177
M.A.R.S. Bulletin 177
“The Mortuary Man” — As orated by Totality Imperator Gaimon Flax c. Gaila’s End Celebration (Gnâvang Gaila, Türm 02.495) **Line indentations intentional
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“Once there lived a boy,” he [the Totality Imperator] began. “The boy had a mother, and she loved him very much. Although there was no man in the house, the boy and the mother were decently well-off and lived in a nice home (similar to a living-unit) in a pleasant neighborhood. (Like the ‘Sevenths.’)
“One day the boy came to his mother. Upon his face was a look of sadness that would cause even the hardest of hearts to crumble.”
Flax shot a pointed glance to one of his guests, Christiano Duvbeam, grinning.
Mild laughter from the audience.
“The mother,” Flax continued, “having such a deep love for her son couldn’t bear to see him so upset. ‘Oh, my dear, sweet boy!’ she said. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
“The boy looked up to his mother with big, tearful eyes. ‘I want to see Father,’ the boy said, his voice beginning to break.
“The mother forced a smile, one riddled with sad memories. She bent down to one knee so she could be level with her son. ‘I’m sorry, my sweet boy. But that is not for me to give. I simply don’t have the power, I’m afraid.’
“‘You don’t?’ the boy said, choking back quiet sobs.
“‘I don’t,’ the mother said poignantly. ‘But I know someone who does.’
“The boy’s face lit up. ‘You do?’
“‘Yes, I do.’ The mother stood and walked to the window inside their home. Beyond was a street, and at the end of the street was a building. It was large, and made of stone, and had overgrowth crawling across it like green centipedes (an Ohld World insect, rumored).”
Soft understanding from the audience.
“‘Come here,’ the mother said, indicating that her son join her at the window. ‘Do you see that building there, at the end of the street?’
“The boy nodded.
“‘There, lives the Mortuary Man. He’s the one who can bring Father back, just for a moment, so you can see him.’
“‘He can?’ the boy said, wonder in his voice.
“‘Yes, he can. But it comes at a price.’
“‘How much?’
“The mother looked to her son, then to a clock (timepiece) hanging on the wall. ‘What day is today?’ She asked this partly to herself and partly to the boy. ‘Wednesday?’ (Ohld World calendar, we think.) ‘Is it Wednesday?’
“‘Yes, Mother,’ the boy said. ‘Today is Wednesday.’
“‘Well, my sweet boy, if today is Wednesday, that means you can visit the Mortuary Man for five-hundred pennies.’ (Ohld World currency—a dreadful thing, as I was saying before.) The boy began to protest, but the mother pressed on. ‘But if you wait until tomorrow, it will only cost you four-hundred pennies.’
“‘But I have five-hundred pennies!’ the boy exclaimed. ‘I’ll go right now! I’ll get to see Father!’
“The mother held up a cautioning finger. ‘That’s fine, my sweet boy, but if you go today all your money will be spent. If you go tomorrow, you’ll still have one-hundred pennies left over.’
“They boy frowned at this. ‘But I can’t wait,’ he whined. ‘I want to see Father now! I miss him.’
“‘Now, now, my sweet boy,’ his mother said. She looked again out the window to the building at the end of the street, a sudden gloom eclipsing her otherwise jovial complexion. ‘You must know, the Mortuary Man is not a generous man. He’ll scrape you for every penny you have. It’s been said he charges double on Wednesdays—most days, for the matter.’
“The mother could tell her son wasn’t quite understanding. ‘You’ll have to pay him twice. Once to enter, and again to leave.’
“The boy’s frown deepened. ‘But I’ll have spent all my money!’
“‘That is why you should visit tomorrow, sweet boy,’ his mother consoled. ‘Tomorrow you’ll have enough money to pay for both. Then you can see Father.’
“The boy seemed to mull this over. His eyes arched from side to side. ‘What happens if you can’t pay the Mortuary Man when you leave?’ he asked, wiping the sniffles from his nose.
“‘It’s said that he never allows you to leave—that you become part of the mortuary, yourself.’ The mother cocked her head to the side, looking lovingly at her son. ‘And I wouldn’t want that for you, my sweet boy. That means that I would then have to pay the Mortuary Man to see you.’ With that the mother gave her son a kiss on his forehead and moved into the kitchen.”
Imperator Flax paused at the speakerphone. His hands gripped either end of the podium, veiny like the Ashwood grain. He scanned the audience as his voice faded from the hanging speaker cones. Their attention was fixated on him as though he were a star in the sky. Splendid, just splendid. All mine now. I practically own them!
“Later that night,” Flax said, his voice echoing within the Auditorium, “the boy was in his bed, trying to fall asleep. He tossed and turned all night, thinking about what his mother had said about the Mortuary Man. Would he really keep him there if he couldn’t pay the exit fee? Would he even charge an exit fee?
“The boy was cautious, but he was not a superstitious child. He didn’t believe in fairy tales, or demons, or the warnings parents give their children. And he wanted to see his father. He needed to see his father.
“When finally, he couldn’t take any more of the mental turmoil, the boy sprung from his bed, slipped his feet into his quietest shoes, and snuck out through his bedroom window.
“It was nighttime, and darkness covered the street like thick tar. But the boy remembered the location of the building at the end of the street and crept toward it like a, how do they say, ‘thief in the day.’”
Flax smiled at this idiom, catching the approving eye of Patricia Xanthemuhm, another one of his many acolytes in attendance.
“This close the building was much larger and stonier,” he said, increasing his stagecraft: dramatic gestures with his hands, upper body, face. “It towered over the boy like a tree to a mouse. There was a door at the middle of the building, and the boy knocked on it three times: brap, brap, brap.
“After a few moments the door opened a crack and through it came a voice. ‘Yeees?’ the voice crooned, sounding as though the spine of an old book had just been ripped open.
“The boy, startled by the voice, suddenly became frightened, recalled his mother’s caution. He turned over his shoulder, back to his house at the start of the street. He thought of his bed, then of his father. Then he mustered up his courage and addressed the voice behind the door, ‘Umm, ye—yes, I—I’m here t—t—to see my f—father.’
“The voice’s response was immediate. ‘Well that’s wonderful news, my boy.’
“‘It—it is?’
“The door cracked open another inch. ‘Of course it is!’ the voice exclaimed. ‘Yer father’s been wanting to see you too. Dying to see yuh, fact uh the matter.’
“The boy perked up, his fear dwindling. ‘Yay! Can I come in and see him then?’
“The door scratched to a stop. ‘Yuh brought yer payment, I presume?’ the voice said in an almost oily way, as if the words slid from its tongue like syrup. ‘Today it’ll be five-hundred pennies.’
“‘Yup! Right here!’ The boy procured a sack of heavy coins from his pajama pocket.
“‘Bring it here,’ the voice said.
“The boy stepped closer, his arm outstretched.
“‘Closer,’
“He crept closer still.
“‘Closer…’ the voice insisted, at an almost whisper. ‘And let’s get uh better look at’chuh.’
“A porch light (like a lumipiston) positioned above the doorframe flickered on. The light was bright and jarring, forcing the boy to shield his eyes with his free hand.
“‘Ahhh, there we are,’ the voice slurped, as if licking its lips. ‘That’s more like it. Go a’ead ’n give me uh little spin, why don’tcha.’
“The boy spun.
“‘Yes, you’ll do. You’ll do fine. Please, come in. Yer father’ll be waiting.’
“The door opened fully to reveal a man. Under the porch light, the boy was able to discern that he was elderly and hunched slightly at the shoulder. He had a long nose with a pair of half-moon spectacles teetering precariously at the end of it, as if the slightest breeze could displace them. He was mostly bald, save a few tufts of thin white hair stuck in a haphazard circle around his head. ‘Just place the pennies on that table there,’ the man said, pointing to a squat table in the entryway.
“The boy obeyed. ‘So, you must be the…Mortuary Man?’
“The man smiled, revealing a stretch of too-sharp teeth scraped across his lips. ‘Yuh flatter me, yuh do,’ he said, a soft chuckle escaping through his teeth. ‘But of ‘course I’m the Mortuary Man. Didn’t yuh see the sign?’ He pointed to a span of wall near the door.
“The boy looked but was jerked away by the man; he grabbed his arm, a surprisingly firm grip.
“The Mortuary Man led the boy down a spiral staircase made of stone. They had to have been descending for more than five minutes, the boy thought, before they arrived at a tall Oak (like Ashwood) door. It had a barred window-like opening near the top. Below was a large handle with an equally large keyhole. The boy looked to its surface and noticed many sets of long, raking scratches etched into it. Some had spots of burgundy stained in the jagged grooves.
“Suddenly, the boy felt a sinking feeling. It was as though all the weight of him had gone to his stomach. ‘Um—I—I actually need to go,’ the boy said, turning to leave and climb the spiral staircase. ‘I forgot something b—back at home.’
“A blindingly fast motion and the Mortuary Man had the boy’s wrist gripped tight. ‘Nonsense!’ he said, pointing to the tall Oak door. ‘Yer father’s just through ‘ere. ‘T’would be a shame to come all thuh way ‘ere, and pay all this money, and not evuhn see what it is yuh paid fer.’
“The boy began to protest but was silenced to a whimper with a tight squeezing of his wrist.
“The Mortuary Man twisted a key into the door’s lock and thrust the boy inside. ‘Yer father’s down there, four to the left. Knock three times ‘ere when yer done.’ The Mortuary Man slammed the door shut and clicked the lock back into place.
“Certainly the boy was afraid now. He checked the door, twisting the handle. It was locked tight. Surely the Mortuary Man would let him out, the boy thought, trudging down the hallway. Surely he wouldn’t make him pay to leave.
“It was dark down here—darker than it was outside—but the boy could make out a dim light in front of him. He followed it until he hit a dead end. To his left was a cell, number four. There was no door, just a sectioned-off piece of wall. A single candle burned in a candelabrum.
“Inside the cell was a man—rather, inside was a shell of a man. He had no clothes, save a thin cloth strung between his legs. His skin had paled and was covered with all kinds of sores and abrasions. His fingernails were either chewed or chipped.
“Upon seeing the boy, the man cried out, his voice barely a wheeze. ‘Son! Son, oh, my son! Is it you? Is it really you?’
“The boy ran to his father and embraced him. ‘Yes! Father, it’s me, your son!’
“‘Oh, my son! I’m so glad to see you! And how you’ve grown!’ The man looked his son over with pride.
“The boy beamed, posing with his hands on his hips. His father smiled, then chuckled, which thrust him into a fit of coughing. The boy bent to tend to him. ‘Are you all right, father?’ the boy asked.
“‘I’m fine, son, I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘Just tired is all.’
“The boy and his father gazed upon the other silently awhile.
“‘I am so happy to see you, my son,’ the father said. ‘But you should not have come.’
“This troubled the boy. ‘Not come? Why not?’
“The father’s face turned sullen, his eyes grim and defeated. ‘Do you know why I’m here?’ he asked.
“The boy shook his head.
“‘It’s because I too once came searching for my father. I too, came to see the Mortuary Man.’
“‘And did you see him? Did you see your father?’
“‘Oh yes,’ Father said, gesturing to the empty cell across the hall. There were many others like it, the boy realized, seemingly hundreds of them, lining the long hallway until eventually dissolving to darkness. This was no dead end. ‘I saw him, and we talked, and we laughed, and we embraced. But when I went to leave, I found myself having spent all my pennies. When I knocked at the door and the Mortuary Man came, I had no money to give him.’
“The boy felt the sinking feeling in his stomach return and deepen; the color began to drain from his face. ‘You mean to say it’s real? The Mortuary Man will make you pay…twice?’
“‘Father burst into another fit of coughs. ‘Of course it’s real, my son. You think I’d be here if it weren’t? You think I wouldn’t come to see you and your mother the first second I could?’
“Not wasting another moment, the boy stood and darted to tall Oak door, rapping its surface three times. When the Mortuary Man came, the father retreated to the shadow of his cell, disappearing. The Mortuary Man peered through the barred window and looked down to the boy. ‘S’pose yer finished then?’
“‘Yes, sir,’ the boy said politely, avoiding his eye.
“‘Thad’ll be uh-hundred pennies.’
“The boy felt as though his stomach had frozen and fallen to the floor. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have any more money. I spent it all when I got here. That was all I had.’
“‘Shame, meh boy,’ the Mortuary Man said. ‘Damned shame.’ He turned to leave.
“‘Wait!’ the boy yelled after him. Please! You’re really not going to let me out? I just wanted to see Father!’ I missed him so much! I can go back home and come back tomorrow with one-hundred pennies!’
“The Mortuary Man shook his head. ‘Shoulda come tomorruh, then. Sounds as like yeh woulda had enough.’
“‘But I do! I do have enough! I’ll just come and pay tomorrow!’
“‘Thad’ll just be too late. Unless yuh pay me uh-hundred pennies today, I’ll have teh keep yeh ‘ere. Them are thuh rules.’
“‘Please!’ the boy begged, jumping up to catch a glimpse of the Mortuary Man before he disappeared up the spiral staircase.
“‘Weh all mehke choices, weh do,’ the Mortuary Man said, his voice fading into the stone with his ascent. ‘Yeh made yers. We all want things, weh do. Yeh got yers. We give ‘n we take away. Yeh gave, and I tak’ed away. Such is thuh cycle of this curs-ed life.’”