Dark Valentines

by Mark Onspaugh

  Whatever other creatures might have wanted to make a meal of the brave Knight and his steed harkened unto those screams and left Sir Giles well alone. As he rode on, the trees began to appear stunted, sickly. At last they disappeared altogether, save for some charred trunks among the boulders and stones.

  Sir Giles heard weeping, and quietly dismounted from his horse. He patted the horse on the muzzle and bade him stay. With stealth and grace, the Knight made his way toward the sound, his sword at the ready.

  Crawling up over a rock, he peered down at the mouth of a large cave. There, chained to a post, was a young woman with long, lustrous hair down to her waist. Behind her, the cave entrance was charred and blackened. It was clear of bones save for one golden skull that gleamed in the midday sun.

  Sir Giles listened, but did not hear the creature. Nor did he smell the sulfurous stench of it, nor the carrion smell that meant it was near.

  Still, it was wise to be cautious. Sir Giles made his way down quietly, keeping alert to anything that might come at him from behind or from above.

  He was nearly finished with his descent when she saw him, and her eyes grew wide. Sir Giles put a finger to his lips and she nodded.

  Giles approached cautiously. He had been told dragons were crafty as well as dangerous, and one as formidable as this would probably like nothing better than to add to his horde of gold bones and gems stolen from the countless knights who had gone before.

  The area was quiet. He approached the maiden.

  “Have you come to rescue me, sir?”

  “I have, fair maiden, I am Sir Giles of King Arthur’s Court.”

  “And I am Miranda of Dürin.”

  “Your name sounds much like my sword, which is a good omen, I’ll warrant. Where is the dragon now?”

  “Flown off – sometimes it brings me food, for it does not want me dead before the moon is gone.”

  “You’ll be free and it will be dead long before that night, Lady Miranda.”

  He made ready to cleave the chains binding her with his magick sword, when she bade him stop.

  “Please, noble sir, I have been told only a knight pure in heart and deed may rescue me. Any other puts my life at risk.”

  Sir Giles bowed low. “I am your humble servant, Fair Miranda. I have remained chaste for one such as you, and I must say you are more beautiful than even the fabled Faerie Queen.”

  “Oh, Sir Giles, how I have dreamt and prayed for a handsome man of virtue to rescue me from my loneliness and torment.”

  Sir Giles felt his heart race. “Stand still, now,” he commanded, and she did.

  One strike, two, and her iron bonds turn to rust and fell away. As he sheathed his sword she ran to him and wrapped his arms around his neck.

  They kissed, and the taste of her was like berry wine, but sweeter. Sir Giles felt himself stir and knew it would be difficult to keep his vows.

  “Will you give me your hand, Beautiful Miranda?”

  “Oh, Sir Giles, yes, yes!” She kissed him again, even more ardently, and his desire was now proving to be quite painful.

  “Let us away to the nearest village, then, where a parson may join us before God and Man.”

  “And then…” she began, but looked down as a deep flush colored her cheeks and bosom the deep red of spring roses.

  He smiled at her and took her hand.

  As they started for the way back to his horse, she stopped him.

  “My dowry!” she cried.

  “In Dürin?” he asked.

  “No, the dragon-horde. We must take some of it – my gift to you.”

  Surely they should take some of the gold, he reasoned. He would mark the location of the cave well and return with a party to cart the rest out. Of course, he would need to dispatch the dragon, but that would be easier with his ladylove safely away and out of danger.

  Miranda started into the cave and he touched her shoulder.

  “Let me go first, my intended, for caves such as these are home to more than just dragons.”

  Her eyes widened in fear and she nodded.

  Sir Giles found some pitch coating one of the rocks and was able to fashion a torch using a golden femur and a bit of his tunic. The flame was smoky but gave off sufficient illumination.

  They went deep into the cave, and nothing presented itself. Indeed, the walls were covered with soot, which led Sir Giles to believe the dragon had cleansed the cave of all interlopers and vermin.

  When they had gone in nearly a quarter of a mile, Sir Giles torch was beginning to gutter, but it picked up objects of bright gold.

  The dragon horde!

  Miranda squeezed his hand excitedly and they pressed forward.

  It was an amazing sight – hundreds of skeletons, some still intact, and all looking as if they had been cast in gold. It was a powerful magick, and Sir Giles momentarily thought he was glad he had not faced down the creature that wielded it.

  And suddenly, a reptilian head the size of a horse raised itself up over them, its green eyes glowing with cold malevolence. Only then did The Singing Sword hum and thrum, though weakly, like a candle nearly spent.

  It was an old dragon, incredibly old, and now Sir Giles could hear its labored breathing. All along its neck and one visible side he could see scales sloughing off, and sore spots pocked with some white fungus.

  He had never seen a dragon, but he could tell this one was near death.

  “He is so near death,” Miranda said, and her voice almost sounded like she pitied the creature.

  How noble she was, Sir Giles thought, his heart swelling with love.

  “Look what I have brought you, husband,” Miranda cooed.

  Sir Giles gaped at her, trying to comprehend what she had just said.

  She smiled at his confusion. “It’s been so long since one of you has ventured this far into the forest, and my love has become famished.”

  Bewildered, Sir Giles blurted, “But a dragon will only eat virgins…”

  “Indeed,” she said, and then her knife was between his ribs, and he was falling toward the great maw, some of its teeth rotting but others quite sharp enough to remove his flesh…

  Sir Giles brought up the Singing Sword, but the old serpent sent out a wisp of dragon flame, enough to turn the wondrous weapon to slag, and Sir Giles right hand and forearm to ash and golden bone.

  The brave and virtuous Knight screamed, and then it was all over, but the feeding.

  Later, when her dragon lover was quite rejuvenated, Miranda gave a toast to the brave and virginal knights of the Round Table, and then added the golden bones of Sir Giles of Coventry to their immense and impressive collection.

  WHAT BECAME OF THE PURSE SNATCHER

  Terry had been following the old woman for a couple of days, now.

  She seemed to be ancient, the sort of woman whom age has surrounded and contracted, bending and squashing a once tall and lithe creature into something shriveled and stooped. Her hair was the gray of an overcast day and pulled into a severe bun. She wore no makeup, and her race was indeterminate. She might very well have been wandering the streets of the Valley since the dinosaurs.

  Today she was dressed in a gray sweater and a black skirt, her shoes large and sensible.

  And as always, over her left shoulder, an enormous bag.

  The bag had been Terry’s initial target. He was a thief by trade, but had no aptitude for burglary or picking pockets. Shoplifting made him nervous and armed robbery was out of the question. Still, at twenty-two he possessed enough speed and agility for purse-snatching.

  He had seen the old woman heading for the bus stop on Ventura Boulevard near Sepulveda. It was a slow, summer midday, and Terry thought the bag might bring enough for at least part of his rent and a couple of chili burgers at Tommy’s, maybe even a six of Molson.

  He was a man of simple tastes, and old lady purses provided his means.

  He would usually grab a bag and
run like hell, having familiarized himself with all the nearby alleys and parking garages, as well as dead-ends and yards harboring unfriendly dogs.

  Terry had watched the old woman from across the street, like a lion surveying a waterhole as an aging wildebeest stops to take a drink.

  There were two kids standing at the bus stop, probably four and eight. They were both eating ice cream cones, and the older kid kept an eye on his brother. Terry disregarded them. They posed neither threat nor opportunity.

  As he was crossing the street, calculating where to make his grab, the four-year-old dropped his ice cream. A big scoop of strawberry, by the look of it, rapidly melting on the hot sidewalk as the kid held an empty cone and started to cry.

  The older kid was trying to comfort him, but the younger one just cried harder. People from across the street were starting to look, and now Terry was thinking he might have to let this wildebeest go.

  And then a most curious thing happened.

  The old lady reached into her purse, and pulled out an ice cream cone. Terry was now near the bus stop and could see that it was a big strawberry cone with jimmies on top. He thought he must be hallucinating, because he also saw wisps of vapor issuing from her bag, like the fog that issues from the freezer compartment of an ice cream truck.

  The old lady gave the little boy the ice cream and patted him on the head. She did not stop at the bus stop but walked past Terry.

  Terry stood there for a good two minutes, watching the boys eat their ice cream.

  The woman must have gotten an ice cream up the street, then seen the little boy lose his. Maybe she had a grandmother complex or something. Part of him was protesting that there was no ice cream parlor in that direction, that the boys must have gotten their ice creams at the mall or the burger place, both of which were in the opposite direction.

  The purse… Maybe it was some kind of food storage thing, some advancement in portable freezers.

  Okay, that was ridiculous. But what else was there, magic?

  Terry never worked the same area more than a couple of days. It was a sure way to get caught. But he had enough to live on for a couple of days. He decided he would follow the old lady and see what was what.

  The next day was even hotter, and Terry was wishing that he had an ice cream, or better yet, a cold beer. It was one o’clock and he hadn’t spotted the old woman. Maybe she was smarter than he was and staying indoors.

  He saw a couple of prime targets on Ventura Boulevard, two old women gazing in a shop window at menorahs and plates for the high holy days, both of them well-dressed and carrying handbags that dangled from their arms like ripe fruit.

  But Terry couldn’t concentrate. What if he snagged a bag and missed the old woman? On the other hand, his apartment manager would be at his door any day now, looking for back rent and in no mood for fairy tales.

  He decided he had to be practical. He’d snatch the purse and leave the mystery of the old woman and the ice cream unsolved, a tale he could share with friends over a beer or a joint.

  Terry was just calculating his move when the old woman he had been seeking came out of the store. She exchanged pleasantries with the other women who had been window shopping, and the three of them headed up the street, walking away from him.

  Terry followed them at a discreet distance, one time ducking into a liquor store to grab a Coke so he wouldn’t seem too obvious.

  At Van Nuys Boulevard the two women hugged the mystery woman and turned left. The mystery woman proceeded up Ventura.

  Now he had a dilemma. Cash or conundrum?

  He realized he could have both. If the old woman seemed perfectly ordinary, he’d relieve her of her purse and pay his rent. If not?

  Well, he wasn’t sure. It would depend on what happened.

  She walked steadily up the street, her pace belying her age. Terry was young enough to be her grandson and in good shape - he had to be, in his line of work – and yet he was sweating and chugging his drink, trying hard to suppress an enormous belch that was building in his throat.

  A homeless man was pushing a shopping cart their way, loaded with the flotsam and jetsam of years on the Valley streets. He accosted each passerby with requests for change to buy food.

  He approached the old woman, and Terry risked getting closer so he might witness the exchange.

  “Spare change, lady?”

  The old lady reached into her purse. She handed the man something fairly large in waxed paper, and a cup. The old man looked at them both in wonder. He sniffed the waxed paper.

  “This… this is a meatloaf sandwich like my Ma used to make, and…” He took a tentative sip from the cup, and his cracked and dirty face broke into a beatific smile. “Pee-Wee Orange Soda! We… we used to get ‘em after school at Linton’s Deli…”

  She patted him gently on the shoulder and he thanked her over and over. Terry watched the old woman proceed up the street, then turned to the homeless man, who was slowly eating the sandwich with closed eyes. It was clear he was being transported, back to some happier time. The homeless man took a sip of his soda and sighed.

  Terry had wanted to ask him if he knew the woman. He wanted to ask him if the sandwich really was like what his mother used to make. But there was something so moving in this small moment of absolute joy that he left him alone. He found himself wishing he had a dollar to spare, to give to him.

  Terry shook his head, and went in search of the old woman.

  She was nowhere to be found. There were apartment buildings in this part of Van Nuys, perhaps she lived in one of them.

  Wondering how he was going to pay his rent, Terry went home.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  It was almost a week before Terry returned to the stretch of Ventura bounded by Sepulveda and Van Nuys.

  He had come home from his last sighting of the old woman to find his father’s toolbox in front of his door. He recognized it because he had made the box for his father in wood shop, and had carefully burned his initials “F.J.” in the lid.

  He picked it up in perplexed wonder.

  Hadn’t this been lost in the fire, as well?

  He was rubbing a thumb over the “J’ when Mrs. Herskovic, the manager, approached.

  “You got rent, Mr. Jacobs?” she asked.

  He wanted to lie, to tell her he just had to go to the bank, but it almost seemed… It just wouldn’t be right, holding his Dad’s toolbox.

  “No, ma’am.”

  She opened her mouth, probably to tell him to pack up his “trash” and get out, when she looked at the toolbox.

  “You do repairs?”

  “Some. My… my Dad taught me, when I was a kid.”

  “Plumbing, electrical… maybe paint or wood stuff, you can do these things?”

  “Yes.”

  “You do maintenance, I forget back rent, and give you discount rate. No freebies, by end of summer you will have to start paying new rent.”

  And he had agreed.

  How had that happened? In the past he would have told her to go to hell, and stolen away in the middle of the night, maybe putting a few holes in the wall for good measure.

  It just didn’t seem right, him holding Frank Jacobs’ tools, what he called “his little helpers.”

  So he had patched holes and painted apartment 5, unstopped a sink in apartment 12, and repaired a cabinet in apartment 22. He also had installed a ceiling fan for Mrs. Herskovic, which earned him a cold lemonade and some spice cake.

  And the days? They had gone by quickly, and he discovered he was actually enjoying himself. It was true, he needed money for food and other necessities, but Mrs. Herskovic said she could probably find him work at two or three other buildings in town.

  She had even given him an advance on this notion, a whole fifty bucks.

  So now he was at the Smokehouse Burger joint on Van Nuys, enjoying an early lunch, his first honest meal in… what? A year? Two?

  The truth
was, he had decided the old lady and her bag was some kind of illusion, some product of the heat and bright sun and his own overactive imagination.

  He was thinking about Mrs. Herskovic, who wasn’t such a bad old lady once you got to know her. He liked helping her, and the thought of being a handyman had a sort of appeal.

  But it wasn’t… It wasn’t quite enough.

  When he had been a kid, the same kid who carefully burned his father’s name into the lid of his toolbox, he had had a very vivid imagination. Even when he was crafting his father’s initials, he was imagining he had heat vision like Superman, that soon he would be flying over Metropolis to save Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen.

  He had a lot of crazy daydreams like that, whether the captain of a starship or a masked avenger, he was a hero.

  It made him a little sad now to realize that, for quite a while, he had actually been the villain.

  He took a sip of his soda and looked out the window.

  There, sitting dejectedly at the curb, was a kid of about ten. His clothes had that clean but careworn look of poverty.

  Then, the old woman had walked up, today dressed in a yellow sun dress with a blue sweater.

  And that enormous purse.

  She stopped to talk to the kid, her back to Terry.

  She fumbled in her purse, and set something on the sidewalk.

  When she walked away, the kid was staring at a bicycle parked on the sidewalk.

  A bicycle.

  Terry took another sip of his drink.

  That was just plain impossible.

  An ice cream cone? Doable.

  Sandwich and a cold drink? No problem.

  But a bicycle? A freaking bicycle? Hell, he didn’t think Blackstone himself could have pulled that one off.

  He glanced at his watch. He was due back to install a new garbage disposal in apartment 19. Mrs. Herskovic would be expecting him.

  He’d have to address this mystery another time, tantalizing as it was.

  He was getting up when he saw Jockamo walk past the burger joint.

  Jockamo was his nickname for the dude, who was also a purse snatcher. But Jockamo always knocked his victims to the pavement, insuring a clean getaway. Never mind if they were elderly women with frail bird bones.