“Enough! Enough!” The old woman kicked her away. “No need to act like an animal. Ask and you shall receive. I yearn for visitors like you instead of the usual old ghosts that meander through. You keep my long life interesting.” She walked over to some cluttered shelves and spoke to herself. “I daresay this has been the most exciting day I’ve had in decades.” Her boney fingers dove into the mess and carelessly threw bottles and jars until she found what she was looking for. Soon she was holding a thin glass vial between her thumb and pointer finger. The light from the window shined right through the clear fluid inside. “Here it is. Tears.”
“That’s all it takes? Tears?” asked Helena.
“Not just any tears, my dear. These are the tears shed after a lover’s death. They are tears of love lost. They are the tears you couldn’t cry when Francis died.”
Helena glanced uncomfortably at Garth, as if a great secret had just been let out of the bag. But Garth already knew. Even though Francis was a grotesque and Helena was unfamiliar with the feeling, they had loved each other.
“Your life will be full of love. Even though you have lost one, there will be more. Human life is all about love; the many kinds of love that exist and the many times it is encountered,” continued the witch before she opened the vial. She drained every drop over Helena’s head. The tears ran down her face and dried there, leaving a salty white residue on her pink marble skin. “You too must sacrifice a tree in the orchard. Then, in time, you will gain a soul and become human.”
Helena thanked the crone to the point of embarrassment.
“But wait,” the crone said, irritated at Helena’s premature blubbering. “There is one condition. You must not follow Francis into Heaven. You must live your life.”
*
I had this theory that once a New Yorker meets a certain age, they go crazy. Not necessarily institution-worthy, but in a general curmudgeonly, looneytoons kind of way that sweeps them off to Lala Land. Years of New York-specific neuroses build up on top of the expected effects of old age to create geriatrics unique to the city. Women are usually more affected than men, although there certainly are some moon-bat males out there. One can recognize these individuals by their general disregard for people and personal space, the presence of laundry carts, broaches, paying in change, offensively bright scarves, sequined baseball caps, sunglasses, loud voices, large breasts, an unearned sense of entitlement, an affinity for New York baseball teams contrary to how much baseball is actually watched, oddly colored hair or a backwards wig/hairpiece, strange pets (put a hundred bucks on a pussy cat, though), china-doll makeup, rent control and personal stories about nights out drinking with (or nearby) Judy or Liza or both. I should also mention that their faces fall into two categories: plastic or au natural—but both painted as if they were starring in the original production of 42nd Street.
Basically, they are a dream come true.
Rita was the ultimate example of these women. She lived off Tenth Avenue in a building that would have been demolished to make way for condos if not for the sharp economic drop. Her apartment was on the top floor of a very wobbly walk-up, inhabited by more vermin than people. Judging by the deteriorating hoard of junk we met at the top of the staircase, it was clear she was the only living thing that ventured that far up.
The door was ajar (and by “ajar” I mean, there was only a beaded curtain in its place) so we crept in. Her apartment looked like the wall of an Applebee’s, but the neighborhood knickknacks were replaced with relics of Broadway’s glory days and props from long condemned theatres. “Why are you visiting this washed up old fool?” she asked from a back room. Cigarette smoke billowed out of the darkened doorway.
“Are you Rita?” Garth asked.
She sauntered into view, pointing to her clavicle that displayed a gold necklace that read, “Rita,” in a gaudy script. “That’s what it says, sugar. It’s just like the one Carrie wears. I, myself, think I’m more of a Samantha but it was a gift from a friend, God rest his soul.” I gasped at the sight of her.
Rita was the definition of an old queen. Her thinning hair was dyed Kool-Aid red and slicked back like a forties movie star. She wore black tights and a sequined top that just covered her lady parts. The heels on her shoes were higher than most drag queens’ and her kimono, dramatically draped from her shoulders, was cartoonishly Asian. It would have been fitting for her to descend a silver staircase and have a “With a Z” attached to her name. Sadly she had neither.
She looked at Garth again and grimaced. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Who the hell are you? I didn’t know I had a grotesque in this city.”
“I am sorry, Rita. I have been traveling,” he said.
“You should always, always introduce yourself to the local witch. God forbid something cataclysmic happened. Then what would you do? Have you met Chester down in the Bowery? He’s an Immortal, too.”
“I have not but I will keep him in mind. Thank you.”
“There aren’t many of you around nowadays so you’d better get to it.” She sniffed. “Maybe you’re not in my district, that’s why you didn’t feel inclined to say hello. This city is getting bigger by the day so we’ve had to train more witches and believe me, some of them could use a few more lessons, if you know what I mean.” She glared at me. “I hope you’re not here to apply for a position. Just because you watch movies about magic, doesn’t mean you have the calling. Here, let me see…” She grabbed my face with her cold hands and pried open my mouth. “Stick out your tongue.”
I obeyed.
“Nope, not in the cards, honey. Head home.”
“We are not here for that,” Garth said.
“Are you the oldest witch in the city?” I asked. Garth was irritated that I wasn’t moving on to business.
“Never ask a lady her age,” she grunted. “No, I’m not. There’s that hag down on Jane Street, she’s one of the oldest, period. A couple hundred, at least, but she’s pretty much just a pile of skin nowadays. Absolutely useless. I’m sure she’ll be fading away within the year. That’s why I’m so busy! I need to keep the door open to accommodate all these souls.”
“We have come to you for counsel,” Garth announced trying to rein in the old woman.
“We? You, okay…but not him. I don’t lend counsel to mortals until they’re dead so go slit your wrists or something,” she spat. “Then we can have a real conversation.”
Garth was nearly steaming. “We have not come to ask for counsel. We are demanding it. I am Garth, of the First Legion of Guardians, former protector of Helena the Pure, the Royal—”
“My stars,” interrupted Rita. She propped herself against an overstuffed chair to keep from fainting. “My apologies, Guardian. Had I know you were coming I would have prepared myself more accordingly. Should I get out some incense…an offering perhaps?”
“Are you famous?” I blurted, staring at Garth.
“Not only is your companion an Immortal, an honor in itself, but he is an Immortal of legend. Here, let me show you,” she said as she began to rummage through a pile of books and files.
“That’s enough,” Garth said. “We aren’t here to reminisce the old days. There is little time.”
Good thing for him because I was nearly forgetting my predicament. We hurriedly explained everything, the attacks, the dreams, the intruder, and the blood. Rita received the information without much surprise. I began to feel like Garth and Rita had some shared understanding of something. Like the government, their world was over my head but I trusted them to take care of me. For a moment I thought I heard them whisper in another language.
I heard them decide the most pressing matter was the chance of my blood being identified at both crime scenes. Even though I was physically incapable of crushing a human being to death, Garth’s dirty work would look like mine. Thank you, science.
“Normally, I would have to consult my charts to see if this was fated, but the world is becoming different now,” said Rita. “The Way of Things is
changing and the natural balance upset. Progress has thrown everything out of our control.”
“So you can’t help me?”
“We need to properly diagnose the problem but signs point to this being more than I can handle.” She paused, thinking. “I might be able to help with the immediate circumstances but there are other agents at work here, ones beyond my knowledge. I may be old but I’m still a new witch in the grand scheme.”
“What about the hag downtown?” asked Garth. “Can she help?”
“Even she is too young. And her body is dying so all her energy is focused on that,” explained Rita. She looked at Garth. “It is time to summon the ancient ones.”
“Can we do that?”
“The Way has a few tricks up its sleeve, buddy.”
“Then what can I do now?” I asked.
Rita held up her finger, asking for a moment to light a cigarette. Her lungs were probably hard with tar but it didn’t seem to affect her like everyone else. “Let me think,” she said with a scratch at her scalp. Her lacquered hair sprung from its proper spot but she calmed it with some spit and a gentle pat.
“A forgetting spell?” suggested Garth. “I have seen people under those before.”
“That’s an easy one to cast but an easier one to undo. All they need is to be reminded,” she said. A thought came to her and she snapped her fingers. “I’ll change you!” She looked at me with wild eyes.
Anyone could have foretold my reaction. “No way!” From Garth’s stories, transformations were not promising. I wasn’t going to live out my life as a dead tree or a statue.
“Oh, please! I’m not going to turn you into this guy,” she squawked while referencing Garth. “I’ll give you new blood. It will be untraceable.” It sounded extreme but her voice conveyed that it was simpler than most alternatives…whatever they were. “At this point, it would be easiest to find a Night Creature. They can change your blood with little effort.”
“That would be a worse sentence than jail, Rita,” said Garth.
“Oh, don’t you believe the rumors. You should know better,” she snapped. “Night Creatures aren’t all about blood lust and coffins. They can’t even change into bats.” She rifled through cookie jars and under cushions. The apartment was stuffed with scrolls, books, pamphlets, spells, charms, and idols. If she was looking for something, it wasn’t going to be easy.
“Wait,” I said. “What’s a Night Creature? Is it some kind of vampire?”
“You could say that,” said Rita. She looked to Garth as if she was uncomfortable with the conversation.
“Do not look to me for help, witch. This is your idea,” he said.
She thought for a second and then continued. “They’re a controversial group. For quite some time, they were considered an abomination. They’ve come into better graces in recent years.”
“That isn’t very helpful,” I said.
“Fine. Call them vampires. I wouldn’t say that to one of their faces because it’s derogatory, but yes, vampires.” She flung her hands in the air and went back to rummaging through the apartment. “The Night Creatures are an evolved race of beings, very similar to humans, but more powerful. They’re actually a step above you on the food chain. No magic powers or any of the stuff you see in movies. Just advanced capabilities. And of course an allergy to sunlight. How’s that?”
“That’s a little more helpful but I don’t want to become one of them!”
“You won’t! A full Transformation is only possible through a blood exchange. Blood permanently changes blood. Other fluids merely infect the blood…like a cold. You’ll temporarily behave like one of them. It will go away over time.”
I was disgusted and horrified. “You want me to sleep with a vampire?”
“Why do you think the male vampire is always shown with a harem of women? He’s fucking them. They’re getting a taste for his lifestyle and competing for his blood, the blood that will make them like him. Until he shares himself, the women just suffer from an extreme STD.”
I’d been sexually active for several years and had never contracted anything. There she was asking me to dirty my clean slate…to do the exact opposite of everything I’d learned in health class. Such a sacrifice had better deliver some major results. “So this will make my DNA unmatchable? For sure?”
“It will mutate your blood for the duration of the infection, yes. If your blood is tested during that time, it won’t resemble anything they’ve seen before.”
“So I’ll be half vamp…Night Creature?” My body began to quiver with nervous energy.
“I think I’ve explained that already.” She disappeared into the bathroom and tore through the medicine cabinet. She called out to us, “These guys are pretty reluctant about this kind of stuff. A lot of horrible shit went down in the Eighties that made them scared of spreading it. Before that, there was a ban on Transformations that lasted several hundred years. Consider this a rarity.” The clanging continued. It sounded like a construction site in there. “But I have a friend. He’s a real softy. If I explain your situation I bet he’d be game. I just can’t remember where I put his phone number.”
“Sounds like he’s a real good friend,” laughed Garth.
Rita poked her head out of the bathroom and looked at him seriously. “He left town for several years when his partner died. We fell out of touch.” Her eyes swelled and her voice quivered. “This kid was like a son to me. I’d trust him with my life.” Then she looked at me. “You’ll be in good hands.”
9. The Dark Ones
The marshlands flattened the scenery beyond the forest of the witch’s dwelling. Against a grey strip of dense shrubbery and shallow pools, the sky looked one hundred miles deep—an ocean standing on its head. The roving statues were more exposed than ever under the watchful eyes of heavenly bodies and whoever else laid claim to the land, which sounded like a family of woodpeckers. Consistent knocking on wood cracked through the soggy plain like reverse thunder.
If the sounds coming from the bogs weren’t intimidating enough, the idea of solid stone tromping through deep mud almost put a complete halt to the operation. Garth was the first to try crossing into the marsh but he sank quicker than an unmanned ship. After a rather elaborate rescue mission involving several sticks and some good, old-fashioned heave-ho, he was freed.
“If that’s going to happen every time you take a step, those birches on the other side will have rotted by the time we cross this thing,” the Queen said. Even though Garth’s confidence was deflated, he managed to let out a chuckle.
“I guess we’ll have to walk around it,” said Helena, already scoping out the never-ending perimeter of the muck.
Garth’s ears perked up. His head shifted towards the grass. “Did you hear that?” he asked. “There was a rustling.”
“It’s probably just the wind,” said the Queen.
“There’s no wind tonight. The air is still. Something’s in there.”
“Of course something is in there, Garth. Rodents, birds, you name it. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about nature while on top of that palace.” The Queen continued rattling the possible contents of the swamp as another wisp passed nearby. “That was a big rodent,” she said. Her eyes widened and fixed on the marsh. “I saw something.”
The air hung heavy with a humidity that suppressed any stray breezes, causing the grass to stand as still as its observers. They waited to see what the Queen had seen. The serenity of the vista was interrupted when ripples began to dart from one end of the marsh to the other. Soon three swells converged on a path heading straight for them. The statues let out a tiny shriek when the wave of cattails broke at their feet.
Three little creatures stood before them. “We heard the slurp,” one said.
“You’re much too bulky for here, you are,” said another.
The third was silent and decided that sniffing their feet was more productive than speaking.
The odd little creatures could stand upright but
used all four limbs for walking. Their small frames could be compacted and rolled across the ground with a speed that created something bordering on weightlessness—that’s how they traveled so quickly across the bog.
“Amazing creatures,” Garth said under his breath. His habit for thinking out loud was becoming irritating, especially since the little things seemed insulted by his remark.
“Creatures?” one said, “Speak for yourself.”
“Indeed,” said the other. “That’s no way to talk to those who came here to help you.”
“I’m sorry,” Garth said. “What are you, if I may ask? I’ve never seen anything quite like you. Have you, Helena?”
She didn’t want to further upset them, so she just shook her head.
“Who knows,” one said. “Some call us trolls.”
“Imps,” said the other.
“Some call us ‘disgusting swine.’”
“But we certainly aren’t pigs.”
“No, sir. Not pigs, at all.”
“We work for the Seekers.”
“We maintain the pass.”
The third grunted in agreement.
The eccentricities of the spirit world were beginning to overwhelm Garth. “The Seekers?” he asked.
“These marshes are full of souls in hiding. Mostly the evil ones. They avoid the judgment here,” said a creature.
“It can be a treacherous place,” said the other.
“The Seekers patrol the land, collecting the wanderers. Their chariots are too heavy for the bogs so they use the wooden pass.”
Garth looked out over the marsh for signs of a road.
“It’s well disguised,” observed the Queen.
“That’s our job,” the third one finally snorted. It pulled out a mallet and gazed at it like it was made of gold.
In Stone: A Grotesque Faerie Tale Page 14