Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Osmoses (A Tale Told Only Once)
“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
(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!
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!
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.
Botis the Imp
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
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
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
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
‘A Tale Told Only Once’
Copyright © Dennis L. Siluk / 5-17 thru 28-2015/Short Story: No: 1082
Osmoses (A Tale Told Only Once)