The Life and Death Parade

by Eliza Wass

  The room felt empty, but it often felt that way lately.

  I stepped into his bedroom. As I walked, I noticed things, small things, evidence of Nikki: the inkwells he used to write in black leather journals all the contents of his once-magical heart, the iron tea kettle he’d stolen from downstairs so we could have tea parties in his room, the scarf he’d pulled from the beak of a swan. All these things resembled him more than the body on the bed.

  I stood over the bed. There was a swollen mass. I reached out, carefully, and pulled back the covers.

  Journals. They slid apart, fell open as I revealed them. Piles of them, laid out like a crumbling-paper boy.

  The clocks went then. They were all wound to slightly different times, so it was three o’clock, over and over again.

  I rushed from the room, down the hall. The stairs stopped me. The clouds pulsed, beyond the great glass windows. I swayed, waited for some sign, but there wasn’t one.

  Where had Nikki gone?

  I started down the stairs, one foot and then the other. I was headed toward the library, I discovered. Toward the chapel.

  As I walked through the hallways, the automaton room and the weapons room, I told myself that one day soon I would wake up from this life and find that every bad thing had been a dream. Only the good things had been real.

  The weapons are locked in their cases, I thought as I passed the weapons room. I didn’t consider why, until I passed the automaton room and thought: You might need one.

  The arches glowed. Before the library was a library, when it was a chapel, it was a circular building with arches all around it. It had been merged with the castle, but the joining was hasty, not quite believable. Seen from above it might have looked like the crown wheel of an enormous clock.

  I passed under the arch.

  Nikki was there, so familiar it soothed me, then unnerved me. He was on the upper level, in stakeout position, in his military coat. There was a fire in the fireplace, too big and billowing; the room was like an oven.

  I moved into the center of the room, but he didn’t seem to notice me. His face was fixed, his forehead glistened with sweat, and when he wiped his brow, blood remained.

  “Nikki,” I said, having no idea what else to say.

  His eyes contracted. They had a feral quality. “Oh, Kitty,” he said in a strange, gravelly voice.

  “What are you doing?”

  He crossed the balcony and settled at the top of the stairs, resting his elbows on his knees. The fire danced in his eyes, and in that moment he looked more alive, more himself than he had in weeks. He gestured me forward. “Come here. You’ve always been so good to me.”

  I took a step without thinking. Because it was Nikki.

  He stood up, extended his hand. “I’ve figured it out. I’ve solved…everything.”

  I stepped toward him again.

  “Come on, Kitty. There’s a good girl.”

  I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, at the bottom of the world. The fire leapt up and as it did, lit the golden hilt of a sword, drenched with blood.

  “Nikki, whose blood is that?”

  “Destiny’s. It’s destiny’s blood.” Light washed over him, revealing what looked like black paint. His coat was bleeding.

  “Nikki, what have you done?”

  He started to shake, like a dog trying to get dry. “I’ve figured it out. I’ve figured out what I’m supposed to do: die!” Curled in the twist of his lips was his strange double smile, like even death could be a joke if applied correctly. His chest spat blood in a pulse. His shirt was soaked in it. “I got you something.” He pulled a black ribbon from inside his coat, dripping blood. “So you always remember.”

  His silhouette took on a hot, imaginary quality, as if drawn from a fever dream. His head dropped, took his body with him, and it rattled down the iron stairs, caught halfway by his coat so the blood ran through the slats in a ribbon.

  PART 3

  When you’re held up in a hard place,

  Throw a rock from your deep tomb.

  —Alan Wass, “Dress Up”

  FOURTEEN

  I found Joy in the crowd, and we found a place to dance. The neon colors whirled and popped. The stars stayed over my head. They seemed to multiply. I said to Joy, “Look, the stars are here! Look! They came back!” like they hadn’t been there all along. Like it wasn’t just me who couldn’t see them.

  “I think we were supposed to meet each other,” I told her. “Of all the people in all the party, you knew Nikki. You knew Nikki, and we were supposed to meet each other.”

  Joy smiled with blue teeth. I understood why she came here, even though she couldn’t afford the readings and the tourist tat and even though it was all fake magic. She came because even though it wasn’t always real, that didn’t mean it wasn’t ever real.

  The music stopped at one o’clock. The tents all tilted, dropped gently, and descended as people poured out into the night. A few small groups stayed behind, usually surrounding a musician with a guitar. They built small fires and shared stories I could tell were magical by the way they huddled close together.

  “I have to meet my ride. Do you know where you’re going?” Joy said as we moved through the field. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

  I shook my head. “I mean, yes I know and no you don’t need to.” I was transfixed by the stars.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked me. “Did you drink anything funny?”

  “My mum’s tea. It gave me faith.” I stopped, looked out toward the canal. The boats were gone, leaving behind a dark black river. “It’s strange. Anaya said the worst thing she could have possibly said. She confirmed exactly what I was afraid of, but I still feel better.” I took a deep breath and smiled shakily at Joy. “I feel better because she knew. She knew things she couldn’t possibly know, so it must be real. Nikki must be out there somewhere. And if he is, then it’s not over. I can make things right again.”

  Joy looked unsure. We said good-bye and I went to find the others. I was passing a small bonfire when a boy jumped up and grabbed me by the elbow. “Wait.” He moved in close to me so no one would hear. “Do you want to buy a saint card?”

  “I thought the party was over,” I said.

  He shuffled through his pocket, pulled out a deck of cards. “I saw you earlier.” He held up an anime-style card with Mum painted on it, surrounded by white orchids. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a saint?”

  I took it out of his hand and held it up to the light. It was perfect. “I burnt mine. How did you know?”

  “I had a feeling.” He grinned.

  “What other cards do you have?” He handed me a key fob of laminated photos. I flipped through the deck: Papa Legba, St. Christopher, Baron Lacroix. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but the artist seemed to. He leaned in close, his voice a light rasp. “I also have contraband, special for after hours.”

  I stopped flipping. “Show me.”

  He pulled a wad of cards from his coat pocket and handed them to me. These cards were different—rough and unfinished with an ashy smell. I flicked through, one, two. The third card sent a shiver down my spine. “What is this?” I held the card up to him.

  “Ah. I know it’s bad mojo to make a card for someone who isn’t dead, but I couldn’t resist.” He took the card and flipped it around his fingers, then handed it back to me and winked. “He’s my favorite.”

  It was Roan’s card. He had a Peter Pan stance, the snake twisted at his feet. Behind him was a large anatomical heart burning in flames. His powers were listed.

  resurrection

  youth

  obsession

  I held one card in each hand, sensing I should keep them separate. “How much for both?”

  He quoted an insane price, but I paid it. The boy went back to the bonfire, and I put one card in each pocket, like the two sides of Alice’s mushroom.

  I was nearing the woods when Holiday came racing to me.
Her painted face was smeared with tears. “Kitty, come quick! Macklin says he’s going to die.”

  Holiday dragged me toward the canal as I tried to figure out what had happened.

  “Macklin was asleep,” she gasped through pounding breaths. “Then he woke up. Then he went mad.”

  “Where’s Roan?”

  “He went with that guy with the top hat.” Safi. He’d said he had work for him. I was curious to know just what that work entailed, but first I had to make sure Macklin was all right.

  Holiday led me to a quiet spot beside a bridge. Quiet until I heard Macklin vomiting into the canal. Oh, that kind of dying.

  Holiday dropped my hand and hunkered down beside him. She clapped him on the back, saying, “There, there,” which didn’t seem particularly effective. I gazed back at the deflated party, tempted to track down Roan.

  “Perhaps I should find you a glass of water.” I started toward the field when Macklin burst into tears. I froze. Seconds ticked by and he kept on crying. Finally I said, “Holly, why don’t you go fetch some water?” She raced off up the hill, leaving me with Macklin.

  I stepped forward carefully. “Um, Macklin? Are you crying?” I needed a second opinion.

  “I just don’t understand. How?” He drew a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes. “How has this happened?”

  “Well, I think it’s because you’ve had too much to drink.”

  “Don’t be obtuse.” Tears sorted, he refolded the handkerchief with an origamist’s attention. “You know what I mean.”

  I remembered Anaya’s words, The one he loves kills him. If only I had done something, said something. “I gave up on him.” The words came unfastened before I could fashion them. And once spoken they hung there like a spell. Macklin’s eyes met mine in the water. “He believed he was cursed and I didn’t believe him. I didn’t help him. So what if I thought it was fake magic? It was real to him.” Macklin’s temple pulsed with thought, but he stayed quiet.

  “Why did I have to fight him?” I said. “Why did I have to change his mind? Why couldn’t I just see things his way? I see all of this”—I motioned to the abandoned field—“and I think, is it really that bad?”

  Macklin chewed the inside of his cheek. “It’s a little weird.”

  “Maybe, but if it helps a person to believe in something, who am I to try and stop them?”

  Macklin sighed. “God, will you look at the state of me?” He organized himself by his reflection in the canal. Once he was back to Default Dandy, he roused himself enough to respond. “It’s not your fault, Kitty.” He inhaled, like he was powering himself up. “Nikki really lost the plot.”

  “But why? Why did he lose the plot?”

  “He thought he was supposed to die.”

  I moved closer to him. “What did he say that night, after he spoke to Mum?” Macklin gave me an odd look. “I mean, the psychic. Didn’t he say anything about it? He used to tell you everything.”

  Macklin cocked his head, like he was turning something over in his mind. “He didn’t say anything. That’s when I knew something had changed.” He took a hard breath. “I thought he would go back, to the way he was before. I thought things would go back—sometimes it seemed like they would, didn’t it?” I nodded. It was strange to have this conversation with Macklin—to have any conversation. But it was a good strange. “He really loved you, you know,” he allowed. “He used to tell me all the time. You were like a god to him.”

  I was temporarily spellbound. It always unmoored me when I heard that Nikki had told someone else he loved me.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been…” I tried to think of the words. “Whatever I was supposed to be. I’m sorry I haven’t been that.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” he expelled on a breath. “I know I must seem cold to you. It’s just that sometimes I think if I allow myself to feel things, I won’t be able to stop.” He said this to the stars. “Like I might just keep going, on and on, until I’m lost forever.”

  “Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.” I stole a moment then, looking at Macklin. He was so beautiful—and then he transformed before my eyes, singed around the edges as if in flames. His pale skin crisp as wax paper, his eyes erased and his hair—his black, ribbon hair—curling in calligraphy patterns across a coffin’s pillow.

  I lost my breath, turned away to catch it. I was only seeing death because I was surrounded by it. I was only imagining things because the night had filled my head with magic. It wasn’t a prophecy. It wasn’t real.

  Holiday came down the hill carrying a paper cup. “They didn’t have water, but the woman gave me de-hex tea. She told me it’s really just the ordinary detox tea you buy in the supermarket.” Macklin accepted it gratefully.

  “I think I’ve had enough magic for one evening,” I said, getting to my feet. “You wait here. I’ll go find Roan.”

  Smoke rose in a tower at the edge of the woods. The air was wound too tight. There was a carriage parked in the dark, piled with long wooden boxes. Two filthy white horses grazed nearby. Ahead of me, a circle of people gathered around a fire in a small clearing. They were smoking, passing bottles back and forth, and chanting intensely.

  Something in the sound made me stop behind the carriage. I pressed flat against it. I pushed my tongue against the back of my piercing until it ached. Then I peered around the side of the carriage. A box rocked over my head, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Part of the group had moved to the other end of the carriage, not ten metres away from me. Together they dragged one of the boxes from the bed and hoisted it at shoulder height. It was only then that I saw what it was—not a box, but a coffin.

  I ducked down, crawled along the dirt beneath the carriage, and watched them carry the coffin toward the fire. They set it down in front of the flames. A woman bent down and started to work the bolts from the sides. Dizziness spun through my veins. They were opening the coffin.

  The woman moved slowly; the scene was souplike, murky. I blinked my eyes hard, and for a moment they refused to open. When I finally forced my eyelids apart, they were lifting a body.

  I saw everything in shadow: the heaving of the group, the limpness of the corpse, one arm hanging down so it stretched toward the floor. I didn’t understand it, or else I did and was lying to myself, the way—I was beginning to suspect—I often did.

  I swallowed my unsteadiness and moved closer. Then I saw him. He was on the other side of the fire. He had a snake on his shoulders—tight and coiled. The chanting ascended in volume. I felt my brain narrowing, and even though I couldn’t see these details from a distance, I sensed his constant expression. His eyes of crystal, forever glazed. They set the body down in front of him and then moved back.

  The chants flooded my eardrums. He reached into his doctor’s bag and pulled out a rusty knife. Coolly, he slicked his hair back from his face, and then with his uncanny calmness, he leaned over the corpse, gathered its shirt collar in his fist, and tore it down the center.

  I flinched and shut my eyes again. I told myself it wasn’t real, ordered myself to watch. I opened my eyes as the knife darted down, into the chest of the corpse. Blood seeped down the sides.

  Roan stretched his jaw, then plunged his hand inside the body and pulled out its thick heart. He held it up over his head as the snake tightened on his shoulders. He lowered the heart, and the snake seemed to rattle; it slid up his arm. Its jaw stretched and detached, opened wide. It swallowed the heart whole. Roan bent down and sewed up the corpse as the swell of the heart traveled through the snake’s body.

  Roan leaned forward; his necklaces hung like a pendulum above the corpse. He pressed his bloody hand against its forehead. The body lurched. The group flew back. The chants snapped into a collective gasp. The fingers of the corpse tightened into fists. Roan sat back. Inside the snake, the heart compressed, in and out, like a heartbeat.

  I felt myself move backward. I whacked my head on the bottom of the carriage. I held myself still until my vision
cleared. Then I took Roan’s card from my pocket. I focused on the word: resurrection. I ran my thumb over it, again and again.

  I looked up. I felt his eyes on me, even though he couldn’t have possibly seen me from so far. But I saw him, in wild chants, in the manic pant of crowd-think. He appeared to me like some primordial beast, some ancient, tired, uncaring thing. He appeared to me as God.

  FIFTEEN

  On the cab ride home, my mind was awash with thoughts, but the one that kept rising above the surface was the vision of Roan at the bonfire. If the only difference between real and fake magic was desire, then I knew exactly what I wanted.

  Macklin snuffled on my shoulder. Holiday was curled on my lap, small fist gripping the corner of my jacket. Roan kept glancing back at us in the mirror, and I didn’t think it was because he knew what I’d seen. It was because of the picture we created, like a tonic for a lonely heart.

  There was warmth as we came through the castle doors that night, all of us together, with Lord and Lady Bramley still up waiting for us. Macklin trying not to lean hard on my shoulder. Holiday stitched between Roan’s hand and mine. Lady Bramley beamed. Lord Bramley said nothing about the hour.

  Instead he said, “Did you have a nice time?” like he hoped we had.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Macklin especially.” Holiday pealed into giggles that echoed through the castle.

  Macklin managed to say, “Bed.”

  “Give your mum a hug first,” Lady Bramley said. He did, face turned away as if that could disguise the stench of eighty-proof vomit.

  Lord Bramley reached out and brushed Macklin’s hair back. It was the first time I’d seen him touch Macklin—not since Nikki died, but ever. Lord Bramley was never one to initiate contact. Even when Nikki had hugged him, often and with reckless abandon, he would only roll his eyes and pat him on the back. Macklin did a good job not to look startled.