ℬℒ𝓐𝓒𝓚 ℳ𝓐ℛ𝓢ℋ [𝔓𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤]

&&& it came to pass that a false twilight hath broken, the air scatter’d as black mold upon the earth or as an émulsion de rêve, a wicked cosmic vision writ upon the wooden marsh and trap-sand whereupon the very trees did murmur strange tongues, and I, in the depths of slumber, dream’d of the lake pressing forth blood from the rocks beneath, and the Great Light dripping as honey from the heavens, du ciel et des étoiles mêmes, and the purple sky was plung’d into the abyss, oozing forth sweet golden nectar until all was swallow’d by darkness, and lo, this wild land hath (a eu) laid its claim upon me as though I were naught but its vassal; for my father, he who was once known for his prolific commands, calling forth men’s loyalties unto their duty—to the lord, the crown, and to God Almighty—spake ever of such obligations, yet I, though I hearken’d unto his words, did ruminate upon a commandement supérieur: our duty above all to the wood and the water, to this very land that sustaineth us, and now, two decades apart from that dissolving memory, I stand amidst the damp and rot of the marsh, dans les roseaux et la boue of this land of servitude; and in the windows of the grand buildings, and in the shadows at the edge of my periphery, I see my father no longer as he was in life—nay, his flesh is long gone, consumed by dampness and worms, and behold, he is now but a thing of wood, noircit et imbibé d’eau, slouch’d by the hearth, his limbs stiff as the dead, yet still he speaketh, though not as the living do, for his voice is thrown from the very walls themselves, as though moved by some cosmic puppeteer, commanding the roots of the earth; &&& it came to pass, in the days when men did hearken unto strange counsel, &&& that there were two, FranSwah and Gérard by name, who did transgress the law they had bound unto themselves, even to trust in their own maps, and the land was no land, but a span of numbers graven upon the firmament, as points upon a scroll unfurl’d, and they took their path by the Strait, even the Détroit du Lac, when the sky was as purple as wine and the splendeur of the heavens did pour forth in the breaking of the day; and lo, the canoes and skiffs arose with the dawn, set in ranks ordered as the hosts of the sea, but soon they were sever’d, each to its course into the winding canals, le dédale des marécages, and the broad expanse of Lac Synklarr, so called by FranSwah and those of New France; and the lake did stretch and swell as a thing unending, its waters as a maiden untouched and undefiled, swaying betwixt the horizons of the earth as the heavens above did reflect upon its surface; now these two, FranSwah and Gérard, were brought together by the word of Mother, who had knowledge of them by way of Pierre, who once had fallen prey to the craft of FranSwah, for he was a man of great ruse and la sagesse des hommes; thus, they departed into the vast wilderness, into the depths of the earth, trusting neither in their maps nor in the wisdom of men, but rather in that which is invisible and incalculable; and lo, the morning did break upon the Detroit, but it was no simple dawn, for the sky was hued in violet profond, as though the heavens were dyed by some cosmic hand, the air thick and dense as it s’accrochait to the waters, moving not as a breath of life but as a murmur, un murmure d’inconnu et oublié, scatter’d like spores of mold upon the winds; and upon this water, calm and vast, the canoes and skiffs of the habitants de la Nouvelle-France did stir, moving silently as if compelled by an unseen force, proceeding in ranks tight and ordered as an army of the sea, but soon each was drawn from its course, turning aside into the labyrinthine ways of the flats, the marshes, and the maze of canals leading unto “de Lac Sinklayrr”; the lake, as muddl’d by FranSwah and those who knew the wild tongues of this ancient land, appear’d ever-expanding, un corps d’eau neither beginning nor ending, stretching far beyond what the eye could measure, its waters pristine, untouched, virginal—rocking gently as a young maiden unmark’d by man, cradling the horizons between earth and heaven until both were one; in that hour, as the sky burn’d with shades of violet profond, FranSwah and Gérard knew they had enter’d a world not their own, a place where moting, étrange light was strange and the land murmured of choses inconnues et oubliées, the strait, once familiar, become a place of dark beauty where the laws of nature bent under the weight of some hidden force, unseen but ever-present; and lo, my blood-sweat curl’d and twist’d into the pitch and sap of the earth, seeking to bind itself unto the soil, drawn deep into the foul womb of the marsh, and behold, a man of copper, burnish’d as though forged in ancient fires, did plunge his blade into my flesh, yet it was no true blade but a dull forgery of times long vanish’d; My son, a voice spake unto me, look behind thee, and I turn’d to see a child, his hands kneading clay as though shaping a thing born of his own mind, for he commanded this illusion of a golem, and behold, the blade had punctur’d naught, I did not bleed, the pitch is pure, do not let it bleed into thee, Yes, Mother, I whisper’d, my voice naught but wind through reeds, thou art not hidden in the grass, she spake again, cease thy shameful display, for the lord approacheth, hide thyself, but I was no longer in the open fields; I had pass’d into a tunnel unknown to the lord, deep beneath the greatest canal, where shadows danced like idle marionettes conjur’d not by flesh but by idle play, born neither of urgency nor fear; as I mov’d deeper, a new path reveal’d itself, unseen before, and there stood a little man, beckoning me to leave, but I was not ready; thou art reckless, he spake, Jacques nearly perish’d trying to ascend yonder path; thou shouldst wait for his return from Acadia… and lo, his voice became as my mother’s, the two voices melding and parting like shadows cast by a swinging lamp, ever elusive; the little men led me deeper into the earth, where air was thick and foul with age, and there I saw a figure, a man of wood, hunched with a finger rais’d, a wick burning at its tip, revealing the face of the lord in crude effigy, we had to know what he looked like… the little man mutter’d; the Bouchards have vanish’d into the flats, where the lake mirrors the heavens, marshes and grasses rise tall, canals weave endlessly, navigable only by the rarest of wood runners, spectral figures whose language unravels as if the land twists their tongues; the hermits were here before Cadillac, before the French, and my father was one, shap’d by the land, forged from copper, wood, and mud, a lost man without root or name; my mother whisper’d of him as the Scarecrow, who took on my father’s emptiness, becoming as he was—a man of air and decay; at first, they were unalike, but over years they ventur’d together into the flats, merging until they were one; Mother says both are dead, but something moves behind the walls when my father’s figure appears, crude and waterlogged; she has seen the effigy, heard its voice, though she speaks little, saying it is the little men who speak, summoned by hermits like my father, but her words are sharp, fearful; others I’ve ask’d are stricken silent, fading into marsh shadows as if the land consumes them; my horse was found by my youngest brother, skeletal, near death; I recall not what befell her; we hid her, Elysee Bouchard cared for her; My son, that name haunts us forever, Yes, Mother; but much she does not know—my second home, a property left to her by debtors seeking refuge in the flats, who vanish’d after her contracts, existing only in void, known to hermits and Powatomiwe traders who keep vast, unknowable records; when Jacques returns from Cousin Errol’s distant realm where du Lac meets The Detroit straite, and then the Detroit straite meets the Strait of the Lake and winding corridors of flats remain’d with hope to be forever unmapped, I shall learn more; Errol was guided there by a favor to Mother, before Pierre came; ah, Pierre, effete and nebbish, yet clever; we trust him more than we ought; he knows little of my affairs; My son, Mother asks, why not have Pierre deliver your contracts? and I laugh, for much she will never understand; and

it came to pass that I dream’d upon the lake, my sweat mingling with blood, seeking the wound I thought was there, as I roll’d within visions of a faceless manikin thrusting a red-fuming copper rapier into my back until the vision decay’d, slipping swiftly away, and I beheld a man lying dead against a skeletal tree, in boggish land where vagrants’ children run, scraping against reeds, inhaling spores of Stachybotrys, ergotamines, and other unknowable things of decay; I saw the fleur de tan—slime mold, bark flower—growing along trees and tunnels, tracin’ eorum patterns qui led me again to Black Marsh—the Marais Noir of local fable and myth, and I say now in times passed: the Marait Noir was un thought de a wandering et forse, Yea, a place where fiendish mens mind to imagine leurs rituals et la manière they used wooden dummies et homines in rotten effigy et all ces lenses et mirrors et sable et raw coke from leurs tar kilns.—the Black Marsh, that reeking place of wooden reeds crack’t into un-holy shapes where men tread at wretch’d lost hours, a place erasing itself with the sunrise over Lake St. Claire, the fungi and bizarre flora receding into trap-sands &&& it was within mine throe of assassination by some crude automatoic weapon, on the path holding up a knife, a bag of bread- there he was, a shadow barely holding onto a nimble young boy and I shout’t Yea, young man, I need—- &&& as his countenance tighten’d pass’d me with concern, holding distance, yet lock’d eyes with me and spake: Oh, sir, I must be on my way but… that… &&& he did walk towards me panting and as he drank foul Ferventia and he did affect a voice of pointing to my waist and chest, averting his gaze before fleeing, and I was swept into another state, feeling as though caught within interlock’d wood-cut zoetropes, a broken kaleidoscopic toy, out of body, watching myself seek a wound that was not there, yet drops fell, leaving a fresh trail, until daylight reveal’d the truth—it was not blood but ink; I was far beyond the outer marshes, beyond Grosse Pointe, beside the ever-changing Grand Marsh, wander’d up and down the river, lurching upon my horse through sleepy hallucinations of settlements copying each other, blurred signs, monstrous plants, structures resembling barns but serving no purpose, dreamish impressions fleeing the majestic arc, away from water and home, prompting me to turn back, drenched in oily sweat as my horse turn’d against the wind; the majestic arc… my father explain’d it simply when I was a child, as we camp’d by the lakeside, trekking paths unworn and overrun with weeds, nature still fighting; he spake with clarity that startled me: Between New Orleans and Quebec is a majestic arc of golden light that peaks exactly where we lay—and he tore meat with soft teeth, unable to chew it all, stripping it like a beast, looking upon me as though I did the same, eating like a slave bound by hunger &&& and it came to pass that Gérard and FranSwah were given a task, and a canoe fashioned of the Yew Tree, which Pierre had received following the fire of 1765, from the days when New France was of young men and ancient customs &&& and Gérard spake unto me of the doomed unholy mixture of unholy mathematics and the reeking marsh-woods, tiled into men suspended as desired to make proper peace, to breathe wooden air and burn as the aphasia became operative unto their fate &&& so then is there FranSwah, deterred only by his shadow-self, pushed through this bogged graveyard as their paddles splintered as they tried to break through densely woven &&& rotten black-wheate fibrous-structure reeds &&& click into the lattice, yea, FranSwah said—as told by Gérard in confidence—as the little men listened deep down in the tunnel: “Ensure thou count’st the length of cords. Beware the false twilight, sir, and do pack our pipes as I row,” and Gérard duly counted the cords as just the two men alone did amble in petrified quiet as diligent &&& admirably self-coined during the fortnjtely victorious Coureurs des Errant: Kings of Error”, and was assured in his ability to do so without having to cede land within their own conspiracy, one which they assured another equally as to its viability within the temperament of their employer &&& behold, on this very day did mine eyes fall once more upon the Frenchman, the animate scarecrow who walks and lo, his gaze was fastened upon me, filled with disbelief and a strange, unnatural thrill, as though time itself had ceased its course, yea, he did sit within the tavern, where men gather’d for foolish mirth, skulls held up by terrible actors; men who could not even impersonate or even dare play themselves &&& there he, the somnambulant scarecrow, with whirling wooden games ticking and metronomically controlling the tempo of the room, all these phantasmic works, his foin effiloché et rouillé housing these impii enginements and geared machinery sustaining his countenance &&& there the Frenchman, my Father, play’d at cards, bellowing like a beast stricken by madness, making of himself a wretched jester, as one who hath squander’d all his gold, and yes, I did see him raise his hand, and with trembling finger point toward me, and I beheld the rotten tableaux for its God-furnished reeking nakedness, all the men that did surround him did turn their gaze upon me, as though ensnared by some face they knew too distantly to trust, and they did play games beyond games using mirrors and I announced, yea, let this stained glass smashed reveal great beaming pinhole worlds, gleaming, ever-manifesting camera obscura and laughed and drank potions of Datura stramonium (Devil’s Trumpet), Atropa belladonna (Deadly Nightshade) tincture, Mandragora officinarum (Mandrake Root Elixir), Hyoscyamus niger (Henbane Brew), Amanita muscaria (Fly Agaric Mushroom Decoction), Nicotiana rustica (Wild Tobacco Infusion), Sassafras albidum (Sassafras Tea), Salix alba (Willow Bark Decoction), Panax quinquefolius (Ginseng Tincture), and Hypericum perforatum (St. John’s Wort Infusion), and it did make us all gay and then soon ill &&& I withdrew, and there was ice upon my spine, as though the very breath of void were upon me, and I made my way in haste toward the river, even unto the dark waters of the Detroit, to the marsh, one I was never able to find again, and which did murmur strange things beneath the heavens.