by Joseph Fink
“Hello,” said the man who was not short.
“We won’t take up too much of your time,” said the man who was not tall.
“Who are you people?” I asked, finally voicing the question.
“Good citizens, I suppose,” said the man who was not short.
“We wanted to let you know we’re awfully sorry for all the trouble you’ve gone through,” said the man who was not tall. “We feel just terrible about it.”
“But glad to see you made it here,” said the man who was not short.
“Welcome to town,” said the man who was not tall, and they got back into the car.
“Don’t be a stranger,” called the man who was not short from his open window, and they drove off. The only real communication I would ever have with the Order of the Labyrinth.
No one watched them drive by. The citizens showed no curiosity. The crates simply moved across the desert. They always had and always would, and it remained no one’s business. Not everyone gets to know everything about everybody. Except me. I do. But I no longer have any interest in revealing all that I know.
There was a man named Leonard Burton who told the news of the town on the radio. At all hours of the night and day, I could hear him broadcasting his show. I wondered if he ever slept, so I snuck into his home late one night and found him sleeping. A curious impulse made me turn on the radio in his room, just to see. He was on air, broadcasting the current time and temperature.
While watching Leonard sound asleep in his bed, I called into the radio station and Leonard answered the phone, “Greetings, caller. You’re on the air with Leonard Burton. What’s your question?”
I hung up the phone.
“Oh, it appears we have lost them,” said the Leonard on the radio. “Well, no matter. It’s shaping up to be a beautiful night. I hope you are tucked in safe and sound somewhere.” The Leonard on the bed smacked his lips and rolled to his other side.
Night Vale challenged my basic notions of what it even meant to be on earth, let alone a human being bound to basic laws of physics and philosophy. Yet here I was, a dead woman who was not dead, following a path only visible to myself and the angels. My vengeance, while seemingly lost at Edmond’s death, was still achievable. In this impossible town, I felt natural. This town was where the paradox that was me belonged.
Night Vale was something more than a town, though. In the same way that I was a ghost and also much more than a ghost. I may never learn what I am. I know I will never learn what Night Vale is.
Each citizen in Night Vale is interesting. Each citizen is frightened by their government but more frightened of the sky. Each citizen had something to hide or something to hide from. Maybe each citizen had their own invisible path they were following, and maybe their paths had led them here too. The desert was the only place Night Vale could be, and it was the only place I could be.
8
I made a home in Night Vale. I made several homes. Secretly, I lived in everybody’s home at once. I took an interest in each person’s eating habits, book selections, fashion, and dating. More than anything I took an interest in their secrets.
A secret feels like falling from a high rock into cold water.
Enrique Herrera, who owned a newsstand near city hall, flirted daily with Winona Preston, who worked for the parks department cleaning trash off the lawns near Enrique’s kiosk. Every day he would tell Winona a joke. They were bad jokes like “What did the scorpion say to the rattlesnake?” Answer: “Wickedness is an immutable yet subjective product of our evolution.” (Night Valeans have always found great humor in the illusion of free will.) And Winona would give Enrique a flower from the public garden if the joke made her laugh, which was most days.
One day, Enrique’s wife, Maria, came to see her husband to share the great news that she found several kittens floating in mid-air about six feet off their back porch, and she thought they should adopt them. Enrique, so fond of cats, blushed as he said yes. Winona, watching all of this, frowned and walked away. Enrique and Winona did not speak again.
Enrique never told Maria about his flirtation, just as he had never told Winona about his wife.
A secret feels like fingers tightening into a fist.
The City Council in Night Vale is a single-bodied being of many torsos, heads, and voices. In the early twentieth century, they developed an earthquake machine that they could turn off and on at will. They began to put out regular predictions of when earthquakes would take place and how intense they might be. Then they would cause their predictions to come true.
Night Vale citizens planned accordingly, saving themselves untold property and bodily damage. The people of Night Vale interpreted these predictions as divine wisdom from their central leadership, and this bolstered the City Council’s power.
A secret can sometimes feel like cancer, in that we don’t know we have it, and once we feel it, it may be too late.
I met Donald in Night Vale. Donald’s father, Jake, died from a hunting accident, accidentally shooting off the side of his skull, when Donald was still an infant. Jake had remained in a coma for three years before the family removed him from life support.
Josefina and the angels she lived with helped little Donald and his mother, Linette, through the tragedy, bringing them food, keeping Linette company, and even looking after the baby while his mother worked.
I played with Donald too, and kept him calm at night so that his poor, overworked mother could get some rest. She had two jobs just to keep the two of them fed.
I wanted Donald to grow up to be a good man, but he had a secret. He did not know he had that secret, but it would eventually destroy him. In this way, he was not special. Many men before him had been destroyed by the same secret.
I did not want Donald to know the terrible secret he possessed until he was older. A secret such as this was a lot to bear for a child, and I felt only an adult could truly understand. So I protected Donald, the child, from his secret. I protected Donald from everything. I loved him.
Love feels like a well-paying job. Love is work. Love demands your time and requires experience and skill and attentiveness and diligence. But it is rewarded. Love, when treated respectfully, like a profession, keeps you alive.
Love of children kept me alive. Protection of Donald until adulthood kept me going. Donald, like all of the boys before him, had a secret. It was the same secret, generation after generation. But I loved all of those boys. I helped raise them. I helped them grow and mature and become good men, good husbands, and ultimately good fathers. I loved them right up until the day their first son was born.
The path had led me to flee my estate on the Mediterranean. It had led me to Vlad’s blade in a Barcelona port. It had led me away from Albert’s embrace to the empty mountains of Sardinia. It had led me back to my friends and to Venedict’s bar in Nulogorsk, and then into the fire, into the air, and into the water. The path had led me to Florida, to the Mississippi River, to Texas, and then to the desert, to Night Vale, to Donald.
And on a golden afternoon in 1987, the path led me to a gentle child, a handsome child. That child was your father. His name was Craig. He, too, had a secret. It is the same secret you have, Darius.
Darius
2020
Look at those toes. One two three four five. Five toes on your little foot.
Look at that smile. Tiny teeth, but much larger than they seem.
You’re holding my finger, Darius. Yes you are. Mommy’s busy getting your big sister ready for mass. She doesn’t need her big strong boy crying, so if grabbing my finger keeps you entertained, by all means, I’m happy to provide it for you. You’re not the first person I’ve met with an affinity for fingers.
Such simple thrills you have. I tried to read to you, but you didn’t want to hear it. You’re tactile, physical, different from your father in that way. He liked listening to music and reading books. He was passive, but you are active, completely in your body.
The way you
kick your legs, and jostle your waist. I think you might be quite the dancer. Most people don’t like being in their bodies. They pose and posture and use sheer force to fight or protect or block passage. But most don’t know what it means to discover each muscle, find their lines, sit with their pain.
I sit with my pain. There’s little else to do most days. I know diet can affect mood. I don’t think I can have oranges anymore. They make me upset. I can feel my head tighten, and I have less patience or concentration. I get grumpy when I eat oranges.
Such a shame for a girl who once lived near orange groves, but we get old, don’t we, and our bodies change. The body changes more than the mind. The body says, you’ve had too much wine, but the mind says wine is delicious. And the body says: “Fine then I will make your sleep miserable, and you will become so sick when you drink wine you will no longer want it.” And we no longer drink wine. We still desire it, sure, but want it? No.
You’re right. This isn’t interesting to a baby. I’m being a dullard. Let’s play with fingers some more.
What a laugh you have. That is your father’s laugh. There is no question of that. Although I will say there is something even more familiar in your laugh.
You know, when Craig was your age, he was unhealthy. It wasn’t his fault, but he was born prematurely, and until he was five, he coughed a lot. Your grandmother worried constantly, taking him to the doctor, getting him medicine. Your grandfather held him each night, and rocked him to sleep. Even the slightest noise and Donald would rush in to ease him. And when Donald or Marina couldn’t be there, I would be. I looked after your father every single day.
You’re healthy as healthy goes, but I will look after you every single day too. It’s helpful that your father left your mother so much money. He was so responsible with his finances, and after some arguing with the insurance company, his term life finally paid off. You will live a comfortable life, Darius. I’m glad of this. Your father’s brief life led up to you. He lived so that you could live. And here you are.
Yes indeedy here you are. Ah boo boo boo.
Money aside, I want to do anything I can to help your mom. You must know that she loves you so much. I hope you learn everything about what made your father a good man, but never forget that it is your mother who will raise you. Take you to school, change your diaper, get you medical care, hug you, kiss you. She’s a part of the narrative too. Your father didn’t always remember that about his mother.
I used to talk to your father when he was your age, you little cutie pie. And his father before him. And his father before him. And his father before him. On and on and on.
The world is so incredibly old.
Oh, yes it is. OHYESITIS. bahbahbahbah.
Craig, when he was a baby, used to make little speeches to me. He would talk and talk, all kinds of gibberish, although I don’t think it was gibberish to him. His thoughts, untethered from formal language, were the narrative of nature, like the babbling of a brook or the hiss of a snake, meaningful even for lack of codification.
Can you say codification?
You don’t say much at all. You just smile and laugh. And cry. You do cry, but not as much as your sister. I can’t tell if you feel less sad, or feel less desire to express sadness.
Sit with your pain. It’s the best thing you can do for yourself. Take care of yourself, Darius, so that you can take care of others.
Oh! You touched my face. You’re grabbing my nose. You are!
That’s sweet. You don’t even know yet that I don’t have a face, let alone a nose. But you can see one. You can feel one. You feel my nostrils, don’t you? Your mom doesn’t like it when you put your hands on her face. Babies have lots of bacteria on their curious little fingers. Putting them in their mouths, their butts, on the dog, wherever.
I’m not worried about bacteria. You can grab my nose all you want.
Yes, those are my lips. I’m a bit surprised at what you think you can see and feel. You have no one yet to tell you that your reality is not real, so anything is possible, I suppose.
Your father never touched my face when he was your age, but he saw it. I know he did.
I’m so curious to see how like your father you’ll become, and how different. As old as I am, watching the slow evolution of people across generations is fascinating. You come from a long line of men, little one, each of you so similar to the previous.
Your father was Craig, a high school English teacher, whose father was Donald, an industrial air conditioning salesman, whose father was a farmer named Jacob, as was his father, Moses, before him, and Moses’s father was a fisherman named Thomas, whose father, Matthew, was a longshoreman. Matthew’s father was named Gabriel (isn’t that a pretty name? Gabriel.) His father was named Gregory. Gregory was poor, but he was born rich to a father named Theodore, whose father was a man named Edmond, a man I once loved and trusted completely.
Each one of you is so similar to the next, but you’re all unmistakable to me.
I could line up every one of you, across hundreds of years, as ten-month-olds, and I’d know each of your names just by your faces, even as they’re still in their chubby nearly toothless larval stage of facial development. I would know you by your eyes, your movements, your patters, your fingernails, your skin, your smells. I have known all of you better than you have known yourselves.
I have followed each of these men from the Mediterranean, through Central and Eastern Europe. As far east as Nulogorsk and as far west as Night Vale. I have lived secretly in each of their homes; on ships, in lean-tos, in servants’ quarters, in mansions, and in middle class apartments. I can’t order them to do what I want, but I can certainly manipulate the situation so that they will make the best choices for themselves, and ultimately their children, their baby boys, who will carry on their legacy. A very smart man once taught me how to do that. Oh, he was evil to the core, but he was so clever.
You must grow up big and strong, Darius, like all these men before you. You must marry a great spouse, like all of these men before you. The person you marry—like Amaranta, or Marina, or Linette, or Lola, or Pauline, or Laura, or Hannah, or Letitia, or Eleanor—will be strong and caring and will stabilize your home, will protect you through wisdom and medicine and love and grace. They will not be perfect, but they will never betray you. The two of you will have a child. You will keep having children until you produce a son.
And you will have me with you every day (Ohyesyouwill!) to make certain you will be healthy and loved and cared for, every day until the day you die.
Little Darius, with your brown eyes and fat fingers, this is hard to imagine now, but you will die. Everyone does. One day Amaranta will tell you about it and she will explain it in a way that will scare but also comfort you. Every child learns about death, and I trust your mother will know exactly how to tell you. “Why don’t I have a dad?” might be a question that starts this conversation. Or “where is our dog, Bubbles?” or maybe just a straightforward “does everybody die?”
The hard truth is that almost all people die. I will not. I keep on living so that I am afforded time to do what it is I am supposed to do. To follow my path. But we’ll get to that. We have your whole life to get to that.
You just grabbed my finger again. I’ll try to tell you all of this boring old lady stuff in a singsongy voice.
You like that?
Oh! You do! Good for you.
Every man in your lineage is now dead. YESTHEYARE.
Craig got distracted and lost control of his vehicle and crashed into a deep canyon.
Donald died of numerous cancers. He smoked some in his youth, and he drank a lot. But mostly it was the asbestos swatch that covered his mouth as he slept every night after his son was born.
Jacob shot himself in the head when he tripped on rock that was not there a moment before, and he fell into a tree trunk. He was holding his shotgun loosely against his shoulder and with the safety off.
Moses went mad, claiming he could hear dise
mbodied voices. While fighting the ghost he thought he saw, he was shot dead by his son.
Thomas drowned in a frozen lake when a strange, long hand pulled open a fissure in the ice beneath him.
Matthew was assassinated by a French spy visiting the United States, when the spy mistook Matthew for an important Spanish dissident named Mateo. The spy had been given incorrect information, from an anonymous letter.
Gabriel was falsely imprisoned for murder, which he did not commit, but the evidence that was planted by an unknown person led to his public hanging.
Gregory was kicked in the head by a horse after the horse was startled by an old woman whispering in its ear.
Theodore was poisoned by his wife, Eleanor.
Edmond died peacefully in his sleep after a lifetime of wealth and ease. He got everything he wanted, despite destroying an entire family with his lies, murder, manipulation, and utmost cruelty. His elaborate plot on my father did not stop at killing my father. He wanted to make sure my father’s only child suffered as well, so that my father’s legacy and lineage was ruined completely.
I cannot go back. I cannot kill Edmond. I cannot cause him pain. I cannot tell him what joy his last, frightened breath would bring to me, because I missed my opportunity. But Eleanor showed me the first step in my path, when she fed Edmond’s only son that poison. In Theodore, I saw Edmond’s eyes, and I saw them struggle with comprehension. I saw Edmond’s thin lips upon Theodore’s face stretch into a jagged gash, like a knife wound, and fill with foam and bile. I saw Edmond’s stout body and broad shoulders live again in his son’s stout body and broad shoulders. And I saw them heave and gasp and finally sag in painful asphyxiation for minutes until he died. My path was clear as clear could be.
I would have to make sure Eleanor raised a healthy boy. And Letitia. And Hannah. And Laura. All the way to Amaranta. And I would make sure those boys grew into good men, who married good spouses who would give birth to good sons. And once I knew those baby boys would be healthy, I would take from Edmond what he sought to take from me: lineage. He destroyed my family’s future. And I will return the favor forever.