A Congregation of Jackals

Chapter 2

At this sight, Charles’s stomach dropped and Jessica shuddered. Presently, the couple averted their eyes.

“Now that ain’t polite—lookin’ away from a man while drinkin’ with him.”

Charles and Jessica raised their gazes and watched the silent brother tip the bottle. The Arizonians ineffectually tried to hide their repulsion.

“Since you’re buyin’, I’ll tell you what happened to Arthur—why he can’t talk none.”

“I am sure it is a fascinating tale,” said Charles, disguising his sarcasm enough so that it went unnoticed by the twins.

“We was captured by some Indians. Don’t at all matter how it happened, but it did.

“And so there we was, hidden in some cave in some gulch in Indian country, bound up, our backs tied to a damn boulder that weighed more than a fat elephant. Them savages left to go do some scalping or whatever they had a mind to do that day, but only they never did come back. And there we was, tied up expert-like, cause if there’s one thing those Indians know, it’s how to tie a knot that won’t never give. Dig up some thousand-year-old Comanche and I bet his moccasins is still tied smart.”

A third of the bottle already ingested, Arthur returned the vessel to his brother. The talker drank, smacked his mouth, exhaled gruffly, and handed the bottle back to his twin. Properly lubricated, the communicative sibling continued the tale.

“A day passed. And then another. And then a third and a fourth day. And there we was, in that cave, starvin’ to death ’cause those Indians left us. If it hadn’t of rained, we would’ve gone thirsty, but it did rain and some water dripped from the cave ceiling right there onto our heads and we drunk all of it that ran from our scalps down onto our faces, every little bit, even though it tasted like sweat and lichens. But we drank it all.

“And then the fifth day come and we’re both crazy with hunger, delirious, starving, only I’m a little better off than Arthur, cause the day we got took by the Indians I had a giant breakfast and dinner, but Arthur overslept and missed his breakfast, and he missed his dinner too. So I’m a day behind him in starving to death, if you follow.”

“Indeed. Please continue.”

Arthur handed the bottle to the talker, who then drank, smacked his mouth, and cleared his throat.

Calmed by the warming influence of the wine, Jessica leaned on Charles’s shoulder. The gentleman looked around and did not think overly upon the fact that most of the saloon denizens had vacated the establishment.

“So we get to arguing. ‘I ain’t gonna die,’ ‘It’s your fault,’ ‘Mom said you was gonna get me kilt,’ ‘It’s your fault Dad got kilt’—that sort of stuff that brothers always argue ’bout. So Arthur says, ‘We was born at the same time and I ain’t gonna let you outlive me. I’m gonna last as long as you. Longer even!’” The talker looked over at Arthur. The silent man’s eyes were glazed in either recollection or inebriation, Charles could not decide which. “That was the last thing Arthur ever said.”

Charles and Jessica were perplexed by the conclusion of this tale. The talker nodded his head and drank another swallow from the dwindling supply in the bottle.

“I am afraid that I do not understand what happened,” said Charles.

“He ate his tongue. Bit it off, chewed it up, and swallowed it so he wouldn’t starve before me.”

Arthur opened his mouth widely for another swallow of whiskey. Amber liquid splattered upon a waggling nubbin, the tiny remnant of his tongue that was no larger than an olive. Charles stared in disgust while Jessica placed her wine glass down, clasped her shaking hands, and contended with nausea.

“My God,” muttered Charles. “How did he not bleed to death?”

The talker turned to his brother and said with admiration “He pulled off his kerchief with his teeth, gulped it in his mouth, and pressed it ’gainst the gash to stop the bleedin’.”

“My God,” repeated the gentleman.

“Arthur was chewing at his bottom lip the next day when we was rescued. I was just startin’ to contemplate my tongue.”

Jessica attempted a weak smile and shook her pale head. “That is so . . . so savage.”

A coldness descended upon the twins, and beneath hedges that were dark eyebrows, four glinting black orbs fixed upon the blond woman.

“He ain’t a savage. He did what he needed to. I know you think you’re better than us, but you’d’ve done the same. We all got the animal within us, even your gentleman husband there.”

Jessica stammered, “I didn’t m-mean t-to—”

A whiskey bottle slammed upon the table and cut her short. “Shut up. Just cause you’re pretty don’t mean you can call us savages. You’d’ve done the same if it was you.”

Charles was keenly aware that—excepting the far-off bartender and an inebriate with his head upon a table—the bar was unoccupied other than by the twins, his wife, and himself. Calming himself, he said, “My wife is affected by drink. Please pay her no mind.”

“We ain’t savages. You’d’ve done the same in that gulch.”

“Yes, you are correct.”

The talker removed his hat and set it upon the table. A curved scar like a corded pink rope ran from his forehead to the back of his skull; no hair grew from this raised flesh.

“That’s what savages do.” The offended twin placed his hat back upon his head. “We ain’t savages.”

“I am very sorry for offending you,” offered Jessica.