by Barbara Taub
“Lette… Wait! What if I have a concussion? What if I die in the night, all alone, with nobody to help me?”
I turned toward him as I swung down onto the ladder. “Then I’ll turn your sorry cleft-chinned corpse into a frog. Which George will probably eat.” His groan followed me down the ladder.
For the next several hours, I sat in a tree opposite the cabin while rain poured down. George was not pleased. By the time the moon came up, there was still no sign of movement from the cabin. What if my first non-parental visitor in four years was lying helpless on the floor? Maybe even dying? “Well, damn,” I told George. “Damn, damnity.” It might have been the first time he and I agreed on anything, but that didn’t stop him from biting me as I swaddled him back into the scarf and headed for the cabin’s ladder.
Pulling myself onto the porch, I unwrapped George. With a parting slash at my ankles, he stalked into the cabin and stood pointedly over his food dish. As soundlessly as possible, I grabbed the bag of cat food cans from my backpack and padded barefoot into the cabin. “Hello, Lette.” His voice was right behind me. Acting on instinct, I whipped around, swinging the cat food cans at…wow…the same side of his head that already sported a huge knot. He looked at me in amazement for a moment before sliding to the floor.
I might not tell Mom about this one.
I put a pillow under his head, covered him with a quilt, and left a glass of water and a bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen next to him. Then I replaced the sheets on my bed and climbed in with my laptop to write this journal update. George kneaded the blankets for several minutes and curled up next to me. For the second time in one day, I agreed with George. Visitors are tiring.
•●•
Firsts!!!
LiveJournal, October 28, 2012 by LetteS
—Lette’s Birth Date Calculator: retired
I’m too nervous to sleep, so I’m going to write about what happened today and then do some touches on jars of gravel.
When I woke up this morning, what sounded like muffled cursing in another language was coming from my living room. I stumbled to my bedroom doorway to see Stefan sitting with his back against the sofa. The blanket I’d draped over him last night was around his shoulders, the pillow was behind his head, and he was clutching the bottle of pain relievers. His eyes were closed, and he didn’t look happy.
I leaned against my doorjamb. “Why are you here?”
“I thought I was supposed to rescue you.”
“From what?”
He waved at the cabin.
I tried to imagine the cabin seen through the eyes of a stranger. One pine-paneled central room holds a sectional sofa that came in pieces from Ikea, piled with the pillows I make from my old graphic tees. Next to the sofa is my rocking chair, desk with microscope and computer monitor that doubles as a TV, and galley kitchen with a little table and chairs. Presiding over the whole place is the woodstove, set into a wall-sized river rock fireplace. Doors lead to the front and back porches. One arm of the sectional sofa backs against a pair of ceiling support columns filled in with chest-high bookshelves, defining one side of a small open hallway. On the other side of the hallway, bathroom and bedroom doors face the center room. More filled bookcases line every available inch of wall space, the fireplace mantle is crowded with framed family photos, and my Nana’s handmade rugs overlap across the wood floors.
Nope. It all still looked just fine to me. “If I need any rescuing, I’ll take care of it myself.” He still looked upset, so I tried again. “Um… No, thanks?”
As he opened his mouth to reply, I heard the sound I’d been listening for over the past few weeks. “Shh!” I must have looked pretty fierce because he shut right up. Moving as silently as I could, I reached under the bed. His eyes got wide as I pulled out my crossbow and quiver. I didn’t blame him. My parents got me the new rig as an early Christmas present, and she’s a beauty. Stefan was probably jealous.
He didn’t say a word as I moved to the porch and loaded the bow. Minutes passed as I sat without moving, barely breathing. There! I aimed and shot down into the trees below. Without looking at Stefan, I grabbed my hunting bag, checked to see that my sheathed knife was in place, slung the bow and quiver over my back, and swung onto the ladder.
George was just starting to stiffen up when I returned, holding a plucked and headless turkey. He hissed half-heartedly as he shook out each paw, but the knowledge that turkeys meant turkey liver for cats kept him from more overtly antisocial retaliation. Stefan had moved to the sofa and was staring at me. I was a little sorry to see that he was fully dressed, especially when I got a good look at the artistically-ripped jeans, white sloppy-neat, tailored shirt, and smooth leather shoes. “You’re not from Seattle, are you?” I pointed to my Birkenstocks. “Footwear. In the winter, we wear them with socks.”
When I pulled my bow and quiver from my shoulder, he made a funny noise so I turned around to show it off.“She’s custom fit with a noise damper for multiple shots, Nikon dot sight, and aircraft-grade aluminum riser. Best of all, she weighs under 6.5 pounds but still mounts a 330 MPH top arrow speed.”
“I think those are the most words I’ve heard you say.” He seemed about to say more, but stopped and shook his head.
I looked at him. “What?”
“I’m just grateful you hit me with the cat food instead of a knife or arrow. And I apologize for trying to rescue you. May I leave now? Please?”
I shrugged and focused on the turkey I was cleaning. But my cheeks were warm, so I changed the subject. “I don’t know why wild turkeys started showing up around here, but they make great eating. I don’t need rescuing, but company for lunch might be nice.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but your social skills are… Well, actually you don’t have any. You’ve already knocked me out twice and made me sleep on the floor. Now that I’ve seen your arsenal, maybe I should go before you kill me.”
I whirled around to see his eyes twinkling and—O Mama, am I in trouble—that cheek-dimple flashing at me. “Maybe…” My cheeks were hotter than ever. “You could help with the cooking instead?”
Lunch was the best meal I’d ever had at the cabin. Stefan talked, and I listened. He told me he was born in Germany, but his parents moved to Los Angeles when he was a little kid because the bottom fell out of their family business in Germany. I listened to his stories of staying out all night so he and his friends could get front-row spots for the Rose Parade in Pasadena, or going to concerts for indie bands I’ve only heard on the internet. He told me how he’d learned to surf, and how he’d gotten parts in a couple of movies.
Compared to all that, my own life sounds so boring. But when I talked about inheriting the family touch, and how I couldn’t risk hurting anyone by accident, he got it right away. “I have family issues too. My grandfather is getting old, and they want me to take over for him.” He stood up and walked over to look out the window. “But I just want to live a normal life with people who like me. I have a degree in teaching and a masters in administration, and all I want is to get a regular job, raise a family, and have a good life.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Our family has been around for…a long time. Have you ever heard of the Krampus?”
“Only those movies that come out every Christmas to scare the twelve-year-olds.” I moved over to the bookshelf and pulled out the case for a video game. “And there was this one really great game. Completely terrifying. But when the sequel came out, it was all sweetness and light. Yuck.”
His smile was a bit lopsided. “That’s part of the problem. Nobody knows about us these days. But a long time ago, even before the Christian priests came with their stories of Christmas, there were tales of the Krampus. Some said it was a devil, others said it was the wild spirit who lived in young men. But the stories agree that St. Nicholas was able to get the Krampus to serve him. By the seventeenth century, when St. Nicholas visited families to distribute gifts to good children, th
e Krampus would accompany him. Dressed as a horned demon with a long curling tongue, the Krampus’ job was to frighten, or even take away, bad children. Each new generation’s Krampus, along with his family, survived on the terror of children. It was our food, our liquor, our drug.”
Stefan turned toward the window, and the sun streaming in turned his face into sharp, light and dark planes. “Of course, you can imagine how that ended. Today everyone knows there are no bad children, just ignorant parents. So St. Nicholas is still welcome, but the Krampus isn’t allowed. My father saw the writing on that wall. He moved us to LA and started the movie series. They tried me out as an actor in bit parts, but I wasn’t good. That’s when I created the first video game.” A little shiver ran over him, and in the setting sun coming through the window, his eyes glowed faintly. “It was a huge hit. My whole family feasted for years on the fear it generated.”
The beautiful, fairy-tale prince was gone, and in his place, I pictured the faint outlines of horns and lolling tongue. “You have no idea what it was like to grow up knowing all my friends were excited about Christmas and a visit from St. Nicholas. Meanwhile, our family was looking forward to feasting on the pain and terror of children.”
Then he turned to me, and the prince was back, flashing Stefan’s blue eyes and smile. “So when it came time to do the next video game, I said it was going to be different. Nicer. Of course, it was a complete failure. Now my family wants me to go back to the style of the first game and also go back to Germany and take over from my grandfather. I have a lot of…cousins…but Grandfather says I have to be the next Krampus.”
He came back to the little table covered with the remains of our feast. “Lette.” He picked up my gloved hand and wrapped his own around it. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He. Held. My. Hand. “You and I know what it’s like to try to live with what you’ve inherited from your family. If I do what they want, my life will be spent literally eating the energy from frightening and punishing children. Their fear and their pain will keep me alive.”
He reached for my other hand. “But it doesn’t have to be that way. We can go to Null City, together. We can turn our backs on what our families have made us, and we can have a good life. A human life.”
No longer twinkling, his blue eyes pleaded with me. “Come with me, Lette. We can rescue each other.”
I shook my head. “My parents…”
“Lette.” His whisper was warm, dark, full of sin and promise. “You’re young. Beautiful. You have to have wondered…imagined someone kissing you. Touching your bare skin. Making love to you. Giving you babies. That someone could be me.” He leaned in, and his lips touched mine so softly I could barely feel them. Then I did feel—little kisses on my forehead, nose, in lines down my cheeks, tasting my lips. My hands couldn’t feel his skin, but his warmth came through the gloves. His tongue brushed the seam of my lips and, when I opened my mouth, curled around mine for a moment while his lips pressed harder. Then he pulled back and laughed a bit. “You’re allowed to kiss back, you know.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Lette, you deserve love. Come with me to Null City. I know we’ve just met, but we have something in common. There has to be a reason we were brought together. Maybe we’re meant for each other. Lette—please. Please rescue me.”
He leaned in again, and this time I leaned forward too. Now that I was barefoot, we were almost the same height. My hands came up to his shoulders, and then I ran one gloved finger along his lips. My own lips were touching what my fingers could never know—bristles from his day-old beard, soft eyelids and spiky lashes flat against his cheeks, the surprise of his earlobe, the swirl of his dimple, back to lips that opened for me. I opened my own mouth, and he tasted like turkey, and apple cider, and something I couldn’t name. My hands went to his hair to pull his head closer. Stefan yelled and pulled back. When I opened my eyes, he was cradling the place on his head where I’d hit him with the cat food cans.
As I ran to get more frozen peas, I thought about what Stefan had said. Is it true? Could my future hold more than a vibrator that wouldn’t turn off? Maybe a human touch? Maybe even a baby with cerulean blue eyes?
•●•
Date: October 29, 2012
To: [email protected], [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Love You
Dear Mom and Dad,
You will be happy to know that man didn’t die when I pushed him down the ladder. Or hit him with cat food cans. (I didn’t tell you about that one.)
In fact, his name is Stefan Krampus, and he is probably the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. He’s asked me to go with him to a place called Null City. It’s not on any map, and you can only get there on a special train called the Metro. Once we stay there for one day, our gifts will fade, and we’ll be just like other people.
Mom, I could get married. Maybe even have children. Stefan thinks we were meant to be together. Dad, you’re probably thinking we just met, and I don’t know any other men. But don’t worry: I’m taking my knife and bow. And even if Stefan is wrong about us being fated to be together, I want the chance to touch other people, and live a normal life.
The problem is that in Null City, Stefan says I might forget my past life, maybe even both of you. But once a year everyone has an Amnesty Day where they get the chance to remember their past and to leave Null City if they want to. So I’m sure there will be a way for me to see you again.
I’m so sorry to write this in a letter, but I just couldn’t tell you directly.
I love you both.
—Lette
PS: I guess I’ll have to take George.
PPS: Guess what? Today’s touch was diamond rings. I left you a jar of them behind the jelly beans, and I made a jar for us to take just in case. Also, there is a jar of miniature Mad-Men figures that I was going to give Dad for his Sixties New York rail layout. Happy Birthday, Dad. I think this is really the year you win that trophy at your convention.
•●•
I Don’t Have to be a Freak!
LiveJournal, October 29, 2012 by LetteS
Saying goodbye to my parents wasn’t hard. It was impossible. I’m ashamed of myself, but instead of calling, I ended up writing an email that was keyed to send early this morning.
I spent my last night in the cabin listening to more stories about Stefan’s life, all the things he’d done in the world, parties he remembered from college, adventures with his friends. And if part of me worries that there doesn’t seem to be a Lette-shaped space in any of the things he loves, I remind myself of the pleading in his eyes when he begged me to come with him. I hear his voice saying I’m beautiful. And I feel my lips against his. Touching.
As I worked with the gravel pieces out on the back porch, turning them to diamond rings, I saw Stefan staring at me. “What?”
He had a funny look on his face. “Is this something you do a lot?”
“Depends on what my touch is for a particular day. Plus, changing little things like gravel is pretty easy. But if I do something big, it takes a lot out of me. The day I levitated the house, I was just trying to adjust it a bit so it faced more into the sun. Instead, it went up twenty feet, and I passed out until the next day. Then I was so weak, it took me another day to figure out how to get up to the house. Luckily, I had my phone, so I finally called my parents to come out with a ladder. But George was stuck up here the whole time, so he barfed on my bed. Twice.”
He grinned. (Dimple!) “It might have been better when you didn’t talk quite so much.” Then he shook his head. “No, I meant how often do you turn things into diamonds?”
“That’s pretty rare. On any given day it’s more likely my touch will be, at best, lame and at worst… Well, you probably don’t want to know what happened on the worst days.”
The dimple vanished, and his blue eyes were bleak. “Even on your worst days, you don’t have to live off children’s fear.”
There just wasn’t anything to say after that.
Chapter Four
Regrets
LiveJournal, October 29, 2012 by LetteS
I’m writing this from the Metro train platform, waiting for the train to Null City. Sorry if there are typos, but I’m still shaking. I hope my parents never find out what really happened today. Destroying people is nothing like turning rocks into frogs or diamond rings. (George doesn’t count.)
I made the trip to Seattle on the back of Stefan’s motorcycle, one gloved hand around his waist and the other holding George’s cat carrier. George does not approve of motorcycle travel. A shocker.
My old camping backpack holding my bow, the jar of diamond rings, and a few clothes was strapped onto one side of the bike, with Stefan’s fancy leather satchel on the other. He refused to let me steer, but I’m not bitter. Much. And anyway, he (almost) redeemed himself when he took off his leather jacket and passed it over to me.
Soon after we started out, we stopped at a coffee shop while Stefan called his parents to say goodbye. I don’t think that went well, because he said we had to hurry or his grandfather would try to stop him from going to Null City.
We rode straight to downtown Seattle to look for the Metro train that connects to Null City. Stefan said nobody knows too much about how the Metro works or even what it is, but he thought we would find it if we were in the right general area.
So there we were, under the Alaskan Way Viaduct. We’d parked the motorcycle by the ferry terminal, and I carried George, while Stefan had both of our packs. He kept looking around as if he expected each person we saw to sprout horns and attack us. And since I haven’t been around anyone except Stefan and my parents for five years, the crowds of people on the street were also making me feel…weird. I stopped and opened my camping backpack to get a second pair of gloves. Then a block later I put on a third set.
My head hurt, and I was giving serious consideration to throwing up when Stefan pushed me into a little alley behind two dumpsters. He put a hand over my mouth and whispered, “Shh!” There was a hollow tube along the side of the dumpster where it could be lifted to empty into a trash truck. Looking through it, I saw two men pause at the entrance to the alley. They were older versions of Stefan; one early-thirties, one about a decade older. Stefan had that Young Hollywood thing going on, but these guys’ clothes screamed casual-day-at-the-country-club: khakis with knife-sharp creases and pastel polo shirts (one pink, one blue) with the collars popped. With designer sunglasses pushed up on perfect blond hair, they looked like normal tourists. But their shadows were…wrong: huge, with long horns and twisted, curling tongues. I wished I could get to my bow, but it was stashed in the pack behind Stefan. After a long minute, while we held our breaths, the men moved on.