Read Online The Sound of Building Coffins by Louis Maistros - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louis Maistros
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Not your place. I shall shit down your neck, Father. And I shall shit down the necks of your children as well. Mip kit wiggity fip fah —”
Morningstar responded full-throated—his sermon-delivering voice—effectively cutting short the demon’s rant:
“ Go hence, thou who comest in darkness, whose nose is turned backwards, whose face is upside-down and who knowest not why thou has come.”
“ But I do know why, Father !” cackled the demon with a sleepy smile. “Higgle biggle boo! Hot cha cha cha!”
Morningstar continued undeterred, calm:
“ Hast thou come to kiss this child? I will not let thee kiss him. Hast thou come to send him to sleep? I will not let thee do him harm. Hast thou come to take him away? I will not let thee carry him away.” The preacher produced a small glass container two inches in diameter from his coat pocket, removed the lid and scooped out the majority of its contents with the middle and forefinger of his right hand. “I have secured his protection against thee with bloodroot, onions and honey, sweet to men but evil to the dead.” He spread the sticky-sweet concoction over the child’s sallow chest. Then, placing his fingers to his own mouth, Morningstar licked himself clean of it.
Doctor Jack, impressed with Morningstar’s apparent knowledge of herbal magic, smiled weakly and looked at Typhus with lightly questioning eyes. Typhus only shrugged, suddenly wondering about the bible his father had left out on the stoop.
Morningstar turned to Beauregard: “The thing that you brought. Give it to me now.”
Dazed by the scene before him, Beauregard snapped alert to remove the tin from his leather pouch and stepped towards the preacher quickly; nerves jangling, heart pounding. Dropped the bag with its remaining items intended for luck to the floor, freeing both hands so he could focus on the tenant of the tin.
Pulled the lid off. Dropped the lid to the floor along with the bag. Clangedy-clang on the floor. Reached into the tin. Looked around at the others. Looked at the two-dimensional, daguerreotype Sicilian faces that stared from the walls. Said:
“ Don’t ask me to explain this.” No one did.
Zig.
Beauregard did not remove the severed hand of Antonio Carolla gingerly between thumb and forefinger, but instead grasped it firmly, as one might clasp the hand of a seldom seen friend. Spoke to the hand’s former owner. “Well, old man, I sincerely hope this is what you had in mind.” He gave the hand of Antonio Carolla to Father Morningstar.
Zag.
A wave of doubt washed over Morningstar’s mind—but he shook it off quickly. “The father will save the son…” he intoned with weary eyes. “The father will save the son. The father will save the son. This is not right. This must be made right.”
Morningstar placed the severed hand of Antonio Carolla over the child’s chest, covering the honey-mixed herbs. The demon let out a short, pained shriek, and then changed.
The face of the child focused on Beauregard with soft eyes, speaking directly to him in odd rhythm and gentle tone, nearly a whisper:
“ My brother, this, the second day of my birth, was not unlike your first—but of water—restrictive of motion till now, till this cutting of hand, this slicing of wrist, to deliver this now unto me with love in your heart as you have, this father’s hand, this way out and above water in order to cleanse of the earth, in the form of this boy, the son of a friend, of father to son and to brother of brother and now for father once more, though first intent was desecration for luck and for hope of fortune not earned, the intent is now changed, a deed sharing sameness with sin born of love, committed in hate, by she who has birthed, of anguish and rage, respectively we, and now it is he who was born Thomas that must complete the circle today and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…”
The cadence of the demon’s nonsensical rant diminished eventually to a mumble and then to
Morningstar responded full-throated—his sermon-delivering voice—effectively cutting short the demon’s rant:
“ Go hence, thou who comest in darkness, whose nose is turned backwards, whose face is upside-down and who knowest not why thou has come.”
“ But I do know why, Father !” cackled the demon with a sleepy smile. “Higgle biggle boo! Hot cha cha cha!”
Morningstar continued undeterred, calm:
“ Hast thou come to kiss this child? I will not let thee kiss him. Hast thou come to send him to sleep? I will not let thee do him harm. Hast thou come to take him away? I will not let thee carry him away.” The preacher produced a small glass container two inches in diameter from his coat pocket, removed the lid and scooped out the majority of its contents with the middle and forefinger of his right hand. “I have secured his protection against thee with bloodroot, onions and honey, sweet to men but evil to the dead.” He spread the sticky-sweet concoction over the child’s sallow chest. Then, placing his fingers to his own mouth, Morningstar licked himself clean of it.
Doctor Jack, impressed with Morningstar’s apparent knowledge of herbal magic, smiled weakly and looked at Typhus with lightly questioning eyes. Typhus only shrugged, suddenly wondering about the bible his father had left out on the stoop.
Morningstar turned to Beauregard: “The thing that you brought. Give it to me now.”
Dazed by the scene before him, Beauregard snapped alert to remove the tin from his leather pouch and stepped towards the preacher quickly; nerves jangling, heart pounding. Dropped the bag with its remaining items intended for luck to the floor, freeing both hands so he could focus on the tenant of the tin.
Pulled the lid off. Dropped the lid to the floor along with the bag. Clangedy-clang on the floor. Reached into the tin. Looked around at the others. Looked at the two-dimensional, daguerreotype Sicilian faces that stared from the walls. Said:
“ Don’t ask me to explain this.” No one did.
Zig.
Beauregard did not remove the severed hand of Antonio Carolla gingerly between thumb and forefinger, but instead grasped it firmly, as one might clasp the hand of a seldom seen friend. Spoke to the hand’s former owner. “Well, old man, I sincerely hope this is what you had in mind.” He gave the hand of Antonio Carolla to Father Morningstar.
Zag.
A wave of doubt washed over Morningstar’s mind—but he shook it off quickly. “The father will save the son…” he intoned with weary eyes. “The father will save the son. The father will save the son. This is not right. This must be made right.”
Morningstar placed the severed hand of Antonio Carolla over the child’s chest, covering the honey-mixed herbs. The demon let out a short, pained shriek, and then changed.
The face of the child focused on Beauregard with soft eyes, speaking directly to him in odd rhythm and gentle tone, nearly a whisper:
“ My brother, this, the second day of my birth, was not unlike your first—but of water—restrictive of motion till now, till this cutting of hand, this slicing of wrist, to deliver this now unto me with love in your heart as you have, this father’s hand, this way out and above water in order to cleanse of the earth, in the form of this boy, the son of a friend, of father to son and to brother of brother and now for father once more, though first intent was desecration for luck and for hope of fortune not earned, the intent is now changed, a deed sharing sameness with sin born of love, committed in hate, by she who has birthed, of anguish and rage, respectively we, and now it is he who was born Thomas that must complete the circle today and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…”
The cadence of the demon’s nonsensical rant diminished eventually to a mumble and then to
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