Flesh Failure (3 page)

“What is all this?”

I could only moan but it wasn't as painful that time.

He lay the flute on the chair, slowly and carefully, feeling that it was safe before he released it. He walked over to the area where there was a little table and several cupboards.

“Are you hungry? Let me get you something.” I watched him fumble around until he had arranged a hunk of bread and preserves. He also scooped water out of a jug into a cup and set the cup on the table.

“Eat and drink. Perhaps you'll regain your voice. Or maybe you don't have one.”

I slowly and painfully sat in the chair. It was wonderful to sit in a chair once more. The days in the woods could be but a memory now. I wondered what I should do next.

“You might be a mute, I don't wonder. God is terribly ironic, don't you think? A blind man and a mute. How monstrous.”

The food fuelled me and I stared at the flickering lantern hanging above me. The light spread its soft rays along the small wooden table and across the first mound of materials. I cleared my throat and drank deeply of the water.

“I…”

Again, the word faltered but it had emerged from my throat more easily that time.

“I-I-I-I…”

The old man laughed.

“Maybe you should try singing. Let me play something you might know.”

He made his way back around the room, his hunched-over back impeding his already slow progress as he painstakingly placed one foot in front of the other.

The sight of him made me smirk. While he began to play, I returned to the jug of water and scooped out some more. I drank it quickly and it stayed. I cleared my throat again. The mournful wail of “Greensleeves” filled the air. I remembered this song. At the time I didn't remember what it was named but the familiar notes danced inside my bones and I ached to sing along.

“Greennn…” I managed to squeak out a bit of the chorus and as he launched into another verse, I began to hum along. At first, it hurt and it seemed like I had to push through a wall of spit or mud or perhaps something more dire. Once my throat finally cleared and I spit the refuse of phlegm, dirt and maggots onto my plate, my throat opened at last.

I managed to sing the chorus of “Greensleeves” the third time he played it. With great joy and laughter, I clapped when he put down the flute.

“You can speak. I'm so relieved,” he said.

“I— I.” Again, talking was painful but there was a strong urge to keep pushing through whatever the next block was.

“I can speak.” I said firmly. I laughed and the sound flew from me as musical as the birds that had watched over me in the forest.

“What's your name?” he asked.

I stammered. In all the memories, did I know my name? I struggled to recall and a word came from my lips.

“Agatha,” I said. “I'm Agatha.”

“Agatha. Lovely. Now tell me, Miss Agatha. Where are you from?”

“I'm not sure. I'm having memory problems.”

He put the flute down again and sat back at the table. He sighed heavily.

“Why are you naked, Agatha?”

“I don't know. I think I was in some kind of trouble or accident. When I woke, I was this way.”

“You need clothes, my dear.”

He made his way over to a creaky old wooden wardrobe. The doors groaned in protest as he pulled them open.

“My daughter collects costumes for the shows. We all do, in fact. I'll pull out some dresses and you can decide.”

He pulled out several dresses after he'd touched them thoroughly to identify them by texture and size.

He was quite accurate with one, the biggest one he claimed to have. I pulled the brilliant blue dress on.

“I think it would be fine but I can't fasten the buttons,” I said as I struggled to reach the buttons that fastened at the back of my dress.

“Let me,” he said. Somehow, that blind old man deftly buttoned up the back of my dress.

“You need shawls and scarves. The weather is changing rapidly. Winter approaches.”

He shuffled over to a pile of material by the bed and again determined which ones he wanted to give me by the way he fingered the fabric.

By the time I had all the shawls and scarves draped around the dress, I was as colourful as any gypsy. Not terribly discrete but at least I wasn't naked.

“Where are you going to go?” he asked, swatting at the flies that buzzed near his ears.

“I'm not sure but I need to leave.”

“You can stay with us. The others likely won't mind.”

“No. I need to leave. I have to find out what happened and make it right.”

“I can understand that.”

I turned to leave and as I shuffled towards the door, he called out to me.

“Wait. Before you go.” He went over to a cupboard and pulled out a perfume bottle.

“It's my daughter's favourite cologne. You should try it.”

I pressed the button and a lovely waft of flowers and spices filled my nostrils. The lavender was the most overpowering.

I pressed the button several times.

“I hope that this pleases your senses,” I said to him.

“It does, for now. Remember, perfume doesn't last forever.”

“I'll remember.”

“Good on ya.” He returned to the wardrobe and rummaged through it once more.

“Where are you going?” he asked again.

“I don't know where I am.”

He emerged from the wardrobe with several pairs of shoes. “Right now we're in Regent's Park. The coppers won't be long to find us camping here and we'll be forced along our way once more. Usually we can get away with it for about a fortnight.”

I coughed. My throat was irritated from speaking.

“So we're in London.”

“Yes.”

He put the shoes down near me. I picked the biggest pair possible and attempted to squeeze my feet into them.

“I can't,” I said, my throat feeling like it was on fire. I pulled off the shoes and returned to the jug of water. I ladled out more water and drank it quickly.

“That's better,” I said as the water soothed the burning fire.

“If you got a frog in your throat, a good thing to take is honey,” he said. He stopped his wardrobe rummaging and returned to the jug-of-water area. He picked up and set down several jars. At last he picked one and unscrewed it. He dipped his finger in.

“That's the honey all right. A dab of this and you'll be good as new.”

I laughed. It hurt but I couldn't believe that sticky syrup was going to help me speak better.

I took the jar, tilted my head back and poured a large amount into my mouth. The honey was delicious. The texture was smooth as silk and it slid down my throat slowly.

I swallowed many times, enjoying the soothing sensation of the honey working its magic.

“I feel better,” I said.

“Good,” the old gypsy said. He resumed rummaging through the closet.

He returned with more shoes, men's shoes. The biggest pair were well worn but they would do. I slipped them on. Luckily, they weren't too manly and I was able to shuffle rather well in them. It was much easier than when all the twigs and moss would become lodged between my toes in the woods.

The colours of the outfit made me feel brighter. I was ready to leave.

But before I did, I craved more bread and more honey.

“Help yourself,” the old man said. “You can't be wandering around hungry.”

There was only a small portion of bread remaining. I felt guilty that the old man would have nothing so I didn't eat it. Instead, I poured more honey down my throat.

I looked down at my dress wondering what I looked like but of course, there were no mirrors or looking glasses in a blind man's caravan. The dress no doubt looked ridiculous, as I was too big for it, which grew more apparent as I wandered around. It confined my movement, which didn't help the situation.

“Do you know people in London?” he asked, picking up his flute again. He sat down and put the instrument to his mouth. Sweet music filled the air once more.

“I might.”

The truth was, I had no idea if I did or not. But the reality was I couldn't live in the woods like an animal. It was cold and filthy. I craved a warm bed, a decent frock, a decent meal, somewhere to call home. “Good bye,” I said as I made my way from the caravan.

“Goodbye, Agatha,” he said. “Good luck and god bless.”

His words echoed in my ears. Good luck all right.

I was going to need all the luck I could muster up.

I left the gypsy camp, walking from the little steps of the old man's caravan and back into the woods, as silent as the deer that had glided by me this past week.

The woods ended and there were walkways and beautiful fall flowers, glowing orange and yellow in the gardens. The edge of the park was near. I shambled faster, eager to reach the end.

Finally, I was out of the park once and for all.

As I walked the long winding roads away from Regent's Park, a coach or two clomped past, the horses kicking up dirt in my face, sending me into fits of coughing. Now and again, I glanced up at the skies, hoping for rain or if not rain, the lightning that would boost me up a bit more.

The air was thick today. The damp heat did nothing to alleviate the growing heaviness of my clothes against my flesh. A moment of my previous life flashed into my mind. I was standing in a room somewhere. It was a beautiful room with flowers and a large bed with many pillows. As an image of the room came into focus, I ached. Although I didn't actually remember much, the sensation of belonging anywhere but on this filthy road strewn with horse manure and rotting food taunted me. It didn't seem to matter anymore. But I had a fleeting glimpse of myself, as someone else, staring with joy at my naked body in the mirror. My breasts had finally matured, my hips round, my face full and flush. The occasion escaped me but I remembered lamenting that I had to clothe that body. It had been so freeing to be naked for those glorious moments.

In the memory, the chronic ebb of pain where my body was sewn together wasn't present. For the body in the mirror was not the body I wore now. Even my face was not my own. My brain remembered a vessel that no longer existed.

I snapped back to the task at hand. It was imperative that I find an energy source soon. The streetlights had electricity but I wasn't sure how to harness it without drawing attention to myself. I was too weak to be crawling up poles.

In front of me, a carriage slowed to a halt. I ducked into the trees that lined the road from the park. The horseman, a tall, lanky fellow with long, curly dark hair that spilled from his top hat, dismounted from his perch at the front and hopped down to the ground. He opened the carriage door. From inside came the sound of a woman laughing.

“Come in, my darling,” a pair of arms reached out and pulled him in. The door shut and soon the carriage was rocking back and forth. I took my chance and carefully climbed onto the back where several large bolts of material were affixed. I lay along them, finding a way to cling to the carriage while I prayed that I wouldn't be discovered.

Soon they were finished with their dirty work and the horseman emerged from the cabin. I heard him comment to the cabin's occupant, “There's quite a foul odour out here, I hope it's not the horses.” His heavy footsteps walked around the horses and he murmured undecipherable mutterings to the mares.

“Goddamn flies.”

He walked around to the back of the coach. I held very still, hoping he wouldn't check his cargo. He didn't. He sighed heavily, seeing nothing, and walked back to the horses.

The carriage rocked as he climbed up to his perch and with a crack of the whip, the horses pulled the carriage.

The horses clomped slowly down the road and I watched as the streets passed. When the carriage stopped to let another carriage pass, I climbed off. I didn't want to press my luck of discovery. Although the streets were packed with moving throngs of people, no one seemed to notice me dismount or even walk among them.

The street noises were garish and hurt my ears at first. Vendors squabbled with customers over fruits and vegetables, harried nursemaids attempted to navigate prams, clumps of school girls herded by tight-lipped nuns marched past. I was jostled and bumped by people and carts and soon the business of it all overwhelmed me.

A little boy stopped his mother to point at me, causing others to look as well.

“A freak, oh my god.”

“A real live freak, walking among us.”

Murmurs spread through the crowd and I scurried on.

I took the scarf wrapped around my waist and pulled it over my head so that no one could see my face. I blended in with the others as long as I kept moving. The cobblestones beneath my borrowed shoes hurt my feet. The shoes were made for the forest, not for the harsh pounding of the stones. I stopped to sit in a doorway, flies buzzing around me.

Before long, a young woman came up to me.

“You shouldn't sit there, miss, like that,” she said as she tapped me on the shoulder. I must have been dozing for she startled me.

“Why not?” I asked her, sitting up taller and pulling my scarf so that it still hid my face.

“The coppers will pick you up for soliciting. Best to avoid trouble,” she explained. She was a pretty little thing, short, and likely a prostitute with her very red cheeks and bottle-dyed hair. She looked at me.

“What's wrong with your face?”

“Accident, nothing more.” I shrugged.

“You poor dear. Are you a gypsy?” she asked.

“A gypsy?”

“Your clothes. So bright,” she said.

“I guess I do stand out here. I'm not a gypsy but I did borrow these clothes.”

“Gypsies don't do well around here in Whitechapel. Come with me.” She led me down a series of streets and alleys until we reached a hole in the wall where she made her home. Her room had three beds. There was no window and the only light was from the dim hallway. The young lady set to work lighting two gas lanterns. In the glow of the flame, I saw a rickety armoire, a dresser and two little tables. There were clothes piled and bugs crawled down the walls, startled by the light. She closed the door and I stepped in further.