Waking the Moon

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Waking the Moon Page 15

by Elizabeth Hand


  “Check it out!”

  “Hey, Ah—lee—VER!

  “Ah—lee—VER!” chanted a group by the bar. “Ah—lee—VER!”

  The boy in the toga drew himself up. He gave one shoulder an exaggerated shake, like a stripper shedding her costume, and threw his head back. A flurry of long ebony hair fell around his shoulders. Angelica gasped.

  “Friend of yours?” asked Magda.

  Angelica nodded, covering her mouth and then exploding into laughter. “I—I can’t believe it—”

  “Very nice,” Magda remarked.

  It was a clumsy effort at drag, but credible. Just a raw gash of lipstick and two streaks of rouge and some kind of bright blue eye shadow. But even this crude effort could not hide how good-looking he was—indeed, the makeup gave him an eerie, almost otherworldly, prettiness, as off-putting in its way as Angelica’s beauty. He walked with great dignity through the cheering students who gathered around him. No mincing or prancing, no sheepish grin. He looked like the biblical harlot from some early Cecil B. de Mille epic, and while a few of the older guests were scowling, most laughed, or at least pretended to.

  “Who is he, Angelica? Do you—”

  Magda abruptly shut up. The girl’s lips were parted, her eyes glowing. Whoever this boy was, Angelica was staring at him the way everyone had been gazing at her all evening. Magda touched the lunula at her throat and bit her lip.

  Of course. This was the other one, the boy she’d glimpsed last night. Oliver, the naphaïm had named him; and now across the parquet floors snaked a conga line led by a half-dozen drunken boys in evening dress, yelping, “Ah—lee—VER! Ah—lee—VER!”

  “He’s—very good-looking,” said Magda. But Angelica only smiled, a look of perfect seigniory, and continued to stare.

  And that was when Magda saw the pattern, the secret behind the Sign. That beautiful boy, this beautiful prescient girl; all of Angelica’s pure fiery will turned onto nothing but him. The oldest story in the book, that was all it came down to. Nothing more.

  Magda turned. As quickly as they had gathered to lionize him, Oliver’s admirers had fallen away. Now he stood by himself, holding the crumpled sheet to his chest in a surprisingly delicate manner. He was gazing abstractedly at the ceiling, where the Venetian glass chandelier swayed slightly. Oliver moved with it, arm raised. His eyes were closed and he was singing to himself. He appeared to be stoned out of his mind.

  “…so I better go now. It was wonderful meeting you.”

  With an apologetic smile, Angelica started to walk toward Oliver. Magda watched her go. From a hidden recess, the string quartet began to play an austere arrangement of “Pavane pour une enfant defunte.” In spite of herself Magda felt her eyes well with tears.

  Through our great good fortune, in our youth our hearts were touched with fire.

  Sudden fury lanced her. All of her hopes for the Sign, all the divided energies of the Benandanti and her Mistress—and they came down to this, some adolescent passion! She stared at Angelica and thought of all that golden energy, just waiting to be released in a dorm room with some horny zonked-out kid. It was insane! Almost without thinking, Magda darted forward and grabbed the girl by the shoulder.

  “Angelica! Wait—”

  Angelica stopped, taken aback.

  “Angelica—I—I just wanted to—”

  That was when Magda saw them: Balthazar Warnick and his young stooge Francis. Even from here she could see Warnick’s sapphire eyes glittering, his fixed smile as he nodded to a passing colleague. Then he turned, and his gaze locked with hers. In an instant she realized what her recklessness had cost her.

  They knew.

  Magda could tell by Balthazar’s eyes, and by something else: an abrupt though subtle shift in the air, as though a window had been opened to let a freezing wind vent through the smoke and laughter. The names of the two innocents were no longer a secret. The Benandanti had learned of her betrayal.

  “Angelica! Wait—” Magda put every ounce of her will into the command. The girl gazed at her, puzzled. Around Magda’s neck the lunula burned like a heated coil.

  “Tell—tell me your name again,” she ordered. Angelica frowned. “Please! Tell me your name.”

  Angelica glanced over her shoulder, looking for the boy in the makeshift toga; but beneath the chandelier the floor was empty. She turned back to Magda. “Angelica di Rienzi.”

  “Angelica—”

  The lunula was a white-hot collar about Magda’s throat. She could scarcely breathe, scarcely find the energy to speak. The air buzzed with static electricity; she felt a burst of nausea as before her everything spun into a sudden tumultuous brilliance, jagged rays of white and crimson distorting her view: a terrifying prismatic radiance that did not illuminate but disturbed the outlines of everything about her. Light and color pulsed and throbbed and even seemed to produce a sound, an anguished shriek like a razor drawn across a whetstone. A few yards away, two shimmering forms moved through the luminous maelstorm.

  “That’s right. Angelica di Rienzi,” the girl said softly.

  Magda summoned all her strength. “Angelica di Rienzi.” She could hear Francis’s heavy tread. Quickly Magda reached for a stray curl upon the girl’s forehead, plucked a single bronze strand and snatched her hand back.

  “Angelica Di Rienzi: In hoc signo vinces. Othiym, haïyo!” She opened her fingers: the hair flickered into a wisp of flame and white ash. “I would like you to have this, Angelica.”

  With one smooth motion Magda pulled off the lunula. She held it in front of her and gazed upon it for the last time.

  All the brilliance that had filled the room now seemed to radiate from the shimmering crescent, so that nothing but shadows surrounded herself and Angelica. From somewhere very far away she heard murmuring, a woman’s voice raised in lamentation. The shadows grew thicker. For an instant Magda had a glimpse of the new moon rising above a stony outcropping, the scarlet arc of George Wayford’s throat against the earth. Before the vision could fade she slid the lunula over Angelica’s head.

  “I’m very glad you enjoyed the lecture,” Magda said loudly as Balthazar and Francis Connelly swept up behind her.

  “What?” exclaimed Angelica; then “0w!—it’s hot!”

  “But now you’d better go—”

  Magda pushed the girl toward the bar. In a daze Angelica stumbled past Professor Warnick and his companion, then on through the diminishing crowd, her fingers splayed across her throat. For once no one took any notice of her.

  “Magda.”

  Magda could smell Balthazar before she turned to greet him: that deceptively serene mixture of Borkum Riff and chalk and moldering books. “Balthazar,” she whispered.

  The small slender man shook his head. In his pearl grey morning suit and ascot of pale green satin, he looked like a darkly elegant cricket.

  “I was so—surprised—to learn you were still among us. I thought your flight was today.” His tone was mocking but also wistful.

  “I changed it.”

  He took her right arm, Francis her left. “You changed a few other things as well,” Balthazar murmured as they assisted her through the crowd. “News of your recent fieldwork reached me only this morning. I had no idea your interests had—expanded—so far beyond ours.”

  Gently but irresistibly they steered her toward the same door where Harold Mosreich’s nuns had gathered earlier. Magda looked away so they couldn’t see the fear in her eyes. Her throat and breast felt scorched. Without the lunula she felt utterly exposed, as in a nightmare of facing a lecture hall naked, her students gaping in disbelief. As Balthazar and Francis led her through the darkened doorway she whimpered.

  Here the sounds of the reception were abruptly silenced. They were in one of the service wings of Garvey Hall. The narrow passage was dark and cool, the floors smelling of disinfectant and neglect and giving a hollow echoing tone to their footsteps. A chill wind moaned querulously as it plucked at Magda’s bare arms. When they turned
a corner her captors’ hold on her grew tighter.

  “Where are you taking me?” she whispered.

  They faced a wide stairway that curved upward through several stories until it disappeared into utter darkness. From far overhead came the rattle of an unlatched window. As Warnick and Francis dragged her up the steps she pulled back with all her strength.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Forget it, Magda,” spat Francis. “We know all about you, we—”

  “Francis!” Warnick’s commanding voice rang out. Francis fell silent and glared sullenly at Magda. Balthazar shook his head.

  “Forgive me if our methods seem a little crude, Magda. But we just can’t afford to let you go.”

  “Where—” she began; but Balthazar hushed her.

  “I was terribly, terribly sorry to lose you to Berkeley,” he said, his voice so regretful that she glanced at him hopefully, half-expecting to see tears in his eyes. There were none, but the look he gave her was immeasurably sad. “And now this—losing you twice… Oh, Magda—”

  They stopped, halfway up the stairs. Francis stared pointedly into the darkness and glowered. But Balthazar gazed at Magda, his handsome features disarmingly youthful as ever. To her amazement she saw that now his eyes were brilliant with tears. She could feel his hand trembling even as he held her unyieldingly. For a moment she thought he was going to stand on tiptoe to kiss her. Instead he turned away.

  “This is a great disappointment,” he said, and pulled her after him.

  “Please, Balthazar, can’t you tell me—”

  Her words broke off as she stumbled onto a landing. They stood at the entrance of another dim hallway. Seemingly endless ranks of closed doors lined each side of the corridor. There was a smell of stagnant water, the faintest whiff of gasoline.

  “A safe place,” Balthazar said softly. “No people to bother you—”

  “Balthazar, listen to me—”

  “—no people at all—”

  “Balthazar, please!”

  No one heard as they dragged her into the silent passage.

  The string quartet had packed their instruments and were lined up at the bar, ordering shots of tequila. A tape of the opening strains of Carmina Burana wafted above the dying smoke and laughter. At my feet a little army of empty glasses glinted, as I finished another vodka tonic. I was already totally wasted, but I had some stupid idea that the more messed up I got, the safer I would be here.

  “They always play this as a sign-off,” Baby Joe said in disgust. “It’s like the fucking national anthem at midnight.” He shifted against the wall, pointed with his drink. “Uh-oh. Here comes Barbie.”

  I looked up to see Angelica.

  “The weirdest thing just happened to me.” She raised an eyebrow at the rows of empty glasses and the cigarette in my hand. “Have you seen Oliver? Sweeney…?”

  “Angelica.” I grabbed Baby Joe’s arm. “This is Baby Joe—remember, you said you’d met him—”

  Angelica flashed him a distracted smile. “Sure. Hi. Look, Sweeney, this is very strange—do you know who Magda Kurtz is?”

  “Uh-uh. No, wait—” I looked at Baby Joe. “Wasn’t that who you were telling me about?”

  “Visiting Marcellien Professor in European Studies.” Baby Joe regarded Angelica through slitted eyes. He looked like Peter Lorre sizing up a little girl for the kill. “Saw you talking to her.”

  “Well, look—she gave me this—”

  I leaned forward to see what she pointed at: a crescent-shaped silver necklace, like a Celtic torque.

  “Wow. It looks expensive. She gave it to you?”

  Angelica nodded earnestly. “Isn’t that weird?”

  “Beware of geeks bearing gifts.” Angelica looked annoyed as Baby Joe pointed across the room. “There’s one now. Your friend Oliver.”

  Angelica whirled. I made a show of casualness and turned slowly, taking another drag on my cigarette. When I saw him I started coughing uncontrollably. Baby Joe snickered.

  “Maybe he heard the calla lilies are in bloom. Talagang sirang ulo.”

  In the middle of the room Oliver stood gazing at the dome as if he were reading something there, his horoscope maybe, or the name of a good psychiatrist. A few feet away two middle-aged couples were trying very hard to ignore him. He was wearing makeup—at least what was left of it, most seemed to have come off on some kind of sheet wrapped around his neck. What remained was a red hole of a mouth and two bruised eyes, and of course all that disheveled hair and a flowered Marimekko sheet. He looked like the survivor of some terrible crash on a fashion runway, beautiful and wrecked.

  Angelica stared at him transfixed. When I finally stopped coughing I wheezed, “He’s got to be totally wasted—he told me he was getting some mushrooms—”

  “Mushrooms?” Baby Joe perked up. “Maybe I’ll go see how he’s doing.”

  He rambled off, trailed by a grey cloud of ash. I started to follow when Angelica grabbed my arm.

  “Come with me?” she pleaded, glancing back at Oliver. “I wanted to find the ladies’ room—I feel so grubby, all this smoke—”

  I nodded reluctantly. When I looked back I saw Baby Joe standing a few feet from Oliver, smoking and staring at him pensively, as though he were on display in a museum. Oliver didn’t seem to know he was there.

  We went to the bar. I shouted “Ladies’ room?” and the bartender yelled something about Doors, Right, Upstairs, gesturing vaguely with one hand as he poured scotch with the other.

  “I think he said this way,” I said. We elbowed through an uproarious claque of young men who parted like the Red Sea when they saw Angelica. A minute later we walked through an open doorway and out of the reception area.

  “God. This is an improvement. At least we can breathe.” Angelica started to laugh. “Did you see Oliver? He must be wasted.”

  I grinned, reached over to finger her necklace. It was cool to the touch and surprisingly heavy. “She really gave that to you, huh? Wow.”

  Angelica sighed. “Probably I should give it back. Maybe she was drunk or something.”

  “Maybe she meant to give it to Oliver.”

  “Maybe I’ll give it to him.”

  I leaned in to get a better look, and noticed where a crescent shape had been cut out of the metal. “You know, it looks like part of it’s missing—” I poked my finger through and tapped her breastbone. “—see? Here.”

  “Maybe that’s why she got rid of it. Damaged goods.”

  I drew back and let the pendant fall from my hand. “Yeah, maybe. Let’s go. I want to get back and find out what’s happening with Oliver.”

  We padded down the narrow corridor. After a minute or two the hall branched. To the right stretched an even darker, narrower passage; to the left stairs curving up and up through several floors.

  I frowned. “He must have meant this way,” I said, and turned to the right. We walked for a few minutes but saw nothing—no doors, no windows, not even a painting on the dim walls—until finally we found ourselves in an empty utilitarian kitchen thick with the smells of steam and stale cooking.

  “This can’t be right.” Angelica wrinkled her nose. “This is like, the servants’ quarters or something.”

  “So maybe we’re supposed to use the servants’ bathroom.”

  She shook her head. “No. It must have been back there.”

  We retraced our steps until once again we stood at the foot of the broad staircase. Angelica started up, but I remained at the bottom, my hand clutching the banister.

  Above me the stairway twisted into darkness, ominous and silent. I shuddered. From the hall behind me came a sudden gust of laughter from the reception. I had only to turn back, walk a few steps, and I would be safe again. I could get another vodka tonic, find Baby Joe, and Oliver…

  “Sweeney? You coming?”

  I looked up and saw Angelica’s face suspended between the banister’s curves, the silver pendant at her throat glistening. She looked li
ke the figure I had seen earlier: those terrible eyes floating above me, hair streaming into the night while all about her whirled into chaos. The woman in the moon.

  “Sweeney?” Her exasperated voice floated down. “Come on. They’ll all still be there when we get back.”

  “Okay,” I said, defeated. “I’m coming.” Moments later I stood beside her on the landing.

  “What’s the matter, Sweeney? You look awful.” She ran her hand across my cheek. “Sweeney! You’re burning up!”

  Her fragrance clung to my skin, the faint musk of sandalwood and oranges like rain washing over me. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, until that other, sickening odor was gone.

  “I’m okay. I guess I drank too much.”

  Angelica smiled wryly. “I guess so. Well, I’ve got some aspirin in my bag. Let’s find some water.”

  She took my hand—firmly but companionably, like a determined English schoolgirl—and led me down the hall. After a few minutes I felt better.

  “Well, this sure isn’t the servants’ quarters,” I said.

  It was like being inside a landscape by Moreau. Against a shadowy black background all was painted or upholstered in dark jeweled colors, bloodred and purple and blue, shot with gold like spasms of daylight. A subdued ruddy light suffused everything, burnishing the oak wainscoting and worn oriental carpets that muffled our footsteps.

  “Who the hell lives here? The second Mrs. de Winter?”

  “No,” Angelica replied absently. “This is where visiting Benandanti stay.”

  On the walls there were ornate brass fixtures shaped like griffins and gargoyles and beautiful women, and on the heavy closed doors brass plates engraved with simple legends—The Red Room, The Luxor Room, The Tuscan Room. Everything had the air of being made ready for guests, but at the same time it all smelled musty and closed-in, as though there had been no visitors here for months, maybe years.

 

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