Genius Loci

by Edited by Jaym Gates

  The horrible dreams overwhelmed Beckford. There were too many of them and they were too aggressive. Even when he could absorb one, it cut him up inside like he’d swallowed broken glass. The ones he could not contain filled the room, a tumbling swarm of razor-winged bats that tore into everything in its path, in either world. The dreams notched stone and wood alike, slashed Beckford and the warped form of the Corpse as it writhed before the throne. The gug reeled back. Its taloned paw lay on the floor, severed and oozing purple gore. It looked to Beckford for a command in the moments before the whirlwind sliced it apart. The professor was gesturing wildly in the air, alternately trying to break contact with the Corpse’s psyche and defend himself from the swarming dreams. It was no use. Beckford had not factored such savage fantasies into his equations, and now he was undone by his broken calculus.

  The Corpse’s dreams slashed open the would-be king from within and from without before returning to their father. As they flowed into him, the Corpse found his form and senses returning. He was lifted up and up, until he could see the entire plateau—and the vast, variegated geography of wasteland and metropolis, nowhere and everywhere, that spread out below and beyond the plateau. Through pain-bleared eyes, he watched the rest of the stolen dreams escaping Beckford’s body through the thousand cuts, all limned in blue light. The dreams belonging to those victims still alive vanished through the walls of the house and streaked out into the Chicago night. The dreams of the dead rained down upon the cold desert sands and, carried by the winds, out across the rest of the Dreamlands. The tattered remnants of Robert Beckford went with them. Naked and screaming, he plummeted over the plateau’s edge and vanished between the soaring towers that marked the city of the gugs, where the cursed and hideous giants wait to feast upon lost shades and wayward dreamers.

  The Corpse found his consciousness snagged by a silent summons and pulled down once more to the monastery. There, the royal raiments Beckford had worn danced in the air, spinning and diving, tossed about on the claws of the whirlwind. The patterns they wove were hypnotic, and the Corpse stood watching them, transfixed. Then, at last, their dance ended and they settled back on to the throne to await their next claimant.

  An overwhelming dread blossomed in the Corpse’s chest and spread its tendrils throughout his body. Before it settled to the throne, the mask had hung still in the chill darkness for just a moment. And in that moment, a crooked smile quirked the mask, though no face lurked behind the pallid yellow silk.

  The Corpse saw the awful truth then, and wondered how he had missed it before. The mask was the king, he realized with growing horror, not anyone who wore it. They were merely puppets. Beckford had been a fool to think such a thing could be wielded in the service of reason and science.

  The pandemoniac chorus that was the wind screaming across the wastes yowled and gibbered its agreement as the mask and the throne and the prehistoric monastery receded, leaving the Corpse alone in the still, silent tower room.

  The building at the corner of Vine and Vedder burned to the ground that night. It went up with preternatural speed, as if the Great Fire had reached across the decades to claim its long-denied prize. No stories circulated about angels emerging from the tower to extinguish the destroying flames, though a few of the neighbors who came to watch the conflagration swore that a dark-winged figure leaped from one of the odd, oblong windows on the second story just before the building collapsed. No one was close enough to identify him—they’d been kept at a respectful distance by the gunfire and explosions that rocked the street shortly before fire stabbed up through the mansard roof—but even the most ardent skeptics admitted that the house’s spectacularly violent end and the tales about the strange things found later in its ashes left little doubt as to his identity.

  The Corpse had returned to Chicago.

  The city trembled as he stalked through its shadows, intent on making his dreams a reality.

  TRANSPLANT SPECIALIST

  Sarah Goslee

  What is the heart of a town? In Connecticut, a single oak formed the heart not only of a town but of an entire state. The white oak tree that grew in what is now Hanford, Connecticut was such a powerful symbol of strength and independence that after it fell it was made into chairs for the heads of the Connecticut government. The tree has fallen, but the power of its memory remains.

  The Connecticut Charter Oak was a white oak that was first described in writing by Dutch explorer Adrian Block in 1614. Local Native Americans planted the oak when they settled the area, long before Block first laid eyes on the tree. By studying the size of leaves of the tree, they could determine the best times to plant corn. The tree grew in what is now the town of Hanford.

  In 1662, the General Court of Connecticut won a charter from King Charles II. This charter set the boundaries of the colony and gave the colony a degree of independence. Twenty-five years later, James II wanted tighter control over the colonies. He sent an armed force into Hanford to retrieve the charter. According to local legend, Captain Joseph Wadsworth spirited the charter away and hid it in the trunk of the oak.

  The Charter Oak was so beloved that when it fell (during a windstorm in 1856), a marching band played funeral dirges at the site and the bells of Hanford rang at sunset in tribute. Today a memorial stands where the tree once stood, and the oak has passed into state lore. Wood from the oak was used to make the desk of the Connecticut Governor and chairs for the Speaker of the House of Representatives and the President of the Senate. Today a forest of white oaks grows from the acorns of the Charter Oak.

  ***

  Lizzy Alexander, Transplant Specialist, printed in stark black type on heavy cream cardstock, followed by a suitably generic email address. Nice. I checked my bag, turning out its many pockets. I found one last card printed with Elizabeth McGillivray and flipped it into the fireplace to join its companions. It wouldn't do to hand the mayor the wrong card.

  The mayor of the shithole I was heading to wanted to convince people it wasn't a shithole, maybe get his town on one of those "Best Places to Live" lists. Here's a secret: those lists are rigged. Nine out of ten of those "best" towns? I put them there, and the tenth I just haven't bumped off the list yet.

  I slung my bag over my shoulder, then picked up the leather-covered case holding my stock-in-trade. The silver tracery was getting worn; I needed to touch it up when I got home. I didn't want any spirits seeping out.

  A boring three-hour drive was capped off by crossing the entire town to get to the mayor's office, one boring strip mall and cookie-cutter subdivision after another. Totally generic, and just the kind of place I most hated. A job was a job, though.

  The mayor, Bob Smith or John Jones or something like that, was every bit as characterless as his town. Gray suit, expensive haircut, utterly bland. Only a silver and onyx ring on his right hand betrayed any evidence of personality.

  "Ms. Alexander, it's a pleasure to finally meet you in person." He offered me coffee; I took it to be polite. I wanted to get this over with and get out of Podunkville.

  "Mr. Mayor, the pleasure is all mine." I placed my case on his desk, but didn't open it. "I have here the genius loci of a town in New England, collected from the centuries-old oak in the town square. Transplanting it here will give your town the heart of a long-established and well-loved village." The Massachusetts town I'd taken it from would be a cold and unfriendly place for years, until its spirit started to re-form from the good will of its inhabitants, assuming they had any left. Not my problem: they hadn't hired me.

  Smith reached for my case. "It's in here, isn't it?"

  "Please don't. If you accidentally release the spirit before I install it, I will still expect payment." He pulled his fingers back as if burned. "Where do you want it?" I pulled out a map. "Not the geographic center, but the socio-cultural center. What are the town landmarks, the sites that people appreciate?" Assuming this shithole had any, that is.

  Jones drew a circle on the map. "This is
the old center of town. It's kind of run-down now, but I expect an urban renewal project to begin shortly." Smith smirked. "You should find something suitable there."

  "You're not coming with me?" Usually the purchaser wanted to see the planting, even though nothing would be visible to anyone but me. It only took me a couple minutes to root a spirit, but I used a long, complicated ceremony with chanting and incense to keep the customer satisfied.

  "I'm afraid not. I have an important meeting shortly. You can handle this without me, can't you?" He nudged my coffee cup towards me.

  "Of course," I replied, and drank some of the coffee. I noticed a faintly off taste just before my head started to spin. I grabbed for SmithJones's desk to keep from falling over, but slid to the floor, unable to remember which way was up and which down. I could see a dust bunny under the desk and the mayor's feet, in gray shoes perfectly matched to his suit.

  I tried to lever myself up, but couldn't move my arms or legs. His voice sounded anything but gray as he called into the outer office, "She's out."

  The clatter of heels announced his secretary. When she bent down to touch my face, I saw a silver and onyx ring matching the mayor's. "Well done," she said.

  "I didn't think she was going to drink the coffee," he replied.

  "There's always a Plan B, but not necessarily one she'd walk away from." Meaning I might? What did they intend? I shivered, and my legs actually quivered in response. Whatever was in my swig of coffee was already wearing off. "I know you can hear me. Be a good girl and we'll let you go. Who could you tell? Spirits, drugs… you'd sound mad." She grabbed my head and twisted it to face her. "So you'll behave."

  The woman—certainly not his secretary—flipped open the case despite my wards. As the lid rose the genius loci resolved in my inner vision. She smiled. "Nice. Such a strong spirit will work even better than we planned." She sprayed something into the case. The rusty smell of blood mixed with bitter rue, and something spicy I couldn't place, the three together so strong they were more a taste than a smell. The spirit roiled and darkened; I'd never felt anything like it. "Look at that," she said. "A negative spirit. People will become more and more uneasy here, then run off in droves because they just can't stand living here one more minute."

  "I can feel it already," Jones said, leaning in over the case beside her.

  "It doesn't matter; it's not like we need to live here to drill for natural gas. We only need the land."

  I'd heard enough. I couldn't quite move cohesively, but I could still do my job. I called the genius loci to me, and it came: right through both of them. They dropped, boneless. Human bodies didn't take well to extra spirits passing through, especially nasty black ones like this.

  I pried myself off the floor, wobbling as I closed the case, genius safely inside. Reassuring to know a spirit that had been messed with could still be controlled. I stuffed the spray bottle in my bag. Its contents would come in very handy, especially if I could figure out what they were.

  Time for new cards: Beth Livingston, at your service. Genii locorum, transplanted or cursed: double the business for me or twice the trouble for you.

  THE GRAMADEVI’S LAMENT

  Sunil Patel

  Sunil Patel's story "Gramadevi" is told from the viewpoint of the spirit that guards a village. Sunil learned about gramadevi's from his grandmother. She told him two things that were crucial for his story—gramadevi from other villages cannot talk to each other, and when a woman marries and leaves her village, she worships her new home's Gramadevi and no longer "belongs" to the gramadevi of her childhood.

  The tradition of the gramadevi as practiced in the state of Orissa in Eastern India comes from a folk religion that predates Hinduism. In this belief system, a village is only possible when the goddess is felt in some location. Anything will serve as the location as long as it is specific (a tree or rock, for instance). This spot marks the boundary of the village. The gramadevi represents peace, order, justice, and protection. She is particularly careful to ensure that the village endures across generations; by making sure that people successfully procreate and that their children survive into adulthood.

  In the Oriya culture, the village depends on the gramadevi, and she is always present and always female. Unlike more grandiosely supernatural deities, the gramadevi cares for her villagers in practical terms, and sometimes she is seen walking around the village in the form of an old woman. Villagers can communicate directly with her in their dreams. Periodically, a prophet called the kalisi manifests the gramadevi and makes predictions for the coming year.

  The gramadevi brings health, but sometimes she brings sickness and death as well. In the Oriya tradition, illnesses and other disasters are seen as the will of the gramadevi.

  ***

  The pungent scent of corpses fills the air, anathema to human nostrils like yours. Though I have none, tonight I choose to be assailed by the smell. Underneath the rusty corrugated metal roof of R-53 lies Bhikhabhai, who once tended cattle. Flies gather around his thick mustache as they often plagued his cows’ tails. His simple home is as empty as the rest of the village of Tuldara. The village is quiet but for the buzzing of flies and the occasional bay of a water buffalo. I could interpret it as a paean, but it is not the prayer I have missed for decades. It was the people who believed in me, not the animals.

  Let me tell you about Pooja.

  #

  Pooja had a laugh like the clinking of bottles, a toast before a wedding. Darker than any other child in the village, wearing the silliest T-shirts imported by her cousins in America, she was three feet of joy. As her father had been a sullen child, I presumed she took after her mother, whom I met as a radiant young woman, newly married and newly mine. Pooja’s parents brought the girl to me many times, but it was five years until she came to me on her own. Her eyes lit up at our first unsupervised encounter, whereas my eyes, carved into a small marble figurine with the contours of a face, could do nothing. Towering over me, she shouted, as if afraid her words would not reach me otherwise.

  “Tulda-ma!” she said, mangling my name. “I had the ball and I wouldn’t give Kinjal the ball and he said to give it and I didn’t give it so he hit me in the nose and it hurt.” She rubbed the crook in her nose, still sore. To my surprise, she asked nothing of me. No wish for revenge, no command to pester him with mosquitoes or poison his parents’ crops. And then she ended with three words I had never heard before:

  “Tame kem cho?”

  How are you?

  #

  I am Tuldaramma. I am the gramadevi. I am the village spirit, the all-mother, the protector. I am malady and remedy, blight and blessing. In the pantheon of gods I am paramount, prayed to before all others. I am everything to these people. They are everything to me.

  They were.

  #

  Pooja believed in me like no one else did. Her parents, devoted though they were, feared me, adorning me with turmeric and vermilion and bringing me betel leaves and garlands of flowers as tokens of appeasement.

  “O Tuldaramma,” they chanted, “you are great, and you are powerful. May you continue to offer the village your grace.”

  To their credit, they never asked after their own welfare. Only Pooja’s. They prayed for rain in time of drought, as if I reigned over the weather. Though I knew that a well-nourished wheat field would benefit Pooja, I could do nothing. When rain came, however, their harvest was more bountiful than anyone else’s.

  But Pooja worshipped me with the true innocence of a child, dismissing my divinity and coming to me every morning with a new story to tell. Running into Satishmama’s house and up the stairs to his hay loft during Hide and Seek. The vulgarities uttered by men discussing the latest cricket game. A curious kiss on the cheek from the boy who had once hit her.

  “It was gross,” she said, scrunching up her face.

  A thousand stories she told me, yet I could tell her none myself.

  Sometimes she would offer
me a sip of her Limca. I was familiar with the drink, the sweetness of sugarcane melding with a flavor neither lemon nor lime, entirely of the world of man. I could taste what she tasted when I chose. She did not know that. To her, I was a white marble murti at the entrance to the village, lifeless as a stone, and she offered me soda.

  #

  Rows of houses stand across from each other, an exercise in contrasts. On the left, R-32 is a majestic abode with a welcoming porch swing hanging from a rusty metal chain, now forever still. Three stone columns stand in front, the green paint flaking away. Inside, the floor is made of marble. R-32 has a toilet, a luxury.

  And across from it, R-55 is a tiny, narrow home with a television no bigger than a newborn child. Crosshatching logs form the foundation of the roof. The maid lies dead on the tiled floor of the kitchen, eternally heating the water for the morning shower. Outside, a hole in the ground for shit and piss marks the entrance to the fields.

  My village lies on the spectrum between opulence and squalor. Perhaps yours does as well. Where have you come from? You will find that nothing here compares favorably to your home. Not anymore.

  Yet I welcome you.

  #

  One day Pooja’s parents came to me with a request. “O Tuldaramma, please keep Pooja from playing with the dogs.” The stray, mangy dogs that wandered the village attracted the children with their sad eyes. “They’re so filthy and they carry diseases.” I knew they were right, having cultivated the diseases myself, but I would never let my Pooja become infected.

  Pooja was silent the next morning, as if she knew her parents had given me their side of the story. But she took a deep breath and launched into her tale. “I only hugged one dog.”