THE IVORY TOWERS OF THE RED MARSH

The Marsh quivered with a screech, the noise of a crimson call reminiscent of sharp bone dragged over a seeping wound, jagged edges crushed and scattered. Its maker had found a prize. Found a sweet bit of life with which to feast and sustain its monstrous engine. One less home now stood on the path to oblivion. One less distraction remained to pique the demon's interest.

At the distant cry, the Good Man’s wife pulled him close in bed, wrapping her arms tightly around his chest from behind. She slept soundly, no doubt dreaming of another life. Yet he was wide awake, anxious for the first rays of dawn that he might continue his work. There was only one goal in the Marsh, one task, and he would see it done: Keep your family safe.

Tonight, someone failed in this task. Tonight, someone had allowed the night wanderer, the great beast, Tamoleg, to pull their family down from their perch and rip them limb from limb. For such a fate, the only mercy any could hope was for a swift death. Many cried in prayer for an artery to be severed soon as its maw came closed. Many were not so lucky. Most were chewed upon for many minutes, their agonized screams a permanent addition to any listener's imaginative wanderings. And motivation. To the Good Man, those screams were all the motivation he required to complete his one task.

The screech echoed again, a lonely warning call, its warbling pitch sharp and morose. Alarms blared.

The Good Man eased away from his wife and tucked the diaphanous bed sheets under her, eliciting a dreamy groan from her lips as he snuck off. He had had enough rest, his mind already too busy to take any more. He went for the kitchen and made tea, placing a dented copper kettle atop their root fueled stove. Such a rare item in the Marsh. Nothing so fine came from here.

Once the water had reached a boil, the black leaves within steeped for a time beneath a damp rag, he poured the contents into a hollowed gourd and stepped out onto the balcony of their high stilted home. He rested his nose on the lip of the cup, a veil of steam obscuring his view from the banister. Over the black horizon he could hear the hungry machine, its half-demon, half-metal form churning and pumping and groaning as it retired to the den in which it rested. The Good Man wondered briefly where that place was.

"Sleep well," he murmured. “Sleep forever.”

The pre-dawn sky was shifting into colors, transitioning from a state of fitful sleep into a golden moment of calm, of safety, of cool air and clear thought. The Good Man felt a flicker of nostalgic peace at this time, yet fragile as it was, delicate as a thread of blown glass tumbling in the wind, this sentiment fled in haste under the threat of labor that lay ahead. A sliver of rusty foreboding dug into his heart as calm faded, pushing aside the many vessels to banish all sense of contentment that traveled through his veins. Daybreak was upon him. The one task remained.

Laughter burst from inside the hut, accompanied by a pitter-patter of soft footfalls on woven reeds. He could hear his wife uttering hushed tones, whispers to their beautiful child, just as rays of clarifying dawn shot through the open doorway. The Good Man finished off his tea, swishing the remnants of leaves and dark liquid around in his gourd before he ventured back inside.

Within moments of waking, his daughter was already being given a bath. Morning was the best time for children to be made clean. The day was then theirs to enjoy, theirs to revel in. A good time. A safe time.

"I want them to be a building," the Good Man's daughter said as she stacked a series of wooden soldiers, toys made of the rarest material in all the Marsh, atop one another in the bath. "I will make them higher and higher."

"The higher, the better," her mother agreed. "Till we find ourselves in the clouds."

A beautiful thought, though impossible. A pipe dream, as they used to say.

The Good Man glanced at his wife and child, then turned away, swallowing his unease. He could not recall with any clarity how they had ended up in this place, an endless expanse of red grass and winding streams of crisp, pure water. He could almost remember the City, its concrete structures wrought with bones of steel and roads stacked with cars, but its details as time went on were as slippery to hold as rice slugs. He was only sure that it was hunger that had driven them here. Yet, in the Red Marsh, his Now Home, food was ever abundant. Small game roamed the fields, easy to trap in pits or down with steel-tipped white arrows. Then there were the plentiful roots, tubers and carrots, onions and hawknut, of which all grew freely. Not to mention rice, more than a man could eat in all eternity. Unlike the City, no one here wanted for nutrition, so long as they had the motivation to leave their tower and take it. In the Marsh, folk only wanted for safety. Safety was in short supply, not available at your local store for one dollar ninety-nine.

"Another fell last night," the Good Man said. His wife nodded, a lock of dark hair tumbling into her vision.

She brushed it away with a soapy set of fingers, then proceeded to wash their happily playing daughter's back. "Busy day, then."

"Busy day."

"I'll go out, but I won't wander far. Gather up the rice. Make dinner."

He grimaced, stomach twisting into knots. "Keep your eyes open. I want the both of you to be here when I get back. Behind the locks. It's better that way."

"We will be," she said, and gave him a hug. "Do what you must."

He bent over and kissed his daughter on the head. "Get all clean and help your mother. Be good for her."

"I will," she said, focusing the majority of her attention on the wooden dolls. "Bye, Dada."

"Bye, love."

***

The sun hung low like a fiery fruit perched upon the horizon. The Good Man felt ready, a few bites of porridge on his belly, a touch of caffeine to sharpen his mind. He gathered up his buckskin satchel of tools, opened the lock to the trap door on their hut's balcony, and descended. Over the years he had built their tower tall, its six stilts an interlocking lattice of white reaching skyward more than nine times his height. His ambitions had been lofty, sure enough, and yet still there were towers that stood higher. Several sets of marshfolk had even banded together, squeezing into a smaller space than theirs for a common goal. It was the name of the game. The Good Man knew all too well, Tamoleg fed on the lowest towers and those who roamed the Marsh at night.

The higher you were, the safer you would be.

At ground level lay a rack made of pale, stretched leather, its length more than four strides across, the surface set at a gentle angle. From end to end, it was lined with various pieces of ivory and white that happened to be the same material as the stilts on which his home stood. The pieces faced the rising sun, allowing nature to bleach his stock of construction materials. Yesterday had been a good day. He had extracted what was required of the dearly departed and burned what remained. A fitting end as marshfolk saw it. He hoped very much that by afternoon they would be filling the great pair of heat envelopes that sagged to either side of his tower, hot-air balloons stitched of thin leather.

Raise the tower.

Lift it from the ground.

Add onto the stilts.

Earn safety from Tamoleg.

Out of habit, he rifled through his satchel of tools before going any further. He had a razor-sharp axe with a titanium head, an ivory knife made of animal bone, a length of grass rope, and a kit of precision tools designed for cutting and shaping small things. The contents of the satchel were his greatest treasures in all the world beside his family, things he had brought with him from the City that without he could not complete the one task. He tied the bag closed once more, tossed it over his shoulder, and took up the lead of a wooden litter. 

He peered over his shoulder at his family's tower, appraising its chances of seeing another dawn. Those chances seemed good for now, he thought, though not good enough for his taste. He was ambitious, a real go-getter. Nothing in his life had been left to chance. Tamoleg had found itself a meal and would be ever more hungry. He hoped his wife would heed his advice and be careful while he was out. There were some in the Marsh who had no morals and would take what they wished, just like the creature they feared. There were rules here, if not laws, but that hardly mattered when the game of survival was afoot.

The Good Man set off into the wider marsh, feet stomping through muddy soil, the litter at his back bending the blades of stomach-high, red grass. He had noticed over time that its colors changed. Something was not natural about the shade of this place, as if God had nothing to do with its design. The grass was brown at the base, beige tapering off until it became crimson. Yet it was the seeds where most of its vibrance was held. Every blade was bursting with amorous casings as bright as fresh blood, desiring nothing more than to spread, to procreate like rubies cast into the womb of eternity.

Within minutes, dozens of towers rose at the edge of view, ivory pillars topped with brown. It reminded him of the City, and of commuting to his job, so many people crammed in such a small space that it forced them to adopt a certain level of insanity just to keep from murdering one another. The structures ahead were much like his Now Home, small huts built upon platforms of woven reeds held skyward by white latticed stilts of varying levels of craftsmanship. There was one major difference, however. He had opted to build his tower away from the others, hoping Tamoleg would not venture so far. While it was true, where people collected it was easier to pool uncommon resources, the Good Man felt it was also easier for one to take advantage of another.

In his opinion, the risk did not outweigh the benefit.

The fields about the village of towers, if it could even be called such, were alive with women digging for roots and children chasing one another through the grass. Out of all the homes, only one or two men were in sight. They eyed the Good Man with trepidation and had every right to do so.

"Good dawn," he called to the nearest of them.

The man, middle-aged and well-built, with sun-dark skin and eyes sharp as winter, scowled at him and nodded in return. There was strength here. "Not much left. Pickers came early."

"As I would have thought."

"Aye." The other man lowered his hand and rested his palm on the head of an axe shoved through his belt. "Now move on."

The Good Man did as he was bade.

From the expressions written across the faces of the casual onlookers, he knew in which direction the fallen tower lay. He had a good feeling he even knew who it had been. Flicker.

As right as anyone could be in the marsh, Flicker always made kind with folk during the annual High-Noon Gathering of Life. It was the only time during the year that any marshfolk spoke openly, made fellowship, and allowed their children to take mates. It made for awkward conversation, each of their towers being a social island unto itself, everyone far out of practice in pleasantries and small talk. Yet it was necessary. Without the taking of mates, making of new families, a generation would pass and there would be nothing but dust to call humankind. It was a hard truth, but immutable.

The Good Man found that with each consecutive High-Noon Gathering, he had even less to say than the one before. In the City talk had been all people did, him included, flapping their gums with incessant fervor just to hear their mouth move, to make their opinions, worthless as dirt as they were, known to all and at every moment in time. Yet on the open marsh, words had a way of dying before they reached the lips of men and women alike. This was not a place for words, it was a place for action, for will. Flicker had lost his will, sure as night. Flicker had allowed his neighbors to build their home higher. Flicker, and his family, his family, had paid the ultimate price for his weakness.

The village receded at the Good Man's back. He pulled his satchel closer, the weight of the tools comforting against him. It was time to find fresh material, but not here. They could keep their strength of numbers for all he cared. All fell apart when Tamoleg came to feed. The night wanderer was too powerful for anyone to fight with the weapons they possessed now. Even the few guns that would surface from time to time, deadly as they may be, were about as effective against Tamoleg as tossing pebbles at a tank.

The Good Man set off in a new direction, spotting a tower on the outskirts of the village. He moved in a crouch, doing his best to keep beneath the vibrant red of the high grass. He reached into his satchel and removed the titanium axe, both light and sharp. He was close to Flicker's tower. He knew this for the rusted oil derrick and crumbling maintenance shed, the ivy tangled Chevy truck long since bisected by God knows what.

A wizened old chap stood behind the truck. The Good Man considered the geriatric for a moment, a face he did not recognize, long white hair, thin arms with little muscle that showed the outline of every bone beneath the skin. He licked his lips and felt his heart pound with excitement, though instinct held him back. In a land of abundant food, few became so thin. Sweat formed on the Good Man's brow despite the cool air, his hand tightening on the haft of his axe. He glanced at the litter behind him and made a calculation. It would be easy, sure, but was it worth it?

He stood, and with a wave made himself known. The Chevy was between them. "Good dawn." He came to a stop within five or six strides of the elder.

The Old Man pulled his head from inside the truck, thoughts likely fixed on the cloudy past as happened to them all. It took several moments for him to focus on the Good Man. He took a step closer and grinned, fear making no appearance in his rheumy eyes.

The Good Man regarded him and gave another quick inspection of the material at hand. The Old Man had spots on his dark skin, lesions and puss-ringed wounds. When he flashed a sharp grin, the Good Man could see that all his teeth were still in his head. The axe became heavy at the Good Man's side. Heavier than usual.

"You heard it, didn't you?" The Old Man leaned against the severed truck like a rake in retrograde. "Every few nights, it's at least one. I've been keeping record for a long, long time. This time of year, Tamoleg comes three nights in a row, then disappears for seven. On the seventh he'll find four meals, then two, then one. There were more than just this, make no doubt. We just didn't hear them fall."

"Flicker?" the Good Man asked, his chest pounding. The wood of the axe's haft was moist with nervous sweat.

It took a moment for the Old Man to process the name. His eyebrows knit, and he reached inside the truck, removing a curious piece of silver metal from a recess within the door. A coin.

"Strange, don't you think?" The Old Man held the piece of metal up, sun reflecting off its scarred surface. What looked like a face embossed upon the coin was so far beyond recognition it looked like an animal’s silhouette. "We used to kill men for these, in silver and in gold and in paper. For a hunk of trash and a promise of an easier life, but where are we now? Eh? In a field that embodies the very blood we shed, playing a new game that isn't so new."

The Good Man began to raise his axe. Even though the truck was between them, it would be easy to move around it. The Old Man had no chance. The Good Man let go of the litter and tightened his grip on the axe. Quickly, a breath, maybe two, and it would be over.

"Go someplace else." The Old Man raised a hand. "I'm not worth the effort. I've got the rot, can't you see? Don't worry, it ain't catchin' unless you come over here and let me slip the old willy up your ass. Case you don't know, it touches not only flesh but bone. I'm brittle, ya hear me? I've got breaks."

And with that, the Good Man put his axe away. He had only so much space on the litter. No space for anything brittle.

As he turned to leave, the Old Man spoke again, "And yes, it were Flicker. He's fallen, and the pickers have been quick. You'll make little gain there and the day has only so many hours left. Yet I will give a small piece of advice for free. I suppose I owe you a token for my head. At the edge of the pits, I saw a traveler coming in with the fog. Someone seeks to cross the marsh. Dangerous work, don't you think? There are creatures worse than Tamoleg that walk this place."

The Good Man tipped his head in thanks. "Good dawn."

"And a good dawn to you."

For more than an hour he labored his way across the marsh, the red of the windswept grass leaving crosshatched marks along his waist. It was a clear, cloudless day, and he swore mountains could be seen on the horizon. He wondered if that place was safer than the lowlands. Perhaps there would be a city, a place like where he came from. Full of cars and people and guns. A place where Tamoleg, even with all its great strength, dared not go. There had to be a reason the creature favored marshfolk as prey. It could be afraid of loud noises and crowds of people like a wild animal. But no, this idea didn't seem right either. There was a reason Tamoleg roamed the Marsh, but it was not out of fear—another motivation drove its engine.

Images of the City played at the back of the Good Man's mind, memories he wasn't positive belonged to him or someone else. Maybe it didn't matter. It had been so long since he'd lived that life, it might as well have been someone else. He was not that person anymore. He did not push papers or add numbers, sit in meetings and go to conferences.

Time passed. A herd of deer leaped through the tall grass at the edge of view. Birds twittered, singing their oblivious songs.

The Good Man started to wonder if the elder was only seeking a way to ensure he saw another dawn, his token worthless as the coin he found in the Chevy's door, but then he saw something. Far in the distance, a dark smudge appeared, poking its way up from the grass. The Good Man tossed his satchel onto the litter and doubled his pace. Even at a distance, it was clear that this traveling stranger was much stronger than anyone he'd come across in some time, a body with broad shoulders, a tall frame. Thick boned. The day was yet young, and so there was little possibility of sneaking up on him. The Good Man didn't even try. He had other means than surprise.

At a distance of twenty strides the Stranger spun around, took a step back, eyes wide, then laughed. He doubled over and put his hands on his knees, letting out a sigh of relief.

"Damn! Good morning, sir!" The Stranger adjusted the overburdened pack on his back. "You scared the living hell out of me." A few metal pots and pans clinked against a spade where they hung from carabiners at his side. On an outside mesh pocket, a slender bottle made of glass was in view, the words, Jack Daniels, printed down the side. This was a worthy find.

The Good Man waved an open hand, unsure of what to say. Conversation was not his strong point. What was it again they’d talked about in the City when you met someone new? Weather? Work? Family and children? Dreams?

No. Those things mattered. Those things had value. Whatever it was they'd spoke of meant nothing in the end. All was meaningless. Small talk for small people.

"Damn. You're the first person I've seen in weeks," the Stranger went on. "God, it's scary out here, don't you think? I heard something scream last night. It echoed all across this marshy quagmire. I didn't like the sound of it, big and yet so lonely. So damned lonely. What the hell was it? I think it's hungry. Don't you? Hungry?"

That's right, the Good Man thought. That's right! Let them do the talking. That was what he always did. He let them talk it out.

He added his best response, which was a shrug.

"I'm headed for the mountains in the west. It's the only safe place now. The City’s gone bad like a rotting limb. Gang green set in and it needs lopping off. There's nobody left." The Stranger flexed his biceps as he gripped the backpack's straps. He was strong and tall. Best be quick.

Always quick.

The Stranger pivoted at an angle, a bird taking flight. When he spun back, a glint of silver came from his belt. A revolver.

It was impossible for the Good Man's attention not to fall on the weapon. So rare and yet so deadly, delicate as confection in a place like this. The Stranger noticed his attention and licked his lips, wetting the cracked and dry flesh.

"I'm guessing you don't see many of these." The Stranger rested his hand on the grip with pride.

"Can I see it?" The Good Man asked, breathless, envious. “Just a little look.”

The Stranger took a step back and frowned. His eyes searched for an answer to a question his instincts had presented. "I don't think that's a good idea."

The axe was light in the Good Man’s grip. "Please, I just want it for a second.” He licked his lips. “Take a look at--"

The Stranger moved to draw the revolver but was too slow. The Good Man swept his titanium axe up in an arc and slashed the Stranger across the throat. Blood spurted from the Adam's apple and the gun discharged, sending flocks of blackbirds scattering to the four winds. Hands shot out and gripped the Good Man's shirt. Terrified and bleeding, the Stranger fought. The butt of the revolver came down and struck the Good Man on the right side of his face. An explosion of white-hot pain filled his vision. He stumbled back and took another blow to the head, the world going hazy.

The Stranger touched his throat, fingers coming back red. His face paled. "I'm... Gods..."

Taking advantage of the distraction, the Good Man rushed forward, lashing out with his axe several times. A slash caught the Stranger on his forearm and the man let out a chirping gasp. The revolver tumbled from the Stranger's limp fingers and fell onto soft ground. The Good Man crashed onto him, and used the blade of the axe to widen the wound just above the Stranger's Adam's apple. The Good Man felt the Stranger's fingers wrap around his throat, the grip weak and reactionary. The light in the man's eyes began to fade, the threads that connected his consciousness to perception snapping one by one, soul slipping beyond the veil.

The Stranger let go, gurgled, and clutched his own throat. He then tried one last time to push his attacker away, but the Good Man laid a hand over his mouth in a conciliatory gesture.

"Don't cry," he mumbled. "Please, don't cry. It's okay. Everything will be okay. Let go. You don’t have to hurt anymore. Let us carry your sorrow."

Several painful moments crawled past as the Stranger's struggling ceased. The Marsh returned to its former, ever pregnant disquiet, a not quite calm. The Good Man breathed heavy through his nose, removed a cloth from his pocket, and wiped off his face. Expanding pools of crimson formed beside the cooling body before him, reflecting the shapes of clouds as they strolled across the bright blue sky without concern for the affairs of those below.

It was done.

The Good Man grunted as he dragged the body onto the litter, the Stranger's long legs dangling off its end. Taller than the Good Man had thought. A good problem. Tall was good. He took up the revolver and opened the chamber to see what was left. Six spent casings were within. The Stranger had spent his last shot and had nothing to show for it but a light at the end of a tunnel. It was a shame, but what could you do?

With a glance at the position of the sun, the Good Man took a guess over the remaining daylight. He made a judgment call and set off for Flicker's tower, the burdened litter leaden with new material.

How much height would he get from the man once it was over? Two thumbs worth? Three? Hard to say. Too many factors were at play to be accurate.

The litter caught on the edge of one of Tamoleg’s great footprints, a deep impression in thick mud. The Good Man groaned and pulled until the earth finally gave way. Flicker's tower was just as the Old Man had said. The pickers had indeed already come, collecting the bits of material most likely to be reused. Nevertheless, he took his time and sifted through the rubble, stepping over crimson decorated piles of ivory. Only a few of the jagged white shapes among the debris attracted any real interest. Most were broken and worthless.

“What’s this?” he said, picking up a fist sized hunk of dark wood. In his mind’s eye, a shape formed within the mass, another figure for his daughter to play with. “She’ll like it.”

He tossed his findings atop the Stranger's corpse and set off for home, choosing a route that went wide of the village and outlying towers. There was no sense in attracting attention. He had done the work, had finished the task. This was his prize, his means to an end.

***

As he approached his home, cheerful shouts came from the hut. His wife and daughter were standing on the balcony waving to him, fat roots swinging in their hands. God be praised, there were a few hours left in the day. They had not been idly wasting time.

"Welcome back," his wife said, leaning over the balcony's rail, cleavage making an appearance through the top of her dress.

He put a hand over his eyes and looked up. A feeling of pride swelled as he saw his family. A thrill of excitement as he saw his wife. "All was well?"

"All was well. Your face, it's..."

The Good Man put a hand to his swollen cheek. He'd nearly forgotten the blows from the revolver. "I'll be fine. Just a bruise. Nothing a little rest won't solve."

She grinned at him. "I see you made good."

He gave a modest shrug. "I do my best."

The litter came to rest beside his drying screen. He slid the body of the Stranger onto an empty stretch of ground where the grass had been beaten flat. With the use of his bone knife, he cut the man's blood-stained clothes down the front, peeling them away to reveal pale, naked flesh. Remnants were thrown into a pile. The Good Man noticed that in their trip back across the Marsh, the Stranger’s shocked expression had not diminished. It was annoying. Didn't he know that a trip into this land would be dangerous? Such a surprise was unwarranted. This was the world they lived in now.

He closed the man's eyes and lifted the slack jaw.

"Start the fire?" the Good Man called to his wife.

"I will in just a moment."

He removed the other tools from his satchel, arraying them before him on the ground in an arc, and went to work on the naked body, carving away soft fat and fibrous muscle to reach the hard treasure buried beneath. The work was tedious, his intention to be quick, making best use of the daylight, but not so hasty as to damage bone, to scar it or make this material useless. It had to be strong enough to support his home and the bones of the others. Any weakness, and they might end up like Flicker. Two wives, two daughters...

Once, during a High-Noon Gathering, the Good Man had shared a gourd of hooch with Flicker. They had talked of the old days before coming to the Marsh. Flicker had been a white-collar man in the City as well. He had made decisions daily that determined the fate of thousands, accepting deals from trade partners or sending proposals back in counter offers for increased benefit, all in the name of the all-mighty bottom line, the one, true god. Then something had happened, though what he could not remember, and he was here just like the Good Man.

The Old Man had been right. Money meant nothing and never had.

The Good Man paused for a moment, putting a finger to his lips in thought. He wasn't sure why but cutting the clavicle free from a body always made him nostalgic. He licked his lips as he went back to work, tasting copper and sweat, the taste of an honest day's labor.

The Good Man's wife started a fire and was soon funneling heat into a flume. Their daughter ran circles around the field, singing songs and chasing insects that fled at her approach. The balloons draped beside the tower began to swell. His wife sorted the Stranger's belongings, throwing unnecessary items onto the burning pile while saving others. She cut out zippers and ripped free buttons, found lengths of cloth that weren't stained with crimson and removed the belt. She discovered the bottle of whiskey and took a swig without preamble, then tossed it to the Good Man. He took a drink and said a muttered prayer of thanks to whatever god would let a place like this remain. It was a good afternoon. Time enough was left to raise their home and share a meal as a family.

With blood-stained hands, the Good Man placed the bone he had recovered from within the Stranger onto the empty end of the leather drying rack. A few days in the sun and they would bleach pure white, ready to be used as material. He took up an armload of the finished bones and set them in a pile beside the pillars. He unrolled his set of fine tools. The tower began to lift from the ground, if only an inch, its massive balloons bursting with hot air. The Good Man carefully chose and shaped the ivory pieces of bone that they would fit with the rest like a puzzle. He hoped the wind would remain still to keep their lightly tethered home from flying away. The breeze was dead for a time.

"Another thumb," he mumbled an hour later, his work complete. Sunset was coming and there was no time to push for more. The balloons emptied, and the stilts of latticed bone came to rest on the earth once again. He rubbed his eyes and felt a numb sort of pride at his work.

The Good Man's wife put a hand on his shoulder. "Come now, you look exhausted. Let us have supper."

He gave a long sigh and nodded, his cracked palms a mixture of black and red. They climbed into the safety of their home, sun falling fast before them. Dinner was set on a low table. They found their places, sitting on the floor around it, saying little, filling the empty silence with mouthfuls of steaming roots and small game. The Good Man's stomach welcomed every bite. This was what it was to survive, to live while others die.

A screech echoed across the Red Marsh and the three of them froze, spoonfuls halfway to their mouths. Tamoleg had awoken, grinding and churning and groaning, ready to find its next meal.

The Good Man knew he would always do what was necessary to keep his family safe. He had done it more than once and would do it again for as long as he was able.

Tonight, Tamoleg would join a marsh family for dinner, but it would not be at the Good Man's home.