by J M Guillen
“Yet we grew filled with hubris.” His tone grew dramatic, and he met my gaze for just a moment. “We sought the wisdom of the gods.”
“Knowledge of good and evil,” Alicia supplied.
“Or the tower to heaven,” Simon pointed out. “Babel.”
“Prometheus,” Baxter added. “He went and stole fire from heaven.”
“Coyote stole fire from heaven.” Rehl grinned. “Although that seems like a different kind of story. I always kinda thought Coyote made that one up.”
“Whatever it was—” Simon held up one finger. “—things were once wonderful.” He held out a second digit. “Mankind sought the power of gods.” He held up a third. “We were punished. Cast down.” He shrugged. “This is why the world is the way it is today.”
“Atlantis was flooded.” Baxter took a sip.
“Mythic heroes were punished for grasping the power of gods.” Alicia cupped her chin in her hand and tilted her head. “You aren’t saying they’re the exact same story; you’re discussing theme.”
“I’m suggesting that, like the Flood, it’s possible this particular theme exists in human consciousness for a reason.” He tilted his head at me. “And this reason is directly connected to our little harridan here and her special capabilities.”
“That’s—” Baxter muttered and shook his head in disbelief.
“So in this story, the gods punished men, usually for trying to steal somethin’ from ’em or reaching into heaven or some other hubris.” Simon sat back. “What do gods do?”
“Rule… everything?” Rehl knew that wasn’t quite what Simon wanted. “Fight demons?”
“Gods are ineffable.” Alicia shook her head. “Incomprehensible.”
“Gods—” Baxter’s blue eyes suddenly went wide. “Oh shit!”
“Yes?” Simon raised an eyebrow.
“Gods create the world. They literally shape reality itself, through their will.”
“Yes.” Simon pointed to Baxter and enunciated with care, “The gods hold the power to shape reality itself. And what happens when humanity grasps that power?”
“They are cast down. Punished.” Rehl’s tone became very quiet. He glanced at me.
“When Prometheus stole the gods’ fire from heaven, they punished him.” Simon took a sip. “Fire is one of my favorite metaphors here. Rehl mentioned that Coyote stole fire too, but it also happened in the Rig Veda, the book of Enoch, and Polynesian, Cherokee, and Algonquin myths.”
“Lucifer.” Alicia quirked her mouth up at the thought. “He brought enlightenment to humanity and then was thrown into hell.” She paused, as if struck by a thought. “You’re saying this happened.” Alicia blinked slowly. “You’re saying all this stuff is real, but when someone learns magic, real magic, the gods punish them.”
“Well, the term ‘magic’…” Simon vacillated one hand.
“Gods aren’t really real though.” Baxter looked sheepishly at Alicia. “I mean, no offense, but who ‘cast humanity down’? Not something like Zeus or Odin or Jehovah?”
“And who could watch over the entire planet?” Rehl rubbed his gleaming head. “I mean, we don’t exactly see thousands of people expressing odd talents like Liz, so it makes sense that there must be some… controlling force.”
“That’s not the point tonight, and it’s a larger discussion.” Simon and I exchanged a quick glance.
I instantly knew the truth. The depth of that topic remained far too vast. Stories about the Silent Gentlemen wouldn’t help anything, not this evening.
Shit. I needed to talk to Simon about the horror supposedly known as Garret. Simon would be livid one of them had found me and certainly wouldn’t listen to any theories about any ‘opportunities.’
The thought also called to mind the irrational buzzing sensation Garret seemed to emit. My skull crawled with pins and needles, and I shuddered at the memory.
“Seriously, though.” Baxter tapped his fingers on the table. “Follow the logic here. This thing would be… vast.”
“Fact.” Simon pointed at him.
“Magic doesn’t exist. Typically, I mean.” Bax gave me a shy smile.
“Okay.” Simon leaned back and took a drink. “I don’t like the word, but okay.”
“So if we follow what your story claims and keep going, humanity attempted to grasp…” Bax stopped, glancing at Simon. It took me a moment to realize he didn’t want to use the word ‘magic.’
“Heaven’s fire?” I quirked up one eyebrow. “Although it’s much more like heaven’s wind in my case.”
“Whatever.” Baxter waved one hand. “Basically, this means humanity sought the power to alter reality, what, thousands of years ago?”
“It’s really hard to pin down any kind of true timeframe.”
“There’s a difference between any actual event and the stories, anyway,” Rehl interrupted. “Historically, we’ve had civilization for what, nine thousand years?”
“Maybe closer to eleven,” Simon interrupted. “And yes, this is fascinating stuff. When you really start digging, it’s interesting to find all kinds of things in history that tie the theory together.”
“And I bet we could do that all night,” Alicia agreed, then shifted the subject. “How long have you been piecing this idea together?”
“’Bout twenty years now.” Simon chuckled. “And there’re still lots ’a holes.”
“So if humans have the capability to shape reality—at least in potential—what stops us from rising and attempting to grasp that kind of power again?” Baxter scratched his chin.
“Gettin’ too complex.” Simon waved a hand. “We can dig through the droppings all day, but in the end, these theories don’t really matter.” He leaned forward. “I often find that truths make more sense when presented… simply. What I told Butterfly here was—”
8
June 13, 1991-Six Years Ago
Syracuse, New York
“The poetic explanation is a lot simpler than all that.” Simon chuckled.
“Yeah?” My head spun. “It better be or you’re going to have to buy me a third shake.”
“The world is a realm of shadows, Kitten.” He leaned forward and folded his fingers. “Malleable. Changeable. Fleeting.”
“Okay. Shadows.” I eyed him.
“Before these shadows, folks like you are a light. You shape the world with the same ease that a flickering candle shapes the darkness.”
“That’s stupid.” I shook my head. “Not really poetry. Just pretty words.”
“Your kind has existed throughout the history of man,” he said, his tone grave. “Shamans, wonderworkers, medicine men. In every culture, their actions have echoed far.”
“It’s… jumping.” I eyed him, enunciating the word. “I can jump well, Simon. I’m not healing the sick or raising the dead.”
“You alter reality itself, with little more than your will.” Simon sighed. “You’ve been doin’ it by accident, but there it is.”
“I think you’re making this much more than it is.” I scowled.
“I have something for you.” His voice gentled, far more than I’d heard previously. He reached inside his coat. For the first time, I noticed the assortment of garbage he’d collected in there: a fork, an oversized stopwatch, and an old fashioned key, among other things.
He pulled out a bird feather. It shone a brilliant blue while white and black stripes slid along its edge. The tip of the quill had several small beads fastened to it, each with meticulous carvings scrawled on their surfaces.
“Blue jay?” I queried. I didn’t know much about birds.
“Take it.” Simon’s gruff tone held more command than request.
“Why?” Things suddenly seemed far too real. Some dim part of my mind felt certain if I took that feather, things might never be the same.
“You don’t hafta, a’course.” Simon fixed me with a cool eye. “You can leave. Just get up and walk out.” He shrugged. “Wonder for the rest of your life.”
“Fuck you.”
“Language.” He spoke softly.
“I’m… I’m scared.” I stared up at him now, brutal honesty stumbling from my lips. Given the way the hat had reacted, I didn’t think my fear was unreasonable. There was something about that feather. Something strong, something… ominous.
“Good.” He showed me a small smile. “You should be scared, Peacock. Doesn’t change anything though.”
It didn’t, and I knew it.
Still, I hesitated for another aeon-long moment. In my imagination, life changing power flowed around that tiny talisman, intangible waves flowing out to me.
I reached for the feather, trembling.
The moment I touched it, a piece of my mind CRACKED like a deep shelf of ice. The world around us thrummed with unseen power.
I started and felt sharp electricity crackle in the feather.
“Oh.” My eyes widened. “Um?”
Within the shadows of my mind, in places where dreams lurked, Wind sang my name. It started as a quiet thing, but as I paid attention to the sound, it grew louder.
“It’s big.” I stared at Simon. “Like a symphony.”
“This wind has danced through the world before humans walked upright.” He leaned closer and quirked the corners of his mouth. “It is the breath of the world.”
“It’s a thunderstorm,” I gasped. “And it’s inside me.”
“It’s your birthright. It’s power and wonder and mystery.”
For a long moment, we sat in silence.
When I spoke again, my voice trembled like a frightened child’s.
“I—” I shook my head, my voice small. “I don’t want this.”
“No one cares,” he said simply.
We sat there, staring at each other.
“It’s a hurricane.” The beginnings of tears threatened. “I can’t hold it.”
“Good analogy. It’s a tempest of force, and you can shape it. I can teach you to master it. Some, anyway.”
“I—” I shook my head. “It’s way too big.”
“Maybe. But you can command it. Just as easily as you can move your arm.”
“No way.” I shook my head again. Then, just to prove him wrong, I reached my arm forward. “That’s impossib—”
Before I could finish the word, a burst of air, strong enough to knock a man flat, burst out from me in all directions. Menus, straws, and glasses went sailing. Simon’s empty plate went into the seat. The blinds at the window next to us furled up, and a waitress, almost blown off her feet, stumbled into a man’s table.
“What the fuck—?” A lone diner, across the room, turned to look.
For a long moment, no one in Merkin’s spoke. We simply all stared at each other, with several variants of ‘what the hell?’ scrawled across our faces.
“Truck went by.” Simon’s voice rang with melody.
I turned back toward him.
“A truck?” a man in a plaid jacket glanced out the window, and then to Simon. “Unlikely.”
“That’s what happened.”
I noted Simon held an ace of spades in his left hand, and twirled it slowly as he scanned the patrons.
Everyone who looked his way had their gaze drawn to the card before going a bit wide eyed.
“Happens all the time,” the waitress agreed flatly. “I need a new job.”
The diners went back to their plates, eyes glazed.
Simon placed the card back inside his coat, where I noticed a freaking throwing star, cleverly attached to the fabric.
“A playing card, huh?” I nodded toward his coat. “Not the throwing star?”
“No!” He seemed horrified. “That would’a killed everyone
here!”
“Yeah?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Thing is,” Simon cleared his throat. “This gift of yours is a bit more ’n just ‘jumping,’ huh?” He plucked the feather from my hand. Instantly, the maelstrom of Wind died back to scarcely a whisper.
“Yeah.”
“Teaching you anything more about it is gonna be a pain in my ass,” he grumbled. “So here’s the deal.” He began fumbling in a pocket.
“Okay.” My tone held far less snark than usual.
“I see you got pierced ears. Noticed yesterday. So, if you decide you’d like to talk more about this, maybe learn a little, you put this on.” He slid a silver earring across the table.
“Just one?” I furrowed my brow at it. Tiny inscriptions glinted on the surface, I noticed.
“Put it on, and I’ll be able to find you, no matter how far you wander.”
“Um, okay.”
I took the hoop earring. It truly wasn’t my style. But oh, beneath my fingers, I felt the uncanniness of the thing. It hummed and sang, buzzing against my skin.
“Listen, Puddin’ Pop, you either put this earring on or you don’t. If you do, then I’ll teach you.”
“And what does that mean?” I folded my arms. At least he doesn’t seem to be a creeper.
“It means I won’t never ask you personal questions. I don’t wanna know ’bout your family or school or boyfriends. An’ it means two more things.” He stuck out one finger. “I’ll show up when it’s time to show you something new.” He stuck out a second digit. “You keep your mouth shut.”
“That’s it?”
“But if you don’t put the earring on, then leave this alone. Never do any more than the tiny bit you use for your gymnastics training or whatever that is.”
“Parkour,” I muttered distractedly. Suddenly a question came to me. “Why not?”
“Because I say so.”
“You do.” I folded my arms.
“It’s dangerous, Little Bird. There are watchers called the Silent Gentlemen.” He said it casually, but the oddness of the name struck me. “They don’t take kindly to the sort of things you do.”
“Yeah?” Some of my fire returned. “What are they going to do?”
“I literally don’t know.” He paused and fixed me with a gaze that chilled. “No one does.”
Simon pulled out a wallet that seemed in no way magical and dumped some bills on the table. He stood, hesitated, and spoke again. “You’ll just disappear. You’ll never see your family again nor your friends. People’ll forget you ever existed. The Gentlemen can find you wherever you run.”
“Just like that?” I quirked up my mouth. “What if I put on the earring then?”
“Don’t work that way,” he sighed. “Don’t push this one, Bubbles. I mean it. They’re the worst kind of news. Either put the thing on or don’t.”
With that, he walked out of Merkin’s and did not look back.
“You okay, honey?” The waitress came over and took Simon’s plate.
I smiled at her and nodded. Taking one last sip of my shake, I tried not to tremble.
But honestly, I worried I would never be okay again.
9
September 26, 1997-Present Day
New York, New York
“I assume there’s some kind of montage.” Baxter looked up from his drink, and a silly grin teased the edge of his lips. “Like, a few days go by and you decided you wanted the training after all.”
“And Simon has her come over to his house and makes her do things like paint his fence or wax his car?” Rehl chimed in.
“I think less Karate Kid and more Empire Strikes Back,” Bax clarified.
“It was something like that.” I reached up to my ear and unfastened the lone hoop earring there. For once, it did not buzz and sing at my touch. “I put this bad boy on less than a week later but never had to use it to call 911. I mean, before today.”
“Which isn’t to say you never needed any help.” Simon eyed me. “What was it, six months later and you stumbled into trouble all on your own?”
“A kid went missing.” I turned to Rehl. “Middle schooler. All of Syracuse went nuts trying to find him.”
“Patrick Marshall, wasn’t it?” Simon didn’t meet my gaze.
“Yeah.” I shook my head, ruefully, constantly amazed by Simon’s memory.
“I suppose you saved the kid?” Alicia’s red locks brushed her hand as she finished her beer.
“Found him more by accident than anything else. I was in a tabletop group, just a drop-in at one of the local gaming stores. I heard some other kids say they thought they had seen Patrick playing near a certain drainage grate. So I went poking around.”
“Long story short, Patrick had been eaten alive.” Simon glanced around the table and briefly met the eyes of each of my friends. “Our little hummingbird ended up wanderin’ the sewers of Syracuse before she decided that maybe she needed a little help.”
“What was it?” Alicia breathed.
“Dunno.” Simon shrugged. “It took the shape of an old woman at first, but it weren’t human. Can’t say how long it’d lived down there, but if it had ever been a woman, it weren’t anymore.”
“We didn’t ever see its actual form,” I said, my voice soft. “That kid wasn’t the only one. Corpses hung from the ceiling, all wrapped up in some kind of mucousy cocoon.” I shuddered at the memory.
“And you killed it,” Baxter stated flatly.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Not that I packed much of a wallop back then, but I knew when to get help.” I tilted my head toward Simon. “This old geezer is a great planner and always has the most phenomenal toys.”
“A good plan almost always wins the day.” Simon raised his drink to me.
For a moment, we sat in silence.
“What else?” Bax turned to me and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “I mean, that wasn’t the last time, right?”
So Simon and I took turns talking about the last several years.
I opened with some of the lesser things I had stumbled across, like the creepy little boy that had shown up in Bridgeport.
Children claimed to have nightmares about a mangy-headed little kid who would wait until they were asleep and sneak into their room.
Once there, like the horror he was, he would tickle them.
“Apparently, they couldn’t move, couldn’t scream.” I raised an eyebrow.
“Like night terrors?” Alicia asked, unconvinced.
“Might be that things like him ’re part of the reason why kids have night terrors,” Simon grunted. “Either way, the little freak would tickle ’em until they bled.”