The Desane Odyssey

By Monroe Williams

A critic's bad review sends an artist on a journey of self-discovery. He is not alone because others are also on an illicit and perilous quest, which leads them unerringly to him and threatens to destroy all that he has achieved, including the love of the woman who has become his salvation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781642148190

Book preview

cover.jpg

The Desane Odyssey

Monroe Williams

Copyright © 2018 Monroe Williams

All rights reserved

First Edition

Page Publishing, Inc

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc 2018

ISBN 978-1-64214-820-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64214-819-0 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Reincarnate

O to be born,

in times too late …

To live as one must,

contrary to thy fate.

To dream of a grander season,

and know not why …

such visions appear without reason,

of eras gone by.

Prologue

The man stirred when the brilliant rays of morning sun crept onto his face. Where am I? This came as a hoarse whisper.

He fell back and lay braced against the trunk of the tree, his mind adrift in a vast dark sea of turbulence where his thoughts were whipped violently into uncharted directions.

He raised his arm and stared in disbelief at the disfigured appendage. It was swollen and unfamiliar to him. The skin appeared leathery, and the tautness of the tissue lent to it a sheen resembling a thin coating of oil.

Recollection came to him in a kaleidoscope of tormented fragments, which made his environment spin. He felt himself plunging back into the darkness from which he had emerged and fought to gain control, but the nausea that erupted from the pit of his stomach conspired with the whirlpool tugging at his consciousness, and he could but submit to its inescapable power. A spasm gripped and held his body, and he screamed, shattering the morning’s peace.

The sun loomed golden and overwhelming on the distant horizon, quilting the forest in a splendid patchwork of color. Squirrels skittered busily atop the twisted branches of ageless oak and pecan trees, gathering the abundant nuts. Blue jays squawked noisily at the furry harvesters. In the distance, the faint cawing of crows could be heard slicing through the morning stillness like some immaculately honed rapier.

*****

It was Saturday, Marcus Crawford’s most favorite day, for there was no school, and the worrisome chore of homework could be forgotten for at least two days. The fishing rod he carried was a testament to his eighth birthday, and today would mark its initiation. It had been extremely difficult keeping his thoughts on schoolwork and duties that beckoned his attention at home, for thoughts of bluegills had swum invitingly in his daydreams the entire week.

Crimson dust rose lethargically from beneath his unshod feet as he strolled through the hushed forest. He gave no consideration to thoughts of bogeymen and other phantoms that sometimes pervade the dreams of boys his age. His reflections were undeniably the opposite, for he loved the harsh beauty of the woods, especially in the wakening hours of the day when everything seemed to be just coming to life. He felt that he was somehow an intricate part of the whole thing.

Silently, he offered thanks to his mother for having brought him to this peaceful place. There had been other options available to her. He knew, for recollections of the numerous suitors that visited their apartment in the city after his father left suddenly was still vivid in his youthful mind. His mother had seemed so sad during those times, and he wished she were at his side to experience and share with him this awakening day.

He was enraptured in those regards when the calm was assaulted by the mournful scream. The squirrels dropped the kernels they had so arduously reaped, and the blue jay yelped in sudden alarm and flew hastily to the safety of well-hidden nests.

Marcus Crawford stood transfixed, examining the direction from which he presumed the sound had come, his mind bordering on confusion and sudden fear. He resisted mightily the urge to run to dash to the security of his mother’s arms. Instead, he stood his ground, surveying the surrounding terrain for some sign that would indicate the source of the pitiful wail.

He had often heard the shrill yips of the coyote pack that made their lair in a clump of fallen timber near the levee, which cut a path through the woods nearby. He was witness to the sorrowful and pain-filled baying of hapless wolves caught in the cruel, inhumane steel traps of ranchers whose spreads bordered theirs on its northern and western boundaries. Their canid cries filled with the ring of futility and dread, as if they knew that the coming dawn would bring men to end their free-roaming existence.

This sound he heard was a chilling lamentation that he knew came not from the throat of any wild animal; this cry of pain was that of a human.

*****

Angelea Crawford sat in the porch swing and watched until her son disappeared into the morning fog.

He was no longer a baby. This he had told her when she balked at the idea of him going alone to fish the shallow lake that curved its way through the woods.

After all, she had given him the rod and reel in the first place—that being his idea of the perfect birthday gift.

He’s growing up, she thought wistfully. And all too soon, he would eject her completely from his private longings. Then, too, she felt proud that he was not so dependent on her but was beginning to seek means to his own ends.

The macabre sound that she heard emanating from the forest jarred her peaceful repose and cut short her reverie.

My god! she gasped. Marcus.

She sprang from the platform and ran without caution into the obscure shadows of the forest, and as she broke through the tangled undergrowth, she gave no thought to the thorny brush that reached out to tear at the ebony skin of her arms and face.

Approaching the lake, she spied her son standing over the ragged figure, which sent a spear of dread into her panicked mind.

Marcus! she said breathlessly.

She pulled him to her and away from the man who lay sprawled next to the tree.

Are you all right, baby?

Yes, ma’am, he replied. It was him that screamed.

Who is he? she asked.

He answered by bringing his shoulders up, and she pulled him closer to her then stood inspecting the unconscious man. His face and neck were speckled with tiny scratches, and there were signs of insect bites, but the object that caught and held her observance was the man’s left arm. Snakebite, she blurted. Make a fire, sweetie … you remember how.

She produced a book of matches from her trouser pocket and pitched it to the boy while he gathered the small twigs that covered the ground and began heaping them into a small pile. She gathered moss from the low-hanging limbs of a leaning oak, then slowly, she walked through the brush as if she were searching for some specific article. She came to a small sapling whose leaves displayed a deep-green pigmentation. From its limbs, she culled a handful of slender leaves then went and placed them along with the moss on the swarth next to the man.

Good, she said while scrutinizing her son’s progress.

‘‘Now put a few of the larger limbs on top."

The boy tossed a limb onto the growing blaze.

That fine now. Mama wants you to run back to the house and bring me a pot … the big one … get my first aid kit from under the bathroom sink and a sheet from your closet … okay, honey?

Okay, Mama, he said, already in flight.

She went to the lake and, from its bank, scooped several handfuls of the soft black earth and made a muddy small hill beside the man’s swollen arm. Rummaging her son’s tackle box, she withdrew a small knife. Its blade was no longer than three inches. She placed it near the fire with its end barely touching the flames that reached out to lick at the tips of her fingers.

Marcus appeared in the clearing. His breathing was labored, and he dropped the items he carried rather than placing them carefully beside his mother’s knee.

Good, honey, now I need you to do one more thing for me … but—she held him by the shoulders—you don’t have to run.

He shook his head. It’s all right, Mama … I’m not tired, he said.

That’s my big man … you know that sleeping bag we keep in the closet of the spare room? she asked. I want you to bring it out here. Take your time and don’t run.

"I’m not tired,’’ he protested.

I know, honey … but I want you to walk … okay?

He agreed, not understanding why she was treating him like a baby all of a sudden. Then he left.

When he was no longer in sight, Angelea tore the sheet into strips and placed them next to the unconscious victim. She filled the pot with water from the lake and sat it atop the fire, its metallic surface turning black as the flame engulfed it.

From a red-and-white rectangular canister she removed a small ocher-colored vial. She placed this on top of the strips of linen.

From the surrounding trees, a mockingbird began its concert; in unison and from some distant perch, a rooster heralded the commencement of another day.

She removed the knife from the fire. Around its shaft, she wrapped one of the cloth strips, and a wisp of smoke trailed from its glowing tip.

She cared little for what she had to do. Her stomach felt weak, and she fought back the impulse that induced her to vomit. She had not intended for her son to witness the procedure, which she felt was vital if the man were to live. Indeed, even at this point, she was not sure if what she was attempting could save his life, or if it did, would he retain his afflicted arm.

She silently prayed that he would, for she knew deep within herself that she could never amputate a human limb, but she knew also that whatever was to be done, speed was its greatest necessity. It would take ninety minutes to transport the man to the nearest hospital, maybe longer. She also knew she could not carry his limp form through the woods to her truck nor could she navigate the vehicle through the densely covered landscape to where he had fallen.

She turned to the patient who lay as quietly as a corpse and touched the swollen arm. The imprint of her fingers remained even after she had released it, which sent a wave of nausea up from