Magic and Loss: A Novel of Golgotham

by Nancy A. Collins

  Every year since 1778, there has been a parade and street fair on the first day of April to commemorate both the founding of Golgotham and the end of the Revolutionary War. Much like St. Patrick’s Day and the Feast of San Gennaro, the Jubilee is a public celebration that attracts far more than the ethnic group that originally founded it. Just like you don’t have to be Irish to dance a jig and swig green beer or Italian to knock back the vino and stuff your face with zeppole, you don’t need six fingers or hooves to caper about Golgotham like a wine-soaked maenad.

  The biggest crowd-pleaser of the Jubilee celebration is the Procession, where all of Golgotham’s major supernatural races, or ethnic groups, or whatever you want to call them, proudly strut their stuff. It’s also the official kickoff ceremony for the rest of the festival, which goes on all day and well into the night. Getting a curbside view of the Procession is very important if you actually want to see the parade itself, and not the back of someone’s head. So if you want to get a good spot you have to show up before the crowds do—say, around half-past the crack of dawn.

  It was five thirty in the morning when my best friend, Vanessa, and her new hubby, Adrian, showed up on our doorstep, outfitted with matching backpacks and dragging a cooler-on-wheels.

  “Thank God!” Vanessa groaned in relief upon seeing the pot of coffee waiting for her in the kitchen.

  “Be careful with that stuff,” I warned her. “It’s a special grind from the Devil’s Brew. One cup is guaranteed to wire you for sound.”

  “Wow, you’re not kidding.” Adrian grimaced. “I’ve barely taken a sip and my eyelids feel like they’re flapping behind my eyeballs. Where’s Hexe?”

  “He left about an hour ago to nail down a good spot,” I explained. “Golgothamites take their Jubilee very seriously, so it pays to stake a claim as early as possible.”

  “Have you heard anything from your parents yet?” asked Vanessa.

  “Not a peep,” I replied. “Normally my dad would have tried an end run around my mother by now, but he’s not going to risk crossing her when she’s this mad. I don’t need their money if the strings attached to it make me a puppet.”

  “Your cat just insulted me and flew upstairs,” Adrian said, looking nonplussed.

  “Don’t mind Scratch,” I laughed. “He’s under strict orders not to eat friends and family.”

  Upon finishing our coffee, we grabbed up some collapsible camp chairs and headed out for the Procession, chatting among ourselves. Despite the early hour, there was already a steady stream of people, many of them outfitted with stepladders, headed in the direction of Perdition, the widest and straightest street in Golgotham. Perdition stretched all the way from the Gate of Skulls, located on Broadway, to the wharves of the East River, and during the Jubilee, festive banners and bunting were hung from every window, doorway, and lamppost, and temporary archways of red, white, and blue had been erected along the Procession route.

  As we arrived at the corner of Golden Hill and Perdition, I spotted Hexe standing on the curb, talking to his childhood friend Kidron. It was one of the few times I’d seen the centaur out-of-harness, and he was dressed to the nines in a blue silk caparison decorated with small diamond-shaped mirrors, with a matching doublet and a leather helmet crested by an ostrich feather dyed to match his clothes. I couldn’t hear what they were discussing, but judging by the scowl on Hexe’s face, it was something unpleasant.

  “Jubilation, Tate, to you and your friends,” Kidron said as we approached. “And I am glad to see you back on your feet, Miss Sullivan. I trust your ankle is no longer bothering you?”

  “Thank you,” Vanessa smiled. “And it’s Mrs. Klein, now. But, yes, my sprain is fully healed, thanks to Hexe.”

  “That is good to hear. My people take such wounds very seriously,” Kidron replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my herd.” With that he clopped across the street to join a group of centaurs, all of them tricked out in equally fancy dress.

  “So why the frowny face?” I asked as Hexe kissed me hello.

  “The Maladanti are putting the bite on the livery drivers,” he replied sotto voce. “They used to get ten percent. Now they’re demanding thirty, and are threatening to kneecap anyone who balks.” Upon seeing the look on my face, Hexe smiled and smoothed the hair away from my brow. “There will be other days on the calendar to worry about Boss Marz. I just want to enjoy the Jubilee with you before I end up being stuck judging who gets the blue ribbon for Best Potion for the rest of my life. Today is the Jubilee,” he said, raising his voice so that the others could hear, “a time to celebrate our freedom and the unity of our peoples!”

  “Damn straight!” Vanessa agreed as she set up her camp chair.

  “You certainly have some interesting neighbors here in Golgotham,” Adrian said, eyeing a clan of leprechauns as they clambered up a homemade reviewing stand constructed from a pair of ladders and a two-by-four.

  “These are just the ones who come out during the day,” Hexe said with a wink. “Wait until the sun goes down and the trolls, ghouls, and goblins take to the streets!”

  Adrian laughed uneasily and then checked the app on his phone that told him what time the sun would set.

  Within an hour of our arrival there were thousands of parade watchers, both looky-loos and native, thronging the length of Perdition Street. As the sun rose, the early morning chill quickly gave way to clear blue skies and pleasant spring temperatures. Children—human and otherwise—ran back and forth across the broad street in mindless, kinetic tribes, shouting and playing tag. A trio of centaur foals frisked about under the watchful eye of their dams, while a couple of young satyr kids amused themselves by butting heads. A vermilion-haired Kymeran street vendor carried a long pole covered in giant hand-twisted pretzels, hawking his wares to the hungry in the crowd, closely followed by a faun with a refrigerated pushcart selling ice-cold bottles of butterscotch root beer.

  Suddenly, a red rubber ball bounced into the middle of the frolicking foals. A second later a five-year-old human child came running up to reclaim it, only to stare in amazement at the little centauride turning the toy over in her hands. Her upper portion resembled a four-year-old girl, her blond hair fixed in twin pigtails, and dressed in a My Little Pony T-shirt, while from the waist down she was a knobby-kneed palomino foal. Upon espying the little boy, she smiled and shyly held the ball out to him. He returned her smile and reached out to take it, all the while unable to take his eyes off her.

  Hexe reached out and took my hand in his and gave it a squeeze. I grinned and kissed him on the cheek. “Maybe things aren’t so hopeless, after all?” I said, resting my head on his shoulder.

  “The problem isn’t with the kids,” he said as a woman hurried from the crowd and grabbed the young boy by the arm.

  “Jaxon! What did I tell you about staying where I can keep an eye on you?”

  “But I was just getting my ball back—!” the kid protested feebly.

  A palomino centauress stepped out into the street, putting herself between the foal and the boy. “That’s enough horseplay for now, Wynona!” she said sternly.

  “See what I mean?” Hexe sighed.

  The sound of distant, rhythmic drumbeats echoed throughout the neighborhood as a couple of centaurs in PTU helmets and crowd-control gear came trotting down Perdition, clearing away the vendors and pedestrians from the street. Upon espying these outliers, the crowds lining the curb began to cheer and clap.

  A minute or two later the Procession itself hove into sight. At its head were six Kymerans marching abreast of one another, each one dressed in robes the color of their respective caste: blue, yellow, red, green, orange, and purple. Their billowing garments were covered with arcane symbols picked out in silver thread and they carried between them a long pole, three to each end, from which hung a heavy satin banner embellished with the seal of Golgotham: a six-fingered right hand within a pentagram.

  Behind the walkers was the Motley Fool, a masked acroba
t dressed in the trademark coat of many colors that was the symbol of Kymerans in exile, and who walked on his hands and performed backflips and somersaults. The crowd laughed and cheered, tossing coins into the street, which the Motley Fool scooped up and placed in a pouch cinched about his waist.

  Following the costumed tumbler were three minotaurs with crimson loincloths knotted about their muscular waists and protective caps on their horns. Strapped across their backs were drums fashioned from the shells of gigantic tortoises. Marching immediately behind them were barrel-chested, horse-legged ipotanes wielding what looked like human leg bones in place of mallets. The rhythms the drummers summoned forth resonated like thunder and quickly invaded my pulse, making my scalp tighten and the hair on my arms stand erect.

  After the drum line was the royal carriage containing Lady Syra, Witch Queen of the Kymerans. She rode in a phaeton wreathed in garlands of flowers, drawn by Illuminata, her private chauffeur. The albino centauride was dressed in a shimmering silver mail tunic and a helmet topped by a snow-white ostrich plume. The doors of the carriage were set with enameled panels bearing the Seal of Arum: a golden battle-dragon with its tail in its mouth. Lady Syra, wearing a tiara fashioned from a pair of intertwined dragons atop her peacock blue hair, waved to the cheering crowds with her right hand, while holding a scepter that resembled a caduceus in her left.

  Directly behind the royal carriage was the Mayor’s coach, which was as ornately carved and heavily gilded as a circus wagon, pulled by a team of four centaurs. Banners proclaiming REELECT MAYOR LASH were draped on either side while the Mayor enthusiastically hurled fists full of wrapped sweets at the crowds.

  “Yay! Free candy!” Adrian exclaimed, eagerly scooping up one of the treats. Before I could warn him, he opened it and popped it in his mouth. A second later he spat it back out, a horrified look on his face. “Holy hell! What is that shit? It tastes like black licorice mixed with salt and ammonia!”

  “It’s called salt licorice,” I explained. “It’s something of an acquired taste. Kymerans love it.”

  “Agggh! My tongue’s gone numb!”

  “Yeah, it’ll do that,” Hexe conceded.

  As Adrian staggered off in search of something to wash the taste of free candy out of his mouth and restore sensation to his tongue, I returned my attention to the Procession. Directly behind the Mayor’s coach was a phalanx of twelve centaur stallions outfitted in ceremonial barding, with elaborately detailed bronze pectorals protecting their lower equine chests, leather and brass croupiers shielding their haunches, and helmets with hinged cheek plates.

  Suddenly there was a sound like a hundred beehives being overturned, and twenty-five leprechauns playing scaled-down Irish war pipes marched into view, followed by an equal number playing toy-sized hand drums. Both pipers and drummers alike wore the traditional leprechaun dress of bright green breeches, jackets, and broad-brimmed hats, with shiny golden buckles on their hatbands and shoes. All fifty were redheaded, though only the older ones had any facial hair, and none of them stood any taller than a three-year-old human child.

  The Wee Folks Anti-Defamation League’s float, drawn by a brace of centaur colts, was festooned with campaign banners that read: VOTE THE GREEN PARTY: SEAMUS O’FAE FOR MAYOR. Perched high atop a fake pot of gold at the end of an equally artificial rainbow was none other than Little Big Man himself. The tiny, charismatic lawyer and civic leader seemed to be enjoying himself immensely as he waved his shillelagh with one hand and tossed imitation gold doubloons to the crowd with the other.

  While the leprechauns were the most numerous of the faeries that call Golgotham home, they were far from the only Wee Folk on the float. A quartet of foot-tall brownies, flat-faced with huge eyes and tufted ears, their bodies covered in short curly hair, scampered about like a litter of bipedal Pekingese puppies as they supplied necklaces, candy, and toy doubloons to a squadron of dragonfly-winged pixies, who zoomed in and out of the crowd like barnstormers.

  There was a high-pitched buzzing sound and something suddenly swooped toward my head. I instinctively backed away, fearing a wasp or hornet had flown into my face, only to find myself staring at a pixie hovering inches in front of my nose. It was six inches long, with iridescent wings that beat so fast it seemed to hang in midair like a hummingbird. It was androgynous in appearance, with high-turned cheekbones and large eyes and a hairless, pale green body that resembled celadon pottery, clad in a simple, tuniclike garment woven from spider silk. It was carrying a doubloon in its tiny, yet surprisingly strong hands.

  “Vote for Seamus!” the pixie said with its pennywhistle voice. Upon dropping its cargo in my outstretched hand, it promptly zipped back to the slowly moving float to rejoin its kin.

  I looked down at the doubloon, which, despite its color, was made of anodized aluminum. On one side was stamped O’FAE FOR MAYOR; and on the other, GOOD FOR ONE FREE BEER @ BLARNEY’S BOOTH. I had to hand it to Seamus—he certainly knew his constituency.

  After the faerie folk passed by there came a triple column of satyrs pulling rickshaws, who wove in and out like Shriners in midget parade cars. In the lead rickshaw was Giles Gruff, leader of the satyr community, monocle in one eye, dressed in a top hat and monogrammed waistcoat, waving his gold-topped walking stick like a drum major. Riding in the other rickshaws were a mixture of comely nymphs and fauns, who smiled and tossed strands of wine-colored beads to the onlookers thronging the street.

  Next came Golgotham’s merfolk contingent, fronted by ten strapping, green-haired mer-men, naked save for their seaweed skirts. Using conch shells to trumpet their arrival, they went into the ritual dance of their people, grimacing and chanting as they slapped their bare chests, thighs and upper arms with their wide, webbed hands. Upon finishing, a couple of juvenile mers sprayed them down with misting wands attached to tanks of salt water, so that they would not dehydrate and start to wither.

  • • •

  Given that Golgotham is an automobile-free zone, the throaty rumble of combustion engines, even at low throttle, seemed as out of place as the whinny of centaurs on Broadway. The Iron Maidens Motorcycle Club, composed of two dozen Amazon warriors and Valkyries, rolled their idling hogs down the cobblestone street, dressed in their club colors, longbows and spears slung across their backs.

  At the head of the pack were Hildy and Lyta, the joint leaders of the merged gangs, sitting astride a chopped trike. Hildy, who stood over six feet tall and had long, blond Teutonic braids and a Harley-Davidson patch to hide her missing eye, was in the driver’s seat. Behind her was Lyta, dressed in a leather bustier that proudly displayed her missing right breast. As Hildy gunned the throttle on the trike, Lyta stood upright, lifting her bow over her head, and cut loose with an ululating war cry. The other Amazons instantly did the same, shaking their bows at the sky. Hildy pulled her war-hammer from its holster on the side of the trike and held it on high as well, giving voice to the famous call of the Valkyries. Her sister Choosers of The Slain answered in kind, raising their spears while gunning their motors, until it sounded like Wagner at Sturgis: loud, proud, and fucking awesome.

  The last float in the Procession was a flatbed pulled by a brace of Teamsters, on which a dozen hulders, fauns, and nymphs, wearing nothing but red-white-and-blue G-strings, star-shaped pasties, and tricorn hats writhed against stripper poles bolted to the floor of the trailer. Banners draped along either side of the float proudly proclaimed DUIVEL STREET WELCOMES YOU TO THE JUBILEE!

  Bjorn Cowpen, dressed in a pair of form-fitting red velveteen bell-bottom pants and a bright blue silk shirt open to his navel, with a white cravat knotted about his throat, stood surrounded by his patriotically garbed, gyrating employees as he tossed out sealed star-spangled condoms and sampler packets of flavored personal lubrication. The parents in the crowd recoiled in horror, yanking their children away from the sight of near-naked exotic dancers hanging upside down by their thighs from mobile stripper poles, while the rest of the onlookers hooted and cheered.

&n
bsp; “This’ll come in handy later,” Adrian quipped as he caught an All-American rubber.

  “Better let me keep track of it,” Vanessa said with a wink, plucking the patriotic prophylactic from his hand and sliding it into her cleavage.

  Bringing up the Procession was the Paranormal Threat Unit, led by Captain Horn, who rode atop a police wagon pulled by a brawny centaur in PTU riot gear. Marching on foot alongside the wagon was his second-in-command, Lieutenant Viva, her long, copper-penny tresses tucked up under her helmet.

  At first I thought they were merely participants in the parade until a drunken spectator, inflamed by lust and stupidity, clambered onto the Duivel Street float. Captain Horn pointed his right hand at the rowdy and an ectoplasmic cocoon instantly formed about the inebriated man, binding his arms to his side. Lieutenant Viva and another PTU officer quickly hurried forward and grabbed the subdued unruly, who now resembled a giant wad of cotton candy, and quickly tossed him in the back of the paddy wagon.

  Now that the Procession had finally passed by, the crowds on either side of the street moved to fill the empty void, scavenging the gutters for missed throws and other treasures before experiencing the games of chance, carnival rides, and souvenir booths that lined the cross streets. Many of the local restaurants and pubs set up temporary stalls on the sidewalks as well, to take advantage of the festival-goers.

  Blarney’s booth, easily identifiable by its bright green awning, was already doing a brisk business selling corned beef sandwiches and baked potatoes to those eager to cash in their doubloons for free beer. I spotted Lafo, dressed in painstakingly accurate Colonial Era dress, right down to the powdered wig, manning a stall that flew the familiar two-headed calf logo.

  “Jubilation to you and yours, Serenity!” the restaurateur said jovially, handing Hexe an enormous plastic novelty glass shaped like a revolutionary musket. “What can I get you and your friends?”

  “What do you think I should try?” Vanessa whispered, eyeing the menu board warily.