BARTON'S PLACE

Youth is the spattering of dreams over a blossoming mind trying eagerly to discern that which is and which isn’t. The holy dreams are permitted well past youth unlike the gift giving dreams that maturity will wean. Given enough time, that which is and which isn’t can become entangled, and the past becomes like a dream, where uncertainty plagues the further behind one tries to gaze. When I look back, there is one thing that remains clear from my youth; my mother’s last words to me when she said,

“We are cursed—you are cursed Arnowe, so when your time nears you must be as fierce as a wolf and as wise as an eagle. For you—for all of us the border crossers will come, and the world will be devoured by the black swells of the the Stygian sea.”

I of course had no clue about what she was babbling. The woman was mad, and had been descending into madness since my father left. Despite this fact, I still loved her. She was always kind and nurturing, and some how we managed in the three years since my parents split—until of course— we didn’t. The morning after I last heard her voice, I awoke and found a motherless kitchen and a breakfast-less table. I of course did what any other young growling tummy would do in such a predicament, I yelled out,

“Mom! Where’s breakfast,” but I was met with silence.

So I did the next thing any other young growling tummy would do; I ventured to her room, barged in, and there she was sitting in her favorite chair facing the window. All I could see was her pale hand laid gently upon the arm rest, for the tall wings and rear of the chair obstructed my view.

“Mom.” I said hushedly, and again I was met with silence.

Softly I made my way to the tall chair that was clad in black leather. I never liked it, her chair, for from its ebony wood was carved all manner of vile and monstrous effigies. It never fit the rest of her pastel décor, and it sat like a black hole in a sea of light. I wish she would have gotten rid of it as soon as it came into her possession, but it was an heirloom gifted to her by her grandmother who was from the old country. Much later, when it was handed down to me, I decided that it was time for the family heirloom to find another family. I sold it to some antique shop and got a couple of hundred bucks for it. Months later the shop owner gave me a call and informed me that he learned it was priceless after getting it appraised. Why he cared to divulge this information to me after he was now the owner at first was perplexing, until he relayed to me that my mother's precious heirloom had a “bit of an ominous history”. When I asked what he meant by “ominous”, he said that the chair was from the Victorian era, and its leather was made of human skin… “probably some poor African soul”… and they knew that because the stuffing was a mixture of excelsior and black kinky hair. So appalled by this knowledge was I, all I could do is say “burn it” before hanging up the phone.

There is no way I could have known the depths of the abomination before me when I paused behind our family heirloom: too afraid to face what lay on the other side of it's towering wings of human flesh.

“Mom.” I hushedly called out again, and again I was met with silence.

After a few minutes, I mustered the courage to make my way around the chair and stared upon a deathly pallid form that was once my mother. Her right eye was rolled to the back of her head, and her left stood forward gazing upon me. Instinctually I grabbed out to her hand, wanting desperately to save what I knew deep down was already gone, and as I clasped it, the coldest chill raised goose bumps all over. Instantly her mouth fell open as an odious fume gushed from the gape, and still that left eye gazed. I ran with my hands over my mouth; darting out the house and to a neighbors home as tears welled.

The authorities contacted my nearest relative, uncle Adelram, and made arrangements for me to stay with him for a few weeks until they could reach my father who was overseas on a job in Melanesia. He was an anthropologist, and because of his remote location and the fact that communication at that time ran much slower than in our age of cell-phones and social-media, it would take some time to reach him. My mother’s maiden name was Barton, so when I was taken to my uncle’s ranch, it was only fitting to see the words-

BARTON’S PLACE

-painted on an arching metal sign above the ranch’s entrance. My uncle was a wealthy man who owned thousands of acres of land, almost ten miles worth. Some of it was fenced off grazing land for his livestock, but much of it was an old thick canopied forest that extended for miles. My uncle could be a jovial person, but one wouldn’t know it by simply looking at him. He had the same Gothic pale skin and raven hair like my mother, and wore it long like a rock star cowboy. He was older than mom but much younger than my father who was already in his fifties. Uncle Adel at the time seemed more like a cool older brother than an uncle. In fact, the first week he took me to a rodeo, a ball game, and we watched TV at night. He didn’t make me work on the ranch, but I pitched in when I felt like it. I guess he knew I wasn’t going to be there long and wanted to make the experience as comfortable for me as he could considering the circumstances that brought me to his doorstep. The second week I actually met a friend. His name was Dorren. I spied him playing on the far side of the ranch near the forest where a black cobblestone path lead into its depths. He was around my age… ten or about. We became fast friends and would ride our bikes along side the ranch fence. I told my Uncle about him, but he had never met him. He knew his closest neighbors, a few miles down the road, had some boys that age, but Uncle Adel was a bit of a loaner. He didn’t socialize much despite being the jovial type. When I told him where I had met Dorren, I came to learn how alike he and my mother were. He looked worriedly down upon me with the same bluish hazel eyes as his sister and said,

“Arnowe, you and your friend must stay out of the woods. It’s extremely dangerous in there. Play on the ranch, but do not enter the woods.”

“What’s in there uncle Adel?” I asked.

Silence permeated the room for a moment until he bent down and placed his hands on both my shoulders and said,

“Arnowe, your mother was the strong one. In that woods lies my past that she helped me bury a long time ago. We buried it deep, because if you don’t the Grenzgänger will always find its way to you. It rises from the Stygian sea and shrouds all in shadow and despair.”

“Am I cursed uncle Adel?” I asked.

“No.” he said with a smile… “not you… we made sure of it, but you must stay out of the woods.”

The third week, a few days before my dad was to arrive, Dorren and I were playing along the ranch fence, and we noticed the black cobblestone path that lead into the forest. We both stared at it silently for a moment, and swiftly Dorren jumped over the fence and began walking down the path as he yelled,

“Come on chicken shit!”

I of course protested, but he kept laughing at me and calling me a chicken shit. Being the sucker for peer pressure that I was, I followed him in. As we made our way deeper into the woods, we felt confident we wouldn’t get lost so long as we followed the black cobble stones that soon led us to a white bridge that extended over a good size stream. It was an odd stream, for the water was somewhat of a milky color. Of course the entire forest was odd. It was the middle of day, but the thick canopy and a slight haze made it seem gloomier. Eventually we came to a gray bridge with gray water that flowed underneath it. Dorren crossed it with no hesitation despite my pleas to return back down the path where we came, but again I succumbed to peer pressure. The woods became darker and hazier as we made our way further in, and soon we came upon a black bridge with black water running underneath it. Dorren dashed as fast as he could across it and disappeared into the murk. I truly did not want to follow, but I feared for his safety so I ran in after him yelling out his name. I found him standing across from a large black barn that had a gray thatched roof. He looked to me and said,

“Do you think that’s where your uncle buried his stuff?”

I peered at the barn. The ebony wood reminded me of my mother’s chair, except it was oily and unpolished.

“I don’t know.” I said.

“Well lets go in and find out,” Dorren suggested, and I replied,

“Fuck No! Let’s get the hell out of here man!”

I turned to leave and walked a few feet into the haze but could not find the cobblestone path so I returned to where Dorren once stood. He was now closer to the barn door, and as I made my way to him I yelled out,

“Dude the fucking path is gone… I can’t find it!”

“Stop whining. Look man, when the fog clears up we’ll find the path and get out of here. Until then, we might as well see what’s inside. Besides, we might have to take shelter in case it rains.”

I looked back at the haze which had gotten thicker, and said,

“Yeah, I guess you’re right… well… after you man.”

“Fuck no dude, it’s you’re uncle’s stupid old Barn, you can do the honors.”

Again I succumbed to peer pressure and opened the door. I took a few steps in and looked back at Dorren as a gesture to have him follow me like he implied he would. His face was expressionless, except for his eyes that were slightly widened as he swiftly slammed the door. I ran to it and started pounding, desperately trying to open it as I yelled out expletive after expletive. The flutter of wings and raven caws startled me as I pivoted back around. A long ornate black table made of ebony wood sat before me. It had vile effigies carved along its sides and legs… just like my mother’s chair. At the opposite end of the table there was also a chair very similar to my mothers, and in it sat a black hooded form. A large raven with red eyes was perched atop the back of the chair, and on the table in front of the hooded form was a tall black chalice made of the same ebony wood which also had torturous effigies carved along it. The figure in the chair raised out its limb towards the chalice, but where its hand would be was still covered with the gloom of his robe. In a cacophony of miserable voices it said..

“Sup upon your destiny, and great power will I bestow upon you!”

I began to tremble, and all I could think of was the words of my mother. Thrice in my head they echoed.

fierce as a wolf wise as an eagle

fierce as a wolf wise as an eagle

fierce as a wolf wise as an eagle

And I yelled out, “Fierce as a wolf" as loud as I could.

The figure stood up from the chair. It was tall… unnaturally tall. The enormous fiery eyed raven perched on its shoulder, and in unison they spoke with a deathly bellow.

“SUP UPON YOUR DESTINY! OR BATHE IN MISERY!”

Images of ghastly murders invaded my mind as I screeched in agony while falling to my knees, and I again I refused,

“Fierce as a wolf!”

It growled vociferously and flung out its arm. The ebony chalice skid across the black table. Sparks flew as it made the most horrible screech. It stopped right at the end of the table top, and its oily contents splashed all over me. Again it bellowed as the ground trembled.

“SUP, AND BE MADE WHOLE!”

The images agonized me even more ferociously. The walls shook, the ground quaked, and the doors and beams rattled as I gritted my teeth and hollered so loud it ripped my chords.

“FIERCE… AS… A… WOLF!”

Then the jet of nothingness came over me as my vision faded to black.

I awoke to flashlights beaming in my eyes. A search party had found me, and one lifted me on his back and carried me out of the woods. I was a bit catatonic, but after I was given some water and something to eat while in the ambulance, my father came rushing to me. His presence invigorated me as he hugged me and kissed me, and I hugged him back firmly while weeping. After I calmed down, I asked where Dorren was, and they didn’t know of whom I was speaking. They said I was the only one found in the woods and that I had been missing for three days. I told them that Dorren was the boy who lived a few miles down the street, so they sent the authorities there to confirm this and to make sure he was alright. I just wanted to punch him in the face for locking me in that barn and leaving me. The thing is, the neighbors or anyone else in a hundred mile radius had no son named Dorren, and they didn’t find a barn or any bridges in the woods. They also said there weren’t any streams that flowed through that part of the land. Perplexed, I asked to see uncle Adel, because he would confirm it all... the black cobble stone path, the bridges, the barn… all of it. My dad and the authorities said that would not be a good idea, but they wouldn’t tell me why. They did say, that if Uncle Adel hadn’t reported me missing as early as he did, I would not have survived another day in the woods without water. Shortly after, my father took me to California where he had a home. I don’t know how long he thought he could keep it from me, but after a few days settling into the new place, I caught a report on the evening news and learned that my uncle Adel was one of the most prolific serial killers in the country’s history. Three hundred bodies were discovered under where they found me in the woods… buried in some ritualistic pattern. They kept my name out of the news, but some of the authorities said I was supposed to have been the three hundred and first. I never saw my uncle again after that. He died in prison. I once tried to get answers from my father, but he had none... none that were satisfactory anyway. In my youth that angered me, but to his credit, I don’t think anyone had answers for my mother’s side of the family. When I think back on that time, it’s hard for me to know what was and what wasn’t. I know now though, that given enough time, that which is and which isn’t can become entangled, and the past becomes like a dream, where uncertainty plagues the further behind one tries to gaze.