territory
Mud feeds on fears.
The terrain around the small wooden house was dry and solid only for around one third of the year. The rest of the time, and especially in the smoke-veiled months at the end and beginning of the year, the earth would fiddle its swampy fingers voraciously at anything or anyone trying to make their passage in either of two possible directions: towards and away from the premises. Any false move could cost one a leg or a cussword. Sludge was greedy and appropriated whatever it got a grip on. It was a limbo no one had asked for, no one had designed nor engineered. Perhaps one glorious day in the Future all the long forgotten creations—unpaired earrings, unspent coins, unsent letters, unsung birdsong, unsaid whys and wherefores—would get excavated by a group of archeologists or march out of their own accord into the daylight to set the record straight, and chant their hymn of solace. But what if, after some delirious and dizzy moments of ecstasy, they would realise there was nothing for them there—on the surface—and they would want back? This question seemed to be mostly overlooked.
Sludge just wants to grow. It has no other purpose or goal.
The house—inhabited by ghosts, mice, and ants—was haunted by a human. For some reason the person wouldn’t leave the premises, even though he was not welcome there and if not met with hostility, at least unfriendly mistrust. This type of flatshare can be taxing to anyone, and especially to mature ghosts, because by the end of the day, all they really need is peace and quiet from the living, and not engaging with another sweaty confused mumbler.
It’s not that they were impatient or easily irritable, no. But the drifts of smelly socks laying around, the mountains of undone dishes attracting flies, the kilometres of muddy footsteps leading nowhere, the unwavering egotism, incoherence and irrationality—had been taking their toll, bit by bit, year after year, until it couldn’t be ignored anymore, the water in the pot about to boil over.
‘There’s not enough room for all of us here,’ the ghosts and animals agreed one day. ‘He needs to leave.’ And so they came up with a plan to make the human go.
Marsh has no mercy.
In theory, getting rid of a human should not pose much difficulty, as it is well known to be a lame species, used to living in comfort, embarrassingly incapable of surviving in the wild. First thing to try out was as simple as changing the locks. Why overcomplicate things, the planning committee decided, and one autumn afternoon, when the unwanted tenant went on a weekly excursion to supply himself with mass-produced food to keep up his life functions, they replaced all latches and boarded up all windows and doors (as those were yet another useless facility only humans need.) But keeping him away from the house only worked for a few days, until he broke down the front door with a massive hammer. The mice hid in the walls, ashamed, the ghosts turned inwards and were nowhere to be seen for the following week, the ants entrenched themselves in a dusty pyramid and held trials to make responsible those who had put forward that disgraceful project.
When things got quiet again, they all reassembled and turned to the Internet for advice. It turned out humans themselves had the most efficient methods of getting rid of other humans, and the World Wide Web offered innumerable ideas to achieve that. They created a ring of salt around the house and set howlite and tourmaline here and there. They lit white candles in all the spots where the human liked to spend time. They installed sound repellers blasting reggae all day long. They set up traps with banknotes and bling-bling knick-knacks. All to no avail. It was almost as if the human had known about their plan and outsmarted it, even though he had shown no previous signs of acuity.
Slime has no limits.
There is a certain point beyond which non-violent methods need to be considered insufficient. That was the common conclusion they had arrived at when all previous attempts to evict the human had failed. They wanted to do it properly at last—so they awaited the right moment.
For long weeks there had been a period of drought and it seemed that the natural equilibrium had been forever disrupted. The muddy fosse around the house had solidified and sometimes you could even hear some knocks on the door and receding footsteps. The human started to go out more, first somewhat cautiously, later with an increasing confidence—storming out the front door whistling and waltzing. The life at home got more pleasant for everyone, and the initial plan of separation became less urgent. Weeks of seeming tranquility had passed and something started to be discernible in the air, for whomever had their eyes and nostrils open wide enough. The dryness was sending signals and requests, not capable of maintaining itself anymore. There could be only one way out of that situation and it was hanging above the burned out land like an overripe fruit, that would splash out its entrails when falling down. And so it did, and everyone would say they had been waiting for it, but truth be told, they had feared it as much as they’d desired it and felt its inevitability.
There had been many testimonies as to when and where the first drop had fallen, but one thing could be certain—it had soon been followed by an endless stream of lookalike droplets, hitting like aimless bullets. And it hadn’t stopped for weeks.
Mud never leaves, it only awaits.
The situation at home got tense once more, as the human was grounded, his presence mercilessly increased. The ghosts, mice and ants reconvened again. It was time.
It happened at three in the morning, because three in the morning is the hour when ghosts and mice feel the fittest. It’s also the hour when humans are usually at their lowest levels of vital forces. Not everything went according to the plan, but they managed to chloroform the body into a deeper sleep and then carry it outside. They didn’t have to do much more than that, because this is when the mud took over—spread its sleazy arms in an almost affectionate gesture and gently caressed the human, dragging him inside, making him its own, one with itself. Reunited.
And the ghosts, mice and ants lived happily ever after, in a peaceful communion.
Until.
They always come back.
Klau Stępień comes from Warsaw and from the Polish language, but resides in Brussels, where she works as a linguist, and in English, which she chose as her foster parent tongue. She is currently at work on her debut novel. Come say hi at klaustepien.com.
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