Emerald City Dreamer

by Luna Lindsey

  “Bah,” said Francis, motioning to the paintings on the wall. “Artists create whether there is funding or not.”

  “Yes, but it creates the expectation that art is worthless, that no one should pay for it,” Steven said. “If I had a penny for everyone who asked me to design a free website for them… well, I might be paid what I’m worth.”

  “No kidding,” Jina said. “How many artists give up and get some office job doing something they hate, trading in their passions for a steady paycheck and health coverage. They let their dreams expire and live out their lives in misery, wondering what they might have been.”

  “Not everyone can follow their bliss,” Francis said. “Someone has to write accounting software and take out the trash. So of course those jobs will pay more.”

  “If I could interject,” Jett said. “There was a time when artists were held in very high esteem. The greatest works of art from history – by da Vinci, Mozart, Shakespeare – exist because of patrons.”

  “There, see?” Francis said.

  “Not so fast,” Steven said. “The only people who had enough money back then would have been nobility. And they made their money from taxes. So those works were government funded.”

  “Yet with a personal touch,” Jett said. “Government devoid of bureaucracy. The patron relationship was a personal one.”

  “Didn’t that give the patron an undue amount of control?” Jina asked.

  “Not at all. Religious patrons sought creative control, but secular clients had great freedom, depending on the country and time period. In some places, the patron and client had a close relationship, akin to marriage. Even if the pair were not lovers, the patron would defend and support his artist as much as a wife.”

  “What about unknown artists?” Steven asked. “In such a system, it must have been very difficult for an artist to find a devoted patron.”

  “Some artists have no talent,” Jett replied. “They produce rubbish that should not be supported. These days, when anyone can afford ink, paint, or an instrument, we end up with the washed out slop that comprises most modern mass-culture. Back then, a higher portion of those with talent had support. Now, few are paid unless owned by corporate masters.”

  A new guest entered the room. Jina put her hand gently on Jett’s arm.

  “Trey is here. I’ll be right back.” She squeezed Jett’s hand again and nodded at the couple from Fremont and left the three to their debate.

  “Hi, Trey,” she said, glancing at his hands. He had removed a couple of the bandaids, but the bandage still wrapped one finger. Some of the exposed skin still looked pretty raw. “How are you feeling?”

  Trey glanced down. “Oh, I’m healing up just fine. I can’t work metal, but I can do my job just fine, which is good.”

  Jina gave him a gentle hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. “Come on over and meet my girlfriend.”

  She touched his arm and led him to Jett, ignoring any awkwardness she felt. He was so easy to be around. Even though they hadn’t hooked up, she worried Jett wouldn’t like him, or that he wouldn’t like Jett, or… She found herself thinking in circles and quickly put a halt to it. She forced herself to trust Jett’s word that there would be no jealousy.

  The cluster had been joined by two or three new people and the art-debate now churned with examples and counter examples. Jina peeled Jett off the edge with a light touch on the elbow.

  “Hey Jett, I’d like you to meet Trey. He makes fire sculptures. Trey, meet Jett. She feeds starving artists until they can feed themselves.”

  Jett’s eyes lit up even brighter than they’d been. She went to shake his hand and saw the bandage.

  “Welding burns,” he said. “Don’t worry, they’re light,” Trey added in response to Jett’s concern. “I’ll be back at it in a week. Jina said you support artists. That’s not common anymore.”

  “I am a wayside fort to talented artists as they travel through life,” Jett replied. “I do what I can to keep them from dying destitute and unappreciated.”. She devoured him with her eyes.

  “What do you do for a living?” Trey asked.

  Funny, Jina had never thought to ask that before.

  “Investments,” Jett said.

  Made sense.

  Jett touched his arm. “I can tell you put a lot into your work.”

  “You should see his sculptures,” Jina said. “I haven’t seen them up close. I hope to soon. He has the pics up on the internet.”

  “You two look really cute together,” Jett said. “Stand there and let me get a picture.” Jett pulled out her cellphone as Jina snuggled up close to Trey. He put his hand comfortably on her hip. It felt nice, warm, natural, the three of them together like this. In fact, it almost seemed as if Jett was encouraging it all.

  “There, see? Adorable.”

  They leaned in to look at the snapshot, and Trey said, “You two look pretty cute together yourselves.” In response, Jett gave Jina one of her now-familiar pecks on the cheek.

  This was going much better than she had expected. No jealousy, no drama, just flow. If Trey hadn’t been on the rebound, she would have kissed him, too.

  Jett tucked her hair behind an ear, and Trey’s arm suddenly stiffened against Jina’s back.

  “Uh, hey Jina, is there any wine for me?”

  She looked at his face, searching for clues to his sudden change in mood. Maybe he was triggered about his ex. Or he’d seen someone he was avoiding. Or he’d become territorial. She couldn’t guess.

  “I did better than that,” Jina said. “I brought you some Scotch.”

  Trey followed her. Jett winked at them both and turned back to the big conversation.

  “Jina, can we talk?”

  “Sure. I’m sorry, Trey, was that uncomfortable? I thought things were going fine.”

  “It’s not that, I mean, it was, it was going really… I hope you don’t mind that I interrupted.”

  Jina shook her head.

  His voice got really quiet, so she could barely hear him. He glanced back at Jett, who seemed very preoccupied. “Jina, did you know Jett is a faerie?”

  The bottle slipped out of Jina’s hands. Trey caught it before it shattered on the floor.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “I didn’t notice it until… now it all makes sense. Her unearthly beauty, her eyes. Listen, Jina, when she pulled back her hair. Her ears. They’re pointed. Like an elf, right out of Rivendell.”

  Jina’s breath caught in her throat. “No, you saw something else. A shadow.”

  Trey shook his head slowly. “I know what I saw.”

  “This isn’t some kind of jealousy thing, like you’re just trying to get me to hate her so you can get her to yourself?”

  “No, Jina. I know you don’t know me very well yet, but I’m not a jerk.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean… to imply…” She leaned against the card table, hard. It wobbled. Trey reached out and steadied her.

  “It makes sense,” she whispered, glancing over at her girlfriend, actively chatting with the couple from Fremont. “All the artists… Oh God, she’s feeding.” Jina’s toradh, that’s why Jett had noticed her. What had her first words been? It is I who drowns, she’d said.

  Their entire relationship shifted in her mind and fell like a concrete building during an earthquake, separating from the foundation and moving four inches to the left. She shuffled through the events of the past week, reframing them all. Did she really mean anything to Jett, or was she just food?

  “You okay?” Trey touched her shoulder.

  “I feel sick.”

  “Come on, let’s go for a walk.” He led her to the hallway and they paced past the darkened studios.

  “You’re really freaked out,” Trey said.

  Jina nodded, pacing quickly, her arms wrapped around her middle. “Sandy was seduced,” she said. “I tried to help her. Once we were trapped, there was nothing we could do. Am I being seduced, too?”

  “It’s hard
to say,” Trey said. “I don’t get that dark sense from her like I got from Pogswoth.”

  Jina reached for her pack of cigarettes before remembering she didn’t smoke anymore. Or rather she had started again, but her smokes were in her jacket pocket, and she was indoors.

  “She’s… She’s never been anything except wonderful to me, in the week I’ve known her. It’s hard to imagine her doing what Haun did. What if it’s all just a trick? “

  “What do your instincts tell you?”

  Instincts were worthless. Jina examined herself inwardly, trying to separate her conflicting emotions. Fear, love, defensiveness, a sense of betrayal. It all came down to trust. Without the ability to read minds, she could never be completely sure who was safe.

  She remembered Pogswoth’s face in the crowd while Jina sang. Jett stood against him, and he fled. That wasn’t some innocent encounter. Jett knew exactly what he was and what he was after.

  “She protected me,” Jina said. “If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t have done that. I want to trust her.” Like she’d wanted to trust so many before, some who were trustworthy, and others who weren’t. “Although if she’s going to hurt me, there’s more than a broken heart at the end of this road.”

  “You have ways to protect yourself, and others, now.” He lifted his bandaged hand.

  “Not from everything.” Jina took his bandaged hand gently. “You still got hurt. We aren’t as good at hunting as we let on. Sandy and I can’t even get along right now, and Pogswoth is out there, doing things like this to God knows who.”

  “So tell her. Let her help you. I’m useless, but you should have someone like her on your side.”

  Jina hadn’t thought of it like that before. Jett had promised to keep her safe. Maybe Jett would know how to find Pogswoth.

  They paced past the door and Jina looked in on the party. Jett spoke with animation, with grace. Jina longed to be standing at her side, listening to her, hearing that lyrical voice and feeling her radiant heat. She remembered the climactic moment on the stairs above the street, of a flower growing where one should not. Of how her thoughts wandered to meadows in far off lands.

  The beauty of that experience made sense now.

  She pressed her fingers against the amulet beneath her shirt, and then touched the flower in her hair. My little flower, she always said. Jina felt the dagger in her boot, its cold iron hilt digging into her ankle.

  As a hunter, she had but two choices. Kill Jett, or love her.

  “You two have something nice, something, for lack of a better word… magical. Don’t throw it away because she reminds you of that other guy.” Trey smiled. “And you’re not without friends.”

  Jina relaxed and looked back at Jett. Her ear peaked out over her hair. To her, it looked just like any other ear, pale against her dark hair. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is the next step. Maybe I should give her a chance.” But she couldn’t trust Jett enough to tell her about the Ordo. Not yet.

  “Just make sure you have all your defenses ready, in case she tries anything,” Trey said.

  “You’ve got my back right? If I turn up missing, you go straight to Sandy. You’re the only one who knows everything, about the Ordo and about Jett.”

  “Of course,” Trey said. “I’d go in there and get you out myself, if I had to.”

  “That really means a lot to me, Trey. Though Sandy knows a little better what she’s doing.”

  If Jett turned out to be the horror she feared, she could count on Sandy to go in guns blazing, shooting anything that moved. This thought offered Jina no comfort. Even if Jett turned out to be a saint, there was no telling what Sandy might do to her. Which is why she needed to keep this a secret.

  Was Trey really the only person in the world she could fully trust?

  He still held the bottle of Scotch in his hand. She took it from him, returned to the room, and poured a glass without shaking too much.

  Jina worried how hard it would be to act natural. She didn’t need to. Most, though not all, of Jina’s uneasiness fled in the light of Jett’s smile.

  She caught Jett in mid-conversation. “A great man once said, art is essentially the affirmation, the blessing, and the deification of existence. Which in a way, means artists are gods, and should be treated as such.” She winked at Jina.

  Jina felt that warm glow all over again, and it pulled her to Jett. She relaxed into the flow, as if they were simply two young lovers amongst friends.

  CHAPTER 29

  *

  THE DOWNTOWN STREETS TOOK ON a bright new glow of possibilities. Ezra had found his name, now he would find his purpose. He had to.

  First, he had to find dinner.

  A ratty man in military castoffs pointed Ezra towards the nearest kitchen. Ezra hiked under the freeway and up a steep sidewalk. It was supposed to be at some church. Ezra knew about church kitchens. Sometimes they’d give you a sermon. Sometimes not. He hoped this was the later; he was in no mood for any more sermonizing. It wouldn’t be fair for someone to try to convert him now, not after just finding his freedom.

  Ezra wondered about that. With no one to guide him through life, what would he choose? Before meeting Elder Isaiah, he could choose anything he wanted. It was just the same now, only he was older. Stronger. And as of today, he knew a lot more about how the world worked.

  He saw the towers of the church first. They rose above the trees, looking down on parked cars. His pace slowed to admire them as he came around to the front.

  There were two belfries to either side of a vaulted facade, framing two recessed statues and an arched stained glass window. A third statue rested under the central cross, above cornices and the central arch. Ezra’s heart filled with joy upon seeing it point up to heaven, as if to draw man’s attention to higher aspirations.

  Yet something was missing. The glass could have held more color than its plain golds and browns. The pale stone colored like weathered pine. It could have been taller, the carvings more detailed, the architecture more grand. There could be buttresses and elegant pinnacles, and a fine dome in the back.

  And it was much too small.

  Ezra felt a purpose bubbling up inside him, a drive that made him completely forget his empty belly. What he needed to do was build a better cathedral. He could see it in his mind, charcoal stone contrasting against light granite sparkling in the sun’s rays. Dozens of spires rising out of the draping supports, like spider’s legs and bird’s beaks and God’s own crystalline chandelier, light pouring in through rainbow glass depicting every worthwhile story.

  First, he needed to find an empty lot. He rushed down the street, running for blocks, looking this way and that, until at the curve of the freeway, he found a little park.

  Perfect, four pillars already stood at the entrance. He felt their age, the history of being taken from a demolished church. He ran past the dog park and found a narrow strip of grass fenced to keep people off the freeway. The fence posed no problem. There were two nice little underpasses on either side where he could take shelter in the rain.

  It was just enough clear, grassy land to get started. Two intersecting surface streets rising above the freeway would give drivers a great view of his project, and once people saw what he was doing, they were sure to give him more land to spread into.

  He started with the rocks in the park, and some loose bricks he found. He piled them atop one another until he ran out. Two blocks away, he found a construction site with no workers and plenty of broken concrete they surely didn’t need. He carried the jagged blocks effortlessly, stone by stone, back to his building site.

  As the day wore on, his energy never seemed to end. He knew how to draw what he needed from the world around him.

  A few park visitors stopped to watch him from the fence. He drew from their curiosity, their amusement, their wonder. He worked all night and into the next day.

  At last he remembered his hunger, and it finally overcame his drive. He sat back admiring his work: A neat
ly-laid vertical stack as tall as himself. It would serve as a cornerstone. Tomorrow it would grow higher.

  As he wandered back up the hill looking for a restaurant dumpster to provide his next meal, he reflected on his joy and purpose. This feeling of happiness and direction he’d so rarely felt in his life. And yet it was a familiar feeling. He’d gotten here by listening to himself, by doing everything he wanted to do, by following his impulses.

  He had an impulse to speak his thoughts out loud, and so he did. Who could say which rules were right, and which were wrong, now that all he knew to be right was flipped on its head?

  An alley looked promising. He could smell the food, probably still warm this time of evening, right after dinnertime. He looked both ways before opening the lid…

  But why avoid people? He no longer cared what anybody thought. And why eat dumpster food? Why not just walk right into the kitchen, through the backdoor, and grab whatever he wanted off the shelf?

  Because he didn’t want to get caught. Good answer. But why not eat that cat over there? Just catch it and tear right into it? He could easily imagine himself doing it, as if he’d done it before. No one would miss a cat.

  He laughed at how silly this was, and then pondered what people might taste like, and if such a thing would be okay. Probably not, but still, he let his thoughts wander, now free from all fetters.

  He decided a couple of cold slices of pizza would work just fine, and here were a couple, still clean inside the box. He settled against the alley wall and devoured the pizza in one bite.

  It wasn’t enough. He hadn’t eaten in over a day, and he’d worked up an appetite. He dove back into the dumpster for more, gobbling up food as he found it.

  For so long he’d worried he was a demon, but now it didn’t matter. So he was a demon. Who cares? No one could say if it was right or wrong, and right now it felt just fine. It felt honest. It felt clean.

  And now he knew his name.

  His talking aloud had turned into a sing-songy little rhyme.

  I could bake a cat,

  I could slice a child,