Darkly Human

by Laura Anne Gilman

That was the secret. You could go dog-mad, or give over to the nightmares, make a mistake and be dragged down and smothered, or torn to shreds, or simply fade away. Or you could embrace the hell, dig deep into it.

  Dax – exhausted, aching, confused – staggered into the Bazaar pure by chance, the coldcast dawn after that first endless night. Found a bit of wall and put his back against it, and did the only thing he knew how. He played his soul into his horn, and what came out was like nothing he’d ever played before. Every ache, every moan, every delight he’d ever felt, every secret he’d ever kept or told, every burst of jism or bitter tear, raged out of his lungs and into the dry, dirty air. Ragged scales and wild flights, no notes ever marked on a staff, neither ending nor beginning but looping endlessly into itself, until he’d fallen forward, gasping for breath and burning up inside.

  “Welcome, my man.” A junkie leaned across the alleyway, teeth rotted, breath foul. “Welcome to madness, my man.”

  You could only go so long without sleep, before madness claimed you. Everyone knew that. But everyone knew, deep and low, that along the thread before madness, the toehold before disaster, that was where genius grew

  Dax had never been a genius. Had never felt it, within him. Until then.

  “Keep going.”

  Dax was sweating now, bad. You didn’t go on the roofs. Bad as it was in the streets, bad as it was in the tunnels, and it was hell bad down there, with the wax always looking for you, the King downbelow claiming his tithe, the sky was worse.

  He made it to the top of the ladder, his horn slung across his front to protect it, and swung his good leg cautiously over the edge. His shoe crunched against gravel, the rooftop flat and dry. Dax put more weight down, pretty maybe sure now he wouldn’t slip-side right off the rooftop, at least. He looked around, quick-like: a square of gravel glimmering faint and gray, and a figure waiting at the far end, the presence making Dax want to back down the stairs twice as fast as he’d come up, except the golem was climbing behind him, so that wasn’t no real option. He turned, looked the other way at the backdrop a thousand more rooftops, some flat, some peaked, some covered in shadows, while others shimmered with lights that made Dax queasy to look at.

  So he looked up, instead.

  Downbelow, it was all smooth and grey. Streetside, it was all electric lights that didn’t show worth a damn, and shadows that did far worse.

  Dax had a vague memory of stars, a moon cool white bright, but it didn’t particularly surprise him no cool white bright hung over Mad Town. Thick and grey above as it was below, the fairylights on other roofs making it worse instead of better.

  The golem hauled itself over the ladder-top, its skin worse for the climb. A long, bloodless tear crossed its square face, and another scored its bare arm. It showed no sign of noticing, as it turned to face Dax again.

  “You’re stalling.”

  A muscle in Dax’s cheek jumped, and the fingers of his left hand twitched, but the golem was right.

  They walked across the rooftop, toward the waiting figure. Dax waited for something to flicker in the corner of his eye, some swooping nightmare or pack of paperboys running the night news. But this corner of Mad City stayed cool and quiet.

  Quiet, when it should be chaos? Rooftop didn’t even pretend to lawfulness. Things that were out of tune were things to be wary of.

  The figure was seated – slumped – in a throne-like chair, darkly-glinting metal in turns and spokes shoved into a shape you could almost sit comfortable in. But the figure in the chair was not comfortable. He shifted, and Dax took a step back, seeing what the shadows had obscured:

  The figure was impaled in the chair, spokes through both thighs, and another in his chest.

  “I don’t know you,” Dax said.

  The major Nightmares came clear pretty soon after you landed, the ones with real power, the ones who could make hell seem like a better option. You learned and you walked low, and you doffed your cap and kept your tongue still when one of them was around. Lesser nightmares, the paperboys and the waxing-boys, and the pinheads and such, you walked careful ’round but you didn’t afear them quite the same.

  “Don’t you?” Its voice was rough, first guess male but then maybe not, sliding like tuning flute up and down the scale.

  Dax put his hands on his horn, and looked this stranger up and down. “No.”

  It grinned, teeth white as bone shining in the gloaming. “No. No, you don’t. You walk right by and you don’t see, you glide on by and think you’re free. But you’re mine. You’re mine mine mine.”

  The voice slid up and down, and despite the disturbing claims – he wasn’t nobody’s but his own - Dax’s fingers itched, the urge to mimic that scale, to improvise on the theme, dig out its joys and fears and turn them into sounds…. Such pain in that voice, and loss, and love and hot-cold orgasmic rhythm.

  Wasted, in that withered, crucified frame.

  Unable to help himself, Dax touched his horn, fingers curving around the cool metal, bringing it forward and up. Mouth went from dry to soft just thinking about it, and he paused, mouthpiece an inch from his lips. Waiting. Feeling the tension in his bones, the exhaustion of his thoughts, all gather like a cat about to leap.

  Here, now. His eyes were too gritty, his mouth too loose. His elbows twinged and his knees shook, his cock standing to attention the first time since he didn’t remember when.

  “Talk to me,” he said. That voice, that voice was the key. “Why am I here?”

  Behind them, the golem shifted, stilled.

  “Where else would you be? Where else could you be? Alone, only yourself to challenge you to duel, no-one to push your shove”

  The voice taunted him, enticed him. Desolation and hope, the push come to shove, the worst anything could be when the only thing that holds you back is nothing at all, the siren song of the unstoppable ego, the thing that got you up on the stage, and Dax, never a fool, no not him, put the horn to his lips and let the voice sink into him, and come back out again.

  High notes, shivering down to low, dadadaaaaa…dayum. Dadadaaaaaa..dayum. His body swung, his fingers flew. All the sleepless nights, chasing after that moment, that note, and it had been waiting above him, on the rooftops where nobody went, under a moonless sky…

  He no longer played; the horn played him, fingers working the keys, elbows and shoulders moving, his thoughts frozen in the note. The figure leaned forward, the spokes shifting, the entire chair moving as though it were a single entity, and the bone-white teeth flashed again as the fingers settled in Dax’s arms, and drew him forward.

  Jazz lived in Mad City, in the restless energy, the constant change, the way the Awake flowed through the locals, the nightmares flowed through the Awake, the entire thing sliding around the struts and braces of the Slumbering, improvising its notes out of what it could take from them.

  Jazz lived in Mad City, the sleepless vigor, the tight-wound wire, and it rose from the streets and gathered under the clouds and simmered and danced like fairy-lights, waiting. Waiting for a player, a puppet, a bell through which to sound.

  Talent

  Springsteen’s on the radio, singing about Atlantic City. I’ve got chalk on my hands, the eight ball in my sights, and the music of the game filling my ears. Story has it the soft clank-clank-clank of the balls was supposed to have driven old Eddie mad. I don’t know but that it’s true. Don’t know that it isn’t, either.

  I suppose it would have made a better story if he’d eviscerated himself with his cue stick, won that final grudge match too many and been left bleeding in an alley, or been dragged into a padded truck late one night, giggling madly, frothing at the mouth. A lot of players end up that way. Those that don’t just one day fold up and take off.

  But Eddie didn’t do any of those things. In fact, he’s over there in the corner. Still in the same chair he always took.

  Is it possible to haunt a place without dying? Cause Eddie just won’t go away.

  After the game, I walk
the floor, nodding to the regulars. Twelve tables, full-up on a Thursday night. Pauline’s at the bar; four beers on tap, plus spirits. We don’t mix anything fancier than scotch-and-soda or a gin and tonic. The Billiard Club doesn’t cater to well-heeled Boomers, or fresh-faced college students looking to get a thrill. It’s just old timers in here, the serious players looking to make their chops, and a few kids who might someday make it to the serious level.

  And Eddie.

  He was the best, back in the day. Way back. And this dive was his throne room. I remember when he used to tousle my hair, back when I had some, for luck. But you’re supposed to let go when the glory fades, when it’s time for someone else to take center stage. Have their moment in the sun. Be top dog. But Eddie wouldn’t let go.

  Now he sits there, night in and night out. I don’t know where he goes when the sun comes up. I don’t want to know, either. He smells of mothballs and dirt, and Robbie, our sad excuse for a mouser, turns aside and hisses when he comes in. That’s enough for me. But he’s an old-timer, Eddie is. You’re supposed to show respect. Besides, crosses and garlic don’t keep him out, and we were getting weird looks, so I had Pauline take ’em down. This is a pool hall, not some prissy-assed uptight place. So long as he doesn’t bother anyone, I got no cause to throw him out.

  But he creeps me. Especially the way he watches the new players. Like we’re old news, no threat, but one of these kids might be the simba come to rumble for his throne.

  If he makes problems, I’ll throw his rickety bones out, I swear I will. But until then, I don’t want to touch him. Literally.

  “Rack em, Johnny!”

  I gather the balls, sort ’em and rack ’em. My partner breaks. We’re playing a new pair, older guy, young girl. She’s good, quick with her eyes and slow with her hands. Talent. Everyone can see it. Other than that, not much to the package. Not pretty, but not mud-ugly, either. Everyday. Normal. Everything about her’s average…except when she leans into the table. Then you see the magic.

  I look up at the thought. Sure enough, Eddie’s watching. And he knows I’m watching him watching her, and he grins, showing yellowing, worn-down teeth; jagged in places, upper and lower, like they broke on something too hard to chew.

  Stay away from her, Eddie. I wait for a shiver to run up or down my spine. Nothing. Just his old-man eyes and old-man teeth; the taste of obsession like grit under my skin.

  She’s oblivious. Moving in a world that’s peaceful and serene as she runs the table, baby-powder cool. Not in it for the money, that’s clear. You don’t hustle that way. She picks a pocket, leans, shoots, and grimaces, embarrassed, as she misses. Her partner – father? Teacher? Maybe both – gives her a good-natured thwack on the shoulder. Only god makes every shot. I chalk up, eye the table. And I forget about Eddie for the time it takes for me to sink my ball.

  The threats of a pool hall are clear: Too much booze. Drugs. Sleazy operators looking for a score. We run a clean shop, far as all that goes. Eddie’s harmless. Crazy, yeah, but a pansy slap would break him in two.

  When I look up again, he’s gone.

  Pauline brings me another beer, cold and dry. Another game, and we’re starting to get spectators. The girl shakes a little under the pressure, but gives us a good game before sinking the 8-ball in the wrong pocket. She’s fourteen, her name’s Betsy, and the guy’s her uncle, Mike. He knows what he’s got there – also knows he doesn’t know enough to challenge her the way she needs. Half the Room’s adopted her already. I don’t want her here. No reason… no reason at all.

  Eddie’s gone, anyway. I try not to wonder why he left so early.

  Betsy’s grin is sweet and crooked, moren’ a little bit shy when she’s challenged by Max. Older than dirt, Maxie can’t play with a damn, but he can flirt like Casanova. Can make a girl-child feel like it wouldn’t be so bad to be a woman, someday. Mike plays watchdog, hovering, but the boys stay away. They don’t want anything to do with her. She’s too sharp, too bright, too overwhelming. It takes age to subdue the ego enough to handle talent like that.

  I watch her make a shot, and admit to myself maybe I’m not that old after all. My ego stirs, and I shove it back down. She’s got a future, if she wants it. Not everyone does. I take a long pull off my beer. My ambition hadn’t always been to run a pool hall, but it’s not a bad life. I like the hours. I like the people. Mostly.

  And ten slides into midnight, and midnight slides into two, and Pauline starts shooing the last stragglers out. We could run all night, but the crowd you get then isn’t something I want to encourage. Two a.m. is fine. Everyone go to bed. Betsy says her last goodbyes, yawning, staggering a little against Mike’s arm. He drapes her coat over her shoulder, smiles good night, steers her out the door, across the deserted street. Even talent’s got to sleep.

  I step outside while Pauline shuts down the bar, take a deep breath of summer air. Humid-thick and filled with exhaust, it’s still the cleanest thing I’ve inhaled in hours. I shake a cig out of the pack that’s been untouched in my pocket all evening, rummage for a match. Turn, my eye caught by something, some movement. Some smell.

  The fog of mothballs, and the tang of fresh dirt.

  “Eddie.” There’s no response. My gut clenches. “Leave her alone, Eddie.”

  What the hell am I saying? Hallucinating, old man. But there’s something in the air that feels like a building falling, pressure in the ears and against your chest, and dust in your eyes and gristle between your teeth.

  I could be imagining it. Probably am. But maybe not. I toss the cigarette down and shove my head back in the door, yell to Pauline I’ll be back in a minute.

  I trot down the street, trying to remember what Mike had said. Where do they live?

  I’ll look a fool if nothing’s wrong. That’s okay. Let everything be okay, and, well, everything’ll be okay.

  I cross against the light on Osborne, jog up Parkhurst. The city’s still humming, but it’s a quieted sound. The lion may not sleep, but his belly is full. Row after row of brick face buildings, their windows wrought in iron, their lobbies fluorescent-lit. My shoe leather taps on concrete, like it’s mocking the beat of my heart. I’m too old to chase after young girls, no matter how prodigious their talent.

  No matter how hungry Eddie’s eyes have been.

  No matter how scared I am.

  There. Half a block ahead. Is that something behind them? Leave her alone, Eddie! Let her have her turn. I’m thinking nonsense. Babbling inside my skull. Under a street lamp, then into the shadows again. They pause, Mike stumbles, Betsy grabs his arm, steadies him. They pause again… he kneels. Something’s wrong… is he tying a shoe? I catch up to him, and that’s what he’s doing.

  “Mr. Wasserman!” Mike looks up at Betsy’s surprised greeting, his face flickering – fear, recognition, wariness. I pause, keeping a safe distance away.

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you folks.”

  “Something wrong? Did we leave something behind?” He’s watching me now, his eyes puzzled.

  “No, it’s… I thought I saw someone following you, when you left.” Truth, and nothing but the truth. “I just wanted to make sure… you were okay. It’s late, and….” I grin. “And Betsy’s got too much talent in those hands to be fending off a would-be mugger.”

  Mike chuckles at that. “Thanks, but we’re fine. Home safe home,” and he gestures at the building two doors down.

  “All right then.” I feel foolish. Too many late nights. And it’s not as though Eddie was the kind to hurt anyone. Even when he…wasn’t the way he is now. So the old man wasn’t the kind to go out without a fight. What could he do, anyway?

  And then I smell it again. Mothballs. And dirt. And the fading tang of baby powder.

  I look up, and Mike’s turning away, his arm still around Betsy’s shoulders. And she looks back at me…and grins.

  An old man’s ragged-edged grin.

  Damn you, Eddie.

  Last Blood

  Th
e moon is rising fast tonight, scooping out the horizon, pouring it back into the sea. My stomach does not so much rumble as howl, reminding me how long it’s been since I’ve eaten. My hand shakes, and I rest it on my knee, letting the quake come and go, not fighting it, not worrying about it.

  Soon, my fingers are calm, my palm soft, my arm the languorous heaviness that comes from utter relaxation. My breathing rises and falls, a steady count, and I lift the scope to my eyes and see what awaits.

  When I was eleven, I had done this, been sent here with whispered advice: The blood flows, and it gives you power. Then, my mother and tia Aneja sat in the car below me, wrapped in blankets, waiting for sunrise. Tonight, I am alone.

  There are shadows in the darkness. One moves, an offsides lope, head low and tail-slunk. Another follows, trotting behind, and they slip into a sliver of moonlight, pause, and are gone.

  I lower the scope, breathe, wait.

  The night I was eleven, I had waited all night, counted stars, listened to the night noises, and crawled back to the car before dawn.

  My ass is numb, my knees ache. Red dust rims my boots; it’s an irritation. I swallow it, force it into my stomach, make it pass out through my tailbone. Dust covers everything, mutes the shine of skin and metal, blends us into the landscape, claims us as its own. Resisting, refuting; those things distract, and distraction could get me killed.

  It’s a cliché to say time passes; in the bustling stillness of a desert night, how can I tell? I had always imagined moonrise a graceful thing, a slow ascent, but this one seems almost eager.

  I may be projecting, just a bit.

  Go back to the desert,” Aneja said. “Go back to the desert,” my dreams told me. But the desert itself seems to have nothing to say. Again.