by Eliza Grace
And the diary is glowing in my hand, that same vibrant gold.
The book is doing this; it is taking me somewhere.
I am suspended in the looking glass pool for so long that I wonder if I am still at the school track, having run so fast and furious that I have passed out against the hard ground.
That must be it.
This is all in my head.
And as that thought passes through my mind, I am ejected violently, pushed out of the substance with little respect for the condition of my body. I hit a ground that is soft and yielding, like kinetic sand that molds to every part of me. I open my eyes and, for a moment, I can see nothing. A haze hangs in the air, thick as a velour curtain. I blink, trying to rid the world of the fog. It persists though, as if the stage is not quite ready for onlookers to see its many props and performers.
The curtain lifts eventually, as I sit hugging the journal to my chest, letting the glow be a comforter in the weirdness that surrounds me. I am in a forest, not unlike the one behind Jen and Tilda’s house. Yet, everything is wrong. Backwards. And I am not in the forest... I am above it.
Like I am now within a mirror world, not just backwards but upside down. Disorienting. Nauseating. I cling to the book with increased ferocity.
I stand there and fast realize that my shoes are sinking into clouds rather than grass. That makes sense. I am above the forest. Above... Tilting my head to look up, I find that I am so near the tops of the trees that I can reach out with shaking fingers and brush the golden and burnt umber leaves crowning branches. Not far from my position, a sliver of moon dances between wispy strata. I could walk to that moon. Maybe touch it also.
In the divide between earth and sky, I find the glowing eyes of numerous creatures hidden in the canopy. It is quiet, so very quiet, until the first brave insect rubs its wings together to signal life. And that singular, hesitant sound sends the rest of the forest occupants into a frenzy of commotion and movement. A million fireflies lift up into view, their bottoms blinking yellow like starlight. They create constellations that mesmerize, nearly hypnotize. I’m pulled away from it all by that sliver of moon again, and the absence of the space around it peeking through clouds.
There are no actual stars here.
I had not realized.
“Where am I?” I whisper, fearful that something will actually answer me.
“You are here of course.” A voice answers back and I jump in shock. The words are like the tinkling of bells. “Here. Here. Here.” She says thrice more. I know it is female, the lilt and cadence too feminine for anything male-minded.
“Where is ‘here’? Where are you?” I move a little, feeling unsteady as the clouds act like they will disintegrate beneath my steps.
“Here. The holding place. The staying place. The Neverwhere.” The voice comes again, musical and unbothered by the unusualness of her surroundings.
“Please, I need to get back.” I step again; this time, the clouds do not hold my weight.
I yell in surprise as I hurdle downwards, past the trees, my fingertips desperately reaching out to claw at branches for purchase, trying to halt my descent. I drop the diary in the process. When that does not work, I try to position my body so that I will fall in the best way for the least injury. I cannot get the position right though.
My back slams into the ground so hard that I’m plunged right back into high school. My quarterback years. I’d taken some hits then that would have put a smaller guy into a coma. “Christ,” I mutter, trying to sit up, but my head is swimming. I lean back on my elbows, closing my eyes against the way my vision is whirling about wildly, like tornadoes have taken up residence in my pupils.
A giggle sounds from above me. It stokes my anger, and my embarrassment.
“Laughing at a hurt person’s pretty crappy.” I seethe.
“Crappy, crappy, crappy,” the voice sing-songs.
“Look, just leave me the hell alone or help me,” I move around again, waiting to see if the twisters in my eyes and head will spring back to whirling life. They do not. I sit up.
“I’ll help, help, help.”
“Seriously, cut the repetition. It’s annoying.” I stand and I have to hold onto a nearby tree to keep upright. The standing position makes the tornadoes rage to life again. I stagger, clinging to the trunk and closing my eyes once more. The bark feels odd, like damp rubber. “What is this place?”
“Everywhere and nowhere. The never place. The always place. It is Neverwhere.” The voice is closer to me now. “She was there and then there and now here.”
“Wow, confusing much?” I mutter opening my eyes once more. The twisters have once again quieted.
“Wow, wow, wow, silly human much?” She laughs again, whoever the heck she is. I shake my head, don’t let anger rise inside me again. I have to figure out what’s going on, where I am, and how to get out of here. Tilda needs me. Unless Tilda’s here... is this where she is?” I look around and, as if reading my mind, the voice answers. “The girl you seek is not here, here, here.”
My heart falls like a dead weight into my stomach.
“Can you come out so I can see you? It feels like I’m talking to a ghost. Or talking to myself. I don’t know which is worse.” I try not to let how crestfallen I am into my words. I don’t know who this person is, or how she knows Tilda. But I have to find out and, as my momma always used to say, ‘you catch more flies with honey than vinegar’. I smile then, a slight expression, because Tilda would have teased me about saying something like that. I can close my eyes and see her, straight-faced, asking if I meant she was a ‘prized pig’. I’d give her all the blue ribbons in the world, if she’d just appear out of nowhere so I could hold her.
Something flits into my line of sight, and then out of it again. There’s giggling once more, high-pitched and manic. “Here I am,” the voice announces and that same flitting object bounces down into view. This time, however, it stays. She is hovering, the size of a small bird. Rays of golden light fluctuate like electrified glitter around her. When the light dulls, I can see the outline of her. A perfect, miniature person. Anatomically proportioned curves and long, ochre hair that flows wildly around her head in soft, beachy waves.
“What are you?” I breathe out.
“Arianna.” She says; her tinkling voice so alive that I feel it must have its own heartbeat.
“What are you?” I repeat my question.
“What do I look like? Silly, silly, silly.” Her mouth is spread in a grin, revealing little white jewels of teeth.
“Fairies don’t exist,” I say simply, crossing my arms and leaning against the tree. I hope it looks confident, because really I’m doing it so that I don’t pass out.
She laughs. “Then what am I?”
I shrug and then move on from this question, to something more important. “What the hell is this place?”
“I’ve already told you,” she huffs, some of her joy and teasing fading.
“The never place?”
“Of course. Silly, silly, silly. Neverwhere.” She’s been floating in one spot, but now she begins to fly again. “Can’t stay still long. It’s tiring. Tired, tired, tired.” Her voice is carnival music again, odd in its repetition, but somehow enthralling. It takes me back to the mirror.
A funhouse mirror.
I move away from the tree, feeling my head throb slightly, and I turn in a circle, taking in my surroundings.
“How do I get out of here?”
She laughs. “There is no getting back from here. Forever. This is forever. Forever and forever and forever.” She flies upwards, in a lightning-fast blur, and then she rockets down again, nearly hitting the ground before pulling upwards like a pilot a little too bold for his own future.
“No,” I refuse to believe that I’m stuck here, wherever this is.
“You are caught by magic, little one. This spell has lasted longer than you or I have been alive. It is a keeping spell. You tried to break into the forest. You trie
d to go where no human is allowed. And now, you are here. Here, here, here.”
“There has to be a way out,” I argue.
“Even Tilda cannot save you. She does not have the power. Nor the witchfinder. You will become part of this world. You will be the clouds. The trees. The grass. Consumed, consumed, consumed.”
I step forward, towards where she is— once again hovering in one place. “How do you know Tilda?” I demand. “How do you know that name?”
“Friend, friend, friend.” Arianna laughs after her thrice-spoken word.
“You have to take me to her.” My hands are fists now, balled at my sides. I’ve dropped the journal in my surprise at hearing Tilda’s name. I want to grab the so called fairy; I want to thrash her against the ground, but she might be my only link to Tilda, to the girl I love.
“I cannot take you between the places,” she scoffs, “even if I wanted to.” She pauses, consider, “there may be someone who can help you, but I cannot guarantee it. She holds no love for mortals.”
“I’ll try anything,” I stammer, stepping close enough to feel the wind fanning off her moving wings.
“It is dangerous. Danger, danger, danger.” She flies upwards and back in a loop, until she faces me once more. “You may die and if you die here, in this Neverwhere, you will be nothingness.”
“Tell me what to do.”
Arianna seems to shrink into herself, becoming even smaller than she actually is. She sighs, “I love Tilda’s mother. I am growing fond of Tilda. I do not want to be the cause of your demise.” There is no repetition here, as if the thought of disappointing those she cares for has sobered the fairy.
“I either try this or I stay here forever, right?”
Arianna nods. “Yes, yes, yes.” She whispers out, the thrice speech back, but blackened at the edges like toast heated too long.
“Then tell me what the hell to do,” I lift my hands, palms to the sky, pleading my case.
“Take the journal.” She points behind me, at the book that is still faintly glowing on the ground behind me. I’d forgotten about it for a moment. Forgotten its role in bringing me here. “Go deep into the woods, so far that your legs do not wish to support your body any longer. Find she who made this place. Find she who trapped the witchfinder. Plead your case. And hope, hope, hope.”
“And hope?”
“Hope that she does not kill you, rather than grant you passage from the never place.” With that, the fairy twirls in a circle. She moves faster and faster, until she is a blur of colors. And then she is gone.
And I am alone in this place.
This Neverwhere.
Dead Heart
-M.H.-
Nine days after Tilda’s disappearance.
SHE’S GONE ABOUT TOWN, yet again, taking down frayed posters and putting up new ones again. She’s relentless, beautifully relentless. And now she’s sitting, having a small coffee in the café where I myself have often sat since my escape.
For my part, I am sitting in the car I’ve recently acquired by convincing an elderly woman that she’d sold it to me. I’d left her confused, standing with a bag of food outside a small market in town, but she’d nodded and said ‘of course, I’ve been wanting to sell it for a while you see. It belonged to my late husband. He would have wanted a younger man to enjoy it again.’ And I’d driven off with what she called the ‘rag top’ down and the wind rushing past my face. It was a small thing to learn to drive the vehicle. I’d explored several peoples’ minds as they’d gone through the motion of turning the machine on, pressing the pedals, shifting into gear.
I want to spirit her away from her sadness, from the look on her face that speaks of sleeplessness and heart break. I want her.
“Is this seat occupied?” I stare down at her, my heart thumping madly within my chest. It takes her sometime to look up at me. Even when she does, it takes her eyes several moments longer to focus.
“No.” is all she manages, sliding her hands across the cafe table and cupping her coffee cup between her palms. She acts like she wants the warmth of it, but I can see no steam escaping the liquid. It had gone cold. I sit down as she lifts the cup to her mouth and takes a sip. I smile when her nose crinkles at the cool temperature and she lowers the mug to the take once more. Yet, she still grips the chipped ceramic for comfort.
I lift my hand, index finger extended, to call the waitress over. “Two coffees, please. Half and half. Two sugars each.” I order what she's thinking about, the same thing that's gone cold whilst she's been sat, daydreaming of the niece she loves.
I've taken that from her. I've taken the only family she has left.
When the waitress returns, Jen allows the fresh coffee to replace the old. She murmurs a soft ‘thank you’ and I imagine it is spoken for both my benefit and the waitress’. We sit in quietude for some time, until we have both long finished our drinks.
“Thank you again for the coffee, though I imagine you're like everyone else who believes I'm unfit to raise a child.” She's looking at me now, her face fierce, as if willing me to admit or deny.
“I'm not sure what you're talking about,” I smiled, “I'm not from here. You just looked like you could use a fresh cuppa.” Often times, my smile doesn't reach my eyes. They remain hollow and empty, no matter my efforts, but when she smiles back at me, as weak as the expression is, I find that it causes warmth to flood upwards and downwards until I am nothing save for a long-repressed joy.
“I can’t tell you what a relief it is to speak with someone who isn’t quietly judging me.” She leans back in her chair, sighing. “I’ve lived here forever. Everyone knows me. Yet, one misstep and I’m the town pariah. ‘Why wasn’t I watching her better’. ‘Didn’t I know something was off, that she wasn’t acting like herself’. God, the kid lost her parents and her brother. She was stuck with me, like it or not, we did the best we could. I did the best I could.”
“It sounds like the townsfolk aren’t the only ones judging you.”
It takes her a minute to get my meaning. “I mean, of course I’m judging myself. She was my responsibility. Mine. And she’s missing. It’s been over a week. And, I heard the cops whispering. They didn’t think I could hear them, but I know that the chances of her being found get worse and worse by the day. They tell me pretty lies, but I know the truth. Something’s happened to her, something bad, and she’s probably not coming back. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. She’s all I have left. She lost her family... I lost them too. My sister. My nephew. My brother-in-law, who I never thought was good enough and I never treated him nicely.” Jen stands abruptly, her chair tilting backwards and hanging there, for a moment, balancing on two legs, before it comes plopping back down with a metallic thud.
I stand also, the joy that had recently flooded my body all but gone.
“I need to go home,” she mutters, everything about her deflated.
“Let me drive you.” I step around the table, so that I’m closer to her. It’s not close enough, not nearly close enough.
“I’ve got my own car.”
“I’ll drive it then, and call a cab to bring me back to town.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she mumbles, wringing her hands and staring past me at her car in the distance. I can see the outline of it in her head, but it moves, vibrates, shimmers. She’s not really focusing on it; her mind is elsewhere. On that girl again.
“You’re in no state of mind to drive.”
“I don’t even know you.” But I can hear the acquiescence in her voice; she’s going to give in.
“My name is Matthew Hopkins.”
“Jenissa Clarke. I go by Jen.”
“And I go by Matt.” I reach out, offering her my hand. She looks down, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her hand lifts though, reaches to grab my own. When our palms connect and our fingers brush, I feel thunderstruck. Weakness takes over my limbs and I have to let go of her hand to catch myself on the table.
When my vision clears and I am
able to stand again, I realize that she seems largely unaffected.
“Are you alright?” It is her turn to express worry for me and I don’t like that. I am not weak. I have never been weak. I’m powerful, more powerful than she could ever imagine.
“Perfectly.” I motion with a wave of my hand through the air. “Shall we?”
“Honestly, I’m fine. And,” she is fighting a small smile now and lifting her right hand to wave at someone in the distance. I turn to find whoever it is who has drawn her attention away from me. “I see one of my friends. I need to talk to him for a moment. And, really, I’m okay to drive. But thank you, so much.”
“You’re welcome. Anytime.” I try to sound casual, sitting back down at the café table like I have not just been jilted by her. The waitress comes back as she is leaving me. I order more coffee. And then I slip fully into Jenissa’s thoughts.
She’s happy to see the officer. I can feel the emotion pumping through her. It is also sedated though by the guilt that she should be feeling any happiness at all.
I feel anger begin to heat inside my body; it is scalding in its entrance, burning me from the inside out.
The anger makes me wild and unkempt. It causes me to loosen my hold on the magic that keeps me tethered to this living realm, that keeps me from shrinking into age and oblivion. I decide that I will make her forget me, that I will try a do-over on our first meeting. I want it to be perfect and I do not want her abandoning me for another man.
And that is the moment the girl witch chooses to yank her power back from me. She pulls the cord between us with determination. I can fell the spell she is working. I can feel the way the magic threads around her, bending to her will like gossamer thread pulled by a talented seamstress. But she is not talented, this frail girl, this untrained demon spawn.
It takes my breath away when she pulls so hard that I think she has won.