Gift-a-lee part 2

“Id a bee-ya a swelladee ‘tory Char McCool,” said Garry Perry with an uneasy smile on his face. “You speak-a swelladee.” And he walked back home leaving the group behind.

The Breadman walked over to Char McCool. Tears had pooled under her eyes and rested there giving her a helpless look.

“Finish be a udder ‘bage, not sad at all,” said the Breadman trying not to cry himself even though his voice crackled.

“Was missy Clay Biffley da udder day when he would ’ave…” he trailed off some more and then just gave up trying to be needlessly strong.

Char McCool held his hand and walked him over to the Horseshoe Slough trail for privacy.

The rest of the procession was still milling about and staring at the greenish Slough. Some were remarking that the water was still bubbling for no reason and others said it wasn’t bubbling enough. Soon they all floated away back in to their flats to a chorus of “Muddy Flatters” from the Lulu joggers.

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The grey soup in the sky had given way to a milky black evening, and the late afternoon stir had given way to an early evening calm which simmered over the slough. Often, this would be the way before the late night invasion of the narcotic aficionados, or as they were known "da Narcosy".

Garry Perry was back inside the “Dinner Plate Island School” home and back to his red Salmon Fishin’ hat. He thought long and hard about the reasons these things were happening to him. He wanted to know why Clay Biffley, his closest of friends, had been taken from him.

When Clay Biffley returned to Finn Slough, Garry Perry was never told how he had died, where he had been found and why they brought him back. He did not ask anyone any questions when the body was returned but instead began planning the very important Finn Slough ritual of giving the body to the slough. It was a busy time too, one could not be left to allow those who did not truly know Clay Biffley well to plan his final day and it would do him no good to dwell on facts when the only one that mattered was his good friend had died and needed proper sloughian respect. It had to be done by someone who cared for him because if not the slouhgians could quite well fall in to the trap of muddy flatting and toss Clay Biffley naked in to a bush somewhere to be found by the police or worse yet, the joggers. He could not allow sanity to slip out of the hands of the sloughians, especially now.

There had been recent talk of kicking the sloughians out of the Slough citing their odd behaviour. Rumours continued to swirl that they were the sickest zombie freaks who ate dog hearts and made cats fart – yes somewhere it was possible the truth had been misconstrued.

Clay Biffley would never have allowed the slough to fall out of his hands and losing him had definitely torn the fabric of slough society but Garry Perry would not allow his hands to tear the final stitches by allowing Clay Biffley’s body to be found decaying on Dyke rd by some drug dealer and user during one of their dealings; no, not his hands, which held the lines of life for not just him but the sloughians as a whole.

However, Clay Biffley had said in the past three months that his biggest worry of all was that Garry Perry would make dreams his reality and never make reality his dreams. He feared that he would spend time “restin’ da peeps ‘tead of working da arms.”

In his hands he saw lines of memories and he thought heavily of Clay Biffley who had taught him the final speech that was only to be read on the final day:

“Where once lifey sprung from the begin, you shoulda slow to be one with da Finn,” he whispered with remorse. His voice had wilted and his lips had fallen low, his eyes felt swollen.