The curse goes something like this: You will pay for your deeds. Maybe not
today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually you will pay. And the interest rate
will be usurious.
I was warned in my early teens by my much older brother that my blood carried
this corruption. At the time, it seemed like just another of the many warnings
that young infidels such as myself were given to keep us in line: Do Unto Others.
Eat Your Vegetables. Don't Run With Scissors. Drugs Are Bad. Sex Is Wrong. As
far as I was concerned, Mark, my brother, was merely taking his place in the
long line of authority figures that prophesied divine retribution for my once
nascent, but now blossoming, hedonism.
I even said as much, comparing the curse to the many yet-to-materialize consequences
darkly prophesied for my being a "bad boy.". After all, I hadn't seen
any truly horrible things happen just because I smoked pot, or drank my grandparents'
liquor, or fiddled around with girls and boys as much as I could.
NO. No, no no NO, he said. This is different. You have to be
careful, because as a Thomas you have to be wary of The Curse. This is Bad.
It's Serious. You see, it's not just that you pay for what you do, tit-for-tat--
that's no more than anyone might expect. Those who live under The Curse, however,
face a slightly different set of circumstances: you will pay, and pay, and PAY.
You will be punished for even the tiniest transgression with a disproportionate
force that defies all reason. You will be pummeled beyond all justice for small
offenses. Shoplift a porn mag? Go to prison for 20 years. Jack-off with the
assistance of your grandmother's vibrator? Lose both arms. Steal, lie, cheat;
be indolent, cantankerous, or timid; curse, pick your nose, eat too many sweets,
forget your mother's birthday, steal your father's cigarettes, lie to your sister:
Any and all of it carried a frightful doom.
Mark claimed to have been told of The Curse by our grandfather, Charles Lee
Thomas, a notorious lecher, drunkard, gambler, and con-artist who was born in
the Kentucky hills in 1900, one of a pair of identical twin boys who grew up
far outside the realm of civilization.
There was a story about our grandfather's youth that was peddled to the kids
as a cautionary tale. Charlie and his twin brother were walking down a country
road on their 11th birthday. They came across a rifle along side of the road
and started arguing over it. James, the twin, had seen it first, but Charlie
grabbed it just before James could reach it. A scuffle ensued, the gun went
off, and James was dead. It took 4 days for the Sheriff to reach the family
homestead. They were truly hillbillies, beyond the reach of authority and law.
By the time the Sheriff finally arrived, the body was buried and Charlie had
been sent off to live with relatives the next county over. No consequences,
apart from being wrenched from family and farm and sent off to civilization.
He married my bohemian Grandmother Pearl, and lived a quiet life of sneaking
shots of whiskey, playing poker at lunch breaks, and regaling his grandsons
with lies and stories of conning cute store clerks with the old $20-change-for-a-$10
small con.
The story of my grandfather killing his twin was used to enforce one of the
rules we chafed under as unruly boys: No gunplay. No "cops and robbers"
No "cowboys and Indians." Finger pointed with the thumb cocked back
was a punishable offense.
But this was not the story that Grandpa T. told Mark. He told my brother the
cautionary tale of the ancient blood curse. Mark related it to me when I was
eleven, or thirteen. My memory is vague, so I will take some liberties in the
retelling.
***
The story goes that back during the Crusades, the local Lord packed up his
sword and shield and went off to the Holy Lands, leaving his castle and lands
in the care of his small, weak, drunkard cousin Roderick. (He was also rumored
to be fond of flower arranging. I must have some of Roderick's blood flowing
through me; as I too have shown a penchant for interior decorating, as well
as weakness for wearing assless chaps in darkened dance clubs.)
Lord Thentwhistle decided to take the scenic route to the Holy Land. Sailing,
horseback riding and strolling through the countryside are all lovely diversions,
but make for an unpredictably long itinerary. Then there's all the Abbeys and
Cathedrals to visit, the gift shops, the regional mutton dishes, tasting the
local wines and beers. And this is just on the trip out. Never mind hewing the
limbs of the infidels, nor pillaging between Cricket matches, or even the day
trips Seeking the Grail.
So Lord Thentwhistle was gone for a considerable stretch. Back in Wales, my
ancestors were of the vassal persuasion, spending their brief and squalid lives
eating stones and fucking mud. Cousin Roderick, while certainly lots of fun
at a party, was not as sharp as old Whistle-butt, and the brutal sting of whip
and scourge were noticeably lacking during his tenure. After another long night
of hanging at the castle with Rod and his "friend" Bruce, a plan was
struck up by the Thomas clan on the walk back to the mud pits. Why not knock
old Roddy on the head and take up residence at the castle? Then we wouldn't
have to pretend to like listening to Liza or Barbra just to get a taste of mead.
And if I have to watch that Pet Shop Boys video one more time, I am going to
kick a puppy. We could just drink the mead! So the theory went.
So, the Thomas family did the deed, knocked Roderick on the head, and set themselves
up as Lords of the Castle. Fine work it was. The mead was good. The fucking
something besides mud was good. Being Lord was good. And the gig kept on going.
Any moment, somebody was going to come kick them out, but year after year, nothing.
They even started to get invited to regional Royalty-type events.
Eventually, Lord Thentwhistle did come back, rested from his travels. Finding
the Thomas family asleep at 2pm on a Tuesday, wearing his clothes, and sleeping
in his daughters, he set to slaughtering them. The few remaining living torsos
he tossed back to the mud pits, giving them a couple of small stones to chew
on.
***
So that's the gist of the story. I don't know, I always thought that a few
years of NOT fucking mud and eating stones might just be worth it, and fuck
Lord Thentwhistle. If he wouldn't have surprised them so early in the day they
might have had the drop on him, and still been sleeping in his daughters to
this day.
But I had other problems with the idea of a family curse. I questioned
my brother's intent in the retelling, and the veracity of the core of the story.
He was trying to reign me in, clearly. Could it have had anything to do with
the fact that he had been having his way with me since I was 8 (or was it 6?),
creeping down to my bedroom to grope and fondle me in the dark? Was it a cautionary
tale to attempt to get me to be silent about his own horribly wrong, injurious
and abusive incest and pederasty? And where was his payment for these misdeeds?
At the very least, his lecherous soul should have found itself the target of
a back-alley gang rape, perpetuated by the lifetime members of the Razor-Encrusted-Penis
Support Group.
And what of my Grandfather? Where was his overpayment for his
misdeeds? I found out later that we children were given the distilled and pretty
version of the death of his twin. It was not his 11th birthday, it was his 21st.
It was not a rusty abandoned rifle on the side of the road, mislaid and forgotten.
It was my grandfather's pistol. He and James had been in a heated drunken fight
over a girl in town, and after a confrontation at the barn dance, he shot his
twin in the head. Charlie had a full and happy life, descending into dementia,
crapping on himself and his caregivers for a few years until he died at peace
at the age of 82.
In the meantime, I have done everything I could to prove the curse wrong. So
far, my blood runs similar to theirs, with little to no consequence for my misdeeds.
I have spent years forgetting the entire tale. When I think of my life and what
has been given to me, done to me, what has fallen upon me unasked for and unlooked
for, I never consider any ancient blood curse. I forget that my ancestors usurped
a castle and lived as kings, and were punished for it. Often, as I ponder the
feast that has been laid before me, I am convinced that I am reaping the benefits
of many past lives where I was doomed to live a brief and squalid life eating
stones and fucking mud. So I praise the blood that flows through me, the bits
of gravel clunking about my gut, and the odd arousal I feel when my boot sinks
and slides in wet earth, the mud beckoning like a lover, wet and glistening.
Daniel Thomas lives in Portland, OR. This is his second
story for Lime Tea.
