Winter Fable: Chapter One
By Christian Heidecker
Arthur took a wrong turn one night.
He found himself in the rich part of town. There was no trash in the gutters, ornate black gates stood as citadels in front of stately mansions, and a crisp air moaned through the empty streets without interruption.
All the signs that say KEEP OUT to a vagabond such as himself.
Arthur was about to turn tail (policemen kept a special eye out for people like him at Christmas time) when he saw the decorations: the spires of houses twined with ribbon, black and gold; green wreaths dappled with red fruit and hidden pine cones doffed the fronts of houses; and strands of white lights, each with a tiny frosted halo, hung like icicles from the rooftops.
Arthur could not remember being this enchanted since he was a child. The concern for policemen and appearances seemed to melt away with the glittering lights. He kept his collar around his red ears as he walked. Even with the ragged stubble on his chin, his face was numb with cold.
Halfway down the street, Arthur stopped. Strange noises found their way through a thick hedge weighed down with snow. Arthur parted the leaves and branches and peered into the yard.
It was a party.
And not just any party, but the most delightful party Arthur had ever seen. In the orange windows women in red dresses clinked glasses with tuxedoed men then tipped them to their lips. A roaring fire warmed their legs.
Arthur parted the leaves further and saw other wonders. Outside there was a forest of space heaters allowing the rich to bask under a tropical canopy while living in a winter wonderland. There were tables lined with plates of baked confections, bowls of apple cider and silver trays piled with sweet sausages, steaming in the winter air. And a separate table dedicated to slender green bottles filled with thick purple liquid.
Arthur breathed the smells in deeply. He felt a need creep up in his chest. Oh, to be one of them, without a care in the world, trays of fat sausages and cheeses brought right under your nose only to be shooed away because your bursting stomach couldn’t handle another bite. To dance in the cold as a lark until Jack Frost found his way into your under things, and you went back under the lamps to warm yourself again.
As Arthur’s jealous eyes drifted from face to face, he noticed something about the people in the courtyard. Their faces were not just red from the snow, oh no. The spirits in their hands had added plenty of color their cheeks as well.
They were, each and every one of them, miserably drunk.
This gave Arthur an idea. But if even one of these people saw him with his tattered clothing and hole-filled shoes, he might spend the night in somewhere far less pleasant than the cold streets.
Arthur’s stomach growled and hunger overcame reason, as it often does. Arthur was moving across the yard.
Perhaps if he moved quickly, perhaps if he kept his head down, perhaps if he only grabbed a couple of things, a cracker here, a swig of wine there, the happy party goers wouldn’t even notice him.
Men and women swayed on all sides of him, too concentrated on keeping upright to notice Arthur’s ragged dress. He wove through laughing faces and stumbling legs right to the table piled with food. Arthur picked up a knife and cut into a circle of brie cheese. It cut like butter and Arthur spread it on a poppy seed cracker. The cracker crunched between his teeth and the cheese melted on his tongue and made him forget about every ache and pain in his body. He picked up a wine bottle with a golden apple on it and filled a glass. The wine burned his dry throat and brought warmth to his stomach. Arthur could not help his eyes from fluttering shut.
A hand landed on Arthur’s shoulder and knocked him from his reverie. Arthur turned with a start and looked up. A tall, lazy eyed gentleman in a tuxedo stared down at him with a sneer on his lips. He had a white towel draped over his arm.
Of course, Arthur thought. The servant stays sober at the soiree.
“If you’ll come with me, sir, we shan’t have any trouble. ”
Arthur allowed himself to be gently but insistently pulled forward toward the front gate.
A portly gentleman stepped in front of Arthur and the butler. He held a cigar in his right hand and in his left hand, which hung in a sling, held a bulbous glass filled with amber liquid. He blew two tusks of smoke from his large nostrils.
The butler cleared his throat.
“If you’ll excuse us, Messier, I was just escorting this young gentleman out. ”
“What on earth for?” asked the man with the cigar. “This boy is my guest. ”
The butler took a moment and stared at the man, then he looked down at Arthur’s shoes and traced a line up to the top of his head. Arthur looked back, not quite sure what sort of face he was making.
The butler released his arm. “My apologies. ” And then disappeared back into the house.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said to the portly man and made his way toward the hedges.
“Come back here,” the man said.
Arthur stopped. He could make a break for it. But then they would call the police anyway.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Sorry?” the man asked. “What are you sorry for?”
Arthur stumbled. “I-I was hungry and . . . ”
“Sorry for being young and adventurous? Sorry for saying No! to the bourgeoisie and Yes! to independence? Oh ho ho,” the man smiled a broad smile. “Don’t you apologize to me, boy. ”
He took another drag on his cigar, blew a cloud of smoke on the tip and watched the embers crawl.
“I watched you sneak in there through the hedges. Don’t think I don’t know your business. I was young once too, you know. I was struck with the wanderlust that keeps your legs going one in front of the other, the ‘I don’t care which direction just so long as it is not here’ drive. No. I know all about you. ”
Arthur was at a loss for words.
“Now. You cannot say no to a drink with me. That I could not forgive. No sir. ”
The man finished his cigar and threw it in the snow. He walked to Arthur his eyes fixed firmly on Arthur’s own and stuck his hand out.
“Call me Uncle,” he breathed and the rot of digested cheese and wine blew in Arthur’s face. “Arthur. ”
“Well, Arthur. We have much to talk about.
Arthur watched the final ghost of the dying cigar float up to the heavens.
***
“Here’s to tramping!”
Inside the house, Uncle clinked his glass against Arthur’s and then continued with his soliloquy. His mood seemed to brighten with each drink.
“I know your type. Always the wanderer, never settling down.
You say the human race wasn’t built that way. ”
Arthur had never said anything of the sort but he kept his mouth shut.
“I won’t cast you out like the rest of them. But you can’t blame them, my boy. They’ve lost touch with what’s important in life. I feel sorry for them really. These people don’t change. They find ways to ignore themselves. I would too if I were a hamster trapped in a hamster’s cage. They’re blind to the worth in a life of exploring, of risk taking, of romance, I say! I’m sure you’ve got some stories, eh? Oh boy!”
Arthur wondered if the sick awkward feeling he had in his chest was worth the warm, full feeling in his belly. He was grateful for the hospitality, but he was waiting for a window, an opportunity to-
“Ah! A quiet one, eh? Good, good. I’m quite quiet myself, you know. Helps you absorb the world around you. But this is good. The less you speak the better chance I have to fill you with my vast knowledge. Quick! What’s the capital of Antarctica!”
Arthur stumbled. “I-I have no idea. ”
“No idea! My god. Then make something up. We need to get a few drinks in you, my boy. How old are you? Sixteen, seventeen?”
Arthur shrugged and gave a little nod. In reality, he was much, much older.
Uncle was already refilling his own glass.
“You must get a head start, otherwise those college frats will drink you under the table. Drink hard, drink deep, and the world will be at your fingertips. Trust me. This is an Armani. ”
Uncle’s suit fit him like paint on a round ornament. This man has money, Arthur thought. And this, finally, was what made him decide to stay and listen.
Uncle put his arm back around Arthur and led him into the foyer. He continued to talk about clothing and Sherri, expeditions to Antarctica, the dreadful carpeting beneath their feet, and the short comings of the bourgeoisie, all the while making grandiose swoops with his glass.
But Arthur wasn’t really listening. He was taking in (what Uncle would call “absorbing”) the world around him. The objects in the house seemed to shimmer with some hidden radiance. Everything, no matter the color, was imbued with gold or silver. The dark objects were seductive in their lightlessness. Everything wove together in a rich canvas. Arthur could not conceive of touching a single object without causing the whole room to sway. Like a tapestry. If he could just find the loose thread he could pull the whole thing apart. He was sure of it.
It began with bourbon and the woodwork on the grand staircase. It continued with gin in the games room, and followed with Scotch in the green room. Uncle showed Arthur how to operate a gramophone in the study and filled the glasses with Sherri. There was a woman in the dining area whom Arthur just had to meet and she spoke of mating birds in a nasal voice that made Arthur want to retch. But his stomach was settled with something called “Gram-on-yay.”
Uncle and Arthur drank their way through the entire house. Meanwhile, the party slowed to a whisper. All was quiet again except for Uncle’s raspy voice.
They’d made their way to the master and Uncle gave Arthur another drink. Arthur didn’t quite catch the name but it was green and tasted of rusty nails and lemon juice kakh K-k plakh
***
Arthur found himself on a gold striped couch. It was ready to contort to his every shift, willing to discrane his only comfort. Had never known such. The sherry well sat in him and or no, it was more like something else name. But the good thing was is that he sat well on the couch and everything right.
But terror. For gold was shlurking hand now. Don’t struggle!
More pull, worsk. Ex- umg. Sasserbates.
She appeared.
“Ech-help.”
Shlurf. Free. Tesk, tact. Mmkay.
“Yum. Thangs.” Safer. Safe her. Saver. Savior.
Stands out so good from the tapestry because that green all on her. Like nonesuch else. A weed in immacollection.
No. Arthrur thought all about then and what could be named for green suchness and how it would be called for beautiful.
Lily. Yes.
Spoke of opposes for last it is that she would be the lie in this place. “Lilying, lying, lie-ing, lifing, not, or, yes lying for dead. ”
Living!
“Okay. Sosurry. Wait. You are what should be life in a,” oh no.
“Okay, it’s slippagain. She sher shade. ” life inch aid. “The” not she, you! You! “What was said?”
“I don’t know, man. You’re the one talkin’.”
Go “nahsee.”
“Nauseated?”
“NOME!”
all this glitter bright. She is comfort nurture. She is sweetness health. And golden glare may sun my shrivel. “nnnot made shrivel!”
“Not made shrivel, huh? Boy, you’re quite the Casanova,” the green speaked.
rays inta sugar’s sugar and spreads herself about unself. So unselfed this time to time. giffer life. Mine.
“Your shadow is just one full,” I’m manage.
Smiling, shakin’ lily.
Only it dudn’t come like. It comed . . . “Wgggg.”
“Pardon?” the lily said.
Contact.
Get it together, whoo.
Get it? To get her?
TO GET HER
TO GET IT TOGETHER HER
TO GET IT TO GET HER HER
TO GET IT TO GET IT TOGETHER HER HER
“Um, stop saying that,” Lily.
Mmkay. thought to new, DIS-rupt, -card, -regard, -pose, -miss, -troy, -pense “get it together“ and -place with sausage bloat and pierce cheeses.
Suck a teeth. lily goway.
“Nome! Jusit! Juice it for . . . ”
“I’m not going to sit here while you hurl on the carpet. I’m getting a bucket. ”
Jes no poison the lily with bile, eh Paison? somuch bile, somache. Sum ache.
“Oh no you don’t, mister. My parents will kill . . . ”
Cloud feel. To up. Lily in is armpit now, ledem. See the blossom,the bosom.
“Her loveliness takes his sickness to the busroom. ”
“Ha ha. Yeah, I guess.”
Dizzy water swirl makes for rebile.
Lily sat on the Porsche lane , knees together tight. Unclich. Uncle itch. Scrash a furger.
“Can’t, cunt, oh ogoo, surry.” Ah gentle now, orate or ate the sausage
puke
nick. Gather, get her, NO!
pieces, just try. Tan skin, white under.
WHITETHUNDER. Why the under? Why the unger?
Moremmmmblehhhh.
Browwwwgggggnnnnnn. Ungren.
Fing the white. “Just flick the, please,” Arm touch, “Brow lifes. Gif water.”
“No, no, no. Let’s leave the bath off for now.”
“BUG! Fer you!” Her look up and saw her eyes. Stream spiral of water flow tears tear apriece of . . .
“Don’t,” Arthur tried. “They’re lovely. Done spoiled. By me.”
“You don’t belong here do you?”
Head hard on fireworks KAPOW.
“Whoa! Watch yourself there. ” Wish skins so why n smoo, two smooth ah, grout “Here I’m just going to fold this towel, like this. See? Much better, yeah?”
Da grouds tuns ta clouds’s.
“I do. You put me here. ”
“Mm. Did you wander in from the street or something?”
“Lil’ why legs.”
“Let’s keep our hands to ourselves, yes?”
“Cayent.”
“Well, if my parents find out, they’re gonna call the cops. So I would just finish your puking and then get the hell out of here, alright?”
Lily blossoms up leave.
Cayent touch. Fflimits. Stopper growth. Words, kay? Only, kay?
“Your name is Lily,” Arthur managed.
Violin from some such state. Bird woman to commotion: Esnuff . . .calmy so SCRCH.
“No it’s not,” the lily said. “Why would you say that?”
Nomer.
“Boy . . . ” girl began.
The Lily turned a leaf.
“Wait!”
She stopped.
“Tell um some. ”
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“Any. ‘Sokay. ‘Sokay. Just not leaf like this.”
The girl considered Arthur on the floor for a moment.
“Lilies are my favorite flower.”
Arthmiled.
And that’s the last of lily.
***
A desperate squeezing, that pinched his muscles and felt horrible.
His stomach still floating on the ocean.
Arthur swam to the surface, continued to feel different pressures on his body. Here on his side, and there right below the belly button. When he lifted his heavy head, his vision couldn’t quite. . . He could only make out a faint mass of a man in darkness, blurry and horrible.
Uncle.
“Ah. There you are,” Uncle’s forehead was perspiring. “Thought I’d lost you for a while there. Well, that’s good. Let’s get you to my car then.”
As he spoke Uncle laid his hand on Arthur’s belt buckle. Arthur wasn’t sure if Uncle sounded strange because of the alcohol residue or because . . . of some . . . Arthur’s head was still foggy.
Uncle kept looking at the stairs.
“Come on. Up with you,” Uncle said.
Uncle helped Arthur to his feet. The house was dark now, the light of the party leaked out of the doors taking the people with it. Uncle put his arm around unstable Arthur and led him to the front door.
Arthur did not feel in control of his body. He had been drunk before. But never like this, Dearies. Oh no.
Uncle caressed Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur could feel his skin pinch between the sausage like fingers.
Arthur tried to speak but his voice froze up inside him.
“Tsk tsk tsk,” Uncle said looking toward Arthur’s neck. “It seems I gave you a bit much, hm? Naughty me.” He chuckled and it was devilish.
Arthur became aware of a thick tendril of saliva that dangled from his lower lip. He tried to swing his arm up to wipe it free but he didn’t have the strength.
Uncle noticed what he was trying to do. He tipped Arthur’s head back and licked the saliva off of Arthur’s chin.
“Mmm! Sherri!”
Arthur realized what was happening. He craned his neck back to search for help, lily oh the lily, but there was no time to think of that now.
There was no one in the dark living room.
“Uncle! Uncle!” Arthur shouted.
Uncle cupped his hand over Arthur’s mouth.
“Yes, boy,” he growled. “Cry my name. But wait until we’re in the car.”
Uncle was stronger than expected. He had a bull’s determination and with his one good arm he dragged Arthur out of the house, around the corner and two blocks South until they reached a public park.
Arthur could see Uncle’s Studebaker sitting in the parking lot. It had horns on the hood.
When they reached the car, Uncle fumbled for his keys with his broken arm and kept Arthur cradled in the other. Arthur did not have many choices. His body was limp and he could barely keep his head up straight. He wondered how much worse he’d be if he hadn’t puked. Arthur concentrated and made himself as heavy as possible; imagined his limbs as concrete, and his torso as lead. He slipped out of Uncle’s grasp and slumped to the earth.
The melting snow soaked into his pants, biting his already cold skin. Arthur looked up and saw Uncle’s smile loom over him.
“You little wretch! Make me bend over with my back the way it is. You will get a punishment for this!”
Uncle folded himself at the waist and scooped his good arm underneath Arthur’s back.
“Work with me now,” Uncle said and pulled up.
Arthur became a ragdoll and suddenly Uncle was howling. He reached his arm around to grab at his back and fell forward landing face first in the slush.
Before Uncle could roll back over, Arthur used all his strength to hurl himself onto Uncle’s hulking back. Uncle began to thrash, trying to get his face out of the water. But his injured arm was pinned underneath him. He could only kick his feet and wiggle his right arm slightly, like a toppled penguin.
Uncle turned his fat neck to get his mouth out of the water.
“Oh! Please! Please don’t put weight on it! Oh! Too much! Too much!”
Soon Uncle could strain no more and his vein filled neck gave in. Uncle’s words turned to gurgling.
Arthur lay for a few moments, on top of wriggling, gurgling Uncle, and gazed into the sky, watching his breath fog the sparkling stars above.
Like Christmas lights, he thought.
Once Uncle stopped moving, Arthur rolled off of still as earth Uncle and onto the frosted ground. The rush had sobered him a bit.
Arthur did not look back when he stumbled out of the park, his noodle legs trying to keep up under his ever tilting body. He fell then straightened himself, a few steps at a time, back onto the street and out of the rich part of town.
He did not stop walking until morning.
(Speculative Fiction Workshop)