Soolie Beetch and the Dying Light Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Gypsie Raleigh

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States.

  www.sooliebeetch.com

  [email protected]

  Jacket design by Andrew Berkowitz

  Author photo © Jackaldog Photography

  DEDICATION

  for those to whom dreams never come easily

  and for the people who dare to love them

  Do not go gentle into that good night,

  Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

  Because their words had forked no lightning they

  Do not go gentle into that good night.

  – DYLAN THOMAS

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  one

  Punka the Mountain hated the flies. They swarmed, buzzing in her ears and licking at the corners of her eyes, crawling down the wet folds of her neck and chest and squirming along the creases where her garments sawed through soft flesh. She could feel them laying maggot worms in the raw patches she couldn’t reach, burrowing into the crusted sores that cracked and curdled yellow milk, flesh sticking to cloth sticking to crawling flesh. In the dark back of the wagon, they were the only motion, the only sound. Black bodies buzzing in her ears: you’re already dead and we know it.

  “Adrana! Adrana, open this wagon. Your mother needs to breathe!”

  Had she been heard?

  “Adrana!” Punka choked and coughed. Wetness dribbled out of her mouth, tasting of blood. Adrana didn’t care about her any more. Adrana despised her. No matter. Punka had her other child.

  “Adrana!”

  “I heard you the first time; stop yelling.”

  The light of the evening sun spilt in as Adrana untied the canvas door flaps and began securing them to the side. More than beautiful, Punka’s daughter was devastating. With golden skin burnished bright by the sun, hair that rippled like dark molasses, and kohl-painted amber eyes, it was no wonder her dancing name was ‘Rahka,’ the lioness. She looked just like her mother did ten years ago. They both knew it, and they hated one another for it.

  “I thought you preferred the dark, Punka,” Adrana said. “Where you can snore all day and no one has to see you.”

  “I can’t breathe with all this dust. I need air. Clean out this wagon. I need a bath.”

  “Why would I ever touch you?”

  “I’m your mother.”

  “That’s never been reason enough before.” Adrana folded her arms, the tips of her long elegant fingers making the slightest dimples in her lean brown forearms. “We will be at Ravus in four days. Maybe we can drop you in the square and wash you off with the elephants.”

  “At least clean out the wagon. There are flies.”

  “Flies are attracted to punka mountains. Clean it yourself.”

  “Then bring your mother something to eat. I am starving!”

  Adrana didn’t answer. She just turned away and glided off, her brown feet dancing lightly, her skirts brushing the dry grass of the field, the warm evening light casting her shadow out behind her so it lingered at her mother’s wagon just a moment before it, too, left Punka alone.

  ‘Punka.’ It meant shit. That was what everyone called her: Punka the Mountain. Come see Punka the Mountain! The fattest woman in all the world! The woman so fat that once, when her dinner was fifteen minutes late, she ate her own horse, and when her food came, she ate that too and still howled for more. Don’t miss it, ladies and gentleman! Stare in awe! Gawk in horror at Punka the Mountain! Why, our carnival once escaped the cannibals of the HokHok jungle, because they couldn’t stop fighting over who got to take her home! I speak truth! The chief said she could feed one family for fifteen seasons! This is a woman so enormous (ladies, cover your children’s ears) that only one man ever dared try to make love to her, and he fell into a belly fold and hasn’t been seen since! As far as we know, he may still be in there!

  “Punka Mountain.” Shit Mountain. Just a funny joke the Midlanders didn’t understand.

  “Let me sleep now,” she whispered.

  Not yet, the Child said.

  “You see how she treats me. You see what I must live with. Let me dream.”

  Not yet.

  “You’re just as bad to me as she is,” Punka sulked. But she didn’t mean it. The Child was all she had. And she didn’t want to anger it. If she made the Child angry, the Child might take the dreams away.

  A wisp of violet smoke plumed across the rosy colored sky. Someone had lit a fire. The lilting voice of the vielle reached her ear. There would be dancing tonight. They would all dance, all of them. All the ones who never spoke to her any more. They would dance until the stars came out and the fire burned low. And Adrana would be at the center, whirling in the embers and the smoke, twining her arms and writhing her hips. It was just as well Punka couldn’t see any of it from the wagon. She was too tired to move. Even speech exhausted her. Adrana had better remember to bring her some food.

  Food. They would be heating stew and crack bread and roasting raw nuts now. Punka licked lips rough with splits and scabs. She was so hungry. Starving. No one understood the hunger. The way it gnawed at her belly every waking moment. She remembered the hunger when she was carrying Adrana. That was nothing compared to this. It was as if she carried all the gutter babies of Ravus in her belly. And they were all, all of them, starving.

  A thin boy ran into view and pointed at her.

  “Ooooh! Look! It’s huge!”

  Two others joined the first, some thirteen or fifteen years. In the Southern Lands, they would be considered men, but Punka could tell by the way they gaped, pointed, and jostled each other that these were only boys. Punka hated boys.

  “Skagging disgusting!” the second crowed.

  Too old, the Child said.

  There must be houses nearby, maybe a small village, and these three had snuck out to the carnival caravan to see if they could catch a glimpse of a jungle beast, or maybe one of the freaks. Well, they’d found one. Maybe if she just didn’t say anything, they’d go away.

  “Are you Punka the Mountain?” This boy had squinty eyes and a fuzzy lip. “I’ll bet ‘Punka’ means ‘butt fat.’ Are you the Butt Fat Mountain?”

  “It’s not answering,” the short one whined.

  “I think it’s female!” fuzzy lip said.

  “What? Siiiiiick!”

  “I dare you to poke it!”

  Poke it. Like a curious animal carcass. Punka closed her eyes, trying to block them out. This was all Adrana’s fault.
She had known there was a village nearby and had left her all alone and vulnerable. Just let me dream now, she begged.

  Not yet.

  Why? She whined. You don’t want them. They’re too old for you.

  Punka knew this was true. Though lately she had been finding it difficult to remember why it was important.

  “Poke it! Poke it! Poke it!”

  Something sharp jabbed in the folds of her belly, tearing at her flesh. They had found a stick.

  Please. Don’t make me take any more of this, she begged.

  The Child was silent.

  Jab. Jab.

  “It’s not doing anything!”

  “Say something, Butt Fat, say something!”

  “Hey! Stop that! Stop that now!”

  A different voice, an older voice. For a moment, Punka thought maybe one of the carnival members had noticed and come to defend her, but no, this voice had a Midland dialect.

  “Hobby, Kip, Bernad! You need to head home now, or I’m telling your mothers. Get out of here, go on. Go home.”

  Open your eyes.

  Without considering whether or not she wanted to, Punka obeyed. The boys had gone, laughing and mocking as they went. She could still hear the adult scolding after them just out of view from the wagon doorway. Directly before her, where the three boys had been moments before, stood a young girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen, with delicate tawny curls, a sharp face, and intelligent brown eyes that met Punka’s gaze unashamed and unafraid. Punka didn’t care for girls either.

  “I’m sorry the boys were so unkind to you. They’re bullies. That’s my Papa chasing them off.”

  HER.

  Punka cringed. The Child was shouting, and Punka didn’t know why. There was something she was supposed to remember. Something important. Something she had been holding on to for far too long that had been shrouded and buried in dreams. How she needed to dream. To escape this fear, this ugliness. She was never confused in the dreams, never afraid. In the dreams she was always beautiful and the Child always adored her. Let me dream.

  “Is Punka the Mountain your real name?”

  “Come on, Soolie, leave her alone. It’s time to go.” A tall bearded man came up and put his arm around the girl’s shoulders. “I’m sorry for the trouble, Miss. I hope you have a nice evening.”

  GET HER FOR ME. The Child’s words hurt.

  No. She wasn’t supposed to. But the thought was more reflex than resolve.

  DO YOU WANT TO DREAM?

  She did. She needed the dreams.

  GET HER FOR ME.

  Why? What do you want with her? Punka whined. You have me.

  DO NOT DISOBEY ME.

  Punka winced. She didn’t dare make the Child angry. It would hurt her and take the dreams away. The man and the girl were leaving.

  “Wait!”

  They paused.

  “Do you have food? No one cares about me here,” Punka whined. “You see how they abuse me. They just leave me here in the back of this wagon while they eat and sing and dance. And I’m starving.”

  The man hesitated. She could see him debating: why should he give his food to a woman so large, so diseased? Surely she didn’t need it. Most of all, Punka could tell, he wanted to get his daughter away from her. Before he could make his decision, the girl tore away from her father and ran up to the edge of the wagon.

  “I have cheese in my pocket from lunch. It’s smushed, but still good.”

  Bring her to me.

  Perhaps it would be okay. Perhaps the girl was too old. Too old for what? Punka couldn’t remember.

  “Come up and give it to me. I can’t reach down.”

  “Soolie,” the man objected.

  “Just a moment, Papa. It’ll only take a moment.” The girl grabbed hold of the canvas and nimbly lifted herself up into the mouth of the wagon.

  Punka watched the girl’s face as she took in the wagon’s interior. Heaps of filthy soiled cushions nestled in picked-over rotting prairie hen carcasses and fruit cores. And Punka: an immense mound of sickly pale flesh wrapped in threadbare chartreuse. They had made her robe out of an old carnival tent, one of the few details the barker used to entice gawkers that was actually true.

  “You can’t clean yourself, can you?”

  “Just give me the cheese,” Punka muttered. She didn’t like this girl. She didn’t understand what the Child wanted with her.

  “My Mama couldn’t clean herself toward the end,” the girl said, fishing into her dress pocket and pulling out a lump wrapped in wax paper. “Papa had to wash her like she was a baby. And she smelled too, like death. She said you can always tell when a sick person is nearing death, because they smell different. You smell really bad.”

  She is young enough. She is strong. She will not be too easily broken.

  “Soolie, come on. We have to go.”

  “I have to go.”

  The girl held out the lump of cheese to Punka. Punka reached for it. She would take the cheese, and the girl would go away. The girl would go away, and then the Child would let her sleep and give her good dreams, because she had done what it wanted. She had done everything it wanted, and everything was going to be okay.

  As Punka’s fingers touched the waxed paper, her hand moved swiftly on its own, grabbing the girl harshly by the wrist pulling her close with a strength Punka did not have.

  “What are you doing?” Punka squealed.

  “What are you doing?” The girl’s eyes were wide with surprise.

  The girl’s frail frame was pressed against her body. Punka’s arm muscles were burning. The man had leaped up into the wagon and was trying to pull the girl away. What was happening? What had she done wrong? Why was the Child angry with her?

  Dark clouds boiled over Punka’s vision. Flies. They were hatching. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions of buzzing little bodies filling her throat and mouth, clogging her ears and eyes, wriggling, squirming, burrowing out of her very skin, breaking free from deep down, deeper than her ample flesh, deeper than her heart, spooling out through the very cracks of her being, ripping her apart.

  Then the Child was before her, blazing merciless and white.

  Punka screamed. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, please. Adri…

  Now, said her Child, you rest.

  . . .

  The fat woman’s thick squishy fingers clamped around Soolie’s wrist, pulling her close with sudden violence. The woman’s head wrap slipped sideways, revealing thinning patches of white hair clinging to a scaly gray scalp.

  “What are you doing?” the woman screamed, bloody spittle hitting Soolie in the face.

  “What are you doing?” Soolie gasped.

  “Soolie!” It was Papa. She could feel his strong arms wrapping around her waist, pulling at her, but the fat woman was too strong.

  The woman began shaking violently, her flesh shuddering and jostling, the wagon shaking beneath her. Papa was pulling at Soolie, calling her name. The woman’s mouth frothed, her head snapped back. The foul smell of rot and disease was replaced by the smell of fierce heat like melting iron, and Soolie felt numbness traveling like a shock up her arm from the woman’s grip, stopping her heart, stilling her lungs, filling her ears with deafness, her body so suddenly overtaken that it forgot how to feel and she could neither move nor cry out, but only stare into the two great eyes that filled her vision as white, glaring, and cold as clear day snow. Then, it stopped.

  Soolie was out of the wagon. Papa had caught her up in his arms and was holding her close to his chest, carrying her quickly away from the carnival camp.

  “You should listen to me,” Papa was saying. “Don’t ever do that again. You could have been hurt.”

  Looking back over Papa’s shoulder, Soolie saw the encampment of carnival wagons and carts clustered around a bright fire and, off by itself, one lone wagon facing away into the setting sun. Its canvas sides were painted in scrolling red and gold script that read, “PUNKA THE MOUNTAIN,” and in the back lay a yellowish green
heap that didn’t move.

  two

  “Silas Beetch, you sit right back down in that chair!”

  “I just wanted to…”

  “Sit.” Ellena pointed sternly with her ladle. “I bring the dinner. I make the rules.”

  “If I had known there was going to be such a fuss, I would have had us meet at your house,” Silas grumbled.

  Ellena hadn’t just brought dinner. She had also brought matching bowls, utensils and napkins, a table cloth and a little copper vase of frilly red field flowers. Since the Beetch house didn’t have a dining table, she had cleared off Silas’ small battered work table, dragged the two rocking chairs up beside his work stool, folded the embroidered tablecloth in half so it didn’t pile on the floor, arranged the place settings and flowers, and ordered Silas and Soolie to sit down. Ellena didn’t visit; she invaded.

  Silas leaned back in the rocker, watching the top of the table get farther and farther away. From her perch on his work stool, Soolie looked down at him and giggled.

  “Start eating before it gets cold.” Ellena set her soup down and pulled her rocking chair as close to the table as it would go. “And, Silas, you can tell me why your face looks like it was left out in the rain. Don’t tell me this is about Soolie going to school tomorrow.”

  “He’s mad because I jumped in a wagon with a fat lady, and she died,” Soolie said. She ripped a large hunk off the crisp-crusted bread loaf and began sopping it in her soup.

  “Soolie!” Silas chided, “Wait until everyone has been served, don’t dunk your bread, don’t call that woman fat. And as far as we know, she may be fine.”

  “She was SO fat!” Soolie whispered to Ellena.

  “Land’s sake, someone died?” Ellena scooted to the edge of the low rocker. “What happened? Silas? Why is this the first I’m hearing about this?”

  Silas sighed. Soolie was always highly excitable when her Aunt Ellena was around, and Ellena loved to encourage her. Any other night it would have been a minor inconvenience, but after today’s fright, Silas desperately wanted a quiet evening home alone with his daughter. Maybe if he was concise, this would end quickly.