In a town of less than two thousand people, a place where it snows only half the year and the very short summers are too hot to bear; there live a man, Scott Tompkins, and his companion Tree--a dirty white raggedy wolfdog looking thing. These two living able bodies have been in our town now for more than a year and already they have caused as much damage and chaos as a small twister, or miniature atomic bomb, or a crashed landed bus full of Tasmanian Devils from outer space. They are an irritating nuisance, and a hindrance to us all. They were up to noo good, we all knew it. They had a stench about them that no one would dare touch with a four yard pole.
"Witchcraft! They are some kind of wizards, sorcerers I tell ya!" Old Hartford, the clergyman, would shout out.
"That's right! It's sorcery of some kind, that's what it looks like to me," Followed in other townsman of this rowdy crowd in aberration. It was always commotion like these that would start up at City meetings at the Town City Hall. We would openly talk about things there that we wanted done, things that we wanted to see change.
"We want that hermit and he is mangled ugly mutt out of our town now, this is our town!" Violence would ensue at the meetings but never escalate towards Mr. Tompkins and Tree inconspicuously sitting at back of the room.
The children would be the bravest of us all by sending across any message the adults had; they committed to throw eggs, toilet paper, gasoline on Mr. Tompkins yard. Nothing phased the man. Nothing bothered Mr. Tompkins, not even the yolk thick windows of his squat little home. A solitary wooden shack of a cottage home; falling on itself it was practically unhabitable but he still held it up somehow, the magic we believed. Always dark in the yard full of thick vegetation and overgrown weeds this is what led to the outburst of Mr. Fitzgerald, Tompkins' neighbor a mile down. It sparked up anger from his other neighbors too, Mr. and Mrs. Harrelson. They were the ones to finally call for an eviction of Tompkins and the dog. Both neighbors threatened to cross the rotted down picket fence to his yard, with force, and drag him out against his will. Of course, no one ever had the courage or indecency to do such a thing--to act out in bad taste again.
After a couple of days pass, and this time for certain, we have someone ready to serve the notice to the pair. The letter from the court explaining in full detail the activities of Mr. Tompkins, the strange behavior, the questionable acts and sounds produced from his home late at nights; all the oddities seen by the surrounding neighbors of Tompkins that raised the question of his sanity. Maybe he simply was just mentally ill and only needed medical attention. Mr. Tompkins was thereby invited to a meeting, of counsel, to discuss his lifestyles, his habits; and with the hope to settle all gossips that may or may not have caught like wildfire throughout this dusty, green mist filled little town. This meeting would only bring understanding to the folk of everything before believed about the pair.
Mr. Tompkins agreed to make his appearance by way of letter carrier--his dog Tree. When Tree arrived at the Mayor's front porch, the crowd waiting around gasped in fright of Tree sitting there panting. The Mayor himself, tangled in the bodies of his surrounding colleagues holding each other, slowly went up to the carrier and took the letter from the mouth of Tree and took a quick step back in another loud gasp from the crowd. He carefully examined the letter as Tree sat patiently. The Mayor saw Tree waiting at the bottom of the steps.
"What's he waiting for? Give him something already, make him go away!"
A bread crust was thrown from the crowd down the steps to Tree. The dog noticed it, but without looking at it or moving a flinch for it, Tree stood on all fours and dashed away leaving us behind in our dumbfounded business air.
We were in awe. At what, it's hard to say really then. This town is notorious of conjuring up all sorts of superstitious rumors. The dog did have a flame in his eyes when he looked at us, it makes me shutter even now just thinking about the eerie image. There was something humane and ambiguous in the black beady eyes. But again there's my paranoid feverish thoughts rising up once more. Curse that dog and its invalid owner!
At the meeting, a splendid scene bloomed free. It was held at City Hall. Crowds gathered almost a day before to await the arrival of the infamous Scott Tompkins. All the time continuous gossip was heard in the halls over dramatic imaginative theories of different outcomes of the meeting.
"Ban him from our town!" Some would whisper.
"Hang him, they should put his neck to the knot I say." Others would shout. It was a madhouse circus at City Hall. One could even make out the faint sounds of music being played somewhere among the mass of town folk, stringed instruments and flute music. The meeting was set for four-thirty new is already five and our guest, Mr Tompkins, hasn't shown.
In fact it was foretold by the priest of our town. The man was the biggest gossip of them all, no one ever took notice of his words except on Sunday's service, that's when we pricked our ears up and listened to him. In the hall the Priest's loud sermons boiled our patience over, and with our itchy fists ready, we decided to storm over to Tompkins home and once and for all exterminate the bug that is Scott Tompkins.
We made our way down the road to Tompkins home. It was a dimly lit, unaware of an impending mob. Inside Mr. Tompkins was carefully preparing tea for Tree and himself as the group approached. We stood by each window and looked in. Mr. Tompkins relaxes back in his chair with guitar in arms and plays for the evening. He glances over to his pal lapping up the tea from a saucer pan and asks, "Do you like it boy? Good herbs ain't it?" The dog looks up at his owner with the same glazed beady almond eyes he gave at us back at City Hall, and smiles.
"Yep, that's straight from humbolt herself. Kind buds man. Crushed good and filters nice when brewed, an almost 80 percent pure extract there. Taste it? That's the high cannabinoid strength you're feeling. Ha ha!"
We watched him break into an toxicatingly sounding laughter, almost rolling off his arm chair dropping his gypsy caravan jazzy guitar. This was a scene that we never could or ever will understand. His words were archaic, and sometimes downright abstract. But we could not help but watch; through the open dirty window we gathered around peering in to make out what exactly he was up to. There was a nice breeze in the leaves that muted out our whispers
"What is it? Is it black magic, a sacrifice? It's alchemy of somekind I just know it!"
"Will you be silent Groenvald! Something is happening to the dog, look!"
From our low crouched view we watched as the dog slowly rose up on his hind legs imitating a person! He then started towards the kitchen where on the wood counter top sat a glass jar about the size of a quart of milk. But there was no milk inside from what we could make out, but something organic and green vegetable like.
"Is is cooking spices?" The Father questioned.
"Shut it! Look now, what's he doing?"
Of all the amazing things I've seen in my life, and what this small town has seen, we couldn't make a guess to what these two were up to, we watched in stunned ambivalence. In the kitchen Tree took the jar in his mouth carefully over to Mr. Tompkins, giggling in his armchair, strumming his guitar with his feet propped up on a pile of animal hides. Tree came up to his side, (still on his hind legs mind you,) and dropped the herbal unknowns onto his owners lap. He resumed the natural dog position on all fours.
"Yep. This is it. The Triangular Kure." Tompkins said, then broke out in drunken laughter.
"What was that? Triangle cure, what is that mean? It's some kind of spell ingredient for a potion!"
"It's something alright. Something bad that's for truth!" The crowd was growing restless.
"Will ya' all be quiet for a second!" The Father lashes out hoarsely.
"Look now, he's put some in paper and rolling it with his tongue! I can't believe my eyes."
By now all windows were occupied by small groups of us just trying to figure out what in the world Scott Tompkins was doing, we were baffled, but intrigued and stuck on this dramatic scene. The Mayor took up position in front of the good windows cleared of dust or mold, a straight look down the hall into the living room where the final act of Tompkins was soon to take place.
Mr. Tompkins fingered the piece of paper and pinch of herb to form a small cigar looking thing. A clerk began to walk away from the house, "Ack! Its only tobacco, come on now." But we all knew it wasn't anything close to tobacco, it was too green. And when it was lit up by a flame of a candle, from the cloud of smoke was as thick as ignited gunpowder. A blue grey cloud puffed out from hus mouth. The cloud gathered and multiplied in the living room, screening off Tompkins and Tree, and that's when we started to smell it leaking from the small cracks in the thin plate glass windows. That fragrance, that pungent tickling smell, we all had to back away from our window view for a quick breather. By then it was too late.
When we got back to the window sills, behind the bushes and shrubs, we struggled to see inside and at what Tompkins was doing now. We heard faint jazz but the pair had vanished now. Then the tunes stopped, and the smoke cleared, and now we saw the guitar on the chair the dogs sauce pan empty on the wooden floor.
"Hello? What are you people doing at my windows?" Mr. Tompkins was on his porch aiming an antique double barrel shotgun straight at us.
"What do you want? Explain yourselves!" Tree was to one side, silent, staring.
"Well, you see . . .Uh. . ." I couldn't come up with an answer. The Mayor was at first frozen and muted, the he spoke up. At first mumbling, but then slowly escalated into an out right shout.
"We are here only to ask that you leave or face the consequences, Mr. Tompkins!"
"What law is that? What have I done wrong?" He put his weapon down and leaned against a wooden beam smoking, and grinning wildly.
"Tell us now dear sir, what are you up to in there, and please don't withhold any truth." The Mayor asked.
What happened next was the lock onto the coffin of Mr. Tompkins. Tompkins didn't speak, he just stood there in silent and stillness almost hypnotized. His gaze was strong and focusing on something else.
"Are you ignoring our good Mayor sir!" The Sheriff made his voice heard. But Tompkins didn't hear us or feel the branch flick in his cheek from someone close to him. The mayor grew impatient, irritable, and boiled over with anger at the blatant attitude of Tompkins. So he ordered two of his arms men to apprehend the man and his dog included, for unlawful social conduct and disturbing the peace.
"What will happen to him then?"
"Death! Yes, the incompetent bastard should be executed." Someone shouted as the crowd again tripled in size when they all heard of the nihilistic character that offended the great Mayor. Tompkins was being lead in the front of the mob as they followed him all the way to the holding cells where he would be held up until the morning--a respectable hour for an execution--he would be brought up to the platform at dawn.
Three hours before sunrise Tompkins came to. He splashed some water in fave to clear his vision. He yawned, and stretched in routine, but the surroundings had changed from his usual bedroom walls.
"That was some strong herb, wasn't it Tree?" He asked his pet who stood outside the cell calm and staring curiously at his owner. The guards were asleep as the moon took its exit as the golden Sun rose out from behind the rolling green hills.
It was decided that Mr Tompkins be sentenced to death by guillotine for the practice of voodoosim, black magic, white magic, alchemy, and the illegal practice of self pharmacopeia and pharmacogenetics. Also, in those days it was believed that dogs could host spirits of the undead, and unfortunately he got the same punishment, except death by guillotine.
As was tradition the entire village showed up to the executions early. Women, children, all gathered around the platform where the giant blade reflected the sunlight in all its metallic magnificence. Both Mr. Tompkins and Tree were brought up through the crowd, up the five steps to the top of the platform. They had their black blindfolds removed, their bloodshot eyes squinted at the sunlight. They knelt down before the great machines, in there horrific beautiful essence. The crowd started to cheer.
"Can I say my last words?" He asked the crowd and the executioner, (his hands on the lever ready to pull.) We gave him a final word for the audience that awaited with gaping mouths, pale faces and wide eyes--all standing in silence save for the birds singing their morning hymns.
"Firstly, I would like to say," Mr. Tompkins began quite majestically.
"It all has been a privilege to have been warmly welcomed into your small homely village. I have gotten a lot of work done, and if not for obvious circumstances, I would have unveiled my works to the public not more than a week from now in an exhibition. More specific, a book. A book on life, about life, and for our lives. I mean only to share and not add, or take away. I share to the world a book about the truth of . . ."
At this point in his speech the crowd grew restless again, and some started throwing rubble from off the street. The executioner brusged silent the crowd with a wave of his hand and began for the lever.
Raspy gasps resonated throughout the crowd. In a moment of anticipation and shocked as the blade sparkled in the sun, and the sweat gathered heavy on Mr. Tompkins face, Tree with that same stare as usual, time slowed to nanoseconds of slow motion as a wonderful orb of light grew between the Man and his best friend. A great white light that enveloped the two as we were blinded by the glory of the illumination, then. . .they were no more. The light had gone from the platform. The sky was blue. The orange sun at its peak. And no sign of Scott Tompkins and the mutt Tree.
-The End?
No comments:
Post a Comment