“Yes!”
“Who were you supposed to appear to?”
He turned his back on me and studied the grass as if choosing the right morsel to graze upon.
“Who?” I had to know. “Is it me?”
“No, no, not your lovely self, Warrior of the Celestial Blade.” He looked ashamed that I had misinterpreted his mission.
I set the tambourine on a park bench.
“Holly?” I barely dared breathe. If Holly died, a huge gaping hole would be left behind, in my life, in the lives of her fans, in the world of music. I had to get back and warn her.
“Not Holly. I be wishing her long life and much music. ’Tis a gift to humanity she is.”
“Then who?” I thought back to news headlines of the past few weeks. Had someone significant died recently?
“I was supposed to appear to a peace activist and grand writer of the philosophical in Ireland.” He grew quiet again. “He has been instrumental in bringing an end to the violence. He deserved a warning.”
“You were supposed to appear to him?”
“I got lost. He still lives. The assassin’s bullet went astray, harming no one. I’m right glad he still lives. Ireland needs him.”
“How does a Pookah get lost?”
Even in the dim light I could tell he blushed.
“You are a Warrior; you know of the Chat Room?”
“I call it Purgatory, but yes, I’ve made incursions into the great white nothingness between dimensions.”
“Then you know how many of the doorways be looking alike. You know how easy it is the wrong one to be choosing, or to misjudge the time when you step through.”
“I usually have an imp who takes care of that.”
He looked up hopefully. “Your imp could take me home. Or set me on the right course.”
“Scrap isn’t here right now. What were you thinking about when you stepped through the portal to Earth?”
“Twas a jig I was humming.”
“One of Holly’s jigs.”
“Aye. And the portal took me right to her. I was so hungry I began drinking in the music and the laughter, and the next thing I knew I be dancing and enjoying me freedom from my mission. I’d forgotten how to celebrate life until I found Holly. And doesn’t too much of me life revolve around Death?”
“I know the feeling.”
We stared in silence at the river for a time.
“I can’t go home or complete my mission.”
“But you have! You were sent to warn a person that death stalked them. Death does stalk the young man in the hospital.”
“But I was sent to the peace man.”
“A man who needs to live.”
“I hope the young man in hospital lives.”
“Sometimes people outsmart death.”
“Yes! You have, many times.”
“How do you know that?”
He smiled knowingly and dipped his head, letting his mane fall forward. “Death and me be linked like old drinking mates, half loving and half hating each other.”
“I think I know how to help you. You need to go home to be available for your next mission. How do you know where to go and when to go?”
He shrugged and tossed his head in that horsey way of his. “I walk beneath the moonlight and the knowledge comes to me like a mist filling the holes in me feeble brain. At dawn, ’twixt day and night, when neither sun nor moon rules the sky, I step between worlds through the mists of time and place. ’Tis a mercy I be giving, so that Death does not take people all unawares, so they have time to prepare.”
“Or figure out a way to cheat Death.” We both grinned. “You need to go home. I need to know your name to send you there.”
“Isn’t there some other way?”
“Not unless we wait for Scrap to return, and I don’t know how long that will be. Please. Just tell me your name. I won’t tell anyone. I promise. I’m Tess by the way.” I held out my hand to him.
He stared at it as if unsure how to respond to our custom of handshakes.
“Thank you for honoring me with the gift of your name. I promise that when your time approaches, ’tis gently I’ll be coming to you.”
“That’s more than I’d hoped for. What’s your name?”
“Can you call me Liam?”
“Only if that’s your real name. Short for William?”
He shook his head. Again his hair flew about in wild abandon.
“Spill it or I’ll have to kill you to keep you from hurting anyone else.” I didn’t know how I was going to do that without Scrap. But I’d find a way.
“Doyle Dubhcoill is what me dam calls me.”
“Dark Stranger of the Black Wood.”
He nodded.
I pulled out the pen and stared at it. My memory of signing a contract in blood nearly overwhelmed me. “There has to be a bargain. We need to trade something.”
“And don’t I just have a prophecy for you? Will you send me home in return for a prophecy?”
“I think I can do that. Though if it’s bad news I’d just as soon not know.”
“Not totally bad news.” His eyes rolled up and his face went blank. “By the light of the moon trailing a silver path along the river you shall find an end and a beginning.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I looked out over the river. Too deep a cloud cover tonight to allow the full moon to peek through.
“ ’Tis not for me to be knowing.”
“Never mind. I’ll figure it out eventually.”
“Can you send me home now?”
“I need a drop of your blood, Doyle of the Black Wood. I’m afraid this will bind us together for all time. But it’s the only way I can send you home. I just hope it works.”
“And aren’t you a Warrior of the Celestial Blade? Honor adorns your actions. If we be bound together, I can slip messages to you. And won’t that be a help to you now and then? Won’t I be wanting to mind your children in your absence?”
“I won’t have any children.” I gulped. The Powers That Be had guaranteed that. “Okay, Doyle. This might hurt a bit. Hold back your hair, please.”
He grabbed a handful of long black tresses and bared his neck. Then he leaned forward so I could more readily reach the throbbing vein.
Abruptly I stabbed his neck with the gold nib of the onyx pen.
Doyle howled in pain and jerked away from me, prancing and kicking back his heels. He slapped a hand over the wound. His skin closed almost immediately. Three drops of crimson stained his white lace-edged ascot.
I had five more drops of blood on the pen. Enough.
Before I could think about the consequences of binding him to me irrevocably, or the blood dried, I scribbled his name on the back of my wrist. The writing glowed with unearthly red highlights, standing out clearly for any to see.
I burned slightly as it etched permanently into my skin like an invisible tattoo.
“Doyle Dubhcoill, I command you to go home now, without hesitation or delay,” I said precisely and firmly. “And never come to this place again without a clear mission in mind or in deep friendship.”
His pale skin and dark hair blended, lost definition. His long jaw looked like a digital picture pixilating.
A mist drifted up from the river. It flowed between us, obscuring him. He faded, becoming no more substantial than the suspended droplets of moisture.
“Thank you, Lady Tess,” he whispered as the mist returned to the river. “Celebrate life. Sing well and die gently. I shall return to you when you need me.” His words fell into the cadence of a lovely tune.
And then he was gone.
Not lost any longer. “Oh, Scrap, come home soon. Don’t get lost like Doyle Dubhcoill. I’m lost without you. So don’t stray between two worlds like that homeless man . . .”
I dug in my pocket and found an emergency five-dollar bill. Two blocks away, a neon sign announced a late night convenience store. I dashed in and bought a couple sandwiches an
d their biggest cup of coffee.
The homeless man was still slumped in his doorway, still lost and alone. I handed him the food and drink, along with the tubs of cream and packets of sugar.
“Thanks, lady. God bless you.”
Maybe he wasn’t quite as lost as I thought. And neither was I.
I returned to Holly’s rollicking concert beating time with the tambourine and humming the music of the Pookah.
BROCH DE SHLANG
Mickey Zucker Reichert
A moist breeze cut through the usual heat of an Iowa June afternoon, teasing long brown hairs loose from Melinda Carson’s sweaty neck. With the help of her younger daughter, six-year-old Kaylee, she plucked weeds from between the crooked rows of vegetables. Her 10-year-old, Paige, lolled in her wheelchair at the edge of the garden, bubbles crusting at the corners of her mouth.
Kaylee looked up. “Mommy, is this a weed or a veggable?” She pointed to a scraggly sprig of green poking through soil still damp from the morning rain.
Melinda studied the indicated plantlet. “Vegetable,” she said, correcting the mispronunciation and answering the question simultaneously. “That’s a baby cucumber plant.”
“I like cucumbers.” Kaylee picked a grass seedling beside it, tossing it toward her sister’s wheels. Earlier somersaults in the grass left wet, green patches staining her jeans and blonde curls. The summer sun had brought out a spray of freckles across her cheeks and nose, and the dark lashes over her blue eyes betrayed the future color of her hair.
Paige looked on silently, uncomprehendingly. Strapped into her chair, an umbrella shading her from the sun, she made broad, rhythmical movements. At times, she shouted out piercing noises; but today she remained mostly quiet. Short, sandy hair lay pixishly around her tiny head, and broken areas in her irises made her dark eyes appear more hazel. Scarred lips, twisted leftward, revealed the cleft repair she had undergone in infancy. She had seven fingers on her right hand, six on the left, and her toes fused together like paddles. She had so little tone in her limbs that, without the straps, she would flow from her chair like liquid.
Melinda reached for another weed, smiling at both of her daughters. Just as she plucked one from the dirt, twittering sounds filled her ears. A small bird fluttered around her, so close she could hear its wing beats and worried it might get tangled in her hair. Instinctively, Melinda ducked, and the bird flew away, still tweeting wildly.
Kaylee pointed after it. “That bird just flied right in your face.”
“I know.” Melinda watched it disappear around the shed, toward the entrance on the far side. “It must think we’re too close to its nest.” She had seen songbirds attack humans before, as well as cats, dogs, and other birds. This one had seemed less aggressive and more frantic.
Before Melinda could return to work, the bird zipped from the shed again. This time, she could see it clearly, a slender bird, iridescent blue with a reddish chest and a long, forked tail. Swallow! She loved those special birds; they feasted on mosquitoes, blackflies, and other nuisance insects. It flew right for her, circling closely, letting out a series of squeaky twitters, then headed back to the shed.
Kaylee stood up. “Mommy, he wants you to follow him.”
It seemed unlikely; yet, even as Melinda rose, the bird returned and repeated its bizarre behavior.
“Kaylee, watch your sister.” Melinda trotted after the bird, around the corner, and into the shed. Pallets covered most of the floor, bits of rotting hay clinging to them. Bridles and halters dangled from hooks on the wall, and tools lay scattered across the concrete floor. The bird flew to a cross beam near the ceiling, perching upon an elongated nest composed of mud and twigs. It continued chirping wildly.
Three tiny heads poked out of the nest, beaks wide open, begging food; but the adult bird did not attempt to feed them. Instead, it flew toward one of the support beams, then practically into Melinda’s face, then back to the nest. As her gaze followed its erratic flight, Melinda finally saw the problem. Crawling slowly and laboriously up the column was a large bull snake. Soon, it would reach the swallow’s nest.
The snake had already climbed a good three feet over Melinda’s head. She cast about for a tool long enough to dislodge it. Snatching up a rake, she poked it toward the snake, but the tines fell half a foot short, overbalanced in her hands. Seemingly oblivious, the snake continued its determined climb.
A second adult swallow appeared. Both perched on the side of the nest, shrieking hysterically. One made another excited flight around Melinda.
“Stay here,” she told it, feeling immediately foolish. The bird could not possibly understand her. She knew the facts of life. The snake needed to eat, and it helped keep the rodent population low, just as the swallows handled the bugs. But, currently, the farm was teeming with bull snakes, while she knew of only one set of nesting swallows.
Melinda ran through the screened porch, into the house, and upstairs to the bedroom she now shared only with Paige. Three years had passed since Mike had left them, unable to cope any longer with Paige’s condition. Melinda knew the shotgun still sat in its lockbox on his side of the bed. It took a moment to remember where he had left the key. She dug it loose, fitted it into the lock, and drew out the bolt action Mossberg 12-gauge with care. She knew he had left it for her, loaded, worried for rabid raccoons or skunks, for someone breaking in to harm her and the girls in his absence. They lived on an acreage inherited from Mike’s uncle, their nearest neighbor nearly half a mile away.
Melinda had never opened the box before, had never fired anything stronger than a BB rifle. Now, she hauled it out gingerly, watching every step, walking swiftly but afraid to run for fear of tripping and firing it accidentally. A myriad of warnings ran through her mind: statistics about accidental shootings, about a gun in a house more likely to kill an occupant than a criminal, about never keeping a loaded firearm in a house with children.
The bird’s frantic flight ran through Melinda’s mind. It had come to her for a reason, had placed its trust and the life of its own little family into her hands. Melinda burst out the door, down the porch steps, and headed for the shed.
“What’s wrong?” Kaylee called.
“Nothing that could harm us. Stay there.” Melinda glanced over to make certain both girls remained safely near the garden. “You may hear a shot, but it’s OK. I’ll be right back.”
Then Melinda rushed into the shed.
The snake had crawled further, nearly within striking distance of the helpless fledglings. The parent swallows swooped raucously through the barn.
Melinda pointed the barrel at the snake and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
Melinda swore. Safety catch? she wondered. She felt around for anything that felt lever-like, discovered a side latch, and shifted it. Only then, she realized she probably had to do something with the bolt on top as well. She wrenched it backward and forward. A shell shot out, though whether fresh or spent she did not know, as another one rammed forward into the chamber.
The snake reared its head. Both adult birds flew all around Melinda, seeming everywhere at once. She aimed and pulled the trigger.
A roar filled her ears. The stock bucked hard against her shoulder. The snake tumbled to the floor, bloody, torn nearly in half. An instant later, three fledglings toppled from the nest.
Guilt assailed Melinda. I killed a living thing. A second realization only added to the mass of discomfort taking shape in her brain. Did I kill the birds, too? She looked at the infant swallows on the floor, so like their parents, only smaller. They sat, dazed, for a moment. Then, one parent swooped down, herding them toward the back of the shed. The three hopped ahead, apparently unharmed. Then, the other parent swooped in, and the babies squealed, mouths open. The second bird shoved beakfuls of regurgitated insects down their open gullets.
Melinda finally managed a smile. At least, she had saved the babies; and the parents clearly had every intention of continuing to raise them on the floor. Finally
, she looked up to the nest. Daylight trickled through a spray of holes in the shed roof. Great. She had not considered the possibility of roof repairs when she had made her decision to fire. As she passed the still corpse of the snake, she winced. “Sorry.” She understood the cycle of nature, but this time she had to side with the birds.
Three days later, the Carson girls lounged on a front lawn in desperate need of mowing, enjoying the tickle of grasses. Paige sprawled on her belly, emitting occasional excited squeals, while Kaylee combed through the greenery seeking four-leafed clovers.
At length, Kaylee sat up, catching the eye of her mother. “Mommy, why is Paige so . . . different?”
Melinda opened her mouth to field the question in her usual manner, but Kaylee forestalled her.
“I mean, I know God makes people special in all sorts of ways. But why is Paige so . . . so . . . totally different.”
Melinda considered. The parenting books said to answer even the most uncomfortable questions honestly and directly, at a level the child could understand. Clearly, Kaylee had reached a new phase of curiosity and need. Melinda’s mind floated back to that painful day, more than ten years earlier; and, though she would address Kaylee more simply, memory could not help filling the gaps.
Melinda lay in a hospital bed, exhausted but infused with the excitement of becoming a mother, of having miraculously brought a new and precious life into the world. Her mind crammed with images of the perfect little girl she and Mike had created, of forever hugs and kisses, of laughter and tears, of a life eternally changed for the better. She could imagine them each clutching a toddler hand between them, nature-walking with a tiny blonde aghast at the beauty and wonder of the universe. She saw walls painted pink, daisy chains, a refrigerator covered in crayoned pictures of rainbows. Sticky bouquets of dandelions, violets, and black-eyed Susans in grand vases on the dinner table.
But Mike’s expression was uncharacteristically grim. “Melinda, there’s something wrong with the baby.”
A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters Page 20