by Tim Pratt
Marzi rose from her place at the table and went to the windowsill, looking at her prickly garden, a dozen cacti in terra-cotta pots. Marzi laughed. She was the cactus girl, right? Keeping everybody at a distance, even Lindsay, being prickly to protect the soft stuff inside. Why was she so resistant to Lindsay’s matchmaking attempts with Jonathan? Admittedly, there had been no blazing flash of light when their eyes met, no string music playing in the background, but he was cute, and seemed nice enough, and they had some interests in common . . . so why was her immediate reaction so negative? Had she just been out of the game for so long that it would be easier to avoid playing at all?
She touched the spine of one of her cacti, pricking her finger, but not breaking the skin. It was so tempting to stay here, safe, to avoid the possibility of seeing Jane, to avoid the pleasanter possibilities that Jonathan represented. But did she want to live that way, safe, locked away?
Maybe tomorrow she’d talk to Jonathan. See if she liked him. He and Lindsay had gone out drinking tonight, and they’d wanted Marzi to come along, but she’d declined, thinking she wanted time alone. Maybe she still did, but the more she thought about it, the more she didn’t want to spend time alone here. She could feel the creeping edge of agoraphobia as she contemplated going out, a manifestation of her old anxiety that she hadn’t experienced in months. She looked at her closed front door and shuddered. How could she know what was on the other side of the door? How could she be sure—
Marzi shook her head and went to put on her shoes. She was stir-crazy, and shaken up from her encounter with Jane, but that didn’t mean she was having a relapse. She decided to go for a walk. Through sheer force of will, she didn’t hesitate when it came time to open the door; she just grasped the doorknob, turned it, and stepped into the perfectly ordinary night. No strange vistas loomed behind the door, no monsters, no alien landscapes. No whatever-it-was that she’d once feared so much.
She stepped outside, onto the sidewalk. The weather was lovely; May in Santa Cruz was perhaps her favorite time and place. The sun stayed out until quite late, and the afternoons were warm, turning cool in the evening. She carried her leather bookbag slung over her shoulder, filled by a notebook and an oversized sketch pad. She was seldom overcome by an urgent need to draw right now, but she was fairly certain that if she ever left her bag at home, she would be struck by a powerful and transitory inspiration that would disappear before she could find a pen and paper.
Maybe she thought too much. The curse of the artist: too much introspection. But that wasn’t always true. Lindsay had a pretty happy and carefree life, and she painted almost as diligently as Marzi drew. Lindsay took every day as an adventure, every problem as a challenge, every surprise as an opportunity. Why couldn’t Marzi be more like her? That would certainly simplify her feelings toward Jonathan, who at best embodied an intriguing set of possibilities at this point.
Then again, Lindsay had never suffered a nervous breakdown. Maybe Marzi was right to be careful, to analyze her reactions and behaviors. She had to watch herself.
Marzi went down Rosewood Street, crossing Ash. Genius Loci was still open, with Bobby-O and Caroline running the counter, and Hendrix probably lurking in the back somewhere. He hated working evening shifts, but Marzi refused to work every night. It wasn’t like Hendrix had a family or something to go home to—as far as Marzi knew, he just sat up naked at night watching pornos on a thirteen-inch television, eating peanut butter straight from the jar. Not that he’d ever said so; it was just the image that sprang to mind.
She continued toward Pacific Avenue, the main street downtown that had all the best shops, the good restaurants, and the wonderful bookstores, then changed her mind and turned back. She didn’t want to walk downtown tonight. The street performers, the tourists, the students—they would be too much. She didn’t want the crush of humanity around her.
There was a little park a few blocks away, and Marzi decided to go there, sit on the grass, and maybe have a cigarette. She’d stopped smoking regularly a couple of years ago, but she still carried a pack of cigarettes with her, and every once in a while, when she needed to calm her nerves, she had one. And after that altercation with Jane, surely she had a good excuse to calm her nerves?
Thinking of Jane made her glance around at the street, looking for Jane’s mud-covered hatchback. Lindsay insisted that Jane was usually a nice, unassuming girl, but for Marzi, Jane was only and always savage and mud-streaked, like some totemic monstrosity. For the first time, Marzi wondered if they should have called the cops. They’d just laughed off Jane’s assault and had a beer. For Marzi, the cops had always been something bad that happened to you, busting up parties, giving out tickets, being high-handed bastards. The cops weren’t something you turned to for help. But surely they’d be interested in a madwoman who assaulted people in the middle of downtown? Was it too late to call them? Probably.
Marzi turned a corner and went toward the park. There was someone else there, standing in the shadows beneath a tree, nothing visible but the general human shape and the glowing ember of a cigarette hovering near the mouth.
Marzi hesitated. Could it be Jane? But Jane probably wouldn’t smoke; Lindsay said she was a super-healthy activist type. Then again, Lindsay also said it was unlike Jane to coat herself in mud and try to kill people. Probably it was just someone else out for a walk, like Marzi herself. The park was pretty safe, even at night. Insofar as Santa Cruz had a “bad part” of town, this wasn’t it—that was down by the beach, maybe, where you could buy drugs and whatever else you wanted. You could buy that stuff downtown, too, but you had to know where to look. Closer to the beach, that stuff knew how to find you.
The figure approached, tossing the cigarette into the grass. At first Marzi thought it was a man, but then she recognized Alice Belle, Lindsay’s new love interest.
“Hey, Marzi,” Alice said. She was six feet tall, three inches taller than Marzi, with close-cropped blond hair and clear blue eyes, her features a bit too strong to be conventionally pretty. Marzi had never really looked before, but now that Lindsay had mentioned it, she saw that Alice was in great shape—her biceps clearly defined, her stomach taut beneath her tight white T-shirt. She didn’t have any breasts to speak of—or else she kept them taped down—but she had nice hips and long legs. Marzi didn’t feel any particular sexual attraction—girls sometimes turned her on, but it was a once-in-a-blue-moon sort of thing—but she could certainly see what Lindsay saw in this woman, physically, anyway.
“Hey, Alice. How you doing?”
Alice frowned, then shook her head. “I don’t know, to tell you the truth. I’m all sort of scrambled up in the head. Just taking a walk, trying to figure things out.”
“What’s wrong? Is it . . . about Lindsay?”
Alice looked startled, then laughed. “She said she was going to tell you about us—I guess she did. She didn’t want to make too big a deal out of it.” Alice shrugged. “I don’t know if it is a big deal. We have a lot of fun together, but who knows where it’ll go? I feel like a cradle robber, truth be told. I’m turning thirty next month.”
“It’s only six years’ difference,” Marzi said.
“I feel like I’m a long way from being in college, though, you know? Even if she is in grad school. No . . . it’s not Lindsay. Things are good with her. I don’t know what it is.”
“You want to talk?”
“You don’t even know me. It’s not your problem.”
Marzi shrugged. “Lindsay’s my best friend, and you’re important to her, so . . .”
Alice nodded and sat down on a nearby bench. Marzi sat with her. They looked out at the grass for a while, then Alice said suddenly, “I used to start fires, when I was a kid.”
“Yeah?” Marzi tried to sound neutral.
Alice laughed. “My dad was a firefighter. I guess I did it to piss him off. I’d burn napkins, piles of leaves in the yard . . . Once I burned a bunch of Barbie dolls he gave me. I doused them in lighter
fluid and put them on the grill. It drove him nuts. He was sure I’d burn the house down some day.”
Another long silence. “Did you?” Marzi asked at last. “Burn the house down, I mean?”
“No. I never did. I think I used to like the destruction, but now, I just think fire’s beautiful. I do fire-dancing, you know?”
“Lindsay said.”
Alice smiled at that. “And there are lots of candles at my house, and hurricane lamps, shit like that. Having flames around relaxes me. It’s not like I’m a pyromaniac or anything. But lately . . .” She took a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, offered one to Marzi, took one for herself. She flipped open a filigreed silver Zippo and lit both cigarettes. They puffed for a moment, quietly. Marzi enjoyed the rush of nicotine, like having a balm rubbed on from the inside. Soothing.
Talking to Alice is a lot different from talking to Lindsay, Marzi thought. Lindsay was an onrushing torrent, while Alice . . . well, it wasn’t exactly like pulling teeth. More like waiting for molasses to run downhill. Steady, but slow.
“I was riding my bike up in Oakland a few years ago,” Alice said. “During wildfire season. And there was a fire, a bad one. I saw it from the road. The flames came jumping up the hillside, crackling, like something alive . . . it was beautiful, but dangerous. Like a tiger.” She half-smiled. “Like a motorcycle. I sat on my bike and looked at the flames for a long time. Way too long. Wildfires are tricky. They can cross roads, catch the wind right, and go flying over a pretty good distance. I could’ve been trapped, burned. I should have hauled ass out of there, but I couldn’t seem to get motivated. I just watched the flames turning the dry grass into ashes, spreading, so fierce and wild and alive. I finally snapped out of it and rode away, didn’t get trapped, didn’t get hurt. People died in that fire. Not me, though. I was lucky.” She took a long drag.
Marzi wasn’t sure what to say, whether she should say anything.
“You know those signs up by the university, that say ‘Chance of Wildfire Today,’ and then ‘Low’ or ‘Moderate’ or ‘High’?”
“Yeah.”
“When I see it on ‘High,’ I think, ‘Maybe this’ll be the day. Maybe this’ll be the day I get caught in another fire.’ ” She glanced at Marzi. “Fucked up, huh?”
“I think people have always been fascinated by fire,” Marzi said slowly. “From our earliest myths, even. Prometheus stole fire from the gods. So did Raven, according to some Native Americans. It’s dangerous and powerful stuff.”
Alice seemed to visibly relax. “So you don’t think I’m obsessed?”
Marzi laughed. “I don’t see any reason to think that, no.” And I would know, she thought. I know about obsession.
“The last time I was fire-dancing, I thought about swinging my firepots faster and faster, like a sling, and then just letting them fly, flinging them up into a tree and letting them burn everything. That freaked me out, a little—I could see myself doing that.”
“But you didn’t do it.”
“No. I guess you’re right. I didn’t.”
“So you’re okay.”
“Yeah,” Alice said. “Everybody thinks about weird shit, right? You’re only in trouble when you do something about it.”
“That’s the way it seems to me,” Marzi said.
“I’m glad I ran into you tonight.” Alice stood, then held out her hand for Marzi to shake. Alice’s hand was callused and firm—Marzi wondered, briefly, how it would feel to have those hands pass over her skin, touch her belly, her breasts. She wondered if Lindsay liked the feeling, if Alice touched her gently or roughly or both.
When Alice Belle gets me horny, I know it’s been too long, Marzi thought. “I’ll see you around. Give Lindsay my love, if you see her before I do.”
“Sure thing,” Alice said. She walked toward the tree where she’d been standing when Marzi first saw her. She picked up something long and dark—a chain, with metal, spherical cages affixed to either end. Her firepots. She slung the chains over her shoulder, and waved good-bye.
Marzi waved back, then dropped the remains of her cigarette and ground it out under her heel.
Smoke Out
* * *
Beej hurried along the sidewalk on a street a few blocks from the heart of downtown Santa Cruz, past boutiques and small restaurants, most of them already closed for the night. Beej didn’t care about the stores, though—he wasn’t out shopping, he wasn’t hungry, and human habitations in general didn’t hold much interest for him lately. He hadn’t been home in days. He’d been living outside, sleeping in parks and alleys, getting closer to the god.
Beej carried a large black plastic garbage bag slung over his right shoulder. He’d spent most of the day gathering its contents: driftwood, pebbles, blue and green glass bottles with the labels meticu-lously picked off, the shiny circle of metal from the top of a tuna can, a sandal with duct tape mending a torn strap, hair swiped from the floor of the barber shop on Front Street, the skins of popped balloons, several flowers pulled up by the roots, and a tarnished brass cowbell rescued from the gutter. Beej inventoried the objects in his head, trying to decide if he’d left anything out, if there were any other elements essential for the ritual. It wasn’t like the movies, where people had magical books to consult, or where some wise shaman came along and told you what to do. Beej was operating from his inner resources, with no guidance other than what he could glean from his own mental tremors. He tried to sense the contents of the bag, their gestalt, and feel for gaps.
He found one.
Beej stopped, staring blankly at the concrete sidewalk before him. He couldn’t go to the altar yet, then—there was one offering still to acquire. Beej looked around, and saw what he needed right away: a potted palm near a wine shop. He whooped with delight, walked over to the plant, and set his bag down. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, he scooped out a handful of soil from the pot and piled it neatly on the sidewalk. He unzipped his pants, took out his dick, and looked at the sky, humming a swing tune. After a while his bladder relaxed—he always had trouble pissing in public—and a stream of yellow urine poured out, soaking the soil. After a while, he switched to pissing in the potted plant, so as not to supersaturate the dirt on the sidewalk. He finished and zipped up, then knelt and scooped a double handful of dirt from the sidewalk. It was damp and thick, now, transformed into mud by the water from his body. He opened the plastic bag, dropped in the mud, and wiped his hands unself-consciously on his pants.
That took care of the mud, but he still needed fire. He walked a few blocks to the drugstore, going the long way to avoid the crowds on Pacific Avenue, wincing as he entered the well-lit parking lot. This was a night for shadows, not artificial lights. Beej went through the automatic doors into the store, and someone started yelling at him. “Hey! You can’t come in here!”
Beej looked up, startled. “Are you closed?”
The teenager, dressed in an ugly green vest with a name tag, hesitated. “No, we’re open. But . . . you can’t come in here to sleep, or just hang around. It’s only for customers.”
“I am a customer,” Beej said. “Why would I want to sleep here? It’s too bright.”
“Ah,” the kid said. “Sorry. I thought . . . sorry.” He nodded toward the plastic bag. “You have to, um, check your bag, though.”
Beej clutched the bag to his chest, the bottles and driftwood clanking. “You will watch it carefully?” he said. “It took me a long time to get it just right, and if anything happened . . .”
“Sure thing,” the kid said, backing off, stepping behind the protection of his cash register. “No worries.”
Beej handed over the bag reluctantly. As soon as the cashier took it from his hands, Beej raced for the back of the store. He snatched up a can of lighter fluid and a box of kitchen matches, then ran back to the register. After dumping his purchases on the counter, he reached across and snatched his bag back from the boy’s grasp. Everything was still there, still potency-in-waiti
ng, and Beej breathed a long sigh.
“Your bag smells like pee,” the boy said.
“Still waters run deep,” Beej said, grinning, and nodded toward the lighter fluid and matches. The kid rang up the purchases and Beej grubbed around in the pocket of his leather jacket until he came up with a few coins and bills. The boy took the money, wrinkling his nose. Beej saw that he’d accidentally given the kid a wad of gum wrappers along with the money. Except it wasn’t an accident—it was all part of the god working through him. Beej was an instrument of the lord of wreckage now, and everywhere he went, chaos and detritus would follow.
The boy picked the wrappers out of his hand and threw them into the trash, then made Beej’s change. “Paper or plastic?” he asked.
Beej grinned. “I’ve got a bag, thanks.” He dropped the matches and the lighter fluid into his garbage bag, then left the store.
The moon was up and full, leering like an albino jack- o’lantern. Beej went the long way around Pacific again, and this time he walked all the way to the altar.
The altar was in a hole in an empty lot surrounded by a fence, with a clothing boutique on one side and a parking garage on the other. Once there had been a building on this lot, but that was before the 1989 earthquake. Loma Prieta. That was the last major quake to hit the area, and it had leveled much of Santa Cruz. The heart of town, as it stood now, bore little resemblance to the town’s layout before Loma Prieta. Beej hadn’t lived here then, he’d still been in Indiana, but he’d seen pictures of the old town, and the wreckage, at the Museum of Art and History. In typical California fashion, the residents had started rebuilding right after the disaster, reinventing the town. There was a time when Beej had respected that impulse to rebuild and re-create, had found it wonderful—humankind uniting in the face of adversity, taking back the world from the elements. But he knew better, now. His eyes had been opened.