Chang'an, Hann Dynasty, 6 B.C.
Ritual finished, Hann the Ascendant kicked aside the pile of sacrificed virgins. Power beyond imagination surged through him. Certain none could now stop his desires for ultimate rulership, he moved to the door his enemies were trying to break down and threw it open.
With his new strength he slew the warriors with his bare hands, hardly weakened by the wounds from their weapons. Their bodies were added to the others scattered on the floor of Hann's sanctum. Even as they fell, Hann admired their bravery. When the last warrior choked on his final breath, Hann was faced by an old man, eyes white with cataracts and dressed in priestly garb. The elder bore a cushion with an object hidden under rich, red cloth.
"Old one," said Hann, "Step aside. Out of respect I will not slay you, but be warned no weapon you might have there can kill me."
"I am old and weak, sir. I could not kill you." He bowed and slipped the cloth from the object on the cushion. "I can only stop you."
Boston, Massachussetts, 2012 A.D.
By themselves the items were odd, but taken all together it was the creepiest thing Michael had ever seen.
"Well, Mr. Brin, what do you think?" The formally dressed collector seemed eager to know. "Was it worth the trip to Boston?"
Michael covered his pause with a look around the cluttered sitting room. Clutter was the wrong word; it was both too little and too much. Mr. Woodrow's extensive collection of oddities was carefully arranged floor to ceiling, leaving just enough room for a path past each shelf.
"Amazing, sir. Quite impressive," Michael said in full honesty. "I've never seen anything like it."
"Oh, please, call me Ian." The old fellow held out his hand a little off-center. Mike put his hand to one side, but Ian didn't see it.
"Of course," Michael said, taking the old man's hand and returning a firm handshake, "and you should call me Mike." Apparently he was blind.
"So, tell me, Mike. Do you think we're worthy of an article here?"
"At least, if not a feature spread," said Mike. "Wonderful collection, blind caretaker, open to the public; what's not to love. What fascinates me is how everything is right out where everyone can touch it." He carefully balanced his curiosity with a reporter's indifference. "In most museums there are glass and ropes."
"That's exactly how I think it should be for these things." Mike could see the old fellow's passion. "They weren't meant as works of art, but they've grown into something special nonetheless. Still, there are a few items I don't keep out."
"Really? I'd love to. . ." Ian interrupted before he could finish.
"No, no, I'm sorry." The thought seemed to shake the old man. "Too, uh, sensitive."
"Indeed, I understand," Mike said with a nod. He carefully noted Ian's blind glance toward the rear hall. "Private collection."
"Not - well, yes, something like that," said Ian, relief evident in his voice.
After some further polite exchanges, Michael excused himself and trudged to his rental car. Early sunset and lowering storm clouds had already blanketed the town with darkness and snow. Neither would stop the heist.
Mike mulled over the job during dinner at The Capital Grille. No alarm, no pet; it seemed the old fellow had no idea that what he had was so valuable. Either this would be the easiest heist for the money that he'd ever pulled, or he'd missed something. Mike was still confident in his ability to overcome any obstacle a blind, old man or older house might present, but considering every angle was part of his process.
It was a little after 3 a.m. when Mike made his move. The snow had stopped for now, though the clouds still threatened. He already knew there were no windows into the back of the house and now he thought he knew why. It was a matter of five minutes and he was through the front door.
A few more minutes of quiet search discovered the locked door he'd expected. The lock was effective, but unsophisticated, and Mike was in the private collection before 3:30 am. It only took one look around for him to understand why this stuff wasn't on display.
If the rest of the collection was strange, this stuff was incomprehensible. There were jars with macabre things floating in murky liquid, racks of shrunken heads, even a stuffed and mounted animal Mike didn't recognize. He wasn't here to take the tour, though, so he kept searching rather than stop to figure things out.
Between a ribcage with strange spikes, and a laquered box covered with geometric designs, Mike located what he'd been hired to steal. Under the bell glass cover was a hand-made leather doll that vaguely resembled a teddy bear. The thick skin looked slimy and none of the usual facial details were there. Crude stitching reminded him of Frankenstein's monster. Mike felt aversion at the thought of touching it, but finally told himself he was here to steal it, not write a review.
He examined the bell jar closely for alarms, but found nothing amiss. Satisfied, he lifted the glass and -
- fell to the floor in agony. Pain overrode every thought, every brain cell. Bones cracked and shattered under the pressure of shrinking skin; organs and muscles squirted out in all directions then withered to dust. In seconds Mike was a near-duplicate of the doll, which went through a simultaneous mirrored transformation.
Taking great care not to look at it, the Chinese man placed the newly-shrunken doll under the glass. More quickly he dressed himself in Mike's empty clothing and moved to the door. He paused there, fingers touching the wooden panel.
"I am leaving, Ian," he said. "My conquest was only delayed."
"You know I can't let you, Hann," came the old man's voice outside the door.
"Stop me if you dare," said Hann.
"I'm far too old, now. I can only kill you."
With a shuddering thump, bright flame blossomed under the door. Hann lunged away as the door shattered and a wall of fire burst in.
The young fireman poked through the smoking rubble with a wrecking bar, searching for and extinguishing hotspots that might rekindle the blaze. Dawn grayed the sky but it was still cold enough to make him glad for the protective gear Twisting aside a charcoaled beam, he found embers and something sticking out of them.
With a gloved hand he reached and pulled at the object. What came out was one of the strangest things he'd seen in a house fire; a weird leather teddy bear that was not even scorched. After a brief examination through his faceshield, he tossed it away from the burned structure; no need to leave a possible fuel source in the place. He failed to notice the young Asian man snatch the doll from the slush and run away.
The next thing Mike knew he was naked and cold, someplace he didn't remember, curled up facing an upside down fish tank over that strange doll. He discovered that someone's clothing was piled under him, so he dressed and left. Whoever wanted that damn doll thing could get it himself.
The End
Tom Brand looked around the dark alley as he took a long draw on the cigarillo. He pulled down the brim of the leather Stetson until his squinting eyes were just red gleams of reflected light from the burning stogie.
Anger twisted Brand's cruelly scarred face; sweat and blood on his short beard glittered in the full moon above the roofs of San Fiera.
He pulled the little cigar from his lips, blew the ash from the glowing end, and tossed the twist of burning tobacco into the storeroom of El Perro Grande Saloon.
"Adios. . ." he grated through clenched teeth as he turned and strode away, spurs chiming.
The glowing cigarillo spun through the back door, trail of sparks sketchily illuminating bags and barrels stacked high. It struck the potbellied stove, careened off a small barrel marked 'Gunpowder,' and arced toward the floor as a bestial figure lunged across the saloon's storeroom to the back door. Spotting Tom Brand, his hated foe, Lobo the bandit king loosed a howl and crouched for a killing leap.
The cigarillo ember hit the gunpowder-covered floor.
Detonation flashes lit up the town. Half the saloon was blasted into kindling and the rest into a heap of flaming wreckage, burying Lobo's gang in a fiery tomb. Brand didn't flinch as deadly chunks of debri whistled past.
". . .ya stinkin' werewolves," he finished and lit another stogie.
Silver spurs clinking with every step, Brand stalked across the muddy alley to where the smoking body of his enemy had been flung by the explosion. The werewolf's unnatural vitality was already healing burns and knitting flesh. Brand threw the front of his poncho over his left shoulder, exposing the infamous .50 caliber revolver, Silver Reaper.
"You're done hurtin' these folk, Lobo. Your gang is dead." he said calmly. "Easy way is you lay there and let them throw you in jail. Or there's the hard way." Brand dropped his right hand to the gleaming butt of Silver Reaper.
A handful of townspeople had come out of hiding and were watching the confrontation. Mayor Keller limped closer, graying fur silvered by the moonlight.
"I have deputies on the way," he rumbled. "Thank you, Tom."
Without warning Lobo flung himself off the ground, fangs bared, claws reaching for Keller. As fast the the bandit werewolf could move, he was no match for Tom Brand's fast draw. The Reaper spoke once and Lobo sprawled dead at the Mayor's feet.
"Hard way it is."
Henri blinked when his bedroom light suddenly came on. His Mom was standing in the door, disapproval in her blue eyes. His face burned from being caught reading after bedtime again. With a deep breath she smoothed back the fur on her snout and face with both hands.
"Dear, we talked about this," she said as she sat on the bed beside the boy. "Your Father and I don't want you up reading so late." She gently removed the comic book from his hands and glanced at the garish, bloody cover, which read, 'Tom Brand vs. The Bandits of San Fiera.' "Especially these things."
"Mom, all the guys will be talking about the new Brand tomorrow at school. I gotta read it or they'll think I'm stupid or something." Ears laid back in supplication, Henri gave his Mom his best puppy-dog eyes.
"Why this, dear? You know there's no such thing as humans."
"That's why they call him an anti-hero, Mom." His youthful scorn at her supposed ignorance almost made her laugh. She bared her teeth in a stern face as she stood to leave.
"Well, whatever he is, no more reading after bedtime, period. Do you understand, young man?" She waited a moment to let it sink in, then dropped the comic book back on the bed. "Now, finish up and get to bed for real."
"Thanks, Mom. You're the best." They touched noses and Henri curled up with his comic again.
WARNING: Adult-ish content - language and sexual situation
"Oh, badass," said Len as he slapped the Corolla into park. "Check it out."
Having been painfully awakened by the tire-screeching stop, Megan refused to answer. Instead she rubbed where her shoulder had struck the dash and lit a cigarette. As usual, Len totally failed to get it - he scrambled out of the car without acknowledging her discomfort. Resigned, she got out, too. No need to broil while he ransacked the trunk for his Nikon and tripod.
The disused road was barely paved; WV County Road 8/3 declared a rusting sign just ahead. All Megan knew was they were somewhere between Ohio and Pennsylvania. If they'd stuck to the highways they'd be back in Greensburg by now, but Len always insisted on taking the long way after a show for just this reason. She had respected his desregard for most other people when they first met, but not so much now that it extended to her.
She leaned the butt of her khaki short-shorts against the front fender and tried to enjoy the smoke, but the smell of decay struck her between puffs. Apparently the road wasn't entirely abandoned; something small and furry and maggotty was flattened on the asphalt near the other shoulder.
"Oh, God," Megan muttered then raised her voice. "Len, how long?"
"As long as it takes," he snapped distractedly as he tried to get the tripod low enough on the shoulder to catch the road kill in the foreground.
Cursing under her breath, she shaded her eyes to look up. The sun blazed down from an otherwise empty sky; there was no possiblility of relief. The only thing that looked cool was the blanket of forest covering the hills around them. With another curse she flipped the cigarette butt at the faded center line and lit another. For a moment she considered thumbing down the next car that passed, leave Lenny in the dust.
They both had too much invested for that to happen, she was sure. House, furniture, her job, his photography business - it was all too twisted together to abandon. Still, she fondly considered the possibility of freedom until the cigarette scorched its filter. Instead of lighting another, she leaned back over the hood, propped her left flip-flop on the front wheel and pulled up her spaghetti-strap tank top to let the sun warm her belly and breasts. If Len wasn't interested, maybe someone driving by might enjoy a show.
Megan's pose had almost become a nap when the trunk slammed shut. Pique mostly passed, she resolved to let the bad feelings go for the day. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly, hoping the stress would go with it. A shadow passed over her face and a warm hand gently caressed her left breast.
"Mmm, like what you see, baby?" she said with a smile and opened her eyes, but Len wasn't there, nobody was there. She sat up with a jerk; Len was still fiddling with his Nikon on the trunk.
"What I see is a dumbass trying to get us arrested," he said, rolling his eyes. "Cover your tits up."
Absently, Megan pulled her down her top and stood up. She peeked under the neckline, checked the front, even looked over the road for anything that might have fallen and touched her like that. The caress had been so real, so warmly sensual, that the girl could hardly believe she'd imagined it. The only explanation was a dream, and that's what she decided it was when Len summoned her to the rear of the Toyota.
"Yeah, baby?" she asked cheerfully.
"Look at these shots. They are gonna kick some ass." He turned the laptop so she could see the screen The first two were basic candid shots showing the decaying structure and the trees behind. The third was different - the tumbled rock and weathered wood structure was the same as the first two, but the angle was different, showing the road kill in the foreground and emphasizing one taller tree in the background.
The fourth was a better framed version of the third, but with something so different it took her a few seconds to actually make it out. The blurred figure of a nude woman with glowing eyes kneeled over the dead animal in the foreground.
"Shit! What the hell, Len?" Despite the temperature she shivered.
"I know, right? Definitely a show piece."
"Whatever," Megan said. She crossed her arms. "That thing is just creepy."
"It's just an old house," he said sharply. "Get a grip."
"No, the girl." As she watched him glance at the screen then give her a puzzled look. "Right there," she said, "right there." She tapped the screen.
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Just look and tell me you don't see that girl."
"No girl, Meg. Tree, house, dead thing," he said, pointing at each as he named them, "but no girl. What's wrong with you?"
Before she could answer something licked her bare toes. She gave a wordless yell and hopped away from the car. Len's cruel laughter instantly changed her fear to anger.
"Why the hell are you screwing with me?" Her fists balled unconsciously.
"Screwing with YOU? Are you fucking kidding? You've been a bitch all weekend!"
The fight didn't last long. In minutes Megan was watching the silver Corolla speed away, Len's left hand out the window showing the bird. Rage bouyed her courage until she figured out her cell phone was still in the car, but after a few tears she pulled herself together. A thought made her smile; it looked like she'd get to practice hitchhiking after all.
"You are Left," came a hoarse whisper behind her.
Megan spun around, hands up protectively. Her heart was slamming in her chest but almost stopped when she saw the woman from the picture standing just inches away. For a brief moment Megan seemed to sense everything around her; no cars in sight, how far away the crumbling house was, the sound of birds squabbling in a flowered bush near the house, the smell of carrion and something else, something musky and exotic.
What Megan couldn't see clearly was the woman right in front of her. Taller than Megan, she was blurred, like rising heat waves distorted her body. In that instant of hesitation the woman tenderly took Megan's wrists and drew her into a hug, humming a lullaby.
Somehow struggle seemed useless so Megan tried to think it through. This all had to be some kind of bad dream. Len couldn't leave her like this, and the blurry mystery woman was pure imagination. Except she'd just thought about leaving him first and the woman's nude form felt very real againt Megan.
"There, there," the woman finally said. "Don't be 'fraid. I be Diane and I be Left, too." Diane stroked Megan's hair. Intense awareness of their shared contact swept disconcertingly over Megan.
"Please let me go," she pleaded. "I won't run, I promise."
"In good time, little one, take comfort. For now we be close or you cannot hear me words. Here, I show you. Hold you tight to me hands." Diane stepped back until both women were at arm's length. Like rising heat and smoke, Megan could barely see the other woman's body. Fear of being left alone prodded Megan and she hugged Diane close again.
"What are you?" she whispered into the woman's dark hair.
"I be Left, like you. Long, long ago a mon left me for dead, as your mon left you." She nuzzled Megan's cheek. "You would not see me unless you be wantin' what I found then - freedom."
"How?" Sudden hot desire made Megan forget the road beside them, her abandonment, everything else but Diane's body and what she seemed to offer.
"I can show you," Diane answered. "Will you lay 'pon the Earth with me?"
"Yes," breathed Megan. She let the woman lead her off the road's shoulder and pull her down into the grass. Between kisses and caresses Diane stripped Megan, then knelt between her thighs.
Megan closed her eyes and gave herself to sensation - gentle, roving hands; soft lips; questing, insistent tongue. On waves of orgasm she felt herself moving in a strange direction with nothing to hold on to but Diane; it was scary, thrilling, and after a long time, satisfying.
She opened her eyes to see other nude women around them, but Megan could now see them quite clearly. Most bore scars and all looked underfed. Diane rose lithely and joined the surrounding circle; Megan could see her just as well as the rest. Then she noticed the rest of the world had turned more or less blurred. She rubbed her eyes and several of the woman laughed.
"Do not worry," said Diane, holding out a hand to help Megan to her feet. "Your eyes be telling the truth, little one. You be with us. We walk outside the touch or sight of the living. No man or animal can hurt us, nor we them. We were left behind, left for dead, left with no escape; we are the Left. Now nothing in that world can bring harm to you, not even him."
The circle of women parted, allowing her to see Len standing on the shoulder by the Toyota. His blurred form was holding one of her flip-flops and screaming her name, though she could hardly hear him. The women watched Megan with sharp eyes.
"He came back," Megan said in wonder. The other women stirred restlessly.
"But did he come back for you?" asked Diane, "or for his own wants?"
"He came for me," she answered confidently and faced Diane. "Can I go back?"
"Only the dead are in all worlds, little one." The circle closed tighter and some of the women reached out to stroke Megan's skin.
A memory intruded on Megan's mind, the image of Diane hungrily kneeling over the dead, stinking thing in the road. No harm, the woman had said, to animals. What did they eat? Only the dead - or the Left.
Panic came too late to save Megan; the Left dragged her, screaming and struggling, into the surrounding West Virginia woods.
The End
On the day I go
Let me ride
If the dark must win
Let me ride
Choose my final roads,
Pass 'neath leafless trees,
Follow kind shadows;
Oh, but if you please -
Let me ride there.
Naerev looked up from the poem when she heard cheers. The carriage had rounded Silver Urn Hill and come into sight of Alfa, the last village of her Passage. With deliberate care the girl put away quill, ink, and her secret vellum journal. As soon as her attention was off writing the dim, grey, rippled sky whispered to her, a sibilant babble of many tongues.
"Shh," Naerev said with no little petulance. "There is a party, so leave me be!" The voice withdrew immediately, but her raised voice caught the attention of the horse.
"Mum?" he asked, proud neck bent so he could cast a wise and mild eye on Naerev.
"I'm sorry, Bareth, it was nothing," she said. "Could you slow down a bit, please? I'm not ready for the party yet."
"Mum," he replied with a nod and snort. His plodding slowed even more.
Gazing out at the trees with no leaves and fields with no crops, she choked down tears for her dying world.
But as in every village along her Passage, the Passage Day Party cheered her. Feasting and dancing, singing and gift-giving; three full days of celebration and always the center of attention was Naerev.
The girl did her Passage duty well. She told all the old stories - how the Original Crew traveled between worlds on ships of fire and steel, what happened when a broken Q-bridge pulled their new world into the chaos between nothing and everything, and when the first Teller faced the Between, sacrificing herself to make the sky. Though she dearly wanted to, she did not read from her journal; trainers had forbidden such new tales on the Passage.
And the time passed too quickly; too soon the Elders were silently helping Naerev into the carriage for her Final Passage. Everyone else hid in their houses, sad eyes peeking at her. The Elders urged her to remember her training and raise the light to save the world.
Now on the final path, she remembered how her mother cried the first time Naerev told her about the talking sky. The child she was then did not understood why until years had passed and her training was fulfilled.
The gift to hear Between was rare now, so rare the last Teller had taken her Final Passage years before Naerev was born. Now the sky was low, and so dim no plants thrived. Now Naerev was the Teller on her Final Passage, youngest Teller since records of such things were kept.
Too soon Bareth stopped and whinnied. "Mum?"
Naerev stepped from the carriage reluctantly and stood beside the horse, looking at the barren ground ahead. A faint path wound through the stones and freakishly twisted grass. Barely visible beyond was the towering Lander. To her it looked like a monstrous needle piercing a village-sized mushroom cap.
"Bareth, will you come with me?" Naerev placed her pale left hand on his nose. "I'm afraid and don't wish to be alone." Though the day was but half gone, twilight pressed in all around.
"I would, for you." He nuzzled her hand. "My mind would leave. I could not stay." He hung his head low. "I am sorry."
She stamped her foot. "Why me? Why do I have do this? Why should I die?"
"You should not die," said Bareth. He place his cheek to hers to catch her tears. "And still you must. We have a path. I walk this road. You save us all. To each a path."
The girl looked back at the carriage and wished she could hide behind the red velvet drapes. Other wishes raced through her thoughts and she clung to the horse's neck. Patient as all his race, Bareth waited. After a time her thoughts slowed and peace finally came.
"Bareth, you won't forget me, will you?" the girl asked.
"No, I will not." He neighed long in sorrow. "All will know you."
Clutching her journal, Naerev turned from the horse and marched up the path. Bareth watched until her pale form passed from his sight, then hung his head sadly and waited.
Before long the sky lifted and glowed brighter. Murky ripples of Between faded to pearlescent swirls that disappeared into a sky brighter than Bareth had ever seen. He huffed the smell of warming soil, shivered at the freshening breeze on his back.
Though he knew she wouldn't return, Bareth waited though the night, catching naps on his feet between rain storms. Only when the sky lightened with dawn's glow did he turn the carriage about, a carriage now an empty hearse. Then he began the long Honored Return through Alfa and Beeta and all the other villages of Fallen.
The End?
As the newest caseworker, Tim didn't feel accepted yet. To him this was proved by his lack of conversation and contact at this office retirement party. He'd found himself slowly circling the fringes alone, from punch to cake and back. Mostly he was glad it was Friday.
He'd only been there a week and didn't really expect instant acceptance; he knew Youth Services casework forced people to put up protective walls to keep their sanity. So he strolled the grey/green carpet under the flourescent glare, smiling and nodding whenever anyone glanced his way. Thus he was surprised when someone sitting at a desk spoke to him.
"C'mon over here, honey." The matronly black woman patted the arm of an office chair in the jumble of other chairs and desks pushed aside to make room for the small crowd. "Ya'll are makin' me nervous, prowling 'round like that." Her smile was not nervous; in fact hers was the least nervous face he'd ever seen.
"Thanks," he said as respectfully as he could. Before he sat down he put out his hand. "I'm Tim." Her hand was soft, but easily surrounded Tim's in a strong grip.
"I know who ya are, hun," she said as he sat. "Mr. Timothy Tramwell, newest caseworker in the great city of Charlotte and probably all of North Carolina DHHS." She touched his arm and leaned toward him. "And my replacement, thank the Lord. I'm Edna."
Tim almost choked on the punch he was sipping. Mortified, he mumbled an apology for not recognizing her as the guest of honor. She waved off his embarrassment and they fell into conversation. The man was warmed by her acceptance; she shared tidbits of office gossip and encouraged him to share his own insights. Finally he felt comfortable enough to ask Edna a personal question.
"What got you into Youth Services, anyway?" Instead of the quick, friendly answer he'd expected, she crossed her arms and looked at her feet, though her eyes seemed focused somewhere much further away than the floor. Her abrupt change of manner had Tim about to apologize again, but she spoke up before he could frame anything that didn't sound condescending to his inner editor.
"How many times you reckon I've been asked that?" she said, then chuckled. "Lord, I don't even 'member myself." She looked at Tim's face, saw the worry there. "Don't you worry none, sweetie. This old lady ain't goin' crazy. It's just that every time I've been asked that question, I lied. Now here we are, out with the old an' in with the new. I got to ask myself if the Lord meant it this way." She sighed. "I'm gonna tell you the truth, Tim, if you'll let me?"
"Of course," he said. Intrigued and more than a little touched by her trust, he scooted his chair closer. "Shoot."
"It was near on 40 years ago," she started. "I was a hooker then, uptown before it really was uptown." She chuckled. "Nobody here knows that about me, nobody but you now. Anyway, I had me a spot staked out on Green Street, long before that park was there.
"The Green," Tim said. "I know it."
"That's the one. Well, it was hard times back then, so me and the other workin' girls along there took care of each other when we could, called ourselves the Sisters. There was one girl, her name was Amy, and I'll never forget her. She was likely the most self-destructive teenager I ever met. Nothing she wouldn't drink or snort, nobody she feared." She shook her head sadly. "But the worst part was her little brother, Vic."
"That boy had it worse than all us girls put together. His mama was a drunk, his daddy was crippled, something like muscular dystrophy I think now. He was taking care of them and his crazy sister, right up until the daddy died. Crazy Amy started a fire a week later, burned the place down with her and her mama. Only thing that saved Vic was that he was workin' somewhere."
"That's harsh," said Tim as she paused reflectively. The sounds of the party had increased as the party-goers started silly games, but Tim felt the quiet around him and Edna.
"Harsh as a brillo pad," she continued. "That's the kind of luck that boy had. He'd come out sometimes after that, like he was still lookin' for his sister. We'd slip him a little cash or food, whatever we had, but every time I saw him he looked worse and worse. Then one night I was at my spot along an old red brick wall and here he comes, wandering along the sidewalk like a balloon in the breeze." She held a hand to her forehead for a moment, then continued.
"It was late. There wasn't a lot of traffic, but Vic stepped right out in it, never seemed to notice. My heart just about stopped, but I ran out there and yanked him from in front of a green Buick. I'll never forget that grille coming at me. That boy was so light and skinny. . .well, I got him over to that wall and soon as I got my voice back I asked him if he was trying to kill himself."
"He looked plumb surprised. 'No, Sister Edee, he told me, I don't think. I just feel like I got no way to stay put.'" You and me might call him dissociative today; back then he was just real sad. 'I think I'm gonna be gone soon. I don't hardly feel the ground anymore,' he said."
"I was young and thought I had the world figured out, but I had no idea the power words possess. Just like you, Tim." Edna pointed a long finger at him. He was startled and puzzled at that, but decided not to respond with more than a nod.
"I turned him around and put his hands on that old brick wall. 'Vic, I said, you feel that? That's you. You're a brick holdin' up everyone else.' He laid his face on that wall and cried. I'll admit I cried some with him."
"The problem was I just couldn't let well enough alone. I told him 'Imagine you're a brick, okay? Just close your eyes and think on being that brick. Nothing makes a brick sad or angry. A brick is strong and hard and true, nothin' ever bothers that brick. Don't you worry about going away, understand? Bricks don't go away.' Then a car stopped and honked. I told him to stay there and pray 'til he felt better and I'd try to check on him later. But the trick led to a party, and that led to a raid, so I didn't get back for a couple of days. I didn't worry, the other Sisters would keep an eye out."
"Vic was still there. He was part of that wall, mortar and brick, his face still raised to Heaven and sadness on his mouth." Edna's black eyes held Tim; he didn't even consider looking away. "That's the day I decided helping kids was my calling. I owed a debt for my part of what happened to that boy and I swore to God I would do everything in my power to save as many lives from ruination as I could." She leaned back, wiped tears from her cheeks and silently waited for his response.
Though Tim had already decided she was messing with him, chills raised hair and goosepimples along his arms. He decided to treat it as a friendly hazing and ignore how creeped out he was.
"You almost got me there, Edna," he said without a tremor. "You do this to all the new guys, I bet." He forced a chuckle.
"Had you going, didn't I?" She leaned forward again, held his wrist. "But you better believe your words have power over these children. Don't you ever doubt that, understand?"
"I promise," Tim said around the knot that appeared in his throat. He put his other hand over hers. "I'll do my best."
"That's all me and the Lord ask for," she responded and they shared a few moments of quiet contemplation. Then the party swept over them and Edna went to open the presents to their cheers. To Tim she seemed older, more tired than the woman he'd sat with a few minutes ago.
The next day dawned spectacularly, reds and oranges heralding an offshore storm. Tim spent Saturday morning at a family brunch his mother had insisted on to celebrate his new job, followed by a bachelor party for cousin Gary. Sunday morning saw the storm roll in. Tim decided to skip church with the family; Edna's story still had a few teeth in him.
Fine rain drifted down when he reached Green Circle drive. Thanks to the weather he was able to park his Prius next to The Green. Rain gave the brick walks and topiarys a fresh gleam. The air was too muggy and warm to wear a raincoat, so Tim strolled from one work of art to another under his umbrella. Near the center of the park he finally saw the boy made of brick.
As he approached it he felt both apprehension and relief. It wasn't a brick wall, it was a sculpture of brick depicting children climbing playfully on a giant book. The detail was wonderful. He stopped beside a young black woman in a dark raincoat who was also admiring the work. Tim looked for a sign or plaque giving information about the brick sculpture, but there was neither.
"Excuse me," he said, "do you know how long this has been here?" The woman looked at him quickly, as if startled. She was younger than his first impression, but her eyes were swollen and red from crying.
"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention." She swiped at her face with a snuffle. "What did you ask?"
"Oh, nothing important, sorry." He moved close enough to put his umbrella above her. "Something wrong?" Before she answered, she closed her eyes and squared her shoulders.
"My grandmother died here yesterday." She faced the sculpture again; chills crawled on Tim's arms and back again as she continued. "This was her favorite place. She came here every week." Pride pushed away the waver in her voice. "She saved this, you know. When the city wanted to tear down that wall for the new park she stopped them, and then when they tried to take it out to make room for a new sculpture she fought them until they agreed to keep the brick boy." She stopped with a sob.
"I'm very sorry for your loss," he said, suddenly surer of himself, "but I don't think Edna would want you to stand in the rain and cry."
"You knew my Grammy Edna?" The rain stopped as the girl smiled at Tim. He stepped closer to the bricks so he could see the boy's face.
"Yes," he replied, heart swelling with joy, "yes, I think I do know her now."
The brick boy's face was turned upward, eyes patiently watching the sky, but his mouth was curved into a tiny, cherub's smile.
The End.
