A sigh of relief slips through my lips at the same time as a thump emanates from the closet. I twitch, a restrained jump. Too tense to take it, I stand, march to the closet, and shove open the bi-fold doors.
Jason doesn’t leap out at me. At first, I don’t even see him—just the junk we have piled under the row of crammed hanging clothes.
Then the pile shifts, and I see a swollen heel sticking out from under an old cat bed. A board game slides from the pile and clatters to the floor.
Trembling, I kneel. “Jason? What are you doing in here?”
I move aside a fallen blouse to reveal his face. It’s large and round and pale, jowly in a way that it never has been before, and only his wide, terrified eyes seem familiar to me. His lips are so puffed it looks like he can barely move them, but he doesn’t try. He just whimpers softly, eyes roving.
I start to move some of the things off him, but he snatches at them with hands that are slow and soft, piling things back onto himself even as he tries to push his head back under the rubbish.
“Jason,” I gasp, stepping back. “What the hell is going on?”
My husband tunnels further into our closet, slipping even his foot back under the pile, so that no part of him shows among our neglected possessions in the shadowed dark.
I FEEL AS though I’ve had my feet knocked out from under me. I don’t call anyone. An ugly part of me works hard to make excuses. What on earth would I say? Besides, I’m “not his god damn mom.”
I shut the bedroom door, have a panic attack, and take some pills. My last emotion as I slip under sleep’s blanket is small and hard, strangely anticipatory, almost starved, like an animal fed too long on spoiled feed, but still I vow to check on him in the morning.
THE REST OF the house is bright and chastising enough that I almost laugh at myself—until I open the door. The first thing that hits me is the darkness. He must have piled even more coverings over the cracks around the curtains; I can’t see more than two feet in. I flip on the lamp, then notice an unusual odour. Woodsy, fibrous, dank, and almost fishy. Weak with nerves and hazy with medicine remnants, I take one step inside. I don’t know how to explain why I don’t call out his name this time. The silence seems waiting.
The sole of my foot lands on something rough and damp, like bark. I look down, raising my foot, and grasp some of it between my fingers. It feels like mushy pencil shavings. My eyes catch a pale ring around the leg of the desk, then jump to the next leg, and the next. All four of them have grooves carved out of the bottom, the wood shreds piled around them on the floor.
My pulse begins to thump harder. I glance at the bed, the covers heaped high in a strange lump, but my gut tells me they’re empty. I don’t know what possesses me to look up, but I do, scanning the corners near the ceiling. Empty. Finally, my gaze settles on the open closet and the chaotic pile within. “Jason?” I mouth, but no sound escapes.
Slowly, oh so slowly, I walk toward it. The carpet brushes the remains of the wood shavings off my foot, leaving a tiny trail. My eyes never leave the open closet. The edges of the bi-fold doors, too, have grooves and gouges along the bottoms. I skim the edge of the bed as I slow, not wanting to get too close to that pile. Is it still? Can I see it moving, or is that my imagination?
Breath held, I take another step forward, squinting into the shadows.
Something grabs my ankle. I scream, jerking. Something wet and hard scrapes along my skin over the anklebone as I drag my foot away, toppling backwards into the desk. The lamp falls, the shade bouncing hard, then the metal base rolls off the edge and crashes to the carpet. The light is thrown askew, lighting the empty ceiling, but my eyes stare wildly at the bed skirt. It moves.
“Jason?” I gasp between pants.
The skirt moves again. Backing up against the desk chair, I pull my feet tightly to my legs. I grasp the lamp and shine it under the bed.
“Jason,” I say flatly, but my intended command comes out a plea. “Come out of there.”
The bed skirt wavers but doesn’t lift.
I edge forward, gripping the lamp like a bludgeon. I peer at the small, dark crack between the carpet and cotton skirting. Finally, mouth open in a silent yawn of fear, I lift the bottom hem of the skirt and shove it under the mattress before snagging my hand away.
Something large and pale takes up the space beneath the bed. I scream, shoving myself beneath the desk. My hands brush the wood shavings and I scream again, brushing them off as if they’re alive.
The thing under the bed writhes, but no hands reach for me. It’s long, swollen sluggish and slimy like a pile of animal fat. I trace its creased body up from its most tapered end until I see the face. Oh, how I wish it didn’t have a face. Not distinguished from its body in any way except for the gaping, gnawing mouth full of tiny, sharp teeth that gnash the air—the thing that grasped my ankle—and those eyes. Those too-small, human eyes that look painfully familiar. Those eyes that are far too aware and terrified to belong to anything that looks like that. They rove until they lock on mine, both hungry and fearful. I see regret there, but also a demand—a type of survival instinct that begs no forgiveness. A pile of wet wood chips sit on the carpet beneath that ever-moving jaw.
“Jason,” I cry. “Oh, Jason.”
Then I leave the room, slamming the door behind me, to go throw up.
THE NEXT TIME I check the bedroom I’m hollow. I remember the me who used to be in love with my husband, the me broken down by his use of me, angry at his gradual neglect, the me who found him ill and felt guilty for not caring—but I don’t feel like any of them.
It’s with steady hands that I open the door and walk back into the room. It smells of fetid saliva and exposed stomach acid.
The desk legs have been chewed through. The desk itself lies toppled on its side, some of the writing surface also gauged around the corners. It takes a few moments of staring to realize that the bed is about a foot and half lower than usual. The legs on it, too, have been gnawed off. The frame was metal.
I know without looking that the closet pile is unoccupied, because the only place left in the room big enough to hold him is the large, ovular mound on the bed. It’s full and glossy, the colour of an old penny and creased in plump segments. The mattress beneath lies bare of sheets and blankets. The closet is stripped mostly empty. The recliner sits burst open in the middle, stuffing pulled out in long, fluffy strips.
The lamp still lies askew on the carpet, light shining in a crooked pool, but this time I flip on the overheads.
Under the yellow glow, the brown surface becomes shimmery and orange. When I step closer and lean forward, I make out some letters under a hard veneer. A familiar font. “MIDIFI.” Part of the box to our humidifier. Then more items become clear. The print of Jason’s favourite tie. A spiral notebook. Our quilt. All buried and mixed into mush, sealed beneath the hardened exterior.
I tell myself my initial hesitation already made my decision. Too late.
Heart pounding, I back out of the room and close the door yet again.
TWO DAYS LATER, I stand outside it with my ear pressed to the wood door. From inside I hear shuffling and rustling, like the shifting of large, limp leaves. I picture cilantro, can almost taste our picante, now gone.
The sounds are so soft—a susurrus of feathers. The noise of wet things drying. A large, gentle, subtle, quiet hefting of wings.
I WAIT UNTIL nightfall to open the bedroom window from the outside. I slide it up with shaking arms. Then I part the thick curtains with a jerk, stacked pillows falling noiselessly inward. The bedroom gapes dark and silent, but as soon as the opening is cleared I run away. The night is overcast and thick with heat. Nothing comes.
In the open part of our backyard, I stack twigs. I think of how I used to love Jason for how different he was, and how he used to love me too—or at least how I thought so. Around the twigs I prop three larger logs in a triangular frame. I think of how my dad hated him for his ungrounded ideals, and how Jason secretl
y never thought I was good enough, coming from such stock, until he bent me to his cause as well. On top of the twigs I cross small sticks. I think of how cilantro tastes the same organic or protected by pesticides, and how the only way to ruin it is to use too much. Above the small sticks I add a layer of larger ones and finally some thick enough that I can’t quite break them over my knee. I’ve begun to sweat.
My eyes travel to the open window and the waiting darkness.
I pull a packet of matches from my pocket and light the pile with one strike.
The growing flame draws my eyes. It’s bright enough to reach inside. I think of my home farm, my family, and how I never quite believed that insects deserve to be saved.
The Midwife and the Phoenix
J.G. Formato
THE MOUNTAIN TREMBLED with the force of its contractions. Shuddering beneath a blanket of ash, it expelled dark plumes of smoke with violent, irregular thrusts. They rose, feeding the clouds that eclipsed the sun. Rolling waves of heat blurred the line between summit and sky, and a steady quake rumbled down the mountain to my door. It was preparing for the Rebirth.
The week before Ashton was born, I felt as the mountain feels now. But the hopeful hardening in my belly was a bit less patient. Every day for a week I visited the midwife, certain that my girl was coming. She laughed at my inexperience, my panic at false labour. Told me to trust my body and let it get ready in peace. I would know when it was time, and then she would come to me. She was right, of course.
“It’s time,” Ashton announced, turning from the window.
“Not yet.”
“The smoke is getting thicker. The mountain’s shaking. It’s coming.” Sixteen knows everything.
“I’ll know when it’s time. And then I will go.”
“Then we’ll go.” She ran a hand over the leather sheath at her hip, tossing her tangled mess of black hair. She can barely wield a comb—I don’t know what she thinks she’s going to do with that knife. But it was her Daddy’s, and I don’t have the heart to take it from her.
“Yes, but you are only there to watch. You’ll need to explain the process to your daughter, just as I have begun to explain it to you. Except you will learn firsthand, so that you may breathe new life into the old teachings. You’ll resurrect the ancient knowledge.” I hate that part. I want her to stay home, where it’s safe. But if she doesn’t go, home can’t stay safe.
“That’s just it.” Her golden eyes narrowed. “It’s ancient knowledge. The Phoenix hasn’t been reborn in almost a thousand years. How do you even know that you’re going to do it right?”
“I have a millennium of wisdom at my fingertips, passed down from the women of our family. I will ‘do it right.’ You just be ready to do your part.”
Doubt crossed her face, summoning the spectre of her father.
I WAS STILL in bed when the pounding started. I yawned and stretched, listening as it progressed from agitated to furious to downright wrathful. When it passed the point of knocking and escalated to total house assault, Ashton poked me.
“Are you going to get that?”
“I suppose.” I dressed, since one must be respectable for gentleman callers. I made a pot of tea, since one must be hospitable to guests. I tidied up a bit, since one must be neat for company. All social rules thusly observed, I opened the door.
Bradley, my nearest and sweatiest neighbour, stood with his fist raised, perilously close to knocking on my nose. He stopped just in time, dropping an ungraceful hand to his side.
“Bradley.” I smiled. “Do come in and have some tea. Knocking is such thirsty work. You must be exhausted.”
He followed me into the house and attempted to dominate my poor kitchen, chest puffed out and legs spread wide. Ready to lay down the law.
“Bryn,” he growled. “It’s high time you did your job.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. You Rebirthers have lived off the work of our people for hundreds of years. You are taken care of, with no other expectation than that you do your job when it’s time. So do your job. Bring back the Phoenix.”
“When it is time, the Phoenix will be reborn. She’s not ready yet.”
“You better get her ready then.” He stepped forward, crowding me with affected menace. More sad than intimidating. More smelly than daunting. He can’t do anything to me, he needs me too much. So he rants, “In case you haven’t noticed, the dragonlings are encroaching on our lands. They decimated my cattle last night. You need to bring back the Phoenix, so that she can rid us of these monsters.”
“In time, Bradley. They haven’t even come into their fire yet. Is that all?”
“No, it’s not. Look!” he shouted, pointing to the window.
With unfortunate timing, a dragonling descended upon my last remaining sheep. I could only watch as its glossy black body subdued the bit of white fluff. The creature rolled her to her back, ripping her belly open with jagged talons. The entrails were torn from her body in time to the plaintive death bleats. A red rain splattered the window.
“Oh.” Ashton swayed on her feet behind me. “Is that what happens?” She turned white and crumpled into her chair. I swung her away from the window and pushed her head between her knees.
“Breathe, Ashton,” I whispered, rubbing her temples.
I wanted to kick Bradley out. But I couldn’t very well do that with the beast outside, so we waited in silence for it to move on. Well, Ashton and I waited in silence, our guest spent his stay alternating between mumbled grievances and prayers.
Once the shadow kissed the treetops goodbye and the yard was empty save a few red drops on the grass, I kicked Bradley out. It took a while, as he had many admonishments and directives for me, as well as some terribly misguided advice on how to attend the Rebirth of a Phoenix. Eventually, with the help of a scalding hot tea pot and a frying pan, he was persuaded to go. Ashton and I needed to talk.
“That’s what happened to Daddy?” she asked, after the tears had dried from her eyes and settled in her throat.
“More or less. Bigger dragon, bigger prey. But, yes, that’s what happened.” My tears stayed inside, calcifying within my heart. They were still hard, angry tears.
“He shouldn’t have gone.”
“No, he shouldn’t have.”
“Why did he? Why didn’t he just let the Phoenix take care of it?”
“Because he didn’t listen to me, Ashton. He let his feelings get in the way of what had to be. It was a mistake. Learn from it. When we go, there will be things that will be hard for you. There will be things that you will want to do out of love—sweet, noble, selfless things. But you must not. The noblest thing you can do for me and for our people is to put those feelings aside and do what must be done. And for you, that is to keep your eyes open and stay alive.”
She nodded, or at least dropped her jaw enough for me to take it as a nod. I hugged her tightly, crushing her against my chest until I could feel her heart knocking against mine.
“Pack some clothes and comb your hair. We leave tomorrow morning.” Over her head, through the red tinted window, the mountain convulsed and thundered its approval.
I’D PUT OFF packing until about midnight. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, and I figured it would give me something to do. Ashton had packed her bags hastily and turned in early, to be fresh for the morning. For the past few hours, our house had been filled with the rhythmic banging of her headboard against the wall as she wrestled her sheets. I’ve learned not to fight the insomnia and just tell myself I’m too busy to lay down.
I’d never admit it out loud, but Randal’s absence makes it easier. There’s no way I could have prepared myself under his watch. He would never have let me leave— he would have let the whole country burn first. Maybe this is how it had to be.
He wanted so badly to keep me from danger that he sacrificed himself on a fool’s errand. That last Dragoness was a monster, the likes of which had not been seen for centuries. She was fire incarnate a
s she flew. Her golden scales captured the sun’s light and hurled it like a weapon towards earth, blinding those below with the scattered rays. The true dragonflame followed, blackening those in her path to the bone before they were devoured.
She could be feline in her killing as well. Even when her hunger had been sated, she hunted, playing with the villagers like a cat in a field of frightened mice. We stayed holed up in our homes until farming ceased and the crops failed.
The Phoenix had always protected us in the past, easily destroying any Dragon that dared cross the sea into our land. This one was too much for her. Too cunning and too strong. She evaded the Phoenix at every turn—her glaring scales and razor sharp talons could counter any attack made by our champion. Our days rang with the shrill, frustrated cries of the Phoenix and the amused, rumbling growls of the dragon.
Randal knew what was coming. As our situation became more desperate, so did the Phoenix. The Release was imminent. He dreaded the loss of the Phoenix, that death that led to Rebirth when I would be called to serve as midwife to a birth of fire, flame, and overpowering magic. We’d never thought that day would come, there’d been Rebirthers in my family for hundreds of years, a ceremonial position respected and pampered by the people of the town. They’d never been called to attend, there’d never been any need.
I’d explained it all to him, before we were married. No one outside the family knows what would happen or why. He never quite believed me, or else he didn’t want to. The big softie never could bear to see me in danger or pain—he fainted when Ashton was born. There was so much blood, he was certain I had haemorrhaged and died. My midwife tried to tell him it was all part of the process. He didn’t listen to her at first either.
So my brave, romantic, ridiculous husband confronted the beast that even the Phoenix couldn’t fell armed with nothing but passion and a spear. I locked Ashton in her room, as I watched from our window, unable to step outside my door and aid him. I am the only midwife to the Phoenix. Without me she could never be Reborn, leaving generations to come vulnerable to attack. I had to live, no matter how my love died. I’ll never tell Ashton, but that sheep had it easy.
Fire: Demons, Dragons & Djinns Page 25