New Wave Fabulists

by Bradford Morrow

  For quite a while, I did not say anything either. I was thinking a lot, but I had no control of the things I thought, and I was so excited about her that I thought something was going to happen any minute that I would be ashamed of for the rest of my life. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life (she still is) and I had to shut my eyes, which made her laugh again.

  Her laugh was like nothing on earth. It was as if there were golden bells hanging among the flowers through a forest of the loveliest trees that could ever be, and a wind sighing there was ringing all the bells. When I could open my eyes again, I whispered, “Who are you? Really?”

  “She you called.” She smiled, not trying to hide her eyes anymore. Maybe a leopard would have eyes like those, but I kind of doubt it.

  “I called Seaxneat’s wife, Disira. You aren’t her.”

  “I am Disiri the Mossmaiden, and I have kissed you.”

  I could still feel her kiss, and her hair smelled of new-turned earth and sweet smoke.

  “Men I have kissed cannot leave until I send them away.”

  I wanted to stand up then, but I knew I could never leave her.

  I said, “I’m not a man, Disiri, just a kid.”

  “You are! You are! Let me have one drop of blood, and I will show you.”

  By morning the rain had stopped. She and I swam side by side in the river, and lay together like two snakes on a big shady rock, only an inch above the water. I knew I was all different, but I did not know how different. I think it was the way a caterpillar feels after it has turned into a butterfly and is still drying its wings. “Tell me,” I said, “if another man came, would he see you like I see you now?”

  “No other man will come. Did not your brother teach you about me?”

  I did not know whether she meant you or Bold Berthold, Ben, but I shook my head.

  “He knows me.”

  “Have you kissed him?”

  She laughed and shook her head.

  “Bold Berthold told me the Aelf looked like ashes.”

  “We are the Moss Aelf, Able, and we are of the wood and not the ash.” She was still smiling. “You call us Dryads, Skogsfru, Tree-brides, and other names. You may make a name for us yourself. What would like to call us?”

  “Angels,” I whispered, but she pressed a finger to my lips. I blinked and looked away when she did that, and it seemed to me, when I glimpsed her from the corner of my eye, that she looked different from the girl I had been swimming with and all the girls I had just made love with.

  “Shall I show you?”

  I nodded—and felt muscles in my neck slithering like pythons. “Good lord!” I said, and heard a new voice, wild and deep. It was terribly strange; I knew I had changed, but I did not know how much, and for a long time after I thought I was going to change back. You need to remember that.

  “You won’t hate me, Able?”

  “I could never hate you,” I told her. It was the truth.

  “We are loathsome in the eyes of those who do not worship us.”

  I chuckled at that; the deep reverberations in my chest surprised me too. “My eyes are mine,” I said, “and they do what I tell them. I’ll close them before I kiss you, if we need more privacy.”

  She sat up, dangling her legs in the clear, cold water. “Not in this light.” Her kick dashed water through a sunbeam and showered us with silver drops.

  “You love the sunlight,” I said. I sensed it.

  She nodded. “Because it is yours, your realm. The sun gave me you, and I love you. My kind love the night, and so I love them both.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand. How can you?”

  “Loving me, couldn’t you love some human woman?”

  “No,” I said. “I never could.” I meant it.

  She laughed, and this time it was a laugh that made fun of me. “Show me,” she said.

  She kicked again. The slender little foot that rose from the shimmering water was as green as new leaves. Her face was sharper, green too, three-cornered, bold and sly. Berry lips pressed mine, and when we parted I found myself looking straight into eyes of yellow fire. Her hair floated above her head.

  I embraced her, lifting and holding her, and kissed her again.

  The Bearing of Light

  Patrick O’Leary

  I WAS THE STILL VOICE you almost heard in the middle of the night. The bearer of bad news. The sound a child makes when his momma doesn’t wake. I was the promise given young girls. The hum of the crowd at a stoning. The brand on a new slave. You remember me. I was the one under your bed as you slept. I didn’t have to do anything. But you knew I was there.

  I say was. I’m retired now.

  There’s an old joke: a man is driving his car through the dark at the speed of light. What happens when he turns on his brights?

  Light. Inescapable light. The one thing I couldn’t outpace. It sought me, hounded me, followed me everywhere. So I hid in the shadow-lands, between the pockets of ordinary and dark matter, on the banks of dark energy that flow like bloody rivers through this universe—places where there was only me and the big night.

  Where I could be alone.

  Like that dark city.

  That dark alley under a blistering sun.

  Where on my last day on the job in the hot shade of a concrete block building I saw a young mulatto boy pissing against a wall. The kid looked up and said, “Hey. How you been doing?”

  I admired that moxie, that suave cover-up of shame. Like I was an old friend he hadn’t kept in touch with lately. Well, actually, I had been acquainted with his daddy.

  “You don’t know how lucky you are, child.”

  “What chew mean?” The boy scowled beautifully as the tiny arch of yellow made a wet bloom on the gray concrete.

  “I’ve never done what you’re doing.”

  “Never peed? Ain’t you got a dick?”

  I wouldn’t do that old trick. Wouldn’t take out the black serpent with the red tongue. I was tired. “Where’s your momma?”

  The boy zipped up and scowled again. “Inside with the witch. Getting blacker.”

  That’s when I looked up and read the new sign on the establishment.

  “ELITE TANNING. FINE ORIGINAL JEWELRY. CELLULAR PAGING. METABOLITE SALE. DISCOUNT PARDONS.” I reread the last two words.

  “How is it that you’re not with her?”

  The boy gave me a hard look and said, “I don’t tarry with no devils.”

  None that you know of, at least.

  The door went ajangle as I entered the dingy, dim store and was plunged into a cloud of incense. A sickening unidentifiable tang. The pressed-tin ceiling had a row of stubby nipples—plugs where once fans turned. Perhaps, in its time, it had been a barbershop. One wall was mirrored. But I couldn’t bring myself to look at my reflection. I had indulged in enough of that.

  There was a glass display case stuffed with faux black velvet like folded dry lava, which held a grotesque assortment of hippie jewelry—tasteless dragons, nymphs, and griffins writhing on pins. Trinkets for fat children who never had to beg for their supper or run for their lives.

  The tanning booth was behind a yellow curtain; a blue glow bled under its billowing hem. The row of pagers hung on the wall opposite the jewelry. Black boxes pasted on corkboard, price stickers above them. Below them on the counter, sample bottles of Metabolite diet pills—ugly stubby wafers—their sizes denoting one month, six months, and, apparently, a lifetime supply as big as a half gallon of milk. Take them all, I thought, and you disappear.

  But they weren’t why I’d come in.

  The proprietor danced behind the counter, a black woman in a yellow jumpsuit swinging about to a loud Bob Marley tune. Something about Jah or Ganja. Her body shimmied and bobbled. A heavily beaded arrangement of cornrows hung to her ample waist. If she stood before the doorway to the tanning booth, I thought, they wouldn’t have needed the curtain.

  I suppose I envied her broad marketing strategy
and her enterprise. See, I never created anything. I was a spoiler by nature. I say was. For honestly, how much satisfaction is there in a life of stomping sand castles, knocking over towers of blocks, pinching pets, and giving away the endings to movies?

  Oh, it was a dull job.

  And even the lies were no fun anymore. You are good. You are justified. You’ve been treated unfairly. You are beautiful. When everyone is so easily conned, where’s the victory? The price I had paid for stoking the delusions of others was that I had none myself.

  The Light. It was everywhere.

  When did I learn to hate it?

  Maybe it was my name. That was something I didn’t choose.

  “Come for the pardons?” the woman asked in a thick Jamaican accent.

  “Yes,” I said, examining the stack in the wooden out box. They appeared to be documents from another century. Brown and weathered and full of fine script interrupted by a few underlined blanks—standard contract stuff. Even a gold seal embossed in the corner. Souvenirs straining at authenticity.

  “They’re discounted. Fifty dollar each.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off them. The possibility of release—however unlikely—held me in a kind of awe. For I was tired. Tired unto death. These temporary people didn’t know how lucky they were to have endings. Hadn’t a clue about the gift they’d been granted. Granted. Yes, my boss had been big on freebies. It was what I hated about him most.

  “Exactly what do they cover?”

  She reached under the counter and brought forth a laminated list of sins. A comprehensive list. Definitive, in fact. Impressive.

  “All the top ten and their variations. Just fill in the blanks, pay the cash, and yer a snow mon.” Was she actually joking about my black wardrobe? She would regret that.

  “Armed robbery?”

  “That’s a commandment,” she said, nodding.

  “Murder?”

  “Forgot your commandments?”

  “Rape?” I asked, traveling freely up her body with my eyes. I was surprised to see her smile. That wasn’t the effect I was going for.

  “Even that. It’s a bargain.”

  I frowned at myself in the mirror. My long coiling hair seemed to hold less blue than usual. Ordinarily by now they felt a twinge of discomfort, as if a bee were orbiting their skulls. This one seemed not to mind my company. Smelled none of the smells. Seemed, in fact, comfortable. That could only mean she did not see me as I was.

  A tanned woman came through the yellow curtain and headed for the door. Her white outfit made her skin glow. “Sister, I feel like a new woman!”

  “Good on ya. Say hi to Sam.”

  The very brown white woman nodded.

  “Tell him about the dragons,” the proprietor said. “Maybe he’ll come in next time.”

  The woman gave a stricken apologetic smile.

  “It’s my hair,” the Jamaican said, rolling her head slightly, setting the beads atinkle. “I remind him of his daddy.”

  She left quickly and I examined the list, breathing through my mouth, hoping to escape the fumes that permeated the shop.

  “That was a good trick.”

  I looked at her.

  “The way you blended. I don’t think she even noticed you.”

  Was I losing my touch? Or was it her? There was something odd about the sound of her tapping foot. Something about the way it caught the beat. And how she always seemed to be dancing, even standing still.

  “I know what you’re going to say. Why I have to write it down? Isn’t it the thought that counts?”

  I looked sharply at her. Her hand rested on the pardons, a rainbow of bracelets on her wrist. It’s true: I preferred verbal agreements. Louis Mayer once said they’re not worth the paper they’re written on, but he was wrong. For, in my experience, to say the thing is to make it real. And I am a great listener.

  “I can see you’re an educated mon.”

  “By whose authority can you issue pardons?”

  “God’s.”

  I smirked. “God gave you these contracts?”

  “No, Spirit Novelties of Nebraska gave me a franchise. Most of it’s carny gags. Prayer candles. Spell books. Lottery pamphlets.” She tapped the stack with her meaty hand and her bracelets chinked. “But these are the Genuine Article.”

  “What’s God got to do with it?”

  “Sees all, knows all. Sins are well-cataloged phenomena. It’s in all the literature, Mon.”

  I looked at her.

  “Sacred literature,” she added. “The good books.”

  “Books?”

  “There’s more than one, you know. Even the Bible’s a collection.”

  “Some would say an anthology.” I wondered if she’d read the apocrypha. “So there are no unforgivable sins?” It was a little test.

  She passed. “Well, defaming the Holy Ghost.”

  “Yes, it is a leftover clause from the days of necromancy. Trafficking with dark forces. Perverting the spiritual nature of man.”

  “Yah, we were Mon then.” She laughed. “When was you defrocked?”

  I sighed, conceding her insight. Well, who else would her customers be but the dispensers of mercy? Those who knew the length and breadth of sin. “Ages ago.”

  “High rank, were ya?”

  “Very high.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve had me a bishop or two. Never yet a cardinal. And the odd priest. I had a Methodist once. He had qualms.”

  “Qualms?”

  “About buying absolution. He thought it was free. He was a good man. A good man who’d done very bad things.”

  Tings, she called them. Strangely, this thought did not seem to bother her. “Most people do very bad things,” she said.

  “True. And they know it.” She smiled. “That makes ’em good.”

  I took the occasion to listen to her heart. I enjoy hearts. I found I could not hear it. Perhaps the Marley was too loud. My long fingers flicked the corner of the stack of documents. “One cannot purchase forgiveness. Either it’s priceless or it’s worthless.”

  “The confession,” she said, crossing her arms over her heavy breasts. “That’s what’s priceless. That’s what can’t be bought.”

  “Then I will confess.”

  I set two twenties and a ten on the counter, took a deep breath, which made me feel taller. My dark hair, black T-shirt, and black jeans grew blue glistening shadows. I’ll admit: I’m a bit of a ham.

  I raised my right hand.

  “You can fill in all the blanks, Sister. I’ve done them all.” I let her think about that. “All.” She was silent. “You want details? Two blocks from here there’s an old woman who used to trust people. I killed her poodle then raped her.” I savored the next phrase. “Later, I introduced Sam’s father to the taste of crack. That was a slow morning.”

  This didn’t seem news to her. That pissed me off.

  “And why?” I couldn’t keep the bitterness in any longer. “Because I could. Because it was allowed. Because I was his chosen and he would deny me nothing. But he would not let me share his rule. I would not be a servant in his kingdom so he let me have my own. Can you fathom that? He let me. He gave me dominion and I spoiled and pillaged, racked and fouled this paradise until he could smell nothing but stink. What THE FUCK IS THAT INCENSE?!” I spun about but could not see the oppressive noxious source: no rising trail of smoke, nothing burning. Placing my palms on the counter I leaned until our noses were almost touching. “I did it with his full consent. What kind of god would do that?”

  Her breath was cool. “A god who loves you.”

  I laughed. I knew full well the power of my laugh. Usually it loosened sphincters and sprung tears. It was a sound that meant there was no way out. This was the living end. “Do you think you can instruct me in theology? Sister? You fat island cunt.”

  She didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

  I did what I usually did instead of a smile. And my body simmered down a bit. Frankly, I was tire
d of shouting. Tired of everything. “Well, you can try.”

  She handed me a blank script and a Pentel. “Sign. I can’t do it for you.”

  So I filled in the blanks, added etc. to everything, stealing a glance or two at her face, hoping to find some crack in that now solemn black edifice. I found none. And as I signed with a black X I knew this was no ordinary human; she had the unmistakable light. In my time I had burned real saints, watched strangers rescue lost obnoxious children, observed underpaid heroes enduring vile bosses, seen the price of goodness, and wondered why anyone took the time and trouble. But they did. And when they did an awful light came off their skin that only I could see, a sickening white light that cost them, always cost them.

  Understand that until that day I had feared no one.

  I began to fear her.

  She sprinkled the wet ink with a saltshaker and blew the black crystals away. Opening a tiny safe behind the counter, she placed the document there. I noticed it was the only paper inside. Then she slammed the black door and twirled the combo and led me through the curtain to the tanning booth, told me to strip and lie. I stretched out under the blue neon tubing, wearing eye goggles, blind and toasting for fifteen minutes. Seven and a half each side. When I was done, I was sweating.

  I had never sweated before.

  When she opened the lid to let me out, she said, “Your tan is the sign of the fire that all humans must pass through. Now it is your turn.”

  She led me shaking to her glass case and plucked out a silver dragon.

  “The beast you once were is an ornament,” she said, pinning it to my T-shirt at the heart. “He is a memory of those you have burned. Here all things are made new.”

  She took me to the bottles of diet pills and gave me the largest. “Take one a day. In no time you will join the hunger.”

  Who was this creature? Gabriel? Anthrax? Sebastion?

  She whirled then and my eyes caught a dizzy glimpse of gold as her pinkie toe ring flashed and she drew me to the corkboard full of pagers. She picked one, punched in a code, and clipped it to my belt. My knees went rubbery from the weight.

  “You are no longer unreachable. When you are needed you will be called.”