Warm Bones
((Part one of two) (1962))
The bones were still warm! But picked clean, and the rats were starting to chew out the marrow. As I stood there and looked at this human waste, and the gleaming eyes that were starting to surround me, and joked with my comrade—we had, Mike Reassert and I, we had climbed down into the city’s sewer system, made during the Civil War days, to find jewelry caught in drain pipes and so forth, not realizing the blazing eyes and numerous amount of rats that infested the sewer system, and had been following us. At this point, nearly lost in the sewers, we had half dozen rings, one with a big diamond in it. There were heaps of bones in several corners of the sewer system thus far we recognized. Human as well as rat bones: the rats that were following us from a distance, had a kind of old-fashion ferocity about them, a hoarsely squeal, and Mike and I had only flashlights, and a twenty-two caliber derringer with us, that shot one bullet at a time and we had three bullets to spare, plus the one in the chamber. There must have been several rats behind this one rat, the savage looking rat.
My first thought was—even though we were in danger—was to avert fear, accordingly— and I told Mike just to have a normal conversation with me—act nonchalantly, the derringer in my right hand, the trigger cocked. Waiting to seize a favorable opportunity to shoot the rat—the leader rat, if need be. Thus, we proceeded to check under another drain for jewelry. And finding nothing, the unholy face of the master rat came closer, her face somewhat concealed by the dark shadow she seemed to carry with her, over her, examining me in particular, as her cohorts followed her—paying Mike little to no attention other than a quick glance towards him—my heart beating like a sledge-hammer.
I took advantage of the pause, and climbed up a few steps onto a ladder to see through an iron manhole overhead, through an opening in the iron lid, it was now a late hour in the night, it must have been, we had entered the sewers at 7:00 p.m., it was perhaps 11:00 p.m., now. Fumbling up the ladder my derringer fell out from my hand, which triggered a gloaming moment, the reeking foulness of the place, and blood-stained mouths of the rats jumped onto the danger, and cornered Mike.
The threatening yellow glitter from a dozen huge rat eyes blocked his passage to freedom, to the ladder anyhow. From where I stood these rats seemed strangely large: Mississippi Rats under this conservative city of St. Paul, unusually fierce. Mike was in some kind of whirling condition, in that his mind was closing down—I knew that from looking at him, and him looking back at me, it was as if the rats had mentally crashed through his baffled rage, and paralyzed him with this nightmare: and his body sank—his knees were as if he were drunk, he couldn’t remain erect, and he melted down in that corner like butter, and like a herd of piranhas, as if desperate to allow him to escape, they attacked him, as if they were picking, ripping rags apart. And they ate him up—just his bones, warm bones remained. And after that moment, I watched these human like rats, danced as if in a fiesta and were eating a fajita: they broke into a squealing vigorous merriment, of which it was ever my lot to listen to and observe. I feel inadequate to even tell this story, but they sang—I mean squealed, as if the leader was a heroine—I hope you can understand that now, as you have yourself observed, not only the rats per se, but the heaps of bones.
And there rests the horrible blood soaked buddy of mine—in the corner of the sewer, my youthful comrade, two years younger than I, and I was only fifteen at the time, there he lay, in this shapeless form. And still there, the rats were not content, now looking at me, advance with their discolored teeth, sharp as a butcher’s knife— gruesome murderers, turning one by one around to wait for me, and I said to myself, “I shall not give them the opportunity!” But should I fall, I was sure there would be no time for an outcry of help, like Mike, and my flash light was growing dimmer and dimmer, and the iron lid above me was very heavy, I remember.
Hence, I know for the rats—on their part, my death was settled upon; it was just a matter of time. I stole a glance or two down at the rats, then once up at the iron lid again above me, also took a glance at the heap of bones over in the corner.
The master rat said something to her followers, it was as if she said “Hurry up and surround the ladder, and capture him if he falls, and if he tries to climb it to escape onto the street, you three find a way out of here and go on top of the other side of the lid, and wait for him—if he pushes the lid onto the street—do what I told you to do…!” They weren’t stupid rats by far. For after she squealed whatever, that is what they did. Three rats hustled above the street dodging cars waiting for me to open the lid. And then I fell, and when I woke up, here I was, in this corner of the sewer, and that was twenty-five years ago—if you can read between the lines mister—I didn’t catch your name, whatever it is, I am the old man of the sewer, the rat master. And I can see in the distance, my little hairy friends are getting uneasy, it’s meal time.
No: 644 (7-14-2010) Dedicated to: Dalvir
See "The Seventh hour After Sunset" for part two
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