A Dark and Stormy Knight

by Bridget Essex

  “But what if it’s not?”

  I take a deep breath, drawing back from her and forcing a tight smile. “It’s going to be fine,” I repeat, feeling my heart rate skyrocket as my thoughts wander, again, to Charaxus...wondering if I’ll ever see her again.

  No, I don’t know if anything's ever going to be fine again.

  But I realize, as I gaze into Miyoko's anxious eyes, that maybe, just maybe, I do have some hope.

  Hope is this intangible, fragile thing. I've often pushed it away from me, through pain, through grief. But somehow, tonight, as I soothe my friend, as I mull over the conversations of the day, a tiny seed of hope unfurls in the deepest, darkest, saddest parts of my heart.

  “I believe in you,” I tell Miyoko, which is perfectly true: I may not always believe in myself or have the most optimistic view of my life, but I sure as hell believe in my loved ones and their abilities to triumph. They are, each and every one of them, amazing, bright, passionate people, and Miyoko is going to be fantastic tonight. She’s going to shine in one of the most powerful roles that Shakespeare ever wrote for a woman.

  I take a step back, holding Miyoko out at arm’s length. “You’re a phenomenal actress,” I tell her, as her jaw tightens and her chin trembles. “You’ve got this. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  And that’s when my dog starts barking.

  Chapter 12: Only You

  Any proud puppy parent can recognize his or her dog's bark, even in a crowd. And right now, I can hear Sammie—in his loud, deep baritone—barking his head off. “Crap—I’ve got to go,” I tell Miyoko, stepping forward and giving her another hug before turning back toward the hill. “No more worrying, okay?”

  “Okay,” she smiles weakly, though the expression on her face tells me she's still anxious about the performance.

  I blow her a kiss before racing back to the hill; I find the blanket where everyone’s sitting—Iris has joined the group now—and Cecile hands me Sammie’s leash with bewilderment in her eyes.

  “He just won’t sit still,” she says, shaking her head. “Do you want to take him for a walk? Maybe he needs a potty break.”

  “Maybe he wants a hot dog,” Toby suggests with a wide grin.

  “I don't know...” I regard my restless dog worriedly. He isn't barking anymore, but he’s panting hard, little bits of drool pooling from his tongue. Sammie doesn't normally act like this, even in a populated setting. He loves being around people.

  I bend toward him, and he peers up at me with wide brown eyes—and then barks in my face.

  It’s an insistent bark. An urgent one.

  “Okay, buddy, come on,” I tell him, tugging on the leash and turning to edge out of the crowd, aiming for the top of the hill, where the park spreads out before us. And—if need be—there is a hot dog vendor up here. Toby was right: Sammie really likes hot dogs.

  I notice right away that Sammie is acting strangely: he isn't sniffing the ground, and he’s ignoring all of the people milling about, getting programs from the interns or buying t-shirts from the merchandise stand. Instead, his nose is thrust up into the air, and my gentle, docile dog is sniffing the wind…a little like a wolf.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rise, because Sammie was acting out of character last night, too...when he pulled me toward the river—and Charaxus.

  “What is it, baby?” I ask him, sinking down by his side. I want, so badly, for him to be tracking Charaxus… But when he dips his nose to the grass, pulls me toward a sapling, and lifts his leg, I sigh, hope disintegrating.

  He just had to pee. None of this has anything to do with Charaxus.

  “Hey, Mara?”

  I’m so lost in my grief that it takes a moment for the guy’s voice to register. Finally, I blink, shifting my gaze, and there, standing next to me, is Stan.

  Stan and I have been friends for years. He’s one of Buffalo’s homeless; it was something that we bonded over when we first met. I was volunteering with Food Not Bombs every week, and whenever Stan showed up, he was always cheerful, despite his circumstances, and he gave the best hugs.

  Stan’s bisexual and the happiest guy you’d ever want to meet. Cecile has offered him a space in the Ceres, should he ever need it, but he likes to stick to himself, though he's spent a couple of nights in our grain elevator during the city's worst snowstorms.

  Stan does a lot of odd jobs around Buffalo, but he loves making jewelry best of all. He used to be in the service, has PTSD, and he’s told me that making jewelry really soothes him. He finds bits of broken glass, gravel, odd beads, and he strings them together on fishing line, or unravels thrown-away clothes for string. Everything he makes is dramatic and unique; I own a couple of his bracelets and wear them often.

  “Hey, Stan!” I say, offering him a big grin and a quick embrace. He smells like cigarettes and Nag Champa. When I back away, he smiles at me, too. “Are you here for Shakespeare?” I ask with a wink, and he laughs at me, shaking his head as if I just asked him if he’s the President.

  “Hell, no. That bullshit’s for yuppies,” he says pleasantly, then opens up his cigar box and holds it out to me. “Hey, do you want to see what I have tonight?”

  I gaze down at all of the different necklaces, bracelets and earrings that he carries around in his cigar box, the lot of them hopelessly tangled. I loop Sammie’s leash on my wrist and start poking through the box, still feeling preoccupied and uneasy about, well, a lot of stuff, when my fingers brush up against a sharp edge.

  “Ow,” I mutter, then blink. And blink again.

  Something inside of that cigar box is…glowing?

  I move aside the tangle of necklaces, the threads and beads and natural fibers all twisted together, and there, on the very bottom of the cigar box…

  My heart skips a beat.

  Okay, I shouldn't leap to conclusions. I shouldn’t assume that what I’m seeing is…

  Could it be?

  It’s difficult for me to believe that I would find the shard. Charaxus’ shard.. The means for her to return home.

  But this piece of glass—raw and sharp—isn't behaving like a normal piece of glass. It's illuminated from within. Stan has done his best to wire-wrap it carefully, in order to dull the edges, but he left the long tip uncovered, and that’s the part that pricked my finger.

  There’s a tiny cut on my fingertip; a drop of blood wells up.

  I peer at Stan, stricken speechless. Can he see that the shard is glowing? Stan is standing beside me wearing one of his ear-to-ear smiles, acting as if everything is completely normal.

  “Um…where did you get this piece, in particular, Stan—do you remember?” I ask him, acting nonchalant as I detangle the necklace from the others and dangle it in front of him. The shard of glass twinkles in the warm light of the setting sun.

  He squints at it, his head tilted to one side as he tries to remember. “I’m sorry, Mara. I don’t really know,” he tells me with a shrug. “Why? Do you like that one?”

  “Yeah.” I rest the pendant on my palm, watching the light flicker over its surface, coalescing over the glass as if it’s a magical object…which, I realize, my heart hammering…it is. Shit. Shit. I need to buy this from Stan, and—more importantly—I need to find Charaxus and give it to her.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as the realization sinks in that Charaxus’ brother, Charix, is also looking for this shard. I assume that he has magical abilities, like Charaxus, and wonder if he can sense when the shard glows. I wonder if it’s calling to him right now...

  I’m in over my head; I don’t know how any of this works—but first thing’s first.

  “Okay,” I say, offering Stan a small smile. “How much?”

  “For you, Mara?” he asks, considering. “Eh—what would you give for it?”

  Anything.

  I take a deep breath, pat my empty pockets. A thin sheen of sweat breaks out over my face because I didn’t bring my purse with me to Shakespeare in the Park. I was too pre
occupied... I forgot it at home, with my wallet stuck inside of it.

  I stare at Stan, stricken.

  I can’t ask him to just give it to me. The only way that Stan earns money (aside from sporadic odd jobs) is through the sales of his jewelry. But I don’t have any cash to give him. I’m too panicked, worried that Charix might be on his way, might leap out from the bushes and slit poor Stan’s throat in order to get the shard…

  I need this shard, but I have nothing to give him in exchange.

  Then I notice Stan’s gaze lingering on the pendant at my neck.

  “Oh,” I whisper, feeling my face pale as I lift my hand, pressing my thumb and forefinger to the gold pendant.

  It’s gold—real gold. If Stan pawns it, he might get twenty bucks, maybe even more, but the pendant he’s selling to me is worth more than that, and I know it. It’s Charaxus' ticket home, and that makes it priceless.

  But this gold pendant it’s all I have to trade.

  I press my thumb against the back of the pendant so hard, I know it’s leaving an imprint on my skin. I’ve held onto this stupid pendant for all of these years in this terrible, vain attempt to hold onto some part of my parents. Which is ridiculous, I know. Some small part of me has always hoped that they’d come back for me, that they would realize their error, realize that they love their gay daughter.

  But I know they don’t. Some parents just don’t love their children, are anomalies of nature.

  Mom and Dad are never going to be part of my life, and I’ve got to let them go; I've got to give up this last piece of them, in order to get the shard.

  It’s almost poetic, but it's still gut-wrenchingly hard to reach up, to undo the clasp at the back of my neck, to let the pendant fall into my palm. I hold it, dangling it from my fingers, the embedded diamond flashing in the dying light.

  “I’ll trade you?” My voice cracks. I clear my throat as I hold my hand out to Stan, the pendant whirling in the air as it hangs from its thin gold chain.

  I watch the pendant, and I think of all of the pain and resentment I still hold inside because of my parents. God knows I’ve tried to let it go over the years, but it’s been hard. They were my parents. And they betrayed me in every possible way.

  Cecile’s right.

  I need to let it go. I need to let all of it go.

  And the best way to do that is to give Stan the pendant.

  He frowns as he watches the necklace, his gaze flicking from the pendant back to my face. His grizzled jaw works back and forth, as if he’s trying to figure out what to do. “I dunno, Mara,” he says, sounding uncomfortable. “I’d feel pretty weird taking that from you. You always wear it.”

  “It’s not my favorite,” I say, and it’s the truth. I hate this pendant. I hate how—when I look at myself in the mirror—I’m reminded of my parents. I hate that I haven’t been able to free myself from the past.

  I’m not stupid. I know that the pain will be part of me for the rest of my life, that getting rid of this pendant isn’t going to heal the scars in my heart. But holding onto the pendant has symbolized my inability to move on.

  I hold out the necklace, and when Stan hesitantly offers his hand, I let the thing fall into his palm.

  “You take it, Stan—is it enough for the trade?” I ask, rocking back on my heels, gathering up the slack in Sammie’s leash as Sammie sits beside me, thumping his tail as he gazes happily at Stan—who has been known to, on occasion, give Sammie treats.

  Stan nods, holding out the shard to me; I take it from him with trembling fingers. Then I hiss out in pain when my fingers graze the glass: it's much too hot against my skin. What the hell?

  I try to mask my surprise, mustering up a small smile. “Thank you, Stan,” I mumble to him quietly, and then I’m turning away, pulse racing, as I stare down at the pendant in my palm.

  Wait—was that a trick of the setting sun? But I turn again, toward the copse of trees nearest to me, and there it is again.

  If I’m facing forward, pointed toward the rose garden and the Abraham Lincoln statue (Abe as a young guy, book spread in his lap), the shard doesn’t glow as brightly. But when I turn to the side, toward the woods and the lake…it shines like a flashlight.

  “You take care of yourself, Mara,” Stan says, his voice sounding uncertain, and I glance over my shoulder: he looks worried about me.

  “I will,” I promise him, and then Sammie and I walk down the hill but away from the crowd in front of the stage; the play is about to begin. The music has changed from the generic, light classical they put on beforehand to the more robust soundtrack they composed specifically for the production.

  The shard glows white-hot in my hand, brighter, brighter still. As if it’s pointing me in a particular direction…

  I have to follow it.

  Recorded thunder rolls over the stage: the three witches are about to begin Macbeth. The first witch is whispering, her microphone crackling with creepiness as I duck down one of the jogging paths, into the woods along the lake, “When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

  And then Sammie and I slip between the trees, and the noise from the stage fades.

  Delaware Park is well maintained, expertly designed and groomed, so there aren't a lot of heavily wooded areas here, but there are enough that teenagers in the city love to hide in the trees to make out and smoke weed. The scent of pot hangs heavily in the air as Sammie and I creep along.

  We pass a gaggle of teenagers who whisper among themselves, one of the boys hiding a joint behind his back, and I cast them a sideways smile, shaking my head, as if to say, “Don't worry. I won't call the cops.” They look pretty relieved.

  Deeper into the woods we go. It would be gorgeous here if it weren't for the graffitied tree trunks and the beer bottles littering the ground. But, to be honest, I hardly notice those things as I tread steadily, the shard glowing ever brighter in my hand…

  There's a rustling sound to my left.

  I pause for a moment, my heart beating hard. I know the park is crowded right now, but my senses are on overdrive. Something moved in that dense thicket over there—more kids getting high?

  Sammie’s ears have perked up, and he lifts his nose to the air.

  Then my dog begins to growl.

  It’s a low, deep, resonant sound that starts in his chest, and it really creeps me out. I watch him with anxiety, and then I glance down at the shard in my hand. None of the kids back there commented on the glowing thing I was holding, and neither did Stan, so I can only assume that other people can’t see the light. What does that mean? As I wonder, turning to face the enormous thicket, the shard starts to burn even brighter.

  I bite my lip, staring at the mess of nature. I’m not sure how to get in there, but that’s the way the shard is telling me to go.

  For one long moment, I wonder if I’m stark, raving mad. The shard is “telling” me to go into those bushes? Have I lost my grip on reality?

  But how else can I explain any of this?

  Maybe Cecile is right. Maybe there are no coincidences; maybe some things are fated, meant to be.

  I’m standing there on the twilit path in the woods in Delaware Park, holding onto a shard that shines in my hand. The thing is, I don’t know for certain that this is the shard Charaxus was looking for, but it feels as if it is…and that’s really weird for me. I’ve never felt anything mystical in my life…

  Aside from the dreams I had about Charaxus. Those always seemed magical.

  I push away my misgivings, draw in a deep breath, and tug Sammie toward the bushes. He gives me a , “You’ve got to be kidding me, Mom,” expression as I push the leafy branches aside, tugging my big dog after me. “Sorry, buddy.”

  The branches snag at my hair, tangle in my clothes. I hear the hem of my dress tear, but I push on, deeper and deeper into what I’m starting to think of as a hedge. The shard glows like a star in my palm, whiting out my vision when I stare directly at it.

  Now Sam
mie takes the lead, dragging me along, his leash taut and digging into my wrist. Since he’s shorter than me, he can move through the less-dense areas more easily.

  “Buddy, slow down,” I say, but he doesn't let up; instead, he pulls even harder. I put my arm in front of my face to protect my eyes—

  And then there are, suddenly, no more thorns, no more branches.

  Lowering my arm, I stand a little straighter and glance around me. We’re in a clearing, though it’s not much of a clearing. The central tree is larger than the rest, probably a hundred years old. An oak tree. Like the other trees on the path beyond these bushes, this trunk is graffitied with some unrecognizable symbols in blue spray paint.

  And Charaxus is tied to the tree with rope.

  She’s standing straight, the rope tight—too tight—around her shoulders and her waist, her hips, her thighs and calves; her arms are pinioned at her sides. She’s staring at me with a shocked expression, silent—because rope is looped around her mouth, too. Her forehead is sweaty and creased, as if she's panicked, or in excruciatingly pain.

  I gape at her, heart rising in my throat, horror moving through me...but the horror is quickly replaced by potent, powerful rage. I drag Sammie toward her, holding the shard in my hand as I examine the rope that’s cutting into her mouth, affixing her head against the tree.

  Charaxus’ too-blue eyes look startled, urgent, haunted. I take in the blood dripping down from the sides of her mouth, painting her chin with garish red streaks.

  A muffled sound comes from Charaxus' throat, then: she’s trying to tell me something.

  Suddenly, Sammie snarls, the fur on the back of his neck bristling as he spins around and stares at something behind us...

  Sick with dread, I turn.

  There’s a man standing at the edge of the hedge, filling the space I made when I pushed through the bushes. He’s wearing the same type of armor Charaxus wore when I found her in the river: black, heavy-looking, with spikes on the shoulders. But there are more spikes on his armor, the kind of spikes you might put on something that you’re trying to warn people not to touch. He has spikes on his chest-piece, along the lower-arm guards, even on each one of his knees and the toes of his metal-plated boots. He’s wearing a helmet with a long nose guard, and several spikes jut out of the helmet, too.