Gate of Darkness, Circle of Light

by Tanya Huff

  “Don’t worry,” she told him. “I’m going for help.”

  Grabbing up her sweater, she stepped out into the hallway and paused. Would he be safe in there all alone?

  “Tom?”

  The large gray tabby, moving with stately dignity down the hall, stopped and turned to face her.

  “The little man from the tree has been hurt.”

  Tom licked at the spotless white of his ruff, waiting to be told something he didn’t know.

  “Can you stay with him? I’m going for help.”

  He considered it while inspecting one forepaw. Rebecca bounced as she waited, but she knew there was no use in trying to hurry a cat. Finally he stood and came forward to brush against her legs, his head bumping into the hollows of her knees.

  “Thank you.” She reached behind her and pushed open the door. Tom went in, snapping his tail out of the way as she closed it behind him.

  Heading for the stairs, she broke into a run.

  Roland scowled at the scattering of money in his open guitar case. It hadn’t been a good evening. In fact, for a Saturday at Yonge and Queen, it had been pitiful. A breeze lifted one of the few bills and he grabbed for it. His uncle was pretty understanding about waiting for the rent on his basement room but point-blank refused to feed him. A twenty-eight year old man, his uncle often said, should have a real job.

  A teen-age girl, almost wearing a pair of pale blue shorts, came up from the subway and Roland watched appreciatively as she passed by him and stood waiting for the light.

  He’d had real jobs, off and on, but he always came back to music and music always brought him back to the street where he could play what he liked when he liked. Occasionally, he filled in when local groups needed a guitarist at the last minute. He was supposed to be filling in tonight, but this afternoon held gotten a call saying both the drummer and the keyboard player had picked up the same bug as the man he was to replace and the gig had been called off. He checked his watch. Eight forty-five. Both Simpsons and the Eaton Centre would be closing in fifteen minutes and business might pick up on the street.

  Drifting up from the passage that ran under Queen Street, connecting Simpsons to both the Centre and the subway, came something Roland thought he recognized as a Beatles song. The Beatles probably wouldn’t have recognized it, but in the six days this guy had been down there Roland had gotten used to his peculiar interpretations. The guys who sang in the subway made more money, but they had to pay a hundred bucks a year to the Toronto Transit Commission for a licensing fee and move from station to station according to a schedule that came down from the head office. Roland refused to even consider it; licensing busking was an obscenity as far as he was concerned.

  He checked his watch again. Eight forty-seven. Time flies. He scanned the few people on the street and from slogans on T-shirts—the right to arm bears?—assumed they were American tourists. Probably from Buffalo or Rochester. Sometimes it seemed like half of upper New York State came into Toronto on the weekends. He sighed and flipped a mental coin. John Denver came up and he launched into “Rocky Mountain High.” So much for artistic integrity.

  By the second verse, the satisfyingly solid thunk of the new dollar coins hitting his case had put him in a better frame of mind and he was able to smile at Rebecca when he noticed her standing in front of him. The part of his mind not occupied with going home to a place he’d never been before wondered what she was doing out so late. He usually saw her in the early afternoon when she spent her lunch break sitting listening to him play and he never saw her on the weekends. He suspected she wasn’t allowed out at this hour but didn’t take it for granted; he’d learned not to take much about Rebecca for granted.

  “I’m not retarded,” she’d told him that first afternoon, prompted by his condescending voice and manner. “I’m mentally disadvantaged.” Her pronunciation of the long words was slow, but perfect.

  “Oh?” he’d said. “Who told you that?”

  “Daru, my social worker. But I like what Mrs. Ruth says I am better.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Simple.”

  “Uh, do you know what that means?”

  “Yes. It means I have less pieces than most people.”

  “Oh.” There wasn’t much else he could think of to reply.

  She’d grinned at him. “And that means I’m solider than most people.”

  And the funny thing, Roland mused, was that while undeniably retarded, in a number of ways Rebecca was solider than most people. She knew who and what she was. Which puts her two up on me, he added with a mental snort. And sometimes she’d say the damnedest things, right out of the blue, that made perfect sense. With some surprise, he realized he actually enjoyed talking to her and looked forward to spotting her smile amidst the harried lunch hour scowls.

  As Roland moved into the last chorus, he saw she was bouncing, rising up on her toes and back, up on her toes and back, the way she did when she had something important to tell him. The last something important had been the hideous orange sweater she now had tied around her waist. (“I bought it myself at Goodwill for only two dollars.”) He thought she’d been overcharged but she’d been so proud of her purchase he couldn’t say anything. It looked worse than usual tonight against her purple tank top and her jeans.

  He finished the song, smiled his thanks as a fortyish man in a loud Hawaiian shirt dropped a handful of loose change into the case, and turned to Rebecca.

  “Hey, kiddo, what’s up?”

  Rebecca stopped bouncing and stepped toward him. “You have to help, Roland. I got him in my bed, but I don’t know what to do now. Or how to make the bleeding stop.”

  “WHAT!”

  She took a startled step back. There were too many built things around, too many cars, too many people; she could feel all the pieces pushing in at her. She could feel the outside nibbling at her edges but she knew she couldn’t go to the quiet inside place if she wanted to save her friend. Moving forward she clutched at Roland’s arm. “Help. Please,” she pleaded.

  Roland considered himself a good judge of emotions—a necessary skill for survival on the street—and Rebecca was definitely frightened. Awkwardly, he patted her hand. “Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll come. Just let me pack up.”

  Rebecca nodded, a jerky motion which Roland knew meant she wasn’t far from panic for her movements were normally slow and deliberate. Where the hell is her social worker? he asked himself, scooping change into a small leather bag. She’s supposed to be riding to the rescue, not me. He laid the guitar down, tucked the bag along the neck, and closed the lid. And what the hell happened? Can’t stop what bleeding? Oh, Jesus, just what I need; Simple Simon stabs a pieman, film at eleven.

  He straightened up, shrugged into his corduroy jacket—wearing it was easier than carrying it, even if it was still hotter than blazes out—picked up the guitar case, and held out his hand.

  “Okay,” he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, “let’s go.”

  She grabbed the offered hand and pulled him forward, across Yonge and east along Queen.

  The light was green; fortunately, because Rebecca didn’t look and Roland didn’t think he could stop her. He suspected that if he tried to pull his hand free she’d crush his fingers without even noticing it. He hadn’t realized she was so strong.

  Wait a minute! She got him in her bed?

  “Rebecca, did a man attack you?”

  “Not me.” She continued to pull.

  He had a feeling she didn’t understand the question and with no idea whether she knew what rape meant, he didn’t know how to rephrase it. Trouble was, while her mind might be no more than twelve at best, her body was that of a young woman; a well padded young woman, pretty in a comfortable sort of a way. Roland could remember being disappointed himself when he caught sight of the expression that went with the curves but he knew that wouldn’t discourage a lot of men and would, in fact, encourage a few. The world, he sighed silently, has a fuck of

a lot of shitheads in it and a distressingly large number of them are men. It wasn’t that Rebecca was innocent, she had too much unconscious sensuality for the word to apply, it was more that she had an innocence—though, if pressed, Roland knew he couldn’t define the difference. He twisted away from the subject. The whole concept made him sweat.

  One thing Roland had come to know about Rebecca: she never told lies. Occasionally her version of the truth was a little skewed, but if she said that someone was bleeding in her bed, she truly believed someone was. Of course, he watched the curls bob on the back of her neck, she also believes that a troll lives under the Bloor Viaduct. He couldn’t decide whether he should get upset or wait until he was sure that there was something to get upset about.

  At Church Street, Rebecca began to calm down. She walked this route every day and the familiarity of it soothed her.

  It’s nine o’clock, Saint Michael’s told her as they passed. Nine, nine, nine. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Late, late, late.

  She let go of Roland’s hand and ran a little ahead, unable to keep herself to his pace any longer.

  Roland flexed his fingers, feeling circulation return. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched her run forward, then back to make sure he still followed, then forward again. It reminded him of an old Lassie movie. He hoped he’d have nothing more complicated to deal with than little Timmy trapped in a flooding river. He hoped. But he doubted it.

  When they reached her apartment building, Rebecca darted up the path and snatched up a brown paper bag leaning up against the foot of the tree. She looked inside, nodded in satisfaction, and held it out for Roland’s inspection.

  “My milk. I left it here earlier.”

  “It’ll be warm, kiddo.”

  Touching the side of the cardboard carton, she shook her head. “No. It’s still cool.” Then she turned the bag and pointed at a reddish-brown stain. “See.”

  Roland leaned forward. It looked like … “Oh my god, that’s blood!” Someone was bleeding in her bed … Jesus! And here he was, dashing to the rescue. He should’ve called a cop the moment she showed up.

  Handing him the milk—he held it gingerly, hardly able to take his eyes off the stain—Rebecca unlocked the entrance and led the way upstairs.

  “I left Tom with him,” she explained, pausing in front of her apartment. She gave the door a push and it swung silently open.

  Roland stared into a scene of utter chaos and felt his jaw drop. One piece of curtain hung crazily askew, swinging in the breeze from the open window. The other appeared to have been shredded and flung about the room. A kitchen chair lay on its back, dripping with water and garlanded with cut flowers, the broken vase on the floor beside it. Plants and dirt were everywhere.

  In the center of the mess, sat a large tabby cat, placidly grooming the white tip of his tail. An ugly scratch showed red against the pink of his nose and one ear had acquired a fresh notch.

  “Tom!” Rebecca stepped over a pile of green fur Roland assumed had been a rug before puss and his playmate had gotten to it. “Are you all right?”

  Tom curled his tail around his toes and stared up at her with gold, unblinking eyes; then he noticed Roland and hissed.

  “It’s okay,” Rebecca explained. “I brought him to see. He’ll know what to do.”

  Tom looked Roland up and down, then twisted around to wash the base of his spine, a gesture of obvious disbelief.

  “Yeah? Well, same to you, buddy,” Roland growled as they headed past him into the bed alcove. He hated cats, the sanctimonious little hairballs. “Okay, Rebecca, where’s this …”

  The question remained unfinished. Rebecca sat on the edge of her bed holding the hand of a little man, no more than a foot high. Although he wore trousers of green and an almost fluorescent yellow shirt, the color red dominated the scene. His hair, eyebrows, and beard looked almost orange beneath the bright red cap which matched the scarlet bubbles appearing between his lips with every breath. But it was the crimson stain beneath the handle of the black knife in his chest that drew the eye.

  His eyes opened, focused on Rebecca, and the ghost of a smile drifted over his face. His hand tightening on hers, he tried to speak.

  She leaned closer.

  “Alex … ander,” he gasped.

  “Alexander? But I guessed that months ago!”

  “I know.” He fought for one last breath. “I lied.” The ghost of the smile returned and the little man died. Slowly, the body faded away until only the black knife and the red stains remained.

  Chapter Two

  Without the little man’s body wrapped about it, the black knife looked smaller but no less deadly. The triangular blade, no more than three inches long, tapered down to a wicked point and the edges were honed to razor sharpness. The grip had been wrapped in black leather that now glistened with blood.

  “I don’t believe it,” Roland muttered. “This isn’t happening.”

  Rebecca looked up from the knife, her head cocked to one side. “But you Saw,” she pointed out.

  “Yeah, I know I saw. But that doesn’t mean anything. I’ve seen a lot of things I didn’t believe in.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, like … like …” He threw his hands up in the air and backed out of the bed alcove. “Well, things. Get out of my way, cat!”

  Tom moved free of Roland’s legs, his expression clearly stating that even such as Roland should know cats had the right of way. Jumping up on the bed, he circled the knife, his bristling fur making him appear at least twice his normal size. He growled and slapped at Rebecca’s hand as it reached into the perimeter of his pacing.

  “I wasn’t going to touch it,” she protested.

  He sat, tail wrapped around toes, just at the edge of the blood, and stared at the dagger.

  Rebecca watched him for a moment, but he neither moved nor blinked so she went into the other room to see what Roland was doing.

  Roland was cleaning up. Torn curtains, spilled plants, and scattered cushions, he could deal with. Murdered figments of Rebecca’s imagination were giving him just a little more trouble. Had the dagger and the blood disappeared with the body he could’ve convinced himself, with very little effort, that nothing had happened. But it hadn’t. And he couldn’t. And he didn’t know what, if anything, he should do about it.

  He scooped dirt back into an empty margarine container, resettled the geranium—one of two indoor plants he could recognize and he hoped Rebecca wasn’t growing the other—and put the whole thing back on the wide shelf that ran under the window. Brushing them clean, he settled the sofa cushions where they belonged and reached for a large pad of poster paper that lay crumpled in a corner.

  Crumpled. Like the little man had been against the pillows.

  He’d have to think about it sometime. Later.

  The poster paper had two holes punched into its narrower edge and was obviously meant to hang on the wall opposite the window. He heaved it onto the hooks—the two-foot by three-foot pad was heavy—and smoothed down the top sheet.

  Friday, it said, and the date. Then, supper: beef vegetable soup and crackers. And, Do laundry: cold water, one cup of detergent, warm dry with softener sheet. The words had been printed in block letters and stirred vague memories in Roland of primary school activity lists. He peered at the next sheet down.

  Saturday, it said, and the date. Don’t forget to eat. Wear shoes.

  “Rebecca,” he asked as he read the instructions for Sunday and Monday—Be in bed by ten. Take your clean uniforms to work. “What is this?”

  “My lists. Daru and I write them on Monday after we go and get groceries.” She crawled out from under the tiny kitchen table, a plastic saltshaker clutched in one hand, “And I do what they say. They remember things for me so I can think of other stuff. Except I forgot to take Friday’s list down. You can if you want to.”

  Do laundry. Don’t forget to eat. Wear shoes.

  Roland wasn’t sure why the lists bothered him, but they did. They seemed so horribly binding; which was ridiculous for his mother had often left much more explicit lists for his father. “What would happen if you didn’t follow them?”

  “They said I’d go back to the group home.” She pulled on her lower lip. “And I don’t want to go back.”

  “Why?” he asked gently. “Were they mean to you?”

  “No.” Rebecca sighed, more in weariness it seemed to Roland than anything else and just for an instant she wore an expression he couldn’t recognize. “They just never let me be alone.” She set the saltshaker down on the table. “Now what do we do, Roland?”

  “Well, we … uh …” He waved a vague hand around at the mess. “I, uh, guess we report this.”

  Rebecca looked worried. “Report what?”

  “That someone broke into your apartment.”

  “Oh. That.” She smiled indulgently and shook her head. “That was just someone trying to get to Alexander, ‘cause they knew he wasn’t dead yet. Tom took care of it.”

  “Rebecca, Tom is a cat.”

  “Yes.” She waited for a moment and when Roland seemed to have nothing more to offer repeated, “Now what do we do, Roland?”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He didn’t have the faintest idea.

  “Daru would believe me if you told her, too.”

  Briefly, Roland considered telling Daru that he’d seen nothing at all. If the woman had worked with Rebecca for any length of time, she’d know the girl told the most fantastic fables believing them to be the truth—although, given what had happened tonight, perhaps the world held too narrow a view of just what truth was. That aside, Daru would thank him for supporting Rebecca in her panic and his involvement in all this dangerous weirdness would end.

  Then he looked into Rebecca’s eyes and discovered that, amidst all the strange and magical things she believed in, she, also believed in him.

  “Call Daru,” he said, surrendering to the moment and surprised at how good it felt. “I’ll back up anything you tell her.” He couldn’t remember if anyone had ever believed in him before.

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