As the Moon Climbs

Part 23 of the serial Broommates. Start from the beginning or read the previous episode or click the “Broommates” link at the top of the page to see the full list.

* * * * *

The barghest appeared in the back of Grant’s attic, behind the man himself, and collapsed to the ground. “Look alive, John,” it growled. “Intruders in the cemetery.”

Grant stood in front of an altar covered with a rich purple cloth and piled high with food and liquor. He wore a loose-fitting black suit and was crafting an elaborate symbol on the floor, like a cross flanked by coffins.

“That would be why I employ you as a guard,” Grant said. He did not pause or take his eyes off the mixture of cornmeal and ash falling through his fingers.

The creature whined. “I am… injured.”

“Badly?”

“I think… yes.”

Grant finished the symbol in silence, then wiped his hands on a clean white cloth. He glanced over his shoulder at the blue flames leaking out of the black dog.

“You’re lucky,” he said. “I was about to parlay with someone who can help you.”

On the floor nearby sat a djembe, which he carried over to the symbol on the ground. He lit four candles on the altar, then tucked the drum between his legs, crouched down slightly and began to play. At first, the beat was simple enough, almost like a waltz. But soon the pace quickened, more like the hoofbeats of a horse in gallop, a man’s heart full of the fear of impending mortality. All the while, Grant chanted in a language as old as man, his hands a blur, the candle flames brightening until their flames were blue as ghostly blood.

When it seemed that the beat couldn’t be sustained any longer, the symbol erupted in the same blue fire and a tall man appeared. His black suit was more tailored than Grant’s, with tails and a silky white shirt underneath a purple vest. A top hat covered his long white hair, and his left eye was hidden behind the smoky lens of the glasses he wore. The right lens, however, was missing, revealing an empty eye socket. This wasn’t surprising given that the rest of his face was a bare skull.

“Baron Samedi,” Grant said, bowing over the drum.

“John Grant.” The baron’s voice was deep and rich, with a hint of humor. “Are you already upon the seventh incarnation of your soul?”

“Not yet.” Grant gestured at the altar. “Please, have yourself some piman. I’ve got a deal for you.”

“Ah, bon, straight to business.” The skeletal figure slipped bony fingers around a bottle filled with hot peppers and drank the rum inside like it was water.

The barghest whined and Grant rolled his eyes. “First, what would you ask for healing that lazy mutt behind me? I’m right fed up with his tomfoolery but it’d be a shame to have to find a new one.”

The baron rubbed his chin. “That is quite a wound. I have not seen its like since… ah, but knowledge is like a pretty girl: you must court it with gifts before you take it to bed.”

“How much?” Grant asked.

“Five of your fattest ghosts,” Samedi replied. “One will be consumed in the process, the other four are for me to… enjoy.”

Grant looked back at the barghest and frowned. “Damn veterinarians always charge an arm and a leg. Fine, deal.”

The baron grabbed a fat cigar and lit it on one of the candles. “Now that I have something to look forward to, what is the real reason you summoned me here?”

Grant smiled. “I propose to help you corner your market, so to speak. Here’s my plan…”

* * * * *

The five weary travelers made it back to the house in record time, mainly because Miranda drove like a demon while Parker maintained a misdirection illusion on the car so people would ignore it while getting out of the way. Nobody said a word.

Booker waited for them on the doorstep, frowning and fidgeting. “How d-did it go?” he asked. Miranda just shook her head. They all trudged inside and Booker followed. He gasped when he saw the bandages on Beatrice’s back.

“Are you… is that… should I…”

“I’ll have a cup of tea and a salve for this mess,” Parker said, gesturing at his arm and side. Booker stared at him blankly for a moment before rushing off. “Oh, and a sandwich. Peanut butter. No crusts.”

“You do think with your stomach,” Miranda said. She sank into the couch and massaged her right calf.

“Among other bits, rarely his brain,” Anthony muttered. He paced back and forth in the living room until his temper overflowed. “We could have just waited!” he shouted.

“It could have gone for Grant,” Miranda said. “We weren’t to know.”

“And if Grant had come, we could have fended him off, too!”

“Or we could have been hit by lightning. Or a meteor. We don’t know what he can do.” Her own temper rose to the occasion and she found herself on her feet, arms akimbo. “Give it a rest, will you? It’s done.”

“You just wanted to see the sword again,” he said, jabbing a finger at her. “Any excuse, eh? Even if it almost got us killed?”

“You aren’t half full of yourself, are you? Well, let me tell you something–”

“Oh!” Booker interjected, nearly dropping the armful of creams he carried. “I nearly forgot. In the b-basement. You need to s-s-see.”

Anthony made it downstairs first by virtue of his longer legs. He froze above the foot of the stairs and Miranda had to lean over him to look.

Hovering in the air in front of the door to the lands Below was a word, scrawled in foot-high letters of blue-white flame: TOMORROW.

“Is that–” Miranda started to ask.

“Not from Below,” Anthony interjected. “It must be Grant. Where are you going?”

Miranda was already halfway out the door. “Upstairs. If Grant’s planning something for tomorrow, I’m going to prepare him a nice welcome party.” She shot him a look that would have melted sand into glass. “You can sit here and wait since you’re so fond of it.”

I

My mother and grandmother fight
about the appropriate width for a scarf until
my grandmother unravels
all she has knitted.

II

The neighbor gives my grandmother
a tree clipping to plant
and my mother yells at her to be careful,
snatches the branch,
stabs herself with a thorn.

III

We taste two microwave tamales
to see which brand my grandmother prefers
but both are the same to me,
mashed corn with bits of ham,
and she eats them with ketchup anyway.

AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and place and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

–from The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot

Mary walked in the brittle grass on the side of the road, one hand resting on the bulge growing in her womb. She checked her watch; it was 8:15, and the sun had already driven the temperature from mild to uncomfortable. She needed water and food.

“For the baby,” she muttered to herself. “Have to keep going.”

If the homes around her were occupied, there was no sign. Empty windows observed her passing, some blown out and some still intact. Most driveways were empty, and the ones that contained cars, well. She didn’t want to know what might be inside those houses.

“Need to find a store.”

Her feet were tired, her back and head ached and her dizzy spells had gotten worse. The size of her stomach gave her a waddling gait, like a duck with its bulk in the front instead of the back. Not that she had seen any ducks in… weeks? months? Had it been so long?

There. In the distance, a big grocery store. The sight lifted her spirits and made the walk more bearable. Mary rubbed her belly and cooed at it.

“Soon, little Jesus. Soon we can eat.” She looked at her watch. It read 8:15.

As she neared the building, she saw the string of barbed wire around the barricade of cars that someone had erected in front of the broken glass storefront. A gang had taken this place. She stumbled and almost screamed in frustration. But maybe–no, surely they would have mercy on her.

A pair of what looked like men in makeshift metal armor raised their guns as she approached. Their skin was mottled with angry red patches, their hair mostly gone. She raised her hands to show she was unarmed.

“Please,” she said, unsure whether they could hear her. “Please, food. For my baby.”

One of them made a harsh choking sound that she realized was laughter. “No baby,” he said. “Can’t be.”

She turned sideways so he could see. “God’s baby,” she said. “Little Jesus, to save us.” Another wave of dizziness took her and she almost fell.

The men held a whispered conference. Finally, one of them ducked down and unlocked the doors to a car, beckoning her over. She had to crawl through the back seat of an old Corolla to get inside, and once she did the men touched her everywhere as if to be sure she was real.

There were only a handful of others in the store; some treated her with suspicion while the rest were kinder. They had each set up their own sleeping areas and helped her to do the same. The power had been out for so long that the place smelled musty and damp where it wasn’t smoky from the fires they lit at night. The aisles were littered with the detritus that had been left after the first wave of looting, and the second, and who knew how many more until the gang had settled in.

Still, there was enough food to fill her belly as it hadn’t been for some time, even if she almost threw it all up. She settled down in a nest of papers and tablecloths, warm and comfortable and safe.

They found her in the morning, a smile on her face and a hand on her stomach, stone dead. One man croaked that maybe they could save the baby, but when they opened her womb, all they found was a misshapen lump as big as two fists. Her watch read 8:15 and, for once, it was.

Two cats in the bedroom. One
sits on the bed, watches you undress
while one slides a curved tongue
between its toes, claws extended.
Your husband is away on business
for a week. One cat lifts a leg
straight over its head to wash
pink privates, one closes
green eyes. You are naked now.
One cat twitches its whip-thin tail.
One sandpaper-slicks fur,
each strand striped brown, orange,
solid white on the soft belly.
You haven’t tanned in months.
Your belly, too, is softening.
You throw your dirty clothes
into the hamper and yawn.

Two cats freeze,
swivel their heads in unison,
ears perked at a sound
you can’t hear. Your breath stops.
Their pupils dilate, black as bullets
in the handgun your father wishes
you would buy for nights like this. You
bathe quickly, door locked. You
crawl into bed with the cats,
who curl up on your legs and sleep.
You leave the light on, count
backwards from a hundred
over and over as you listen
unwillingly to the silence
that suffuses your room, try
to smother consciousness
with your husband’s cold pillow.

Part 22 of the serial Broommates. Start from the beginning or read the previous episode or click the “Broommates” link at the top of the page to see the full list.

* * * * *

Parker was the first to break the silence. “The spooky pooch is gone. Let’s go before it finds Grant and we get a visit from Mister Magical Nuke.”

“How do you know it’s gone?” Miranda asked. “It could be a bluff, like Anthony said.”

They stared into the darkness of the forest, unable to feel the wind that shook the branches of the trees. Clouds massed in the sky, threatening to hide the moon and make it even harder to see.

“Kitty, can you see anything?” Anthony asked. Kitty shook her head. “Beatrice?”

Beatrice cracked an eye open. “If it is here, I cannot see or sense it.”

“So we have two options,” Miranda said, ticking them off on her fingers. “One, we wait here until morning and hope it hasn’t gone to get Grant. Two, we hope it’s gone and make a run for the car.”

“I hate plans that rely on hope,” Parker muttered. “They always end badly.” The moon disappeared briefly, like a light flicked off and on.

“What’s your big idea, then?” Anthony asked. “Run out and get us all mauled to death?”

“Better than sitting here waiting to be killed!”

Miranda threw up her hands. “That’s it! I’m leaving even if you aren’t. I’m not standing here listening to you bicker all night.”

“Don’t be ridic–”

“And anyway,” she continued. “Are you really willing to risk going up against Grant on his own ground?” She pulled a metal rod out of her backpack, then knelt down and checked that the laces of her sneakers were tight. She looked up at Anthony, who frowned. “Why don’t you get your sword ready, just in case?”

He crossed his arms. “I can defend myself fine without it. And anyway, this is a bad idea.”

Beatrice had resigned herself to the situation and was limbering up. “You fear the sword,” she said. “Sensible.”

“What’s to be afraid of?” Miranda asked. He didn’t answer. “Whatever.” She picked up the candle at the center of the magic circle. “Everyone ready?”

“One sec.” Parker, who had been fumbling with his glowstick, finally managed to crack it open. Some of the goo dribbled on the ground; the rest, he poured into his cupped hands.

Miranda started to ask what he was doing, but felt the tingle of a spell being prepared and opted to keep her mouth shut instead. When he looked up at her and nodded, she held the white candle up and blew it out.

The magic circle sank into the ground and the night breeze finally hit them, chilling sweat that they hadn’t realized was soaking them until now. Seconds passed like minutes as they waited for an attack that didn’t come.

“Looks like he’s gone after all,” Miranda muttered.

“Hold up,” Parker said. Careful so as not to mar the line of salt marking the perimeter of the circle, he stepped out and tossed the glowing goop he held into the air. Instead of arcing like a liquid, it exploded out in a shower of glittering globules like luminescent snowflakes, settling on his head and shoulders so that he was visible against the darkness.

And then, so was the black dog.

It growled, low and deep like the engine of a massive truck, and tried to shake off the faint green light. “Now, that’s cheating,” it said, but Parker was already moving, and so was Miranda.

“Randy, no!” Kitty shrieked.

“Yes.” Miranda lit the candle and raised the circle again–with Parker stuck on the outside. He turned to face the dog, digging a hand into his pocket.

“You and me, cheeky bugger,” the dog huffed, tensing its hindquarters to leap.

Parker pulled a mirror out of his pocket and pointed it at the creature. “In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni!”

“Latin isn’t going to stop my teeth, you silly–what?”

Instead of one Parker, there were now seven standing in a line, each eying him smugly.

“Oh, very nice,” it said. “Can’t find the tree for the forest, hmm?” The dog started to pace and each version of Parker took a step back, then another. “Fee, fi, fo, fum…”

Anthony shouted, “Parker, you fool, he can smell the real you! Run!”

“You really are a spoilsport,” the dog said. “I was going to give him a head start.” Without another word, he jumped straight at the real Parker.

Kitty screamed. Miranda blew out the candle and raised her rod, firing off a ball of flame the size of a cantaloupe. Beatrice dug a foot into the ground, twisted it, and launched herself to intercept the dog, which swiped at Parker’s chest. Parker dodged but took a vicious gash to his left side and arm.

Miranda’s fireball barely singed the dog’s ghostly fur, and it barked, whether in laughter or in surprise she wasn’t sure. Anthony pulled in the cold left behind by Miranda’s spell and used his sweat to form a trio of vicious icicles, which he sent flying toward the creature. It managed to dodge, but for its efforts received a solid kick to the ribs from Beatrice.

Growling, it went incorporeal and misty, jumping through her like a shock of cold water only to solidify on the other side and slash open her back. Beatrice hissed in pain and went after it again, but now it was heading for Kitty, who knelt next to Parker. Miranda lobbed another fireball at it, her teeth chattering as all the heat went out of the air, but it was in its ghost form and the spell sailed through it.

Anthony got to them first. The veins in his arm blackened and in the blink of an eye, his sword appeared in his hand. The barghest leaped and Anthony swung.

The dog landed in a clumsy heap nearby, blue fire leaking from where Anthony cut it. “You can’t…” it whined, limping backward. Anthony advanced and in a flash of the same blue flame, it disappeared entirely.

“Back to the car, now!” Anthony shouted. They all obeyed without a word. Miranda watched the blackness writhe in Anthony’s arm as he grimaced and brought up the rear. Maybe she would wait to ask him about the sword after all.

* * * * *

Part 23: Fire