the Dark shall do what Light cannot

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the Dark shall do what Light cannot Page 14

by Sanem Ozdural


  “Father, I do apologize for taking advantage of you – well, in a way.”

  “It’s all right,” Father Griffith said, finding it hard to be angry. “I was just momentarily… Well, let’s say I was surprised.”

  “If you don’t mind, I would like to test you a little further–” Orion said hesitantly.

  Despite his feelings of apprehension, Father Griffith assured Orion that he did not mind.

  “Good. Now, I want to demonstrate to all of you that telempathy has uses far beyond the projection of a word or an idea. Father–” He smiled encouragingly at the priest, “you mentioned someone had told you about Fiona recently, do you remember that person’s name?”

  “Ahh… Nightshade, if I recall correctly,” Father Griffith said after a brief pause. “I think it was Evan Nightshade.”

  “Excellent. Please tell me if I am correct in assuming that Mr. Nightshade is a middle-aged man, possibly in his fifties?”

  “I would say so, yes,” Father Griffith nodded hesitantly.

  “And he has nondescript, plain features. Light colored eyes, and wears glasses?”

  Father Griffith assented with a smile.

  Orion appeared to size him up. “I would say we are about the same height, right, Father?”

  “Yes…”

  “In that case, I would hazard that Mr. Nightshade is perhaps a good hand shorter than you… You found yourself looking down on him?”

  “Well, no, not looking down on him,” Father Griffith hurriedly corrected the description, for the suggestion was … well… poor Mr. Nightshade. “He may have been a touch shorter, but for the most part we were seated,” Father Griffith assured Orion, “so I was definitely not looking down at him.”

  Orion smiled serenely. “I completely understand. And … if I am correct, he works for? I don’t have it, Father. Forgive me.”

  “That was excellent!” Father Griffith cried in amazement. “Incredible. You got that from my thoughts? All that description?”

  “Of course,” Orion grinned. “It takes longer to describe a person than to think of him. As soon as I asked you about the person, you thought of him, and I read your impressions. But I am afraid I could not get his place of employment,” Orion confessed, shaking his head in disappointment.

  “Oh no, it’s not your fault,” Father Griffith said quickly. “I just couldn’t remember the exact name. Some sort of think tank, I think. ‘Development of Society’, or something along those lines. I really don’t know. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh it doesn’t matter. This is just an exercise,” Orion said lightly, turning to Bruce and Cat: “I’m afraid you both must be feeling a bit left out, since you’ve never met this Mr. Nightshade–” Orion added the merest hint of a question – an offhand, careless question – to the end of the sentence.

  Cat shook her head.

  “Never heard of him,” Bruce said without interest.

  “Never heard of Fiona, either?” Orion looked out towards the sea, stifling a yawn.

  “No again!” Cat said. “The woman’s a complete mystery as far as I’m concerned.

  “I didn’t expect it, anyway,” Orion said. “It would have made this little exercise more interesting if either of you had, but no matter, it’s not important,” he smiled encouragingly and turned his attention back to Father Griffith. “And now, it’s your turn, Father–”

  “What do you mean?” Father Griffith regarded him with apprehension. “I thought you were through with me!”

  “Yes, and you performed admirably. I read your thoughts, now it’s time for you to read mine.”

  Once again the name Fiona appeared unexpectedly in his thoughts. Father Griffith concentrated but the name appeared as though in a void. “I’m afraid all I get is ‘Fiona’, again,” he said apologetically. “Otherwise, my thoughts are a complete blank!”

  “It’s all right,” Orion said. His friendly smile could not mask the hint of disappointment in his eyes. “It takes time,” he added consolingly.

  Cat tilted her head to one side. “Go on, put a thought into my head!” she challenged.

  “There are several I can think of,” Orion responded playfully, “but some of them might not be repeatable in mixed company.”

  “Try me,” she said archly.

  Orion laughed. “I think it’s time for a break. I thought you said you were too tired for this!”

  “We are dismissed!” Cat cried playfully.

  “Only for the moment,” Orion said. “Patron and I would like to take a few minutes of your time later this afternoon to tell you about Pera. Give you an overview so to speak. Think of us as your personal oral guidebook.”

  “Oh that sounds lovely,” Cat beamed.

  “Will it be in the captain’s library?” Father Griffith asked.

  “Yes, indeed, Father. Have you been there?”

  “You must know I have,” the priest countered without malice.

  “Yes, I do. It is a special place, isn’t it?”

  Father Griffith nodded. “I think Cat – and Bruce, I think they should have a chance to read Evening Song,” he said.

  “Oh, trust me, they will. It is an integral part of Pera. It is, in a way, the glue that binds it together. It would be advisable for all of you to be at least conversant, if not intimately familiar, with that story.”

  “What is this story, Roland darling?” Cat asked.

  “You’ll see,” he said. “You really must read it. It’s not very long, but … I really think you particularly should read it,” he added with emphasis.

  16

  Shady unlocked the door and entered his home at 55 Grandfather’s Alley. It was a two-story, wood-framed building. As he stepped into the foyer, he was greeted by the meow of his housemate, a large Persian cat named Leo, who also answered to Mr. Lion, and at times even to the regrettably disrespectful, ‘Pumpkinhead’.

  “Mr. Lion, you are under my feet. I am warning you – I can’t see in the dark, unlike you,” Shady told him, moving slowly through the dark hall to turn on the wall light. He waved his hand in a clockwise direction in front of the glass of the lamp, and it burst into light: Moonlightsmear type 3, for mild indoor lighting. It was the cheapest variety, and did not have a dimmer capacity, but was perfectly adequate for the purpose of walking through the foyer without upsetting furniture, or the affectionate red cat looking up at him with large amber eyes. The cat blinked and accompanied Shady to their favorite armchair in front of the fireplace in the living room. The fire was not lit, but it was not necessary. Shady kept the fireplace going out of nostalgia. It was one of the few things that he missed from his former life.

  A roaring fire with its aura of sanctuary in a cold, dark world was not a thing of necessity – neither in Pera, nor in his former life. It had been, once, he thought, gazing at the blackened wall of the fireplace. But now, warmth came through the globes scattered about the house. There was one in front of the armchair, and it emanated a comforting heat without mess, without pollution, without smoke. All fire creates smoke, he thought, glancing at the chimney to which the fireplace was necessarily attached. The fire, with its inviting red tongue, had a black sooty aftertaste. Not so with the warmlights. When the warmth ran out, the globes were simply repainted with the essence of the lightberry.

  Leo jumped lithely onto his lap and after kneading himself an appropriate place, curled up and began to purr. Shady stroked him absently, thinking back to the events of the day…

  A young man from the islands had purportedly confessed to adding three lightberries to the crushed raspberry mixture that Carl’s housekeeper had purchased the afternoon before his death. It was surmised that Carl had naturally used the mixture to make himself a cocktail, as was his habit.

  The Rooster, though, seemed uncomfortable about the arrest.

  “Who was it?” Shady recalled asking.

  “His name is not important…” the chief of police had replied. “He is one of the River
Ritual boys.”

  “But the River Ritual’s supposed to be held only on the White Islands. Aren’t the boys who perform the ritual supposed to stay on their respective islands until death?”

  The Rooster inclined his head. “That’s what I always believed, and yet, this one claims he was ‘helping his old auntie’ sell fruit and veggies at the market.”

  “And added three lightberries to the raspberries by mistake?” Shady sounded incredulous.

  “That’s right. He even had an explanation for the amount: he claims they sell lightberries in batches of three, which is actually true. Lightberries are rich – to taste and in cost, so they are typically sold in bundles of three.” The chief of police then inquired whether Orion was coming.

  Shady replied in the affirmative. “He should be here in a few days. I can’t give you an exact date, though.”

  “On the whole… I think it is a good thing that he is coming,” the Rooster mused. “Particularly because I heard a rumor, which I truly hope is not true–” The Rooster shook his head gravely. “I understand the fishermen in the harbor are claiming that the islanders may have restarted the Cypress Ritual. It’s just a rumor, as I said–” he added quickly, “the fishermen hate the islanders and will say almost anything against them, but–”

  Shady looked unseeingly at the warmlight. The River Ritual was one thing. It could seem bizarre from a certain perspective – his, for instance. But the River Ritual didn’t kill anyone. It didn’t throw a little girl off jagged rocks to be drowned in the sea.

  That was the Cypress Ritual. It was the dark center of Evening Song that most Perans interpreted as a cautionary tale, and chose to display in a song sung by children.

  So the fishermen called the islanders ‘child killers’, and said that the trees of the island were watered with the blood of babes. Not without justification, thought Shady grimly. The fact that the islanders planted a cypress tree after the child had been killed did not, at least in Shady’s – and most Perans’ – view, in any way lessen the enormity of the outrage.

  Another curiosity about the islanders was their apparent hatred of water, and yet despite this avowed aversion they had chosen to live on a bunch of arid, rocky islands quite a distance away from the mainland. A touch – possibly more – of masochism seemed indicated.

  They rarely ventured off the islands, and when they did, never alone – Shady checked his thoughts. What about that young man he had seen on Nightingale Boulevard the night Carl had been killed… Poor Carl. There was something wrong in that islander’s presence so far from his own land, and seemingly quite alone. Was he alone? Shady wondered.

  And if it was true about the Cypress Ritual starting again…

  What would Shadow do? Perhaps Shadow knows, thought Shady. Perhaps that is why Orion was summoned.

  Carl would not have been surprised. Carl had always been deeply mistrustful of the islanders and their austere habits and rituals. It’s the same story, he had so often said, referring to the interpretation of Evening Song on the mainland. It’s the same old story. How can they get it so twisted? He had argued with Fiona… Not long before his death, Shady recalled. Shady had stayed out of the argument. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but Carl had always been more… aggressive, perhaps, more willing to defend his position, more vehement… Carl had been more, in so many ways, Shady sighed.

  Fiona was always quick to defend the islanders’ ways – except the Cypress Ritual, of course. They have a right to practice their religion freely, she argued plaintively. I suppose it is a religion, Shady thought dubiously.

  “But whose freedom?” Carl had asked. “The child who is drowned for no reason other than the fact that she was born with certain physical characteristics? That she was a girl child born at a certain time on a certain day?”

  It’s a good point, Shady thought.

  “They don’t do that anymore,” Fiona had countered primly.

  “Only because they can’t!” Carl had retorted. “Only because the people of Pera finally put a stop to it. Not because the islanders thought better of killing children!”

  The Cypress Ritual had been completely eradicated, Shady had heard, some ten or twelve years ago. The last Cypress girl had been rescued by an intrepid fisherman and his wife who had known about the upcoming ritual. They had succeeded, and duly adopted her.

  She was all grown up now. Her name was Sandra.

  Not for the first time, Shady wished the blind policemen had not been banished from the islands. There was no one there from the mainland now. No police… but more importantly, no blinders… They were all alone out there, far away from the hustle and bustle of city life. Doing what? Hurting whom?

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told Fiona…” Shady said out loud, his brow furrowed with consternation as he recalled their conversation the previous day. She had turned up at the police station while he was talking to the detective in charge of Carl’s case. It couldn’t be avoided: she had joined in the conversation. After that, the Rooster had arrived, and naturally invited them both into his office. And then, of course, he had been obliged to tell the Rooster that Orion was likely on his way. No, it was a certainty. If Shadow wanted Orion, no one would argue. Orion was coming… Fiona had claimed to be deeply unhappy at the news, of course. She had actually pouted. Quite inappropriately, thought Shady with distaste.

  He felt unaccountably uneasy at the thought that Fiona knew of Orion’s imminent arrival. Orion can look after himself, he reasoned, surprised at his reaction. Was he worried for Orion’s safety? Orion, who was the last person anyone would consider worrying about. Am I worried? Not for Orion, surely… It was natural to feel apprehension, anxiety, fear even, when thinking of Orion’s imminent arrival, but not for Orion, from him.

  So, what is it? He wondered. Why do I feel that all is not well for us here, but also not, maybe not even for Orion…?

  * * *

  Her left arm throbbed, and her stomach growled. She was also cold, but that did not worry her as much as the hunger. The last meal she’d eaten had been … that morning. Yesterday morning... Was it only yesterday? Yes. It was yesterday and she remembered clearly how Father had directed Mother to cook her a full breakfast, with lots of eggs and sausages and milk and honey on bread. Father had sat at the table – next to her instead of his usual place at the head of the table – and practically forced her to eat even after she complained she was full.

  Cypress buried her tear-stained face in the crook of her right arm. The tears were gone, now. They had dried up overnight. I ran out of tears, she thought, hugging her knees. The pain was still there, though, as cold and relentless as the wind. Home. She closed her eyes tightly. There was no home anymore. There was no brother, no mother or father…

  Father. She shook her head viciously, willing away the thought of Father. My tangle-haired father… her namesake had pleaded with her father in the story. But I didn’t, Cypress thought defiantly. I never did. I didn’t even ask him why like she did.

  He had brought her here, to the caves, to tell her. A walk on the beach with Father.

  “Come, Cypress.” His voice was grave and he looked away from her when he held out his hand for her to hold.

  “I have a story to tell you,” Father said as they left the house. Left Home. It was a beautiful day: bright and full of the squawks of seagulls. Cypress had heard of the light birds, but had never seen them for they did not venture out to the islands. There is nothing to eat for them here, her Father had told her. They only eat the lightberry, which does not grow on the islands.

  She had known that there was something wrong. Very, very wrong. Father had seemed so far away as he walked beside her. He seemed so tired, and his tread was not light as before, but at each step, it fell like a heavy stone upon the cold, unforgiving Land. And all the time he held her hand as he always had…

  They walked side by side slowly by the sea. All the way around the island to the other side. The side where people did not live: there w
ere only caves and rocks here, and seabirds making lonely, haunting sounds. They sounded particularly lonely to her just then, not like the birds on the side of the island where people lived.

  He sighed when they reached the mouth of the cave where she now sat. It was heavy and full of sadness, that sigh, and she remained silent standing beside her Father by the sea.

  “Cypress…”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Now, the Sun grew tired. She grew so sleepy, my brothers and sisters, that keeping her eyes open took enormous effort …” he began.

  I know this story, she thought, with a sense of foreboding. It is Evening Song.

  The tears welled up in her eyes at the recollection. They had not dried up completely after all.

  Why Father? She sobbed great, heaving sobs. What have I done?

  Father had paused at the end of the story. There was a gulf of silence between them as had never previously existed. But still he held her hand. Even more tightly than before.

  “You are Cypress,” he had said, looking out to sea, his voice leaden. “You are Cypress,” he had repeated.

  Still, she had said nothing. What was there to say? “I know.”

  Why Father? It was impossible to understand.

  The very next day her brother had explained that he would start teaching her how to swim. There is no time to waste, he had said matter-of-factly, and no reason to cry. You’re a big girl. There will be no crying.

  Cypress does not cry, Mother had said with a serene, faraway smile. Mother. Ever since she could remember Mother had been there to teach and guide her… all the while wearing that same faraway smile and the black silk floor-length robes. She remembered the long, black glossy hair that always smelled of pine cones, and the pale translucent skin of a cheek that never seemed quite warm. Long tapering fingers that were deft, but not always gentle.

  It was Mother who woke one up in the morning at 6:30 for a cold shower followed by an hour’s meditation before the statue of the Dark One in the courtyard. Even in the dormant season when it was still dark at 6:30 in the morning, and the air was as cold as the Dark One’s marble skin, and one could see the warmth of a fire indoors with Father and Kaya sitting at the breakfast table.

 

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