The Genome Kunstler (standard:other, 6430 words)
Author: Austen Brauker	Added: May 25 2010	Views/Reads: 2901/1997	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A story.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

already familiar with. Wilhelm relished Crane's stories about his 
Grandma, and the adventures that surrounded their collection of plants. 
He listened intently. Crane met Wilhelm regularly in the gardens. The 
German was smelling the flower of a blossoming plant when the American 
approached. Wilhelm held his eyes closed, savoring the distinct odor. 
He was practicing, teaching his nose to discern the different aromas. 
Sometimes, he tested himself by placing different kinds of flowers into 
teacups, closing his eyes and trying to guess which was which. He was 
improving daily. “Purple Coneflower.” He said out loud to his friend. 
Crane was carrying something in his hands, wrapped in a piece of soft 
cloth. He held it reverently. It was the book. The only item he ever 
kept from his war days, something he had found in the depths of a vile 
human experimentation lab, but the book was far older than that. 
Someone like Wilhelm would have more use for it than he did. Crane had 
trouble understanding some of the words, his proficiency at reading 
German fell behind the level at which he spoke it, and the book was an 
archaic dialect, which made translation even harder. The thing had 
strong memories for him too, bad memories of death and gunfire. Crane 
unwrapped the tome from the black cloth and held it up so that Wilhelm 
could see the cover. The presentation was semi-formal in nature. The 
book held power. “I think you could use this more than I can.” Said 
Crane, as he handed it over to Wilhelm. “This book saved my life. I was 
shot at. It slowed down the bullet. That's why I kept it, but its not 
mine anymore. It's a little damaged from the bullet hole...” He trailed 
off for a moment, remembering the painful, hot metal in his gut. 
“...And the blood.” Wilhelm leafed through the pages and his eyes 
widened. He grew excited by whatever it was he read and leafed further 
into the chapters, animated by its contents. “Thank you, Crane, thank 
you!” he said emphatically, shaking his hand. “I must go home 
immediately and have a look!” It became more than a look. A hypnotic 
gaze engulfed him. The focus of his intent on this obsession both 
fueled and drained the enchanted man, repeatedly. Wilhelm was nearly 
manic, having started several of the experiments at once. He paced back 
and forth, upstairs in his home laboratory. The nights and days blended 
together from the isolation of his darkened cave. He rarely ventured 
out to talk with Crane in the gardens anymore. The book consumed 
Wilhelm and all other things in his previous life faded in its 
presence. 

Crane had always been an excellent swimmer, sometimes floating down the
Platte River, all the way from Honor, out to the beach at Lake 
Michigan. Crane remembered, as a boy, wondering if he could swim all 
the way to South Manitou Island, but he remembered the legend of the 
drowning bears and thought better of it. There was a river near the 
University, at the City Park, where he liked to swim after a day of 
work at the butcher shop. Crane came out of the water and climbed into 
the sun of a pleasant German afternoon. He shook his hair back and 
opened his eyes, surprised and embarrassed to see Wilhelm with a 
beautiful girl at his arm.  She was formally dressed with a parasol 
over her shoulder, her curly blonde hair shining with light. The woman 
was bathed in golden illumination. Crane wore long pants, but no shirt. 
The frau stared at his brown body and giggled, putting her hand over 
her mouth, like a shy schoolgirl. “I wouldn't be swimming in that sewer 
if I were you!” laughed Wilhelm. He looked pale from having been 
crouched inside, hovered over the book. Even as he spoke, his thoughts 
were focused toward several ongoing experiments. He drifted away. His 
world existed within the flasks and tubing of his home lab. That's 
where he lingered now, though his body stood by the riverbank. He was 
far away wrestling poetic equations and visualizing the marriage of 
chemicals with distinct personalities. He could feel the book from 
where it sat, alone on his table, yearning. He had almost brought it 
with him, next time he would. He remembered a large leather satchel 
that it would probably fit inside. “Come join us for a minute, my 
friend.” Wilhelm beckoned. Crane sank down beneath the water. His 
half-dressed state made him uncomfortable. The girl giggled again at 
his shyness, but didn't avert her gaze. She was looking harder now. She 
noticed that he had a belly button. It rode amid a hex of squares in a 
hairless plane. She hated to see it go so quickly. He could feel her 
lingering on him, even through the water. “It's okay Crane.” Wilhelm 
assured. “This is my cousin Ingrid. She won't bite you!” Ingrid smiled 
and brought her teeth together in a mock nip. She had other thoughts on 
the matter. Over the next few months, their relationship began to 
blossom. There was an instant attraction, from the moment their eyes 
met, in that first encounter by the riverside. They began to spend 
their time together, walking in the gardens and picnicking at the park. 
They fell in love. The two shared stories and drank exotic herbal teas 
in the afternoon shade. “You mean children were taken right from their 
homes? That can't be true. Can it?” She didn't want for it to be but 
knew in her heart that it was. “Who took them?” “Priests mostly, and 
Indian agents.” He didn't know why she was so interested in such 
horrible things. “What kind of bread is this?” “But, didn't they try to 
stop them? Why didn't anyone do anything?” Crane thought about the 
furnaces and the ditches full of bodies, the ancient book. The question 
answered itself. Ingrid looked down at the loaf. “Dill and sesame.” She 
murmured. “Its good.” Said Crane. It still didn't change the subject. 
“Have some more.” She cut another piece. The wind blew her hair and a 
strand became caught in her mouth. She pulled it away with a finger as 
she buttered the next slice with the back of a spoon. The subject 
finally changed and Ingrid never mentioned boarding schools again. 

Their love blossomed and they grew closer over the following months,
though people would gawk at the strange couple, walking arm in arm 
through the foliage of the park, brown and white. Crane sometimes heard 
the obvious whispers of disapproval.  He tried to ignore it but the 
stares were intense enough even to cause Ingrid to take notice. Crane 
had picked up on it long ago. Smell from the brew intoxicated his 
senses, making him forget again. “Don't worry about them, Crane.” 
Ingrid said with soothing accuracy. She flicked the end of his nose 
with her finger, being playful. She rolled over on the blanket and 
handed him a cup of tea. It was white cedar with honey. Ingrid 
remembered the combination. It was from a story he had told her about 
his Grandmother, how she made cedar and honey tea for the kids. She 
handed him the steaming cup. It tasted like the woodlands of his far 
away home. He could see the wrinkled smile lines of Grandma's face. 
Would she approve of Ingrid? He was sure she would. “Thank you.” said 
Crane. He took another drink. Another couple passed by and pointed at 
them. The woman put a shocked hand over her mouth in disgust, furrowing 
her brow. They quickened their pace as they walked past, looking back 
several times over their shoulders. Crane looked into his tea and 
wondered if it was a good idea for Ingrid to be with him. She was the 
one who would probably suffer the most.  He was beginning to have 
stronger feelings for her. Maybe they should stop this charade before 
it went any further, before it hurt them both. The rest of the world 
did not accept them together. He didn't want for Ingrid to feel the 
non-acceptance that he sometimes felt. She had no need to experience 
that. Crane smelled the tea again and imagined the sand dunes in his 
mind. Michigan was a real place somewhere in a distant life. The lake 
crashed on the beach and he tasted of the spring morels. Crane was from 
a different world than Ingrid, yet something had drawn them together. 
Her blue eyes made him forget about the outside world's disapproval, if 
only for a moment. Wilhelm kept his experiments a secret from Crane. He 
descended into the book's ancient pages. It read him ragged. Wilhelm 
spent many long nights studying the alchemical manual. It was 
enthralling but the revelations were a hypnotic manacle. The stinking 
smoke of chemicals was seeping to the downstairs rooms and settling on 
the drapes and furniture. Upstairs there were flames and bubbling 
mixtures and arcs of blue electricity. Moonlight was allowed to enter 
and caress a chunk of mashed plants. It soaked the rays while the 
remains were burned to ash and then added back to the original flask. 
The potion changed color while he stirred in a gelatinous resin of 
clear clots. Crane walked in the park. There were downed branches 
scattered about, from the terrific wind, which had accompanied an angry 
thunder. The electric rampage had split a walnut tree down the middle. 
Part of its once lofty boughs still angled painfully into the sky, 
defying gravity. It smoked from the center where the scorched black was 
most intense. Ozone exuded from its woody heart and filled Crane's 
nostrils with a fresh clean air, sterilized from the intensity of the 
heat. He remembered what his Grandmother had said about a lightning 
struck tree. “A young man is supposed to make a flute when he falls in 
love. It has to be made from a lightning struck tree, so the power in 
the wood adds to the power of the love. You can feel that flute 
vibrating, just like the heart in your chest will be, vibrating from 
the girl. Then you practice by yourself until a song comes to you. 
You'll know when you've played it. Think of her image, until it shapes 
itself into the music. Everything you feel for that girl comes out in 
that song, as beautiful notes. Then you play it for her, and she feels 
your love, sees your gentleness. She will love you forever.” his 
Grandmother's voice stopped and the tree spoke. The trunk creaked 
loudly, its hard wood straining under the weight of the hanging branch. 
It ripped asunder and fragmented into several pieces as it hit the 
ground. A perfect chunk of center-wood, about as big as Cranes arm, 
rolled smoking and stopped at his feet. He picked it up and held it in 
his hands. It was still warm. He held it aloft to the sky. “Thank you 
creator, for answering my confused feelings, and showing me my path.” 
Crane left a bit of tobacco at the bottom of the tree and began carving 
his flute. When he had finished, weeks later, it looked, and played, 
like he had carved them all his life. He thought of Ingrid's face and 
his heart began to want in a melodious manner. The songs sprang from 
him as blossoming flowers. The flute was creating them in his hands. 
Out of his breath, life was born. There were many moods and colors to 
choose from. Crane fingered at the holes without thinking and they led 
him to the place where only a few tunes remained. Three songs 
overlapped. He felt for the right one and mastered its essence, 
bringing it back with him from the bigger world. The others were all 
forgotten. “Where has Wilhelm been lately?” asked Ingrid. She smelled 
of lilacs. They sat together on a blanket, near the spot where they had 
first met. Crane had picked the location for a specific reason. That 
place was where the first spark of love had kindled between them. It 
was a magic spot and he intended to draw upon it for magical purposes. 
“I haven't seen him.” Answered Crane. “Since last week when he was 
gathering herbs in the garden. It was something for one of his 
experiments.” “Hey may have been under the weather.” “We're all under 
the weather.” She added. They laughed at this obvious truth. Crane had 
seen little of his best friend since he had given him the book. “You 
mean sick though. Really?” she redirected. “Yes he had bags under his 
eyes and looked...” he paused. “Well, paler than usual.” She laughed at 
his subtle joke. It seemed like they were always laughing together. 
“But really, Ingrid. I think he may be ill.” Crane sounded concerned. 
“Oh, Crane, scientists are passionate that way about their work. Our 
family has been full of them. Myself included. Sometimes they, or we, 
get lost in it, lose track of time, forget to eat. Their excitement 
blinds them. But it will pass when the experiment is over.” She said it 
with a confidence that made Crane a bit more at ease about his friend. 
She broke a bread roll in half and offered the larger portion to Crane. 
“But if it will make you feel better, we can go together to see him, 
make him take a walk with us. It will do him some good to get some air. 
How about this very evening?” “Yes.” Said Crane. “Let's drop in on 
him.” “Especially if he has bags under his eyes.” She laughed. They 
were silent for a while, watching the rippling surface of the amber 
water. Crane reached into the picnic basket and fumbled around for 
something. His heartbeat quickened. How did the song begin? Ingrid 
turned her gaze from the river and watched him. The knot at the top of 
the bag was hard to untie but it finally came loose. “I have something 
for you.” He held on to the hand carved wooden flute, slightly shaking. 
She looked at it in awe and touched it lightly on the grain with her 
fingertips. “It's beautiful Crane, but I could never play that thing.” 
She giggled. “No, this is for you.” He took a breath and played the 
most wonderful music she had ever heard. Blurred birds and slanted 
seraphim danced with colored ribbons She watched Crane inhale and 
exhale into the mouthpiece. The most soothing and fluid notes she had 
ever heard were floating to her ears. His fingers tickled the openings 
as the pitch changed, taking her far away in dreams of flight, with 
wisps of feathers caressing her cheek. She swam in that world, until he 
had finished the last note, lost in a splendor she had never known. 
Ingrid reached out and touched his hand when he finished. “Oh, Crane!” 
she leaned forward and kissed him. She had a tear in her eye but was 
smiling a bright beam. He kissed her back. Ingrid melted slowly and 
tugged him with her. Stalks from the grass poked up through the thin 
blanket but she didn't care. His weight was a welcomed presence on her 
body. The couple made love in the tall grass of the riverbank. They 
dressed afterward, silently, smiling at one another. Ingrid took 
Crane's hand and he kissed her again, deeply. Then suddenly, they heard 
voices approaching. “That savage was raping her by the river bank!” it 
was a woman's voice.“Over there!”  It was the same couple who had 
expressed disapproval at Crane and Ingrid when they were holding hands 
in the park. They must have been spotted while they were engaged and 
unaware. “There they are!” There was an authoritative whistle. “We see 
them!” There were two uniformed officers with clubs. The police ran 
straight for Crane. They each had a walnut axe handle, hollowed out at 
one end and weighted with lead.  Ingrid touched his abdomen with the 
palm of her hand. “Run Crane!” she pleaded. “Go now!” Crane looked at 
her and then at the approaching policemen. He squeezed her head to his 
belly with both arms. “I will meet you later at Wilhelm's, now go!” she 
implored and then pushed him away. He ran off into the bushes and 
disappeared. Crane ran all the way to Wilhelm's and pounded on the 
large wooden door. Wilhelm had succeeded. The homunculus had features 
that crudely matched the maker. The biggest difference was mostly in 
the sharpness of the teeth and the long claws which protruded viciously 
from the ends of his fingers, along with the obvious difference in 
size. It was half the height of Wilhelm but banded with muscles. It was 
ugly and leathered, bruised gray in color. It looked around the room 
and saw rows of rabbits in wooden cages, meant for experiments. The 
creature was hungry. It jumped from the table and tore through the 
cages, devouring every one of the fluffy white morsels inside. Blood 
and white fur covered the lab floor. The pleasurable noises were 
appalling. The bunny heads crushed under its bite. Wilhelm stood 
aghast, horrified by the efficient killing. He maneuvered a metal cage 
over the monster's head and dropped it in place. The thing was taken by 
surprise. The man tipped a heavy wooden table onto the top, to hold the 
trap down. The creature fought against the weight and then Wilhelm 
heard something else coming from downstairs. There was a pounding at 
the door. The homunculus growled from underneath his confines, clawing 
at the metal. Wilhelm added a heavy pile of books to the stack of 
weight. The creature watched every move the man made. Evil mirrors 
taunted from its gaze. The face was a gored rodeo clown caricature of 
Wilhelm and the man wanted to throw up whenever he looked directly at 
it. The homunculus was somehow a manifestation of himself. It repulsed 
him. Sinister tidings shone within its design. The blackened lips were 
wet. The creature was smiling a terrible grimace, licking its 
blood-covered chin with a dark, pointed tongue. The pounding at the 
door grew more intense. Wilhelm couldn't remember if he had shells for 
the gun that hung over the fireplace. Whoever was at the door was not 
going away. Wilhelm checked the heft of the over turned table and the 
creature hissed at him, biting at the bars. He jumped back from the 
surprise and then stacked more stuff on the cage. The homunculus backed 
to the far corner and curled in a ball, growling. “Just a minute.” 
Wilhelm hollered from the upstairs rail and straightened his hair and 
clothes as he ran to the door. He started walking halfway down so that 
he could gain his composure. It was strange for him to have callers, 
but this was a strange day. He opened a sliding grate and peered out 
into the daylight. His eyes were bloodshot and bulged out. He was 
sweating and looking shiftily from side to side like a paranoiac, 
trying to see who was there. “Wilhelm, it's me, Crane, let me in, 
please!” his voice was shaken and pleading. The unannounced arrival was 
too coincidental to be scientific, but there had to be logic to it. 
Wilhelm knew that lateral to the conventional answer there were 
sometimes several alternates, seeming just as viable. There was a 
reason this Indian had brought him the book. It was a measure in 
complexity, observership, predictable and unpredictable events under 
real and hypothetical situations. Maybe Crane was meant to help him 
kill it. After all, he was partially responsible for its creation by 
having given Wilhelm the means to make it. “Are you alone?” Wilhelm was 
pressed up against the inside of the door, wiping the wet salt from his 
face. “Yes, please, friend, let me in.” Shadowy shepherds were herding 
his thoughts. The heavy door swung open on its beefy metal hinges. 
Wilhelm reached out and pulled Crane inside by the arm, slamming shut 
the door and quickly bolting the latch behind them. They were both 
sweating profusely and out of breath. Wilhelm had blood on his hands 
from the maimed rabbits. Both men were fraught with their own 
agitation, so neither noticed the other. “I'm in trouble Wilhelm!”  He 
slumped to the chair and spouted the tragedy with full detail. Crane 
proceeded to tell the story of his day in the park with Ingrid and the 
resulting debacle with the law. It wasn't until after he had finished 
when Crane saw the blood on his friend, but he wasn't at all shocked. 
“Are you hurt?” asked Crane, surprised by his own absent-mindedness. 
Wilhelm realized his hands were dripping red. “It's nothing, just 
rabbit blood. Let's worry about your problem for the moment.” They sat 
in silence for what seemed to be a long time, until another knock 
disturbed the surface of Wilhelm's door. It could be Ingrid or it could 
be the police. A salesman could be soliciting. They looked at each 
other, both realizing how easy it would be for the authorities to find 
out where Crane was. He was probably the only Indian for a thousand 
miles. It wouldn't take long to establish him as a student at the 
University, to discover their connection as friends and then to find 
Wilhelm's home address. The fast heavy thump kept coming. Crane 
suspected that he was done for. “Hide.” Whispered Wilhelm and then 
slipped to the entryway. Crane was gone without making the sound of a 
footstep. “Who is it?” Wilhelm said, overly calm. He looked behind 
himself to make sure that Crane was out of sight. The woman's voice was 
almost hysterical. “It's Ingrid, let me in!” she was nearly 
hyperventilating. Wilhelm let her in and Crane emerged from his 
concealment. She looked defeated. There was a sad look on his face too, 
as if something had died. A funeral procession guided his first steps. 
Then they ran to each other's arms and embraced. She was the only thing 
that mattered to him, with her soft spirit and those metallic blue 
eyes. They were very fast becoming full rivers. She spoke in bursts. 
“They think you raped me Crane!” Tears were rainbows. “They won't 
believe that I love you.” Roy G. Biv. “They think you are a savage, 
attacking their white women.” Thinking of the traditional native 
language, AEIOU is present, but there is no f or x, no l either, and 
forget about r completely. “They wouldn't believe me!” she sobbed on 
Crane's shoulder. In Indian, D sounds like t, but not always. G is like 
k, but not always either, most of the time it exists somewhere in 
between. “They think you drugged me, or used some kind of Indian magic 
on me.” Even the most die-hard atheists made an exception about the 
reality of the black arts if it pertained to Indians. She continued to 
cry. Her world was crumbling. The unrelated voice popped in again. For 
some words, b sounds like p. Dialects change not only regionally, but 
among family groups living in the same area. Wilhelm's serious tone 
broke through this meaningless stream of information. “If the two of 
you really love each other, you must leave at once.” He spoke with a 
cold finality, which broke any language barrier. “Crane, you have to 
go, no matter what.” He continued. Wilhelm looked at his cousin, 
already anticipating the course of the following events. He could see 
how it was going to play out. It was a classic case of forbidden love 
and forced exile. They would have to leave this place if they wanted to 
remain together. “Ingrid, you must decide if you want to go with him. 
You don't have to go but...” “Yes.” She said firmly, without 
hesitation. “I want to be with Crane.” There was conviction in her vow. 
Wilhelm knew she would have it no other way. “Then we must get ready 
quickly. I will get your train tickets.” He pulled on his boots. “Then 
you can find a boat to America.” Wilhelm grabbed his coat and started 
at the buttons as he headed out the door to the station. A thought 
stopped him at the threshold. He looked back once more and they were 
again embracing. “I will be right back. Do NOT answer that door!” he 
commanded.  “And lock it behind me!” Wilhelm would lose Ingrid, for now 
and maybe forever, but at least the two lovers would be together. It 
was an extreme course but offered the only solace to be found in this 
confusing matter. Wilhelm returned with the tickets. It was an hour 
before departure. He had also stopped at the bank and drained most of 
his available account. There was plenty there, in his substantial 
holdings but he was limited as to what amounts were liquid, most of it 
was tied up in insoluble investments. What he managed to get was still 
a sizable sum. He handed the money and the travel stubs over to Crane. 
“I can't take this.” Crane refused the wad of bills and tried to push 
it back. “Take care of Ingrid. She is family.” His voice indicated that 
there could be no refusal. The implication that the money was for 
Ingrid made the acceptance more palpable for them both. Wilhelm pushed 
the money at Crane and he reluctantly put the roll in his pocket. “And 
so are you.” He continued. “Family. You can pay me back if you feel you 
have to, but take it for now. You are going to need it.” “Thank you 
Wilhelm.” Crane didn't know what to say. “I will miss our walks.” He 
tried not to be formal but still managed to air it stuffily. “I will 
too.” Crane responded. A compulsion overcame Wilhelm to confess his 
deeds. “Before you go, I must tell you something. It's about the book 
you gave to me.” Wilhelm looked at Ingrid. He didn't want her to know. 
“Let's go outside in the garden, Crane.” They walked behind the house 
and sat on a bench in the late afternoon sunlight. Crane soaked it in, 
feeling in his heart that it was the last moment he would share with 
his best and only friend. Wilhelm seemed uneasy. His hands wrung 
together. He looked at the ground, not knowing how to begin. He wanted 
to tell Crane about the monster, the homunculus he had created, the 
nature of the book, everything, but where to begin? The image of the 
book was towering in his mind like a black monolith, stuck in the sand, 
humming with energy. It didn't want him to share the knowledge. He 
could feel the book working against him. His throat tightened. Speech 
was a distant ability that existed as a phantom memory. The monster's 
face leapt through the dark surface of his mental tar pit and scared 
away the desire to tell anyone. Wilhelm felt like he was getting 
stabbed in the throat, but he forced the words through anyway. 
“Crane...” Wilhelm began to confess but was immediately cut off by a 
blood-chilling scream. The image of the book spread its pages and 
everything in the world sucked into the opening like a black hole. 
There was the sound of a pig grunting. Both men ran to the house. Crane 
was there first, with Wilhelm a few seconds behind. Furniture was being 
smashed. Glass was being broken. Crane finished the stairs but they 
were too late. Ingrid's dismembered limbs were tossed about the room. 
There was no sign of the murderer. Arms and legs were scattered in 
eight separate places. Her torso still pumped blood from the missing 
pegs. The head was nowhere to be found and the stench of her burst 
stomach was overpowering. The bread and tea they had eaten at lunch 
seeped into Wilhelm's wooden floor. “Nooooo!” screamed Crane and 
dropped to his knees. He pulled at his hair with both hands and stared 
at what remained of his lover. He couldn't understand. He couldn't 
comprehend what he saw. He pounded his clenched fists against the 
floor. Wilhelm knew that this was his fault. He stood there in an 
impotent man suit, his flesh merely a sack of meat and bone inhabited 
by the spirit of a monster. The homunculus was really a part of him, so 
he had done this. Wilhelm felt betrayed by science and god at the same 
time, though he had forsaken the latter long ago. This undeserved death 
was his wheel of justice. It had come rolling around at full force. He 
saw the situation getting worse as he imagined the events to follow, 
the lengthy investigation. He couldn't bring himself to tell the truth 
now. “Crane, you have to go. They will think you did this! They will 
execute you for murder! You must go. Run to the trains and don't look 
back!” Crane grabbed his bag. It was filled with clothing given to him 
by Wilhelm. He headed out the back door and ran through the garden.  
The gate swung shut behind him with a spring-loaded thud. Ingrid was 
still screaming in his ears. His mind swam, not fully registering what 
had happened. People around him became blurry as he passed them by, 
clutching his bag with white knuckles. He made it to the station and 
boarded. The train pulled away and Crane stared out the window, crying, 
trying to make sense of Ingrid's death. A waterfall of twisted army 
jeeps crashed from the mountain of his temples to the thunderous valley 
of his fiery stomach. Ingrid's last breaths repeated but now Crane 
heard another sound beneath it, almost to the house, there was another 
sound, then again when he was on the stairs. The tone was lower than 
hers, the texture guttural. Someone else was there. Wilhelm mopped up 
the blood and then poisoned a plateful of raw meat, which he left by 
the back door. It was gone within the hour. He watched through the 
window from inside the house while the bony hand of the homunculus 
reached from the shrubbery to steal the steaks, one at a time. The 
atrocity could be heard devouring the deadly treat from beneath the 
bushes. Wilhelm bagged the remains of his cousin and drove them far 
away into the country. He placed her, unmarked and anonymous, where he 
knew there were already the bodies of hundreds of unidentified gypsies, 
those taken care of by the mechanical SS. Ingrid joined the restless 
music of their faceless accordions and forgotten guitars. The police 
traced Crane's steps backward from the train station. Wilhelm admitted 
to helping Crane financially, claiming that his friend had said that he 
needed to get back to America for a death in the family. Wilhelm 
claimed that he knew nothing about Crane's involvement with Ingrid, or 
where she could currently be found. He maintained that the couple knew 
that he would not approve of their relationship and had kept the matter 
hidden from him, to avoid turmoil. His story was reasonable as far as 
the two half hearted investigators were concerned. “What is that 
smell?” asked an officer. Wilhelm was a bit nervous. “That?” he pointed 
to the kitchen “Its, uh...” he faltered and then remembered Crane's 
story about hunting with uncle Al. “Its skunk cabbage.” “You eat it? It 
doesn't smell very appetizing.” “No. Its an air freshener. You burn 
it.” “Doesn't smell very refreshing to me.” He complained. “Really does 
smell like a skunk though.” Said the second officer. There were 
hundreds of dried buds from the cannabis plant hanging throughout the 
kitchen on a spider web of strings. Wilhelm started smoking them 
shortly after the tragedy. He lit his Florence flask bong with a long 
stick match as soon as the two men were gone. The police finally 
assumed that the two who were seen in the park really were lovers, and 
that they had run away together. It was a lover's flight, running from 
the persecution of a non-accepting world. The investigation was 
terminated. Ingrid's death at Wilhelm's house was never discovered. 
There was never any reason for the police to suspect her death. The 
stern of the freighter pushed away from the European shore like it was 
done at a poached dinner party. Crane had just enough money for a cheap 
steamer to the states, riding third class, somewhere next to massive 
machinery in the metal belly of the ship. He hid below most of the 
time. Late one night, he crept from the deep recesses and threw the 
wooden flute from the boat's ass end, far into the oily wake, into some 
forgotten expanse of the ocean. It was all he could do to keep holding 
onto the rail and not join the water himself. Ingrid's spirit was 
holding his feet to the deck. Crane watched the surface of the icy 
black swells churning the north Atlantic. The peeled aft rail did its 
job.  Crane turned away from the silver moon and curled up below deck, 
hiding in the safety of his bunk and swimming in his confused fever of 
thoughts. Wilhelm cried over Ingrid's grave. Somewhere in the German 
night there shrieked a humanoid wail, not quite man and not quite 
beast. 


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