“That’s all? And what does that mean? Plain craziness, if you ask me.”
The Heart Bearer leaned toward him. “Every day is crazy. What can you do about it? Nothing. The Hearts must not be sacrificed because we get down on our lot.”
Martin couldn’t tell if he disliked Enrique now, or just had no room in his heart for anything else. Absently he toyed with his puka shell necklace in an attempt to forget the Hearts. The cool ridges of the shells calmed him sometimes. Not now. They were rough. They were wrong. He suddenly stood from his chair, thinking it would help. The world didn’t agree. He couldn’t pretend any longer. He needed the Hearts.
“Oh, sit down,” said Teresa.
Martin dampened the urge to wail and pull his eyes out. The kitchen and dining room were still alive, the refrigerator still singing, but he was learning how to live with the racket.
“I know you are tired.” Enrique looked him up and down. Martin pictured him as a little boy, not because of his shortness, but of the clean clarity in his eyes. Innocence lived there. “But I cannot protect them the way you two can.”
Martin laughed silently for a moment and they stared at him. Finally, he straightened. “You can’t protect them, so what good are you people anyway?”
Teresa shot him a nasty look.
Enrique entwined his hair-cuffed hands. A few moments passed. Nobody human said anything but the refrigerator wanted to embark on an adventure.
At last Enrique said, “You will be more at ease when we go down to meet them.”
“Down?” asked Martin.
“The basement. They’re waiting for us.”
“I don’t hear them.”
Enrique’s smile looked like that of the mackerels on his boxer shorts. “The Hearts are resting.”
Teresa wobbled as she got to her feet. Martin thought about helping her but decided he was still angry at her reprimand.
They followed Enrique down a bare hallway to a sepia door. He flipped a light switch. The stairwell flickered several times. Underfoot, the wooden stairs belted out an ode. With every step the words became more incomprehensible. Martin’s hands moistened as he gripped the rotting banister. Teresa descended behind him and her footsteps added a chorus section.
How long?
Soon.
Where?
You should know.
I don’t. Where?
Where? Ha! Where and where and there and here; love lives, love dies, who knows, can we, into the where, there and here, there to hear fear; dying to die, living to lie, now we’re inside, wiggles in, wiggles sin, to fear and mirror and tear and here.
Andwhere? Waiting. Andthere? So atrocious. Andlovelives? Never. Anddieloves?
Ever. Livesdies? Fret. Wholivesdies? They? No. Onelivesdies? Theyareone.
Fourareone. They-are-the-way-way-the-are-they. LOVE LIVES. Thehearts.
Thehearts. Thearts. Who?
Love lives within.
Not long. So soon.
~ * ~
Enrique swung a newspaper back and forth. The image was a little disturbing at first and Teresa flinched. The Bearer only smiled and tossed the paper away. “I had a feeling you both needed more... decompression time.”
Martin was at her side, his arm pillowing his head against the bottom of the stairs. Out cold.
“It’s a good thing you guys did not faint at the top. I do not think I could have guided you to the ground the same way.” Enrique shook his head.
Teresa poked Martin in the ribs. His eyes flew open wide, hand going for his handgun. She grabbed his hand and didn’t let go until relief poured over him. He looked around suspiciously. “The stairs were talking.”
Teresa snorted. “Really?” she said, “and what did they say?”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Yes we are,” Enrique slapped his thigh. When Martin glared at him, he said, “Please come this way. The Jordons are waiting to meet you.”
The basement buzzed with fluorescent light. The room itself was a shallow brick box. They were all weary bricks down here; the grout had struggled for years to hold an illusion of support and now there was no illusion left to give. Cracks, spider holes, running fissure tangents leaking from corroded pipes. The light painted contours in the gray stones.
Teresa wondered what would happen when the Hearts left this place—would the bricks give in and collapse? She could feel the stinging heat from the light fixtures above and yet she was drowning in icy shock. She had seen many Hearts on the road, and in many shapes; the Hearts came in all varieties: moms, dads, grandfathers and mothers. Some were lovely, other lunatics, and some were teenagers. As Nomads they had no say. They just had to protect them no matter what. She and Martin loved them every year, without a choice in the matter, and at least for the short time they knew them, through and through.
So why’s this so hard to accept? she thought.
Martin stretched his neck at the twisting pink forms in their basinets, his jaw hanging. “What in the hell?”
“Wait a minute,” Teresa reproached.
“You feel them, do you not? They’re stronger than the others.” A proud smile spread on Enrique’s face. “The blood fruit grows within all four.”
Martin pointed at the babies, apparently too in the moment to voice any concern.
“I don’t understand,” stammered Teresa. “They can’t all have it?”
“They are quadruplets. As potent as Tony Nguyen was, last year’s fruit was only a glimmer on the sun. They are enough to blow the gateway wide open many times over.”
Martin stepped toward the basinets, overcautious.
“Babies? We don’t know how to take care of them,” said Teresa.
“Never changed one diaper, not one,” Martin said to himself, sounding slightly crazed.
“They are marvelous babies. You will easily learn.”
They studied the Jordons for a moment. The four didn’t look vastly different from one another. All had that soft, reddened look of new life. All had thin downy pates, too frail for full color. They indeed looked to be healthy babies. Teresa tried not to make eye contact; it would be difficult to concentrate on anything but them if she did. Martin averted his eyes as well. He would probably act out against it, try and cheat the obvious—that was Martin, the silent revolutionary.
“As you might have guessed, I have not been a Bearer for long. You might say that I have had an intense cultivation period, very short, but challenging. This is an uncommon situation, without doubt. Nguyen’s Bearer worked with him all the way into his college years—I’ve only had four months with the Jordons.”
Martin grasped the back of his head to keep from pitching backward. Here came that acting out part. “Wait, wait. Nah, I’ve got issues with this. What happens on the Day of Opening? Carry a baby in each arm like grocery bags? With the whole church coming down on our heads? This is fucked, really, Enrique. Who made this shit up? We’ve never had babies before. There’s too many. We’re only two people.”
“Knock it off,” Teresa told him. “A Heart is a Heart.”
“Oh please,” replied Martin. “At this age these kids have the brains of a jellyfish.”
“You could only be so lucky—”
“I have papooses for twins,” Enrique interjected. “They are quite comfortable and secure for running. I’ll be bringing them along when I drop the Hearts off.”
The Nomads turned together like mirror images. “We’re not taking them right now?” asked Teresa, “Why wouldn’t we? We can be out of California before nightfall.”
“Things are different now. You are being watched. The Messenger has sheltered you from the Church, but only here. And he cannot keep the entire city of Colton covered forever. Away from the motel, the sky coverage will fluctuate.”
“Outrunning the Church is smarter than hanging around.”
“They will go after you. Cloth knows the importance of the Hearts this year. He’ll make sure his mortals follow you. There can be no adj
ustments,” said Enrique. “The Messenger was unambiguous in the directions. I will deliver the children around six o’clock PM the night prior to the Day of Opening. Take enough supplies up and stay in your room until I arrive. I put a duffel bag in the Wrangler out front. I’ll contact you at the motel if the plan changes.”
“We can’t keep the babies with us?” asked Martin.
“They’re watching you, not me. Do you understand?”
One of the babies whimpered and cocked its head to the right. Teresa examined the miraculous foursome. So wrinkled, so easily in distress, so terribly young. Her affection forced itself inside and warmed her blood.
Martin deflated completely. He’d been through too much now to ask a lot of questions, and as always, he knew that he had no say in what happened as far as Halloween went. “Once you bring them to our room, what then?”
“What has it always been?” Enrique watched them, a somber oil painting. “You run like the devil. From the devil.”
TWENTY-FIVE
The Priestess of Morning watched the goldfish a while longer. A tiny man in an archaic diver suit squatted behind a treasure chest that opened and shut with the aquarium’s pump. One fish darted away from the school and went to hide behind a waving mess of plastic seaweed. The Priestess did not move her eyes off this one and brought up her double Bloody Mary. Vodka and tomatoes. They were her favorite discoveries in this world, aside from the tractable males. In her birthplace, men would have spit on easy manipulation, thought it tactless and insulting. She learned their game there long ago. They could be bought through the gift of sacrifice, through power. In this world she took what she wanted and men gave themselves to her will, as though her attention was prize enough. So silly. She wagered men were idiots in both places, though on completely different grounds for idiocy. But they kept her spirits up.
Speaking of spirits, she thought, and picked up the half empty bottle of vodka. The Mary had become a trifle thin on the bite. A Bloody Mabel perchance? She took out the celery stalk and dropped it into the aquarium. Goldfish scattered like orange shrapnel. The outsider fish remained hidden in the plastic weeds. The Priestess’s reflection shook with disgust. Like a Nomad... They could hide from her sight and have their delusions of safety, but she would find them again. She’d see through the rain. It could flood the streets of this dirty land and create rivers and lakes and seas—back home, this pompous hotel would be sitting at the bottom of their largest ocean, Olathu. The krill were so thick it made the water soft and red like...
She tipped back another healthy swallow.
Ringing. The annoying chirp came from the Bishop’s slacks on the divan. She shuffled across the bitterly cold tile floor. She retrieved the slim phone from a pocket containing a small stone, whatever that was for...
“Hello?” She hadn’t lost interest in telephones yet. An act of power without sacrifice was magnificent magic. Or perhaps she hadn’t learned what sacrifices in this world actually were.
The man on the other end sounded nonplussed, and inebriated. “Bishop Quintana?”
“He stepped out for some air.”
She went to the sliding glass door. Her face reflected. It looked starker than it had in the aquarium, but there were no bruises, no cuts. Maybe a slight swelling of her lower lip. Amazing. Paul’s strikes had felt like they caused permanent damage. He thought himself so powerful. Now the blonde man huddled next to a few potted lilies. Crouching there, he looked like a newborn ape, body bald and goose-dimpled. What a great hind end he had—skin wasn’t too pasty or browned either. His staff wasn’t too small, or big, or warped. She would share more bedtime with him, without doubt. The urge for children with him drove her mad.
As soon as she slid open the door, Paul bolted upright. His face was flushed from anger and agony and his blonde hair had parted down the center in the downpour.
“Priestess,” he squeaked, shivering, “it’s not raining that hard anymore.”
It wasn’t. Just misting. The clouds were clearing as well. Soon. She offered the phone. “We’ll take a warm shower together.”
Paul Quintana followed inside. He stood there, staring at her with boyish fear and hatred. She smiled and ran her fingertips over his cold lips. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
He pressed the phone to his ear and tried to sound controlled. “Yeah?”
She went to the aquarium again and remembered her drink. It was weaker than she liked. She wasn’t much for making drinks or cooking; she always underdid the spirits, always enjoyed burning food rather than making it taste divine. The half-finished drinks and blackened chicken eggs in the kitchen were proof of that.
“Never better.” Paul nodded a couple of times. It was odd to see him fall into formality when he stood there so cold and shriveled. “No, no. Set them up with a room. Yeah... I know, yeah... okay. Yes, call me tonight. Don’t forget.” He pursed his chalky blue lips. “You remember? Yeah? Good. Little insurance never spoiled the race. Okay. Good, good.” The phone snapped shut and he tossed it on his slacks. His reddened eyes dragged over to her. “About that shower?”
The Priestess poured the rest of her Bloody Mary into the aquarium and the red spread through the watery atmosphere like a quick toxin. Now she had a small Olathu ocean of her own. Home, she savored. Paul watched her do this, but not with much surprise. He now saw beyond the ceremonial orange dresses and titles. That was nice. Paul was different than the others. From both sides.
She took his large hand and pulled him toward the bathroom. Her entire body cried out to live and die at the same time. By the time they got into the bathroom, Paul’s body had outgrown the night on the balcony, and he was ready for use.
~ * ~
“Stop!”
Paul smelled blood. It may have started from biting his lip or the side of his tongue. Hell, he thought, it might have been from the children’s voices sawing back and forth through my fucking cerebral cortex. It could have been a lot of things. The marrow seeds were exploding in his veins like microscopic kernels. Every flower produced more seeds and implantation, and therefore less balance in the dark and light garden. It hurt his chest. The pressure. The love. This needed to end. This needed to begin. Couldn’t go on any longer. Can’t stop the endless hunger.
Cloth’s children claimed the lonesome space behind his eyes. Thanksgiving!
“Stop!”
Paul smelled blood again. Blood matted his public hair. “Shit,” he cried and began to pull out.
The Priestess swiveled around. “What are you doing?”
“You said to stop... twice!”
“My insolence, my weakness, my shame—don’t you ever stop!” She forced his hand between her legs. “Don’t ever STOP!”
“But you’re blee—”
Her dark look made his mind up for him. Once she came, he tried to reach his own peak again, but found he’d reached too many. Besides orgasmic exhaustion, the chill from a night on the balcony had come back into his bones and there was a rash up his ass.
“You’re cold?” the Priestess asked flatly.
“Getting there.”
“Eggert built a fire in the sitting room.” She offered a delicate hand to him like a sophisticate. He pulled her up with him off the bathroom floor.
The thrill of heat caught him. The fire wasn’t exactly roaring, but it was enough to warm his bones. He watched the firelight play on her perfect skin. The shutter to the Old Domain was open. So open. Despite the keening of the children and his promise to Cole Szerszen, right then nothing mattered besides his Priestess. He was already too wrapped up though. Have to watch myself or I’m gonna be her next automaton.
“I can’t keep you all day,” she said. “I’m sure you have your duties.”
“No,” he said, more loudly than intended. Great job playing the game, idiot. “I don’t want to leave.”
“And I don’t want you to go—but the Hunt is closer. That means the Heralding is at our feet.”
“I find it di
fficult to care,” he said.
“What?”
“I’ve never known anybody like you.”
The Priestess raised a soft, bladed eyebrow. “But I care, of course. Bishop Szerszen said Chaplain Cloth needs his soldiers. The Heart will be consumed and the path will clear, for all time. Then I can show you my world.”
“You already have.”
She took a poker down from the rack and stuck it into the fireplace. A golden train of hair cascaded off her shoulder down to a russet nipple. After a couple of jabs under some blistering, glowing logs, she seemed to grow bored and left it there. A loud crack rent a log in two and Paul jumped. “I might have been rasher with myself,” she said, “had I not met you. I don’t like failing myself, you see, but failing others I find more deplorable. A great man gave up his first wife to foresee the Nomads’ location. I thought once I had them in my sight, they’d lead us straight to the Heart and our troubles would be gone. Such foolish dreaming. I should have known better.” She gazed out the window and Paul could almost see the raindrop reflections falling down her face, backlit by the fire.
He said, cautiously, “This man who foresaw the Nomads—you mean the Archbishop of Morning?”
She didn’t meet his eyes.
“What kind of a man is he?” he asked.
“He likes his playthings,” she said. “We had that in common for a time, until he saddled me as church concubine. A Priestess should never be controlled in such a doggish manner, but it didn’t surprise me, not with Archbishop Kennen. He does things the way it fits his vision and none else. He will choose to lead the unified Church on his own when the time comes. He and Sandeus will be at odds. Wait and see. I can’t imagine Kennen taking second to anyone. He’s given everything for the chance.”
Paul extended his palms toward the fire. “Cole and this guy won’t be the best of buddies either.”
“Perhaps not.” She went back to ramming the fire some more.
“Enough with this talk of power games. We’re bigger than that. Don’t you think? Tell me something you want,” he said. “Anything. I want to give you something special.”
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