The Flower Bowl Spell

by Olivia Boler

  On the way there, squeezed into a bus seat next to a foul-smelling, disheveled man, I fill her in on some of the highlights of my trip. Marisol, like Cooper, knows about my earth religion roots, but not the sparkly parts. I think she’s open to it though. She once told me that her favorite story from her Catholic Sunday school days is the loaves and fishes. Maybe she’d see magick as a miracle.

  The restaurant is pretty full, but there are a couple of tables free, and a young woman seats us. Marisol has barely landed in her chair before she begins scanning the room.

  “He’s here,” I tell her.

  “Who?”

  “Remy.”

  “How do you know? And how do you even know I care?” She laughs.

  “Because you’re so damn predictable.”

  But he isn’t around just yet, so Marisol has to settle for the menu and my chitchat. I’m curious to see Remy myself. There’s more to that Frenchman than meets the eye.

  We order and the waitress quickly brings out two glasses of sauvignon blanc. Marisol and I toast each other and as we drink, Remy himself puts our salads in front of us.

  “Bonjour, bonjour,” he says, and we try to act like grown-up women, but it’s hard not to smirk after half a glass of white wine on an empty stomach. He asks us how we are, and I act demure and Marisol flirts, and then he turns to me and says, “That is a lovely locket, mademoiselle.”

  I touch the necklace, which I put on this morning with deliberate care. It’s warm but not buzzy, like it’s at peace with me. I’m feeling pretty all right towards it myself.

  “Merci. My boyfriend gave it to me. You probably don’t remember, but we were here a few nights ago?” And you called him my father, I want to add but don’t.

  “Ah, oui. Very pretty.” He bends a little as if to look more closely, but his eyes are looking into mine. “Bright Vixen did well.” He winks so quickly, I almost miss it.

  He leaves us and Marisol asks me, not without some envy in her voice, what he said.

  “He said the person who made it did a nice job.”

  “Oh. I thought he said, ‘I’m fixing to do you.’”

  “Har har.”

  I manage a couple of bites of salad before excusing myself. There’s only one single-sex WC, very French. The door is unlocked and Remy is inside, mussing with his hair in the mirror.

  “Are you working for Isaac?” I say by way of greeting.

  “Quelle cherie.”

  “What are you?” I ask.

  He grins charmingly at my reflection, and I think for a second that, if I weren’t such an upstanding and supportive person, Marisol might be in danger of having a little friendly competition over this guy.

  “Good question! Very good question. You have been paying attention.” Noting his emphasis on have, I don’t get too puffed up at his praise.

  “Has someone been saying I haven’t?”

  He shrugs in a purely French way, his lips pursed. “I hear things in the community.”

  “The community.” Gay? French? Both?

  “Yes. I am Bay Say Bay Jay, or as you English speakers pronounce it, BCBG: Bon Chic Bon Gens. I am just the Bon Gens part.” Bon Gens—Good People. He lifts up the oh-so stylish blond locks that cover the tops of each of his ears, revealing pointy tips Mr. Spock would envy, if Vulcans had not weaned envy out of their systems—and if Vulcans were real.

  From what I know about the Good People (and up until this moment I thought they had become extinct, or never existed), they haven’t weaned themselves of many emotions at all. Oh, and they are fairies. Really big fairies that even the ungifted can see, if the fairy so chooses. Their wings are small though, and vestigial, like male nipples. Legend has it they originated from a human who fell in love with a fairy, who, for whatever reason, decided to bite him on the wrist. The human sprouted wings.

  “Blimey,” I say. “Are you going to kidnap me and take me to Fairyland to be your personal foot-washer?”

  He laughs. “I haven’t kidnapped anyone since the New BG Constitution was signed around the time the Bastille fell. En tout cas, I’m just trying to help you. Xien said you need his help but you can’t hear him.”

  “Chien? Like, French for dog?” My mind races with thoughts of my dog-walking clients. Have the poor mutts been trying to talk to me all this time? Why can’t I speak dog? I feel so close to them, like they are my kindred spirits.

  Remy shakes his head. “No. Xien. It’s Chinese. He’s your counselor. You know, the fairy that takes care of you.”

  I must look confused, because he points up to the top of a cabinet in the corner. Sitting there is the fairy I keep seeing, my little buckskin friend.

  “My counselor. My guardian angel.”

  “Exacte. What Xien has been trying to tell you, though he is not very successful at it”—Remy suppresses a laugh over what I assume is Xien’s assailing him for the criticism—“is that the locket contains a message for you. It’s a message some people do not want you to get.”

  I touch the locket and think back to the moment I found it in Tyson’s bag. I’m sure I know who some people could be—Cheradon, for one—and Tucker has given me a pretty good idea why they don’t want me to get the message: the Flower Bowl Spell.

  “Shit.” I begin pacing the small room. “Well, what is the message? Who sent it?”

  “We do not know. We only know Bright Vixen was killed over it.” Remy loses some of his natural cheerfulness. “As well as her counselor, Beulah.”

  Bright Vixen. Who was, after all, Gru’s second in command. Perhaps the message is about Gru’s great-granddaughters. More than ever, I’m convinced the girls are in danger.

  “Beulah was also probably killed for her wings.” I tell Remy about the Flower Bowl Spell. He doesn’t say anything, but his expression stays melancholy.

  “Why did Xien come to me?” I ask. “Who sent him?”

  “No one sent him. You are one of his charges, and you were in danger. He went to your assistance.”

  I think back to the first time I saw Xien. The day I almost fell on the subway tracks. In danger.

  “One of his charges? But who put him in charge of me?”

  Remy listens to something Xien says then turns back to me. “He says he decided to take on your case many years ago, but you never really needed him. Then your banishing spell kept him away. As soon as you were in danger, the spell broke, and he made himself known to you, as did every other magickal creature you have encountered.”

  “My case?” Fairies really are like social workers.

  “We are independent contractors, non?” Remy says, the twinkle returning to his eye.

  “I have to go.” I start to open the door, but turn back. “My friend Marisol has a crush on you.”

  He laughs. “I know.”

  “Do you think you might...be nice to her?”

  “What is the expression? Twist my elbow?”

  “Arm. It’s twist my arm.”

  “I will take her for coffee, perhaps make the love.”

  “Thanks. That would so make up for the fact that I’m about to ditch her.” I hand him some twenties. “For lunch. Keep the change.” I give Xien a salute. “See you out there, little guy.”

  He nods and wiggles through a heating duct.

  It’s not until later that I’ll wish he hadn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The bus home is much less crowded than the lunchtime one Marisol and I took to Chez Remy, which is why I notice the man so quickly. It’s the same stinky guy from the ride over.

  As a general rule, if I’m traveling alone on public transportation, I go for the single-seaters, but if I can’t have one of those I try to stay up close near the bus driver. When I was a teenager I had more than one unpleasant experience riding the bus home from school, which involved some perv in sweats and no underwear taking advantage of a jam-packed bus by rubbing up against my backside. He vamoosed after I managed to cast a plague of crabs on him, but still I’ve been absolu
tely conditioned to think twice about giving up my seat for old people and pregnant women, no matter the critical mass.

  Stinky is sitting in the back of the bus (primo crime territory) and he’s not looking my way, but he’s aware of me. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I scan for Xien despite myself. Did he not follow me out of Remy’s? I’m struck by the notion that something has happened to him, something along the lines of what happened to Beulah. This thought is cut off, however, when Stinky turns his head, looks at me, and smiles.

  His days-old beard growth is salt-and-peppery, and he has dark brown, nearly black, eyes. He’s dressed in the universal uniform of the homeless: black knit cap, army-green canvas coat, tattered jeans, fingerless gloves, and heavy boots with some duct tape around one toe. A flash of orange on his black shirt collar reveals a Giants jersey. Like the man in the subway, that day I almost fell in front of the oncoming train.

  I can’t smell him from here—the whole bus is pervaded by a stale redolence of diesel and humanity—but I recall his odor and it’s that unwashed, hungry smell of street people.

  He’s almost too perfect.

  Three other passengers get off at the next stop. No one gets on. It’s him, the driver, and me.

  At the very last second, I ring the bell and hop off the bus in a neighborhood—I’m chagrined to admit—with which I’m unfamiliar. It’s on the edge of Bernal Heights, the Mission, and Portreo Hill, and not even close to being “transitional.” Damn. Small houses and two-flats crowd along the streets with cars parked nose to tail, some on the sidewalks. There’s not one sign of life, no one else walking along or resting on a stoop. There isn’t even a corner store. But I’m not alone. Damn again—he got off too.

  I start to run in the direction the bus went, wondering if I can catch it again at the next corner, but it’s an unusually speedy coach, and soon it disappears down a hill and out of sight.

  I slow to a fast walk and sling my messenger bag closer around my back, muttering protective charms. Yet something strange is happening. The words are coming back into my mouth, filling it and curling down my throat. I’m gagging, physically choking, the way I once did when I was a kid, when Alice and I held a contest to see how many grapes we could stuff in our mouths. I lost, one wee orb sliding its way into my gullet, so that I had to spit them all out like one of the Stooges.

  My words are coming back at me, and I have to stop speaking to breathe. And when I do my breath is ragged around the edges. My heartbeat has picked up. At the same time, it feels compressed. Textbook panic.

  I round a corner. Across the street is a building the color of orange baby aspirin, washed out from wind, rain, and sun. A housing project. Graffiti mars the walls, ugly tags of gibberish with the most recognizable words being “Fuck little bitches.” The windows are high up, barred, and offer the residents no view. There’s one entryway, a broken gate with an ineffectual chain and padlock. I squeeze through and turn to look back. A stupid thing to do because it slows me down.

  The man, who has paused on the corner to look around, sees me. I dart away. I’m in an outdoor passage. On either side are doors leading to apartments. My breath comes even more unevenly as my feet carry me forward towards the other end, where there’s more light. I hear the creak of the gate, some grunting. Stinky is bigger than I am, and he’s having trouble slipping through. I don’t look back this time. I know from his footfalls when he’s made it.

  The passage leads to a large courtyard. It’s big enough for one basketball hoop, although the pavement is cracked and uneven, patchily overgrown with weeds. A couple of teenage boys are playing ball, and they stop to stare at me, a strange duck in their soup. There’s a way out, another passageway to the right, and I take it. The doors here are unmarked by apartment numbers. Maybe utility closets. I hurry along and try my charms again, but the choking is back. In fact, it’s worse.

  I stumble against the wall, tripping over my toes, falling so that I scrape and bruise my knees. I pull myself up and keep going, and although my body is rebelling I have enough sense to realize a different tack is called for. Saying the words is the best way to get results, I’ve always known that, but sometimes you just have to shut up. So I think the words, and I don’t just think words that will protect me. I beg for help. In some circles, this is called praying.

  Help me, help, Jesus Christ help, well, not him, and not Him, but—okay, I would take Him, and maybe even him right now—I’d prefer Artemis or Isis or especially Minerva because I’m feeling a bit like a warrior right now—or how about Guan Yin? She’d do. If one of you would come along and help me shake this guy, I would so appreciate it. I’m not doing so well at the mo’, and the girls need me, so please, help them too, oh, sweet Jesus—man, I did it again—please watch out for them, even if you can’t help me, even if you can’t save—

  All at once, something covers my nose and mouth and yanks my head back. It’s a hand, and it has encircled me from behind and is doing a very good job of crushing my nostrils shut and cutting my teeth against my lips. I wonder for a moment if this is how it happened to Alice. How did I not hear him catch up? His smell that I remember from the bus is, no shock, even more foul this close. All of it, his breath, his skin, his clothes. But even worse is the faint, masked odor of cologne—something expensive and haughty underneath his hobo stew. I’m gagging again, and this time, the small bit of salad, bread, and wine that I consumed at lunch comes up my burning esophagus and even he is powerless as it bursts from my mouth and through his fingers. He recoils and I don’t pause to turn around, I keep going.

  I keep going until there’s nowhere else to go.

  The passage leads to a locked door. I backtrack and try every other one as the stinker, who seems to be fastidious, stays put and wipes at the mess I made on him.

  The third door is unlocked and I dart inside, slamming it behind me. It’s a laundry room. I realize with dismay that the door doesn’t lock. I lean my back against it and plunge my hands into my bag, hoping to find some sort of weapon. I come up with the silver rattle I took from Arsenic Playground’s dressing room. I throw it across the room in frustration, its sweet tinkling sound mocking me.

  Before I can make another move, Stinky forces the door open with his shoulder, throwing me off balance once again. As I catch myself on a table, he shuts the door and blocks it with his body. I look around quickly. It’s the only exit.

  I fix him with my gaze. His eyes are black now, blacker than they were on the bus. Not just the irises—his entire eyes. He lunges at me, grabbing at my face. Pinning me against the wall, he uses his weight and height, which strikes me as so unfair, but what did I expect? My toes are barely touching the floor. I can still breathe—he has left my throat free—but my mouth is clamped shut by his grip, my teeth crunching painfully against each other. He reaches for something in his coat pocket—a dagger, a gun—and I strike out instinctively with my knee, a lucky blow to his nards. He collapses a little but does not let go of my jaw, and the slight let-up of pressure on my head against the wall quickly worsens as he pushes it back even farther.

  I grab at his hand, his fingers, trying to pull them off, but it’s like we’re magnetized. My ears are beginning to thump. I think, That’s odd, shouldn’t they be ringing? But it’s a distinct thumping, rapid but light, like a wind-up toy helicopter or airplane.

  Stinky has succeeded in retrieving whatever he’s been looking for from his pockets. It’s a vial holding some sort of powder and I wonder if his grand plan is to get me high. He puts the cap between his much-too-white, too-straight teeth and begins to twist it off.

  I let go of his hand and his grip slips, giving me a pocket of hope before he tightens it again. My hands frantically pat at my own coat pockets, and I feel a lump through the material. It’s the saltshaker from the hotel breakfast room in Santa Barbara. It’s small, made of plastic. I pull it out and swing it at his face. Salt flies through the air and some gets in his crazy alien eyes. Another lucky shot. He releases me, his
fists flying up to his sockets.

  I use the moment to swing my messenger bag over my head—I can feel the weight of my almost full water bottle, Tucker’s book of magick, and my wallet overstuffed with receipts, not to mention my toiletry kit, notebook, and day planner. And, of course, my laptop. I bring it all down on his skull, and he crumples to his knees. I do it again. This blow is sloppier and lands on his neck, but he falls forward, his face hitting the hard concrete floor. One more time for good measure, and now his body is shuddering from head to toe.

  My breath is coming out hard and ragged, but it’s coming. Once more, I raise the bag halfway, but abruptly it feels too heavy, and I drop it to the floor. Gradually, he begins to still. I kneel beside him and feel his wrist for a pulse, which I find no problemo. The vial is still in his hand, and I take it. The saltshaker is by my foot. I pick it up and begin to pour it around him, like police outline tape. The helicopter in my head hasn’t let up.

  “Bind him,” I whisper experimentally. “Bind him.” I’m choke-free. “Bind him in life, bind him in sleep, bind him in the afterworld, bind him so that he can do no harm to himself or others. Especially me.” It’s like the charm I put on my dog pack when I walk them, but at a higher octane. I keep walking around Stinky, saying the words over and over, my voice getting stronger.

  On my third go-round, I notice the helicopter sound has stopped and there’s a scratching coming from the ceiling. A vent pops open and Xien flies out brandishing his adorable, shiny little sword. His wings are beating rapidly, and I realize the sound I heard was him trying to get through to us. He takes in the scene and circles the room before landing on a washing machine.

  “Where the hell were you?” I ask.

  He points to a corner of the room where the rattle lies. I pick it up.