarus! While each one of his pals,
and chums and comrades, would tell of their triumphs, ‘I’d be sacked on the
spot,’ he told himself, ‘if only I didn’t have to scratch my bellybutton, who
can tell?’ But say what you will, thought Botis, what is done is done, he needed
to remedy the situation, and do it quickly.
Then Wendell aimed with his right fist
at the imp’s chest, and knocked the demon from end-to-end of the bed like a
boomerang, falling eventually onto the floor, and one hand still on the end
railing of the bed, hanging on for whatever reasons, surely not for dear life!
His tail being released with a sudden jerk, and shredded from the pull and
thrust of the tumbling over the end-edge of the bed.
‘What a trying upset,’ mumbled Botis, as
if his pride was badly wounded, his composure and face in dismay.
The clock read it was half-past three
o’clock. Thus he figured it was still early enough to quietly move on from
Wendell’s house, and should anyone ask, who would be the wiser.
So Botis, quietly leaped from his loss,
leaped from the balustrade of the bed like a Bagdad thief in the night, with
stammering lips, a sneer at Wendell, through the dim tears that bathed his face
for such a screw-up Wendell could not see this of course, and all the better
for Bois, save, by and by, he’d have something to boast; consequently, he
seized the brimming windowsill with a cantankerous look, raised his strength up
into the air with outstretched arms and then looked down as if towards Hell
itself, bellowed with Machiavellian-eyes: “To you, ye gods hidden beneath the
earth,” expressing his surprise cunning
at his escape, leaping into the broad moonlight. The weather piercingly warm,
yet feeling somewhat fresh and active, trying to put on a pleasant look to his
face as not to look suspicious to his employer, or one of those Secret Service Demon
and Women (agents of the
netherworld) of Tartarus, should
he bump into one, such as the Viper Queen, as she was known, and Bit Bertha,
both Machiavellian-demon-ness, otherwise known as the quadrilateral-sisters,
whom were always looking for emoluments, for them to look the other way, lest
they make a nasty report on him. Nay, what then? (it was
game time, and I’ll tell you what games they played if they got bored, Bit Bertha
and Viper Queen, they played the old Tartarus games called: ‘Slash and cut’, or
‘duck your head’ or ‘who’s got the fatter derriere’ or ‘catch and eat the brown
beetle’ or ‘whip the sow,’ or ‘fork the toad’ or ‘who can spit thicker’ or
‘shooting feathered darts at cats and rat and dogs and hogs. And then they’d
stretch and sleep)
It struck the family members at the Wormwood
home, that it had been quiet, too quiet in Wendell’s room too long, as they had
previously been conversing to one another for some time on if they should or
should not become more aware of what was going on in his room, having been
standing by his doorway, and previously pacing the hallway alongside the
bedroom, much aware of some kind of commotion had taken place, although they
were there when it was taking place also. They unconsciously exchanged glances…
and one member asked loudly for Wendell to answer: “Is it safe to come in?” There
was no answer, no reply, Wendell had fallen back to sleep, and the family
members dare not open the door, err, they could wait until morning and let
Wendell tell the story, as they had drummed up to support.
Ah, it all was rather justification of
their own phenomenal cowardice; all pretentious, it was an impediment of their
character, where they had relied on Wendell for safekeeping, as they had always
told one another, as well as for his monetary support “…we’re in good hands
with Wendell.” Therefore to their amorous whispers, Wendell was left to his own,
had been left to his own. All had the
same obsession, all the same cynical smile, an expressible something or other, that
appeared to be like a trial, something too trying to try, and so no one tried
anything, and of course doing nothing, is doing something, which is allowing
whatever took place to take place. And so they would wait for the results come
morning, for the better or worse.
At the Kitchen Table
2
Come Morning, Wendell looked about the kitchen table,
among his three family members—a tinge impudent, and risqué, they all stopped what they were
doing, bent their heads a shade—akin to know what took place, but shy to ask,
they all looked to be a bit fatigued to Wendell, acting as if wanting to scatter themselves but
Wendell seized the opportunity to exchange a few confidential words with them
at which point, they unbolted themselves, and asked him to join them, their
humanity more centered on commercial than the heroic story, the very one that
took place but a few hours ago in the wee hours of the night with the demonic
creature and his victory over him, and once told, they all felt relieved,
saying in unison, “Ah, a nightmare, of course!” Now unrepentant of their
cowardice idiosyncrasies they had displayed to one another, now thrown to the
wind, laughed at as if it was a finely woven tale of dark linen, with a change
in conversations to idiotic hearty maledictions, to oblige one another’s choice
in their decision not to have disturb Wendell during his trying nightmare. And
now they applauded one another of their own independence, as if they had done
Wendell some great service. For is it
not true, in such cases there always remains in the conscience some of those
dishonesties we pour into ourselves. It gives a better after-taste for one who
is selling unwholesome liquor.
Someone even made a joke of it, as if to
throw a pun at Wendell’s imagination, “Next time the demon will know better, to
kill the lion before he skins him!”
Said one voice to another: “My dear
sister Woolycat, fill this up until it spills over, if you please.” They all
were drinking wine as red as a cardinal’s cap, at the table. Wendell noticed a
fly had just drank out of his older brother’s glass, Wassermann, nonetheless it
bothered him little, he simply shooed the fly away like a beggar who had stolen
a coin from his pocket, and in one gulp
the wine was gone.
Aforementioned Wendell, with all
earnestness, said he: “Spiders do not spin webs for a single fly, or do they?” (A rhetorical question, more a wistful statement)
They twisted their bodies some,
one to another, gave each other faint glances, perhaps not grasping exactly
what he meant by that, or perhaps they knew and were in contemplation over it.
For had Wendell not been successful, they would have had to turn over a lot of
stones to find the snake.
And there Wendell stood, in the anteroom
in reflection, discerning: there was more honor in cleaning a stable clean, than
warning them; for surely the imp was close by, and if he decided to come back
as often they did, he would assuredly look and most likely find a new stockpile of flesh to store
himself in. All said, Wendell, simply gave a nod with his head right to left,
mumbled as he left the house (belief so
sorely needed was not found, their caustic humor wounded him deeply…): said he: “To those cowards who can’t swim,
no river is shallow enough” showing repugnance towards the group as he went out
the front door, down the wooden steps, and on to work on an empty stomach,
holding pent-up feelings of lassitude. In return, all the group gave back to
Wendell was an air of bantering pity, a voice saying, “Ah, he is too sensitive!”
Now walking down the street, Wendell
inhaled the odor of the flowers in the nearby gardens, leaning his head on his
shoulder with a look of sweet nothings.
Their breath was no longer defused around him. And his soul was bathed
in a wave of infinite triumph, as he stopped to read the newspapers which lay
close beside him on an old man’s newsstand. The old man Epistemon did not take
the liberty of interrupting Mr. Wormwood, as to purchase the paper. Wendell noticed his embarrassment, and took
out some change to purchase the paper.
With a mixture of
respect and dryness, the proprietor took the coins, in exchange. Wendell had
always thought himself to be a prohibitionist, for country and family before
anything, even if one must set up an embargo, but now he was ruling that out,
there was residue of pessimism, especially for the likes of his domestic life.
Eucalyptus Wood Park
(Contemplation)
3
Wendell
passed the whole of the afternoon in brooding over his anger and humiliation,
sitting in a nearby park, called Eucalyptus Wood Park, for its many Eucalyptus
trees he never made it to work. He reproached himself for not having given a
slap in the face to both his younger and older brothers, and the youngest of
the family at nineteen, his sister, Woolycat. But he laughed somewhat, over his
sister’s hiccoughing, while trying to pull the legs off the fly in her milk. He
told himself, “They’re just a jar full of wind, and all piss pots, no love of
truth.” His father used to say “Take heart boy,” in other words, don’t let them
get to you! But today they got to him, and last night they likewise, but not as
bad as being belittled by them at the kitchen table.
The sun’s rays quivered over his head,
as he was trying to look nonchalant to the passersby. And his sister always
playing the Gothic virgin, the Marchioness ‘…how narrow-minded,’ he
mumbled. And his older brother in his scotch plaid waistcoat, thinking he was
the cool-cat of the group. All three adult-ragamuffins, with depreciatory
smiles. They all reminded him of intolerant bishops and cardinals—that in their
hearts feel they are a grade or rank higher than you, –their thoughts perhaps
being: what do I care about
him after all! Yes, this is what he was feeling, in all its
repulsive thinking. Intoxicated with the preliminary steps—on the course to the
devil’s den. Forgetting, as his mother often said ‘This moment will pass, let
it be.’ How frustrating it was to see his younger brother, Wampumpeag, using his
fist for a mallet on his apple. And how
they mumbled their prayers like a monkey to get through with them, just a
put-on. All their little idiosyncrasies, were now cutting into him, twisting in
his brain like hungry angleworms in the hunt.
Then he got thinking of the wee hours of
the morn when the demon was leaving, how he tickled on the belly and under his
armpits, and on the bottom of his feet, to make himself laugh—should any of his
comrades see him, because he was not happy by far when he was flung across the
bed, and landed on his buttocks. And how he spat at the bed with a big gob of
saliva when he left, and let out some mid-flight, grabbing his codpiece to show
his dismay at Wendell.
Phlegmatic, he became just thinking
about the funny creature, the so called mammalian imp, as he thought of him.
His muscles in his larynx, those
containing his vocal cords that envelop in folds were sore, becoming tender, he
had been thinking out loud, talking to himself all this time. People walking
by, some flabbergasted but kept their distance, astringent he looked as he
expressed with his hands to his voice, excrescences of his emotions.
He paid most of the water bills the heat
and electric bills, the mortgage on the house, and grocery bills, they worked
at part-time labor and contributed when they could and when they could it was
like trying to stretch a goose’s neck another inch. Is there not an old French
rule, he thought: when the sovereign fails to fulfill the contract, justice
requires that he should be overthrown?
As for them, he swore not to see them again, for were they not part of
the empire of the Wormwood Dynasty, small as it was not doing their part. An
apartment could be easily found, and as money would be required in order to
possess the house they now lived in he would speculate in three months they’d
be thrown out, “So much the better,” he told his shadow, now sitting on a
bench, as evening stepped in. “What’s the good of it, why go back?” And he
heard in his head, “Yes, alas!” Then he artfully proceeded to speak in
flattering terms about himself. He did not know how to bring himself about to
go back there. Heaping up point on point and weighing their peculiarities,
eccentricities. In essence, whatever the
picture had been, it was now put on a much larger and darker scale. Where at
one point, he quoted his father: ‘These are matters of no consequence,’ but he
was having a hard time reckoning with the phrase.
The Woodland Hotel/Back Home
(Contemplation)
4
At the
Woodland Hotel,
Wendell Wormwood seized with a strange feeling of forlornness, as hour after
hour went by and he got bored, and it was 3:00 a.m., then 4:00 a.m., and each
hour was like eight hours, and on and on the hours came and went— thoughts
reverted back to his family. The idea of being away from them longer appeared
to him preposterous. They could be charming companions, he told himself in an
unctuous tone. It was as if all of a sudden he no longer failed to recall his
humanitarian spirit.
Next morning, late in the morning, he
returned to his abode. As he stood in the hallway, the coolness of the draft
from the open windows alongside of the staircase was refreshing. No doubt, in
the kitchen his family were waiting as if in a master atrium, for him to enter
as normally he would, the kitchen door slightly ajar.
The affronted Wendell took a glimpse.
Their voices rose to Wendell’s ears, mingled with old intermittent sounds he
was so used to: leg tapping sounds, moving the salt and pepper shaker, on the
rough wooden table sounds and sounds that were being made by playing with a
comb, sneezes and sniffles, and coughs and giggling, and moving the coffee cups
here and there. No doubt with Wendell gone, they had less entertainment.
He noticed his sister, Woolycat twisting
her fingers, cracking her knuckles, she was nervous as she glanced at him.
Cigarette ashes all over the table, smoke drifting about like little coal
clouds, they must had gotten up early, perhaps to figure out what to do, or
perhaps stayed up all night, the basket by the refrigerator was full of beer
cans.
At last he found his way to the table
and his usual chair was empty. Wendell could tell their minds were full of
curiosities. And he, he was silent, thus making the atmosphere heavy. So
thought Wendell ‘So much the better’ thus, this ether would avenge him for the
past. Evidently they had weighed his value, and said nothing concerning the
night before.
He couldn’t help it, his face was hot,
perhaps crimson red, and he saw it slightly in the silver coffee pot in the
center of the table. They, the three beside him, all received him with no
preamble, nor did he attempt to justify his overnight departure that seemingly
was pretty bothersome to the three. Then with distain he surveyed their faces. He
had come to the realization, if so, he would avoid the nightmarish drama he had
endured and allow them to live in an anonymous world, untroubled with the
unknown and very much so, forces of the netherworld that was silently beckoning
them subliminally, and in particular, the Nightmare demons, perhaps even the
return of Botis, or if not, his entourage, were already evoking stimuli below
the threshold of conscious perception, telling them, be quiet, your brother
Wendell is full of foolery.
At the Table Laughing
5
But what was Wendell thinking, I mean he was deep
in thought, staring at a deep dish of pig meat in a bowel in front of him. He
was thinking nothing but good wine, a soft bed, his back to the space heater,
his belly full. He was also thinking,
God to preserve him from sickness and Our Lady to keep him from bad health,
Amen. And third, he was thinking a house without a master—even if his family
were a bunch of clodhoppers with white thighs, and remaining fooled by the
devil himself and his henchmen, and he was all they had, they were all like
blind people without walking sticks; all asses without cruppers; cows without
bells. He knew in their hearts they were crying out for him, that a house
without a master is like Notre Dame without its great and grand bells.
In the bowels of their brains, they had colic he told himself; this made
him feel more responsible for them. ‘Nothing but ding-dong, clitter-clatter,’
he mumbled. Then seeing something
strange moving about in the hallway, not saying a word about it a creature of
some kind, he started laughing until tears come into his eyes, he laughed so
hard he never took notice Crassus the bloodhound licking his pig meat out of
his bowel, and his laugh was contagious, because they all started laughing with
Wendell, all falling against one another, not knowing why, and never to know
why, but nonetheless laughing. Then the laughs died down. He had seen one of
the demons dancing every-which-way in the hallway, upside down, on her hands,
and he heard that her name was Viper Queen, he knew now they were setting up
house, but mum was the word, his second mind told him. As for the family
members, they felt Wendell again amused them, and they all gave him a spoonful
of their pig meat because Crassus had eaten most of his. Then came out a bottle
of wine, like old times. All was according to spontaneous reactions. Nothing
planned. All sat at great ease, while their kidneys settled, and their noses
dried up from running, and wiping them clean off their sleeves, until they all
had sores on them.
Nights Thereafter
6
The Devils no longer bothered Wendell at his home, or
for that matter any place but for his siblings, that is another matter. At the
breakfast table now, each morning, each one complains of sounds in the night that
are of footsteps alongside their beds, and the creaking of the bed springs
under their mattresses. Filled with such terror, they get little to no sleep at
all. They feel they are being surrounded by these little creatures, Wendell
calls imps, creating a tempestuous atmosphere. And it is bothering the two
brothers and one sister of Wendell’s, for they seem to escape his lips, if not
his mind, he pays little attention to the complaints of his siblings, and they
are making accusations against him, as if he is in league with them, that is,
with the demons (for
Wassermann has been heard sleep walking and talking, and what he has said
during one of his escapades through the house, has disturbed Wendell some, but
of course he has not taken it seriously, and I shall repeat it for the reader:
“I need to seek a remedy for what I dread, what we dread, is this not a fair
judgment? And for this, man will often kill others who have done no harm. I
make no distinction between right and wrong.”)
The mystery of man, he has the choice to pick
out good or evil, what will be his choice is often times the mystery. That is
to say, will he discern between the rocks with gold, for the rocks with fool’s
gold in them? And if he picks the right
stone what will he do with it? Again that is the mystery of man, and what will
he do if it is too late, and he finds out too late, it is fool’s gold?
“Perhaps we were wrong,” said the older
brother Wassermann, “but now God has put a hedge, around you Wendell, and left
us to rot with the demons, it is as if he left us with the Black Death, can’t
you talk to him on this matter? It is as if God wants us to walk down the path
that snakes pass… (Wendell
closed his eyes as if he was hearing blasphemous remarks, thinking: perhaps as
Cotton Mather once wrote: ‘God will no longer defend the soul of the sinner
from the effectiveness of the devil’ that is to say, he punishes sin with sin,
as the Jew’s believe, and as it is written in the Book of Revelation)” And of course Wendell tells them to pray,
but they don’t. And night after night, they are interrupted to a high extent by
these scamps. And here is Wendell sitting at the kitchen table with an air of
greater self-confidence, squabbles the other three. In the nights before going
to bed, they circle the hearth, and engage in conversations on the disturbing
disquietude, on what to do and do nothing. Wendell has tried endlessly to ease
their minds by railing against the powers of Tartarus by having his family say
the: ‘Our Father,’ each night by the hearth, but in all earnestness, there is
no sincerity in their voices, therefore how must God see their hearts, Wendell
tells his second mind. But the imps have turned their world upside down for the
most part, and Wendell even feels Wassermann is osmosatised:
that is to say,
possessed.
At night the older brother would hear chattering
behind his closest, as if a few of the imps are talking on matters of no
consequence, waiting, just waiting for him to do something out of the ordinary,
they don’t want Wendell around.
As time goes on, week to week, and the
season changes, Wassermann as well as his younger brother and sister are
feeling more risky, willing to take more chances in doing something without
Wendell, but what? For something has to be done. Wassermann has told himself, he’s sought pity
from Wendell, for his sufferings, and got no advice but to ‘pray’
and when he prays, his prayers are not answered, it has now produced in him
suspicions that perhaps Wendell is in association with the devil himself, much
like the Pharisees, who had tried to promote Jesus the Christ, as being in
league with; and if he is not, perhaps he should be. In other words, if you
can’t fight them, join them. And if the other party has joined them, do him
in. Wendell of course figures his
brother is just trying to pick a quarrel with him to torment him, kind of
having no one else to take his anger out on. So it of course comes out sideways
at him.
This last week, Wendell has been
somewhat surprised if not astonished at the stupefied looks he is getting from
his older brother. This appears to have turned into a mental or psychological
fixation for Wassermann, per near an ailment, and speedily.
Macabre
It is the evening of the last day in
September, later on, on that evening, this following macabre melee took place: when
the three were together by the hearth, Wassermann, Wampumpeag and Woolycat, the
conversation started:
“What does it mean when one sympathizes
with you and does nothing about it?” asked Wassermann to Wampumpeag, in front
of his younger sister Woolycat. And he answered his own question, “He’s a
wretch worm, Wendell is a worm!”
“Oh! —yes.” said Woolycat.
With promptness in lack of no decision,
the astonishing statement came out, “Should we kill him?”
“Good heavens, my brother, I am not
Cain, about to slay Abel.”
“Who’s Cain?” asked Wampumpeag. Without
answering the question, Wassermann, explained who Noah’s
grandson was, Canaan, by
saying, “We shall do like Canaan did to his grandfather, and do away with him,
by getting him drunk but we shall do like Cain did likewise and kill him.”
Without giving his brother and sister
reflection time he added, “Tonight, I suppose tonight we can do it.” It was a
little past ten o’clock. “We’ll get him drunk and kill him, go wake him up
Woolycat, tell him we are drinking and want his company.” She stood a moment
staring, as her older brother explained: “If we kill him the imps will leave us
alone, they told me so, I made a deal with the devil.”
“But they lie so much, Wendell says,”
exclaimed Woolycat.
“Go wake him up,” he commanded, and she
did as he asked. For he had this planned all along, he had it planned for a
week straight. And it just dawned on Wampumpeag, the whole room smelled of a rarest
perfumery. Wassermann had purchased it and sprayed the room. And he had altered
the position of the furniture, knowing once Wendell got drunk there would be a
struggle. It was a cold evening, and so Wassermann had brought extra logs in
for the fireplace, so it was not suspicious seeing them there, when Wendell
came home from work. And to be frank everything was already, ready for his evil
deed. He had even put into the fireplace, an iron rotisserie.
Wassermann’s alternate mind told him to
think about what he was planning, if he should or should not go through with it
‘Think well on this,’ it said over and over, and the more his mind said what it
said, the more wine, beer and whiskey he drank.
Thus he was in essence, dancing with the devil, half drunk.
In a slight foggy manifestation, Botis
appeared by his side and whispered in his ear, “The apple is ripe, we may count
on you, if not we must have another chat.” Wampumpeag saw the appearance, and
stood stone still in shock.
The question may arise, was Botis
talking to Wassermann, or someone inside of him? My guess is as good as yours.
Now Wendell came down with Woolycat, he
took a light glance at the preparations Wasserman had made, smelled the
perfume, Botis had disappeared, but was in the hallway and could hear a great
clamor behind the door, and when he glanced in, he saw Wendell in the hearth,
being roasted on a rotisserie like a pig, or perhaps more liken to a chicken in
that he was scratching the walls of the hearth trying to find a point of
support to assist him. His haggard eyes fixed with terror, the balls of his
eyes protruded. He produced a horrible coughing, convulsive shock set into his
muscles, chest, breath, his stomach shrank as if suffocating, and he sank down
with his head thrown back and his mouth wide open, the infinite pains were
gone.
Outside a gentle rain stopped, cold gray
clouds floated past the moon, a wind appeared and it swept everything clean.
Epilogue
7
Wasserman Wormwood, had what might be called a fixation for he
found himself yielding to an incapacity to resist the temptation which clung to
him like white on rice to kill Wendell. This impertinence, disrespect, this
cold rudeness, was so great a feeling, that pride took possession of him. And
like a tornado, his love for his brother Wendell was carried away, disappeared.
Although he experienced a sense of relief, longing-suffering joy. Thereafter, a
need for violent action possessed him afterward and forevermore, to which, this
he did at random, until that is, until he was incarcerated for life, at some lifeless
dungeon no one knows were. And so the caviling with Wendell had stopped, and
the name of the pest that was said to have entered Wassermann, the entity that
is, was called ‘The Horticulturist’ or better put, the Planter (also known as Asder’el, who normally taught
the course of the moon to his students). Whom implored him, and soured his brain with
hellebore, a poisonous plant killing all those grey cells along with old brainy
habits, as for him to tutor and train him as a new pupil of Satan. “Better to do this,” said Botis to his
comrade, as to introduce him to the demonic society of learned men of Tartarus,
in emulation of whom his worth will recognized and increased as you well know,
and his desire to change his form of life and life’s habits will increase, to
show his worth, since Wendell gave him no worth.” And they did not waste an
hour or a day.
Wampumpeag on the other hand, the
younger brother between Wasserman and Wendell, became a monk in a monastery,
unsure if it was the Dominican or the Franciscan, or for that matter, perhaps
another, whatever the case, he found peace, and wrote these memories, to which
I have edited and filled in the gaps and put into place the sequential events.
As for Woolycat, she spent the rest of
her days, morning throughout the afternoon looking out through the window at
the people in the street. Botis, he now
clings on to her arm with his teeth chattering. She’s declared in her diary,
that Wampumpeag has now put into his memories, in which I am putting into
better English form as previously indicated, “I’m unable to walk twenty-steps,
without him pulling at my arm.”
And so it was.
End to:
‘A
Tale Told Only Once’
…
Copyright
© Dennis L. Siluk / 5-17 thru 28-2015/Short Story: No: 1082
Osmoses
(A Tale Told Only Once)
