Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

XCV. An Ode To The One-Eyed Woman & Her Tarot Cards

14
Scott
New Illyria, LA
The Marquisʼ Place
October 31st, 2014
Time: 9:00 AM
____________________________

      I remember you.

     Even as a ghost, the Marquisʼ Place still owned the dark, gritty world. Chained to a rhythm Scott did not understand. In the murky glow of the dawn, incense flowed out of bronze censors, and the syrupy Louisianan were just as dusty as the dying dandelions. The sighs of the dead rolled off the tongue of the wind, and as his flashlight touched the rosewood vanities of this dead, forgotten place, he felt the breath of an older manʼs cigarette smoke against his neck.

     The lingering essence of cinnamon and clove, the cries of lust and abuse that caressed the walls. Frayed ribbons, torn gowns of midnight blue and black samite fabric, heels smashed, makeup smeared. A real sh*t show.

     The Marquis was a dying temptress, one he heard stories of from those who came before. But for the courtesans that roamed her halls, it was dyinʼ slow in a living hell. Waiting for some man with a hungry appetite and a murderous libido to wipe you out.

      He remembered.

      "Hello?"

      Silence.

      But God knew he remembered.

     "F*ckinʼ hell," he muttered under her breath.

     It was here.

     Had to be.

     He spilled into the hallway, the crunching leaves echoing with every cautionary step. Underneath the slanted, smashed wall posts, he continued scouring the house for his documents, weapons, bearings. The Marquis was a Hellbender tower, their sanity – all their secrets, their sins were buried here, waiting for him to uncover them – and Scott was ready to break it down. For Gabriel. For the day he may have his taste of blood. And so, he savaged the house. Him and the house, pinching through every memory that was more agonizing than the last.

     Pushing, shoving the things that were in his way. The dead women, lying on the ground with their dresses exposing their bare br*asts, their welted, desiccated skin. Kicking a naked woman to the side, Scott found his glory in the gore, and reveled in it. Anger a demon that knew no bounds.

      Maybe his demon. Lord knew he had enough of those.

     Old, alchemic and medical instruments were scattered among the brick. Sidestepping over holy water, matches, kerosene, and old religious parchments, Scott got closer to the heat of the Marquisʼ tomb. A quick f*ck, two blunts, his old whiskey still in the corner, a thousand welted scars that belted against his back and torso. He remembered. God knew he remembered.

     The old tale, as his father told him, and his father told him:

If death must take me;
and my blood-covered body heʼll bear as prey,
ruthless devour it, the roamer-lonely,
with my life-blood redden his lair in the fen:
no further for me needʼst food prepare!
However, remember, my brother,
what blesses my blood-covered body
is a sigil:

LO, praise from the prowess of people-kings
the world will begin the way it ends, by
a body of christ, for the blood of a brother,
And it was spoken thus:
Man to man, he made harangue,
From Hrothgar to Beowulf, bade him hail.
Man to man, he made harangue,
From Hrothgar to Beowulf, bade him hail.