by Emily Reed
"Darling," Emmanuel said, bringing me back to the present. I turned to him. He held out another sugar packet. They were the brown organic ones, and I pictured him slipping a few extra into his pocket when he got his coffee in the morning. Had he thought of me then? Or did he always come here and offer sugar to this… spirit.
I took the packet and dabbed the fresh tears. As I placed it on the edge of the crypt, I felt that hunger again; the desire licked at my insides, building heat and anger. I had no questions, only requests. "Return her to me," I whispered.
Stepping back, I clasped my hands in front of me, lacing the fingers, feeling the bones crush against each other as I squeezed. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Emmanuel didn't say anything; he just handed me a tissue. "Are you ready to go?" he asked gently.
I shook my head. "No, I want to stay for a minute. Go ahead."
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” he sounded unsure but Emmanuel didn’t argue with me. “I’ll see you at band practice.”
I nodded, not looking over at him. He waited for another beat and then turned and left.
As the sun set, voices of other visitors faded. I sat down, my back against the mausoleum across from Suki's, my legs out in front, ankles crossed a foot or so away from the offerings lining the base of the crypt.
Street lights turned on as the sky darkened into a rich and brilliant blue. I thought about my father, about the final sounds he'd gurgled out, the way his eyes rolled into his head.
I pictured Megan's empty room. I couldn't help the flicker of hope. I didn't know for sure she was dead. Miracles happened.
A group passed outside the cemetery wall, laughing. I pulled out my phone, swiping it awake; the screen glowed.
"We call it the spark of life for a reason," said a voice next to me. I turned quickly, my speed fueled by adrenaline, to see a woman standing in the lane. "Those screens will be the end of us," she continued as I scrambled to my feet, shoving my phone back into my purse.
The stranger wore a long white skirt and loose blouse with a wide lace collar. Her hair was wrapped in a scarf dotted with red needlepoint stars.
"Don't be afraid." She shuffled forward, her movements accompanied by a jingle. Bracelets on her wrists, gold, copper, and silver, all tinkled against each other. "Stay," she said. "You are here for a reason."
The woman stood in front of Suki's mausoleum with her back to me as she reached up to the roof's edge and placed a fresh candle there. She struck a match, the scratch of the sulfur head against the rough grain on the box creating a physically pleasurable sensation. "I can help you." She raised the small flame to the candle. It grew larger as the wick caught.
Her movement produced more jingles as she turned to me, holding something close to her side. It was partially hidden in the folds of her skirt, but I could see black feathers and a strand of beads hanging down. "What do you mean?" I asked her. "You can help me?"
"You're looking for your friend."
"What do you know about her?" My voice came out uneven, as I took a step forward.
The woman smiled, her teeth yellow in the candle's flickering glow. "I can find her," Her smile grew larger. "For a price."
"Of course," I reached for my violin case, figuring she'd been listening in on Emmanuel and me. She was a fraud.
"Because I ask to be paid for my services, you think I'm a liar," she said to my back, her voice louder, edging on angry. "Do you play for free?"
I turned back to her. She was closer than I’d thought, almost touching me. "I don't know what your game is," I said. "But I'm not interested." She grabbed my bicep. “Hey!” I struggled to pull away, but her grip was like a vise.
"You don't want to find your friend anymore? Or are you afraid maybe she left you on purpose?"
I stopped struggling and looked into her dark and deep-set eyes. She held up a plume of black feathers tied to a chicken foot, the skin looking almost like scales. A string of red beads held the feather in place. "Pay me twenty and I will find your friend.”
“How?”
She smiled, her teeth shiny. "Magic," she said as she let go of me, releasing a laugh that ricocheted off the surrounding gravestones, bouncing back, and sounding almost like a flock of crows.
She walked over to the Suki crypt and squatted in front of it, her long skirt bunching on the ground. Placing the chicken foot at the center of the makeshift shrine, she looked over her shoulder at me. "You pay in advance."
I had nothing to lose but cash.
I pulled a twenty out of my purse. There was one more in there, and it represented a larger portion of my total assets than I liked to admit. Bending forward, I passed it to her. She snatched the paper from my fingers, staying in a squat at the base of the mausoleum, not bothering to look at me.
The candle threw light around our corner of the cemetery, flickering against the old structures, making their cracks and shadows dance in the little flame's glow. Above us the clouds hung low, the lights from the city reflecting off them as a burgundy glow.
"Put down your things," she said. I placed my violin on the ground. "Your purse too." I placed my small leather bag next to the case, hoping she wasn't about to knock me out and steal them both.
She began to chant, letting her head rock back and forth. Gray smoke that smelled of sage and something else, something slightly rotten, rose up in front of her.
She stood quickly, so fast that her bracelets didn't jingle different notes but released one tone. Setting the feathered chicken foot on top of the mausoleum, she chanted words I couldn't understand. She turned around, slowly, bringing the smoke with her.
The stranger raised her hands above her head, the bangles tinkling as they fell down her arms. There was a smudge stick in her left hand: tightly tied sage, one end of it bright embers with pale smoke billowing from it. With each step she took toward me, her voice and the clinking of her bracelets grew louder. Her eyes swiveled in their sockets, and she bowed from side to side, circling with the sage.
Raising her left foot, she bent her knee up to her waist and then slammed it down hard. Then she raised her right leg before crashing it down. Spittle flew from her mouth, the mist growing thicker as she danced in front of me, the sounds of beads and bracelets and chanting overwhelming. I pressed against the mausoleum behind me.
She stopped suddenly, falling to her knees, the white skirt puffed around her. Nodding her head forward, the woman kept her hands up in the air. The smoke poured from the smudge stick, backlit by the flames of the candle she'd left on the top of the crypt.
She lowered it to her breast, the fog clouding up over her, creating a thick curtain between us. I heard a sharp intake of breath, and then she tipped to the side and collapsed onto the cemetery lane. The smudge stick rolled to my feet, the smoke turning white as it tapped against my shoe.
The soft sizzle of burning sage was the only sound. "Hello?" My voice caught on the smoke and shifted into a cough. I kicked the smudge stick away, and it rolled down the path.
I coughed again as I bent over the woman. Her face was totally relaxed. She had a delicate nose, full lips, long eyelashes, and a sharp jawline. Lying still on the ground, she looked different; younger and gentler, pretty. Her eyes popped open, startling me. "You cannot see her again," she declared, her voice firm.
"What?" The wind changed, and vapor from the smudge stick blew over us.
She sat up and grabbed my shoulders, her fingers like claws, reminding me of the chicken foot. "You must stop looking for your friend.”
"Do you know where she is?" I asked, my eyes burning, the smoke growing thicker.
"You cannot find her," The stranger’s voice boomed, bouncing off the surrounding crypts.
I struggled free of her grasp, pushing into a standing position. "Tell me where she is! Tell me!"
Suddenly the stranger stood in front of me. I felt disoriented by the smoke. The flame from her candle seemed to glow brighter. "I'll pay you more.” I tur
ned to my purse, pulling out the other twenty dollar bill. Grasping it, I spun to her. The candle backlit the stranger, and she seemed to be just a silhouette, a shadow I was begging for help.
"No!" Her voice boomed around me as if it came from every corner of the graveyard. "You must stop looking for her. She is dead but not gone. The most dangerous place to be. Do not join her!"
The flame flickered out, darkening the narrow space between the mausoleums. I felt the money slip from my fingers; a whoosh of air, and she disappeared. Grabbing for my purse, I found my phone and turned on the flashlight app. I aimed my beam of light at the altar. The candle and feathered chicken foot were gone. A mist of smoke, the strong incense of sage, and a hint of something rotten lingered.
Gathering up my fiddle and purse, I hurried out of the graveyard, my flashlight making the spaces between the graves seem that much darker, so I ran, fear creeping up my spine, raising hairs on the back of my neck.
Chapter Three
I believed the first ten years of my life were a hallucination. My earliest memory is of an endless white landscape, harsh winds, and punishing cold.
I'm on my father's sled, and I can see the dogs in front of us, straining into their harnesses, powering through the snow, steam ballooning with each breath.
I have vivid, joyful memories of growing up with a loving father who cherished me and died to save me. With his final breaths, each word punctuated by a spray of blood, he told me to run home. To climb into the bottom kitchen cabinet, close the door, squeeze my eyes shut, and wait.
I did exactly what he said.
I sprinted through the snow, my body covered in sweat, fear and grief warring inside of me. I wanted to stay with my father and hold his hand, but I knew that I would die if I did that.
I burst through the front door, the smell of our home hitting me: a mix of smoke scent and rosemary, the musk of wet dog, the aroma of antelope stew.
There were pots and pans in the cabinet my father told me to climb in. I tore them out, tossing them behind me—they clanged on the wooden floor. The only things I took in with me were our bows. My father's was almost twice the size of mine, which made sense because he was about twice the size of me. I pushed it in first, angling it so that it fit. Positioning myself next to it, I drew my bow tight to my chest. Light leaked in around the door, but when I closed my eyes, it was pitch black behind my lids.
That is how they found me; huddled in a kitchen cabinet with my eyes squeezed shut. But on the other side of that cabinet door wasn't the two-room cabin my father built. It was an apartment in a four-story building. I was in the most northern housing project in all of the United Tribes territory. I was in a different world.
Police discovered me when they responded to calls from the downstairs neighbors about a putrid leak in their bathroom. Apparently, my "real" father died a very different death than the one I'd imagined.
I remember the police officer who opened that cabinet door as clearly as my father's dying words. It is seamless, and yet, impossible.
When I told the social worker about who I was and how I got in there, she listened attentively, nodding her head and taking notes on a yellow legal pad. She reached across the interrogation table and covered my hands with hers. They were warm and rough. She smelled like sweet summer flowers, even though snow still covered the ground.
"Darling, sweetie, I'm sorry. You witnessed something horrible—"
"I know," I said.
She shook her head, her gold hoop earrings brushing against her cheeks. "That whole thing with the dogs, Darling—"
"They weren't dogs. They were wolves. Sick wolves that killed my father."
"None of that happened." I opened my mouth to speak but she forged ahead. "It's okay. I'm going to get you some medication that will help."
I took the pills, but they didn't help. When Megan and I ran away, I didn't take them with me. And since I'd left the north behind I'd been fine. Until that incident in the cemetery. Had I just hallucinated again? Was there any other explanation?
I sprinted all the way home, and when I got through my front door, I slammed it shut and forced the deadbolt into place. My heart felt as though it wanted to escape my body—would beat its way out. My lungs burned. I walked into my living room on unsteady legs.
Dropping my violin and purse on the couch, I went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water, chugging it down, water leaking out the sides of my mouth. Some went down the wrong way and I coughed, sputtering.
My eyes filled with tears, and I looked down at my hands. My vision was blurred, and my lungs hurt as I struggled to gain my composure. What was happening to me? I swiped at my eyes, clearing them; refilling the glass, I passed back through my living room and opened my balcony doors.
Megan had always dreamed of living in this neighborhood and having a balcony where we could grow a small garden. I stepped up to the railing. The narrow space was lined with plants, and the smell of them comforted me. The wind rustled and leaves bent and swayed, brushing against me.
I could feel the energy rising from the street below. Dinner hour was coming to an end, voices were growing louder, instruments were being tuned. Soon the neighborhood would be filled with people, with revelers; music would blare, feet would stomp, and the heart of Crescent City would beat right below me.
It hadn't, before that moment, occurred to me to leave. Megan needed to be able to find me. But as I stood there looking down at the people milling beneath me, I realized I couldn't stay. Without Megan, I would be gripped by madness, again. I needed her back. Or I need to move on with my life.
Chapter Four
At first the knocking sounded far away, but as I rose to consciousness it grew louder. It turned into loud banging and a male voice calling my name. I pulled an old robe on over the T-shirt and cotton shorts I'd slept in. "Coming," I snapped.
"About time," the man responded—it was Michael. What's he doing here? I didn't think I could take getting reamed again. But when I opened the door, he was grinning and holding a beer; Emmanuel stood next to him, a subtle smile curling his lips.
"Hey," I said.
"You're still sleeping?" Michael ran his eyes over my body, taking in the stained robe. He smiled. "It's two in the afternoon."
I leaned against the doorjamb. "What can I do for you boys?" I asked.
"Get dressed and run a brush through your hair, girl; it's making up for being an asshole day," Michael said. Emmanuel cleared his throat, and Michael looked over at him. Emmanuel raised his eyebrows, and Michael sighed. "Also," he said, turning back to me. "I'm sorry." He cast his gaze to his feet. "I didn't mean to be so hard on you." Michael glanced up to see how his apology was landing. “Like, I said, I’m an asshole.”
"Thanks," I replied, feeling my throat constrict, tears filling my eyes. Way to get over emotional. "Come in," I offered, gesturing into the apartment before I lost it.
"Great place," Michael said, looking around the living room; it opened into the kitchen, with the old-fashioned pocket doors pushed aside.
"Thanks," I responded. "I'll be out in a minute."
Leaving them lounging on the couch, sipping their beers, I went into my bedroom and dressed quickly—a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. After brushing my hair, I braided it into two plaits, then wrapped them up around my head and secured them in the back with a couple of bobby pins. Sitting on my bed, I buckled on a pair of leather sandals. I pulled my comforter over my pillows before checking myself in the mirror.
My cheeks were flushed, and I appeared almost fevered. Hunger gnawed at me as I examined my reflection. I decided to change tops because the V-neck of the white shirt was too much. I put on a sports bra and a dark blue button-down blouse with yellow bunnies on it. The buttons strained to contain my chest. Despite my conservative outfit and sweetly braided hair, I still looked wanton. That's what my foster father would have called it. I shook my head, blocking him from my memory.
Both of the men stood as I came out. "Yo
u look nice," Michael said with a smile.
"Thanks." He was obviously trying to make me feel good, and I appreciated the effort.
"Yes, beautiful," Emmanuel said, his voice quiet. I looked over at him, and he held my gaze. The way his eyes lingered on me made my throat constrict. I was starving.
"Where we headed?" I asked, crossing to the kitchen and filling a cup with water.
Michael followed me. "There's a parade a friend of mine is in. Should be fun. Want a beer?"
I gulped down the water and left the empty glass by the sink. "Why not?" I said, turning to Michael with a smile.
By the time we'd biked over to where the parade began, I'd finished a beer and eaten nothing, but I felt good. Michael was charming; he told funny stories about gigs gone wrong and said he thought my bike was cool. A vintage bike Megan had bought me for my birthday the year before, it was bright red with a basket on the front and a leather seat. I loved it, and the compliment made me like Michael a little more.
As we locked up our bikes, I checked out the small group gathering for the parade. "Not a big showing," I said, eyeing the smattering of people outside of the bar—mostly men, what Megan called "green meanies". Green because they were so dirty that their skin and clothing seemed to take on a brown-green tinge. Mean because they got in your face if you didn't give them money when they begged on the street.
Megan and I played on the streets when we first arrived—I’ve never worked so hard as that first year in Crescent City. It pissed Megan off when the "green meanies" begged for money without offering anything back.
"Don't worry, more will join us on the route," Michael said. “People with day jobs don't get off for a while." He came up next to me and offered another beer. I took it and popped the can open. Michael threw his arm across my shoulders. I could smell him, a mix of sweat from our ride and beer from his breath. His touch warmed my back, and I felt hungry again.
"Hey, Michael?" Emmanuel said from over by his bike. "This lock you loaned me is stuck again."