kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"Resemblance.0"

words

Reasonable Facsimiles: Twins, Mirrors and Doppelgangers F&C 20050209

Johannes wandered down off the docks, cold and alone in the new land--land that was as old as the rest of it all, he knew, but more naive; except the land he stepped onto was every bit as spoiled as the tales of England, far worse than his native shores of Norway. Feet on land only twenty steps, his nose already missed the sting of the wide salt sea. Still, here his native skills would set him well compared to the rest. After all, this America was the land of opportunity, and Johannes knew his fortune was made.

First, though, he had certain passions to get out of his blood. Word on the boat, as well as he'd understood it, was that there was a certain coffee house on the main strip of town. The streets were open, wet, and filthy, but he followed his understanding to a rowdy tavern masted by a green dragon. A crowd was gathered inside, but he nonetheless maneuvered his way to the bar and asked for a cup of their coffee. Some strange recognition was measured in the eyes of the bar; a shocked look, but he couldn't understand the words and so he simply put down six pence. The barista shoved the money back to him, but set about pouring a thin black sludge through a layer of cheesecloth.

Johannes sat on the barstool, and set his pack on the ground before him. His back itched as if every eye on the place was on him, but he did not want to dignify that with a look around. What devilment was going on? Perhaps something was about to start. He glanced about and saw others turning from him as he did, falling into whispers.

His coffee appeared, and he sampled it--it was hot and rancid. He looked around again, not knowing if he was the subject of some foolery, but it did not seem so. He took another sip--was this really the coffee that men soliloquied? Still, a third sip began to warm him to it. He smiled as the barista passed him again, and nodded his thanks. She looked pointedly away.

What was this hospitality?

He fished about his pouch and pulled out two full shillings, placed them on the table.

That money she did take, and said something else to him that he failed to comprehend--he could taste her anger though, and perhaps a bit of sadness. Johannes looked around the room for some obvious point of leave-taking, but saw nothing other than hastily retracted gazes. Sighing, he put the six pence back on the bar.

She took that as well, this time, and refilled his mug. He drank that down, savoring the bite, and found his bladder full. He shook his head about the money, and, taking his pack, headed around back for the outhouse. The door was open, so he stepped inside, latched it, and dropped his britches. He'd just begun relieving himself into the pit when a door opened where none had been--he clenched his muscles tight and readied for a fight. His manhood ached with the relief denied; turning to the opening, he saw a goddess silhouetted by the lantern; a room of luxury, or as such could be found in such a place.

She stood in the door, searching his face--arms braced against the frame. Who was this woman, that just stood there? Was she what he had paid for? She was worth far more than that, most certainly. He stood there, clenching his bladder, waiting for her to welcome him in. At this impasse, other urges climbed, and the need to relieve his bladder faded to obscurity.

She reached a hand out to his face, and stroked the beard that was there; tears came from her eyes, and she looked to his manhood--she kneeled down and took it in her hand and stroked that as well, though it needed little encouragement.

She was not encouraging, though, but exploring--almost worshipping, obviously lost in her own head. What by Odin's teats was going on? It was all too strange for Johannes, and he pulled his britches up fully, tearing her hand from its position, and ran out the outhouse into the woods. He had no affinity for the woods, but he saw it as the only place he could be alone.

He did not know if she ran after him, but suspected not. When he could no longer see lights from the town, he slowed and walked. Blood flowed hot and quick in his chest, and his breathing was heavy. All sorts of things conflicted within him, and he remembered his need to piss.

Any tree being good as any other, Johannes relieved himself fully, then looked around.

If his eyes did not deceive him, there was a light deeper in the forest. He walked towards it, cautiously--checking the ground before him for the sorts of traps a will-o-wisp would navigate over.

Still, he reached a small, ramshackle cabin in short order, despite his cautious pace. There were no sounds from within, but he knocked at the door.

"Demons be gone, I'll have none!" The voice was angry, but he could understand it!

"Brother," he called, "I know not your demons, but I am not they. Still, I am hungry for the language of my country. How do you come to speak it?"

"Demon you are, for they all speak this tongue! Nobody in this cursed land knows of it. Demons they are, as well. The whole besotted lot of them! Go away, go away, go away!"

Truly, there was naught but madness here. Johannes pulled open the door; huddled in rags in the corner, holding the lantern Johannes had seen flickering on trees through the window, was a wretch.

"What are these demons you speak of?"

"They're you! They're me! They're my mother and father, all voices in my head--and with my sight gone, they're the only sights I see! Be gone!"

"Brother, you are far from your country; surely you have not carried all these ghosts with you."

"No, I did not carry them here. They were here already, spirits of the damned, but ready, more than ready, to take residence in this poor skull. But you know this, and I will not discuss it with you! But if you are flesh, I will see you through!" The figure pulled a knife from his rags, and jumped up, dropping the lantern in the process. Oil spread and warmed the floor with its humor.

Johannes backpedaled out the door, and slid to the side, uncertain that this wasn't all some fevered dream. Perhaps he was still on the boat, at the mercy of some spirit himself.

A flaming figure of a beggar launched itself out of the doorway, and stumbled on the ground. "Hah! I knew it, nothing but vapor! Still, I can feel the tongues of Hell about. Here to claim me, at last? No, no, you can not have me!" The figure rolled over and over on the ground, putting out the flames of his cloth. "By the one God, it hurts, though. So hot. So cold. I can not tell the difference. Oh, Johannes, if truly I were you, then I would not have fallen so far."

Johannes knew then that he must be dreaming. He pulled the rags from the beggar's eyes and saw his own face, albeit covered in the sores of syphilis. "My God, Jensen? My God, you're alive!"

"Jensen. Yes, Jensen. That was me, before I died and came to this cursed land. Then I was Johannes, a chance to redeem--I always admired him. He may not always have been stronger, but he was stronger before the Lord. My second chance, and I squandered it. Oh, brother, apparition though you be, you make me weep. Perhaps Hell should have me, after all."

"No, Jensen! You have to tell me how you got here! We thought you were dead indeed, attacking vessels off the coast of England!"

"Oh, those were good days, it's true. Good days. But I was handy, ever handy on a ship, and they sold me to a merchant low on men. A slave, me, Jensen! No, there is no Jensen, only Johannes. But I've come Jensen again, you've named me and it's true. I am ashamed before even the apparition of my brother."

Johannes held his brother as he jumped and struggled to re-enter the burning building.

"The apparitions are getting stronger, now. Or my muscles are failing. I can't seem to do myself in, though that's all I have left. All I have left--the one piece of good I could do the world, now, and Hell won't give me that much even."

"Brother..."

"Brother."

Johannes took the knife from where Jensen had dropped it, and with a swift motion shoved it up into the skull of his brother.

Jensen shivered once, then relaxed into death.

"I could not let you kill yourself and go straight to the horned one. May this way give you another chance, brother."

Then Johannes sat down, and cried.