She shrugged. "Well, the curse is lifted, I feel like a new woman! Goddess, wait until I tell Felicia!" She squealed with delight. Then she knelt down by me. "What are you looking at?"
I was watching the dagger glow. As I held it, felt it warm in my hands, I became certain Myrtle would want it back. This was the key to her power now; she would neither love me nor hurt me. I felt where the scar would be along my cheek with the tips of my fingers.
"Thank you." The woman smiled a gentle smile. "I'm probably not supposed to say that or something, but anyway." She kissed me on the cheek, just over the crusted line of the final cut. "I'm going to erase the circle now. As far as I know, you'll be free to go once it's broken. Or, maybe you need the sunrise. I'm not sure, actually..."
I held the dagger between my crossed legs. "Will you wait with me? For the sunrise?"
She smiled. "Sure." She kicked a hole in the circle with her bare foot, then retrieved a pack from behind a tree. She wrapped a blanket around herself and then held open a corner for me as she sat down next to me. She was warm and smelled like the earth and soon I had fallen asleep, the deep sleep only the faerie know, we who walk the land adjacent to dreams and death. With the dawn I would return there, to make my bargain with my maker, and from there, to start again my life.
JAGUAR GOD
S G Johnson
The package arrived from Mexico, wrapped in brown paper and covered with large letters reading "FRAGILE!" Rebecca recognized her sister's handwriting and was seized with a pang of jealousy that her sister had jaunted off to Mexico without even a second thought. Had it been Rebecca, a trip to Mexico would have been a momentous event, money saved for a long time, and much discussion among friends and family as to what to pack and whether she needed any shots. Marlene, on the other hand, had probably not even bothered to get her tetanus updated.
Rebecca was surprised by the weight of the modest-sized package as she carried it to the kitchen table. She set it on the white tablecloth, got her scissors and neatly cut the tape, then opened the box. She scooped out the shredded newspaper packing, and stuffed it in the garbage can before lifting the strange item out.
It was a figurine in cobalt blue obsidian, a strange alien form, part man, part cat. It lay on its back, bent legs and arms upraised as if it were intended to support a bowl of some sort. The figure was human, but it had a cat face, teeth bared in a menacing snarl. A long tail wrapped around one leg. About his loins he wore a scanty cloth that bulged between his legs. Rebecca's eyes popped at that. Fortunately, the pose of the figure was such that it was not obvious that it was a lewd statue. Casting about, Rebecca picked up one of her pewter bowls and set it on the arms and legs. It was shallow, about six inches in diameter, and seemed to the be right size and shape for the idol. With the bowl over its belly, it was rendered respectable, and Rebecca heaved a sigh of relief.
What was she going to do with it? Marlene was always buying such harebrained things, and Rebecca had to keep them, or risk hurting her sister's feelings. She left it sitting on the kitchen table because she had no idea where else to put it. Coffee table? That was much too public a display for such a peculiar item. Bedroom? How could she take the indecent thing in there? Rebecca despaired. Her sister had really done it to her this time.
Rebecca checked through the packing material she had thrown away, but no card was enclosed. It was like her sister to do that – no explanations offered, and no apologies either. She sat in her white ladder-back chair and stared at the thing. It had come from Mexico, so it must be Mayan or Aztec, she supposed. She knew nothing about the primitive tribes of Mexico. Cannibals, weren't they? Human sacrifice? She shuddered as it occurred to her what her strange statue might have been used for. But no, the authorities would not allow authentic pieces of pre-Columbian art to be carted away by tourists. It must be a reproduction. And besides, Marlene would not do anything so gruesome as to send her a blood-stained idol.
She lit a cigarette nervously, and suddenly thought what else she might do with her peculiar gift. She gutted the dying terrarium, transferring the dirty blue sand to the pewter bowl. Confidently, almost defiantly, she stubbed out her cigarette in the blue sand. It was an ashtray. Yes, it was obvious. Ashtrays often came in ridiculous and tacky shapes, and Marlene was just the sort of person who would send her such a thing as a way of chastising her for her smoking habit.
Rebecca plopped into her chair, and pulled another cigarette from her case. She lit up, blowing a hard stream of smoke across the idol. Take that offering. she thought, tossing her long brown hair over her shoulder. Then she felt guilty, but before she could take it back, the jaguar closed its jaws and inhaled deeply. She sat with the cigarette hanging from her lip while the jaguar eyes regarded her thoughtfully. She didn't move, didn't dare believe what she was seeing. The figure shifted its position a little, tail unwinding to lie across her white cotton tablecloth, head laying back, bored eyes staring at the ceiling.
She poked it with her cigarette.
The jaguar head snapped around, teeth exposed, grating out a tiny snarl that still managed to express the fury of an injured cat. Its back remained flattened against the table top, and the limbs still held the bowl, but it rocked as the creature writhed in pain, angry eyes locked on hers.
"I'm sorry!" she said. "I didn't mean to hurt you! I just couldn't believe you were real! I mean, you're not real, so how can... Marlene!" she wailed.
Rebecca sat numb, face paler than usual, make-up like a mask over a ghostly face. She decided she better placate the angry idol, and rummaged through the kitchen drawers until she found the incense left from her astrology days. What was the right scent for a jaguar god? She didn't know, but decided musk was an appropriately masculine aroma for a feline deity. She stuck a cone in the blue sand with trembling hands, fumbled with her lighter twice, and got it lit.
The little idol lay back, watching the smoke swirl up to the ceiling. It stretched its limbs, the bowl tipping dangerously, but the incense miraculously remained upright. It settled again, still on its back, and she was glad the thing could not get up and wander around.
She watched it for a very long time, then became bored, as it didn't do anything except lie there, staring into space. And what had it done really? Nothing remarkable. It had been annoyed when burned, and it had watched the incense smoke swirling through the air. Dull. Decidedly undivine. Useless. She watered the spider plant and the asparagus fern hanging in the bay window, worried over the wilting herbs on the windowsill, then wandered away.
* * * *
That night Rebecca had a dream.
* * * *
She struggled along a narrow jungle path, tripping over vines and roots that snaked across her trail, long hair snagging on overhanging branches, big green leaves slapping her in the face. The night was filled with perfume; huge, neon-colored flowers dangled heavy heads amid the wild leaves, their cloying aroma making her light-headed. Fungus glowed on damp tree trunks, and furtive things she didn't want to see scampered away from her progress.
Suddenly the trees ended, and she was standing on a narrow grassy sward that was the boundary between the jungle and the ziggurat. Moonlight bathed it, turning the stepped stone behemoth to silver. It was hard and square, composed of corners and steps, scaled for giants. Up the center of the moonlit face a smaller set of steps marched. Rebecca followed the path worn through the grass to the bottom of the steps and looked up.
The steps led up into the sky, reaching all the way to the stars. The moon was high, throwing her short, dark shadow onto the bottommost step. She lifted her foot high, placed it on the bottom step. It was a tall step, too tall for normal use, requiring the flexing of her thigh muscles to lift her up. The step was wide, she shuffled across it, then lifted her left foot to the next step. She heaved herself up, starting to perspire in the tropic heat, then climbed another step and another, then made the mistake of pausing for breath and looking down.
She had climbed only half a dozen steps, bu
t the ground seemed very far away. A ground vapor was rising, blurring away the foundations of the pyramid, giving the illusion that it was floating upon a cloud while the jungle receded. The disconcerting view gave her vertigo, and she turned her face to the pyramid steps.
The pyramid was formed of thirteen gigantic steps, and each level of the pyramid required thirteen smaller steps to reach from the bottom to the top. The Devil's number, Rebecca told herself. This is the Devil's temple. She was frightened then, but the ground was very far away, and the top was close at hand. She resumed climbing, hoping the top would offer some rescue from her predicament.
The climb took a long time, her shins began to ache, and her thighs trembled with exertion. She was not a physical person, on the contrary, she had been sickly all her life, prone to mysterious illnesses that defied diagnosis. That she was ill no one could deny, they had only to look at her wan and pallid face to know that something was wrong.
Soon her lungs ached too, and she stopped to rest on the penultimate step. Looking up she saw the moon directly overhead. Her shadow was so small it was nothing more than a dark puddle around her feet. Of the top she could see nothing, but a brace of reddish glows told her a pair of fires were lit up there. Which meant somebody else had to be there, because there had been no fire when she started. Glad of the prospect of company and help, she hurried up the last flight of steps as fast as her aching legs would carry her.
* * * *
The god lay on his back, huge obsidian muscles gleaming in the moonlight, knees up, feet flat on the floor, arms reaching up, jaguar head turned to stare at her. Had he been standing he would have been seven feet tall. Two stone braziers were lit with bonfires blazing in the night. No one was present, just Rebecca and the filthy idol. Glancing at his loins she saw that he was dressed the same as her little idol at home, with the same turgidity. She turned away.
"What will you give the god?" a hissing, rumbling bass voice asked. The stone vibrated under her feet, as if the voice issued from within the pyramid.
"Nothing!" she cried in fear.
* * * *
She sat bolt upright in bed, sweat sticking her cotton nightgown to her body. The room was dark and comforting, white wicker and white bedspread fresh and cool, temperate after the jungle heat of her dream. Even a little cold. She shivered, then padded to the bathroom in bare feet. She flipped on the light, regarded herself in the mirror. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and she feebly wished Marlene had not sent her the horrid little idol.
She tiptoed into the kitchen then. Moonlight flooded through the lace curtains, bathing the jaguar god in its lurid silver radiance. Its head was turned staring out the window, apparently unaware of her presence. When it wasn't disturbing her with its preternatural gaze, it was sort of handsome, in an ugly violent way, like a gangster with a scarred face and a custom suit. Rebecca had never personally known anyone like that, and such images seen in movies frightened her– she always applauded when the good guy shot the bad guy. But at the same time she was always disappointed when the bad guys lost, though she couldn't say why.
She edged a little closer, tiptoeing across the blue and white linoleum until she was able to reach out and touch the round, blue shoulder of the idol. It was not cold, like stone, but warm and smooth, like a man's shoulder. Did Mayan men have hair on their bodies? She thought not. Caucasian men were ugly, with hair all over their bodies, like animals.
The idol turned its jaguar face to her, and she snatched her hand away. "Release me," rumbled the voice from her dream.
She backpedaled fast, her back slamming into the refrigerator. "No, I can't, I don't know how, I don't want to!" She ran from the room, white ruffle of the gown dancing about her flying feet.
She huddled through the night with three quilts piled on top of her, but she was still cold. The idol had been warm, and silky smooth to touch, like a cat. She had had a cat once, but it had caught feline leukemia and died, and she had been afraid to have another cat for fear it was something she did wrong that caused it to get sick and die. But that night she wished she had a cat, a clever, brave tomcat who would sit on her chest and purr, his little claws poking her breasts.
* * * *
Rebecca woke at dawn, surprised to discover that she had slept after all. With daylight, the dream seemed distant and fragmentary, peculiar, but only a dream. She showered, then dressed in a crisp beige linen dress, walked into the kitchen for breakfast.
Her plants had grown overnight. The spiderplant was supporting a dozen large babies, and the asparagus fern was thick and bushy, a multitude of tiny white flowers blooming along its stems. The rosemary had straightened up, its evergreen needles dark blue-green and glossy, while the oregano had become a veritable bush, its stems laden with thick, lush, round leaves. The aroma of the herbs was fresh and fragrant. Automatically she went through the daily motions of checking the soil to see if it was damp, then picked up her small white plastic watering can and filled it at the sink.
As she approached, the idol said, "You've given them too much water. Rain is life, but it must be given at the proper time or it brings death."
She looked at the idol for the first time that morning. He had shifted his pose under the bowl to a more relaxed position, and the jaguar features were more animate, and more human.
"Did you do this?" she asked, knowing that he had.
"Yes."
"Thank you, I guess."
"I can do more."
"No, that's not necessary," she said quickly.
* * * *
Work was hectic, with Rebecca's boss wanting letters and papers written and mailed pronto, without regard to the fact that he had already given her the task of reorganizing the database, and had assigned it top priority. She ended up staying until seven o'clock, long after the other clerical workers had left for the day.
Dan Miller dropped by her desk as she was switching from the plain flat pumps into tennis shoes for the walk home. He was big, bluff, and blonde, with hair on the back of his hands, which in spite of his good grey suit made her think of gorillas and other dirty animals.
"You're here late," he said with an easy smile that unsettled her.
"I had a lot of work," she replied, shrinking from him. He was so tall, looming over her as she huddled in her chair, and he smelled so male. Didn't he believe in deodorant?
"You walk to work, don't you?"
"Yes," she admitted, afraid to look at him, because sitting in her chair, her eyes were on a level with his belt buckle, and she certainly didn't want to engender any of those thoughts.
"It's getting dark already. I'll walk you home."
She glanced out the window, saw that the lights in the parking lot had come on, hesitated. He intimidated her, but then, he would probably intimidate any potential rapist or pervert too. "I don't want to inconvenience you," she protested.
"I don't mind at all," he assured her.
She wondered if he were making a pass at her, she couldn't tell, she was not experienced in such matters. Praying desperately that he was moved to escort her to protect her from harm, and not inflict some of it himself, she donned her powder blue raincoat. He got his tan trenchcoat, and they walked out the front door together.
"You know, I'm glad to have a chance to talk to you. I see you working at the office, but I hardly ever get to say two words to you."
Oh God, it was a pass. Now what was she going to do? Panic welled. She tried to stall him with noncommittal words. "Well, that's work."
"I hope Gordon isn't too much of a bear. He doesn't see why everybody shouldn't work eighty hours a week like him."
"It's all right."
"If he's leaning too hard on you, maybe I could talk to him."
"Oh, no, please don't. Really, it's no problem. Everything is fine."
"You sure?"
"Yes, work is fine."
They turned the corner and crossed the street to the Victorian cottage that was Rebecca's home. It had once been the carriage hou
se to a mansion that was long gone, making place for the brick apartment house on the corner. The yard was small, but neat, with several lush potted plants sitting on the porch, along with a pair of wicker chairs and small table.
"Wow, you must really have a green thumb!"
"I realized I was giving them too much water, so now they're doing much better," she said weakly. She could guess why they were looking so much better today. She fumbled for her key, dreading what was waiting for her inside.
Dan accompanied her up the steps, watched her sorting through her purse, and when it became apparent she was not going to invite him in, suddenly said, "You haven't had dinner yet. We could walk over to Wong's and get some Chinese."
She stuffed the key in the lock, turned it, and said, "No thank you. I don't like Chinese."
"Italian?"
She opened the door barely enough to slide between the door and the frame, and said, "No, I can't, really. I'm expecting someone else."
"Oh." He looked disappointed. "Well, if he stands you up, call me. I'll be at the office for a couple more hours."
She forced a smile, and without saying a word, slammed the door shut. The sound made her jump, and she was instantly sorry she had been so rude, but it was done. She peeked through the sidelight, and watched his back recede as he walked down the walk and crossed the street. He paused and looked back for a long moment, then disappeared around the corner.
She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the glass. He had been very nice, why was she afraid of him? Because men only wanted one thing.
She hung up her coat and put away her shoes, then tiptoed into the kitchen. The room was dim, with faint light from the streetlights shining through the lace curtains. The idol seemed to be sleeping, legs stretched out flat, bowl resting on his belly. He must be awfully tired of holding it, she thought. It gave her a pang of guilt that she had been inconsiderate of him, even if he was a freaky little idol. Moving quietly to avoid waking him, she crossed to the table and lifted the warm round bowl. She could hear his soft breathing, then saw his cat eyes watching her. She hesitated, then said, "I thought you might like me to move this."
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