Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales (2 page)
Read Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales Online
Authors: Fran Friel
Pieces of a larger whole.
Now, I called the above-quoted passage the central
image
of the collection, not the central obsession that in the end unifies everything.
That
would be the pain (physical, emotional, psychological, and spiritual) that is part and parcel of familial obligation, be it the family one is born into, or the family that one assembles for one's self throughout life.
And in the middle of all of this is “Mama's Boy,” the tour-de-force novella that earned Fran a Bram Stoker Award nomination for Outstanding Achievement in Long Fiction. It is the thematic centerpiece of this collection, in which virtually all of the themes grappled with in the other fictions and poems are touched upon. I'm not going to spoil it for you by talking about any of its plot—aside from saying, “Frank's back!"—but I will say this much: upon second reading, it remains a work of terrible insight (and I mean that as a compliment) and unnerving power. A shattering study of unearned guilt and what happens when one takes familial obligation to an unspeakable extreme, it is simultaneously horrifying and heartbreaking ... and surprisingly funny in a few places. (Lest you start to think that all contained herein is Doom and Gloom, Doom and Gloom, check out “Under the Dryer” for a beautiful example of Fran's humor; you'll laugh, but you're going to feel so
dirty
about it.)
Then there are pieces like “Special Prayers,” wherein Fran displays her deft touch at the surreal, opening with yet another image that is arguably iconic to this collection:
"Babies fell from the skies over Eastville. They bounced, they bled, but none cried. Their silence was eerie—their tiny bodies splatted and split open as they hit the rooftops, the road, and the sidewalks of our little street. For miles and miles, the sky was full of falling babies, dark blots against the blue."
And there is heartbreak, also; “Orange and Golden,” is a brief story, but its lingering effect still haunts me, weeks after having first read it.
With this collection, Fran Friel accomplishes what all serious writers of dark fiction strive for: she entertains, she instills honest emotion by filtering her own sensibilities through those of her characters, and she leaves the reader with more than a little food for thought afterward. We may not be able to put into words an exact explanation of what we have witnessed, but we emerge richer for the experience, perhaps even with our world-view slightly altered.
What are we witnessing?
The beginning of a long and grand writing career.
I have kept you long enough, so it's time to do what I was asked to do.
Ladies and gentlemen, it is my very great pleasure to introduce you to Fran Friel.
Gary A. Braunbeck
Lost in Ohio
May, 2008
Thank you for teaching me to wonder, wander and work hard.
With dawn still hours away, the storm howled in the cavernous spaces between the carcasses on the beach. Simon Rodan's lantern swayed in the wind, casting a dance of wan light and shadows on the giant forms, impossible to see them in their entirety from his vantage.
Beached giants
was all he could think when he saw the dark, lifeless shapes crowding the shore. Koma, the villager who had alerted him to the disaster, huddled with the other fisherman around the fire in the cooking shelter between the palm trees. They stayed well away from the bodies on the beach.
Simon overcame the initial shock of the scene, his training as a researcher kicking in. Stomping through the sand, he pulled tools and specimen bags from the pockets of his tattered khaki vest. He took samples of blue and green skin, and some brown, the texture of lizard skin, and he clipped small pieces from golden fish scales the size of dinner plates. Winded from climbing around dozens of bodies in the heavy storm, Simon pushed on, cutting pieces of billowing wet fabric: white linen; colored polka dots; black silk. And finally, with heavy wire cutters, he snipped bits of bright red hair and brown fur, the strands as thick as cables.
Fumbling inside his vest, Simon tried to protect his camera from the rain with a baggie. He ran up and down the spaces between the lifeless giants, snapping pictures, desperate to document the incredible images. He felt a strange split in his mind—focusing on the task at hand and an eerie concern for what he was witnessing.
What was he witnessing?
One thing he knew for certain: to see and document the full extent of what lay on the beach, he needed to get up above the scene somehow. He finished collecting his samples and photos and trudged through the rain to the gathering of fishermen in the shelter. The men spoke with hushed voices and animated hands, the smoke from their fire swirling around them like demons.
"Koma,” he said, breathless, “can you get me up to the cliffs by sun-up?"
Koma searched Simon's face as if looking for a way to answer. Without replying, he turned to the gathering of men and whispered something that Simon did not quite hear. A biting exchange ran through the circle, with Koma shaking his head adamantly. Still struggling with the native tongue, the speed of the exchange left Simon with only a few words—sacrifice, twenty years, and something about hungry nightmares. None of it made sense.
Against loud dissent from the other men, Koma finally replied.
"No, Mr. Simon, too much danger in the night. Spirits come here to feast. You no leave beach. Wait until spirits go."
Simon was momentarily unnerved by the anger of the men. The normally genial villagers rarely raised their voices. Shaking off the knowledge that he was somehow the cause of the unrest, he turned his attention to Koma.
"Look, I need to get up high so I can see exactly what's on that beach. Whatever they are, they're not spirits, Koma. They're dead, cold bodies."
He continued to argue with the man, trying to convince him of the importance of this find to his career—to his life—but Koma shook his head, adamant in his decision.
Simon was furious with the fisherman. Not long after his arrival on the island, he'd saved Koma's wife from a raging infection in a wound on her foot. With a few doses of antibiotics from his medicine kit, Peka recovered in a matter of days. Since then, Koma, Peka, and their son, Paulo, treated Simon like family. They insisted he move into their meager home, and though he'd hardly noticed over the months in their company, the gentle manner and the kindness of the family had begun to soften his long-held numbness to the world. But at the moment, this history seemed unimportant—Koma would not help him. Undeterred, Simon stomped off to find someone, anyone, who would guide him to
Pahulu Pali
, the Nightmare Cliffs.
With news from the beach spreading fast, villagers arrived carrying ceremonial drums, torches, and food for a feast. Large and small shelters made of palm leaves were erected to protect them from the storm as they prepared their vigil. A group of elder women built a crude altar of stones, heaping it with fruits, flowers and dried fish. Then their low sing-song chanting began as they filed toward the giant forms at the sea's edge, wind and rain whipping at their hair and clothing, their arms loaded with more offerings to the spirits. The sound of their chanting was soon lost in the wind as they moved farther from the protection of the palms.
The elder men gathered around the fire with their drums and a slow, hypnotic beat began. Still in search of a guide to the cliffs, Simon watched the scene with great interest. He was torn. Although this unrecorded tribal behavior could be key to substantiating his beleaguered theories on tribal mind, documenting the extraordinary scene on the beach would be a career maker—he really had no choice. Disregarding Koma's warnings, he turned back to his task of securing a guide.
In concentric circles around the fire, the villagers gathered, swaying, humming, clicking abalone shells in counterpoint to the sound of the drums. Others held vigil with low droning chants at the altar erected by the elder women. Soaked to the skin, Simon slogged through the sand from villager to villager, without success. Curiously, he noticed the mild trance state the natives were experiencing and suspected the cause was a narcotic effect from the leathery slivers of bark being distributed for chewing. Each time a piece was passed to him, he tucked it away into one of his vest pockets—an excellent addition to his research samples. Some of the villagers appeared more lucid, always the elders it seemed, and when he approached them they kissed his cheeks in the custom of gratitude, which perplexed Simon. Still, none stopped to offer assistance for his journey or explain what the ceremony was about. Most simply smiled, pointed in the direction of the path leading into the jungle, and returned their attention to the ceremony. Everyone, it seemed, had their part.
With no guide, Simon knew that precious time was ticking away. He feared the storm that brought the bodies to shore might wash them back into the surf with the changing tide. With the wind-blown rain stinging his face, he slumped down on a fallen palm trunk. The sound of the pounding drums wrapped around him, intensifying his weariness from his long months on the island. He had sacrificed much of his life for his career. So much time lost with his late wife, Karen. She'd believed in him and his work. An uncommon pang of regret rang in his heart, and he pushed it away as he always did. But the estrangement from his son, Ethan, was a shadow that kept his guilt fresh, sapping his energy, his hope, and what vigor was left for his work. But this trip to the island was a gift. A few of his old supporters at the Foundation still believed him. This was his last chance to salvage his career before he was doomed to a dull academic life in the classroom of a third-rate university.
The morose attitude wasn't helping, so Simon shoved away his old concerns and buried the feelings—a skill he had honed since childhood. This was the break he'd been waiting for, and he needed to stay focused. The emergence of this undocumented ceremony alone was a huge breakthrough—but the forms on the beach? Such an event would put the anthropology community, not to mention the world, in a frenzy. He had to get this right. He had to get to those cliffs.
From his place on the log, Simon spotted Koma's son working on a shelter. Paulo, like most of the villagers, spoke English; a legacy of deceased missionaries and an odd number of reported shipwreck survivors evidenced by the graves of the
haole
, the white men, outside the village. Forcing his weary mind and body back into action, Simon approached the slender young man. He appeared more clear-eyed than the other villagers. With renewed hope, Simon reached up to hold a palm frond in place against the wind as the young man fastened it down.
"Paulo, I need your help.” He raised his voice over the noise of the storm and the escalating sound of the drums. “I need a guide to the cliffs. Can you take me?"
"
Pahulu Pali
?” He shook his head. “Oh no, Father would be angry, Mr. Simon."
"Come on, Paulo, I'm sure your father wouldn't mind if you helped me out,” he lied.
The boy hesitated. He'd followed Simon around like a puppy for months, fascinated by his work, his tools, and his foreign mannerisms. Simon knew he would do almost anything he asked.
"I sorry. No can help you.” He looked away, lowering his eyes.
Simon's temper flared—
What the hell is wrong with these people? I just want to get up to the damn cliffs!
He took a deep breath and struggled to calm himself.
"I'm sorry. I wouldn't want to ask you to do something that scared you. After all, you're just a boy.” He didn't like manipulating the boy, but he was desperate.
Paulo stood tall, raising his chin as he spoke. “I am nearly grown. I not scared!"
Simon felt a pang—Paulo was so much like his own son, Ethan. Vexed by the intrusion of these feelings long buried, he pressed on.
"Then take me to the cliffs, Paulo.” His tone was an unmasked challenge.
"No,” said the boy, looking around, eager to change the subject. “I come here for
akaku ‘ili
—my first."
Simon remembered the leathery strips in his pocket. On a hunch he hedged his bet.
"So how is it? I haven't tried it yet myself."
The boy looked away, embarrassed. “They no give it to me."
"No? Why not?” Simon resisted a knowing grin.
The boy mumbled his answer. “Not a man yet."
Bingo!
"Ah, now that doesn't seem fair at all,” said Simon. “You certainly look man enough to me."
In fact, the boy was strong and tall for a village teen, but he was still awkward and immature. Reluctantly, Simon used this fact to his advantage. Huddling against the shelter, he motioned for Paulo to come closer.
"How about a trade?” he said. “You take me to the cliffs, and I'll give you
akuku ‘ili
.” Simon pulled a handful of bark slivers from his pocket.
The boy's eyes widened. He looked around to see if anyone was listening, and after a brief flicker of guilt on his face, he said, “Okay, I take you ... but no tell father."
After some further negotiating, Simon handed over two small slivers of the bark, with a sincere promise from Paulo that he wouldn't chew it until they returned from their journey. Satisfied with this arrangement, they split up and hurried off to collect their gear and supplies for the climb to the Nightmare Cliffs.
The villagers swayed and chanted to the sound of the drums. Those outside the cooking shelter were oblivious to the rain and wind that blew through their flimsy palm shelters. With his heavy pack over his shoulder, Simon wove a path through the swaying crowd, the wet sand bogging down his shoes. He stopped to tap it loose when a cold hand shot out of the crowd and gripped his ankle. Caught by surprise, he nearly toppled over. A familiar face glowed up at him in the fire light, her wet hair ringed with pink orchids. Eyelids heavy with the effects of the
akaku ‘ili
, she nodded at Simon's pack. It was Peka.