2057.01: Muskrat Stew
Posted: Fri Nov 10, 2023 4:45 pm
A trail of duckweed twirled in the air behind a young girl as she skipped along the cobblestone walkway leading towards Gate H at the Basilica at Muskrat Slough. She laughed and sang as she went – chestnut hair bouncing – belting out a nursery rhyme her father had taught her:
slough, slough, Muskrat Slough
boiling, boiling muskrat stew
slough, slough, Muskrat Slough
feeding, feeding you know who
Her song echoed off the brick exterior of the empty stadium. The signs and banners promoting the team and its players had been taken down immediately after the Mad Popes were dumped from the playoffs. Barren vending stalls stood silent around her, their steel frames and empty clothing racks mimicking the cold skeletal remains of disfigured beasts. Crows milled about, most congregating where the food stalls had been. Aside from the girl, the crows were the only sign of life around the stadium. No one came to the ballpark this time of year. Not on a Tuesday. Not in December.
With every word the girl sang and every skip of her feet, more duckweed leaves tumbled from her. They appeared out of nowhere, like a magic trick, swirling and swept up behind the girl’s soft gray 2053 BBA Champions hooded sweatshirt with a cartoonish drawing of a Mad Popes mascot clubbing Mexico City’s Aztec over the head with an ornate staff. Duckweed leaves skirted in all directions, catching the wisps of the breezes ever present in this former barren wetlands. The late afternoon sun flashed and glinted off her oversized glasses worn low on her nose, and the cool rectangular cobblestones blackened the already stained soles of her bare feet.
slough, slough, Muskrat Slough
stirring, stirring muskrat stew
slough, slough, Muskrat Slough
gorging, gorging you know who
When the girl reached the decorative black iron bars barring entrance to Gate H, both her skipping and her song came to abrupt stops. She grasped the gate with both hands and peered through to the baseball field beyond. She smiled as she looked all around her, as if to make sure no one was watching. With a loud yip like a coyote, the girl shook the gate as violently as her small frame could manage. The sturdy gate hardly budged, of course, as she continued to yip and shake and shake and yip.
Finally, she gave up with a low growl, dropping her hands to her side in defeat. She wrinkled her nose and kicked the gate with her bare foot. A dull thud reverberated from the bars, interrupted only by the girl yelping in pain. She hopped around on one foot, grasping at her bruised toes.
Then she went still for a moment before throwing her head back. And she laughed, high-pitched and boisterous, so loud every crow outside the stadium took flight, kawing and squawking. The girl continued to roll with laughter. The birds flapped and darted in all directions – a black mess of movement against the dull blue sky. The crows swooped and dove over the girl’s head, but, over time, one by one, they flew upward, like they were being beckoned, wings beating, higher and higher above the stadium, where they gathered into one mass.
“A murder,” the girl said, watching the birds. She shrugged then looked around again to make sure no one was around. Satisfied, the girl turned and skipped directly toward the gate. She didn’t even hesitate as her small body neared the iron bars.
She came upon them, but they did not stop her or even slow her down. One moment she was a young girl – flesh and bone and chestnut hair – and the next she was a dark, murky fluid. It happened in a flash, and like the current of a peaceful stream, she passed through the gate. Once through, she formed back into herself.
The girl lifted both hands and felt around her face like she wasn’t quite used to what she had just done. She let out a slight giggle and looked back up to the crows. She squinted through her glasses but could barely make them out. She shrugged again and headed towards the field.
She skipped along the concourse and then down a set of steps between two sections of seats. She hopped over the short wall surrounding the field, and continued her skipping out to the center of the infield, just behind the mound. There, she closed her eyes and slowly reached out with up-turned hands. Duckweed poured out of them, a flood of green pulsing from her tiny hands, covering everything around her – the dirt and short grass of the infield, the perfectly manicured outfield, all of foul territory, then everything else: every seat and stair and walkway. The duckweed piled higher and higher. The girl was knee deep, then waist deep. Everywhere began to roil and heave and froth, and when the girl was neck deep in the sea of green, the murder of crows above formed into a sharp mass like a javelin, and hurtled itself towards centerfield.
And the girl finished her song:
slough, slough, Muskrat Slough
churning, churning muskrat stew
slough, slough, Muskrat Slough
drowning, drowning, all of you
slough, slough, Muskrat Slough
boiling, boiling muskrat stew
slough, slough, Muskrat Slough
feeding, feeding you know who
Her song echoed off the brick exterior of the empty stadium. The signs and banners promoting the team and its players had been taken down immediately after the Mad Popes were dumped from the playoffs. Barren vending stalls stood silent around her, their steel frames and empty clothing racks mimicking the cold skeletal remains of disfigured beasts. Crows milled about, most congregating where the food stalls had been. Aside from the girl, the crows were the only sign of life around the stadium. No one came to the ballpark this time of year. Not on a Tuesday. Not in December.
With every word the girl sang and every skip of her feet, more duckweed leaves tumbled from her. They appeared out of nowhere, like a magic trick, swirling and swept up behind the girl’s soft gray 2053 BBA Champions hooded sweatshirt with a cartoonish drawing of a Mad Popes mascot clubbing Mexico City’s Aztec over the head with an ornate staff. Duckweed leaves skirted in all directions, catching the wisps of the breezes ever present in this former barren wetlands. The late afternoon sun flashed and glinted off her oversized glasses worn low on her nose, and the cool rectangular cobblestones blackened the already stained soles of her bare feet.
slough, slough, Muskrat Slough
stirring, stirring muskrat stew
slough, slough, Muskrat Slough
gorging, gorging you know who
When the girl reached the decorative black iron bars barring entrance to Gate H, both her skipping and her song came to abrupt stops. She grasped the gate with both hands and peered through to the baseball field beyond. She smiled as she looked all around her, as if to make sure no one was watching. With a loud yip like a coyote, the girl shook the gate as violently as her small frame could manage. The sturdy gate hardly budged, of course, as she continued to yip and shake and shake and yip.
Finally, she gave up with a low growl, dropping her hands to her side in defeat. She wrinkled her nose and kicked the gate with her bare foot. A dull thud reverberated from the bars, interrupted only by the girl yelping in pain. She hopped around on one foot, grasping at her bruised toes.
Then she went still for a moment before throwing her head back. And she laughed, high-pitched and boisterous, so loud every crow outside the stadium took flight, kawing and squawking. The girl continued to roll with laughter. The birds flapped and darted in all directions – a black mess of movement against the dull blue sky. The crows swooped and dove over the girl’s head, but, over time, one by one, they flew upward, like they were being beckoned, wings beating, higher and higher above the stadium, where they gathered into one mass.
“A murder,” the girl said, watching the birds. She shrugged then looked around again to make sure no one was around. Satisfied, the girl turned and skipped directly toward the gate. She didn’t even hesitate as her small body neared the iron bars.
She came upon them, but they did not stop her or even slow her down. One moment she was a young girl – flesh and bone and chestnut hair – and the next she was a dark, murky fluid. It happened in a flash, and like the current of a peaceful stream, she passed through the gate. Once through, she formed back into herself.
The girl lifted both hands and felt around her face like she wasn’t quite used to what she had just done. She let out a slight giggle and looked back up to the crows. She squinted through her glasses but could barely make them out. She shrugged again and headed towards the field.
She skipped along the concourse and then down a set of steps between two sections of seats. She hopped over the short wall surrounding the field, and continued her skipping out to the center of the infield, just behind the mound. There, she closed her eyes and slowly reached out with up-turned hands. Duckweed poured out of them, a flood of green pulsing from her tiny hands, covering everything around her – the dirt and short grass of the infield, the perfectly manicured outfield, all of foul territory, then everything else: every seat and stair and walkway. The duckweed piled higher and higher. The girl was knee deep, then waist deep. Everywhere began to roil and heave and froth, and when the girl was neck deep in the sea of green, the murder of crows above formed into a sharp mass like a javelin, and hurtled itself towards centerfield.
And the girl finished her song:
slough, slough, Muskrat Slough
churning, churning muskrat stew
slough, slough, Muskrat Slough
drowning, drowning, all of you