Ribbons

by Evans, J R

  Sarah was one of Matt’s sisters. She had spent most of her time analyzing the patterns of petal growth on different species of flowers. She started them from seeds and played music to them as they grew. She measured them, took pictures as their petals bloomed, and documented their rate of decay. For each pattern she found, she scratched mathematical formulas on chalkboards and fed them into a computer. Her printer would then spit out pages of musical notation. Matt had attended a recital once where her cello seemed to recreate the life and death of each of her flowers.

  Aunt Rose had tried to help Matt find a similar passion.

  “You seem to like your science fiction films,” she said. “Have you thought about building your own rocket? Or a laser? Boys seem to like lasers.”

  Matt shrugged. “Well . . . I really like the stories.”

  She had found him in the rec room. He was sprawled out on the couch like only a tween could be, remote in one hand, corn chips in the other. He didn’t pause the movie.

  She moved to stand in front of the TV. “Perhaps you could create your own film? That’s all done on computers now isn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” he said. “But I don’t really have a story to tell.”

  “Take somebody else’s story, then. Make it your own.”

  “That seems like cheating.”

  Aunt Rose crossed her arms. “Cheating is better than failing. There’s no reason for failure here. The opportunities you have are unique. They shouldn’t be wasted.”

  Matt scooted himself up on the couch. “Maybe somebody else could take my spot. I’m not sure I belong here.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “Every one of you has a place here.”

  “What about Uncle Quent?” asked Matt. “I’ve heard you talk to Father about him.”

  “His place is here, too.”

  “He’s never around. And I’ve seen the way you and Father look at each other whenever somebody says his name.”

  Aunt Rose had looked that way right then, actually. “Yes, well, he’s on sabbatical. He’ll come back. He just needs time to refocus.”

  “I guess I haven’t found my focus yet.”

  “This is a time to explore,” she told him. “Learn all that you can. Find out what’s important to you. You’ll naturally focus on that.”

  So Matt had explored. The regular curriculum included most of the subjects that any private school taught, with a couple of additions. Theoretical History was kind of like a critical-thinking class. The students learned about key points during history that caused humanity to swerve one way or the other. They investigated all the paths the world hadn’t taken and argued about how it might be better off or worse for it. It sounded more fun than it actually was.

  Inductive Symbology taught the students how to identify patterns and symbols in everything around them. They learned how to measure the effectiveness of those symbols and postulate how they might be optimized for greater impact. Matt based his final paper for the class on the symbols in The Da Vinci Code. He didn’t even read the book; he just watched the movie. He got a D. His instructor informed him that he would have received an F, except that the movie itself was an excellent example of a symbolic idea optimized for the greatest impact. Matt didn’t really know what that meant.

  The course called Applied Monas Hieroglyphica was straight-up spell casting. Sure, it was all taught as if it were science, but it didn’t feel like science when you were chanting in Latin while standing around a circle inscribed with ancient glyphs. The first theorem they learned to prove was that belief equaled reality. By the end of the first semester they were able to call upon the Divine Servants to place certain elements into their own dreams, like an ice-cream cone or a naked woman. That was crazy. Matt barely believed that it worked. There was no real physical evidence. They never heard voices, and nothing ever levitated or anything like that. But by the time they graduated, they were able to swap entire dreams with each other like trading cards. At least, some of the students claimed to.

  Certain parts of the Scholars’ training seemed very religious, but there was no priest on the estate and they never went to church. They learned about all kinds of religions. To Matt, most of them seemed to worship different flavors of the same god. They weren’t taught that any one way to worship was the right way, but they weren’t taught to be atheists, either. Instead, they were taught to believe in all of them, because they were all real and they all held power.

  Angels and demons were just Divine Servants. If you asked the right way and paid the right price, they did pretty much the same thing. Both were vain, both were righteous, and both were willing to get their hands dirty. You just needed to negotiate. And that’s were Matt had finally found some focus. Apparently, he exceled at getting others to do his work for him. As it turned out, that talent was highly valued by the Scholars.

  Divine Servants could also become familiars. From what Matt understood, it was like entering into a contract. The angel or demon—or gremlin, or whatever—would give you a backstage pass to its specific sphere of influence. In exchange, it could ride you around like a pony if it wanted to. You had to be strong or you would be its plaything. All the Scholars had familiars. It was their last test before graduating.

  Matt had thought he was ready. Sarah had thought she was, too.

  She wasn’t, though.

  The last time Matt spoke with her, she had been lying restrained in her bed. He remembered it being cold even though there had been a log burning in the fireplace. The smell of burning oak mixed with the scent of dying hibiscus. One side of her face was swollen from when she had to be tackled to the ground. If they hadn’t, she would have used her gardening shears to snip off more than just the tips of her fingers.

  At first, she couldn’t speak. Her familiar wouldn’t let her. She shook and strained as spit bubbled out of her mouth. Matt didn’t know what had gone wrong. The ceremony was always closed to the other students, and his father wouldn’t give him any details. Matt wasn’t even supposed to visit her until things had “settled.”

  He had visited anyway. He remembered taking out his iPod as he sat with her and pulling up a track. A cello drew a long, sad chord, and Sarah stopped shaking. He let the music just play for a bit as her whole body finally relaxed. He used his sleeve to clean up her face and waited.

  One eyelid lifted halfway open on the undamaged side of her face. “‘Oncidium Orchid,’” she said.

  Matt looked at the iPod. It was the name of the track. “I didn’t know which one to play.”

  “That’s a good one. Not quite as flashy as some of the other orchids, but simple and beautiful.”

  Matt leaned in close to her. “What happened?”

  At first, she didn’t speak. She closed her eye and just hummed along with the music. Then she looked at him again. “I was nervous. And eager. I agreed to too much.”

  “Couldn’t Father help?”

  “Yes. I think he could have,” she said. “He didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He said the choice had to be mine. The familiar needed my oath, not his. I guess I didn’t know what I was asking for. She seemed so nice before I made the offering.”

  “Maybe I can bargain with it . . . or her,” Matt said. “I’m not too bad at that.”

  She tried to turn toward him but didn’t get very far. “You have your own pact to make. You’ll need your strength.”

  “I’m not gonna leave you like this,” he said.

  “I don’t think there’s much you can do . . . The sacrifice has been made. That’s what we are to them—the Scholars. Just another sacrifice. We don’t know what we’re buying with our own blood.”

  The music faded out, and Sarah started to shake again.

  Matt left that same night. He packed one bag—the same one that he had now—and left quickly and quietly. But Aunt Rose still met him at the door. She didn’t say anything; she just gave him an envelope. Inside was some money and a Post-it note with a phone numbe
r written on it. Above the phone number was the word home. Maybe she figured he’d be back. Maybe he just needed some time to accept his fate.

  He never called the number. By the time they started hunting for him, he was already three states away.

  32

  The paths were becoming more and more familiar. Foster almost didn’t need her help anymore. Somehow, the Woman in the Garden knew all about the city he lived in or at least how to get from one place to another. That seemed odd since she never left the garden. In fact, Foster didn’t think she could leave the garden. That’s why she needed Foster. Maybe she had a map. One that used something other than GPS to tell you where you were. The paths she had him walk were never the same, but they did seem to follow a certain logic.

  He was also starting to recognize landmarks. It’s just that the landmarks were relative. When he saw a dog peeing on a tree or a bush, he knew to turn right. If the dog was peeing on a fire hydrant or a streetlight, he took a left. If a red car drove past, Foster knew to stop and wait until it turned, then go in the opposite direction. If a homeless person asked him for spare change, he gave it and would wait one minute for each coin he’d given. If the homeless person got freaked out and left, Foster knew that danger was near, and he should step out of sight. If somebody offered Foster some spare change, he knew he could take a shortcut.

  He still followed her instructions, though. He had to finish this tonight, and he didn’t want to waste any more time. That woman Erica had ruined everything. Foster should have just used a chair to keep her quiet like he did with Candice, but that seemed a bit cold. He had been hoping to have some time to explain what he was doing. She would have thanked him. Now he had to improvise. Thanks to Erica, he was heading someplace new. The Woman in the Garden had given him clear instructions:

  6:36 p.m. – Turn toward the North Star and walk along the path of Paradise.

  6:43 p.m. – A bus shall pass bearing the image of a great and meaty sandwich with fried potato sticks. Follow its direction along the Saharan road.

  6:46 p.m. – Pass by Saint Clara, giving her no heed.

  6:47 p.m. – Pass Saint Paula also giving her no heed.

  6:48 p.m. – But pay heed to Saint Rita, who will, in turn, lead you to the Saint of Roses.

  6:54 p.m. – Humble thyself and extend thy hands. Take the gift offered. Three coins of silver, each a different size.

  6:56 p.m. – Step sideways between shadows and onto the forest path.

  6:57 p.m. – Inspect the nearest tree for moss. Follow the path in the direction the moss grows.

  7:07 p.m. – You will see strings of fairy lights settled onto a small cottage. This is not a house of good humor and merriment, but instead a house where men of common purpose form alliances.

  7:08 p.m. – Knock thrice and enter, blade drawn, for it is guarded. There you shall find a prize most desired by a worthy daughter.

  All of which made complete sense to Foster.

  When he saw the bus, the hamburger ad made him realize how hungry he was. Luckily, he still had that pudding cup. No time to stop, so he ate it as he walked. He found it funny that there were so many streets named after saints so close to the Strip. At exactly 6:54 p.m. he kneeled down on the sidewalk and held his hands cupped above his head, as though he was hoping it would rain and they would fill up with water. A man about to pass by was so startled that he took a quick step back and looked at Foster. Then the man reached into his pocket and practically threw change into Foster’s hand as he hurried by. One quarter, one nickel, and one dime.

  Foster saw the shadows flicker. The sun had set, and this street was far enough from the lights of the casinos that there were dark patches between streetlights. The patch to his right shifted. One second the shadow of a struggling tree was hiding a garbage can, the next it was hiding the mailbox on the opposite side. Foster didn’t turn, but he sidestepped toward the tree. The tree changed. It was no longer surrounded by concrete, struggling to find water. Now it was an ancient sycamore, thick and strong. Everything got darker. There were no more streetlights, and the moon was hidden by the canopy of a forest. The street was gone, too, replaced by a narrow dirt path choked with weeds.

  The moss on the tree pointed behind Foster, so he turned around and started walking. It looked similar to the path he had taken earlier that evening, but then these trails always looked similar. The forest seemed endless, and none of his walks ever took him to the edge or even to a clearing. It seemed like the kind of forest where fairy tales grew up to become nightmares. It made Foster nervous, and he started walking faster. He wasn’t sure if that would mess up the timing of his schedule, or if the schedule knew that he would be walking faster at this point. He was relieved when he saw the lights right on time.

  They weren’t actually fairies, which was a little bit disappointing. Instead, they looked like Christmas tree lights drizzled over a forgotten shack. And calling it a shack was being generous. It stood just off the path. The lights didn’t do much more than highlight its shape, and the trees growing closest to it seemed to bend slightly away from it, as if they were afraid to touch it. There was a flag out front, a smiley-face pirate flag. Foster wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he did pause before stepping toward the door. His hand shook a little as he extended the blade on his box cutter.

  He knocked one minute late. The first was just a tap that he barely heard himself. Then he clenched his teeth and put a little more force behind his knuckles for the remaining two. He almost took a step back when he heard a voice from behind the door.

  “The-Lord-is-my-light-and-my-stronghold-Of-whom-shall-I-be-afraid?”

  Foster remembered that voice. It was the boy from the path. The Woman in the Garden hadn’t known who he was when Foster had mentioned seeing him before. Did she know he would be here? Was he the guardian, or was he the prize? Foster opened the door and stepped in.

  The boy stood by the far wall with his back to Foster. The wall was covered with lines. The designs were similar to the patterns he had been taught to draw, but the style was different. So were some of the symbols.

  As Foster was trying to take it all in, the boy spun around. He looked surprised to see Foster, which didn’t make sense. He did knock, after all, didn’t he?

  “You’re not Matt,” said the boy.

  “No,” said Foster. “I’m not.”

  Foster looked around the room. There wasn’t much to it. There was a table with some strange toy army men, paints, and brushes. The boy must have been working on them. One of the brushes still looked wet.

  The boy’s eyes darted around a couple of times and then focused on Foster again. “You were on that trail in the forest . . . But that wasn’t real.”

  Foster stepped over to the table. One of the little pots of paint was open. Foster picked it up. Apparently, it was called Apocalypse Sunrise Orange. He spoke without looking at the boy. “That trail led me here.”

  The boy took a step back, pressing himself up against the wall. “I thought that was a dream. Why did I say those things to you?”

  That was weird. Foster set down the paint. “I don’t know. You’re the one who said them.”

  “I don’t think I did,” said the boy.

  Patterns and lines swirled all around on the wall behind the boy. Foster traced one in the air with his finger. “Did you draw those lines?”

  The boy tilted his head back to look over one shoulder. “Yeah. I think so.”

  “What kind of pen do you use?”

  There was a sharp hissing sound followed by a low growl. At first Foster couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Then he looked down. A scruffy cat was trying to make itself look twice as big as it actually was. Maybe that was the guardian.

  Foster raised his blade and looked at the cat. Really, cat?

  The cat lunged. It was all claws, and teeth, and guttural sounds. It crashed into Foster like a gladiator. Before Foster could react, the cat raked his leg with a series of lightning-fast blows. It
followed that up with a savage bite, its ears pinned back and its fur standing up.

  Foster was wearing jeans, so he barely felt any of it. He reached down and grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck. He had to give a couple of tugs before the cat’s grip finally gave way. Foster pointed his blade at the boy and backed up a couple of steps. The boy was frozen in place. Foster opened the door. The forest and path were gone, replaced by the heat and stink of the city. He lobbed the cat outside. It landed on most of its feet and immediately ran off into the shadows of a nearby house. There were lights on in the house, and Foster heard music. He stepped back into the shack and closed the door.

  “I know who you are,” said the boy. “You’re that killer on TV.”

  “No,” said Foster. “I’m the killer in your playhouse.” He looked down at his leg. No real damage. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to kill you, though.”

  “It’s . . . it’s a clubhouse.”

  “Right. Not a house of good humor or merriment.”

  The boy’s eyes were glassy. “Why are you doing this?”

  Foster didn’t like the look he was giving him. “I just want to go home.”

  “So go.” The boy sounded like he was pleading.

  “I need somebody to go with me,” said Foster. “Somebody I think you might know.”

  33

  Christy had forgotten to ask for one of those cardboard drink trays, so she had to juggle three milkshakes and a bag of hamburgers as she made her way into the house. Her purse hung from one shoulder, and it kept getting in the way as she tried to open the door. If she ended up dropping one of the shakes, that could be Matt’s. Amber must have been keeping an eye on the foyer and rushed over to help, but by then Christy had already made it inside.