Jack O'Connell - The Resurrectionist

He opened the issue, rolled the cover around to the back without creasing it, and began to read the first page of the final Limbo story.

The first page was one full panel, a portrait of the troupe on the little beach, at the foot of the boulders that stretched up to Dr. Fliess’s castle. The freaks fanned out behind the chicken boy like bowling pins, their heads tilted up in unison and the same look of caution and anticipation on each face. Above them, the black iron castle, the laboratory of the legendary renegade, Dr. Wilton Fliess, sat at the edge of the cliff, looking ominous and uninviting.

They have wandered so long

the narrative bar above their heads read

And suffered so much.

They have faced the good and the bad together

Bound by their deformities and their love

But today, they will learn what lies at the end

of their hard road

Deliverance or damnation.

Because today they have reached

and now came the title, floating down in the air above their heads like manna, in blood red ink

The End of Limbo!

Below their feet was a banner that read

Complete in this one issue, the last chapter of the Limbo epic

Written & illustrated

By Menlo

Danny made crunching sounds. Crumbs flew and settled. The noise of the page being turned was thunderous. A second cookie went into the mouth and then the hand came down and grabbed the Limbo blanket, a little throw that Kerry had picked up a few months before. Danny pulled it over his legs and began to read.

Dr. Fliess is hunched within the folds of his black cape, the red velvet interior just peeking into view. He is sitting cross-legged halfway up the cliff, in the notch where two boulders come together. His elbows are planted on his knees and his chin is cupped in his braced hands. It is clear he is locked in some sort of demonic trance.

He remains this way all night. His gargoylean homunculi burrow into crevices around him. All that can be seen of the servants are their red eyes, looking terrified. What has happened to the Master? they wonder.

But the Master is unaware of their terror. He is in the grip of his own destiny, waiting to see where a lifetime’s obsession will bear him. He is inside the densest mysteries of nature now. And no one can touch him. He watches the tide come in with its careless fury, battering the beach, flooding over the newly covered graves. Seawater sinking down into the hard sand. The tide builds, rises. The tide reaches up to Fliess, engulfs his pointy-booted feet before it begins to recede. The wind does its part, howling, banshee mad.

But by morning, gulls are able to coast in the upsweep. And when the water has pushed back to its shallowest limit, Fliess emerges from the trance. He stands with the aid of his cobra’s head cane. He flutters his cape and stretches in the rays of the rising sun. And then he gives the signal to his legion. A snap of the fingers is all it takes and they emerge from their crevices, half-naked and carrying their crude shovels.

They scurry down the rocks and scamper over the new graves, still marked despite the night’s heavy tide. They get to work in groups of two and three, panning out the wet sand, heaps of grain flying through the dim air. They know what to do. Fliess need not shout commands. He controls them by thought alone at this point.

In no time at all, the graves are opened and the scoliotic little demons are pulling on braided ships ropes, ropes as thick as their own necks. And as they pull, the coffins of the freaks begin to emerge from the earth. The pine boxes come up in the order they were planted. The last to reach the surface is, of course, the chicken boy.

Dr. Fliess comes down the cliff with the graceful movements of a natural dancer, a dandy to the end. His creatures rock and moan, torn between the urge to cower and the need to exult. Fliess paces around the semicircle of coffins that sit in pools of wet sand and seaweed. He is waiting, one might guess, for the rising sun to backlight his eminence. He is lost in a meditation on his own long-sought fate. What will happen this morning, in these next few minutes, will determine who the doctor is, will clarify, once and for all, the nature of his character. The facts about his very identity.

The enormity of this moment in time is not lost on the doctor. He understands all too well, better than anyone else could, the meaning of the task he has attempted. He feels its immensity and density in his marrow. It throbs there, pulsing like a vein in God’s forehead. It is what has driven him all these years. It is what has allowed him to ignore the nasty legends and push on. His calling has isolated him from any kind of fellowship. But that’s the price the chosen must pay for their gifts. The shaman integrates the tribe by remaining apart from the tribe. The shaman integrates the world by standing, forever, outside the world.

Gulls pool above the coffins, wretched birds that feed on the leavings of others. Fliess looks to one of his creatures who jumps into the semicircle and does a little war dance, thrusting its stubby, misshapen arms and crying out in a high-pitched babble. The birds disperse for the moment and the creature runs back to its station.

Fliess turns one last time and looks out at the water and the crown of the sun as it breaks above the horizon.

“It is time,” he whispers.

Like a magician suddenly bored with his own secrets, Fliess walks to the first casket, Bruno’s box, and flips open the lid without looking inside. He moves gracefully to Milena’s box and opens it in the same manner. And then the coffins of Fatos, Aziz, Nadja, Jeta, Antoinette, Marcel and Vasco. He opens the piano-size coffin of Durga, the fat lady, and the miniature coffin of Kitty, the beloved dwarf. And he stops before the coffin of the chicken boy, puts a boot on the lid, closes his eyes, brings a hand to his mouth. Beneath the hand, he mumbles something, words of a different tongue, Latin perhaps. Then he bends from the waist and throws back the lid with more force than needed.

It is almost silent on the beach. Even the gulls cease their cawing. And if the waves continue to lap, the noise goes unnoticed.

Dr. Fliess brings his arms out to his sides. His cape spreads over his shoulder. Then he pulls his hands together to produce a clap that echoes off the rocks like gunfire. His face placid, he opens his mouth and says, “Good morning, my children. And welcome to your new life.”

The first to rise is Bruno, the leader in all things. He has hair on his head. His Atlas tattoos are gone. His left arm has lost its grotesque bulge, reduced itself to more human proportions. And its mate has reappeared, grown fresh and new and entirely normal, from shoulder to the tips of the fingernails.

At last Fliess smiles, looks up to the sky, turns palms toward the fading stars and pantomimes a call to rise. From a sitting position, Bruno stretches his newly proportioned arms and stands slowly, looking around the beach as if he has found himself on a new planet or in the midst of an afterlife for which he has prayed since birth.

He climbs out of his coffin, eyes on his healer, the transforming agent of his new normalcy. Bruno moves to Milena’s crate, reaches down and extends an arm that is taken by a small and well-manicured hand. And Milena rises, healed, void of penis and Adam’s apple, fully female and entirely beautiful.