Free Gods of New Orleans by AJ Sikes Page B

and I can’t remember if you said Arbuckle or Augustus in the middle.”
    The tramp laughs out loud now, clearly familiar with the functions of humor. His laugh booms around the campsite like the shockwave of an artillery round. Brand feels his ears pinch inside, like the tramp’s laugh is stabbing into his brain. Then all goes quiet and the eyeless tramp is stirring his pot again.
    “Soup’s almost ready, boys,” he says, and then to Brand, “You may call me Barnaby, or Mr. Fellows. Though others may claim cause to truncate my given name, I do prefer full respect be given.”
    On cue, one of the other two tramps calls out, “You say soup was on, Barn?” The tramp sits up from where he lies and holds out a metal bowl. He has a spoon tucked between his fingers while his other hand keeps a scrap of canvas wrapped around him like an old woman’s shawl. “Oh boy, Barn’s famous Earl-eye in the Morning Chowder. Gonna get in on this, Finn?” the tramp asks, nudging a buttock into the face of his still-sleeping partner on the ground.
    The other man barely stirs, but he too sits upright, almost as if the air itself pulls him to a sitting position. Posture is like a punishment that life will enact upon this man, Brand thinks, watching the tramp slip and slide where he sits until his spine is more or less straight, his head tilting only a few degrees to one side.
    Brand watches as Barnaby serves the soup, not missing the lip of either bowl held out by his companions, and Brand knows now that the two on the ground are not of equal standing to the man who cooks and serves their food. It’s the way Barnaby huffs and grunts while he serves the first one, the man who called him Barn . That man thanks him now, and begins eating like pig at the trough.
    “Good chow, Barn. Good as good can get. Hey, who’s the new guy?” the tramp says, tossing a nod in Brand’s direction. The man’s eyes are closed, and by now Brand has realized that none of these tramps has any eyes left to open. But they know he’s here and where he is.
    “Our visitor is none other than Mitchell Brand,” Barnaby says, giving Brand a case of the frights that nearly sends him sprinting away across the cold ground of the airfield.
    “You all know me?” he says, slowly rising to his feet, though the frigid pain coursing through his heels now threatens to keep him pinned to the spot with his back to the tree.
    “Know you?” Barnaby asks, with hand held out, palm turned up. “No. I don’t believe any of us have had the pleasure before this glorious morning.” He puts his hand on his lap and goes back to sipping his gunboat slop.
    “Oh,” Brand says. “Just the way you said it there. It sounded like . . .”
    The other tramp pipes up. “Don’t go listenin’ to ol’ Barn now, Brand. Sure enough, he’s a talker, and he’ll talk your ear off. But he’ll sew it back on a second later just so’s you can keep on listenin’ to what he hasn’t got to say.”
    The tramp chuckles at his joke and sips the soup in his bowl. His partner keeps hush, and Brand wonders for a moment if they aren’t setting him up to be caught by the other ones back in the mud.
    The third one shuffles around on his backside until he’s closer to the fire. He makes some gesture with his hands and Brand hears a scraping sound. Then he sees the tramp is using his spoon against the edge of his bowl to call for more chow.
    Barnaby dishes it up and reclines against the frame of the ruined airship behind him.
    “Brand,” Barnaby says, “if I am not mistaken, and it is indeed a rare time when I am, in some small way, out of my depths these days . . . But if I am not mistaken, I would deign to suggest that you are a new arrival in New Orleans. Am I correct in this estimation?”
    “Yeah, you got it right, pal. Look, sorry for dropping formalities, and I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I’m not in a position to waste a lot of time. I’ve got people looking for me, and