I’m assigned the task of buttering biscuits. I have to work fast for the trays keep coming. There are dozens and dozens. Caroline is seasoning a stew and exchanging some important words with Mama. Mama nods her head intently. “That’s great,” I see her mouth. “That’s just great.” Then she looks at me and smiles.
I suddenly feel important. Like maybe they’re talking about me. I’ve never been discussed where it didn’t involve some kind of brawl or moment of unexpected mania and it’s nice to think that for once people can see me in a different light.
Just when my hopes are up, though, Caroline hands me a basket of bread and says, “Table three. By the wall fountain.” I know where she’s talking about. It’s in the bar area. I take the basket and push my way out of the swinging doors. As I approach table three I see a single man sitting. I take a closer look and realize it’s no other than Sidewinder, the man who called my father retarded. I pivot and storm back into the kitchen.
“What is he doing here?”
Caroline looks at the basket in my hand. “He’s down and out. He’s hungry.”
“He should starve. He called my father a name once.”
Caroline doesn’t flinch. “Nevertheless you are going to go over there and ask him if he wants a piece of bread.”
“I hate him.”
“Let it go, Stori.”
“He hurt my father.”
“You are bringing him the bread.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
“No. I’m. Not.” I shove the basket back at her.
She takes it but says, “Yes. You. Are.” She might be a small woman but she’s pretty stubborn. I snatch the basket from her and head back out to the dining room.
He takes a while to notice I’m there. His head is in his hands and he’s staring into the tabletop. I can see and smell that he hasn’t showered in days. He looks up at me finally and says, “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.” He looks at the basket like Regi does when she’s really hungry and she’s waiting for my mother or me to serve her.
Yes. It’s him for sure. I’ll never forget the curl of his lips as he sneered at my father’s retreating back. My father, who couldn’t get the words out to defend himself.
I don’t give him any bread, but say. “You hurt my father one day. You called him a name. Just to be mean. He didn’t do anything to you.”
The man struggles a little to emerge from his shell of despondency. He’s trying to place my face and then at last he does. His face opens with memory only to close again. “Are you here to hit me again?” he demands.
I don’t know what is starting to happen to me. Why am I not knocking him on the ground? The old me would have rejoiced over this opportunity to get him back. To let him have a good piece of karma along with his slice of sesame. To let him know what it feels like to be kicked when you’re down, just how my father felt.
But for all my might, I can’t. I just can’t get my hatred going for him.
What’s more I feel bad for him. I realize that people like him, who hurt other people’s feelings aren’t doing it because they are evil. They’re doing it because they’re scared. Somewhere in life this guy wasn’t loved enough. He wasn’t told he could amount to something—something much better than a bully and now a poor and forgotten bum.
It’s not my job to tell him, but it is my job to help. To feed him. So that when the day comes for him to choose hope he will have a little of it already from the olive leaf I am now offering. I feel embarrassed just doing it and pray to God no friends of mine are around to see my pathetic little tender moment.
He scowls as he takes my offer. He snatches the biggest piece he can find.
Back in the kitchen I’m pretty ticked off at Caroline. “Okay. So I didn’t hit him. Is that lesson number one?”
She’s pleased. “Stori. I can see your magic growing already. Maybe there is hope. Maybe there is hope indeed. There are two ways to hone your powers, Stori, and the choice lies within you.”
“What are the ways?” I ask as the dancing around us continues in all its chaotic perfection, as Mama’s voice is shouting, “Get those greens blanched up pronto. I need them in five.”
“The first way is simple. Just keep using them as they come. You will grow more powerful and at a very quick rate. You will be able to manipulate people and get your way wherever you go. But if you hone them this way the powers will eventually overtake you and lead you to commit yourself to darkness.”
“What is the other way?”
“Through me. But it has its perils also. The more you grow as a Brave, the more Cosimo will be able to sense you. And he will send his Hounds out to kill you.”
“So I have to choose.”
“I cannot force you to make a choice either way. It has to come through you.”
“If I choose the first way, will I find my father quicker?”
“You will find him, and it will be easier. But I can assure you it will not be a good thing.”
“You mean for my soul, don’t you.”
“Yes. I do. And for the city.”
“The other kind of power is much more difficult. It requires selflessness, Stori. Selflessness—the very thing that makes us truly wise and truly brave. A bravery and fearlessness to face many perils. But, oh, the riches that can be discovered. The great things that can be born from it.”
I look back at the swinging doors. They never cease swinging as waitresses and busboys keep rushing in and out. I look at Caroline. “I want to learn it from you.”
“Come, then. Follow me.”
18: Bilhah
I come here at dusk to revisit myself. When the rest of my friends are swimming in the Tigris, I choose a separate path to the quiet lookout point and gather my thoughts unto myself. In the city out beyond, they have looking glasses called mirrors where women gaze for hours. They see their own reflections and become enchanted.
But I have a different looking glass from which to gaze, to behold the image of myself. And the girl who appears every time is not the girl I’ve glimpsed in the dark still waters or even from the corners of those finely polished mirrors. She is a blazing light with a heart that beats on the outside. She is the image of the Father himself. And she can fly. She has wings of the white dove.
What is the looking glass, you ask? It is everything. It is the sky, it is the massive tower off in the distance, it is the rocks of the caves that hold my family here in the mountains, it is the little crawly things that live just under the rocks.
It is the sum total of all things. And when I am out here in the dusk and marveling at the beauty of each and every item that surrounds me, I can see the girl I really am. The true girl. The one who was born of the light.
You see, there is a universal truth that exists. A mass consciousness. All are aware of it, from the crawly thing, to the roaming beast, to the pondering man. All are under its influence, whether they know it or not. It is the singular motivation behind all actions, whether good or evil. It is the brightest light ever seen. A thousand leagues beyond the sun and moon. I can see it now, way out in the beyond. A blue so deep and lovely and it shines. It is called the Father Light.
Truth is singular. It does not exist outside of itself. It does not rest on anything, but the Great Mysterious, our Lord.
My mother tells me not to love the city of Babel. Not to love the tower and the people who live within its gates. She says they worship false gods there. They are governed by a man who calls himself King. They are devising evil ways and manifesting selfishness and vanity. And to admire such debauchery is to be just like them—to have fallen prey to their ways.
But when I am this girl of fire, who bears white wings of the dove, I love even the tower. I love even the waywards who worship the false gods. I love all things. All women. All men.
The Great Mysterious knows my love. For he comes to me at dusk sometimes, when I am wrapped up in the universal truth, the One Light, His Love.
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“They have called for you again,” He says, sitting in the place where the rock face juts out into the sky.
“My Glorious and Awesome,” I say. “And I bow my head to the ground in honor of Him.”
“Be at peace,” He says. “Be at peace.”
I know Him. I have always known Him. We did not have to greet one another in the usual custom at our first meeting. He appeared. I bowed my forehead before him. And at once we were friends. But more than friends, we were one. “I am You,” I told him. “I am You and only wish to be You from here on until eternity.”
He smiled and said, “My child. You are mine.”
This is the way it is between the Great Mysterious and me. I may be shy with the rest of the world but I am as open as the sky when I am in His presence.
“Yes,” I tell Him this evening. “They have called for me. I will go at sunrise into the city. My mother will make the provisions for my journey.”
“Make sure you behold the lilies on your way down.”
I don’t know if the Great Mysterious has been down to see the tower. If He has, He has never mentioned it. When I am called by the wisemen, to come and perform the ancient dance, my mother is never pleased. “They drain her of her powers. They use it for their God.”
“Nonsense,” my father tells her. “They only wish to preserve and honor the ancient ways of our God. They use it for good. Bilhah, do you like to visit the Tower of Babel? Does it please you?”
“The city is full of fascinating people. And the wisemen have mapped out the stars that lead to the heavens. They are making a crown. They will place it upon our Great Mysterious, once the tower reaches into heaven. And have discovered many wonderful things. But my place is home. Nothing pleases me more than to be with my people.” He smoothes my hair at the side of my head and says, “You are a good girl. Your father is pleased.”
I am a worker of magic. I know the dance that holds off rainstorms. This comes in use for the residents of the city, for the bricks they bake in the ovens need time to dry. If they are not yet going to be dried and the wisemen read the stars to see that a storm is coming, they call for me. They have also called for me in recent days to dance as they draw their drafts of the crown. It has not yet been forged but they are still working on it.”
I don’t know why the Lord gave me such a gift as dancing, for I don’t like people looking at me. I was named Bilhah by an old prophet woman. The girl will be painfully shy.
Our people don’t have to use the wisemen to know when it will rain. We have visions of storms before they happen. Even in our dreams. The animals tell us too. They know much about the land and without their guidance we would not be able to survive. The wisemen who work for the king call our way of living the Way of Faith. They place great value on it and always give me many blessings and send me home with gifts after I dance for them. I think that’s kind of funny. That men with such knowledge, who can read the stars and draw out the mathematics to answer life’s mysteries would be appreciative of someone like me. But Lazarus, the Mathematician, always tells me this: “The infinite knowledge is in all men. But it cannot be drawn out without the fearless love. You are the fearless love my child. You still possess the powers of those who commune with the earth. We have been kept here very busy in the city, working our calculations, ruminating in our minds. We write, we read, we ponder and discover. But the city walls we are building are a double edged sword. They protect us and build us a name, but they also dull our hearts and minds from the memory of being children! Dancing, playing children of the earth! For the greatest mysteries cannot be unraveled without the child’s heart. Without the wonder and imagination and awe of the great wide world. You are a great spoke in the wheel of Babel, Bilhah. Your reverence and effortless unity with the cosmos have blown the very life into our studies. You are integral to the building of the tower and of the crown. We cannot do these things without you.”
In the morning I will go. I will go to the Tower of Babel. But in the dying dusk I will watch the massive fires being lit. They can be seen from a great distance. They billow white smoke that is eaten up by the black sky.
Men are capable of such mighty things and it amazes me. I take it all in, I hold it in my heart. I become the girl the great Lord intended me to be. One of the universal truth. Of an everlasting all encompassing love.
19: Stori
So I’ve got these powers now, right? I mean, I don’t really know how this Knowing works yet. I’ve only used it once. That monster was the scariest thing I’ve ever had to face, but I was able to stop him. Telepathy. It’s fucking awesome. I’ve always been able to read people, a good judge of character, but when the magic takes over, it’s beyond that.
Caroline’s right. Knowledge is power. The more you know about someone the more you own them. I wish I knew everything about Tony. I wish I knew just what hurts him inside. Just what he likes. The kind of kisser that makes his knees buckle.
I’m almost tempted to go over to his place right now and see if I can use the magic on him. But the grand opening of Strive is tonight and getting down there to see the mayor is more important. Before I left Mama’s Door Caroline told me I need to get to him somehow, read him the way I did the Sweeper. Caroline is deathly afraid of the mayor. I pray he knows where my dad is, and I get it out of him. If my powers don’t work, I have my gat with me.
Forget Tony. I’ve got work to do.
The grand opening is advertised all over town. In every newspaper, in every storefront and, of course, the billboard hanging over our town. Even in the Valley people are talking about it. People want so badly to win a black chip. To get up to the Heaven Lounge and see what it’s like to be catered to by robots.
It’s also my birthday today. I’ve just turned seventeen. My mother is feeling better and has the house decorated with balloons and streamers. We’re not really having a party because I told her I don’t want one. But she promised tonight she’s going to make me dinner and bake a cake. There’s a present on the kitchen table and my mother even replaced the vase I shattered with a new one—and added even more pussy willow to it. The present is in a small box wrapped in pink wrapping paper. I haven’t touched it yet.
“You can open it if you want Stori. You don’t have to wait for cake.”
“It’s okay, Ma. I’ll wait. What are you making?”
“Your favorite of course! Anchovies Pizza and Ice Box Cake!”
I’m happy she’s feeling better. But I’m also scared she’s just faking it. “You feeling better, now, Ma?”
She comes over to me and touches my head. The flour on her hand smells sweet. “I’ve still got you and Regina don’t I?”
“Daddy too. He’s coming home.”
Just the mere mention of my dad makes her eyes water. She can’t live without him. I know she can’t.
“Don’t cry. I’ll get him back for you, Ma. I promise.”
She turns away from me and retreats to the stove.
“Tonight is the grand opening. Of the casino.”
“Are you going, honey?”
“Yeah. I’m bringing Regi with me. But we’ll be back for pizza and cake.”
“Of course you will.” She says it like she doesn’t expect us to come back at all. People leave and never return sometimes. She’s already surrendered herself to that fact.
I make a pit stop at Mr. Delfi’s butcher shop before Regi and I head out. Regi’s hungry and I have to feed her before we go. I ask Mr. Delfi for a Cappy and Swiss on white to go. He obliges kindly, all the while whistling a happy tune. His son in law is nowhere in sight and I’m silently thankful for his absence.
Arty Arm is over by the storefront window, hunched over his newspaper, sipping from a tiny espresso mug. His cronies are with him, drinking out of their own mugs and chomping on Social Teas.
Since Mo isn’t there I go over to his table and say, “Excuse me. Mr. Arty Carp.”
I don’t know if he’s still mad about me interrupting his bus
iness with Mo and calling him a Faccie Due. “What is it kid?”
“I had a question to ask you. About, you know, that stuff you were talking about the other night. What you heard? The mayor and Cosimo and all that.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I was just wondering where you heard it from. That’s all.”
He closes the paper and points to the front page. “You see this?”
It’s a picture of the casino and a headline reads: “Grand Opening of Strive and the Highly Anticipated Heaven Lounge Expected to Bring in Millions on Opening Night.”
“The mayor will be there, you know.”
“I know.”
“He’s going all over town yapping about how it’s the first time in 300 years Redemption has jobs for every single resident of the city. He’s gunning for governor, you know. A real opportunist this one is.”
“What?” one of his cronies comments. “You ain’t ever heard of a greedy politician?”
Arty sucks his teeth, folds the paper in its standard three folds and tucks it under his arm. He looks at me and says, “Do you know where he got most of the money for this outside of his investors? 1.5 billion in emergency reserve, plus he deferred 2 million. He’s selling a fantasy of a newer, better city but in reality he’s put us in major debt.”
“But the stuff you heard?” I gently remind him.
He sucks his teeth. “Yeah. I stand by it. Even if it came from Soda Can.”
“From Soda Can?”
“That’s right. Soda Can. That’s where I heard it. From one of the canners. Can’t remember which one. Had my hands tied up at the moment. But I heard it none the less.”
The Book, the Key and the Crown (Secrets of the Emerald Tablet Book 1) Page 19