Marley Barbeau

by Michael Bazzett

1

Marley loved doing nothing. In fact, he loved nothing more. His mother sometime worried over his idleness, how he sat at a window and simply stared at the tree limbs. Now that the school year had begun, he often woke very early, crossing the cool floor to his father’s chair, the leather one by the window that still smelled of tobacco, even after two years. He’d climb inside, draw his legs neatly beneath him, and wrap himself in an afghan. He’d sit this way for an hour, his chin resting on the back of the chair, studying the curve in the road, the rusted mailbox, his eyes absentmindedly tracing the outlines of things.

“Focus Marley,” his mother would say, “Wake up. It unnerves me to see you gone so slack.”

But it helped him think, he said.

He’d spent the summer wandering almost as much as his mind did, disappearing into the woods for hours, nosing around with his dog, Elmer, thinking whatever thoughts ran his way. And for an eleven-year-old boy he thought quite a bit, even if he appeared to be doing nothing but lying in clover, staring at the sky, watching clouds sledding on the wind. Have there ever been two clouds with exactly the same shape, he wondered. He doubted it. Would the world end on the day that coincidence finally occurred? Maybe. That would be a poetic ending to things.

On this particular Saturday in September, Marley was wondering about one very specific thing: why was it taking his father so long to return from the mines in South Africa? He’d been gone for a little over two years, and they’d had no word from him for months. Elmer sprinted ahead, along the fence line. In the summer the field had been full of tall corn, but now it held nothing but crumpled stalks, muddy clods, clumps of thistle. Across the field was the tumbled stone wall, and beyond that was the old quarry road, which was overgrown—more a broad path than a road. From there it wasn’t much farther to the beech trees, which were huge and silvery gray, and their broad trunks soothed Marley, and he loved to visit them.

There were four in all. They stood in a little clearing, an island of sunlight a few hundred yards from the quarry road. Marley had first discovered it when Elmer had followed a fox trail winding back through the briars, and had gotten hung up on an old barbwire fence. He’d helped Elmer untangle himself, and then, through the underbrush, Marley had seen the beech trees.

Huge was not a big enough word to describe them.

They looked like elephant legs, if elephants were forty feet tall. The smooth gray bark folded over itself, like a loose skin. Marley thought of Elmer, and how slack he was inside his hide, as if his shirt were a little too big. The looseness in Elmer’s coat was a good thing, Marley’s Dad had told him, clutching a handful of skin to demonstrate. “If something grabs him between the shoulders, a bear let’s say, he’s still got enough room inside his suit to turn around and defend himself. That’s how dogs evolved. They stay flexible so they don’t get bent out of shape.” That was one of the last memories Marley had of his father, and it leaped back into his mind when he first stumbled across the beech trees, so majestic in their grey skin. Marley had never seen anything like them.

“Hey tree,” he said now, patting it, surprised again at how hard it was. “How’s it growing?”

The tree said nothing.

Marley laughed a little, at himself, and then confided, “I’m going to be a tall tree too.”

The tree’s shimmering crown of leaves tossed in the wind.

Marley wasn’t the first to claim the spot as his own. Years ago, someone had left the bench seat from the back of a car. Its rusted coils showed through now, upholstery coming off in strips. Like a carcass, Marley thought to himself. Elmer was snuffling around the base, and that’s when Marley saw it: the thing that started everything—the thing that would lead him to undertake such a strange and fabulous journey. The heathery grey-brown thing. He thought it was a mouse at first. Or a dead vole. It was slack and leathery, and when he gingerly picked it up he discovered that it wasn’t a mammal but a satchel. A tiny satchel.

The pouch itself was a little bigger than a book of matches. Marley hoisted it by the embroidered strap, gingerly, the way he sometimes lifted field mice by the tail to remove them from the house for his mother. The workmanship was very fine. A toy? Too worn and too delicate. This had not been made to sling clumsily across the shoulder of a doll. A woodland gnome? A hibblemunk? His father had told him all sorts of stories, but Marley had never sorted out the fact from the fiction.

He ran the bag gently between his thumb and forefinger, and something began to thrum inside him. Something was nestled there. He rolled his fingers over two hard lumps. He undid the tiny clasp with the help of a stick and shook the two things into the palm of his hand. One was an egg the size of a jellybean. Or an egg-shaped thing. Silver in color, and surprisingly heavy, it felt pleasantly solid in his hand. The other thing looked a little like a treble fishhook, the kind you might find on a fishing lure. But the tips of the hooks were blunt. Each shaft ended in a teardrop shape, like the tip of a matchstick. There was a cord attached, wrapped neatly round the base. Marley slipped the items back inside the satchel, tucked it in his pocket, and sat down on the roots of the beech.

The wind moved high in the trees, making a sound like rushing water.

Marley thought of the time he’d been at Tidwell’s pond, at the end of the old quarry road, when he’d seen something small skittering across the lily pads. A waterlogged red squirrel, he’d thought, or an injured bullfrog trying to evade whatever hungry jaws had risen from below, whether snapping turtle or pike. The little creature had flopped awkwardly along, tremulously supported by the floating leaves. Water thrashed and sparkled at the surface, and then there had been that fantastic leap toward shore, where the tiny body had barely gained purchase, scrabbling and clawing its way into the grass. Marley had sprinted over afterward to inspect for tracks, but it was too dense. The yellow grass closed over the spot like a door.

“That wasn’t a chipmunk,” Marley said out loud. The skin on his arms prickled. He wondered if someone, or something, might have overheard him. In his mind’s eye he could still see the creature silhouetted in mid leap—something had been trailing in the air behind him. Not a tail. Not a bit of weed. It was something very much like a satchel.

2

That night, after dinner, Marley sat outside on the stone steps of the porch. He always said it was his favorite room in the house: neither fully outside nor inside, a sensation that pleased him. He loved the stout columns that echoed the oaks in the yard; the porch swing tucked back under the eaves; the ceiling painted a pale sky blue. Marley virtually lived on the porch from May to September. His mother sat behind him now, wrapped in a blanket, humming on the porch swing, staring at the back of his silent head.

“Mom?”

“Hm-hmm.”

“Do you think there’s still such a thing as an undiscovered animal?”

“What do you mean? Like a unicorn?”

Marley winced, envisioning the cheerfully decorated bedroom of his eight-year-old neighbor. “No.”

“Or do you mean like the Loch Ness Monster and that Yeti creature? That sort of thing?”

“Not exactly. I mean something real. Something tangible.”

“Tangible. That’s a nice word.”

“Thank you.”

“So you want something tangible. Well, that Yeti creature’s left footprints from here to kingdom come. If we haven’t extincted him already, I imagine you’ll run across his huge hairy self in your wanderings very soon.”

“Extincted isn’t a word.”

“I know, Professor. I was just trying to make you smile.”

“But you can only see the back of my head.”

“I can still tell when you smile. I’m your mother.” She paused. “Besides, your ears flutter.”

“They do not.”

“They do. Like a flutterby to a buttercup. And I’ll tell you another thing, Professor Barbeau, they’re doing it right now.”

He smiled. “Flutterby’s not a word.”

“That’s only because you’ve never seen one,” she said with finality. This was how conversations moved with his mother, in great loping circles. “You see! There is such a thing as an undiscovered animal, and it’s a flutterby. The evil twin of the butterfly. Its nemesis and doppelganger.”

“It’s what?”

“Look it up.” He heard the phrase before she’d even said it. It was one of the refrains of his life. “How else did you ever learn such a fine word as tangible?”

“Do you really think there is a Yeti?”

“Perhaps.” She sighed. “Your father certainly seemed to think so. Of course, he believes in just about anything. In any case, I can’t imagine he smells very good.”

“Dad?”

“No, son. The Yeti. I don’t believe they bathe with great frequency.”

“But how about other animals? More normal ones?”

“Who’s to say the Yeti’s not normal? Maybe he gets home from the office at half past five every evening, complains about his Yeti boss, and settles in to read the sports page until the meatloaf’s done.” She laughed at the picture. “He might be as normal as American cheese.”

“But American cheese is made out of plastic.”

She smiled to hear one of her aphorisms repeated back to her. “My point exactly.”

“We aren’t normal, are we?”

“No. Indeed we are not. That’s why you check “other” whenever you fill out a form. You are the proud son of an eccentric ex-librarian and a far-flung father, lost in the diamond mines of Africa.” She paused. “I didn’t mean it that way. He’s not really lost.”

“I know.”

They were silent.

“In any case,” she said, her tone brightening, “we are certainly not normal. Feel free to thank God for that on a daily basis.”

“Okay. I will,” Marley said seriously. As a rule, he enjoyed his mother’s digressions, but tonight he wanted her to answer him straight. He took a deep breath and spoke slowly, returning to the question that kept fluttering through his mind. “So. Mom. Do you think it’s possible that there is some sort of species of animal out there,” he motioned toward the darkening woods, “like a squirrel or some sort of primate, that is still undiscovered. Maybe because it’s very rare. And nocturnal.”

“It’s possible. Stranger things have happened. I’ve always suspected we don’t know nearly as much as we think we do. The ocean, for instance.” She narrowed her gaze. “I believe there’s more going on down there than we’d ever care to imagine. Why are you so curious about this all of a sudden? Have you seen something out there?”

He shrugged.

“Well, Professor, if I can be of further service, let me know. I’m going inside to read.”

The screen door clicked softly shut. Marley’s hand slipped into his pocket. The satchel was still there. He could feel the velvety pouch and the things inside, hard as bones, as he rolled it gently between his fingers.

They were tools, he was quite certain of that. He’d inspected them for hours in his room before dinner. The metal egg baffled him. The hook and line could certainly be used for climbing, or possibly fishing, but he could see no use for a burnished metallic jellybean.

But who did they belong to? He’d read about animals using tools—Otters broke open clam shells with rocks, monkeys wrapped grubs in banana leaves to carry them back to an injured mate— but someone had clearly made these, tiny as they were, and they had used metal, too. They must belong to a person, decided Marley, looking out into the darkness. A smallish person who lives out there. He could hardly believe what he was considering. Little people? Living in the woods? But whenever his hand slipped into his pocket, there they were, the possible proof, and his mind began to spiral once again.

3

Nellie Barbeau’s heels ticked up the steps of Marley’s school, four minutes late, two steps at a time. Mr. Graves had called. Mr. Graves, whom Marley referred to as The Snapper; Mr. Graves who believed in alphabetized seating charts, the children filed in orderly rows. Nothing was amiss, he’d said, Marley was doing his work. Just some patterns I’d like to talk about. Just a little “coloring outside the lines.”

She’d pressed, but he wouldn’t say more.

The school smelled clean, like a hospital, and her shoes echoed through the emptied halls. It was 4:04 on a Tuesday. Mr. Tutwell Graves was alone in his room, an enormous book open on the desk before him. She paused at the doorway, studying him. Sparse eyebrows, nearly nonexistent lips. Tiny eyes. His prominent hooked nose was virtually his only facial feature.

“I’m so pleased to meet you,” he said, rising and extending a hand. But he didn’t look pleased, thought Mrs. Barbeau. He looked worn, like a pencil in need of sharpening.

“The pleasure is all mine,” she said.

“Ahhh. Young Barbeau,” he exhaled, collapsing into his chair. “Young Marley. Very interesting fellow.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“I’d like to show you something,” he said, withdrawing a piece of paper from beneath the enormous book. He laid it before her gingerly, as if it were a delicate leaf.

It was a poem, written in Marley’s peculiar left-handed script.

“Oh,” she sighed. “If you’re concerned about his handwriting, I know the characters look like hieroglyphics, but really—”

“I can read it fine,” he said, shooting her a lipless smile. “I’ve been teaching youngsters for 37 years and can decipher most any chicken scratch. Look closer.”

So she picked it up and read it:

Tossing in the high wind,
Always lifting toward the light,
Leaving only in the spring,
Learning all summer long
To shed everything I have — I
Return to my roots, my
Earth, and my sleep, persisting and
Existing in my winter dreams.

“Why, that’s beautiful.”

“And so it is,” he conceded with a tilt of his mighty nose. “But did Marley happen to mention what the assignment was for this… essay?”

“No.”

“I asked the children to consider their future goals and compose two paragraphs outlining ‘what they want to be when they grow up.’” He said the last words dismissively, waving his hand. “A cliché, I know, but a useful exercise to begin the year. Gives me leverage with the future astronauts when they’re failing science.” He smiled grimly. “In any case, this was what Marley handed in.”

“I see.”

“It’s hardly two paragraphs, is it?”

“No. It’s not.” But anyone can write two paragraphs, she thought. My boy wrote you a poem. A beautiful poem.

“I’d say Marley’s coloring outside the lines a bit, wouldn’t you?”

“Well.” She stopped. She didn’t know what to say.

“Mrs. Barbeau, does your son aspire to be a tree?”

“A tall one, I should say.”

“You actually think so.”

“I think that’s quite obvious.”

“Well, I don’t know about obvious. There are references to roots and what not, but…”

“Look at the first letters,” she said, quickly. Then, more quietly: “The first letters of each line. Do you see what he’s done?”

Mr. Graves scrutinized the paper, his eyes disappearing into wrinkles. “TALL TREE.” He nodded sagely, as if diagnosing a rare disease. “Very clever. We’ve got ourselves a riddler.” He sniffed rather extravagantly. “So your boy wants to be a tall tree when he grows up.”

“Well, when he was four he wanted to be a snake.” She laughed, remembering the solemn pronouncements of that funny little boy.

“I see.” He didn’t laugh. “That’s not much of an answer, is it? If someone asks you what you want to be, I mean.”

“Well, you yourself said that it wasn’t much of a question. The boy’s being metaphorical, that’s all. And it’s a beautiful poem.”

He pulled his chin back into his neck, wrinkling up like a turtle, and a flicker of recognition stirred in her mind: The Snapper.

“Did you note his signature, Mrs. Barbeau?”

She picked up the paper again. The letters were coiled, very neatly, at the bottom of the page. yelraM uaebraB. Her heart sank a little. He’d been signing his name like this, off and on, since he’d begun writing. She’d hoped he’d finally put it behind him.

“The letters. They’re all wrong.”

She didn’t say anything, not wanting to contradict him.

“Perhaps I belabor the obvious,” He shook his head, sighing, “But they’re in completely the wrong order.”

“No, they’re not.”

Mr. Graves looked at her quizzically.

“They are in completely the right order,” she continued, trying to ignore his lack of lips. “They are merely going in the wrong direction. The ancient Greeks, as I’m sure you know, wrote from right to left, the Japanese go from top to bottom, Sumerian script—”

“Your boy’s not Greek. Nor is he ancient. What is he? Twelve?”

“Eleven.”

“Eleven,” Mr. Graves repeated grimly. “Eleven years old, and he can’t write his own name. There are other schools. Special ones…” His voice trailed off when he saw the glint in Mrs. Barbeau’s eyes. “I just want to do what’s best for the boy.”

“Well he’s certainly doing his best for you.”

Mr. Graves nodded without conviction. “In any case, I’ll have my hands full.”

And so will Marley, thought Mrs. Barbeau, because you’ve got an awful lot to learn.

When she left the building, she was ready to burn it down, she was ready to watch the whole enterprise consumed in a great wall of flame. Particularly if Mr. Tutwell Graves was trapped inside. Not only does my boy need a father, she thought, but he needs a teacher as well. And then, once she was safely in the car and on her way home, she began to cry. Deep choking sobs that took her by surprise. By the time she’d made it out to the highway, the inside of her already felt scoured clean.

4

“What did Mr. Graves want?”

“You mean The Snapper.”

“Yes.” Marley smiled shyly. “Am I in trouble?”

“Not as far as I’m concerned,” she said quietly. Her tone was gentle, almost too gentle. Marley shifted uneasily. She sat down and folded her hands in her lap. Here it comes, he thought. The detonation. And then, inexplicably: “That was a beautiful poem you wrote, about the tall tree.”

“That’s why he wanted to see you?”

“Apparently.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No.” She smiled. “He didn’t fully get it, Marley. I think he felt you were bending the rules. Coloring outside the lines, he said.”

“He loves to say that.”

“He does seem to, doesn’t he?”

“He’s always saying things like that. Like when you ask if you can sharpen your pencil, he says, ‘It’s no skin off my nose.’ And whenever you ask why he did something in an equation on the board he says, ‘Well now that’s a horse of a different color.’” He sighed philosophically. “Anyway, it was kind of a stupid assignment. A fourth grade assignment, really.”

His mother smiled. “The way I see it, Marley, you’ve got a choice to make. You can choose to please The Snapper, or you can get snapped. But don’t stop writing those poems.”

“You really liked it?”

“Indeed I did. That line about spring, about the trees “leaving”? Delightful pun.”

Marley didn’t say anything, but his ears suddenly felt warm. He’d suspected it might be okay. The poem had been the one good thing about going back to school. It had come to him whole, the way a hickory nut comes clean from its husk. He wished he could show it to his dad.

“Oh, there’s one more thing. Did you notice—”

“Yelram?” Marley asked, nodding when she met his eyes. “I noticed that when I was handing it in. I just didn’t have time to change it.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know why it comes out like that sometimes.”

“Well, Yelram, you’re clearly destined for another dimension. In the meantime, I’ll cook us some supper and you can get some exercise.” She stood, smoothing her skirt. “Give my regards to the Yetis. I’ll see you in a half hour.”

Just enough time to go to the beech trees, thought Marley, heading out the door. The afternoon air had an edge to it, and he began running down the old quarry road to stay warm. He could see his breath when he arrived. The beech leaves were yellowing. They covered everything, dappling the car seat beneath a yellow canopy.

Then it happened.

“So, you want to be a tall tree.”

The voice was crisp and thin. Marley’s heart nearly jolted out of his ribcage.

“Who’s there?” He whirled, stammering.

“I am,” the voice replied, so close and so clear Marley wondered if it was coming from inside his own head.

“Who? Who?” He spun round: nothing but yellow leaves. The wind scuffled through them, then silence. A shiver traced down Marley’s spine; his voice pleaded, more quietly, “Who? Who?”

“Easy, son. You sound like an owl.”

There was a scraping sound as the leaves at his feet began shifting. Marley watched, amazed, as the outline of a yellowish jacket and dusky trousers began to materialize from the leaves. A little man was inside them, not quite two feet tall. His dark eyes moved quickly, flickering up and down Marley to take him all in, until they finally met his gaze.

The fear relaxed out of Marley’s belly. He was looking at a person, a regular man, drawn in miniature. And oddly enough, he appeared to be wearing a tweedy suit the color of faded grass. Marley marveled at this emergence, his eyes struggling to keep their focus on the stranger. The camouflage was so overpowering that if Marley shifted his gaze for even a moment, the little man seemed to simply melt away—disappearing as completely as water poured into water.

“How do you do?” The man bowed slightly, in greeting.

“Hello,” said Marley automatically.

“So you wish to be a tall tree, yes?”

“Who are you?”

“How happy.” The little man nodded to himself, pleased. “You answer questions with questions.”

“What are you doing here?” asked Marley.

“I’m drinking it in,” he said after a few moments of staring at Marley. His dark eyes were full of light. “It’s been years since I shared words with hoo man atee.” He pronounced the phrase carefully, as if it were in a foreign tongue.

“Hoo?”

“You.”

Marley ran the syllables softly over his tongue, running them together. “Humanity?”

“Indeed.”

“How many years?”

“Nearly two dozen winters.” He motioned to the beeches. “The trees were smaller.”

“How old are you?”

“Old.”

Obviously, Marley thought to himself. But how old?

“Two hundred and twenty seven,” answered the little man.

“How did you do that?” Marley asked, startled.

“Do what?”

“How did you answer my question when I didn’t say it out loud?” Then the uncanny possibility occurred to Marley: “Can you read my mind?”

He chuckled. It sounded like a baby, hiccupping. “Oh no, there’s no need. Everything is said by your face. You are so young, humans. So much transparency.”

“So you’re not human?”

“No.”

“Are you a hibblemunk?”

“No.”

“A gnome?”

“Do I look like I need a pointy red cap?” He smiled, and cocked his head. Marley recognized the movement, the quick tilt of the head and then the pause: like a robin listening for nightcrawlers after a rain. “Or perhaps some wooden shoes?” He lifted a foot for Marley’s inspection. “No. Hibblemunks live only in stories. Gnomes live mostly in Sweden. I’m a Kraken. We’re distant cousins. Like man and yeti. Duck and goose. Ox and goat.”

Ox and goat?

What was happening was so powerfully unbelievable, Marley suddenly felt himself exhale in relief. This was likely a dream, or a madness, and if it wasn’t, so much the better. He extended his hand, which felt improbably large. “Nice to meet you. I’m Marley.”

“So you are,” he said, grasping the tip of Marley’s index finger with both hands. His grip was surprisingly firm, almost a pinch. Marley thought of crayfish, in spite of himself. “I’m Django.”

“Jango,” Marley repeated carefully.

“No,” the little man shook his head. “Django. With a D. A silent D.”

“Well, if the D is silent how do you know—” Marley’s voice trailed off. It didn’t seem necessary to finish.

“I listen.”

“How?”

“I hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“Silence.”

Of course, Marley nodded. Why not?

“Now, let’s pause with questions for the moment. We’ll have time for questions later.” He reached his hand toward Marley and snapped his fingers. “You wish to be a tall tree, yes?”

“Yes,” Marley said, with conviction.

“Tall enough to catch the wind?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good,” Django nodded. “Just needed to confirm that. Now if you’d return my bag, you might run along home. You’re late.”

“What?” Marley looked at the sun lowering behind the mesh of black limbs. “Oh no.” His mother would be worried, angry. “But you can’t just—”

“If you could hand over the bag, I’d be most grateful.”

Marley’s hand slipped into his pocket, his fingers involuntarily running over the contents. Though he knew the satchel wasn’t his, he didn’t want to let it go. He had so many questions.

“Take this,” said the kraken, holding something in his hand. “And I’ll take the bag.”

Marley withdrew the bag from his pocket and watched it disappear into the dusky camouflage as the kraken slipped it over his shoulder.

“Now, take this,” said Django, extending what looked like a drop of water in his palm.

“What is it?”

“Would you believe a teardrop? From a passenger pigeon?”

“They’re extinct.”

Django shrugged. “It’s a jellybean, actually.”

Marley reached for the droplet. It was the size of a small bean, and it gave beneath his touch, like gelatin.

“Take it,” the kraken insisted.

“I’ve got it.”

“Take it,” the kraken repeated, more gently, putting his hand to his mouth and motioning Marley to do the same. “And I’ll see you soon.”

“How soon?”

“Soon enough,” the kraken smiled. “Now, if you’d be so kind.”

Marley slipped the bead into his mouth. It melted on his tongue, cool and sweet, with a hint of peppermint and another spice he could not name. Pleasant, and very clean tasting, but that was about all. He looked quizzically at the kraken, but no one was there. Django was gone. Utterly gone.

“Django,” he called, softly.

No response. His mind was swirling and he was growing chillier by the minute. He took off at a dead run.

˜

Marley entered the house, breathless.

“You’re back early.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

His mother looked at him, a strange smile on her face. “Sorry for what?”

Early? Marley’s mind stumbled over the word. He could have sworn she’d said early. “I thought I was late.”

“Honey, you’ve only been gone ten or fifteen minutes. The pasta’s still cooking. And, as this handy box has informed me,” she said with a nod, “bow-tie pasta, known in some regions of the worlds as farfalle, takes precisely thirteen minutes to cook.”

Marley looked dumbly at the pot on the stovetop. Steam was rising from it, like breath in the cold air. At least ten minutes to jog there. Eight minutes to run back. He must have spoken with Django for ten minutes, at least. Maybe more.

Something was missing.

“Is everything okay? Did you see something out there?” She was still looking at him with that strange smile. “I mean, all inquiries about Yetis aside—”

“No, no Yeti,” he managed. “Just a few elves.”

“I see,” she laughed, bending over the pasta. “Small fry. Nothing big enough to keep.”

“Yeah, just elves,” he said, recovering himself a bit. “A few leprechauns. A gnome or two. One hibblemunk. Nothing big enough to keep. I tossed it all back.”

“Well, what goes around comes around.” She sighed. “When you’re on the trail of such mystical quarry there’s no shame in coming back to shore empty-handed.” She blew on a piece of pasta to cool it, then nibbled. “In any case, we certainly won’t go hungry tonight.”

His mother placed a steaming bowl of pasta on the table and Marley inhaled the goodness. She returned to the kitchen, singing under her breath, and in that moment, Marley made a decision. He didn’t know if Django was real in the world, or real in his mind, but he resolved not to tell his mother anything. She hardly ever sang anymore, and he didn’t want to make it go away for good.

I’ll see you soon, the little man had said. With all his questions, Marley thought, it couldn’t be soon enough.

---

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