by Nina Malkin
“Shhh!” I am not braving the wilderness barefoot.
Fuzzily, “Dice?”
See, now she’s gone and woken Marsh. “I’m just going to pee,” I lie.
“Should I come?”
How much do I love her? “No,” I say. “I’m not scared.” Another lie.
“Mm-kay.” She rolls over, mumbling, “Take . . . flashlight.” I would, only I don’t need it. Tonight, the only accessory to her elegant attire, Ruby sports a ghostly luminescence. Did I say accessory? Make that necessity. The sky has a cataract of cloud, the night the color of my worst fear. Ruby grabs my hand and leads the way, winding easily among the tents toward the fortress of trees.
Things only get murkier when we enter the forest, and my typically gabby dead friend is being atypically quiet. The better to hear the snaps, crunches, and fluttering of whatever else is up and around, attending to nocturnal doings. Ultimately, I begin to hear other sounds: strains of music, lilting laughter—party palaver, no doubt. Then, right where the trees seem most impenetrable, a figure emerges and hails us.
“May I see your invitation?” The statuesque girl wears an obelisk of hair rising straight off her head. She needs the extra height like Forsythe Manor needs the east wing.
Take it away, Ruby. Since here’s when she’ll go, “We’re on the list,” or “We’re friends of Jamal or Thurston or Dorian” or
“Invitation? We don’t need no stinking invitation!” Except Ruby nudges me, and then I know—I’ve got this.
There’s a pocket in my gown; lo and behold, it contains a card.
A tarot card. The Two of Wands. A force of nature. Energy in action. Making things happen, getting things done. I flash it like an all-access pass.
Which apparently it is. “Ah!” The WNBA wannabe seems impressed. “A seeker of dominion! This way, please.” I flick to Ruby, my smile all: Success!
Smiling back, but smaller, she says, “Have fun, Dida.”
“What do you mean, have fun? You’re not going in?”
“Nah,” she says. “Not for me.”
The big girl looks off, disinterested, her jaw like a pickle jar—but I get the message: No ghosts allowed. That makes me sad, but Ruby doesn’t seem offended. In fact, her smile’s turned sweeter, and she seems happy—happy for me, happy for her.
“All right,” I tell her. “See you.” The instant I step through the trees, I get a pang like I might not, ever again.
Okay, this is the most fabulous party ever. Ever! No, really: I have gotten down at some serious scenes. The red carpet kind Momster’s magazine kicks out for celebs. Impromptu jump-offs when parents unexpectedly leave town. Last year’s Swonowa homecoming dance—as awesome as it was awful.
Snores in comparison. I mean this party is the shit!
First of all, it’s in a palace. Except “in” is a misnomer, since walls, floors, ceilings are irrelevant. We’re swinging from star shine, the sky suddenly clear and heaven this happening new neighborhood. I cavort across the air (guess I didn’t need my One Stars, huh), dancing my ass off. How can I not? The band is phenomenal, thumping at the bottom, swirling at the top. Accordion to zither, every instrument has its part in the celestial rhapsody. And somebody’s drumming on a hollow tree. Someone else wails on a massive conch shell. And who knew pebbles swirling in an eddy could sound so cool.
Wherever I turn, mass quantities of the delectable and intoxicating. Parfaits and layer cakes, pomegranates and grapes.
My champagne glass is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Only let’s forget the ambience for a second; let’s talk about this crowd. Okay, in a word: gorgeous! Whoo-hoo, to the big and strong! Shout out, to the slender and lithe! Holla back, to the fat and sassy! Every conceivable shape and hue, and strutting proud. Some opt to be naked. Others dress simply. Still others are done up, waaaaay up, the fabrics literally alive, the designs defining creation.
Hey! There’s Sin! Or damn, he sure looks like my boy. I jump and wave, and he sees me, smirking his smirk, beckoning to me with . . . not his harmonica; this funny row of narrow pipes. We gravitate toward each other, but with so many fellow revelers wanting our attention, this may take a minute. A minute for so many hugs and kisses, so many toasts and salutations. Oh, no matter! Time is an obsolete concept here. So I sip and sup and scintillate, orbiting ever closer to the one I love. I’ll reach his side, dance in his arms, let that beard caress my cheek and find out if it tickles.
On the fringe of the sylvan soiree, I notice a most unlikely guest. A wallflower here? Guess it’s true: Every party has a pooper; that’s why they invited . . . Antonia. Hair gone to gnarled briars. Long fingers strangling one another like swamp grass.
Twin traps with guillotine blades staring out of a gray-green face. I’m smart enough not to engage that gaze, since whether that’s the Antonia I know or some kind of avatar, tonight she’s more potent than ever, clearly a peer of these people.
Whoa, whoa, whoa—wait! Did I say people? Silly me! These aren’t people. I get it now: This is the disco of the deities, and I’m throwing down with gods. Only that’s got to be a mistake.
Once they find out I’m a phony, they’ll toss me right out.
Unless they have other plans for my insignificant ass. Here, alone, in the thick of their supreme company, I start tripping on terror. No Ruby at my side. No Saint Michael around my neck. A whole new level of Antonia Forsythe looming. I scope the magnificent multitude for the one who resembles Sin—and there he is. Only my Sin hasn’t got horns. My Sin doesn’t have hooves. The god’s eyes find mine, their jet sparkle familiar but the immortal impunity far surpassing that of the Sin I know, or knew, in any incarnation. And me, without bravado, without protection, the thread count of my bedsheet chic meaningless.
Languorous now, these beatific beings encroach from all sides, in no rush as they serenely close in on me. Edge me in toward . . . is that an altar? As in sacrificial? Damn, if it’s a virgin they’re after, they’ll be disappointed. An elevated alabaster slab, with stairs on four sides and arced on top like a basket handle.
I start to climb; I see no choice. My blood is sludge, no: oil.
The blue-black platelets of fear Fracas saw in my aura now clogging my veins. Why did Ruby drag me here? Why would such majestics bother with the likes of me? Why does anyone do anything? Wait, I know this: love. Maybe I’m not about to be slaughtered . . . but heard. Maybe I haven’t been led to an abattoir but a podium, a cool, smooth soapbox on which to make my plea. What had the giantess said when I flipped my Two of Wands?
“I seek dominion!” I gaze out into the glen of gods, beseech the sublimity surrounding me.
Hey, you want bread, you go to a bakery. You want pastrami, you do deli. I’m in the market for power—my own personal power—and it seems I’ve come to the right place. For the glorious assembly hearkens to me, and I see no scythes or torches, only pure, exalted radiance.
It’s spiel or no spiel, and I pick spiel. I start with: “Hi.” Then remember my manners: “Thank you for the opportunity to speak at this sacred forum.” Then go on, hand to heart: “I’m Dice, and I’m a girl, a mortal girl, and I’m good with that, really. I’m not looking to trade on my soul or upgrade to death-defying status. Except the thing is, I do have certain gifts, gifts I’ve been ducking for as long as I can remember. Now I’m ready to acknowledge those gifts because, I won’t lie, I need them. My life and the lives of those I love are in peril. I want to accept these abilities, nurture them, and put them to use.” My eyes roam my judges, my potential redeemers, their faces impassive and their postures impossibly, perfectly still. “Only my powers are dormant inside me; they need a serious kick-start.” I open my arms in urgency. “Who will waken the goddess within?” The consortium is quiet, then comes a rustling, a parting—a vision. Her dress is pearl and her crown is jeweled and she strums this large, ornate lute-type thing. “I am Saraswati,” she sings, her voice divine. “I am Hathor, I am Benten, I am Cerridwen . . .” With every name, she subtly morphs�
��her colors, her costume, her implements—reminding me of Fracas, except not the least bit earthly. “Wisdom, music, art, communication—these I rule. And I sense in you reverence for and talent in my purview.
I will waken their power in you.” So saying, the goddess places a kiss on my lips.
“Thank you, my goddess.” I say this humbly as I can, no easy feat with the wealth that floods me. “I cherish your gift, and will use it well.”
With that she glides off, and for a moment, nothing. Then another goddess approaches, riding a golden stag. Adornments writhe on her body—sequined serpents that they are. Nestled between her parted thighs, a lion cub gives me a sphinxlike stare.
“I am Arduinna, Diana, Flidais, Vida . . .” Her countenance, too, evolves with every name she utters. Gently she heels her mount up to meet me. “I rule the forest and am revered by all creatures. I sense in you respect and admiration for my subjects, and will grant you a bond with them all.” Leaning close, she presses her lips to mine.
“Thank you, my goddess.” Again, striving for modesty as my soul ignites. “I cherish your gift, and will use it well.” As the stag takes to the air, there comes a high-pitched screech from the sort of brutish bird I’ve seen a lot in northwestern C-T. Iridescent blue-black feathers. A beak like the business end of a pair of pliers. Talons deadly as garrotes. Brilliant eyes that know all and spare nothing. Circling the podium, round and round, then flapping in my face. Not sure how to respond to this, I, well, wing it, raising my arm, elbow crooked, in offer as a perch. The avian—crow, raven, whatever—must approve, landing heavily on my wrist, then bopping up to my biceps.
Quite clearly—not to mention casually—she speaks into my ear. “I’m Morrigan-Persephone-Isis-Hel, et al, et cetera, yadda-yadda-yadda. I’ve come in this less-than-formidable form since that’s what you can handle.”
I say, “Uh . . . okay.”
“So here’s the deal. I rule death. I rule war. The underworld is my domain and it suits me fine. Human will? Mine to manipulate. Yet I’m the immortal’s immortal, reigning over phantoms and demons, worshipped by witches.” She puffs the plumage at her ruff, rolling her neck like a boxer before a bout. “These other ladies”—she says it like “losers”—“they’re warm and cuddly and their blessings will basically buy you a free lunch. But I’m the one you want, Dice-Dice-bay-bee.
I’m the one you need. I embody magic. I epitomize magic. I am magic.” With that kind of fluent braggadocio, she clearly missed her calling—schooling south Bronx rappers and north Jersey mobsters. “Too bad for you I don’t take no mess.” Lunging with her bill, she snatches a hank of bangs near my temple, then pulls the strands all the way taut. Emitting something like a half cackle, half chuckle, she lets go, and the curl boings back.
“All this time, you had my power in you,” the belligerent bird continues, “and what did you do? Deny me. Reject me.
Piss me off, that’s what.” She hops along my arm, cocks her head to clock me from a new perspective. Petulant, she preens her feathers, then hops back to my ear. “Now all of a sudden that old blue-black magic ain’t so bad.” I shrug, giving the raven a ride. “What can I tell you?” A cynical croak. “Don’t tell me shit,” she says. “Beg me, bitch.”
We are eyeball to eyeball in a staring contest. Morrigan Et Cetera is absolutely right: I’m in need of major mojo. Only I never begged anyone for a goddess damn thing, and I’m not about to start. So I say, “No way, lady. I already asked you nicely.
Look, you should be glad I didn’t abuse your power, treat it like a toy or an entitlement. I know the difference between firecrackers and WMDs. And you know what? My arm is getting tired. So are you going to bless me or what?” With a flaunt of wingspan, she flies off, ululating at oblivion.
Then she turns around, comes back, and—ready, aim, fire—unloads on top of my head. Through clenched teeth I mutter,
“Thank you, my goddess. I cherish your gift, and will use it well,” since I take that as a yes.
LVI
The sun is an impressionist painter, daubing and streaking his canvas of sky. Or it could just be me perceiving morning in a whole new way. I lounge against a hillside and thrill at the world awhile, and when solitude runs its course, I see what’s shaking in the tent. Which is not much. Pen and even Marsh still asleep. Digging for toiletries, I don’t worry about making noise.
Marsh is a morning person; she’s okay with this. “Hey . . .” She zips out. “This is one for the record books.” Me being up before her, she means. If she only knew. “The whole sleeping-on-the-ground-in-a-glorified-body-bag thing.
So how about we check out the swimming hole?” She undoes and redoes her ponytail in two neat sweeps, no comb or brush required. “What swimming hole?”
“Weren’t they talking about it at the campfire?” She nips a lip. “Not that I remember.”
Not that I remember either. “Well, there is one.”
“Shut up.” Pen, immobile except for her grouchy mouth.
“Sorry, can’t,” I say. “Too excited. We’re going to the swimming hole.”
“There’s a swimming hole?”
Do I look like an unreliable narrator?
My cousin considers, then snuggles deeper in her sack. “Tell me all about it . . . in about four, five hours.”
“No.” I crawl her way and proceed to noogie. “You said let’s go camping, so now I’m camping and I’m pretty sure visiting a swimming hole is an integral part of the process.” Pen smacks my hands, thrashes to vertical, rubs her face.
“What’s that in your hair, Dice? Is that . . . ewww!” Marsh has a look. “Bird poo! Lucky you!” That’s what I’m counting on, but I steer the convo back to our a.m. activities.
“I didn’t even bring a suit,” Pen puts in.
Marsh gives her a goggle, like: Pen, it’s a swimming hole. No tops, no bottoms, no problem.
Eventually, with help from camp-stove coffee, we get motivated. Me leading, like I know the way. Which I don’t.
There is a swimming hole, of that I’m sure—I’m just not sure why I’m sure. Maybe I stumbled on it coming back from the wingding in the woods, a wrong turn gone right. To be honest, everything post-crow encounter is kind of a blur, the way things get at a party where you’re the guest of honor. Once I passed muster with the diva of death, there were no more hesitant rustlings and lone approaches from the gods. The kick-ass corvid took off, and then I took on this dazzling receiving line. Sort of like the bat mitzvah I never had, only rather than distant relatives and Upper West Side snobs, I greeted superior beings, and instead of checks, they shed their grace on me.
True, not every deity had blessings to bestow, but that’s fine.
Like, am I really concerned about my fertility right now? I am not. And what about the green-tinged, snaggle-headed swamp thing? I figure Antonia has that one on lock, along with any other agriculture-type gods. All I know is, I came out of there amply laden, and while I have no clue what to do with my newly awakened abilities, I’m assuming it will be a learn-by-doing thing. Just keep my eyes open (all three of them) and my senses attuned, and opportunity ought to knock.
“I am sweating my boobs off,” Pen complains. “Just so you know.”
“Well,” I tell her, “you’ll really appreciate an ice-cold dip, then.”
She huffs. “If we ever find it.”
“Really, Dice.” Marsh pauses to scan the sky. “We’ve been hiking at least an hour. You do know where you’re taking us, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, forging on, to very shortly afterward announce: “Ta-da!”
My girls reward me with wows.
The path leading to this hidden haven, unlike the treacherous route to the lower falls at Scatacook, is a piece of cake. We bound down easily, Marsh and Pen insisting they never doubted me.
Gurgling water calls to us, and we come upon a wide expanse of flat black rock, where we spread our towels and shed our clothes. Guess I win the strip-off, because no way
am I going to be the rotten egg. I race toward the ledge and dive.
A move that elicits sharp alarms. Since, after all, I don’t exactly swim, much less dive. Yet as I plummet, I remember last night’s tête-à-tête with Yemaja a.k.a. Latis a.k.a. Chalchihuitlicue, who sent my water willies down the drain and clued me in on this secret spot. I slice the surface, my spirit soaring higher the deeper my body delves. Down I go, down, down, till I graze the bottom with my fingertips, somersault, and surge up, up, up, to fling droplets into halos that glitter in the sun.
My girls, of course, took the plunge a beat behind. They rise up an instant later, babbling astonished admonishments and praise.
“Dice, are you crazy?!”
“You could have cracked your skull!”
“You looked so beautiful!”
“Weren’t you scared?”
“We were so scared!”
“Since when can you swim?”
“Since when do you dive?”
I haven’t any answers beyond gasps and giggles. They’ll come to accept the change in me; right now they’re still too stunned to keep on me about it. Together we glide to the side and climb out, and as we bask in the hazy bliss, another memory steals up on me:
—I am Pan and I am Pashupati and I am Cernunnos and—
—I know who you are.
—The lord of desire, your desire.
—Yeah, uh-huh . . .
—You doubt it? There lies a pasture not far from here where we can be alone, and I will release you, inspire you, introduce you to passions you never imagined. And you, my lamb, have a vast imagination, I can tell.
—Tempting. But I don’t think so.
—You cannot rebuff me! Gaze upon my phallus!
—It’s . . . very nice. Really. But there is a boy—
—A boy ?! I am a god!
—I know, I know. A bit too much god for this girl. Besides, my boy, he’s a lot like you—except for the woolly-bully satyr pants. So think of it this way: When me and him are together—and we will
be together—it’ll be in tribute to you. Well, not completely, but I bet you’ll get some vicarious pleasure out of it.