Free Midian Unmade by Joseph Nassise Page B

“you’ve done this place up nicely.” He sipped his scotch and considered the room, the high ceilings and red-painted beams.
    â€œIt’s all I have now,” John said sadly, looking up at the ceiling. “Since my wife passed, this place is what consumes me”
    Nhuwi sat upright. “You should come with us, mister, when we go. Come traveling with us.”
    John laughed, a delightful laugh. “Ah, from the mouths of babes, eh?” And he tousled Nhuwi’s hair and sat back grinning to himself. “It’s okay, boy; I have my place here now. I couldn’t leave her if I tried.”
    Upendra wondered who “she” was: the memory of his wife, or his finely polished hotel.
    Nhuwi shuffled off his chair and padded over to where Isisford’s history trailed across one of the walls. He peered closely at each photo, and rubbed his fingertips across their dog-eared corners.
    â€œI assume,” said Upendra, “that the angel cult isn’t on the wall over there? Isn’t included in the history?”
    â€œNo,” said John quietly. “It’s not.”
    Upendra sipped at his drink, not making eye contact with John. The subject seemed a sensitive one.
    â€œWell, as curious as that all is, I can assure you, John, I’m here to do a puppet show.”
    John didn’t look convinced.
    â€œScout’s honor,” said Upendra. “I travel around doing puppet shows for communities. I have whole boxes of them in my car. I’m thinking about doing one here, in Isisford.”
    A laugh burst from John, and as quickly as it came he recovered and kept himself in check. “Are you for real? You want to perform a puppet show? Here, in this godforsaken hole?”
    Upendra was taken by surprise. Indeed, he hadn’t thought much at all of the township: the homes had no lawns, just dirt with pits full of half-chewed bones and broken dog collars, driveways choked by shells of cars half pulled apart. There was nothing of beauty in the place, apart from the proud hotel owned by this broken man. Upendra felt a kind of concern for the man, could only imagine the anguish and loneliness that kept him pinned to the place of his wife’s passing.
    â€œI’m sorry,” said John, and picked up his empty glass. “Look, it’s not good here. You two, you and the boy, you shouldn’t stay long. It’s not good for children here.”
    And with that, John left the room and all was quiet.
    Nhuwi gave a small chuckle, and Upendra glanced around at the boy, frowning.
    He was pointing at a very old black-and-white photo of four small boys saddled to goats, with the desert as their backdrop. Their eyes were dark and angry-looking.
    â€œGoats,” snickered Nhuwi, and shook his head.
    *   *   *
    Upendra gave his performance. He set up a makeshift stage in a local park, where the dust blew across the ground and no grass grew.
    His four arms worked tirelessly to bring life to his leather shadow puppets, to ring bells and shake rice in tins and create every illusion he could to tell his story. He looked out through his peephole, from behind the screen that hid him from view.
    His audience had come not so much from curiosity, but as a show of force against him. Their children left at home, obviously, denied the joy of a live puppet performance. It was just a posse of angry adults. He paid no mind to it. Let them glare, shout their insults, kick dirt into the wind so it floated across his face. His story would be told, damn it.
    And it unfolded. Act by act, he performed to these dull and blunt people, spilling out strange journeys of even stranger creatures, stories that held visions and mysteries and mayhem. Stories that, wherever he performed them, unsettled his audiences, because of course they weren’t meant for them. His performances were a secret tale, something to reach out to the beast in the crowd, to that creature hiding