Goldenland Past Dark
Page 32
“Mirrorland. This place takes whatever you’re thinking of, reflects it right back to you—twice over, and in style. Hey, did you ever hear the one about the mind-reading midget who broke out of jail?”
“Small medium at large,” Webern murmured. He opened the second drawer. Two slide whistles, two collapsible top hats. A weather house that housed two little gold-haired men. The jokers from a deck of cards. He knelt to yank the third drawer loose—it always stuck—and one knob popped out and rolled across the room. Inside were mismatched socks. Webern started tossing things out over his head: swimming trunks and boxer shorts, ticket stubs and rolling papers, frogman flippers, Napoleons, album covers, toy trumpets.
“Hey, slow down there, compadre. Where’s the fire?”
The drawer was deeper than he’d ever imagined. Pairs and pairs of lederhosen were piled on top of each other. Webern kept throwing them behind him. Leather flopped against leather; their buckles hit the carpet with soft thunks. Finally, Webern felt his hand close around what he’d been looking for. There was only one of these. Webern opened the blue velvet box.
“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes,” said Wags. His voice was small.
Webern took Bo-Bo’s glass eye out and held it in his hand. He thought of how when Bo-Bo’s husband left her, she took it out and replaced it with a black patch—how she kept to her house after that, with her mutilated photographs and her dusty chairs, her schedules and routines and her silent piano: a world of her own making. He had been so comforted by her life when he was a child, the order she exerted over things, her unparalleled ability to snip out what pained her, what didn’t fit in the pattern of her days. She’d blamed the eye for drawing the man who’d hurt her; she’d taken it out to stop that from happening again. She’d learned that folks could let her down; she caught her own raccoons after that. She’d kept to herself. Then, on her deathbed, she had given this eye to him, with one caveat: Don’t keep it in a drawer. Yet here in Mirrorland, that was exactly where it was.
The eye had a power: the power to liberate a person, even a miserable one, from that lonely island of her own skull. Or his.
Webern pushed past Wags. He slammed the closet shut. A golden frame hung on the back of the door, where the mirror had been all throughout his childhood. Through it, Webern saw another room, dark and emptied out, reversed: his real bedroom back at home. Webern wound his arm back, the eye squeezed tight in his fist. Wags tried to grasp his shoulder.
“Bernie, pal, hey. You can’t do this.”
“Just watch me.”
“Listen, you don’t like this place? We can change it. That’s the whole point—it can be anything you want it to be. A stage, a tent, the bottom of the sea—just say the word, and we’re there.”
“I’m going back.”
“And leaving me here by my lonesome? Me—your best friend in the world, your sidekick, your amigo, your blood brother, your strong arm man? Jeez. I’m your buddy—Scout’s honour. And I’m the only one who ever really was.”
Webern looked at Wags: the pleading, eager expression, the pale skin, the wide-spaced eyes. The boy in the mirror is me. He shook his head.
“You’re nobody.”
Wags let his breath out in a slow whoosh. He tucked his thumbs in the straps of his lederhosen and rocked back on his heels.
“Quick to the draw there, pardner—and aimed right at the heart, too. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to hurt my feelings.” He stepped aside. “Okey doke. Be my guest: I can’t stop you now. But get one thing through your head first: I’m not nobody. I’m you, Bernie, whether you like it or not. And there’s no escaping that.” He pointed his hand like a gun; fired once. “See you in your dreams.”
Webern threw the eye into the mirror; there was a brilliant flash of silver light. Then everything went black.
Webern Bell woke up facedown outside in the field, arms and legs splayed, as if he’d just been thrown a great distance. He groaned and rolled over onto his back. Prairie grasses bobbed above his head, and cumulous clouds formed enormous shapes in the liquid sky: a dancing bear, a fish, a pillow. His palms were raw, and his head throbbed. He groped around in the dirt for his glasses. He finally found them in the pocket of his lederhosen.
As he pulled them out, he realized he already held something in his hand. He put on his glasses, sat up, and looked into it. It was Bo-Bo’s eye. The centre of the pupil was splintered; cracks exploded outward like the rays of a star. He put the eye into his pocket and struggled to his feet.
Webern felt woozy. He stood in the middle of a vast field of rippling weeds. When he touched his forehead, his fingers met a scummy patch of dirt and half-dried blood. Terrific—another injury to add to his collection. He turned around slowly. Some twenty feet away, a set of railroad tracks cut through the prairie, raised on a bed of chalky white rocks. Other than that, nothing stretched in all directions. A lonely black crow swooped down from the sky into the grasses; it reappeared a second later with a squirming field mouse in its beak. It occurred to Webern that he might be sick.
This was what it had all come to, then. After everything he’d lived through, after everything he’d seen, he’d jumped again. What a coward. He thought of how he’d lain there, dreaming, while Nepenthe packed her clothes to leave him; how he stayed hunched over his grubby clown notebooks while she danced around the room—a vortex of terrifying beauty, the only thing that mattered. He had pushed her away, just as he had pushed his mother away, just as he had abandoned Dr. Show. He had been paralyzed and helpless, he had been afraid, he had nursed his wounds. He had retreated into a world of make-believe, just like a stubborn, stupid child. He hadn’t understood what he had, all the luck and the chances he’d ultimately squandered.
Webern had seen himself as the boy followed by the black raincloud, the punchline to a joke, cursed by the universe and laughed at for it. But he had never been cursed. He had just been a fool. Now, here he was with nothing, in the middle of nowhere: exactly what he deserved. His sisters were wrong: he would never find salvation. He doubled over and puked into the weeds.
Webern stayed stooped for a long moment. The toes of his polished German shoes reflected the light. He wondered how long he would have to lie here in the field before the crows would come for him, too. The grasses parted, and Marzipan appeared in front of him, her black fur gold-dusted with pollen. Webern stared at her in disbelief. She held out a pail of water.
“Wow.” Webern straightened up. He took it from her and carefully set it down on the ground. “Thanks, Marzipan.” He knelt in front of it and drank a little, then splashed some on his newest wound. It stung. “There a—farmhouse or something around here?”
Marzipan put her hands on her hips. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Maybe she’d been looking forward to dumping the whole bucket on his head, and he’d disappointed her by waking up on his own.
He rubbed a little water on his hands. Dr. Show’s watch still hung loosely from one bruised wrist. It had started ticking again. Marzipan took her turn drinking from the pail. Then she looked up at him impatiently. It occurred to Webern that she’d gone to some trouble to revive him. She might not take too kindly to his plan to lay down and die where they stood.
“So . . . which way should we go?”
Webern looked around again. He squinted purposelessly into the blinding sky. Somewhere in the distance, he saw what looked like smoke—the kind of haze that humans make. He started walking toward it.
As he pushed through the crackling stalks, he thought of all the places in the world he could go: Venice Beach, Tijuana, Atlantic City, Coney Island. He’d once met a team of dancers from Thailand, who had performed with cowhide shadow puppets; he imagined himself, dimly, learning their ancient trade in a grove of towering bamboo. Or he could always go to Europe. Even without Dr. Show, he might find some gypsies there, aged and irritable from waiting
for him all these years.
He turned back. Marzipan was still standing in the same place, hands folded together. Her eyes shone amber brown in the sunlight.
“C’mere, Marzipan,” he called. Her rubbery mouth shaped an uncertain frown. He already knew he would go to San Francisco. He saw streets filled with wildflowers and naked women, tie-dyed banners strung up over the roads bearing words in a language too beautiful for him to understand. And Nepenthe—Eliza—swimming in the water beneath a gilded bridge.
He felt his heart beat faster. It was hopeless, of course. So what? A clown’s quests always were. He saw the humiliations that were coming—he would sleep in a box on the sidewalk and his shoes would be stolen, he would throw pebbles at the wrong window in her building and awaken the Hell’s Angels. He would go to the park to earn a few coins performing mime routines, get swept up in a demonstration, and end up tear-gassed by the police. He would get beat up, held up, pushed down, screwed over, tongue-tied, and heartbroken. He whistled. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
The chimp hesitated. Webern walked a few more steps. Behind him he heard leaves rustling, feet hitting the ground. Then, all at once, Marzipan jumped onto his hump. She held on tight, her furry arms wrapped around his chest for a piggyback ride. Webern bent under her weight, but he kept walking.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing and publishing a novel can be a long and difficult process, so I’ve been terrifically fortunate to have the support of so many phenomenal people in my life.
Working with ChiZine Publications has been a thrill; I’m honored to have my book share a shelf with their other marvelous titles. Thanks especially to my editor Samantha Mary Beiko, my publishers Brett Savory and Sandra Kasturi, and my agent Joy Tutela.
I hope I’ll never stop learning as a writer. But I was fortunate to have that education get off to an amazing start at Bennington College, under the instruction of wonderful authors like Lucy Grealy, Edward Hoagland, Christopher Miller, and especially the incomparable Rebecca T. Godwin, whose patient, thoughtful attention always went far beyond what my fledging work deserved. Later, studying at Columbia University also enlightened and inspired me; I was particularly lucky to find in Nicholas Christopher a professor who encouraged and nourished my love for the fantastic. And I’d like to thank all the incredible classmates who read the first pieces of this novel in the Columbia MFA program workshops, especially Olena Jennings, Daniel Villarreal, Julia LoFaso, Kat Savino, Vyshali Manivannan, Adam Boretz, Parul Sehgal, Snowden Wright, and so many others. Your insightful comments fueled my imagination, and this book wouldn’t be the same without you.
I also owe a debt of gratitude to the brilliant friends who encouraged me to persevere with this project out in the often-lonely world of post-graduate life, especially Valerie Wetlaufer, Courtney Elizabeth Mauk & Eric Wolff, Penn Genthner, Emily Mintz, Stephen Siegel & Nina Stern, Ryan Joe, David Gerrard, David Redmon & Ashley Sabin, Alex Lindo & Laura Faya, Meredith Dumyahn, and Larry Dague. Eric Taxier, thanks again for never letting me give up.
And I’m glad to have family members who believe in me, including Virginia Sole-Smith & Dan Upham, Laina & Matthew McConnell, and my grandparents.
Last and most importantly, I’d like to thank my parents, Deborah & Dale Smith, whose faith in my work has made every magical thing possible.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chandler Klang Smith is a graduate of Bennington College and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia University, where she received a Writing Fellowship. She lives in New York City. Learn more about her on the web at www.chandlerklangsmith.com.
THE INNER CITY
KAREN HEULER
Anything is possible: people breed dogs with humans to create a servant class; beneath one great city lies another city, running it surreptitiously; an employee finds that her hair has been stolen by someone intent on getting her job; strange fish fall from trees and birds talk too much; a boy tries to figure out what he can get when the Rapture leaves good stuff behind. Everything is familiar; everything is different. Behind it all, is there some strange kind of design or merely just the chance to adapt? In Karen Heuler’s stories, characters cope with the strange without thinking it’s strange, sometimes invested in what’s going on, sometimes trapped by it, but always finding their own way in.
AVAILABLE FEBRUARY 2O13
FROM CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS
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THE WARRIOR WHO CARRIED LIFE
GEOFF RYMAN
Only men are allowed into the wells of vision. But Cara’s mother defies this edict and is killed, but not before reaturning with a vision of terrible and wonderful things that are to come . . . and all because of five-year-old Cara. Years later, evil destroys the rest of Cara’s family. In a rage, Cara uses magic to transform herself into a male warrior. But she finds that to defeat her enemies, she must break the cycle of violence, not continue it.
As Cara’s mother’s vision of destiny is fulfilled, the wonderful follows the terrible, and a quest for revenge becomes a quest for eternal life.
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ZOMBIE VERSUS FAIRY FEATURING ALBINOS
JAMES MARSHALL
In a PERFECT world where everyone DESTROYS everything and eats HUMAN FLESH, one ZOMBIE has had enough: BUCK BURGER. When he rebels at the natural DISORDER, his marriage starts DETERIORATING and a doctor prescribes him an ANTI-DEPRESSANT. Buck meets a beautiful GREEN-HAIRED pharmacist fairy named FAIRY_26 and quickly becomes a pawn in a COLD WAR between zombies and SUPERNATURAL CREATURES. Does sixteen-year-old SPIRITUAL LEADER and pirate GUY BOY MAN make an appearance? Of course! Are there MIND-CONTROLLING ALBINOS? Obviously! Is there hot ZOMBIE-ON-FAIRY action? Maybe! WHY AREN’T YOU READING THIS YET?
AVAILABLE MAY 2O13
FROM CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS
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THE ’GEISTERS
DAVID NICKLE
When Ann LeSage was a little girl, she had an invisible friend—a poltergeist, that spoke to her with flying knives and howling winds. She called it the Insect. And with a little professional help, she contained it. But the nightmare never truly ended. As Ann grew from girl into young woman, the Insect grew with her, becoming a thing of murder. Now, as she embarks on a new life married to successful young lawyer Michael Voors, Ann believes that she finally has the Insect under control. But there are others vying to take that control away from her. They may not know exactly what they’re dealing with, but they know they want it. They are the ’Geisters. And in pursuing their own perverse dream, they risk spawning the most terrible nightmare of all.
AVAILABLE JUNE 2O13
FROM CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS
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THE MONA LISA SACRIFICE
BOOK ONE OF THE BOOK OF CROSS
PETER ROMAN
For thousands of years, Cross has wandered the earth, a mortal soul trapped in the undying body left behind by Christ. But now he must play the part of reluctant hero, as an angel comes to him for help finding the Mona Lisa—the real Mona Lisa that inspired the painting. Cross’s quest takes him into a secret world within our own, populated by characters just as strange and wondrous as he is. He’s haunted by memories of Penelope, the only woman he truly loved, and he wants to avenge her death at the hands of his ancient enemy, Judas. The angel promises to deliver Judas to Cross, but nothing is ever what it seems, and when a group of renegade angels looking for a new holy war show up, things truly go to hell.
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REMEMBER WHY
YOU FEAR ME
ROBERT SHEARMAN
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THE BOOK OF
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HAIR SIDE, FLESH SIDE
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EVERY HOUSE IS
HAUNTED
IAN ROGERS
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IMAGINARIUM 2012
SANDRA KASTURI &
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SWALLOWING A
DONKEY’S EYE
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BULLETTIME
NICK MAMATAS
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THE INDIGO
PHEASANT
DANIEL A. RABUZZI
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BEARDED WOMEN
TERESA MILBRODT
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A BOOK OF TONGUES
GEMMA FILES
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BRIARPATCH
TIM PRATT
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CHASING THE DRAGON
NICHOLAS KAUFMANN
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CHIMERASCOPE