Handsome Freaks
A Serial Novel
by Ezra Vancil
This is an original STEEM series novel. I'm writing it as I go, so bear with me. I'm also working on a chapter index on my site, so if you do want to wait until it's all done, I should have that up before the end. If you like odd dramas about odd things, strangely funny and sad, freaks, bearded ladies, emotional pain of invisible boys–you might like this... enjoy.
Missed the last Chapter? Read it now << Chapter 8
For more convenience, I'm working on also creating an updated Novel index here soon!
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Ch1-P1 | Ch1-P2 | Ch2-P1 | Ch2-P2 | Ch3-P1 | Ch3-P2 | Ch3-P3 | Ch4-P1 | Ch4-P2 | Ch4-Pt3 | Ch4-Pt4 | Ch5 | Ch6 P1 | Ch6 P2 | Ch7 | Ch8
The Day Of San Bruno
On the eve of the celebration of St. Bruno, Esther, the mother of that bearded daughter Magdalene; slipped away quietly into death. She died in the garden; empty teacup in hand and pigeons at her feet; cooing in such a way that it seemed obvious that the birds mourned the death of this sad woman. It was quite fitting that she die on that mournful celebration of Bruno of Cologne. He was the Patron St. of the possessed and surely the house of Geraldo James was now haunted by the demons of a thousand sins. Haunted by the bitter tears of Magdalene, her life, and beauty ruined by the worry of a mother; a house ravaged by ghouls of guilt in a father's heart; a father who had done the unthinkable for love.
Geraldo's scheme to place the blame for the death of Father Demissie upon the pitiful boy that scavenged for food in Sierra de Dos Aguas mountains was successful. Though he had never doubted that it would indeed be successful. He was thought of as a man of great character, and he knew that. he had lived a hard life under the weight of honesty, while he watched the thieves and scoundrels rise to riches, seemingly without lifting a finger or dwelling upon one pure thought. He, though, being more politically talented than any magistrate in the land; for his sake of his conscious, had remained in his lowly position of Abogado of the municipal court.
All would believe such a man, even when he was lying. He was a hero to some, and to others, at the very least, a man that could be trusted.
When he denounced Pio Piccolo—accusing him of the savage murder of most saintly Father Demissie—Geraldo knew no trial would take place. There would be no policía municipal, no court hearing, Pio would be hung by the people. The people feared this El Cerdo Fantasma anyway, it would not take much more than his public profession of the boy's guilt for the Marxist, the Conservadores, and the anarchist to unify and decide as one mind to slaughter the ghost pig, Pio.
He had denounced Pio Piccolo on the steps of the municipal court on the morning of the celebration of St. Bruno; the morning before his wife Esther took her last breath.
Throngs of bitter crowds had been held back for a week from storming the court. They were enraged in righteous indignation, demanding that the murderer of the most saintly Father Demissie be brought to justice. When he stood before them, with official papers in hand; the crowds quietened. He shouted, "I Geraldo James in my official capacity as Abogado of the municipal court, denounce Pio Piccolo for the Murder of The Preist Demissie..."
Though Geraldo had prepared himself for a great unified yell form the panicked citizens at the sentence, they were quiet, seemingly confused by his statement. He could hear the hushed whispering as each man asked the other: who is this man, Pio Piccolo. It was then that Geraldo cleared his throat, knowing what he must do. He yelled with his booming voice like he had never raised it before and shouted, "The Ghost pig! El Cerdo Fantasma! He is your murderer!" The crowd screamed in a shrill of excitement and anger.
They all at once rushed the steps of the courthouse. The police could not hold the line, fearing for their life, they all soon turned and fled toward the open court doors as did the other judiciary that had agreed to accompany Geraldo on the steps. One policeman clutched Geraldo by the lapel, "What have you done? You will start a fire in the city, you madman!" He tossed Geraldo like a bag of rice into the court building before slamming shut the large shaft lock.
And so it was.
Possessed with furry, the mob tore the city apart. While the churches burned incense for the blessed soul of St. Bruno, the people burned down the west quarter of Valencia. The state buildings and courts were burned first. Then the offices of the policía municipal. Before the night was through, the judiciary and all public officials fled to their large winter estates outside of the city in fear of their lives.
Geraldo fled too. He went back to his estate and that night, as the people raged in Valencia, he told his wife Esther all that he had done, all that their beautiful daughter had done, "lying, murder, great crimes!" He shouted at the near-comatose woman clutching her teacup and Opium for hours. ".. your stupidity! For your constant meddling you stupid woman!"
It was in those hours that Esther died.
Pio was quickly located and trapped by a group of hunters who had entered into the mountains on that day of St. Bruno. They returned with him twenty-four hours later. He was such a large man that not one horse could drag him.
The following day, they brought the Ghost Pig into the city for hanging in the town square. He was dragged by a team of four horses. Both Marxist and the Conservadores were unified that day. As if brothers in harmony they beat the hulking young boy as he made the slow progression behind a team of horses into the city square.
Geraldo had snuck back into town the following afternoon; disguising himself in a dark robe. He watched from the safety of the audience as they hauled the hulking boy to the square with many ropes. There was nothing he could do to stop the violent events he knew would unfold. But, he felt it was the only small honer left in the situation—to see with his own eyes what he had done. The people had built a makeshift gallows in the square. There was a cage beside it, presumably, he thought, for entertainment before the final death sentence.
He watched the mob beating the innocent Pio, who cried out with such a powerful turbulent cry that it seemed to shake the ground beneath thier feet. The brutality that he himself had set forth was unbearable to his heart—he could barely breathe with a thought of the injustice he had perpetrated. He was unable to watch the rest of the chaotic wrestling match of ten men attempting to subdue Pio Piccolo and put him in the steel bar cage. He said a prayer for the boy, and for his own soul before fleeing back to his estate; to his dead wife whose body still lay in the garden, to his bearded daughter, hidden behind many curtains.
The Ice House
Magdalen pulled the heavy velvet curtain back when she heard the familiar trot of her Father's old white mare. She knew that her mother lay dead in the Garden but had not even visited her body. She had heard the night before, from her bedroom, her father screaming in the garden. He was normally such a quiet man. She had never even heard him raise his voice. It frightened her. Not all the words could she make out, only a few, but they were enough: '¡mujer estúpida!' She knew, as men do under pressure, her father had finally broken loose.
That same night she watched the fires of the city burn from her window and listened to her father's harsh shouts from the garden. The smoke was viewable even at their estate 7 miles from the city. She had thought to ask her Father of the fires, and of his commotion in the garden, but when he returned to the house, he only looked at her with a warn fallen and face through her bedroom door and said, 'Your mother has passed my dear." He then retired to his library after loading his arms with bottles of his favorite bourbon.
Magdalen ran out to meet her father and help him from the horse as she always did. The afternoon sun was turning to evening with a thick dark purple haze, made more ominous by the smoke that still streamed in pillars from the nearby Valencia border over the hills.
She helped her father find his feet on the ground. He turned and though he turned away from her gaze, she saw his ashen face. He looked as if he had aged ten years in one twenty four hour period.
"Father you must rest."
"No dear, there is something we must do. Your mother's body deserves not to stink like the sewage."
"Yes of course father, but did you not go to fetch the palorsmen for her burial preparation? Was that not where you were gone to this afternoon?"
Geraldo looked up at her. She detected a look of guilt. Like a dog's expression when they have stolen food from the table. His eyes looked dusty like a thin film of milky clay was hiding the iris.
He responded in a quiet voice, "We must bury her our self. I will need your help. We can put her in the ice house tonight and then tomorrow, well..." he paused, "...we just leave her there. I will take care of the rest."
Seeing that her father was in no place to say many words, she quietly agreed, "Yes Father. Of course."
The ice had not been in use since the last house servant was sent away. Luckily, Magdalen had thought to clean out the meat that remained on its shelves after her father made her aware that there would be no more ice delivery to the estate. It was a very small space, but her mother was small. Though there had not been ice in the partially underground shed for some time; it was the end of winter, it was cold and the ice house was always colder. It would hold a body for at least a week before putrification ensued.
Her father placed Esther's cold stiff body on a sled that was once used to move the large blocks of ice. The pigeons were still surrounding the withered lady as if waiting for to wake. Magdalene wrapped her mother's body gently in robes and towels from the house. She covered her face with a small rug from the polar that had a masterfully stitched scene from the Genisis story of the 'Garden of Eden'. There was no nudity in the stitched picture as you might expect from Adam and Eve. Esther would have never allowed nudity, blessed by God or not, in her home. On the rug was only two hands. One with a ripe fruit, and one reaching out for it. She knew her mother would like to be left to her garden and her scriptures.
Esther's body was tucked into one of the refrigerated shelves and Geraldo said a portion of the oración de San Francisco aloud before shutting and locking the hinge of the heavy double doors.
porque es en dar que recibimos,
al perdonar que somos indultados,
en la muerte que estamos resucitados
Amén
I'm Ezra Vancil a Performing Songwriter, artist and writer based in Texas. Thanks for reading. If you like, please RESTEEM, UPVOTE and follow 
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