Gone the Tides of Earth

The game was afoot ever since leaving estate - finally at sundown a great party commenced, festivities of the night turning into a whole different beast. Beforehand, sometime along families, certainly all youths had retired from the field. Those who remained were recruits, drifters, tent-dwellers; mostly a rowdy type of spectator entertaining grand expectations of debauchery, intent on putting dents in the part of brain which processes memory. Evening onward any available meals became sparse, non-perishable, and alcohol grossly expensive. Vendors carted supplies as well; spare bits of cloth, cut into little squares, sold pants, t-shirts to the ratchet and defunct.

For three us musketeers already adequately indulged, by time heads swam with light, loud had almost a quarter’s accruals spent. So’s also it was we learned that the females’ purses had far greater volumes of paper than allotments via money orders. Despite, time again when they offered to cover next round blended vanity, disinterest towards saving drove the compulsion of patriarchal valuation. Alas vis-à-vis authority of nursing women ourselves cut off, from then on were forced to haggle, convincing wrecked partygoers to part with beverages on behalf of men-in-service.

On a stage centered afield pyrotechnicians conducted a steady stream of fireworks. If you had not a handkerchief to breathe through, bought from the merchants - pyros blasting fire and smoke at thirty-minute intervals - the sulphur was asphyxiating. Part reason you drank so much was to rinse out the after-effect: sting like ghost of pain having teased flame to fingertip, tinge of charcoal taste. Soon enough mouths, lungs were coated with residue, eyes burning, skins bathing in static-electric air.

‘Nursing bigger dividends,’ Cian jabbered. ‘Much high, muchly more dividends. Bigger, bigger payoff - better nurse be.’

‘Shut up, Cian,’ Alci replied.

‘Sorry. Too crapulous. These are our nurses. Paid dividends.’

‘And they purchased all your drinks. Buffoon.’

‘No. Men pay. Cannot let women. Proper ideals. Man’s treat.’

‘They switched out cash, put papers back in your idiot manly pockets.’

‘Misinformation,’ the Irish blurted.

‘No, darling, it’s true,’ said Alethea.

‘Better yet then. Thought have to pay IOUs now on.’

‘No more for you to drink, sweetheart.’

The music played from a tent farther afield below plateau, venue dogged and hounded like a would-be rave. Its setlist was mostly digitally-mixed tracks and older songs from lost generations. No tune nor mechanical melody went with accompaniment of vocals, this made it alright. Some moments, I caught myself humming along before realizing it was a song I had not heard in a lifetime. Other times instead reminded of old movies, television programs, symphonies, sensation of being a part of forgotten eras.

Blind, I reached into a pocket, took out the money order form; the margins of the sheet where you filled in monetary details of a transaction were pencil-erased or vacant except one. Courtney had been swapping out her own cash, prying the sad excuse for payment out the hands of surly booze vendors. After a good few hour hedonism, we were coming away from the deafening noise, explosions to foodstands adjacent beer gardens where artsy pavilions, umbrellas had been set up for the event.

‘Cutesy.’

‘I love this,’ added Alethea. ‘Let’s get these drunken fools fed so maybe an entire night is not lost.’

‘If The Fates will it.’

‘Cian irks me this night. Should we send them lovers off?’

‘I think we’ll be going sooner than later too, chap.’

‘Leaves me alone, like usual.’

A hostess escorted us to a table beside a latticed rail, twinkle lights twining the spaces. Lamps hung on wires over the rail and a candle at the center of each table. Drink menus were propped open, one for all five seats.

‘Like Christmas,’ Cian said, bopping a bulb of the lattice cords. ‘Tis’ Christmastide, Yuletide, Merry Christmas.’

‘Christougena,’ corrected Alethea.

‘Kooky Gena,’ Cian affirmed.

‘Shall we have one more?’ Court asked, primarily looking to me.

‘Why not.’

‘One more before friends abandon me.’

Cian shot a hand up in the air abruptly, to summon a barista. They all were busy and a while later the bartender came himself. He took our order and told us that to request food we had to go out direct to the stands.

‘I will procure seven chili cheese dogs,’ Alci stood, edging around. ‘One each for us ladies and two apiece for degenerates.’

Alethea ended up fronting funds to cover the expense. Bartender brought us stout IPAS, white wine for women, as per Cian’s belligerent request. Beany dairy meat, bitter bolt hops and the drink quantities prior yielded to be a poor mix; liquored powder keg stomachs sparked, iron guts starting to rust. Stupor ceased momentarily when the grub and liquid fill became too much. Alci, Cian pretended to joust with the remnants of their sloppy wieners, garnered Alethea’s amusement.

‘Are you done manufacturing your feelings?’ Courtney said subtly.

‘Just so. Got canned by plant. No good production operator.’

‘Worked in a factory, did you?’

‘And in a warehouse. Only a few months each.’

‘Fell behind the grade, a slacker fired?’

‘The same. Reason why do not have same success as Cian.’

‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘Just so, milady. Lead the way.’

Sobered, the night air was cold and clear later on, my senses started getting sharper. We walked past the town and out into the country. There were tall woods either side of road, older and bushy, columns lining brink of pavement. The trees standing right to the edge hid the odd driveway, house, the overall trajectory narrow, windy. Finding no pathway through the thickness of brush, meandered in middle of the road.

‘I love the dark when it’s cool and transparent,’ Courtney spoke.

‘Me same. Afraid a car might hit us, though.’

‘We’ll have to wait and see.’

She turned in to face me under sky black. Full moon was over the road, purple and plethora of stars blue, bright. Pressed her body against mine, pulled head down and kissed. Icy hands interlaced around neck, she was staring up at me, I caressed her about waist with both arms. No description for gazing into those sapphire eyes.

‘Shall we?’

‘You’re freezing.’

‘Then warm me up.’

Forced close together, we composed ourselves in a waltz-like position, commenced. The night silent, wind scarce, us two affianced danced across the road, limited poise, skill. Looking at each other’s faces whole time made it worthwhile. Many instances formation went asunder, turning into sequences of poor-man ballroom fiascos, teasing the talent necessary to rumba or tango. At the finale it was a slow dance.

‘Close your eyes,’ I said. She did.

I went into a jacket pocket, got out the ring, holding one of her chilled hands went down on a knee.

‘Open.’ She did.

Courtney arched her left hand daintily, I slid the diamond onto the ring finger. She raised me up by the shoulders, I took hold at small of back, beneath the legs and lifted her clear of the ground into arms. Breathless, kissed in the moonlight, soft darkness of the nighttime trees and hidden road.

‘I am yours; you are mine,’ she said.

‘Man and wife.’

‘You may kiss the bride.’ We kissed again, holding to it long. ‘Now time for our honeymoon.’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘Please sir, rescue me from tower dungeon. Oh! away from here, sweet prince, so in union can be made one. That our love rings true.’

A damp breeze picked up, there would be dew on the grass by now. It was getting colder out on the road; trees swayed gently, the moon climbed. We held each other tight, beamed, I kissed my fantasy bride there for once last.

‘What if I’m a bad guy - your captor?’

‘Well mister monster: steal me back to your lair - I crave you in me.’