It had been quite a night. Once I realized my fears were hunting me, I turned around and chased them down instead. The killing blow wasn’t a strike from my weapons, but the declaration of the truths they had been trying to bury. It was a very satisfying experience.
But the confrontations meant owning up to things I had been avoiding. The only way those fears were going to stay down was if I followed up on things I had to do.
High on that list was visiting an “old friend”.
I took a meandering path to the shack in the middle of the swamp. Passing certain fields that appeared ripe for the taking, I knew the guardian there was stalking me instead. Across the road from the fields, a thick murder of crows waited to see if I was going to be eaten or merely disemboweled. I greeted the guardian by name and was pounced on in return. The crows laughed but the play remained gentle. Just enough to remind me that I am still very much more prey than predator.
Some portions of the swamp are private. Some portions are isolated by the will of the person(s) that have claimed it. But for the most part the swamp is everywhere. If you know how to walk the paths within, you can traverse worlds and realms. How the worlds appear to you is heavily influenced by how you were introduced to them. As far as I’m concerned, the swamp is one of Rummer John’s liminal realm.
It didn’t take me long to get to the bayou. I was somewhat bothered that it was a very quick trip. I arrived too easy and with no obstacles. Where were the gators and the crocs? No surprise that the established paths were hard ground, but the mud at the bottom of the swamp didn’t grab at my feet.
When the shack came into view, I stopped moving and listened carefully. This wasn’t the raucous hooched up shanty I was expecting. Usually when he wants to meet me alone, he intercepts my approach to more public places and escorts me away from the public at large. That, or just intrudes into my awareness and pulls me to his table. But this shack was more hunting blind than communal meeting place.
No wind crawled between the branches. No birds spied on my blundering. There was the water, the trees, and the inconstant mud settling about. But nothing moved here but me.
Maybe I’m in the shits with him. I have been away a while. I kept my cloak about me just the same. There was no door to the shack, just a space where the walls stopped. I peered inside the dark room.
Here there was a table. Here and there were two chairs. Sitting across the table was a familiar figure. Sitting on the table was a familiar bottle. Light attempted to insert itself rudely through cracks in the warped slats that served as the walls of the shack. Everything seemed right.
But with the light so dim and erratic, it was hard to tell by sight alone.
He kicked the empty chair away from the table. A rude invitation to sit. But there was something he didn’t do to accompany the gesture that stopped me from sitting down. Strike one.
I took the chair but did not sit. Instead, I leaned over the table to examine the large glass bottle. The cap was off and my nose told me the contents before my eyes did.
There was no rum in the bottle. Only water. Strike two.
I tapped the bottle with heavy offense. “You trying to make a teetotaler out of me? What the fuck is this shit? Where’s the fucking rum?” The Rummer John I know would not tolerate that kind of insolence out of me, not even in jest.
“If you gave me proper offerings there’d be rum in the bottle.” As he snapped his reply he spread his hands out in a sign of futility and resignation.
“Offerings?” I was explicitly told by [Rummer John] to never give him offerings. I am not his. I am the mongrel at the back gate. The bastard relationship we have is one built on transgressions. To formally give him his proper due would irrevocably shatter that.
Three strikes. You’re out.
I flipped the table as I backed away. Why did it take me this long to see it? He stood to complain about my lack of manners.
I continued backing away until I was at the threshold. “Rummer John allows me a grand set of indulgences. He gives me lead to do things those sworn to him may not even think of. But there are lines I must not cross, not even by the command of another. For instance, hospitality. The Rummer John I know would never tolerate rudeness in his presence.”
The imposter clasped empty hands but made no movement towards me. Now that I saw him clearly, the number of errors embarrassed me. “And how will you test me? What abuse will you inflict upon my person?”
“I won’t touch you.” I inflamed my hand and pressed it to the thin wood of the shack. The untreated wood caught quickly. “But it would be a height of rudeness to burn down a man’s home with him in it. Yes?”
The imposter did not show dismay. He smiled as warm as the burning walls. “Quite.”
I remained over the threshold of the shack, one foot within, one foot without. The imposter’s response confused me. He remained standing in the disheveled room as all the walls and ceiling joined in a chorus of fire. With the dancing of the flames I was able to see through the disguise clearly.
I do not know how I knew his name. I do not know why I recognized him. I know if I tried to describe the man he became I would be giving him a new mask to hide behind because what my eyes were seeing was just another appearance.
“Caleb.” I wrinkled my face at the recognition. Why was there awe in my voice? Why was I not surprised to see him as if I had been waiting all this time for him to catch up to me?
Caleb smiled and nodded in confirmation. I was not afraid by this slice of barely remembered information. I also was not angry nor perturbed. Just a wee bit annoyed by the prospect of yet another damn trickster spirit in my way. But where Caleb came from, how I knew him, and all the other pertinent questions were severely lacking in answers.
The heat within the shack increased to life-threatening temperatures. The wet of the mud underneath it would do it no favors. Anyone with flesh to save should depart, including me.
I did not wait to see if he would perish in the flames. Somehow I knew he wouldn’t. I knew he would stay there not to give me a false sense of safety or comfort, but for no other reason than to watch the shack burn and observe the process to the very end.
My list of Important Things To Do has become very short of late. I actually have a chance at completing all of them. No where on that list is dealing with other entities’ bullshit.
I made a note to myself to mark Caleb’s arrival and turned to depart for the real Rummer John’s swamp.
As the shack burned I noticed the immediate area surrounding it was dimming as if heavy clouds were moving in overhead. I realized this was a pocket realm from the beginning, and I had not been in the proper swamp starting from shortly after I left the guardian in the field.
I meant to make my way to Rummer John’s holdings. I woke up instead.