by Sophie Jaff
“She couldn’t help it,” Lucas says, bringing her back to their table of two. “Saying those scary things. None of them can help it.”
“Who couldn’t help it?” Katherine asks, dread surging in the depths of her stomach.
“That lady who looked like Snow White.” Lucas pauses, eats a fry and then adds, “And the people here too, the giant.”
The hair on Katherine’s arms prickles. She tries to release the breath that has caught in her chest. “How do you know?”
But now a guy sitting in the loud booth, who wears a red robe with a blue shawl over it, rises. His hair is long, and his chin is cradled by a partial beard. Katherine finally works it out. He’s Jesus, and the others in the booth are his dining companions at the Last Supper.
“As the Lord and Savior, I would personally like to bless this establishment,” Jesus says.
Katherine has to grin. It’s pretty cool. She remembers studying da Vinci’s The Last Supper for art history class. There was a whole lecture dedicated to it, where they learned how both Christ’s and Judas’s hands are reaching for the same bowl, how one of Jesus’s hands is turned up and one down. How Judas’s neck is turned away, because he is the traitor. The guys have put some effort into their costumes, even sitting to match the positions of the Disciples in the painting. Lucky the booths are big. She smiles to herself.
“Sit down, Josh, and shut up,” another guy at the table says.
Katherine thinks it’s Judas, but she can’t be sure amid all the laughter, which is drunk but not malicious.
Josh-slash-Jesus has no intention of sitting down. “My children. You are all my children.”
“Shhh! C’mon! Sit down, asshole.”
“You are my children, yet you would dare to call your Lord and Savior an asshole. Tsk, tsk. I proclaim thee not cool. And I proclaim this table next to me very cool. And I proclaim that table with two sexy zombie nurses most good, most good indeed. And the two hard-core dudes chatting up those girls, they cause no offense to my eyes.”
He is loud and he is intoxicated, but he’s not an asshole. Katherine guesses being God could understandably go to one’s head. The girls giggle, and the tough-looking guys shoot him side-eye. The majority of diners in the diner do what most New Yorkers do, which is to pretend to ignore the scene while watching it. It’s free entertainment.
“What’s he doing?” Lucas is curious.
Andrea and Katherine never really discussed religion. Lucas, men, what they were having for dinner, TV they liked, books they loved, exhaustion, hilarious things they saw on the street, yes, even celebrity scandals, but somehow God didn’t make it. All Katherine knows is that Andrea came from a hard-core Baptist family. One that didn’t approve of a single mother and rejected her son. So she’s unsure if Andrea would have wanted Lucas to find the Lord; she thinks Andrea was more concerned about him eating his vegetables and having a good day in preschool.
“He’s dressed up and he’s fooling around. Kind of showing off. He’ll probably stop just now.”
Or get thrown out, she thinks. He’s bound to offend someone sooner or later. But then again, this is New York, and it is Halloween, and he’s not being rude. Just a little stupid and drunk, mostly high on the thrill of wearing a cool costume and all the potential the night holds.
Katherine takes another spoonful of the soup that’s just arrived, and looks up to see that Jesus has wandered over to their booth.
He beams at her and winks at Lucas. “And I pronounce you . . .”
Then he twitches.
He stands, swaying slightly, and when he speaks again his tone is grave, and he speaks as if he is reciting a passage of text by rote.
“And there appeared a great wonder in heaven, a woman clothed by the sun, with the moon laid under her feet and a crown of twelve stars upon her head. Her time was near, and she cried and pained to be delivered of a Child, who was to rule over all nations, and was to be caught up unto God, and to His throne.”
His voice swells.
“Then she beheld a great red dragon having seven heads and ten horns, and seven diadems upon his heads. And with the dragon came war. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; the dragon and the dark angels who served him fought back. The woman fled into the wilderness, where she had a place prepared for her by God Himself.”
The diners are not happy now.
“See to yo’ boy,” one of the tough guys snarls at Judas. “Get yo’ friend under control.”
But the diners at the Last Supper are frozen, like the Disciples in the painting.
“Josh?” one of them asks, but Josh-slash-Jesus is now convulsing.
“Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus . . .” one of the zombie nurses moans.
The fluorescent lights of the diner flicker, darken.
“She carries the Lamb, and the Prophet shall be their guide! The Lamb and the Prophet shall lead us in war against the Beast! The time of reckoning has come!”
Katherine feels Lucas’s small hand takes her own, and it shakes her awake from this terrible dream. Except it’s not a dream.
She rises to her feet. She won’t have him scaring Lucas. He will not scare Lucas.
She is calm now, filled with a quiet certitude. He will not scare Lucas. She is flooded with strength. All her focus, all her will, is fixed upon the shuddering figure in front of her.
“Stop,” she says.
But Josh rants on. “The dragon is the Serpent, the dragon is the Devil, the dragon is Satan, and the Child is—”
“BE STILL.”
Josh’s hands scrabble at his neck, his eyes jerk backward in his head, and he crumples to the floor. There is a pop as the light bulb explodes above him in a shower of glass.
He writhes on the ground.
“Help him!”
“Help him!”
And they rush forward, all of them, just young guys in robes made out of bedsheets who are terrified for their friend.
“Oh my God!”
“Josh! Is he having a seizure?”
“Fuck, man, call an ambulance.”
Katherine frantically flings some money down next to their barely touched plates, and swings Lucas up in her arms.
“Wait,” someone tells them, but they don’t, and they are gone out the door into the dark, hectic Halloween streets. Katherine keeps hold of Lucas and walks as fast as she can.
She does not slacken her pace until they are safe at home.
It’s two hours later, two hours too late, but Lucas is in bed. As she tucks him under the covers, she steels herself for his questions.
“What was the matter with him?”
“I don’t know, honey. He was drunk, I guess, and sometimes drunk people do silly things.”
“It’s the baby, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Her voice is sharp. Calm down, she reminds herself. You want him to be able to trust you, so just calm down. You can handle this. “What do you mean, Lucas?” she asks again, this time willing herself to speak softly. Her heart aches for this little boy who will always see what others cannot see, who will always know too much.
He gazes at her, patient in the face of her blindness. “He was talking about the baby, the one growing inside of you.”
Katherine must say something, but he’ll know if she’s lying and she can’t lose his trust. “Lucas, here’s the truth. I don’t know what’s going on. I only know one thing. I will never let anyone hurt you. That’s the promise I give to you.”
“You promise?” The words very faint in the darkness.
“I promise. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Think you can sleep now?”
“Yes. Will you leave the door open a little?”
“Of course I will.”
“Night, Lucas.”
“Night, Kat.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
She gets up very quietly and walks out.
She walks to her room and sits
down on the bed.
The baby, Lucas says, they’re acting that way because of the baby.
She closes her eyes, trying to gain strength for what she is about to do. She has made him a promise. She needs to keep it.
Right now it’s there, growing inside her, a collection of cells and fibers swelling and forming, multiplying and dividing.
She picks up her phone and presses a button, dials.
There have been so many reasons for not wanting to go. Tonight they have all been wiped away.
It’s hiding there. A chrysalis held fast in the deep, wet, darkness of her womb.
He picks up after the second ring, as if he has been waiting for her call.
“We’ll come,” she says.
10
Margaret
By the following morning, the roots are dried and ready for further preparation. I leave Thomas sleeping to collect them. The sun shines just as brightly as it did the day before, the brook still chuckles to itself, but my heart is heavy as I work. I hear my mother’s warning.
We must do good. Most people cannot do what we do. They do not have our gifts. They cannot help themselves.
She had taught me which plants were poisonous so that I should be safe, not so that I should do harm. But what choice do I have?
I return to Thomas, who is just waking. I greet him, and we eat our breakfast of berries.
“Thomas,” I ask, choosing my words with care, “how far would you go to save Rudd? Could you kill a man?”
Thomas stops, thinks about the question.
“Yes,” he says at last. “If that is the only way.”
I nod and, after a deep breath, tell him of my plan. He is frightened, but he does not question it.
* * *
That night I am again shaken awake. I open my eyes, and Thomas’s face peers down into my own.
“You were crying out in your sleep.”
I feel my forehead. Drenched. My heart knocks against my breast.
“Did you dream?” He is wide-eyed.
For a moment I think of saying nothing, but to finally have remembered! I must tell someone.
Still, at first, I struggle to find the words.
“This is not the first time I have hidden in these woods,” I begin. “Years ago, when I was a little girl, I would come here with my mother.
“We would pick mushrooms, blushers, and Queen Boletes, and princes. She always encouraged me to try and find the horn of plenty. They are the hardest to spot, since they grow best under fallen leaves.”
I smile at the memory.
“Back then, I was not frightened to venture too far, and on that day I wandered deeper and deeper into the woods until I spotted a cluster of them.” I cannot help the note of pride that creeps in. “After I crammed my basket close to bursting. I grew tired. I planned only to rest my eyes for a moment or two . . .
“When I awoke, it was cold and the sky was dark. I had been gone too long, and Mother would be worried, so I hurried back the way that I had come, but the woods did not seem so friendly now. It was the quiet. No birds sang, and even the wind held its breath.
“I was almost at the clearing when I saw him. A man crouched over something. Not something, but someone. My mother. She lay like a snapped branch. He had a knife. He was holding her arm, intent on guiding the curved blade into her flesh as a carver etches a wooden staff. The blade was red. Blood pooled underneath her, staining his sleeve. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out, no sound at all.
“He sensed me there anyway, watching him, and looked up, grinning. He released my mother’s arm, and it fell, limp. Dead. My mother was dead. He had killed her. This man, a stranger with a sickle knife, which the village men use to reap their wheat, had killed my mother.
“I turned and scrambled back through the trees. ‘Margaret,’ he called to me. His voice was light and sweet. He knew my name. ‘Margaret, there’s no need to run.’ But I did, madly I stumbled, rose, and kept going. Each beat of my heart crying, ‘Mother! Mother! Mother!’
“I could hear his voice echoing through the woods. ‘Margaret? Margaret? Come back!’ Down into the deepest part of the copse I ran, down where no one could find me, until I slipped and tumbled down a slope into a thicket. I crawled inside an old hollow tree trunk, and I waited. Rocking back and forth in that damp trunk, I waited. His voice was gentle. ‘Margaret, you do not need to fear me.’ I heard the smile curling his words. ‘It is not your time. Not yet.’”
Thomas is silent, staring. “How did he know your name?”
I shake my head, for I myself do not know.
“I am sorry,” he says at last.
His sympathy causes my throat to ache, my eyes to burn. I have never told this story to a living soul before tonight.
It is the first time I have remembered.
Now there seems nothing else to say.
“We should try to rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
He seems uncertain, as if he wants to ask me more questions, but I close my eyes and feign sleep. After a long while, I hear him settle back down.
As great a relief as it was to tell him, I did not dare share the whole of it.
I stayed in that hollow trunk till a thin, restless sleep overtook me. I woke, terrified, cramped, and cold. I saw through the rotten gaps in the trunk that the moon had risen. Shaking off the beetles and spiders, I pushed my way free, only to see him standing in the moonlight.
“I have found you, little rabbit,” he said.
I willed my feet to move, but they would not, could not.
His face glowed kind and serene. “You had no need to run.” He sounded wistful. “I only wished to see you for it will be a while before we meet again.”
“My mother . . . ?” My voice fainter than a mouse’s squeak.
“Your mother is dead. When I found her, she was searching for you. Did you know that? You were a wicked girl to wander so far away.
His manner changed from chiding to reminiscent.
“Her colors were glorious. Her anguish was the rusty orange of an unclean blade. It cut like the wail of a starving infant, it stung like the salted sweat left on the hangman’s noose. I could taste her lineage in her veins, that old knowledge rich as velvet wine.
“Still . . .” He grew grave, as one about to impart a confidence. “She was nothing compared to you. What you will become. But you must grow and you must bloom before I find you again. When you turn red, I will come for you. Now,” he said with faint regret, “you may run.”
I did not wait, but turned and fled far, far, far away into the woods. I did not know how much time had passed, and with each step I left what I saw and what I heard farther and farther behind me until it disappeared into blackness. I knew only that I must get home. I must get home.
And I did, leaving the chaos and the horror of that night buried deep in this place.
The day dawns cool and blue. A day for action.
Thomas and I say very little as we make our way to their camp, both of us steeling ourselves for what lies ahead. Thomas holds the leather pouch tightly. I clasp a wineskin, thankful that I had brought it and thought to save the contents to trade. Above our heads the sun shines; the birds carol as if all is well. When we come to the fallen trunk, we crouch down. We wait.
The men are chatting, laughing, shouting at one another. We can hear them making ready to depart for the main road. A few will remain on lookout, but in truth they will sleep in the sun’s warmth.
If I lean out from behind the log, I can see a large man staked to a post. Two men pass by, and he squints up through reddened eyes. One gives him a vicious kick, and Rudd cries out weakly. They laugh.
“Down, dog!” the other says.
Thomas leaps up, fury contorting his features, and I must drag him down again. “Not yet,” I hiss through my teeth, “or else you mean to kill us all.”
“Those bastards!” He trembles. “Those filthy bastards.”
“Quiet.” I shake him
a little. “You’ll do Rudd no good if they hear us.” Then I look at him. “Now, remember. You must—”
“I must empty all the contents of the pouch into the pot,” he says, “as you have told me a hundred times.” He is as jumpy as a flea.
“Keep a cool head.” Though I feel as fluttery and panicked as a bird in a cage. “Think of Rudd. I wish you luck.”
“What’s to stop the cook from catching me?”
“He’ll be otherwise engaged,” I promise grimly, and hope that it will be so.
When I am sure the main group has left, I move silently to the fringe of the clearing where the men have made their camp. The cook, sweaty and straining, stirs a great cast-iron pot on the fire. Standing in his line of sight, I take a breath and bring my foot down hard snapping some small branches to gain his attention.
He stops stirring and stares at me, mouth agape. It would be comical if I were not so fearful.
Pressing my finger to my lips, I beckon him with my free hand. He waddles over, breathing heavily, his eyes never leaving my face. I wince inwardly at the noise he makes, hoping he will not draw undue attention. I try my best to smile and pray that he will not wish to share me with his fellows until his own needs are satisfied. And here he is, panting before me with the sweaty, bristly complexion of a pig. His grin reveals stumps of gray, broken teeth and I can smell his fetid breath.
I trail my fingers lightly down my neck, across the tops of my breasts. His chest heaves with excitement. I hold out my wineskin, put it to my lips, and pretend to drink while being careful not to swallow. I raise it in a toast, then pass it to him. He clutches it willingly. For a wonder he does not question the fortune of finding a willing maiden who would bring her own drink—another piece of luck for him on this bright morning. He takes a cautionary sniff of its contents, sweet and heady, like dandelion wine, and then tosses them back. I watch his thick throat working as he swallows.
When he has gulped his fill, he wipes his mouth on his yellowed smock sleeve and lurches forward. I step back playfully, tossing my hair over my shoulder, and so we continue until we are well into the trees. After a few steps he stops and stands still. His face is suddenly frantic as his hands tear at his throat; then his eyes glaze over and a dull green foam oozes from his mouth. He topples.