The Silt Verses - Chapter 5
The Silt Verses - Chapter 5
The Silt Verses - Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
INTRO
CHARITY:
(Narrating)
They’d bring me to the old woods, my father and mother, when I was
small.
They’d say its name aloud to me - Penda’s Slake - and they’d tell me
that every name in this world has two meanings, one of them buried.
That these woods had a thirst in them, just as you or I had a thirst.
And ahead of me, taking flight through the trees, I can see our
disciples. In order of their arrival:
As before, she goes on to credit the cast and crew, and offer up any content warnings.
STING.
SID WRIGHT:
Good morning, folks - and it’s time for the six o’clock news bulletin.
These factories have been closed down for twelve years now, folks,
so sacrifices are not permitted there, and local residents are urged to
stay vigilant for any signs of unlicensed worship.
Do you know what your children are speaking to, late at night?
AULKNER stir.
From the depths of the bedsheets, we hear F
FAULKNER:
(Narrating)
Prattle on, jester. The river rises.
FAULKNER:
(Narrating)
Carpenter is sleeping. Let her sleep.
She’s wasted enough of our time. Her sojourn in the woods led us
nowhere.
She’s led by her own pride and obstinacy, which she mistakes for gut
instinct.
Everywhere I go, I etch these in hidden places, for the faithful to find
and follow. Because others must know that they are not alone.
Even beautiful.
Not the most practical of talents. But I’m grateful for it, all the same.
And as I mark and wipe and mark and wipe, eventually, I must get
something right, because the running water in the sink and in the
bathtub begin to twist, the hot stream flowing into cold and winding
about itself.
Reaching for the dull grey ceiling and, beyond that, a stagnant yellow
sky.
MOTEL RECEPTION, INT
We hear the motel reception bell ring, insistently. It’s our first signal that FAULKNER has
moved.
A moment later, we hear the door creak as STANTON comes to stand at the reception desk.
FAULKNER:
We’re checking out today. I’d like to settle up.
STANTON:
No problem. Just need to print out the receipt.
(As if making conversation)
You were back late last night.
FAULKNER:
Well...yes, I suppose we were.
STANTON:
(Gently incredulous)
Must have been hard, in the dark.
FAULKNER:
(Trying to take control of the conversation)
Looks brighter today, anyway.
STANTON:
All right. So for two nights, that’s twelve regular apiece, and then
there’s the filter tax, which adds fifteen erratic.
Where did you say you were heading next?
FAULKNER:
I didn’t.
STANTON:
Well, I’ve got all the local maps of this territory right here under the
desk. Show me where you’re trying to get to. I can point you in the
right direction.
FAULKNER:
No, that’s-
FAULKNER:
Your, um, security camera.
STANTON:
Hm?
FAULKNER:
The green light wasn’t blinking before. You’ve turned it on.
STANTON:
(A little unnerved that this has been noticed)
Oh, well. Just thought it was a good idea to be sensible.
FAULKNER:
I suppose that’s one advantage to the sun coming out.
(Explaining himself)
You must have guests coming in to enjoy the good weather. A
weekend out on the river.
STANTON:
(A little too quickly; he’s lying)
Oh, sure. We had a handful of others coming in last night. Expect a
few more couples today. It’s going to be busy.
FAULKNER:
(Narrating)
The board is visible behind him in the gloom.
The keys look dusty. Only two empty hooks - Sister Carpenter’s and
mine.
FAULKNER:
(Casually)
I’d actually like to leave my case here as I head out for breakfast.
Would you mind terribly storing it in your back room?
STANTON:
Er-
Yes, of course.
FAULKNER:
Thanks. It doesn’t have a lock, so I just want to make sure it’s safe.
STANTON:
(A little more eagerly, doing mental calculations in his head)
Not a problem, not a problem.
STANTON:
(A little muffled)
And, uh, if you need anything else at all, please don’t hesitate to-
We hear the heavy, wet THUMP of FAULKNER slamming STANTON’s head against the
wall.
A second THUMP. A third, violent THUMP.
FAULKNER:
(Out of breath, exhilarated)
The river rises.
STING
FAULKNER:
(Narrating)
They told me this sort of thing might happen.
At the seminary, the Katabasians were very clear with each of us that
when we headed out on the road, we might find ourselves forced to
face off against enemies of the faith, those who might attempt to trick
or arrest or murder us.
They must be handled with grace and cunning and unyielding will, and
all of these things, in time, will be written into the Verses.
A triumph for the Trawler-Man, and his servant Faulkner, who at that
time was only just beginning to prove himself.’
STANTON:
(Pleading, in some pain)
Please...please.
FAULKNER:
(Narrating, quite calmly)
Dad had a funny habit, when we were young.
He did it with all three of us, holding entire halting conversations with
us while keeping his gaze just fixed on an empty patch of air that was
elsewhere.
And none of us ever spoke about the fact that we had a father who
didn’t look at us, which meant that it took a very long time for me to
actually realise that this was not normal, this was not just part of
talking to your father about school grades or holiday plans.
I’d look back and forth at my brothers, and wonder - were they seeing
it? Were they as confused as I was, or was it a defect in my father’s
sight that I’d somehow failed to understand? What could possibly be
causing this?
STANTON:
Please...listen to me.
FAULKNER:
(Narrating, still calmly)
But eventually, sharp as I was, I understood; Dad, like the perfect
gardener he was, was setting boundaries. He needed to hold himself
at a distance from us.
I don’t know for certain whether it was a sense of shame that he
wasn’t a more active parent, or the lowliness of our surroundings, or
even that he hated us by association for what had become of his
wife…
Part of me always suspected it was more than that. He didn’t have any
strong feelings about any of us, specifically.
But he didn’t want to be here, in the same kitchen as us, in this life
and this body.
If he didn’t ever quite look at us, he could keep our animal needs
satisfied, but he could keep on pretending that he was elsewhere.
My friend the hotelier, through bruised and bloodied eyes, is doing just
the opposite.
STANTON:
You’ve already got the security tapes, so you don’t need to worry
about those.
A couple of watches.
FAULKNER:
You already know I don’t want the safe code.
FAULKNER:
I want you to tell me the truth.
STANTON:
Know what?
FAULKNER:
If you drag this out, I’m not paying for late checkout.
Silence.
STANTON:
I could see that from the moment you walked through the damned
door, you fool.
Found the etchings you left underneath the bed. Found your little
book, too.
FAULKNER:
That’s a violation of privacy.
STANTON:
(Scornfully)
What, thought you were being subtle? I could see you coming from a
mile away.
FAULKNER:
(Genuinely a little shaken)
These are my sacred territories that you’re squatting in.
FAULKNER:
(Coldly)
Yes. I am.
STANTON:
We really thought we’d seen the back of you mud-worshipping freaks.
It was a good day when they drove you out into the hills, you know.
We cheered to see your chapels burn. My father and mother told me
how they danced on the ruins of your false-faith shrines. We reclaimed
the land that had been lost to the waters.
They should have gone further. Should have followed you into the hills
and wiped you out. You hear me?
FAULKNER:
(Muttering to himself)
The river rises.
STANTON:
Go jump in your sodding river. See if it doesn’t drown you just like it
drowns everything else.
(Trying to get FAULKNER’s attention)
I’m talking to you.
(Trying harder)
Hey - where’s your boss?
FAULKNER:
Excuse me?
STANTON:
The other one. The one in charge. I want to speak to her.
FAULKNER:
I’m the one in charge.
STANTON:
I-
(Suddenly frightened)
What are you doing with those?
The right tides won’t come for a sacrifice unless you take the
necessary steps.
STANTON:
(In sudden searing pain, as a hook is thrust through their earlobe)
Ahh!
FAULKNER:
And next you mark the flesh-
STANTON:
(Ragged and desperate)
Wait! Wait, wait, wait, just…
FAULKNER:
(Calmly)
Are we the only members of our faith you’ve encountered? Or have
there been others?
STANTON:
One of you came to live out of town a decade or so back. An artist, so
he claimed. Made things with his hands.
We’d ride up the river and see his statues, staring back at us from the
banks.
He kept dogs to try and drive us away. He didn’t want us coming near
his bungalow.
He didn’t want us seeing what he was calling out to, in the lonely
places.
FAULKNER:
What happened to him?
STANTON:
We saw to him. What do you think?
He woke up one morning and we’d left him a present in his drive-way.
Took one of his statues, and knocked the head off, and slipped a dead
eel around its neck on in its place.
FAULKNER:
That’s cruel.
FAULKNER:
Why did you hate him?
STANTON:
If you have to ask that, you’re too far gone yourself.
FAULKNER:
Tell me more about the artist. What was his name?
(Forcefully)
What was his name?
STANTON:
His name was Roake.
FAULKNER:
(Thoughtful)
Roake. Tell me how we get to his bungalow.
STANTON:
Take the river road north for about an hour. Keep on the left as it
splits, and the road becomes track and the fields rise up. 113 Longray
Mansions.
You’ll see the stone heads, towering over the reeds, welcoming you
home.
FAULKNER:
Thank you. You’ve been a tremendous help.
FAULKNER:
(Narrating, with growing fervour)
I take the empty tub and place it under the sink.
But the thing in the water meets my eye and it smiles at the sight of
me, just as I smile back.
Even their hatred is inchoate. They don’t know what they’re afraid of,
but the fear is all they have left to cling on to.
A clunk and a splash as FAULKNER places the filled water tub down on the nearby table.
STANTON:
(Pleading)
You’re a sensitive soul. I can tell that. You’re not going to take this too
far, do something you can’t undo. I’ve got the measure of you.
I-
(Being grabbed by the throat)
Ahh!
FAULKNER:
(More calmly)
You’re a good judge of character. That’s something I could never take
away from you. I’m glad you understand me.
STANTON:
What are you-
FAULKNER:
(Soothingly)
I’m not going to hurt you.
STANTON:
No, don’t-
FAULKNER:
(Narrating)
I etch the canticle marks across his forehead, in a hand that’s careful.
And precise.
And beautiful.
I deliver it.
We can hear STANTON’s muffled screams and violent thrashing. Air bubbling out from his
lungs.
And then we hear the horrible, crackling sounds of something changing. Bone reshaping.
FAULKNER:
(Uncertainty growing in his voice)
I watch him buck as he drowns, the man who reminds me of my
father. I watch the dark water ripple, as it reaches him, pours up in
through every choked orifice, and he thrashes and screams as the
Trawler-Man’s crawling changes are brought upon him, try as he
might to resist.
I take a step back as he rears up and free from the tub, no longer
capable of being contained, his dripping tendrils reaching gloriously up
towards the sky like clear water surging forth from deep and hidden
places.
They won’t write about this part. They’ll write something different.
SID WRIGHT:
All right, it’s almost time for the eight o’clock news bulletin, but before
we do, I’d like to talk to you about something truly important.
He has heard your prayers for a psychotropic tea that tastes good and
helps you see the world exactly as it truly is - but also offers you the
wakefulness and productivity that you have come to expect from us.
When you open your eyes, and the first thing you feel is that twinge of
a fresh wound, an extra level of surging sensation from muscles and
tendons that you’d come to take for granted, a revelation and reminder
of the meaningful work taking place beneath your own skin…
There’s a voice in the raw divet where the flesh of my calf used to be,
and it’s calling me a damned fool.
There was nothing for me in the woods. Nothing for us in this town.
CARPENTER:
Faulkner. Faulkner.
(To herself)
Shit.
MOTEL RECEPTION, INT
She sighs.
CARPENTER:
Shit.
DINER, INT
The faint chatter of diners as CARPENTER takes her seat at the bar.
CARPENTER:
(To the servers)
I would like some pancakes and a very strong filter coffee, please.
HAYWARD:
Busy, isn’t it?
CARPENTER:
(Casually)
I wouldn’t know. I was out of town last night.
What happened?
HAYWARD:
Oh, they found new evidence regarding those missing fishermen.
Serious enough to call in the police.
CARPENTER:
What happened to them?
HAYWARD:
They suspect something horrible.
Silence.
CARPENTER:
You can’t just drop that on the table and leave it there.
HAYWARD:
(Settling in to tell a story)
As I understand it, one of the other fishing crews began moving their
junk into the missing men’s boathouse yesterday evening. Well, it had
been long enough, and there’s no sense in a good berth going
unused.
They poked about, salvaged what they could - and then found
something in the water beneath the mooring jetty.
Lobster-pots. Woven wicker. And there had been carved stone dolls
placed carefully inside, one for each missing crew member, each of
them etched with ritual signs and clinging with leeching barnacles.
I’m sure you’ll tell me you can’t imagine anyone from around here
who’d do such an awful thing, can you?
CARPENTER:
Wouldn’t know.
HAYWARD:
(Not seeming to hear her)
People always say that. “This sort of thing happens in other towns. But
not here. We’re just not like that here.”
(Curiously)
Are you married, do you mind me asking?
CARPENTER:
(Incredulous)
Are you my mother?
HAYWARD:
(Choking back a laugh.)
I’m sorry. I just honestly can’t think of a single good reason why
anyone who isn’t from around here would be hanging around in such a
dreary place by themselves.
Here with a partner, though, a wife or husband - yeah, I can see that.
CARPENTER:
There’s two dozen species of rare waterfowl along this stretch of the
White Gull alone.
HAYWARD:
Ah.
HAYWARD:
Increasingly less so, of late.
CARPENTER:
Mm.
HAYWARD:
I read somewhere that every relationship is a negotiation.
But it’s when things are falling apart - that’s when you realise you’re
doing most of the negotiating with yourself.
‘If I can only do better, maybe he won’t look at me like he hates me.’
CARPENTER:
Sounds rough.
HAYWARD:
Rough doesn’t really cover it. It’s a very specific sensation, when your
marriage is failing.
I mean, there’s mingled terror and shame and all the rest of it. But also
- anticipation. fervent, maddening anticipation.
Something we set into motion actually gets to end, and we can come
out on the other side as something else. Maybe shrunken and
saddened. Perhaps something made anew.
It’s like you’re tangled up in barbed wire: draw closer, it’ll be agony.
Pull away, you don’t know what pieces of yourself you’ll leave behind.
But you have to pull away, or this person, this gravitational orbit, is
going to destroy you.
CARPENTER:
(Engaging with the conversation despite herself)
There’s an alternative.
HAYWARD:
I mean, yes, but that would cause harm, and when you’re beginning a
new life alone, the last thing you want to do is cause any harm. You
can’t be reborn with that in your heart.
No escape is truly clean, but at least once you’ve fled you don’t have
to look at the mess.
CARPENTER:
I don’t think you have any choice in the matter.
When someone’s been that close to you, when you’ve been known so
well and you’ve been loved so closely, when every wrinkle of you has
picked out and exposed to another’s sight...they can’t be allowed to
continue on.
It’d be like losing your faith, but letting the lie of it keep standing.
They sit in silence for a moment. We hear the clatter of plates. Then-
HAYWARD:
(Enjoying himself)
I read a story once about one of these parochial gods, somewhere
south.
There was a stone bridge, with iron railings, over a small and
inconsequential river. Like this one. And after a time the young people
began to leave locked padlocks dangling from the railings, as young
people do.
And after a time the story began to spread that there was a god of
love dwelling in the bridge. And if you both went down to the river at
dusk, and you both leant over the side to fix a padlock to the
railings...well, if your love was untrue, the Lady of Linked Hearts would
know.
And you’d feel a sudden stabbing in your hand and look down to see
the padlock locked over your own palm, and then as the weight pulled
you down another lock, clamping through your cheek and mouth,
rendering you unable to speak, and another lock, and another, slicing
unstoppably through bone and flesh, iron chains and padlocks
dragging you down and over the side to a slow and choking death
beneath the river’s surface.
And your date would cry and mourn your death, but they’d probably be
OK in the end, because this was the proof of it: your love for them was
never true.
They could try again. Bring others to the bridge. And if you passed the
Lady of Linked Heart’s trial, you were free to marry with confidence
that you’d found what you were looking for; the real deal.
The problem with gods is, the more people who know the story, the
worse it gets. You know how there are some couples that renew their
vows every couple of years?
He chuckles.
Like spinning the chamber and holding the gun back up to your head.
Anyway, eventually the authorities got wind of it, they sealed off the
bridge and sent a couple of experimental theologists down with a bag
of cats, and soon enough it became very clear that the bridge had no
method to its sacrifices other than its own hunger.
It was just feeding as it pleased.
CARPENTER:
Are you an expert on outlawed gods?
HAYWARD:
(Chuckling)
Just a reader of papers. Don’t turn me in to the cops.
CARPENTER:
Sure.
HAYWARD:
(Calling out to the waiting staff)
One more here.
A moment of silence.
CARPENTER:
(Prompting)
So what are you going to do?
HAYWARD:
About what?
CARPENTER:
About your marriage.
HAYWARD:
Watch and wait, I suppose. For a sign.
(As if checking his watch)
Right. I’d better get down to the docks. They’ve got a sibyl down there,
casting yew branches, seeking guidance from the Cloak.
It’s embarrassing, this sort of superstition, but the ritual’s written into
procedure, and once something’s wormed its way into procedure
there’s no prising it free. Might as well be in our hearts.
CARPENTER:
At me.
HAYWARD:
I’m sorry. Talking at you.
A micro-second of hesitation.
CARPENTER:
Sandra.
HAYWARD:
My name’s Investigating Officer Hayward.
CARPENTER:
Thanks.
You too.
CARPENTER:
(Breathing out heavily)
Shit.
STING.
VILLAGE, EXT
FAULKNER:
(Narrating)
Was that right, the way it happened?
Did I get it right, have I failed in some way? Is it OK that I ran, as the
saint reared forth?
I suppose it’s only natural. There’s always some small part of yourself
that betrays you.
But when I step out through the motel door, my case in one hand, into
the grey light of Marcel’s Crossing…
Beyond the end of the promenade, past the temporary and rickety
jetties of the town, I can see the deep waters of your river glimmering
in the sun.
If the current state of the Dozy Pilgrim motel is any indication, it could
be days, or even weeks, before anyone finds it.
That suits our purposes well enough. But they will find it, in the end,
once we’re long gone.
And the faithful and faithless alike will know we came this way.
CARPENTER:
(Distantly)
Hey! Hey! Over here!
VAN, INT
CARPENTER:
Where the hell have you been? I was looking everywhere.
FAULKNER:
(Confidently)
There’s no time for that now. Get us on the road. I know where we
need to go next.
CARPENTER:
Something happen?
FAULKNER:
I’ve taken care of it. I’ve scrubbed our names from the motel guest
book. I’ve wiped down our rooms for fingerprints.
HAYWARD:
(Muffled)
Another minute of your time, ma’am?
CARPENTER:
(Calmly)
Open the window, Faulkner.
HAYWARD:
Is this, uh-
CARPENTER:
A fellow birdwatcher.
HAYWARD:
Mm.
(Politely)
Nice van.
CARPENTER:
Not really.
HAYWARD:
Well, I suppose you and your fellow birdwatcher will probably be
sticking closely to the water’s edge, so you can spot oystercatchers
and storks and such.
Me, I’ll be hanging around town for a few days to find out what
happened to those poor fishermen.
You never quite know where an investigation like this will take you, but
I’m sure I’ll be drifting this way and that way in search of information.
That’s the thing about the river - there’s only two ways to go.
Drive safe.
He leaves.
FAULKNER:
(Baffled)
Who was that?
CARPENTER:
Plainclothes.
FAULKNER:
(Rapidly losing confidence)
You spoke to the police?
CARPENTER:
Bastard talked my ear off for half an hour before he introduced
himself. He’s hanging around in town trying to find out what happened
the fishing crew.
FAULKNER:
(With sudden dread)
Sister Carpenter, I…
OUTRO.