Divine Fantasy

by Melanie Jackson

  M7872: So bring my scarlet slippers, then, And fetch the powder-puff to me. Meet where and when?

  I read the reply twice and then looked up at him. I knew this quote. It was part of a verse from a poem I’d read in college, but I couldn’t immediately place it.

  “Will you post back?” I asked, feeling suddenly a bit cautious.

  “Yes.” He hesitated, though. I understood his reluctance. The Internet is wonderfully anonymous. We had no way to know for certain if we were talking to a friend or foe. If I were better at computers, it might be that I could track this person down through an IP address or something. But I’m not better at computers, so we were stuck with average skills and probably worse than average luck.

  “What is something peculiar to Maine—something that would give a clue about where we are without coming out and saying anything directly?” Ambrose asked. “Is there a state flower?”

  “Um.” I thought hard, trying to recall anything I had read at the Visitors Bureau. “The state berry is the wild blueberry. Let’s see…The state animal is the moose—I think. That makes me think of that TV show, though, the one in Alaska. What was it called? Northern Exposure?”

  “Maybe that’s what unfriendly eyes will think, too.” He told me what to type. I thought it kind of obscure but did what he asked.

  Bitter1 says: I’m a huge Dumas fan. Can’t wait to discuss a story with you over pancakes and wild blueberry syrup. I’ll bring my pet moose if the harbor isn’t barred.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t add something about…” I began, but stopped when we got an immediate response. Gooseflesh rose on my arms as I realized that someone had been waiting for us to log in and answer.

  M7872: Good enough. I’ll find you. We heard about Cannibal Island. Deepest sympathies. You and your friend sit tight and do not post again. Cyber walls have ears too. The game is afoot! Aid is nigh.

  Our responder obviously had no problem remembering obscure screen names and passwords, since he was sticking with his anonymous, randomly assigned alphanumeric name. He was also apparently conversant with the novels of Arthur Conan Doyle. Did that up our chances of being in contact with one of the good guys since he was a fan of nineteenth-century popular fiction?

  There was a pause and then one more message for us. This one was very direct and I thought perhaps in someone new’s more elegant language. Perhaps it was the person who had quoted the earlier poem.

  M7872: There has always been enmity between the Dark Man’s son and his father’s patients. Possibly because we have free will and sufficient presence of mind to refuse an alliance with this zombie master. Also, as a wizard who steals power from others by absorbing their life force, we make very tempting targets. Be very careful. At least one of us will be there soon. I repeat, do not post again. It is not only the dead who travel fast.

  “Well, that is blunt enough.”

  “Indeed. Perhaps unwisely so. The mention of zombies seems like tempting the gods. Can we erase this conversation?”

  As though the computer was hearing Ambrose’s words, our entire exchange disappeared from the screen, including the original thread start. I scrolled through the topics twice, but it was gone. I wondered fleetingly if the woman who wanted to know how to get a date with the Devil would be annoyed that it was missing.

  “Someone knows his computers,” I said at last. “Or her computer. I shouldn’t be sexist about this.”

  “Is what happened hard to do?” Ambrose asked. This reminded me that he was anathema to all things electronic.

  “I wouldn’t know how to do it. Maybe he—she—was the moderator for this board. Or owns the Web site. That could explain things.” I closed my laptop and rolled my head from side to side, trying to ease some of the tension in my neck. I would have liked to ease some tension in other places, but with Ambrose’s acute hearing I really couldn’t picture doing so while he was in the house.

  “Joyous?” Ambrose’s voice was almost diffident. He continued to stand behind my chair where I couldn’t see his face. I could feel him, though. Heat poured off of him and lapped at my skin. I felt my nipples tighten and was grateful for the thick fabric between me and whoever might see.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry about earlier. In the bathtub. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on you.”

  Eavesdrop. Translation: accidentally tap into my bathtub fantasy. I did some mental swearing as I realized that he actually had felt/seen what I was thinking.

  “I’ve just gotten into the habit of listening to your heart and hearing how you are coping with things. Sometimes I hear other things as well. I shall be more careful in the future.”

  Blood burned in my cheeks. I had another brief flashback to my water fantasy, which I repressed immediately, even though thrusting it back was almost physically painful and made my lower body throb in protest. I considered sending him out for milk or a newspaper while I either collected myself or let myself loose entirely.

  “I know you’re concerned about me—and I’m grateful. It saved me more than once and I can never thank you enough. You just…caught me off guard.” I took a slow breath. I meant to tell him that I had no intention of letting anything happen between us, but what came out of my mouth was: “Ambrose, you must know that I am more than just a weak heart that you have to babysit. I’m an actual adult with…with adult feelings.”

  He backed up a step. I didn’t think he was listening to my thoughts, but he could probably hear the frustration in my voice.

  “I know. And I find you attractive too. Damnably so.” His blunt words caused a small, pleasurable contraction in my pelvis. My stupid body still thought it might get lucky. “But I am also more than just a man. I’m human in my head and in my heart, more or less, but in all other respects…I’m not really a human anymore.”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t forget the opposable thumbs. Scientists think that’s a really important human trait,” I pointed out after a long moment of silence. I didn’t turn to look but I had the feeling that this made him smile.

  “Okay, I have human thumbs. But that doesn’t alter the fact that the form of lycanthropy I am infected with can be spread more easily than you would think. Since I don’t always have the best of control when I’m…when in an intimate situation, I tend to be cautious. We can’t risk calling the beast. The tiniest scratch or nick could be enough to cause infection. Believe me, you don’t want this to happen.”

  This was less arousing. My body didn’t want to hear about infections.

  “Ah. It’s good to be on guard then.” And that was all I could manage on the subject.

  I did not turn around to look at him. Instead, I stared out the window over the sink and urged my lower body not to squirm on the chair. My voice was calm when I spoke again. “Look. It’s started snowing. More snow.”

  “Snow,” he repeated. “I wish I felt better about this.” He moved to my side again.

  “Does this feel unnatural?” I asked.

  He shrugged and then shook his head. “Not really. But snow will make travel more difficult for our new allies.”

  “And our enemies,” I reminded him.

  “Maybe.”

  I fought an urge to glance behind me. “I could be wrong, but I’m thinking that if our new friends are anything like you, snow won’t be much of a problem.”

  “If my enemies are like me, they won’t have any trouble either.”

  I scowled. “You know, Ambrose, we’re going to have to work on your outlook on life. Let’s try to be a bit more positive.”

  He sighed in frustration. “As soon as we are on the far side of this mess, I promise I’ll do just that.”

  Mythology, n. The body of a primitive people’s beliefs concerning its origin, early history, heroes, deities and so forth, as distinguished from the true accounts which it invents later.

  Reliquary, n. A receptacle for such sacred objects as pieces of the true cross, short-ribs of saints, the ears of Balaam’s ass, the lung of the cock th
at called Peter to repentance and so forth. Reliquaries are commonly of metal, and provided with a lock to prevent the contents from coming out and performing miracles at unseasonable times.

  —Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary

  My price is one hundred thirty million dollars. If, when you are ready to pay, I happen to be out of town, you may hand it over to my friend, the Treasurer of the United States.

  —Bierce’s reply to Collis P. Huntington when confronted on the Capitol steps with a demand to know the price Bierce would accept to not go public with proof of the railroads’ effort to get a bill through Congress without public hearings.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ambrose and I slept in my parents’ bed, each of us being ridiculously careful to stick to our own sides and avoid any unintentional touching. I don’t know how Ambrose fared, but I was exhausted and, the moment my head hit the old feather pillows, I pretty much went out like the power during a blizzard.

  I dreamed that night. I dreamed terrible things as I so often had as a child in times of stress, but this time the nightmarish visions were playing out on a sewn-together backdrop of strange new emotions, incorrect memories and wildest imaginings, where I saw frightening things both real and unreal. And I did so over and over again. I woke several times, but the nightmare pulled me back under every time.

  The worst vision by far was my mother standing next to Saint Germain as the wizard pushed a pillow over my face. The only difference in each performance of the nightmare was that the mood grew progressively more ominous with every repetition, until it wasn’t my mother standing over me anymore, it was my mother’s corpse. Her zombie had come to kill me. Her breath was full of dry rot as she hissed my name, her tissues being too desiccated for her to speak as she used to.

  I finally came awake with a scream on my lips and my heart slamming painfully as it tried to escape its terror.

  Hush. This was a thought, not a voice, but I knew it came from Ambrose. His hand was resting on my chest right over my heart. Immediately my pulse began to calm and each throb of the damaged muscle became less painful.

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered, my voice raspy with strangled screams and my booted and spurred pulse still dancing a jagged tango at my temples.

  “The power’s gone out,” Ambrose answered, his voice also hushed. In the dark, his skin began to glow. Heat poured off of him and I could feel static crawling over my skin. I know he was listening intently even as he pressed more firmly on my chest. I could almost imagine his fingers gripping my heart and forcing it to calm. At his command, my heart slowed to its regular beat.

  I glanced at the clock on the bedside table but it was ominously dark. However, the room wasn’t completely so. I looked quickly toward the door, startled by the flash of red light. Before I could gasp or do anything else hysterical, I recalled that there was a smoke detector tucked in a corner up near the ceiling. It blinked periodically to tell us that it was on battery power, the flashing too slow to signal immediate danger, in spite of the warning color.

  Ambrose also turned toward the door to see what had caught my attention.

  “That light?” he asked

  “It’s the smoke detector. It runs on batteries when the power is out,” I said, guessing what Ambrose was about to ask. “I guess maybe the lines went down in the storm. It happens a lot.”

  Ambrose grunted and jerked his head at the window.

  “How strange. Other houses across the street still seem to have…” I stopped speaking, interrupted by a powerful boom, and then the entire west side of town went black. “That’s really weird.”

  Weird. Translation: That was damn spooky.

  “That’s more than weird. Get dressed.” He propelled me into a sitting position and then rolled from the bed.

  “You think this isn’t an accident? You think that someone deliberately…” My voice was barely louder than the sudden wind pawing at the window. Once I was sitting up I could hear that the storm had worsened while we slept. I slid out of bed and reached for my jeans. For half a moment I considered excusing myself and dressing in the bathroom, but decided that this wasn’t the moment for modesty. Also, it would be colder in the bathroom. If Ambrose didn’t want to see me naked, he could turn his back.

  Ambrose went to the window and pried it open. He was a dark shadow against the gray of the frosted pane. The sash shrieked a protest and wind rushed inside, hurling snow with angry fists. The icy confetti latched onto the drapes and carpet and clung with frozen claws. However, none stuck to Ambrose. I actually heard the small flakes hiss as they hit his glowing skin.

  I smelled ozone. The taste was thick on my tongue and I thought of the unnatural storms that had surrounded the island when Saint Germain had come. If Ambrose hadn’t called this storm…

  “But it can’t be!” I said, buttoning my flannel shirt and reaching for my GET LEID IN HAWAII sweatshirt to put on top. It was impossible to put on too many layers with the sudden cold seeping into my trembling bones. “Damn it! How could he have found us so soon?”

  “I don’t know. Unless that message on the computer…”

  “Even if that was Saint—was him—he can’t have gotten here already. He was in Fiji. Inside a crocodile.”

  “His golem was in Fiji,” Ambrose reminded me. “He could have been anywhere. This could even be another golem or a clone or something.” Ambrose slammed the window shut and went to the armoire. My father had kept a shotgun on the top shelf along with a Colt revolver. I had never moved either, though it was probably unwise to leave firearms in a house left empty months at a time. That Ambrose knew they were there did not surprise me; he had spent a fair amount of time exploring the house while I did my best to avoid him with fussing in the kitchen.

  I stuffed my feet into my boots and took the guns from Ambrose as he sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled on his snow boots. He had slept fully clothed so didn’t need to do more than button his shirt.

  “I’m going out to check the car,” he said, taking the shotgun back. He checked that it was loaded. I couldn’t see what he was doing but the sound was unmistakable. “I want you to stand in the doorway while I go outside, and shoot anything that moves. Anything except me,” he added.

  “The snow is too deep to move the car. It’s a front wheel-drive wuss car,” I protested, but followed him out of the room. No way was I doing the stupid horror movie thing and getting separated from him, not if there was any chance that Saint Germain was around. I had no illusions about my chances of surviving a fight with some psychotic wizard.

  “Maybe. But we need to know for sure. I’d like to know we can leave if we have to.” He paused at the telephone table and picked up the handset. “It’s dead,” he said. Somehow I wasn’t surprised. Naturally, neither of us had a cell phone for backup, and none of my neighbors had shown any signs of being at home earlier in the day, so popping over to use their phones was out too. We could break in, but only as a last resort. The summer homes had burglar alarms and the year-round residents had guns and an inclination to use them.

  “I guess we have to assume that we’re really in trouble here,” I said as Ambrose moved on to the door. I was hoping that he would contradict me.

  “Yes, I believe the expression is up Shit Creek.”

  That was almost enough to make me laugh. The vulgar phrase sounded absurd on his lips.

  “Yes—but how far up?” I asked. “I’m not sure I understand, or even have the right scales on which to measure our situation. I just don’t understand how he could have found us so soon. Do you hear something?” I asked as he paused, head tilted to one side as he stood silhouetted in the window.

  Ambrose glanced back. I was sure he could see me clearly even if I could only barely make out his outline.

  “It’s worse than Fiji. We have civilians here in town. And cold that can kill you if you go outside.” He turned away.

  We walked quickly, being careful to avoid the dining table where the laptop sti
ll sat, the useless portable computer that wouldn’t contact the outside world without a working phone line.

  So much for running away from our problems so we would have time to regroup. I promised myself that I would buy a cell phone the first chance I got.

  “Maybe help will get here soon. That last message sounded pretty confident.” I was talking about the message board.

  “Yes. But not soon enough,” Ambrose said. “I can smell him now. That stench in the air is unmistakable.” These words made me shudder, and I felt the cold burrowing deeper into my organs. The furnace was on but the sudden drop in temperature inside the house was more than it could cope with. Maybe it was as frightened as I.

  Ambrose turned toward the living room and I followed his gaze. There was still a faint glow of embers in the fireplace and, with a wave of his hand, Ambrose sparked the ashes to renewed life.

  “Throw on a log,” he said. “You may need the light, and we will probably want the fire.”

  We will probably want the fire. Translation: We might need to burn some zombies.

  “F-f-fuck a duck,” I stuttered, recalling what my roommate at school used to say whenever she got weekend detention—which was often. She never did learn how to lie convincingly and was always cutting classes.

  It was Ambrose’s turn to laugh.

  Feeling almost frozen, both physically and mentally, I hurried to do as he asked, using my left hand to throw on a log and a handful of kindling. My right was gripped tight around the Colt. It felt almost natural there. And that was good because—“Oh double fuck a duck.”

  “What is it?” Ambrose asked. He wasn’t laughing now.

  “I just remembered. We are only a half block from an old cemetery.” Where my parents were buried. My dream came back to me with complete clarity, and my shudders almost knocked me over. “Z-zombies c-couldn’t get out of frozen g-ground, c-could they? They couldn’t dig through s-six feet of ice?” I was feeling nauseous as well as cold.