The Mark of Chaos

by Susan D. Kalior

  johnny returned at sunrise. He pulled me in the shower and made wet splashy love to me there. He pulled me into a closet and made love to me again amongst my bounty of light colored clothes. The only black dress I had, the one Randa had given me, fell on us during that ‘critical’ moment. johnny took me in the backyard and made love to me under an apple tree. I got very muddy and we laughed. We’d never laughed together before. johnny said—after, “I’ve acquired a new emotion.”

  I didn’t jog that day. I just melded to johnny’s romantic wishes like a hunk of putty.

  The next day went the same. The night as all other nights. Me in my canopy bed, thinking of my prince prowling under midnight stars. My prince. Hmm. Somehow I don’t think this is what my mother had in mind.

  On the sixth morning johnny kissed me awake. His fresh face loomed over me, dark hair, neat and straight and shiny. His button-down silk shirt of royal blue looked like shimmering waters, midnight sky, kind of pretty. He said, with clove-scented breath, “This day, I will teach you a spell to ward off invaders. It will be a way you can protect yourself without my help. Do you want to learn?”

  I nodded apprehensively. Saying no would be pointless. He’d teach me anyway.

  “Get dressed.” He walked to the door. His black leather pants were sleek, leaping panther, licorice stick kind of pretty. He turned and faced me. “Meet me in the kitchen.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  He slipped around the corner.

  Warding off invaders was appealing, but by magic? It felt evil. Biblical morality still snatched me now and then, even though I knew it was finite in the face of undefined, unbound spirituality. But today, I couldn’t seem to shake it.

  I showered and dressed in the black jeans, ebony scoop-necked cashmere sweater, and black pumps that Randa had bought me. I didn’t like wearing black. But for some reason, this morning I had the urge. Randa always said that black was mystery, not evil. I wanted to think that way. I wanted to free myself from myself, but it was just too hard.

  I put on my mother’s black diamond pierced earrings. I draped a thin, black silky scarf over my head, behind my ears, and tied it underneath my hair. I gazed into the mirror. I felt like Samantha on Bewitched. There were good witches, right? Just because I was johnny’s girl, and he was going to teach me magic, and I complied, didn’t mean I was evil, right? Right? Oh, who was I kidding? In my Biblical mind, which ever seemed to linger, I was sinning, plain and simple.

  I met johnny in the kitchen. He was sitting at the white oak table waving his hands over a bowl of powder, chanting in Latin.

  He looked up at me. “I need a jar.”

  I walked over to the cabinet and retrieved a cleaned out peanut butter jar. I set it beside the bowl.

  “And a knife,” he said.

  I went to the kitchen drawer and slid it open, surveying my knife selection, avoiding the sharp ones. His request frightened me. I withdrew a butter knife with a pretty swirl pattern on the handle, and set it down by the jar.

  He glanced up at me with a condescending expression.

  “It’s pretty.”

  His condescending look remained. “Pretty dull.”

  I returned to the drawer and retrieved a sharp paring knife, wincing. “Why are you not manifesting these things?”

  “You call that—stealing.”

  “Oh . . . well, you usually don’t care what I think.” I placed the knife on the table and snapped my hand to my heart thinking of what that knife could do.

  He said, “You need to actively participate.”

  His words tasted bad and my face showed it.

  “Your hand?” he asked dryly.

  “My hand? What do you want my hand for?”

  His lids lowered. He knew, I knew, what he wanted my hand for.

  “I don’t want you to cut me, johnny.”

  “When I do . . . see intruders. Think, Retreat. Do not look back. Do not come back.”

  “Physical maiming disturbs me. Isn’t there something else we can do?”

  “This is how it is done.”

  “But johnny, this seems ev—”

  “Evil? I’m giving you a method to protect yourself. I want you to see how well this spell works when Ricky returns tonight with three priests.”

  “Tonight! Priests!” I didn’t feel bright and cheery like Samantha. I felt more like Endora—and she always scared me. “I want to change my clothes.”

  “You think wearing white will cleanse you of this terrible sin?”

  My chin touched my shoulder, away from johnny. “I’m afraid to be evil.”

  “Self-defense isn’t evil. We won’t harm them. We’ll just make them go away. Your hand?”

  I stretched my trembling hand toward him, chin still on my shoulder.

  He secured my fingers tightly and slashed the veins above my knuckles. I jerked. It hurt like you know what—more than I could ever imagine.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but a little pain now will prevent massive pain later.”

  He milked the blood from my hand into the jar. I did not watch. I stared at his face instead. He enjoyed doing this, and it was not just in his face. The pleasure was in the way he gripped my hand, the way he milked my blood, like a farmhand who by rote milks a cow. Milking blood and maiming flesh were just routine to him. He loved violence.

  My stomach soured, and I suddenly had to throw up.

  He said, “Concentrate on putting the command in the blood.”

  “I feel sick, johnny.”

  “Do it.”

  I closed my eyes and did as he asked, hell bound for sure.

  He released my hand. “Earth is heaven and hell. Mostly hell at this point because—” He stopped short, but my mind finished with an imaginary answer because no Shen can subdue me.

  I didn’t like that answer even if I did make it up. If Shens were supposedly so powerful that they could destroy a Tazmark, and he couldn’t be destroyed, then just how powerful was he? I calmed myself with a little reminder that he was a Tazmark, not Satan, or so I hoped. He was just a creature of a different color so to speak, but a creature nonetheless. Wolves and sharks are dangerous too, and we have been known to protect them.

  He guided my other hand above my wound. “Summon your light from your quintessential being and shine it on your wound. Think, heal.”

  I obeyed him, more because he asked, rather than meriting the belief that I could actually heal my hand.

  “Believe it, Jen. Believe you can heal the wound.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “You have this power. I’ve seen Shens use it.”

  “I’ll try.” I closed my eyes with a sigh, releasing resistance. The moment I said that and gave myself to it, I was sucked into the inner world of me as vast as the universe. Strange that these powerful moments ever involved me going ‘within’ not without.

  From deep inside, a slit of light shone bright down the length of a white wall. The wall opened like a door. Light poured out, sweeping me back to my surface self. This light condensed and poured through my hovering hand into my wound. Burning heat. Then, icy cold. I could feel movement above my knuckles, a million worms wriggling in the soil kind of movement. The inside of my hand felt electrically charged. And then it all stopped, just as the pain disappeared.

  I opened my eyes. The skin on my hand was smooth and uncut. My mouth fell open. I could hardly close my gaping jaw to speak. “You did that. You healed me.”

  “No, Jen. I did not. I cannot redo what has been undone. That is your jurisdiction. I can only undo what needs undoing. That jurisdiction is mine.”

  “But . . . but—”

  “You felt this energy come through you, did you not?”

  I nodded.

  “Well?”

  “But how could you know the method of it?”

  “I have known Shens.”

  Maybe I was an Angel. Was this not proof?

  “You see,” he said, “I know you question my intent co
nstantly, but I really do want the best for you. And despite what you think, I am best for you.”

  My eyes got teary. Maybe he did love me. Maybe.

  “Come.” He held the jar of blood in one hand and the bowl of powder in the other. I followed him out into the yard. We walked the circumference of my snowy land, depositing little piles of powder, and placing a drop of blood on each while chanting, “Oblivisci, venia, hominem.”

  When we were finished, I asked him what the chant meant.

  He said, “Forget, forgive, abandon.”

  “What will happen to them?”

  “They will feel drained of energy, very sleepy.”

  “This feels . . . ev—”

  “It isn’t.”

  “The other day when you did this, did you drip your blood on the powder?”

  “Yes,” he answered, “that is why what’s his name was forced to wait in the woods instead of coming to your home.”

  “Did you chant the same words?”

  “Similar.”

  “What did you chant?”

  “Never mind.” He placed the jar in the empty bowl, took my hand, and led me back toward the house.

  “Where is your wound from doing this ritual?”

  “I regenerate, unless I’m supernaturally injured.”

  “The marks I gave you, you still have them?”

  He nodded.

  “Is there any way I can heal you without hurting you more?”

  “Yes—but differently than the way you healed yourself. But I don’t want you to heal those scars. They bind me to you. Your fingerprints are etched into my skin as if you had claimed me. I still want you to claim me, more than you have.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “I know,” he said.

  We reached the door and went inside. He placed the empty blood stained jar on the kitchen table. Then he walked over to the hearth and artistically arranged the wood. He looked so medieval in his blue silk and leather. The fire lit without being lit. I always felt helpless when johnny used his mind to move or manifest, and it was easier to see the man of him when he did not.

  He gazed into the crackling fire. Fire was his sacrament, his namesake, and his momentum. Then he mind-lit the wick of a fat white candle on the mantle above my fireplace. Suddenly, next to the candle, there appeared a small vial of white powder. Then next to the small vial, appeared a large jar, also filled with the powder.

  johnny said, “When they arrive, the powder in the vile will turn black. The powder in the jar is for you to use on future occasions.”

  “What is this powder anyway?”

  “The powder itself would not do this. It’s the blood and the command steeped into it that brings out the powder’s magic.”

  “Still—what is the powder?”

  “Lysergic acid diethylamide.”

  “What?”

  “LSD.”

  My eyes burst open. “You brought LSD into my home? I could get arrested for that! If the police—” I felt foolish instantly. And the playful twinkle in his eyes added to my embarrassment.

  He brushed a hair strand off my face and then traced his finger over my lips as if over the curve of his own faint smile. “What a child you are.”

  He captured my hands gently and guided me to lie down with him on the oval, pastel braided fire rug near the hearth. He was on his back, hair fanning about his shoulders. I snuggled close to him on my side in his arms. My ear was pressed on soft silk over his heart. Hearing it beat, comforted me. The beating slowed as he fell into his corpse-like sleep.

  I lifted my head, propping myself up on one elbow. I glanced at the hearth. Crackling logs blackened in the flames, like me, shriveling away in johnny’s hypnotic fire. I gazed upon him, examining the symmetrical contours of his face. I gulped in a cry of admiration that dampened my eyes. I wanted to breathe him into my soul—my man of fire, cloaked in his cavern dark mysticism.

  I drank him in, reveling in the short time we would have together, for we were surely doomed. I could never accept his Dragon nature—never. I lay my head on his chest. Silent tears fell across the bridge of my nose, soaking into his shirt. After a long sad while, I dozed, feeling all broken inside.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw the dim light of the red embers in the hearth, and glanced up at the candle yet burning on the mantle. johnny rolled me carefully off his chest and started to rise. He was now wearing a black tee shirt. When did that happen? He probably wore black to camouflage him in the night. I grabbed the back of his shirt, but he didn’t stop. The cloth slipped out of my fingers, snapping his back. He was heading for the door. I jumped to my feet and raced to the light switch next to the mantle. I flipped it, illuminating the room.

  “Don’t slide away from me like this, without saying goodbye.”

  He stopped, but he didn’t turn around. “It’s best.”

  “Must you go this night? Can’t you stay with me, once?”

  “It’s too risky. These urges are hard to control—sometimes impossible.”

  “I’ll take the chance.”

  “I won’t.”

  “But you can’t leave me here if Ricky is to come.”

  “The spell will work. You won’t need me.”

  I knew begging him to stay with me at night was futile, but the words came anyway. “Please don’t go. Please!”

  He turned around slowly with the shine of hesitance in his warm eyes. “I wish I could change for you—but I am the beast. It’s in my blood. Slaying rejuvenates me more than the eating.”

  My hands flew over my face.

  In an instant, he was before me. He drew my hands down and pulled me into his arms. “You must accept my nature, Jen. You must.” He rubbed my back warmly. My tears soaked into his shirt once more.

  He parted us gently and turned away. I watched him go to the door, suave and lean in black jeans and shirt, hair neat down his back. He looked so—human. I wanted to fly across the room, embrace him tight, and never let go. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. He exited my house, closing the door magically behind him.

  I stood in the same spot for endless minutes, staring at the door, feet aching, head aching, heart aching. I yearned to pretend that his nightly ritual didn’t exist, that he never killed, and that the terror of him was just a nightmare. Yet, equaling the terror, were moments of splendor, unrivaled by nothing.

  He’d taught me much—how to heal, how to begin protecting myself, and how to make love without guilt or resentment. He had freed me in many ways, forcing me beyond my sorrows and past my fears by hard lessons that brought me into resounding resolution time and time again. And ironically, he, demon of darkness, had taught me about love itself, for with no one else had I felt it so completely.

  He fulfilled me. How could he be a killer? A beast? How could I be cursed to love one such as he? I’d been liberated from my own dark oppression by a murderer! Only a mentally ill person would have formed such an alliance. I was a sick, sick girl.

  I glanced at the vile of powder on the mantle—still white. Even as I cursed my desire for johnny, I wished he could be here, especially on this night. I was nervous about Ricky coming, even though johnny had said the spell would work. Maybe I shouldn’t want it to work. Maybe I did need Ricky to save me.

  That thought disturbed me. I got the jitters—bad. I paced around the living room biting my nails. I flipped on every light in the house. I showered and changed into a long white nightgown. Then I listened to classical music. Then I took another shower and again slipped on my long white nightgown. I read the Bible a little bit, feeling torn between Ricky’s views and johnny’s. I wished I had my own. I showered again and dressed in white lycra exercise pants and a long white sweater that came to my thighs. I jogged up and down the stairs until I was breathless.

  It was midnight. Ricky had to come soon. Why was he waiting so long? Did he want to come at a precise time so that he could perform an exorcism or something? Or maybe they knew johnny would be out prowling in the night.
My stomach gurgled as I toyed with an urge to talk with him. I didn’t understand the urge, and yet it gnawed at me so strongly, it became difficult to ignore. Besides, if Ricky was bringing holy men, how dangerous could he be? I mean this was no longer the Dark Ages when the clergy burned witches.

  I realized then that it wasn’t Ricky I wanted to talk to, but the priests. I wanted to ask them if they’d ever heard of a Tazmark, and if so, to inform me. That’s all. I didn’t want them to interfere. I just wanted information from a source other than johnny. But johnny would probably discover this. He’d hate me. He might even punish me somehow, or worse; he might punish Ricky and the priests. Even now, I had to block my thoughts from him.

  Television. Maybe I could distract myself.

  I sat down on the sofa, picked up the remote on the coffee table, and clicked it on. The news. “In Spruce, four people from separate households have gone missing after having been attacked in their homes. Household members in all cases heard but did not see the intruder. There is no physical evidence of a struggle in the home. Police have no leads. Alleged victims all have criminal records for drug trafficking.”

  I clicked off the television. My lover committed nightly murders. My lover . . . committed . . . nightly m u r d e r s. It was wrong, wasn’t it? It had to be wrong. I glanced at the burning candle. The vile of white powder had turned black. I gasped. Ricky was out there! Should I let him leave? If he could help me, I wouldn’t have to take him back as my boyfriend or anything. Or would I? Would I owe him? Whatever. I needed to talk to someone. Maybe I could go out there and find them. I could make the decision to talk or not talk later.

  I changed back into my black outfit, slipped on matching boots, and a thick black button down sweater. I wrapped a black woolen scarf around my head. There. I matched the night. No one would see me. I envisioned myself in a square box of iron, so that you know who couldn’t see me either. I hoped not anyway. If I could heal magically, maybe I could hide magically too.

  I went out into the icy air without a flashlight or my confidence. I reinforced my image of the iron box so that johnny wouldn’t read my intentions. My boots made a crunching sound on the snow no matter how softly I walked, and it was just a bit too cold to remove them. I tiptoed between oak and pine trees out to the edge of my property in the direction of the main road. Though I was camouflaged in the night, I was also half-blind in the shadows cast by the quarter moon. At least there was no fog.