The Day of the Anvil, Chapter 1

The Day of the Anvil

Prologue:

I have been treating Coyote now for sixteen years. The poor fellow has been suffering with the same curious condition for more than a quarter of a century.

My name is Poco Loco, King of Conserves. I am a doctor of sorts, living here in my small house on the very edge of yFalminica City. When Coyote came to me, I was very puzzled. What would I do with him? How would I even communicate with this man? He seemed to make no sense. He spoke only a string of nonsense words, a condition that rose from severe dementia, which came from the relentless pounding of anvils upon young Coyote’s head. Was there any hope of cure?

Here is what happened when we first met.

Chapter 1

September 18, 1992

The day was inexorably miserable. The rain continued to drench the ground and fill the ditches and gutters. I sat at my desk, aimlessly fiddling with a pencil and chewing on the same dried banana chip that had been in my mouth all morning. I had sucked out most of its taste, and was only now retaining it out of absolute obsessive compulsion. To put it mildly, I was bored.

I, Poco Loco, formerly the most revered and respected, adored and admired Witch Doctor/Psychiatrist in the pacific, bored. ‘Business’ had been slow. Well, what I refer to as ‘business’, was rather at this time more like sitting at home, hoping that some real business would come my way. Something that would spark a revival of my formerly triumphant career. I yearned to be recognised on the street, people calling out, ‘Hey, that’s Poco Loco, he is meant to be the best Witch Doctor or psychiatrist. When I have that nervous breakdown that has been threatening my bleak little reality for ages, I will definitely go to him’. I was craving a job that would perhaps get me on to a talkshow that would lead to vast recognition.

This sort of work was itself remaining aloof.

I stared at the middle-aged face that looked out from the dusty, cracked mirror. My life had been an unbelievable success story, really. How many other half-Peruvian, half-Zimbabwe Voodoo priests have you heard of that have achieved as much success as I in the world of psychiatry?

Thirteen? You’re lying!

There is me, and only me! I fought the odds, but now I was back at the bottom of the pile. No one wanted me. And as I stared at my vaguely Negro, indistinctly Spaniard features, large brown hair with a large turkey bone lodged in it, and my roughly-managed moustache and goatee and swarthy complexion, I considered what I would have to do to crawl out of the gutter.

I lifted a chicken leg from the plate that sat in front of me, gnawed at the meat. It was cold and tasteless. I threw it carelessly in the rough direction of the bin, or where I assumed it was. It hit the wall and slid down with dramatic sluggishness, leaving behind it a trail of grease as it landed on the floor. "Colonel Sanders, you’ll be the death of us all", I muttered to myself. I vacantly stared at the stain on the green pinstriped wallpaper and I suppose I didn’t hear the first few knocks on the door. But now they came faster and harder, until I was awakened and found myself running to the door that was vibrating with the pure angst of whoever was on the other side.

I anxiously lurched for the door handle and pulled it open curtly. "Hilltop margarine buttercup," said the young man at my doorstep, "unkempt child of podiatry."

"Excuse me?" I queried with piqued interest.

The young man was of average height, perhaps a little under one hundred and eighty centimetres, short/straight, neat dark brown hair, large blue eyes and a muscular physique.

"Linen sabotage." He uttered, almost embarrassed.

I scanned his face and found no hint of youthful jest. I remained in my stance, barely moving, eyeing him off. He stood firm, gazing up at me, from the step below with eagerness gleaming in his eyes. I stepped back from the door, and after contemplating slamming it in his face, I quickly gestured with my right arm, holding the door with my left, for him to enter. He took the cue hurriedly and crossed the threshold, seating himself slowly in the first armchair that he came to. I closed the door, and sat in the chair opposite him.

"How can I help you?" I ventured, anticipating a sensible response.

He maintained his silence for a moment before sheepishly fishing a piece of paper from his breast pocket. He offered it to me, and sat with his back flat against the back of the chair. "Futon savouries . . ." he suggested.

"What’s this?" I inquired holding it out. He nodded at me. I unfolded the paper and read what was scrawled on it. "A phone number?" I asked. He didn’t respond for a few seconds, but when I repeated my question, he greeted it with a simple nod.

"OK." I stood up and crossed the room leisurely. I picked up the handset of the phone that sat on the bench in my kitchen, and began to dial the number on the paper.

The phone rang about ten times before a cheery young female voice chimed in. "You have reached the office of President General Nine Turning Mirror’s. How may I assist you?"

"Err . . ." I stumbled. Was I to talk to the president? I glanced back at the paper and read what was scribbled below the number. ‘Guru Al, about A.F.O.C.’. "Umm, can you please connect me with . . . Guru Al."

"Just a moment," the young woman said, "may I inquire what business this is in connection with?"

"Yes. It is about A.F.O.C. . . . I suppose."

"One moment." The line clicked and a pleasant rendition of The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour filled my ears.

"Thanks . . ." I said unsure. I turned to my companion. "Who is Guru Al?" He stared at me. "OK," I responded resignedly, "no more pieces of paper?"

He shuffled in his seat, sifting through his pockets. He produced two pieces of paper. I grabbed at them anxiously, stretching the phone cord so that I could reach him. One was a movie ticket for The Terminator, the other a comic strip of Fred Basset, cut from the newspaper.

"Great," I said to myself, the Beatles suddenly discontinuing their performance.

"Hello," a loud voice said on the other side, "is A.F.O.C. there?"

"Ah, I assume," I replied, "depending on who A.F.O.C. is. Would he be a man with dark hair who makes no sense?"

"That’s the one!" the voice confirmed. "Hi! I am Guru Al. I suppose you have heard of me."

"Well, no."

"Oh . . . that’s a surprise. What religion are you?"

"Look, err . . . Did you send A.F.O.C. to me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Well, I was hoping that you would be able to help him. He has a rather – ah how shall I put it – a particularly painful and bizarre condition."

"Oh?" I responded simply.

"Yeah, he kind of has a problem with anvils."

"Anvils?"

"Yeah . . ." Guru Al began. Another voice spoke in the background, seemingly female, uttering something about a party. "Sure!" Guru Al enthused. "But I’m on the phone at the moment!"

I listened carefully and heard the voice say, "Ok, I will see you later then."

"OK, Igor." Guru Al said. "Ah, where was I?"

"Anvils." I reminded my informant.

"Well, he has had the same condition for just over eighteen years now, it’s kind of a curse I think. You see whenever he tries to assist any organisation on the right wing of things he ends up getting . . ."

Another voice, a male one this time, said something. "Look!" Guru AL yelled. "I am on the freaking phone here! Just because you don’t ever do any work, doesn’t mean no one in this place does, Gamblor! Now get out!" Gamblor let a string of curses fly, before I heard the door slam. "Umm . . ." Guru Al continued. "Basically he has anvil’s fall on his head."

"I see." I said puzzled. "That’s rather an odd condition."

"Yeah, do you think you could do anything about it?"

"Maybe. It depends. How often does this occur?"

"Well it happens quite regularly. Like five or so times a day, sometimes even when he is sleeping." Guru Al explained.

"And what does A.F.O.C. stand for?" I asked.

"Anvil-Falls-On-Coyote. That’s what he has been called for the past couple of decades, but before the curse he was just called Coyote.

"Intriguing," I said, "quite intriguing."

"Well, I have to go, I have some work to do. What religion did you say you were?"

"I didn’t. Well I suppose I should get to work with Coyote. Goodbye then. Ah, who should I send the bills to?"

"Just address them to the Presidential Palace, care of Guru Al. I will get them." Guru Al said. "Well ciao then!" The phone clicked and the line began beeping. I turned to Coyote, placing the handset down.

I eyed the clock on the wall. It was 2:25pm. "Well, my young friend. Where shall we start?"

That was nine years ago now. The first session of many was awkward and, as I assumed would be the case, little progress was made. I assessed the situation and came to the conclusion that he needed more the Witch Doctor than the Psychiatrist.

"Apples bolognese vasodilation." Coyote pronounced, sitting back in his seat with a smile of obvious self-satisfaction suspending his lips.

I once again took note of the time: 5:10pm. Somehow I had developed a keen interest and deep sympathy for Coyote in the past two and three quarter hours. I had even found that he had beguilingly endeared himself to me somehow. There was something unique about this man. Just as I said this, an anvil fell upon his head and he toppled from the chair.

At first I looked up to inspect my ceiling, concerned that there would be a hole there and that the anvil had fallen through my roof. But upon finding not even a mark, I quickly reverted my attention to where it should have been rightly apportioned. I rapidly kneeled on the shag brown carpet and assisted Coyote in sitting up. He possessed, as a testament for his pain, a large, round, shiny, red, pulsing lump on his cranium. "Ow, that’s gotta hurt," I announced plainly, "more than a slap in the face. Would you like something for that?" Coyote shook his head. "I s’pose you are used to that now then?" He nodded, confirming my suspicion.

Captivated, I began to inspect his skull. Through his hair I could feel that it had developed into a tough, tortoise-shell like shield. Like a callus on a foot, toughened over time by regularly walking on rough stones. But, this was one hell of a callus!

I aided Coyote in seating himself again and offered him a drink. "What would you like?" I inquired. I was met with a blank look, then a frown and a shrug. "Mmm, stupid question, eh? Just nod if you want it." I began to list a multitude of different beverages. "Orange juice, water, milk, tea, coffee, any type of juice?" He shook his head. "Would you like something alcoholic?" He nodded curtly. Finally he managed to inform me that he wanted scotch on the rocks. This information was acquired through a lot of gesticulation and motions, familiar to a game of charades. When he had his drink, I once again sat down.

"Now Coyote. You understand what I say don’t you – everything?" I asked him in earnest. He nodded in reply. "The problem is that when you talk, you make no sense to anyone, except perhaps yourself. You comprehend this?" Once again he nodded, frowning somewhat. He shuffled in his seat and looked set to rise from it. "Wait. What we have to do is find a way we can both communicate, while I search for a way to rid you of this curse and untangle the confusion in your head. As a witch doctor, I know of many options. It may involve sacrifice, invocation of spirits, self-mutilation and the like . . ." Coyote flinched. " . . . but I will find a way. The problem seems to be that it may take some time. So we need a way to speak to each other."

Coyote raised the corners of his lips, assembling them in position, from which a smile could be quickly launched. He glanced up at me, his eyes full of hope. "Lucky thing," I said, "that I have some ways, although not always reliable, of linking my mind with others psychically!" Coyote beamed. "So, let’s delay our search for your cure no longer."

I told Coyote to remain seated and left the room, returning a few minutes later with an old, worn leather suitcase. I shifted my shaky old wooden coffee table so that it sat between our two chairs and lay the suitcase there. I opened it, revealing the contents. "All the tools we will need," I explained, gesturing towards the case, much like the hostess gesticulates to emphasise the presence of a certain letter on Wheel of Fortune. Coyote glanced at the instruments with curiosity. Vast assortments of test tubes, bones, feathers, pins, knives, bottles containing various fluids and powders of various colours, charts, a few small straw mats and some well-worn, dog-eared tomes, perused with great depth a hundred times or more.

"Ok, then," I said, "let’s start with this. Just sit still now."

I took a bunch of bones, a feather and a bottle of red powder, placed them on the table before me. Coyote looked at me anxiously. And so began a pattern that would continue, for years and years.

Back to the Anvil Index Go to part: 2 3

02/09/2000 13:30