Green Eyes

by Lucius Shepard

  ‘I used to be Downey’s girl,’ said Danni one day while they were having coffee in Jocundra’s room. ‘I used to live right down the hall. Otille even invited me upstairs a couple of times. Boy, is that gorgeous! But then’ - she made a clownishly sad face - ‘she took a fancy to him again, and I got kicked back down to the cabins.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘That could be what happens to you pretty soon, at least the way I hear it.’

  ‘I know Otille’s after Donnell,’ said Jocundra. ‘But I doubt she’ll succeed.’

  ‘You’d better not doubt it,’ said Danni, ‘Men don’t stand a chance with Otille. She’ll have him doin’ lickety-split before…’ She gave herself a penitential slap on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just used to dealin’ with the others, and you’re so nice and all. I shouldn’t be talkin’ to you like that.’

  ‘I’m not offended,’ said Jocundra. ‘I admit I worry about it.’ She sloshed the dregs of her coffee. ‘We’re in a difficult position with Otille.’

  Danni took her hand and said it would probably be all right, that she understood.

  Despite the difference in their backgrounds, Jocundra enjoyed Danni’s company. Having a girlfriend made the wormy atmosphere of the house easier to bear, and Danni, too, seemed to enjoy the relationship, taking special pleasure in helping Jocundra search for clues to the estate’s history among the crates and cartons. One morning, while digging through a dusty crate in a downstairs closet, they found an old book, a diary, embossed with the gilt letter A and bearing another gilt design on the foreleaf; this last, though wormtrailed beyond recognition, was obviously the remains of a veve.

  ‘I bet that’s, you know, what’s his name…’ Danni banged the side of her head. ‘Aime! Lucanor Aime. The one who taught ol’ Valcours his tricks.’

  The initial entry was dated July 9, 1847, and graphically described a sexual encounter with a woman named Miriam T, which sent Danni into fits of giggles. There followed a series of brief entries, essentially a list of appointments kept, saying that the initiate had arrived and been Well received. Then Jocundra’s eye was caught by the words les Invisibles midway down a page, and she went back and read the entire entry.

  Sept. 19, 1847. Today I felt the need for solitude, for meditation, and to that end I closed the temple and betook myself to the levee, there spending the better part of the afternoon in contemplation of the calligraphy of eddies and ripples gliding past on the surface of the river. Yet for all my peaceful reverie, I could not arrive at a decision. Shortly before dark, I returned to the temple and found Valcours R waiting in the robing room…

  ‘Valcours!’ breathed Danni. ‘I don’t know if we should be lookin’ at this.’ She shuddered prettily.

  … his noxious pit bull at his feet, salivating on the carpet. Suddenly, my decision had been made. As I met Valcours’ imperturbable stare, it seemed I was reading the truth of his spirit from his wrinkled brow and stonily set mouth. Though by all he is accounted a handsome man, at the moment his handsomeness appeared to have been remolded by some subtle and invisible agency, as by a mask of the clearest glass, into a fierce and hideous countenance, thus revealing a foul inner nature. Without a word of greeting, he asked for my decision..

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘What you propose is the worst form of petro. I will not trifle with les Invisibles.’

  He exhibited no surprise and merely pulled on his gloves, saying, ‘Next Saturday I will bring three men to the temple. Together we will penetrate the mysteries.’

  ‘Keep your damned mysteries to yourself!’ I shouted.

  ‘Sunday,’ he repeated, smiling. Then he inclined his head in one of those effete bows I find so irritating and left me, his accursed dog at his heels.

  It is in my mind now that I should work spells against him, though by doing so I would in effect be practicing petro of the sort he wishes me to practice. And yet, it would be strictly in the service of the temple, and thus not a violation of my vows, only of my self-esteem. Be that as it may, there is an aura of significant evil about Valcours, such as I have not met with in all my experience, and it is time our association came to an end, one way or another.

  Thereafter the diary continued in ordinary fashion, lists of appointments and more sex with Miriam T, until a third of the way through the volume, at which point the entries ceased.

  Aime’s account only posed new mysteries, and reading it had knotted Jocundra’s muscles and set her temples to throbbing, as if it had contained the germ of an old disease. She begged off the rest of the morning, telling Danni she wanted to lie down a while, while Danni insisted on coming along and giving her a massage.

  ‘There ain’t nothin’ like a massage for tension,’ she said; she winked slyly. ‘I learned all about it out in Hollywood.’

  She accompanied Jocundra back to the room, had her remove her blouse and unhook her bra and lie flat on her stomach. At first the massage was relaxing. Danni straddled her, humming, rubbing out the tension with expert hands, but then she slipped a hand under to cup Jocundra’s breast, kissed her shoulder and whispered how beautiful she was. Shocked, Jocundra rolled over, inadvertently knocking Danni off the bed.

  ‘I thought you wanted me,’ sobbed Danni, completely unstrung, her facial muscles working, tears glistening in her eyes. ‘Don’t you like me?’

  Jocundra assured her she did, just not that way, but Danni was inconsolable and ran from the room.

  Their relationship deteriorated swiftly. Jocundra tried to convince Danni to leave Maravillosa, pointing out that Otille had never given substantial help to any of the ‘friends’, and offered to lend her money; but Danni rejected the offer and told her she didn’t understand. She began to avoid Jocundra, to whisper asides to her companions and giggle whenever Jocundra passed by, and a few days later she made an ineffectual play for Donnell. That, Jocundra realized, had been Danni’s objective all along, and she had been foolish not to anticipate it. The pathos of the ‘friends’, of this talentless child-woman and her imitation of Otille, her Otille-like manipulations, caused Jocundra to wonder if she had not underestimated the evil influence of the place. Donnell was becoming moody and withdrawn again, as he had not been since leaving Shadows, refusing to talk about what transpired during the days; and one night toward the end of the second week, waiting for him to return, staring out of their bedroom window, she had a new appreciation of Maravillosa.

  Screams, some of them desperate sounding, arose from the cabins. Torches flared in the dark thickets behind them. The half moon sailed high, sharp-winged shadows skimming across it, and the conical hills and the vine-shrouded trees washed silver-green under the moonlight had the look of a decaying city millennia after a great catastrophe.

  Morning sunlight shafted from the second-story windows, the rays separate and distinct, leaving the lower half of the ballroom sunk in a cathedral dimness, but revealing the wallpaper to be peeling and covered with graffiti. Crudely painted red and green veves, including that of Ogoun Badagris, occupied central positions among the limericks and sexual advertisements. Otille held her acting classes in the ballroom, and wooden chairs were scattered throughout, though only five were now taken, those by Otille, Donnell, and the rest of the pets. Except for Otille and Donnell, they sat apart, ringed about Clea, who was hunched over a chewed-up yellow guitar, looking pale and miserable. Without her wig, she lacked even the pretense of vivacity. She wore a slip which showed her breasts to be the size of onions, and passing her in the door, Donnell had caught a faint rancid odor that reminded him of spoiled milk. Around her feet were half a dozen cages filled with parakeets and lovebirds.

  ‘What are you going to play for us, dear?’ Otille’s voice rang in the emptiness.

  ‘I ain’t ready yet,’ said Clea, pouting.

  Simpkins sat with folded arms; Papa leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees, affecting intense interest; and Downey sprawled in his chair, bored. The birds hopped and twittered.

  ‘Allrighty,’ said Clea bravely. ‘Here goe
s nothin’.’

  She plucked a chord, humming to get the pitch, and raised a quavering soprano, souring on the high notes.

  ‘Beauty, where have you fled tonight,

  In whose avid arms do you conspire…’

  ‘Aw, God!’ said Downey, banging his heels on the floor. ‘Not that. Sing somebody else’s song!’ ‘I wanta sing this,’ said Clea, glowering at him. ‘Let her alone, Downey,’ said Otille with maternal patience. She put her hand on Donnell’s arm. ‘Downey wrote the song when he thought he was in love with me, but then he entered his narcissistic period and he’s ashamed to have written anything so unabashedly romantic’ She turned again to Clea. ‘Go ahead, dear.’

  ‘We’re behind you, sister,’ said Papa. ‘Don’t be bashful.’

  Donnell wondered if anyone could possibly buy Papa’s cheerleading act. His face was brimful of bad wishes, and by course of logic alone it was obvious that Clea’s failure would improve his lot. She lifted her reedy voice again, and it seemed to Donnell to be the voice of Maravillosa, the sad, common sound of the dead trees and the ‘friends’ and the ebony faces, of Otille herself, of the sullen and envious relationships between the pets, the whine of a supernatural nervous system which governed them all. Even if no one were there to hear it, he thought, the sound would go on, arising from the wreckage of evil. A futile transmission like the buzz of a half-crushed wasp.

  Clea faltered, a high note shrilled. ‘I can’t sing when he’s grinnin’ at me,’ she said, gesturing at Downey. ‘He’s makin’ me too nervous.’

  ‘Oh, hell!’ said Downey. ‘Lemme help her.’ He stalked over and took the guitar from her.

  ‘If it won’t interfere,’ said Otille. ‘Will it interfere?’

  Clea could not hide her delight. She blushed, casting a furtive glance at Downey. ‘Maybe not,’ she said.

  He pulled up a chair beside her, picked a fancy introduction of chords, and this time the song had the courtly feel of a duet between a country girl and a strolling balladeer.

  ‘… Beauty is everywhere, they say,

  But I can’t find a beauty like thine.

  Beauty, I love you so much more

  Than I do truth, which only lasts for a moment,

  While you live forever,

  Eternal and fleeting,

  And without you no truth

  Has any meaning…’

  Some of the birds were fluttering up in their cages, chirping, agitated; others perched on the bars, trilling, throats pulsing in a transport of song. Donnell felt Otille tense beside him, and he focused on Clea. Her magnetic field was undifferentiated by arcs, a nimbus of white light encompassing her and Downey and sections of all the cages. Through the glow, she looked like an enraptured saint at prayer with her accompanying angel. The face of her gros bon ange was ecstatic, a mosaic of cobalt interlaced by fine gold threads. Nearing its end, the song grew more impassioned and the white glow spread to surround the cages and every one of the birds was singing.

  ’”… Beauty, you’ve come only once to me,

  And now you’ve gone,

  you seem so rare and inviting,

  A chalcedon lady,

  Gold glints in your dark eyes,

  Admitting no imperfections,

  Miraculous diamonds

  Clasped round your slim throat,

  Where the pulse beats in the hollow

  And the blue veins are showing

  Their cryptic pattern

  Leading to somewhere,

  An infinite gleaming

  Trapped here forever

  Here in my song,

  Pure paragon.’

  Otille was disappointed at song’s end. She praised Clea’s effort, acknowledged the result, but her displeasure was evident.

  ‘Lemme have a crack at them birds, Otille,’ said Papa. He popped his knuckles, eager to get started.

  ‘We all know what you can do, Papa,’ said Otille. ‘It will prove nothing to see it again. I was hoping for something more… more out of the ordinary.’

  Clea hung her head. Downey picked out a brittle run of blue notes, uninvolved.

  ‘It’s obviously a matter of mood,’ said Simpkins. ‘When poor Pavarotti was struck down, I recall Sister Clea as bein’ in a snit, whereas today, makin’ music with her heart’s desire.,.’

  ‘He’s not!’ squawked Clea; she leapt up and pointed at him, fuming. ‘Lessee what you can do with ‘em! Nothin’, I bet!’

  Downey smiled, strummed a ripple of chords.

  ‘If I begin to tweet,’ said Simpkins, ‘then indeed we have a proof positive of Sister Clea’s talent. But frankly I’m more interested in seein’ what Brother Harrison can achieve with our feathered friends.’

  Otille pursed her lips and tapped them with an ivory finger. She cocked one eye towards Donnell. ‘Would you mind?’ she asked.

  Donnell stretched out his legs and folded his arms in imitation of Simpkins, returning his bland smile. Simpkins was obviously a force to be reckoned with, despite his failed gift, and Donnell did not want to establish the precedent of following his orders by proxy. ‘I’ll pass,’ he said. ‘I didn’t come here to kill birds.’

  ‘You don’t have to kill them,’ said Otille, as if that were the furthest thing from her mind. ‘I’m much more interested in the variety of psychic powers than their repetition. Why don’t you just see what you can do. Experiment. I won’t hold it against you if nothing happens.’

  But you will if I don’t try, thought Donnell. ‘All right,’ he said. He took Clea’s place in the midst of the cages, and she and Downey settled into chairs.

  The birds appeared none the worse for wear, bright-eyed and chirping, swinging on their perches. Their plumage was beautiful - pastel blues and pinks, snowy white, bottle greens - and their magnetic fields were hazy glimmers in the air, easy to influence at a distance like the fields of telephones and cameras. He found if he reached out his hand to a cage, the birds within it stilled, quieted, and their fields glowed. But he could produce no other effect. The two cages closest to him contained nine birds, and by spreading his fingers magician style he managed to still all nine controlling each with one of his fingers, feeling the tug of the fields. He doubted, though, that this would satisfy Otille. Then following Otille’s advice - ‘Experiment’ - and wondering why it had never occurred to him to try before, he maintained his hold on the fields and shifted his focus into the darkness of the gros bon ange.

  Bits of whirling blackness and jeweled fire hung in the silver cages. Tentatively, he pushed a forefinger against one of the fields, stroking it, and a thread of iridescent light no thicker than a spiderweb shot from his fingertip. He withdrew the finger, startled; but since the bird displayed no ill effects, its fires undimmed, he tried it again. Eventually nine threads of light connected his fingertips with the nine birds, and the refractions inside their bodies flowed in orderly patterns. The pressure of their fields against his hands increased, and when he involuntarily crooked a finger, one of the birds hopped down off its perch. He repeated the process, and soon, feeling omnipotent, the ringmaster of the magical circus, he had gained enough control to send them marching about the cages. Tiny jewelbox creatures hopping onto silvery feeders and swings, twittering and parading around and around.

  Clea gasped, someone knocked over a chair, and someone else contributed slow, ironic applause. ‘Thank you, Donnell,’ said Otille. That’s quite sufficient.’

  He relaxed his control, brought the ballroom back into view and saw Otille smiling at him. ‘Well,’ he said, stung by the pride of ownership in her face, ‘was that out of the ordinary enough?’ Then he glanced down at the cages.

  He had not killed the birds. Not outright. That would have been merciful compared to what he had done. The delicate hues of their feathers were dappled with blood, and freed from his control, their cries had grown piercing, stirring echoes in the sunlit upper reaches of the room. Their beaks were shattered, crimson droplets welling from the cracks; their wings and
legs were broken; and the membranes of their eyes had burst and were dripping fluid. All lay flapping on the floors of the cages except for a parakeet, its legs unbroken, which clung to its perch and screamed.

  ‘Papa,’ said Otille. ‘Will you and Downey take the undamaged ones to my office?’

  Downey was frozen, grim-faced; Clea buried her head in his shoulder. Papa hesitated, eyeing Donnell nervously.

  Three, no, four of the birds had quit fluttering, and Donnell sat watching them die, stunned.

  ‘Simpkins,’ said Otille. ‘Take the others out to my car.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Simpkins. He came over to the cages, and as he bent down, he whispered, ‘Poor Dularde never knew what hit him, did he, brother?’

  Sick of his snide comments, his contemptuous air, Donnell jumped up and swung, but Simpkins easily caught his wrist and with his other hand seized Donnell’s throat, his fingers digging in the back of the Adam’s apple. ‘I ain’t no goddamn parakeet, brother,’ he said. He tightened his grip, and Donnell’s mouth sprang open.

  ‘Simpkins!’ Otille clapped her hands.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Simpkins released Donnell and hoisted the cages, once again bland and smiling.

  Donnell headed for the door, holding his throat.

  ‘Where are you going?’ called Otille.

  He didn’t answer, intent on finding Jocundra, on washing away the scum of Otille and her pets. But he turned back at the door, waylaid by a thought. Why, while he was killing the birds, had their… their what? Make it their souls. Why not? Why had they showed no sign of injury? He stared at the bloody heaps of feathers, blinking and straining until the cages gleamed silver. They were empty. Then movement caught his eye. Up above Simpkins’ head rising and falling and jittering like jeweled sparks in a wind, the souls of the slain birds were flying.

  Near the end of the second week, Jocundra ran into the Baron in the hall outside his room. He was adjusting his doorknob with a screwdriver, muttering, twisting the knob. He had never said a word to her, and she had intended to pass without greeting, but he called out to her and asked to borrow her for a few seconds.