[Ian] Moira had done her research, delving into everything she could get her hands on that would solidify the information that Wendy had given her on the Urban Legend of Resurrection Mary. She’d discovered a wealth of information, and was left with the daunting task of plucking out the small gems of truth within the volumes of guesswork and theories. One Mary, three Marys, no Marys, Cemetery’s and dances and wedding dresses, blonds and brunettes, teenagers, young women, children… So much information, so very much.
Then one thing sticks out – an interview with a homeless man named Ian, who claimed to have not only seen Mary, but to have known her personally. “Ran with them, I did. Back in the day. Mary Mary quite contrary, got quite the roll in the hay.” Most dismissed him as speaking rhyme and nonsense, though some say he still lives on the steps of the Chicago Times building, muttering to himself, though surely he is too old to be still alive if the time frame of the research was right, right?
Oddly enough, however, there has always been an old homeless man living on the steps of the Chicago Times building. He appears by day, shuffles off by night, only to return again. Some are certain he’ll die in the night, in the frigid Chicago Winter, but he always returns, shuffling, bent, wrapped in layers upon layers of tattered rags, stinking of the streets, the city, dirt and grime. He mutters almost constantly… but does anyone ever really listen?
“stay she say, stay she say, someone’ll come, your time will come, maybe today will be the day.. Mary Mary quiet contrary, why won’t you leave me alone… stay she say stay she say… will I live another day..”
[Moira Murray] Mary, Mary, quite contrary. How does your garden grow? With silverbelles and cockleshells and pretty maids all in a row…
Like some nursery rhymes, there was a story to it, sometimes factual other times not. That particular one had been about Mary, Queen of Scots, which Moira knew by heart – as a testament to her ancestry. She even shared a name with the infamous beauty.
Now, there was another Mary or three, hard to say, that was causing a bit of a ruckus. Her research has brought her to the steps of the Chicago Tribune. It was cold outside, but despite the dangerous chill, she looked for the homeless man sitting out on the steps.
She approached with caution, a gloved hand pulling down the edge of her scarf, wrapped around the lower half of her face to smile at him. “Ian?”
[Ian] “Chicago Times… news every day every day, read all about it, hey-a hey-a hey!”
Mutters, always muttering, his footsteps shuffling until he manages to find his place, falling more than sitting as old bones creak and pop and he lands with a plop on cement that is cold, cold as ice.. His breath huffs out as someone calls his name, and he nods his head – but shakes it too – and hands trembling with palsy adjust his rags to better keep him warm.
“Ian, he said, remember or ya dead, find her find her find her they will and then they’ll find you… shhh, be still…” Eyes faded with age, sunken in a face full of wrinkles and stories, a road map of a hard life traced within ever line. They focus, they try to focus, they finally look full on the lovely Moira Murray, and he grunts as he nods once, definitively. “Ian… a pretty lil thing you are…”
[Moira Murray] Moira is certain that she found him, her head angled to the side as she listens to the pattern of his speech, trying to identify it as just mad ramblings or if there is a purpose to it. She adjusts the knit cap on her head, pulling it down more securely over her ears, less the wind try to rip it off.
“Hello, Ian….” she greets him, if a bit cautiously, warmth flushing already pink cheeks in a blush when he calls her pretty. She shakes her head at him, “Ian, I wanted to talk to you. It’s about Mary.”
[Ian] “Ah, Mary, mary mary… quite contrary, her garden doesn’t grow… no matter how wary, their seed they tried to sow…” Ramblings, mutterings, as hands shake and lift to scratch at a beard that is long, straggly and gray… his eyes are dark and when he meets her gaze, for a brief moment there’s the spark of intelligence, of awareness, before his head lolls on his neck as if it’s suddenly to heavy to hold up…
…a moment, then two, and he mutters and snorts again.. “Mary, you wanted to talk about Mary, is it always Mary you see? Or one of the pretties three…” Then he grins at her, teeth missing, rotted, and breath rank as he nods again again again… “Pappy told me, he did, the time would come to show… so tell me, Pretty little thing, what do you want to know?”
[Moira Murray] Seeds to sow… Moira makes a face, she quickly pads down her pockets taking out a ballpoint pen that she clicks and a notepad. She flips it open past several pages of notes until she finds a blank sheet and begins to sketch a glyph out onto it.
“Yes, I came to find out about Mary. I saw a young woman, blond and beautiful, wearing a white dress and carrying her dancing shoes. She seems lost. A colleague and I are doing a paper on Chicago’s Urban Legends for school, she is the most famous of them all. I was hoping maybe you could shed some light on her story…”
He mentions three pretties, which garners a raised eyebrow. “Are there three Marys or just one in particular? And… out of curiosity, do you know anything about bone gnawing or the ilk?”
[Ian] She starts to sketch and dark eyes flick to the paper, to her face, to something over her shoulder, to something in th distance, to the sky, the cement below… shaky, shaky, tremble.. His hands keep adjusting his rags, as he nods, nods, nods…. “Mary, Mary, Mary it is…” not quite the answer to her question, though he chuckles, chortles really… “Three there are, the legends say. I know them well… come what may…”
“Pretty lil girl has done her research if she be gnawin on the bone… got the gristle between ya teeth and tugtugtuging away to see whats underneath. The streets know, pretty lil Mama’s all live on Gnawer’s row.. ilk ilk ilk, not a basket of silk, barking chains with your cereal and milk..”
A woman, young and beautiful. “Mary, you saw the Mary with her dancing shoes… did she tell you of him? What story did she use…”
[Moira Murray] Moira sucks in a deep breath, despite the rancor of stench that perfumes Ian. As she approached, she flips the notepad him with identifying glyphs of the bone gnawer tribe, seeing if any recognition comes to light in his reaction to them. So far his mention of barking chains and Gnawer’s row only confirms her suspicions… oh how she wished Tristan were still here.
“You aren’t familiar with a Tristan Stern by chance?” It was asked absently, flipping the pad closed after she is certain he has received a look at it. She muses over what he tells her. “She went dancing that much I know, the Mary with the pretty shoes, left behind and wanting to go home. She’s without her lover or searching for him.”
She clears her throat, “You know the stories of the other two Marys? My findings tell me of three woman, one of whom is barely a child, the youngest of the three.”
[Moira Murray] “Tell me about him?”
[Ian] She shows him the notepad, and his eyes light up as he nods vigorously, his filthy hair flying as his cap falls off, and shaky hands stretch to pluck it from the cement and tug it down down down over his ears again. Then he cackles in delight. “Tristan! Tristan! The Violin Man, play ya a tune as fast as he can, give ya a penny, give ya a shake, always bought dinner with the money he’d make! He left, he did, to be with his love… Henry it was, now no one to offer Ian his gloves…” Mournful, it is, as shaky fingers fall to arranging his rags again…
“Mary of the pretty shoes, left behind her ego bruised… dancing she was, at her wedding, though no gifts would she be getting… singsong singsong could tell the stories all day long…” He rocks, back and forth back and forth as he plucks the answers to her questions from somewhere in his addled brain…
“Him it is, first it’ll be before the story of Marys three… Fostern Streets-of-fire, tho young of age, his Mary he’d marry, they’d be on the same page, but a lie wound it’s way under the wedding vows, from a wicked tongue of an ugly old sow… Allen, oh! so angry he grew, ran away – Mary followed too… her shoes they broke, the silly little strap, and as she bent down, the car took her life like SNAP…”
He shakes his head, mournfully. “The Chicago Times, news all day, hey-a hey-a hey-a hey….”
[Moira Murray] It was starting to make sense now, Moira’s eye slight up and she almost laughs as he mentions Tristan. She flips the note pad open once again, trying to write down everything he says, including the name… Fostern…Streets of Fire. This makes her lips purse together.
“Was Streets-of-Fire a Gee Dub or Gnawin’ them bones? Or something else all together?” She notices the way he rearranges his rags, chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip. She points to herself, “I’m one of Tristan’s kids, we’re family, you and I, in a way. Tell you what I will see what I can do about getting you some new gloves, today in fact, after we chat. Okay?”
“What was the last name of the Mary that He married? Who spoke out against their marriage?”
[Ian] “Tristan’s kids! Oh no wonder your suck a pretty lil thing! He adored his kids, of them he’d often sing!” This makes the old man happy, it does, as much as the offer of some new gloves.
“All of them that lived in that home, all of them be gnawin the bone. A whole pack of five boys you see, and with them they had the Marys three. The Chicago Times, that’s what they called ’em, the five young boys so eager to become men! Standing song, to join the pack, you hand to find a Mary to lay on her back… all but George, that fiery one – a daughter Mary was his way to pack won…”
He leans over and coughs a hacking cough, rattling in his chest, in his bones, before he nods again. “The Mary Allen married, Miskowski, her name.. after her death he was never the same…”
[Ian] (uh. suck? such. *L*)
[Moira Murray] She blinks, seeming confused at first. “Was that part of their initiation into the Chicago Times? To have a girl named Mary? Did Allen have a last name?”
So many things to write down, she flipped pages cross referenced other things… looking for the other names of the two Marys. “Anna Maija Mary Norkus, the youngest Mary, was she George’s daughter? How did she die? And Mary Bregovy? How do they all tie together?”
[Ian] He chortles in delight. “So it often seemed, so the songs say, get yourself a Mary for a merry good lay… so I see, so I learned, so me pa told me, before his earth was turned…”
Rocking rocking rocking, as fingers pluck rags, and shakeshakeshake… “Those were them, the other two… know their names you do, you do… Mary, George’s daughter, the youngest she be… chased a ball before a car… was the last she did see… Then Bregovy, the eldest Mary, destined to be a great Mama, Married to Randolf, who was called Tears-of-Gaia..”
He shakes his head, and repeats again “Together, together, always the three… together in death, they even be… The Chicago Times, we got news all day, hey-a hey-a hey-a hey….”
[Moira Murray] “Was Bregovy barren, Ian? Was she capable of having children?” She considers her questions with care, hesitant to ask the first one as she did. She sniffles a bit, stretching up her hands to adjust her scarf more closely around her face.
“How did Bregovy die and what is the connection to Resurrection cemetery?”
[Ian] “Barren she was, barren she be, though to many children she could Mama be…” He rocks rocks rocks again, thumbing through his memory, thumbing through and plucking the stories to tell them true… “A sad, sad, tale it is – another car, if you can believe this… the four of them, one for each seat, to go dancing, a rare and fun treat. An accident it was, none to blame, Mary’s the only that didn’t survive the flame…”
He cackles again and peers up at Moira through dark eyes… “Archer Avenue, the Cemetery Resurrection… all three are buried there, in the same section….” he’s possibly quite mad, quite insane – but for a moment, there’s perfect clarity, until it fades again and he mutters under his breath “What they want, what they say, The Chicago Times make news all day, hey-a hey-a hey-a hey…”
[Moira Murray] “How…” a pause, she shifts her stance, trying to shake out the cold that threatens to settle in. Her head twisting away to spy some random person that has stopped on the street to watch the well-dressed pretty woman speak to the bum.
Her hands shove the notepad and pen back into the depths of her coat pockets, the stories were sort of making sense, but there were still lots of unanswered questions. “Ian…” she wets her tongue across her lips, “How far apart were the deaths of the three Marys? Why are their spirits restless and haunting people. Will visiting the cemetery turn up anything? Did they all die on Archer Avenue?”
[Ian] He rocks and rocks, a soft mourning keen falling from his lips, as if these kids he’s held the story of so long are as close as family to them, speaking reopens new wounds, and brings the sadness to the fore… “Sad, so sad, the two older Marys, dead one after the other, within days… The little one, their hearts broke true, she died three years before, what could they do? They mourned they loved, they tried again – then they adopted many kin in the end…”
Explains how the one barren was mother to many, that does, as he shakes his head, and spits to the side, a phlegmy nasty mess. He looks up at her and smiles the gap-toothed grin… “Why, why, why… so many questions little lady.. they can only be answered in talking to Mary…”
[Moira Murray] She offers a smile to him, lowering her head. “Forgive me, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to be sooo… persistent with my questioning. I am sure this must open some old wounds with all those memories floating about. You probably haven’t talked about it in quite a while.”
She rubs her hands together, “I do have one more question, if you wouldn’t mind telling me about the pack, The Chicago Times? Were they strong men? Brothers related by blood? Did they follow a certain totem perhaps?”
[Ian] He reaches and pats her hand, pat pat pat, his own fingers cold, papery, weak and thin, trembling as he pulls them back. “The young, they always have so many questions – you listen to an old man, it’s a welcome distraction… The boys, five boys! So strong they were! Related only by Tribe they were. Their stories are told in the ancient records of silver hue, Their victories were many, their defeats few…. they followed the Father of the City, it’s true its true… Songsters sing, poets write, the stories have lasted long into the night… This Caern now, you know its true… it’s the second one here, the other, it blew…”
And then, that mark of clarity, bright as he nods at her… “I’m an old man, who learned the story and held it well… perhaps a Chicago Galliard can of the boys tell…” And it fades again, to befuddled confusion as he shifts his weight on the step and starts to pluck at his rags again… “The Chicago Times, the Marys three… long has the story thrived, blessed they be…”
[Moira Murray] Moira nods her head to Ian, she looks away glancing down the street and then back to Ian.
“Ian, are you allowed to leave these steps? Why don’t we go have lunch, my treat. We’ll also get you those gloves I promised and a jacket to go with it? I’m sure you’d like that… I know it’s something Tristan would have done.”
She waits to see if he agrees.
[Ian] She offers lunch, and warm clothes too, and he looks up at her, something shining in his eyes… it is something that Tristan would do. “The steps they keep me safe by day, return by dusk, then I’ll be on my way…. he comes to get me then you see.. a bed, not cold and a place to pee…”
it strikes him as funny, to say that to such a pretty little thing, even as he grunts and groans and gathers his feet under him, finally making it to stand, rocking next to her, foot to foot, his shaking hands, gesturing down, down, down toward the street below.. “Tristan be proud of you, of this I’m sure… an old mans loneliness for a while you cure…”