“Oh, there’ll be lots of guns,” she says. “Don’t think there won’t be. Plenty of testosterone too. It’ll be tense. I’ll make it less so. Kali will show the way.”
“What’s your plan?”
“I’m going old school, to quote Poulson.”
“What?”
“You’ll see, little brother,” she says.
“I’m older than you.”
She pushes the car to ninety. “This time around,” she says.
That evening a yacht too big for the lake sets off from a private marina on the Nevada side of Tahoe. Aboard are twenty-two people, nine of whom are not meant to return. Donnie Do is there with two ex-gang-bangers turned bodyguards, a blond girl with more boobs than brains, and some kind of computer technician who tells anyone who’ll listen that he’s a surfer first, computer hacker second. On the other side is a translator, a proper Englishman with an accent that could melt ice, two more bodyguards, one Chinese, one Anglo, both very tightly wound, and one Chinese man, quick to smile and bow, but quicker to notice sudden movements and strangers. As far as Michael can tell, the only ones without guns are the tigers.
Back on shore there are six more Chinese and four more in Donnie’s party who did not get invited to the yacht. They will be lured to dark places before morning.
Michael does not know all the deceivers on the boat. Tyler and Bryce are there, along with the three musicians with their instruments from the feast. Poulson acting as the captain, Perez as first officer. Ericka is a waitress, her conservative secretarial ensemble traded for a skimpy skirt and tight blouse that draws stares and unwanted slaps. Trent is one of the waiters. No one slaps his ass. He is clumsy and Poulson has to make excuses for him when he spills a shrimp plate ten minutes from shore. Howard is tending bar.
The nine sacrifices have dressed well for their last day. Chinese spies and California playboys alike wear thousand-dollar suits and designer shoes, diamond rings, gold chains, form-fitting custom Italian leather holsters concealing gold-trimmed Berettas under their jackets.
The crew, band, and wait staff all sport fetching yellow scarves to mark them as “the people who don’t matter,” as Donnie said.
The sky is moonless but star-speckled. It is a New Moon, the darkest day of the month, the night holiest to Kali. Still, the ship is bright with colorful lights dangling from wires. It gives the ship a nightclub feel. It is large and sails smoothly onto the lake where the lights of civilization are but specks in an otherwise endless expanse of darkness.
The food is catered from Tahoe’s best restaurants, the booze handpicked and top shelf. The music is smooth and relaxing. The drinks are served strong.
Michael hovers in the periphery, standing at attention, blending into walls. The Chinese and Donnie’s group mingle for a while, and then huddle for a while, and then agree for a while, and then shake hands.
The computer tech is brought in and goes to work with a black thumb drive and a laptop. The surfer is neutral apparently.
Michael gets bored standing around, excuses himself, and goes out on deck. Though the height of summer, the high mountain lake air is cool and refreshing. He stares into the darkness looking for Her but doesn’t see Her. No need. He knows She is there.
The Englishman passes him on way to the bridge. He hands a small device to Poulson and in a moment the ship is moving again.
Michael’s phone rings. It startles him. He is one of the contacts on the boat if something on shore goes amiss. He looks at the caller and breathes a sigh of relief. It’s only Carla. He thinks to refuse the call, but takes it anyway.
“Carla,” he says. “Hello.”
“It’s me, Dad.”
“Tiffany? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t handle it anymore. I’m going insane here. Mom won’t leave me alone.”
“What’s she doing?” She’s been crying. He can’t remember the last time he heard her cry.
“I guess, really nothing bad. Not in the normal sense, but I’m dying here. I feel like she’s pounding me into a square hole and I’m round, or triangle or something. I don’t know what I am, but I know I’m not square.”
“She’s trying to help,” he says.
“I don’t care. She holds my phone over me like it’s a big deal, like the fact that because Warren, not her—but Warren, pays my cell bill she can tell me how to think. I put my phone down the disposal to show her. That’s why I’m calling you from this number.”
“Honey…” he says trying to think of something paternal to say.
“They keep saying I have to be a productive member of society. What the hell does that mean? Sounds like death to me. I don’t want that. Help me Dad.”
“Why don’t you run away?” he says.
“Don’t be that way,” she says.
“I’m serious, Tiff.”
There’s silence on the phone for a long moment.
“I dreamed about you last night,” she says. “It was weird.”
Michael smiles. “I’m serious Tiff. If you think you’re strong enough, if you think you can leave the money and position, the cars and the comforts, you need to go. If you think their way is not the only way, their faith the only one, you need to strike out. It’s your life Tiff. If you hear a different drummer, are summoned by different god, you need to heed the call, or else you are nothing but clay waiting to melt.”
“Where will I go?”
“Call me in the morning, sweetheart. I’ll tell you where I’ll be. I’ll show you what I know. But now, I’ve got to go.”
“Okay Dad,” she says and for once, he thinks he might have something to offer his daughter.
“Is everything alright?” Jessica appears at the rail beside him.
“Yes,” he says marveling at her outfit.
When they’d boarded, she’d been in jeans and a blouse, nothing too flashy, but nice. Smart and capable, the kind of thing her character, Laura, would wear. Laura arranges private parties by profession, conveniently enough. She is now in a bright patterned dress with a matching middriff-revealing blouse. A scarf in the same red and black tones is draped over her shoulders. Her wrists are a tangle of gold bracelets, her neck adorned with rubies. Her hair is combed out and upon her forehead hangs another ruby suspended from her hair. The ensemble is finished off with dramatic makeup highlighting her already hypnotic eyes and blood red lips.
“It’s traditional Indian,” she says.
“You look great, Ms. Laura.”
She smiles. “The dress is called a lehenga, the blouse a is a choli.”
“And of course, the rumal.”
“No, this is a dupatta,” she says. “It’s much longer. Practically a blanket, but yeah. It works the same.”
The boat slows and floodlights flash on illuminating the water within fifteen yards of the boat. The Englishman on the bridge pans a searchlight across the water and fixes it upon something to the right. Starboard, Michael reminds himself.
“Hey there,” Perez yells down from the Bridge. “Yeoman, collect the buoy.”
“Better get to work,” she says.
He doesn’t need to. The Chinese contingent are already there and throw hooked ropes after the floating buoy. They pull the rope attached to the buoy which leads to six large plastic wrapped bundles. They quickly whisk them all below deck to the forward private cabin. Michael returns to the main room to take up his post.
Donnie and the Chinese man emerge from the room smiling, their arms around each other’s shoulders. Donnie orders champagne. Howard has it ready. They toast, and toast again. They even deign to offer some to the crew who take it gratefully along with hundred dollar bills stuffed in their pockets.
The music begins.
At first the prey looks at the band as if they’re intruding, but then sit down on the cushions and listen. The melody is hypnotic and ancient, soft drums and melodic guitar.
Michael counts three bodyguards and Donnie’s bimbo missing. He nods at Howard who nods back fold
ing his bar towel.
Bryce in a tuxedo steps out from behind an inlaid ebony screen set beside the band. He picks up a microphone and switches it on. The music fades to a background thrum as he begins the story.
“There was once a great demon that vexed all of creation, Daruka-Danava,” he begins dramatically. “It fed cruelly upon people. It bested all the gods.”
The drum rattles and Jessica steps out from behind the screen in her costume. Cheers go up from the watchers. She smiles and winks at Donnie then blows a kiss to the Chinese businessman before going back into character as a traditional Indian dancer. She steps forward, her hands moving in ancient grace, her eyes portraying the terror of the demon’s rage.
“The demon slew many peoples and was unstoppable by man. Each warrior god went to fight the demon but none could drive it away. Then they joined forces and waged war against it together. But even with all their combined godly might set upon it, they could not even wound the dreadful demon.”
Jessica dances despair and hopelessness, carnage and fear.
“The gods sought the wisest of beings to show them how the demon might be stopped. The Wise One declared that only a woman could best the demon. But alas, they had no female warriors among them. The gods lamented and mourned the world.”
Jessica portrays the sadness with her eyes and gestures.
“Shiva, the Lord of Destruction, enemy of evil and ignorance, was most despondent. Even his terrible power could not stop the demon which threatened to kill all of man and destroy the gods. His frustration and anger welled up in his throat as a black, noxious, poisonous ichor, a pool of hate and war.”
Jessica is a writhing pool of cloth on the floor.
“Lord Shiva’s wife, the beautiful and mild Parvati, the gentlest of the Diva, saw her husband’s pain and kissed him.”
Here Jessica, wearing a face of gentle understanding, kindness and compassion, dances to Donnie and kisses him on the mouth. He barely moves, so engrossed is he.
“She draws from her Lord and Master the poison from his throat, the blackness and hate, the essence of destruction, and from it, she fashions herself another body.”
Jessica undulates and sways, raises her hands to cover her face.
“Kali Ma!”
She removes her hands and her face is twisted in a terrible visage. Her eyes are wild and cruel, her teeth bared, her tongue sticking out.
“Kali, the black Goddess,” says Bryce, “Goddess of destruction! So terrible was the visage that the Gods themselves recoiled in fear. Shiva trembled. The demon Daruka-Danava was so terrified that Kali slew him easily with her sword in one blow.”
Jessica gestures a dramatic sword swing.
“The bloodlust upon her, Kali swept across the land slaying all she met in her insatiable murderous frenzy. All fell before her like a plague. Man and animal, demon and angel—all were struck down and fell before her. And the gods were powerless to stop her. Her dance destroyed nations, felled mountains, upset seas. Her mighty sword slew everything and everyone.”
Jessica’s portrayal of blood-lusted Kali is chilling. It makes Michael’s blood race.
“The Wise One had told the Gods the means to defeat the Duraka Danava, but at the cost of birthing Kali!”
“Kali!” repeats the band. “Kali, Kali!”
“As the Gods lamented their choices, the people gathered together to try and save themselves. The Wise One must answer all queries, but his answers are double edged, as Kali’s own birth will attest.
“‘We are too weak to fight her,’ the envoys told the Wise One. ‘Even in armies she strikes us down with her great sword.’”
Jessica’s on her knees in supplication as if praying at Gethsemane.
Michael moves into position. Slowly, silently.
“The Wise One told them to summon the demons, those other beings not Gods, who fear Kali as much as they. They had their legions unite and made from them the great demon warrior Raktabija.”
“Raktabija,” repeats the band.
“And they sent the demon to destroy the Black Goddess.”
A kick and a pose, a twisted face. Jessica is another demon.
“With one swipe of her great sword Kali took Raktabija’s head. But the demons had tricked her. Wherever a drop of blood spilled to the ground, another demon rose. Soon the bloody plain was swarming with demon warriors, all the great Raktabija and each stroke of Kali’s sword made a hundred more!”
“Kali!” chants the band.
The audience joins in. “Kali! Kali!”
“Kali, the Black Mother, surrounded by foes she could not defeat made a mighty roar and from the jungle came the Faithful Tigers.”
Jessica makes claws with her hands and softens her face in an almost comic expression. Still enthralled in her telling, the tense watchers relax a little.
“Throwing aside her three bladed sword, Kali plucked three strands of hair from her head and wove them into a stout cord. The tigers watched with interest, their malevolent eyes hungry for the fight. Kali spit onto the ground and from the mud, fashioned a figure of clay.”
Jessica stands on tiptoe, pantomiming a potter making a huge vessel, drawing all eyes to the ceiling with her undulating hands.
“She wrapped the cord around the figure’s throat and showed the Faithful Tigers how to kill without spilling blood.”
Michael’s rumal flies around the translator’s throat like lightning. The music rises to climax as five other scarves find five other throats and tighten around them each at once.
He does not rush the killing. He does not break the demon’s neck, nor sever the clay man’s throat. He strangles his sacrifice carefully, blissfully, letting him die a cell at a time, in burning poisoned agony for want of a simple breath. It is a good death he gives him, a true death, one worthy of the Black Goddess.
Like a lover delaying climax, his own breath comes in stuttered gasps. His groin stirs and swells. He relishes the dreadful intimacy of killing, the noble savagery of murder. He is unashamed. He is righteous. He is the darkness that shows the light and the fire that cleanses the land. He is the disease that makes the body stronger and the fatal blow that kills it.
He is back home. At last he is returned to his people, his tribe. His God. He is placed, and is content. He is in love with a Goddess. He is the agent of Kali, and She blesses him.
In his mind’s eye, he can see clearly that ancient plain, blood-soaked and burned, where gods, men, and demons united to stop Kali’s deadly rampage, and could not.
Dancing and wheeling in circles, Jessica finishes the story herself. “And thus was loosed upon the world, the Faithful Tigers—deceivers and warriors, Kali’s own children, called by Her to serve the great and terrible purpose, to share in the dance of death, unstoppable, merciless, and cruel.”
Kali the Mother
By Sister Nivedita
(Margaret E. Noble)
The stars are blotted out,
Clouds are covering clouds,
It is darkness, vibrant, sonant.
In the roaring whirling wind
Are the souls of a million lunatics,
But loosed from the prison house,
Wrenching trees by the roots,
Sweeping all from the path.
The sea has joined the fray,
And swirls up mountain-waves,
To reach the pitchy sky.
Scattering plagues and sorrows,
Dancing mad with joy,
Come, Mother, Come!
For Terror is thy name,
Death is in Thy breath.
And every shaking step
Destroys a world for e’er.
Thou “Time” the All-Destroyer
Then come, O Mother, Come!
Who can misery love,
Dance in destruction’s dance,
And hug the form of Death,
To him the Mother comes.
1900
Acknowledgments
First to Kate Jone
z, my friend and editor, the woman to whom this book is dedicated, the first to give me a chance in this business, my eternal gratitude.
Second to my great group of writing buds and fans, The Infinite Monkeys, the League of Utah Writers, the readers who relate to my art. When my courage falters you are there to raise me up. Special shout out to Jaren Rencher for his help with late edits.
Third, the journey through What Immortal Hand was a life-changing event for me and I did not take it alone. In the depths of the darknesses I summoned to evoke the world I wanted, in the gloom and horror I played with, I had Kali. Terrible and brutal, bigger than life, the Dark Mother tapped a vein of creative energy in me I cannot otherwise explain. She inspired and frightened me throughout. She was a presence and a muse, a terrifying truth, a voice who dictated the better phrases of this book. Thanks to Kali.
About the Author
Johnny Worthen is an award-winning, best-selling author of books and stories. Trained in modern literary criticism and cultural studies, he writes upmarket fiction in multiple genres, symbolized by his love of tie-dye and good words. “I write what I like to read,” he says. “This guarantees me at least one fan.”
Johnny lives, writes and mentors out of Salt Lake City, Utah.
Table of Contents
What Immortal Hand
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Part Two
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
What Immortal Hand Page 30