by Ka Newborrn
In Los Angeles, Hans waited for the automatic gate that surrounded his home to open before driving his vehicle inside. The full moon disappeared behind a murky curtain of clouds as a woman staggered out of the passenger side door. He turned off the ignition, walked to her side and placed one of his hands at the small of her back. The other stayed firm on the knife inside his pocket.
The Samhain ritual in the night garden had certainly raised her spirit. What better way to accept their accolades than by staying out all night and dancing with the flowers and stars? She couldn’t think of any. But when Louis Armstrong’s velvety bass rang through the air the next day at that ungodly hour, she immediately knew something was amiss.
She bypassed the crumbling gateposts in favor of the backyard. The doors off the kitchen were wide open. The wildflowers were curly and giddy, as if they’d been watered with vodka. She couldn't help but feel as if they were in on the secret. They were fun to dance with, but you couldn’t trust a word they said.
Now that Jana lived alone, she never woke up before eleven o’clock. But there she was, down on her hands and knees, lugging a pan that she never used from a drawer she never touched. This was troubling. There was no need for cookware anymore. A successful meal was finding a breakfast bar in the pantry, ignoring the expiration date and dunking it into her coffee. Why was she doing this?
She decided to make herself comfortable in her usual space, the nook at the kitchen window, but it was taken. Odette was there, watching the wildflowers dance around the monument. The sight of her sitting in the chair carried an unexpected sting. Something was different, but she wasn’t sure why.
In order to figure it out, she would have to see what Odette was seeing and feel what she was feeling. So she poised herself and tried to look behind her eyes. But she couldn’t get in.
She was still tipsy from the night before; that’s all it was. But a second time passed, and she was still unable to get inside, so she tried again. And again. And again.
A sense of ownership had taken root inside of Odette. The chasms she had once slipped into so easily were now filled with curling sprouts. She couldn’t see them directly, but she could make out their tiny, upside-down reflections inside her sunlit irises. They looked delicate, but they were impenetrable, like forest garland armor.
She saw the puddle of salt at the windowsill and scoffed. Silly old wives’ tale. She tried again, but it was futile. There was simply no way in.
Was it happiness she felt as she lingered outside the kitchen window and kissed her goodbye? Not really. Bittersweetness? Even that was generous.
There was nothing left to do but leave.
In Phialind, the beryl hills and valleys were shrouded by an awning of sunlit fog. Singing bowls called from herb-covered caves in contemplative odes of devotion. Spotted wild horses abandoned their grazing and ambled towards the sound at their leisure.
In Barterlind, the skyline was awash with light as she fell into step behind a late night crowd. A smartly dressed group of young women screamed her name when they noticed her lagging behind them. She ducked into the back of a black sedan and fell back against a buttery leather seat. Security guards shooed the women away as the driver sped off into the night. In Sceptrelind, the house at 7 Storyville Lane was abandoned. Shutters hung from broken hinges and the windows were shattered. The furniture was covered with sheets, the kitchen cold and empty.
In Glaivelind, yellow eyes pierced the blackness as the car approached the forest. The bird elves sprang to attention immediately and assumed their positions in the air, wings elevated in the line of duty. They ignored the odd trespasser or two that attempted to bribe them with handfuls of fresh worms and colorful vials of nectar.
When they reached the Kaspare River, the driver opened the passenger door as she stepped out into the dank, mineral atmosphere. The North Wind whistled in welcome upon seeing her and gently nudged the trees and river to remind them of their manners. Elspeth turned an ear towards the sound of the car, pulled her woolen shawl tightly around her hunched frame and hobbled outside to welcome her.
“Land’s sake, child,” Elspeth scowled. “Do I have to send messages into the cosmos reminding you to eat your dinner? You’re really just a ghost of a thing, aren’t you?”
She clutched the girl to her chest and stroked the back of her head. Ester allowed herself to be held, but her hands remained stiffly at her sides as she gazed up at the stars.
Elspeth called into the night sky with her polished agate recorder. The bird elves appeared before the girl with a plate of oysters, figs and crusty bread. She pushed the plate away, ran to the water and vomited. The bird elves appeared stricken.
“There have been invitations to parties and interviews.” Elspeth began warily.
Ester wiped her mouth and stood motionless at the edge of the river listening to the voices in the sanguinary water. “Just a ghost,” she repeated.
“You should rest before you accept new cases.”
“No.”
The minatory tone that slithered from her parted lips curdled Elspeth’s blood and reverberated to the outer edge of the forest. She drew her shawl tightly around her shoulders, stepped away from the girl and fled to the shelter of the hollowed oak tree. The North Wind ceased its prattle and warned the trees and river to hold their breath and listen.
When it was finally quiet, the dam that carried her pain and sorrow disintegrated into a whorl of hot ash and imploded in a series of hisses.
“They don’t need me anymore.”
A lurid glow emanated from her eyes as she slipped out of her garments and stood naked at the edge of the river. The black water waited patiently. A lone bird elf licked the length of her spindly, trembling fingers.
Safe within the fused branches of the hollowed oak, Elspeth turned her head away and closed her eyes respectfully. It was hardly her place to interfere with the girl’s fate, and she was too old and blind to do much anyway. It was the natural flow to be nearing the end and awkward to linger without purpose. It was more dignified this way. It would be graceful.
The startled bird elves flapped into the sky as she shook the placid water with a violent swan dive. The force of it sent bubbles to the surface and filled her lungs with water and soft mud. She sank deeper and deeper into the abyss, past the tangle of seaweed that claimed her hair and the school of fish that claimed her eyes. Soft ivory bones eventually settled into the mud where the bottom feeders dwelled, but her whispering soul continued to sink unencumbered until it reached that elusive realm where the water and mud eventually give way and reconnect with the sky and stars again.
She leaned against the surface of the North Star and allowed its warmth to pervade her senses until she stopped feeling numb. When she gazed down at herself, she was surprised to see that she was simply a ball of light.
A ghost of a thing, really.
Just a ghost.
✽✽✽
Or was she?
She was subtle, not exaggerated or brash. A phosphorescent gleam that pulsed in the darkness. An expansive, constrictive paradox capable of superseding both the densest liquid and the tiniest grain of salt. But with a hell of lot more sparkle, like a sequined dress onstage at blackout. Shoulder shimmies. Jazz hands.
I want to keep going.
But I’m supposed to fade away now.
I don’t feel like an anthropomorphic delusion.
But for everyone else to be happy, I must meet a tragic demise and selflessly fade into oblivion because I’m not supposed to exist. Those are the rules.
I stayed in the periphery and played nice the entire time, which was exceedingly accommodating on my end and far more generous than any of them deserved. I kissed Odette goodbye when I really wanted to bite her. I’m tired of hiding behind the mask of third person. It’s time to use my real voice.
Why don’t I stay here in the North Star forever and fuse myself into its surface so that people can see my face on nights when the sky is clear?
Why should I hide behind a star?
Why don’t I resume my role as an alien and continue living the same lessons over and over again in the name of pseudoscience?
That isn’t how I end. There’s more to me than that.
What more is there? Before this, I was just a little girl in Sceptrelind.
I was around a long time before that. Back when I was older.
Older than Lilith?
I'm the Queen of Wands.
Is that where it began?
Focus on what lies ahead. An eternity filled with endless shapes.
I really should stay here.
I really should get some rest.
I’ll get some rest.
I’ll stay.
But only for now.
Acknowledgements
Momma: Thanks for letting me ponder the scenery outside the window while you kept a grip on the steering wheel. Now that you're riding shotgun, I will always do my best to keep you safe.
Daddy: You continue to lead the marathon with an abundance of style and grace. No one will ever have a stride more elegant than yours.
To the late Alfred Cahn, the late Maisha Baton, Ph.D, the late Neil Kosh, Doris Fields, Ph.D, Richard Borth, Ph.D, and Maricela Valencia: You are the finest teachers ever, and learning from you was a privilege. Your perspective was a generous gift; I'm humbled and grateful for it.
Kamal John Iskander, Kristin Tiry, Mateen Kemet and Buford Davis: I give you many thanks.
About The Author
Ka Newborrn
Ka Newborrn enjoys quad rollerskating and kickboxing, Ethiopian food and barrel-aged stouts, Philadelphia soul and San Francisco sound, forgotten pop culture and cranky feral cats. She divides her time between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. This is her debut novel.