Hoary lichen blues
Nov 27, 2019 11:19:53 GMT -5
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The Anarchist, Brenna Gordon, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on Nov 27, 2019 11:19:53 GMT -5
To every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. Everyone, everything, had begun preparations for the change. The tinsmith and blacksmith hammered out their notions. The green grocer filled his larder for the colder albeit festive days ahead. The confectioner, the stationer, the letterpress worked to fulfill orders such that no requests were left unsatisfied. Boat makers layered on the pitch, dry stone masons filled the settled gaps, and the sexton got his head start before the ground froze and made digging impossible.
The critters in the woods and fields, even those crisscrossing the highways and the hedges, hoarded food. They burrowed. They grew fat, fat, fat.
To those passing by, whose gaze might linger on the fodder left in the corn fields, who might notice the occasional drop in temperature, who might trouble themselves with what devil lurked in the darker places, it could be a season of struggle. But then they remembered the day and recognized once again that it was just old Phinehas Dillinger walking the metes and bounds of the land.
Walking in a drizzle so pervasive, the world around them faded into an amalgam of mist and wood and stone. Of moss, lichen, mud, and clay. A pall over Hangtown and the river valley beyond. Creeks rushed swollen with freezing waters, embellished with a cold swirl of leaves. Already a crust of ice crept along the edge of the banks. They would wake to a coat of rime come morning.
Phinehas roamed to and fro in the hollow, and up and down the hills. Alongside lean hounds, and tall stags.
Granny and Ruth prepped in their own ways, both for themselves and others. There were herbs to be dried, poultices ground, charms sewn or carved, things preserved in jars – their work was never done. Especially here at the waning of the year. In the midst of their preparations they looked out the kitchen window and together saw a shape in the gloom. A red phantasm flashing a knife-wound grin that glowed with charred wood and embers. A vague form woven of old smoke and faded sunlight. Granny and Ruth’s eyes were met by two blue orbs skating on thin winding sheets. A cerulean stare taking on a hard narrow bend.
This was not Grimm.
This was a photograph of Grimm.
This was a man who dreamed of Grimm.
This was a wax figure of Grimm.
This was a changeling.
But, no, it was surely him. Phinehas emerged on the porch and walked into the house. His beard dripped on the floor, its frosty tips already melting. Here stood a man who survived on nothing but tea and goat milk, calculation and the snicker-snack of a wicked knife. He shook fog and whetstone scrapings from his coat. He took a deep breath of warm wood fired air and smelled maple and pine, varnish and mineral spirits.
Granny and Ruth dropped their heads and went back to shucking corn husks.
“No one comes this way without our by-your-leave. Why do you insist on this every year?” said Granny.
Phinehas stepped to the table. “I’m not just checking the borders. I’m checking the signs. Seeing what kind of winter we have to look forward to.”
“And what do they say?”
Phinehas looked out that window.
“Well, I saw rings around the moon when I started this morning. Squirrels are scarce, even though there are acorns everywhere. The turkeys I spied had feathers thicker than any I’ve seen in a long time. My bees have already retired to the hives. Those apples over on the counter are nearly impossible to bite into. And,” he said, as he leaned to look into the next room, “I can see three crickets hanging out by the fireplace from here.”
“That bad, eh?”
A shrug. “That’s what I’ve seen.”
Ruth smirked but kept shaping corn husk dollies. “Checking the signs…mmm hmm. Are you sure you’re not out there just because you’re antsy?”
Phinehas tilted his head at his sister. Antsy? About what? Who was he kidding, he knew what she meant. They knew what was coming up soon enough.
Jason Willard. Lucy. A steel cage.
The stove knocked as the soapstone expanded in the heat. Wind gusted down the hollow and something in the root cellar creaked.
Make no mistake, Jason Willard was no slouch. Look at his longevity in this business. The championships from PCW and abroad. The Icey awards….
…and yet…
…Grimm had nearly split him in two with a shovel. Willard had shifted from the Anarchist to the Serpentine Sermonizer to whatever this personality was. Mama’s special little boy with the Mickey Mouse fetish, one would guess. All while he had been crossing paths with the one Grimm, now and forever.
Grimm so savage, who hacks men down…
Ever the river has risen and brought us the flood…
And of course there was the matter of a cage this time. Willard’s various achievements notwithstanding, he would find himself alone in there with the Hangtown Horror at Collision Course. In there with no chance of escape. No hope of assistance from some well-placed knitting needles. In there with his mother watching helpless on the outside. His wife and children watching it all unfold the only way it could. So why insist on this?
Even now?
There was a moment when the work stopped and they all looked at each other.
“Antsy? I think that cage will take care of any outside bothers that might cause someone to feel antsy. Those things are pretty good at keeping out the riff-raff.”
“I don’t know, Phinehas. A trio of ne’er-do-wells might find a way to bypass a simple cage, if they feel like it’s important.”
Oh, that Ruth. Always the devil’s advocate, that one.
“I guess we’ll see about that.”
Despite the occasional…irregularity, Pure Class Wrestling had been and would remain a meritocracy. As you could imagine, that had been difficult for certain elements to accept over the course of the federation’s existence. For those whose ultimate horror was not death, but irrelevance. And what better way to combat that fear than to band together with others of a similar outlook and cause trouble whenever and wherever they could. They’d come in cycles, brought together by greed, and geography, and circumstance. But their numbers would dwindle. Their exaggerated sense of importance would fade. It always did.
That which is crooked cannot be made straight, and that which is lacking cannot be counted.
But that olden timeline of the Black Hand, that which could be traced back to beginning of recorded history (and beyond, if one knew where to look), that was one of the true ties that bound together. From there in those foothills surrounding Hangtown, that rose and warped into the Appalachian Mountains. Those same mountains that stretched to Maine and on to New Brunswick, to Newfoundland. And, before the continents drifted to their corners of the earth, across the ocean to Greenland, and on to those wild edges where the sea crashed into the basalt columns and chalk beds of western Ireland.
Because if one knew where, and how, to look, down below, through the compressions of ancient dead things, the bedrock remained inexorably connected. And its energies unchanged.
Phinehas turned to leave.
“Yep. I guess we’ll see about that.”
He left Granny and Ruth to their bewitchments as he stepped out onto the porch. He looked over what would seem like nothing but a gauze of cobwebs, if not for the yellows and oranges of the witch hazel. Another year crawling its way out, and its breath ragged. Somewhere out there in the ill-tempered sky, among the withered branches slouching towards a killing frost, two woodpeckers shared a tree. They tapped out a stirring melody that told Phinehas terrible things.
The critters in the woods and fields, even those crisscrossing the highways and the hedges, hoarded food. They burrowed. They grew fat, fat, fat.
To those passing by, whose gaze might linger on the fodder left in the corn fields, who might notice the occasional drop in temperature, who might trouble themselves with what devil lurked in the darker places, it could be a season of struggle. But then they remembered the day and recognized once again that it was just old Phinehas Dillinger walking the metes and bounds of the land.
Walking in a drizzle so pervasive, the world around them faded into an amalgam of mist and wood and stone. Of moss, lichen, mud, and clay. A pall over Hangtown and the river valley beyond. Creeks rushed swollen with freezing waters, embellished with a cold swirl of leaves. Already a crust of ice crept along the edge of the banks. They would wake to a coat of rime come morning.
Phinehas roamed to and fro in the hollow, and up and down the hills. Alongside lean hounds, and tall stags.
Granny and Ruth prepped in their own ways, both for themselves and others. There were herbs to be dried, poultices ground, charms sewn or carved, things preserved in jars – their work was never done. Especially here at the waning of the year. In the midst of their preparations they looked out the kitchen window and together saw a shape in the gloom. A red phantasm flashing a knife-wound grin that glowed with charred wood and embers. A vague form woven of old smoke and faded sunlight. Granny and Ruth’s eyes were met by two blue orbs skating on thin winding sheets. A cerulean stare taking on a hard narrow bend.
This was not Grimm.
This was a photograph of Grimm.
This was a man who dreamed of Grimm.
This was a wax figure of Grimm.
This was a changeling.
But, no, it was surely him. Phinehas emerged on the porch and walked into the house. His beard dripped on the floor, its frosty tips already melting. Here stood a man who survived on nothing but tea and goat milk, calculation and the snicker-snack of a wicked knife. He shook fog and whetstone scrapings from his coat. He took a deep breath of warm wood fired air and smelled maple and pine, varnish and mineral spirits.
Granny and Ruth dropped their heads and went back to shucking corn husks.
“No one comes this way without our by-your-leave. Why do you insist on this every year?” said Granny.
Phinehas stepped to the table. “I’m not just checking the borders. I’m checking the signs. Seeing what kind of winter we have to look forward to.”
“And what do they say?”
Phinehas looked out that window.
“Well, I saw rings around the moon when I started this morning. Squirrels are scarce, even though there are acorns everywhere. The turkeys I spied had feathers thicker than any I’ve seen in a long time. My bees have already retired to the hives. Those apples over on the counter are nearly impossible to bite into. And,” he said, as he leaned to look into the next room, “I can see three crickets hanging out by the fireplace from here.”
“That bad, eh?”
A shrug. “That’s what I’ve seen.”
Ruth smirked but kept shaping corn husk dollies. “Checking the signs…mmm hmm. Are you sure you’re not out there just because you’re antsy?”
Phinehas tilted his head at his sister. Antsy? About what? Who was he kidding, he knew what she meant. They knew what was coming up soon enough.
Jason Willard. Lucy. A steel cage.
The stove knocked as the soapstone expanded in the heat. Wind gusted down the hollow and something in the root cellar creaked.
Make no mistake, Jason Willard was no slouch. Look at his longevity in this business. The championships from PCW and abroad. The Icey awards….
…and yet…
…Grimm had nearly split him in two with a shovel. Willard had shifted from the Anarchist to the Serpentine Sermonizer to whatever this personality was. Mama’s special little boy with the Mickey Mouse fetish, one would guess. All while he had been crossing paths with the one Grimm, now and forever.
Grimm so savage, who hacks men down…
Ever the river has risen and brought us the flood…
And of course there was the matter of a cage this time. Willard’s various achievements notwithstanding, he would find himself alone in there with the Hangtown Horror at Collision Course. In there with no chance of escape. No hope of assistance from some well-placed knitting needles. In there with his mother watching helpless on the outside. His wife and children watching it all unfold the only way it could. So why insist on this?
Even now?
There was a moment when the work stopped and they all looked at each other.
“Antsy? I think that cage will take care of any outside bothers that might cause someone to feel antsy. Those things are pretty good at keeping out the riff-raff.”
“I don’t know, Phinehas. A trio of ne’er-do-wells might find a way to bypass a simple cage, if they feel like it’s important.”
Oh, that Ruth. Always the devil’s advocate, that one.
“I guess we’ll see about that.”
Despite the occasional…irregularity, Pure Class Wrestling had been and would remain a meritocracy. As you could imagine, that had been difficult for certain elements to accept over the course of the federation’s existence. For those whose ultimate horror was not death, but irrelevance. And what better way to combat that fear than to band together with others of a similar outlook and cause trouble whenever and wherever they could. They’d come in cycles, brought together by greed, and geography, and circumstance. But their numbers would dwindle. Their exaggerated sense of importance would fade. It always did.
That which is crooked cannot be made straight, and that which is lacking cannot be counted.
But that olden timeline of the Black Hand, that which could be traced back to beginning of recorded history (and beyond, if one knew where to look), that was one of the true ties that bound together. From there in those foothills surrounding Hangtown, that rose and warped into the Appalachian Mountains. Those same mountains that stretched to Maine and on to New Brunswick, to Newfoundland. And, before the continents drifted to their corners of the earth, across the ocean to Greenland, and on to those wild edges where the sea crashed into the basalt columns and chalk beds of western Ireland.
Because if one knew where, and how, to look, down below, through the compressions of ancient dead things, the bedrock remained inexorably connected. And its energies unchanged.
Phinehas turned to leave.
“Yep. I guess we’ll see about that.”
He left Granny and Ruth to their bewitchments as he stepped out onto the porch. He looked over what would seem like nothing but a gauze of cobwebs, if not for the yellows and oranges of the witch hazel. Another year crawling its way out, and its breath ragged. Somewhere out there in the ill-tempered sky, among the withered branches slouching towards a killing frost, two woodpeckers shared a tree. They tapped out a stirring melody that told Phinehas terrible things.
