Dark Valentines

by Mark Onspaugh

  And now he was heading after the old woman.

  Terry waved impatiently for his check, and left a generous tip.

  He ran out of the Steakhouse Burger and had to wait for the light to change. The street was now full of lunchtime traffic. As soon as it changed he ran across, nearly getting clipped by a car running the light. Terry vaulted to the curb just in time and kept running.

  He saw the old woman just ahead, sitting on the sidewalk, her sweater off her shoulders.

  Terry ran to her, and saw that her tight bun had come undone, and that she had a bad scrape on her knee. He bent down to her, and she looked at him. Her eyes were enormous and a most unsettling green.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, and she nodded.

  Terry saw a merchant looking out from a shoe store and told him to call 911.

  “I’ll get your purse,” he promised, and sprinted down the street.

  There was an alley up ahead that emptied onto a smaller street, and Terry was sure Jockamo had gone down there to lift the cash and any credit cards he could find.

  It was what he would have done.

  He rounded the corner, wondering if Jockamo would be eating an ice cream or riding a bicycle he had extracted from the purse.

  Hell, maybe he had found a jet pack and a pepperoni pizza.

  The alley was empty, except for the purse, which sat sedately in its center.

  There was no sign of Jockamo, except for one of his cross trainers, lying on its side near the purse.

  Terry picked up the purse gingerly, fairly certain now it was some kind of magic object. To him, magical objects were like hand grenades, powerful and likely to go off in your hand if you didn’t know how to use them.

  He turned, and was surprised to see the old woman standing at the entrance to the alley. Her bun was back in place and her scrape had scabbed over. She looked at him expectantly.

  Terry walked to her, seeing again those arresting green eyes.

  “Here’s your purse… Are you all right? Do you need to see a doctor.”

  She took the purse and hefted it slightly.

  “You left my father’s toolbox for me, didn’t you?”

  She smiled at him, and he could see she had been quite beautiful when she was younger.

  “You want to look inside, don’t you?” There was a teasing quality to her voice, and the slightest trace of an accent.

  His throat felt dry and the ground under him seemed to shift slightly, but he nodded.

  “Then look.”

  She opened the enormous bag, and he looked into it. It was dark inside, a limitless black that seemed to hint of some cavernous space. As he looked, he felt himself being pulled in, and tried to grab onto the bag, but his hands had no strength.

  He plummeted, down into boundless depths.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  He had no sensation of striking the ground, he simply seemed to stop falling, and was standing upright in the dark.

  Dark? It was like the deepest cave, with a blackness that was absolute and unrelenting. Terry couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face, couldn’t hear anything but the beating of his own heart.

  He realized that the temperature was mild and the air was dry. Wherever the old lady’s purse had taken him, it wasn’t a cave.

  You’re unconscious, he thought, you hit your head or Jockamo knocked you out and now you’re having a weird dream.

  It made sense, but he didn’t really believe it.

  A point of light appeared before him, and he made for it. He walked gingerly at first, afraid he might walk into something or fall down a hole.

  You’ve already done that once today, “Alice”, he thought.

  The surface under him proved to be smooth and level, and he hurried on.

  He came to a vast chamber, so large that he couldn’t see the walls that bounded the space.

  Perhaps it was infinite.

  What he did see was shelving units, the kind one saw in warehouse stores. These towered over him, their upper reaches lost in gold and peach-colored clouds far above.

  The shelves were stocked with everything imaginable. One unit near him seemed to contain gems and jewelry of every description. There were emeralds too large to hold in one hand and diamonds the size of grapefruit. Doubloons, tiaras, scepters and crowns. Jeweled necklaces and gem-encrusted swords and helmets. It was like a child’s version of a pirate’s cache, and some of the stones glowed with a preternatural light, while others flickered as if lit within by candles.

  Another unit held candy and ice cream desserts of every type. Although it was pleasantly cool in the space, it was not cold enough to keep ice cream, yet none of the treats were melting.

  He tried to take it all in, and his mind was incapable of processing the enormity, the sheer diversity and strangeness of the place.

  There were living creatures in another unit, everything from kittens and puppies to small dragons and unicorns, and even something he remembered was called a hippogriff. None of the creatures were caged, yet they seemed to coexist harmoniously on the shelves. As he watched, a kitten swiped at a small dragon, who nuzzled the furry creature with obvious affection.

  Another unit was filled with toys of every type, some of which were surely from places or times very different from 21st Century Earth.

  He thought he might be content to wander the warehouse for the rest of his days, helping himself to its many foods and drink and taking in its wonders.

  As he watched, a wizened little man with enormous ears and eyes sprinted to the animal shelf and picked up a Dalmatian puppy. He was traveling a good three feet above the ground. As Terry watched, he cradled the puppy carefully and shot straight up, disappearing quickly into the cloud cover.

  Now he could see others like the old man, some of them female. They all seemed to be capable of flight and great speed, and all were dressed in coveralls of a wide variety of colors.

  The old woman approached him then, seeming to emerge from the darkness he had recently departed.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  He tried to formulate a response, but every word that occurred to him seemed woefully inadequate. Finally, he just gestured at the room and said, “Wow.”

  She laughed, and it wasn’t an old woman’s laugh, at all.

  “I meant,” she said, “would you like to be part of this?”

  “Like the little guys? Oh, that would be…”

  “Not the Fetchers, I’m asking if you want to be one of the Carriers, like me.”

  He looked at her, and she became a young woman in the blink of an eye.

  Terry gaped, and his heart hammered in his chest. He had never seen anyone so beautiful.

  “You’d have to wear a glamour, like I do… People on many worlds tend to ignore the elderly.”

  It sounded amazing. He was about to say yes when a particularly old Fetcher sped by.

  It was Jockamo. He waved cheerfully to Terry and fetched a large birthday cake with lit candles. With a snappy salute he flew up into the golden clouds.

  “That… that was Jockamo.”

  The young woman nodded. “Those who steal the purse end up serving it. Some just need something positive to do, like your friend, there.”

  She linked her arm in his. She smelled like flowers in a meadow, and a hint of cinnamon.

  “What do you say, Terry? I’ve waited for someone like you a long time…”

  He realized this was very much where he wanted to be, and yet…

  “I want to… um…”

  “Pandora,” she said. When he looked at her, she shrugged. “Don’t believe everything you read, Terry Jacobs.”

  “This all sounds amazing, but I told Mrs. Herskovic I’d install a…”

  Pandora laughed. “You’ll have plenty of time for everything,” she said, and then looked at him shyly. “Everything.”

  Terry had no answer for that, so he kissed her.


  ♥ ♥ ♥

  Helmut had been following the old man for a couple of days, now.

  He seemed to be ancient, the sort of man whom age has surrounded and contracted, bending and squashing a once tall and lithe creature into something shriveled and stooped. His hair was as white as salt and clipped short. He wore thick glasses and his race was indeterminate. He might very well have been wandering the streets of the Munich since the dinosaurs.

  Today he was dressed in a gray sweater and black jeans, his shoes scuffed and unfashionably sensible.

  And as always, over his left shoulder, an enormous bag…

  LET MY LOVE CARRY ME HOME

  And so it was that young Sionn, nephew to the Thane of Fife, did fight in the battle to depose the tyrannical Thane of Cawdor.

  Though he fought well for a lad of seventeen, he received a most grievous blow to the temple and was left for dead on the battlefield.

  When Sionn awoke, his head throbbed and the world was cloaked in darkness.

  The battlefield had been cleared of the dead, yet somehow he had been missed. Had he awoken on a cart of the slain, he might now be nearing his home in Wemyss, and his wife Mùirne, she with the hair like a raven’s wing and eyes bluer than the most lovely of skies.

  He picked himself up and found his spear and shield gone. Cursing this foul luck, he was happy to have retained a short knife. If he were to chance upon some foe, this would have to do.

  Sionn headed for home, using the stars for guidance. He was cold and hungry, and lonely for Mùirne.

  The woods were thick and no starlight penetrated the dense canopy overhead. Sionn realized it was very easy to be brave when you are surrounded by clansmen and have little time to think of what may be lurking in the dark.

  He chided himself for being like a wee babe, and redoubled his pace. Soon he would be out on the moors and could run when the moonlight and paths were favorable.

  Ahead, a golden light flickered through the trees.

  Sionn slowed, knowing it might as easily be an enemy encampment as a friendly one. He thought the odds of seeing his fellows so long after battle would not be good. His best hope was some traveler who would share a crust and maybe a draught.

  Sionn drew closer, and now smelled the aroma of something cooking.

  It was not a pleasant smell.

  From a clearing ahead came the voices of old women.

  “By the yowling of the cat.”

  “By the fluttering of the bat!”

  “By this cauldron’s poisoned reek, comes the young man that we seek!”

  “By the warts of hopping toad, see him fare along the road!”

  “Stir in adder, eye of wolf, let the foul brew wasp engulf!”

  “Now 'tis thick with venom double…”

  “Filled with misery, pain and trouble!”

  Sionn felt his skin go to gooseflesh, for surely these were witches ahead of him. Should he try to evade them? He was unarmed save for his knife, and unfamiliar with the ways of such creatures.

  Pride proved stronger than superstition, and once again he chided himself. Had he not just fought alongside the Thane of Fife? Was he now to run mewling into the arms of his mother because he was frightened of old women? Nay, not this night, he thought.

  Sionn stepped into the clearing to see three hags around a bubbling cauldron. As he approached, one reached into a sack and withdrew a squirming piglet.

  “Let this swine a lesson be…”

  “When encountering sisters such as we!”

  She threw the piglet into the cauldron and it shrieked as it sank beneath the foul liquid. Two of them turned to face Sionn, and he observed with horror they each had only one eye, the other just a dark and cavernous socket. One had hair that was white and long, while the other’s was steel gray and matted into thick locks.

  The final crone, the one who had doomed the piglet, turned to him. As she did, the hood of her cloak fell away and he saw her scalp was bald and leprous, with sparse tufts of hair emerging from several diseased looking growths.

  This hag had no eyes at all, but pointed a gnarled finger directly at him, just the same.

  “Are we three or are we one?” she chanted.

  “Perhaps he’ll know before the sun,” answered the one with gray hair.

  “Seek you love and hearth and home?” sang the white-haired witch.

  “I do not wish to tarry here, good mothers,” began Sionn. He had decided courtesy might be his best course.

  “Mothers we will never be,” said the eyeless one.

  “For all we birth is misery,” said the gray one.

  “Share a cup, then leave us be,” said the white one.

  The eyeless hag dipped a large cup into the cauldron’s brew. As she drew it from the stinking and steaming mess, Sionn thought he could see things squirming within her eye sockets. The smell of the cauldron was making him lightheaded, and Sionn forced himself not to be sick in their presence.

  “Take what we offer, Sionn MacDuff,” said the eyeless one.

  “And give us a pretty, such as there on your cuff,” cackled the gray one.

  Sionn looked down. On his sleeve was the favor Mùirne had given him before he had left Wemyss. A ribbon she had worn in her hair. He could have smelled the scent of her on it, were her perfume not masked by the hideous smell of the witch’s brew.

  “Ladies I will not part with this, for it is a favor and memento of my wife.”

  “Weird sisters we are, not ladies, young sir,” said the white one.

  “Give us the pretty, or our wrath endure,” said the eyeless one.

  Now Sionn drew his knife. “By all the gods I will put you three in that pot before letting your blighted hands fall upon something of my own sweet wife!”

  The witches only cackled at this display.

  “Oh, tell us her name, foolhardy boy!”

  “Reveal the truth of your one true joy!”

  Sionn knew it was unwise to give a name to creatures such as these. Bad enough they knew his name, he would not endanger Mùirne by revealing hers.

  “I warn you, weird sisters, let me pass in peace and no more shall come of this night. I am weary and anxious to be home.”

  “Home to Mùirne, and to bed,” jeered the eyeless one.

  “Home to Mùirne, whom you wed,” taunted the gray one.

  “Home to Mùirne, who turned your sheets bright red!” cackled the white one.

  “Mùirne, Mùirne, Mùirne!” They chanted her name in unison, faster and faster as they danced around the cauldron. The mixture inside began to toss and heave like a sea under heavy storms. Sparks flew up, illuminating trees that were now devoid of leaves, barren as if this were the dead of winter.

  “Mùirne, Mùirne, Mùirne, Mùirne, Mùirne!” Her blessed and beautiful name became as a curse as it rolled from their rotted mouths and scabrous tongues.

  The poisonous mixture began to glow, and Sionn saw with horror that something was trying to emerge from its depths.

  Forgetting all about his lineage and his bravery in battle, Sionn ran for his life past the sisters, sure that one would reach out and grab him with the talons of some dread beast.

  They continued to dance, as if unmindful of his escape.

  He ran on into the darkness of the forest, followed only by their laughter and the chanting of Mùirne’s name.

  He kept running until he cleared the forests, and the moors stretched out for miles ahead of him. Sionn crested a small hillock thick with heather and stopped to catch his breath. A breeze from the north cooled his fevered brow, and the smell of the heather was clean and honest. It cleared away the foul stench of the hags’ brew and Sionn felt himself renewed. Thinking of his sweet girl in Wemyss he started down the hillock at a rapid pace, the strength of youth and young love granting him both stamina and speed.

  For hours he ran, stopping once to drink from a small brook burbling over stones. The water was cold and sweet, and he splas
hed some on his face, grateful for its chill. As he did, he thought he saw an enormous eel rear up from its lower courses, then splash back under the surface. Such a thing could not be, of course, and Sionn dismissed it as a trick of the moon and his own fatigue. He munched on a bit of biscuit he found at the bottom of his purse, and then again began to run, home to Wemyss and Mùirne.

  Near the hour of three, when the night is darkest and all manner of things may wander the roads while the good and noble sleep in their beds, he spied a silver wolf pacing him, its eyes like the bright coals of a home fire. Sionn stopped, his hand on his knife, but the silver wolf bounded up over a small hill and was gone.

  Surely this night was filled with all manner of apparitions, he thought.

  But to what end?

  It was then he came to a ring of standing stones, their moon-washed surfaces carved with runes that had nearly been worn away by centuries of rain and wind. These particular silent sentinels were unknown to him, and he decided the better, wiser course was to give them a wide berth.

  “Are you afraid, then?” came a voice, low and teasing, almost musical in its lilt.

  “Only a fool dallies in such places at this hour,” he replied, drawing his knife.

  A woman stepped from behind one of the stones and he gasped. Surely she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, perhaps the most beautiful woman in all the world. Her hair was a lustrous red, like a sunset after autumn rains have scoured the skies. Her skin was smooth and without blemish, her eyes large and mischievous. She had a generous mouth and a smile that made him feel warm, even though the air had become chilly in the last hour.

  “Do you know me?” she asked, “For it is certain that I know you.”

  Part of him wanted to run away. This inner voice begged that he be mindful of Mùirne, who waited for him even now.

  “I do not know you, good lady, and must beg your leave. I am bound for home and have many miles to cross.”

  “Sionn of Wemyss, will you not spend the remainder of the night in my company? The morning will find you home soon enough, and I am in need of a warrior’s strength and warmth.”