((Thanks to Les Kaczmarek for the scene!))
It was made if spiraling towers of junk, of rusted cars and home appliances stacked precariously upon one another in some rusting makeshift city. It existed in a place between places and to get there one only had to take a lonesome road toward the moon, no matter the time of day, and the broken sign that read The Boneyard soon loomed overhead complete with the chipped and fading picture of a cartoon skeleton and a word bubble that had long since been weathered to the point of being illegible. The spires of trash ? because most of it was just that, old rusted metal worth little to anyone at all ? seemed to fade in their colors as they neared the peaks. Where the ground level was all rusty reds and browns, it seemed as if the world just simply switched to a grayscale midway up until it went off into a pale dark sky with a ball of light in the air that could have been the sun or the moon, or perhaps merely the shadow of those ever-faithful celestial bodies.
It was quiet except for when it wasn?t it. Long bouts of silence were broken by the creaking of those teeter-tottering stacks of metal and scrap as the wind whistled through the hollow spaces in between and threatened to bring the whole maze tumbling down on itself. Entrance to the junkyard was through a gate that went under that old sign. It was a chain-link affair lined with barbed wire on the top but seemed to always be left open. A dirt path cleared up from all the rest of the trash that was wide enough for a tow truck or two wound its way to the right to where a small, squat building sat on a cinderblock foundation where any self-respecting businessman would conduct his affairs.
Bones, however, rarely entered this place. His clientele had long ago learned that to do business with the eccentric man meant navigating the veritable maze of junk to the trailer he kept as his home somewhere in the heart of all that mess. It was there that he did his business, there that he ate, slept, drank, and shot up with whatever Roach had managed to get from Kate and pass along at a decent price. The path to his trailer was lined with signs here and there, each with a white painted arrow pointing the way for passersby ? he was eccentric, not mean ? and travelers were accompanied by the sounds of whispers that could have been light sheets of metal-on-metal brushing together, or perhaps something else. He was a weird fucker, after all, that man called Bones. Who knew what spooks lurked in the Boneyard?
Les could sense what spooks and goblins moved among the teetering cairns and leaning ruins populating the Boneyard. It was aptly named for it was as quiet as a graveyard and attracted just as many roaming spirits. Only three haunted the shadowed piles, all disparate, all solitary and would remain that way even if they crossed his or each other?s paths. This place often reminded Les of the entrance on Earth to Purgatory and was, in his opinion, just as dreary.
He navigated the pathways with confidence, too intent upon his purpose to see the signs pointing in the direction of Bones' home but Les didn't need them. He could see the blurred outlines of this place, where it stood between Here and There, all the creases and folds in between. Fingertips rippled along the thin walls of reality as he walked, looking through and beyond to other Places until he was standing in front of a corporeal hovel that served as a home.
Two sharp knocks to the door and then he waited to be allowed entrance. Les might have been arrogant at times but he wasn't rude.
A low thrum of some instrumental music could be heard just on the other side of that thin, thin door. Something with a piano leading a melancholic melody while a backing ensemble of stringed instruments slowly but surely wailed away. The sharp knocks sounded at the exact instant that he shut the music off and a pregnant pause followed. Bones was just on the other side of that door, staring through the little round peep-hole as Les approached and knocked. He waited so it didn?t seem like he?d been waiting, and then removed a hand from his long black coat and pulled. The door swung inward on screeching hinges.
?Buyin? or sellin???
That was supposed to be his line, it was the way he greeted nearly every customer. It felt disorienting to be on the receiving end of it. "Neither. I believe that it was you that rendered my services in search of information." The pool of pale, weak light cast from inside illuminated Les - blonde hair tucked behind his ears, blue eyes that gave away nothing, sharp but guarded; clothing rumpled but comfortable as if he slept in them. Hands were hidden away in his pockets but he revealed one to gesture toward the camper. "Would you prefer to speak here or inside?"
Bones met the sharp, blue-eyed gaze with one that seemed as fickle as time and fate and all the spooky shit that operated behind the scenes, faeries and goblins and the dead and what life really means, which isn?t much at all in his opinion. It changed depending not so much on his mood, the color of his eyes, but as though they weren?t his eyes at all. Like he just borrowed a set for a time and had to exchange them every so often for a new pair, just like changing a lightbulb. Those eyes were stark white, paler just a shade than the dirty ivory of his long hair. It fell unkempt around his narrow face and shoulders and made him look even more sickly than he usually did. Dark circles colored the spots under his eyes and his skin had that sheen of someone who hadn?t washed in a day or two.
He stepped back and left the door open in a silent invitation.
The trailer was modestly sized for what it was. There was a living space right inside the doorway with an old tube TV sitting on a table with antenna covered in foil sprouting out in all directions. The walls were lined with string and twine and bones hung from them, mostly chicken, as well as a few other stone and wood carved oddities. The shelves were dusty and sinking down to the earth under the weight of the random knickknacks and pieces of trash and junk piled on them. He was a man who collected and hoarded the strange and unusual and was due in for a spring cleaning.
The caravan creaked and rocked on its modest foundation, reminding him of a group of gypsies that were camped outside the city. It brought a pang that was ignored while he kept to the perimeter of the space, causing the bones to click and clack against each other. Morbid chimes that knocked lightly against the walls in his wake.
"Have you found out anything else on your own about this item causing your friend such agitation?"
Wind rattled the loose window panes and whistled through cracks under the door. He sank onto an ugly green couch and kicked two feet clad in old, dark and worn military issue combat boots that he?d spray painted black because he was cheap and monochromatic. A beer had been wedged between the couch cushions in lieu of a cup holder and he picked up the dark brown bottle with a surprisingly daintily little grip between some loose fingers and brought it up to his mouth.
Les? question came as the whole trailer shook on its foundation again. The window kicked up and open like some unseen intruder was forcing its way inside and set those bones to rattling a little more noisily.
?Shut up,? he said, and they did.
?Nah, kid, not yet,? with an idle way over his shoulder he indicated the small refrigerator which had once been white but had faded to an off yellow like a lifelong smoker?s teeth. ?Have a beer and tell me what you got,? his words were slurred not from drunkenness, but from pure and simple, old school exhaustion.
The liminal vacuum of space around them howled into its own emptiness, only now the bones shook silently and Les regretted the loss of the noise. Turning to face the other man, he accepted a beer but didn't drink yet, just let it serve as a prop for his hands.
"I have found a trail of information. There was record of a ship sailing from the Mediterranean to New Orleans late in the nineteenth century. A wealthy land owner by the name of Henri Le Blanc ordered some art pieces for his large collection but soon after that, tragedy befell him and much of his collection was lost. There aren't any records for half of the items that came over on the Fleur, after the fire they disappeared. I suspect the relic in question might have been one of those pieces because nothing else on record seems to match the description or intent of what your friend suffers. Are you certain she's never seen it?"
?At this rate, I?m not certain of much,? Bones examined his dirty fingernails as they flattened against the palm of his right hand. Dirty and too long, he started chewing at them.
?She ah?she never really let me in on much and all I got to work with is hearsay and what I was able to figure out going through her things she?s got stashed here,? he gestured in Les? direction to a hall behind the man that was narrow and lined with wood-panel walls. Three doors could be seen, one at the end and two more about halfway down opposite one another.
?Got an idea of where this piece might be??
"There is much that I can deduce on my own but a large gap still remains to narrow down the exact piece that might have been responsible for her situation. The more information we have, the better. Considering her frequent trips to New Orleans and the general nature of that area, I think it would be safe to say that it remains somewhere in the area, either inside the city or very near to it. Pieces like that do not tend to hold much of a long range when it comes to infecting living creatures with their magic."
The beer was set aside without a single sip taken from it, only so he could fish out a cigarette and light it quickly, the flame disappearing with a metallic snap before the lighter was shoved back in his pocket. "If she could tell you where she was at the moment of her enchantment, I should be able to find it from there."
?Well she?s AWOL at the moment, slick,? his own beer was set to rest precariously on the wide, curved arm of the sagging couch. A match was produced seemingly from nowhere and he lit a cigarette that seemed to have likewise materialized through some use of sleight of hand, like Les? indulgence reminded him of his own addiction. His mind and body was moving slower than normal, everything carrying with it a great sense of lethargy.
?Soon as she phones home I?ll prod her for that noise. In the meantime, tell me what your top contenders are and maybe I can put some feelers out. I?m from New Orleans, still got me some connections in the spookier parts of town where a thing like that might be hidden away.?
Les turned to study the maw of the dim hallway behind him, seeming as though it stretched farther than the body of the trailer, itself. "I will know more when she returns, then," feeling the matter was settled enough to await Roach's return. In two steps, Les was next to the sink, ashing into it before he twisted to give Bones a look that was a mixture of indulgence and skepticism.
"Come now, there is no need to lie to me. You are not of that place."
?The fuck is that supposed to mean??
Blue eyes narrowed as he faced Bones fully, head canted to the left. "You were born in New Orleans? Your parents were made of the mud of those swamps? The water sings in your blood?"
?Well it?s not water that sings in my blood,? he shrugged dismissively and snatched up his mostly emptied beer to empty it into his gullet. Then he stood and chucked it across the room toward the trash can where it landed with a loud crash of glass on glass, glass on aluminum, and other such nonsense.
?Born and bred in Nola, though. December 21st, 1974, born at Ochsner Baptist.?
"The fuck you think I'm from, kid?"
"Interesting," was his only reply. Les picked up his beer and drained it in a few gulps before depositing the bottle in the sink next to the dark, sodden ashes. "Do you know how soon your friend will be back?"
"Ain't got a clue," his cigarette was stamped out right into the carpet. He grimaced at something private in his mind and then narrowed his sunken eyes, which had sense turned yellow, on Les. "You gonna give me a list or what?"
"I could give you a broad list of all of the items that went missing after the fire. There are more than fifty pieces on it with detailed descriptions but no pictures."
"Fuck it, I'll take it," stroked at his jaw for a moment and then reached into his coat. "You got it on you or is it somethin' you're gonna have to go and get?"
"I will be able to recite them for you," he said around a cloud of smoke that escaped his lips as if running from him.
"Mm," out came a long, white feather with a black fringed edge. He twirled it between two fingers, and then with a flick of his wrist, sent it through the air at Les. It shot like a dart. "Speak."
Les arched a brow and leaned a hip against the counter but the arrow didn't touch him. Stopped just short and bobbed in the air a moment. Precisely and with patience, he listed out each one of the pieces and all the information he could about each one. He finished his cigarette and started another in the process but maintained his standing position at the sink. When it was over, he looked to Bones. "It could take you months to hunt down a mere handful."
The feather zipped back through the air and he tucked it behind his ear with a smile that was all skin and bones. "You don't get to live as long as I have and not learn a little patience, son," Bones said, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. His head canted to the side like he was sticking out one ear to try and hear a distant or faint sound.
"You'll help."
"As long as you have? Since 1974? Has that become a terribly long time in this modern era, or has the mortality rate on Earth plummeted?"
"Talk to me when you've been to battle, kid," he said without opening his eyes. Bones turned to navigate the space blindly and did so without incident. The window was caught by pale fingers and slammed shut. The bones started to rattle on the walls again.
There was the implication of a smile though it lingered more around his eyes than his mouth. "I don't recall any battles happening in New Orleans since 1974. Are you certain that is your place and time of origin?"
"America fought in a lot of wars, son. Sent a lot of young men overseas and all that. Come back when I've had more to drink and I'll regale you with a tale or two," plain and simple. His eyes opened and they were blue when they settled on Les, sharp and eerily similar to his. "My head ain't on straight anyhow," his wrist turned over in an absent gesture and he squeezed those eyes shut again. "Spinning over and over."
"I bow to your age and wisdom," inclining his head, Les was privately amused by this turn of conversation. "Let me know what you find, if you find anything." That was his segue to head for the door.
"Don't bow to anyone's wisdom, least of all a strung-out drunk like me. Unless you want to know how to hear the things that should-not-be, the only thing I can teach you is not to mix your poisons."
"Wait," as an afterthought, Bones walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a large metal bucket. He turned to thrust it out at Les. Inside was several bounds of raw beef. "Leave this out by the gate. Gotta feed the hounds."
"One day, we shall speak of battles and things that should not be. I look forward to it." One hand rested on the doorknob when he was called to linger. A dubious glance was given to the bucket but he acquiesced to the command. This time. "Goodbye."
"Later, kid," Bones didn't wait to watch Les leave, just disappeared down that too-long hall with his dark coat fluttering behind him like some great gale of wind was storming that way.
It was made if spiraling towers of junk, of rusted cars and home appliances stacked precariously upon one another in some rusting makeshift city. It existed in a place between places and to get there one only had to take a lonesome road toward the moon, no matter the time of day, and the broken sign that read The Boneyard soon loomed overhead complete with the chipped and fading picture of a cartoon skeleton and a word bubble that had long since been weathered to the point of being illegible. The spires of trash ? because most of it was just that, old rusted metal worth little to anyone at all ? seemed to fade in their colors as they neared the peaks. Where the ground level was all rusty reds and browns, it seemed as if the world just simply switched to a grayscale midway up until it went off into a pale dark sky with a ball of light in the air that could have been the sun or the moon, or perhaps merely the shadow of those ever-faithful celestial bodies.
It was quiet except for when it wasn?t it. Long bouts of silence were broken by the creaking of those teeter-tottering stacks of metal and scrap as the wind whistled through the hollow spaces in between and threatened to bring the whole maze tumbling down on itself. Entrance to the junkyard was through a gate that went under that old sign. It was a chain-link affair lined with barbed wire on the top but seemed to always be left open. A dirt path cleared up from all the rest of the trash that was wide enough for a tow truck or two wound its way to the right to where a small, squat building sat on a cinderblock foundation where any self-respecting businessman would conduct his affairs.
Bones, however, rarely entered this place. His clientele had long ago learned that to do business with the eccentric man meant navigating the veritable maze of junk to the trailer he kept as his home somewhere in the heart of all that mess. It was there that he did his business, there that he ate, slept, drank, and shot up with whatever Roach had managed to get from Kate and pass along at a decent price. The path to his trailer was lined with signs here and there, each with a white painted arrow pointing the way for passersby ? he was eccentric, not mean ? and travelers were accompanied by the sounds of whispers that could have been light sheets of metal-on-metal brushing together, or perhaps something else. He was a weird fucker, after all, that man called Bones. Who knew what spooks lurked in the Boneyard?
Les could sense what spooks and goblins moved among the teetering cairns and leaning ruins populating the Boneyard. It was aptly named for it was as quiet as a graveyard and attracted just as many roaming spirits. Only three haunted the shadowed piles, all disparate, all solitary and would remain that way even if they crossed his or each other?s paths. This place often reminded Les of the entrance on Earth to Purgatory and was, in his opinion, just as dreary.
He navigated the pathways with confidence, too intent upon his purpose to see the signs pointing in the direction of Bones' home but Les didn't need them. He could see the blurred outlines of this place, where it stood between Here and There, all the creases and folds in between. Fingertips rippled along the thin walls of reality as he walked, looking through and beyond to other Places until he was standing in front of a corporeal hovel that served as a home.
Two sharp knocks to the door and then he waited to be allowed entrance. Les might have been arrogant at times but he wasn't rude.
A low thrum of some instrumental music could be heard just on the other side of that thin, thin door. Something with a piano leading a melancholic melody while a backing ensemble of stringed instruments slowly but surely wailed away. The sharp knocks sounded at the exact instant that he shut the music off and a pregnant pause followed. Bones was just on the other side of that door, staring through the little round peep-hole as Les approached and knocked. He waited so it didn?t seem like he?d been waiting, and then removed a hand from his long black coat and pulled. The door swung inward on screeching hinges.
?Buyin? or sellin???
That was supposed to be his line, it was the way he greeted nearly every customer. It felt disorienting to be on the receiving end of it. "Neither. I believe that it was you that rendered my services in search of information." The pool of pale, weak light cast from inside illuminated Les - blonde hair tucked behind his ears, blue eyes that gave away nothing, sharp but guarded; clothing rumpled but comfortable as if he slept in them. Hands were hidden away in his pockets but he revealed one to gesture toward the camper. "Would you prefer to speak here or inside?"
Bones met the sharp, blue-eyed gaze with one that seemed as fickle as time and fate and all the spooky shit that operated behind the scenes, faeries and goblins and the dead and what life really means, which isn?t much at all in his opinion. It changed depending not so much on his mood, the color of his eyes, but as though they weren?t his eyes at all. Like he just borrowed a set for a time and had to exchange them every so often for a new pair, just like changing a lightbulb. Those eyes were stark white, paler just a shade than the dirty ivory of his long hair. It fell unkempt around his narrow face and shoulders and made him look even more sickly than he usually did. Dark circles colored the spots under his eyes and his skin had that sheen of someone who hadn?t washed in a day or two.
He stepped back and left the door open in a silent invitation.
The trailer was modestly sized for what it was. There was a living space right inside the doorway with an old tube TV sitting on a table with antenna covered in foil sprouting out in all directions. The walls were lined with string and twine and bones hung from them, mostly chicken, as well as a few other stone and wood carved oddities. The shelves were dusty and sinking down to the earth under the weight of the random knickknacks and pieces of trash and junk piled on them. He was a man who collected and hoarded the strange and unusual and was due in for a spring cleaning.
The caravan creaked and rocked on its modest foundation, reminding him of a group of gypsies that were camped outside the city. It brought a pang that was ignored while he kept to the perimeter of the space, causing the bones to click and clack against each other. Morbid chimes that knocked lightly against the walls in his wake.
"Have you found out anything else on your own about this item causing your friend such agitation?"
Wind rattled the loose window panes and whistled through cracks under the door. He sank onto an ugly green couch and kicked two feet clad in old, dark and worn military issue combat boots that he?d spray painted black because he was cheap and monochromatic. A beer had been wedged between the couch cushions in lieu of a cup holder and he picked up the dark brown bottle with a surprisingly daintily little grip between some loose fingers and brought it up to his mouth.
Les? question came as the whole trailer shook on its foundation again. The window kicked up and open like some unseen intruder was forcing its way inside and set those bones to rattling a little more noisily.
?Shut up,? he said, and they did.
?Nah, kid, not yet,? with an idle way over his shoulder he indicated the small refrigerator which had once been white but had faded to an off yellow like a lifelong smoker?s teeth. ?Have a beer and tell me what you got,? his words were slurred not from drunkenness, but from pure and simple, old school exhaustion.
The liminal vacuum of space around them howled into its own emptiness, only now the bones shook silently and Les regretted the loss of the noise. Turning to face the other man, he accepted a beer but didn't drink yet, just let it serve as a prop for his hands.
"I have found a trail of information. There was record of a ship sailing from the Mediterranean to New Orleans late in the nineteenth century. A wealthy land owner by the name of Henri Le Blanc ordered some art pieces for his large collection but soon after that, tragedy befell him and much of his collection was lost. There aren't any records for half of the items that came over on the Fleur, after the fire they disappeared. I suspect the relic in question might have been one of those pieces because nothing else on record seems to match the description or intent of what your friend suffers. Are you certain she's never seen it?"
?At this rate, I?m not certain of much,? Bones examined his dirty fingernails as they flattened against the palm of his right hand. Dirty and too long, he started chewing at them.
?She ah?she never really let me in on much and all I got to work with is hearsay and what I was able to figure out going through her things she?s got stashed here,? he gestured in Les? direction to a hall behind the man that was narrow and lined with wood-panel walls. Three doors could be seen, one at the end and two more about halfway down opposite one another.
?Got an idea of where this piece might be??
"There is much that I can deduce on my own but a large gap still remains to narrow down the exact piece that might have been responsible for her situation. The more information we have, the better. Considering her frequent trips to New Orleans and the general nature of that area, I think it would be safe to say that it remains somewhere in the area, either inside the city or very near to it. Pieces like that do not tend to hold much of a long range when it comes to infecting living creatures with their magic."
The beer was set aside without a single sip taken from it, only so he could fish out a cigarette and light it quickly, the flame disappearing with a metallic snap before the lighter was shoved back in his pocket. "If she could tell you where she was at the moment of her enchantment, I should be able to find it from there."
?Well she?s AWOL at the moment, slick,? his own beer was set to rest precariously on the wide, curved arm of the sagging couch. A match was produced seemingly from nowhere and he lit a cigarette that seemed to have likewise materialized through some use of sleight of hand, like Les? indulgence reminded him of his own addiction. His mind and body was moving slower than normal, everything carrying with it a great sense of lethargy.
?Soon as she phones home I?ll prod her for that noise. In the meantime, tell me what your top contenders are and maybe I can put some feelers out. I?m from New Orleans, still got me some connections in the spookier parts of town where a thing like that might be hidden away.?
Les turned to study the maw of the dim hallway behind him, seeming as though it stretched farther than the body of the trailer, itself. "I will know more when she returns, then," feeling the matter was settled enough to await Roach's return. In two steps, Les was next to the sink, ashing into it before he twisted to give Bones a look that was a mixture of indulgence and skepticism.
"Come now, there is no need to lie to me. You are not of that place."
?The fuck is that supposed to mean??
Blue eyes narrowed as he faced Bones fully, head canted to the left. "You were born in New Orleans? Your parents were made of the mud of those swamps? The water sings in your blood?"
?Well it?s not water that sings in my blood,? he shrugged dismissively and snatched up his mostly emptied beer to empty it into his gullet. Then he stood and chucked it across the room toward the trash can where it landed with a loud crash of glass on glass, glass on aluminum, and other such nonsense.
?Born and bred in Nola, though. December 21st, 1974, born at Ochsner Baptist.?
"The fuck you think I'm from, kid?"
"Interesting," was his only reply. Les picked up his beer and drained it in a few gulps before depositing the bottle in the sink next to the dark, sodden ashes. "Do you know how soon your friend will be back?"
"Ain't got a clue," his cigarette was stamped out right into the carpet. He grimaced at something private in his mind and then narrowed his sunken eyes, which had sense turned yellow, on Les. "You gonna give me a list or what?"
"I could give you a broad list of all of the items that went missing after the fire. There are more than fifty pieces on it with detailed descriptions but no pictures."
"Fuck it, I'll take it," stroked at his jaw for a moment and then reached into his coat. "You got it on you or is it somethin' you're gonna have to go and get?"
"I will be able to recite them for you," he said around a cloud of smoke that escaped his lips as if running from him.
"Mm," out came a long, white feather with a black fringed edge. He twirled it between two fingers, and then with a flick of his wrist, sent it through the air at Les. It shot like a dart. "Speak."
Les arched a brow and leaned a hip against the counter but the arrow didn't touch him. Stopped just short and bobbed in the air a moment. Precisely and with patience, he listed out each one of the pieces and all the information he could about each one. He finished his cigarette and started another in the process but maintained his standing position at the sink. When it was over, he looked to Bones. "It could take you months to hunt down a mere handful."
The feather zipped back through the air and he tucked it behind his ear with a smile that was all skin and bones. "You don't get to live as long as I have and not learn a little patience, son," Bones said, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. His head canted to the side like he was sticking out one ear to try and hear a distant or faint sound.
"You'll help."
"As long as you have? Since 1974? Has that become a terribly long time in this modern era, or has the mortality rate on Earth plummeted?"
"Talk to me when you've been to battle, kid," he said without opening his eyes. Bones turned to navigate the space blindly and did so without incident. The window was caught by pale fingers and slammed shut. The bones started to rattle on the walls again.
There was the implication of a smile though it lingered more around his eyes than his mouth. "I don't recall any battles happening in New Orleans since 1974. Are you certain that is your place and time of origin?"
"America fought in a lot of wars, son. Sent a lot of young men overseas and all that. Come back when I've had more to drink and I'll regale you with a tale or two," plain and simple. His eyes opened and they were blue when they settled on Les, sharp and eerily similar to his. "My head ain't on straight anyhow," his wrist turned over in an absent gesture and he squeezed those eyes shut again. "Spinning over and over."
"I bow to your age and wisdom," inclining his head, Les was privately amused by this turn of conversation. "Let me know what you find, if you find anything." That was his segue to head for the door.
"Don't bow to anyone's wisdom, least of all a strung-out drunk like me. Unless you want to know how to hear the things that should-not-be, the only thing I can teach you is not to mix your poisons."
"Wait," as an afterthought, Bones walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a large metal bucket. He turned to thrust it out at Les. Inside was several bounds of raw beef. "Leave this out by the gate. Gotta feed the hounds."
"One day, we shall speak of battles and things that should not be. I look forward to it." One hand rested on the doorknob when he was called to linger. A dubious glance was given to the bucket but he acquiesced to the command. This time. "Goodbye."
"Later, kid," Bones didn't wait to watch Les leave, just disappeared down that too-long hall with his dark coat fluttering behind him like some great gale of wind was storming that way.