Magic Cries

by Miriam Greystone

  Andrew took the lead, and Troy the rear. Molly did not fail to notice that they had boxed her in, but it made little difference. She had no thoughts of running. Both Troy and Andrew had silently pulled on packs as they departed the van. They took a long, rocky path, down to the very foot of one of the mountains. Molly was relieved that they were forced to walk single file and save their breath. She was trying very hard to think. Eventually, they reached the bottom, where the sand was still sodden, and several tiny shelled creatures flailed helplessly in the sand, left behind in the unforgiving sun when the tide pulled away.

  “Right over here!” Andrew shouted, pointing to a small opening in the rock.

  His voice was filled with its usual bravado, but he spoke somewhat breathlessly. Molly's eyes narrowed as she looked at him. He was sweating profusely, and his face was bright red.

  “Are you ready?” Andrew asked her, grinning.

  Molly grimaced, unable to feign the excitement that seemed to glow inside him. “Not at all,” she answered grimly. “But if we're going to do this, then let's get it over with.”

  “Great,” Andrew turned to Troy. “Listen,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, as though saying something in great confidence, “I think the smart play here is for you to stay and guard the entrance,” Andrew looked over his shoulder, as though Sirens might burst out of the bushes at any moment. “Molly and I will back soon. But we need someone to watch our backs.”

  Troy rocked back on his heels, his expression wary. “You wouldn’t be thinking of double-crossing me, Andrew. Would you?” He asked, his eyes narrow.

  “Are you kidding?” Andrew cried, flinging his arms out to the side. “Is that what you think? When the Watchers might come at any moment, and stop us before we even get a chance to start?” Andrew shook his head. “We need someone to stand watch. Besides,” Andrew lifted a shoulder expressively. “You know as well as I do that this is risky. There’s no telling what exactly might be in there. There’s no reason for you to be exposed to the worst of the risk.”

  Troy nodded slowly, pursing his lips. “Hell,” he said, “if you want to go climbing around in the dark without me, by all means: be my guest.”

  Andrew laughed and slapped Troy on the shoulder.

  “We’ll be back soon,” he promised, and he and Molly walked toward the opening to the cave.

  Just as they were about to step inside, Troy called after them. “Oh, and Andrew, I should just tell you one other thing.”

  “What?” Andrew asked, his voice uncertain.

  Troy pulled a gun from where it had hung hidden, beneath his clothes. “I am prepared to defend you. But I’m also prepared to shoot you if you don’t give me what’s supposed to be mine,” he grinned nastily, “old friend.”

  Andrew gave a forced laugh, as though Troy had said something funny. “See you soon,” he repeated, then grabbed Molly’s elbow, and pulled her with him into the cave.

  “Great,” she muttered, “now the maniac has a gun.”

  Andrew shrugged. “I figured he had one on him somewhere,” he said. “Troy hordes weapons like a squirrel collects nuts.”

  “Maybe you don't have as much control over him as you like to think,” Molly observed quietly.

  They walked deeper into the cave. Molly had never been in darkness like this before. It seemed eager, the way it stretched out to the very edge of the doorway, reaching out for her. Only a few steps in, and already it was all around her, lying heavy on her skin and pressing, like a cool hand, against her forehead. Andrew had a large flashlight which he held in front of his chest like a talisman, swinging it back and forth, but the weak beam of light skirting across the gray rock only made the darkness around them seem thicker. They walked together deeper down the tunnel's throat. Molly reached out and touched the wall of stone beside her—it was perfectly smooth, cold, and slightly damp. Her foot slipped, and she looked down. The floor that they walked on was the same stuff – rock so sleek that it seemed to have been carefully polished. Molly wasn't sure if the moisture was from condensation or some other source. She was filled with a sudden apprehension. What if she slipped? What if she fell here, and slid ahead, alone, deeper and deeper into darkness?

  They walked a few more steps before Molly realized that the tunnel was getting narrower as they went. She and Andrew had started out simply walking side by side, but now their shoulders pressed tight together. Another minute in and Andrew fell back to walk behind her, wordlessly placing a hand on her shoulder. The passageway was also shrinking from above, she had to crouch slightly to keep from bumping her head. Molly felt the stone closing in around her, and suddenly it was hard to breathe.

  “How narrow is this going to get?” she asked Andrew, looking back around to see his face.

  He shook his head, “We've just got to get through it. Keep going, Molly,” and he gave her shoulder a small pat that was almost a shove. The air was stale here, and Molly could smell the damp and the mold.

  Suddenly she stumbled as the ground changed. She was at the bottom of a twisting stairway. She looked back at Andrew, who was staring at the stairs, his brow furrowed. Molly noticed that he was sweating, and though they hadn't walked far yet, his chest was heaving as though he had just run a great distance.

  “I don't know,” he said, answering the question in her eyes. “I didn't see anything about a staircase in any of the documents I had. Nothing,” he licked his lips and then motioned with his flashlight for her to begin the climb.

  The stairway narrowed as it spiraled up and up, closing around them like a tightening fist. The air smelled of wet clay and still water, of things that festered and multiplied in the dark. In her ears, the silence whispered; and though Molly could not understand the words, still, deep inside, she trembled, and wished herself far, far away, to anyplace but this.

  Later, she could not remember which of them it was who started screaming first.

  They had reached what seemed, at last, to be the highest part of the stairs and stumbled, with tired, shuffling feet, onto a floor once more level and smooth as glass. Molly's legs throbbed, and the blood thrummed in her thighs. They were standing at the entrance to a long corridor that unfurled before them, dark and empty. The ceiling was so low that Molly felt it brush like velvet against the top of her head, catching in her hair like small, skeletal fingers.

  Then something soft and warm touched her temple.

  Tiny eyes blinked open, red and staring. There was just enough time to see wrinkled brown lips pulling back from bone white incisors, and to feel sharp bursts of wind press against their faces. Something hit Molly against her cheek and left a wet, warm trail of blood behind.

  Then the screaming started.

  It could have been Andrew, when he realized that the low ceiling was covered with living creatures, who hung upside down and gazed at him malevolently, eye to eye. Or it could have been Molly, who had suddenly felt that one of the leathery creatures had reached out and caught hold of her hair, and was pulling itself toward her. Or it could have been one of the creatures themselves, furious at the disturbance, or glorying that finally, after generations of waiting, the moment of their usefulness had come. But whatever its origin, a single, deep throated scream broke the silence.

  And then came chaos.

  The sound did not fade away, but hurled itself against one wall of the cave and then another, thrown back and forth, shattering and multiplying. The echoed scream grew and grew until it filled the cave, building in intensity until Molly found herself adding to the horrible noise, covering her ears and screaming in earnest from the pain that radiated through her eardrums. All around her bats were screaming in protest, waking and flying thick and wild through the cramped cave room, beating their wings in her face, hissing as they swung in front of her eyes. For long minutes Molly was lost in the wave of sound and the flurry of boney bodies swirling around her like angry bees. But then the bats were fewer, and the sound began to fade.

  “Look,” Andrew gasped,
pointing, and Molly's eyes followed where he was pointing to. Hundreds and hundreds of bats sailed up, seeming almost elegant now that they weren't near, spiraling to where a small cleft in the rock opened up into a window. They flooded out into the sky.

  “Oh, thank God that's over,” Molly said, feeling her arms, where dozens of little scratches now crisscrossed the arms that she had held up in front of herself to shield her face.

  “It isn't over,” Andrew said, and his voice trembled. Molly spun around to stare, she had never heard fear in his voice before. “Don't you understand what just happened?” His face was bleeding too, and he mopped his bleeding forehead with the cleanest bit of his sleeve, “What do you think that was?” he waited for a minute, but Molly did not respond. He walked over to her and leaned in close, “We set off the alarm.” He glared at her, as though this was somehow her fault. “Just imagine what it is going to look like outside right now! Hundreds, maybe even thousands of bats swirling over the mountaintop. Like a giant smoke signal! The Watchers will see, and they will know that we're here. They will come for us.” He walked away from her and leaned against the wall weakly, a hand over his face. “Shit. We've got to hurry. It’s too late to go back, and I have no idea how soon they'll be able to get here.” He adjusted the bag on his shoulders, a useless, nervous motion. “Come on!” he almost shouted, as though she had been holding them up.

  “There,” he whispered a moment later, as the passage began to broaden “That’s the doorway. The guards will be just through there. Just use your voice to keep them still, and I’ll take care of everything else, alright. Here we go . . .”

  “Wait!” Molly whispered urgently. Andrew turned around, his eyes wide with confusion.

  “Just . . . give me a minute,” Molly said, forcing herself to breathe, trying to collect her thoughts. But the more she thought, the more she tried to calm herself, the more panicked she felt.

  “Oh, never mind!” she exclaimed. “Let’s just go!” And Molly rushed in front of Andrew, bursting into the chamber ahead.

  Jake

  It was annoying not having a license. Not having a credit card. The world had boiled down to a few basic, shining truths for Jake. He wanted to keep only them in his mind. He wanted to focus on them completely, and not be distracted. It felt like the world ought to simplify around him, too. That it ought to be as straightforward as his own thinking. But it wasn't. There were train schedules and city maps. There were bus stops and foul-mouthed cabbies. Jake could hardly stand it. He had made his decision, had started on his plan. It seemed unbearable to stand in line at the train station. He felt like the world would end, and tumble down around his feet in smoldering, black chunks of destruction, if he had to wait one, more, fucking, minute, for his goddamned ticket.

  He kept checking his watch, though that made it worse. He wanted it to be worse. He kept fingering his earlobe, and the tiny lines that were indented there forever. That made it worse, too. Like wading through deep water, he forced himself to wait for one train, and then another. He took a cab, a ferry, and two buses. And when he could get no farther on public transportation, he walked out to the forest and ran. He was closer, now. He stopped sometimes and checked his map. Denise had known everything, just as he knew she would. She had been very good at giving him directions. Now he could see the cliffs in the distance. He could hear the waves, not too far away.

  He could smell the ocean.

  The sunlight was pushing through the trees, making deep black shadows fall behind them. Jake stopped and stood, panting. It was time.

  He had held guns before, but he had never fired one. It was already loaded, but Jake checked it carefully. He saw that his hand was shaking, and that worried him. It worried him a lot. This whole goddamned scheme of his bothered him, to be honest. What the fuck was he thinking? But he didn't stop.

  He knelt down on the ground. It was still wet from the dew, he could feel the damp soaking into the knees of his pants. He held the gun in his hand, unsure of what to do.

  He brought it up, slowly. He pointed it carefully, willing his hand to be steady, willing himself to be strong, and hold still. Not to flinch. The first shot was like a cannonball exploding, right next to his ear. It made the whole forest vibrate with the sound of silver bells ringing, but their music was only for Jake. He looked behind him into the trees after he fired, as though checking to make sure he hadn't hit something by mistake. There was nothing there but trees and wind and ringing silence. He moved the gun to the other side and fired again. It was so loud that it felt like someone was ramming him with a battering ram, hitting him solidly in the side of the face. His eyes watered like he had been cutting onions. But it wasn't enough. His ears rang, but when he snapped his fingers in front of his face, he could still hear it faintly. He ground his teeth together, closed his eyes tight, and did it again. And again. And again.

  When he was done, he had used every single bullet that he had, and he couldn't hear a fucking thing.

  Nothing.

  The world had turned into a silent movie, and the grass didn't rustle as he stepped through it—the waves didn't whisper on the rocks. He looked up at the cliffs and got shakily to his feet.

  He was ready.

  Bea

  They were both waiting when the King returned. He came in a boat of polished wood so beautifully crafted that, even with loss swelling inside her, Bea couldn't help but smile when she saw it. She ran her fingers across the wood, letting her fingers caress the smoothness of its sides.

  They climbed aboard and, wordlessly, Malachai offered her a blanket. Bea wrapped it around her shoulders, noticing as she did so just how very thin she had become. Though the morning sun shone strongly, she was grateful for the warmth. Her angel stood next to the King in the prow. Bea did not look back at the lighthouse as the boat pulled out into the water. She felt it, rather than watched it, disappear behind her.

  Bea closed her eyes and let her weariness fold in around her. She used it as a tool now, a defense against thought. She barely felt the boat moving. When she opened her eyes again, the mountains were all around her, gray and white. Snow-capped peaks loomed high above her. Seagulls cried in the distance. The sun was shining.

  “Here,” the King said. It was the first time anyone had spoken since they climbed aboard the boat. Bea looked and saw a narrow path, lined with white stones. It twisted up and around the side of the mountain. Her angel held her arm as they climbed on shore.

  “There is a back way into the chamber,” the King pointed up the path. “It has only one guard . . . one I selected and put in place myself.” He turned to Bea. “He will admit you. You must retrieve the goblet and then bring it back here, to the water's edge, and drink.”

  Bea nodded silently.

  “Would you like Malachai to hold you, Bea? We could fly up if you wish.”

  Bea shook her head slowly. “No,” she said. “I can walk.”

  Her angel held her hand as they climbed. His hand squeezed hers over and over, as though each time he loosened his hold, he realized how little time he had left to hold her, and had to tighten his grip.

  The King seemed, after a time, to grow agitated. He kept glancing up the path ahead of them and back at the boat below, as though measuring again and again just how far they had come, and finding their progress much, much too slow. Bea ignored his anxiety. She was no baby, to be carried from place to place. Besides, the day was beautiful, the air was fresh. Bea wanted the walk, the feel of the dirt under her feet, the way the wind made her pants billow around her thin legs. The path narrowed, and they were forced to walk single file, the King leading the way.

  “I think I will fly up, and measure the distance we have left to travel,” the King said at last, launching himself in the air and circling over them once before flying toward the top of the mountain.

  Bea looked up, her eyes following his movement in the air. Just then, a black cloud erupted from a hidden opening in the mountain’s side. Bea gasped. The cloud moved lik
e a living thing, contracting and expanding, swirling upward.

  The King pulled up short in the air, and even at a distance, Bea could see the shock spread across his face, as he hovered there, staring at what Bea now realized were hundreds of bats streaming up into the sky together.

  The King turned around, his wings beating furiously as he dived toward them.

  The shot came out of nowhere.

  The sound of it shattered the silence, whizzing through the air, unbelievable. Impossible. But it was there.

  A small cloud of feathers floated behind the King, where the bullet had shot through his wing. He dipped in the air, flapping his wings frantically, trying to steady himself in the air. Blood fell from his wound like red rain.

  Malachi was frozen, staring above, just a few feet away from her. Bea saw his whole body convulse, saw a tremor run through him as he tensed, and his chest swelled. Suddenly, Bea knew her danger. She lurched forward, tripping over her own feet as she fell forward, grabbing desperately at his arm. At her touch Malachai jerked, and his eyes cleared. Instantly, his chest deflated, the cry that had instinctively risen to his lips falling away. Now, instead, he looked around him wildly. Bea understood. His voice was his one true weapon, and he could not use it with her near.

  Her angel bent his knees and shot up into the air, rushing to help his king.

  “No!” Bea screamed, her voice shattering as she called after him. “They'll just shoot you too!” But he ignored her, and seconds later he was at the King's side, pulling his arm around his shoulder and supporting him as they descended through the air.