Chapter 2

Ghosts of all my lovely sins,
who attend too well my pillow

-Dorothy Parker

He wasn't there.

I woke in the morning, and he wasn't there and they FOUND me looking out the window, leaning close with sticky hands against the glass and breath a foggy circle.

"Do you wait for him?" they asked.

It's a test, a trick. I know the answer.

"No," I said. "I saw a cloud."

"What did the cloud look like, Sarah? Like an owl?"

"No. Just a cloud.And then I saw the sun shine off of it, and thought it was a plane."

"A plane."

"Yes," I lied. "I wanted to see if it was a biplane."

"There are no biplanes any more, Sarah."

"No. I guess there aren't."

They sent me soup for lunch. Tomato, garnished with a sprig of parsley. And other things, as I well know. Things that make me sleepy. Things that stop the dreams.

I will not have that; not tonight.

I need him. He must know I need him. He has eyes and goblins everywhere, though I can't see them.

He will come, I'm sure of it, and I must be awake. He will come with bubbles, lace and leather, and his eyes will lock on mine.

So hungry.

Fire in my belly. No; not fire. That's what it's called in the books I read, but it isn't really fire, is it? This hunger is like something just above my inner skin is trying to leave. Trying to rid itself of my body. To escape.

It twists and jerks and turns and that's what I feel - the pain as it struggles to remove itself from the clumsy, gooey flesh.

Where would it go, if if left? Somewhere better. Somewhere that you do not smell yourself each morning, where instead you wake to scents of peach and velvet. Somewhere that a touch upon your arm is welcome, and when blood was drawn it brings not hissing but a softer sound...

Where would it go? Back to its source. Back to the world in which it was born, past a soapy membrane, through a maze of doublets far, impossibly, away.

And it would leave me here, in contemplation of a severed link to paradise.

So then I'll give it soup, maybe. Or touch it, pet it, soothe it. Trick it into pleasant traps that end in shudders and its death-rattle.

Don't mind the other pictures in my mind, little hunger. Look only on imagined gorging, luxury, and keep your eyes away from twisting, flashing, fleeting images.

There is a certain kind of bliss in death. However small.

I need my hungers live and well tonight, and so I place my hands behind my back and lie upon them, on the bed.

My head hits something sharp within the pillow.

I don't mind it; not until I think of what it is - the skeleton, the little gift.

The fluorescent lights are dim and green, although outside the sun shines brightly.

Nurse feet echo in the hall. They talk. I catch reverberated words. Name, pills, laughter. Nowhere near me. When they reach my ear, they've been distorted.

Good.

I peer. At the desk beyond my door, a man in white is concentrating on a novel with a cover much too flowery for him.

Carefully, I lift my pillow and remove the prize from where I left it.

There's an odour, though I cleaned it.

I hold the bones in a cupped hand.

The soup is on a moving table near my window.

I drop the bones inside, quickly but without a splash, and open the window - just a little. Just enough to let the smell and invitation meet the wind, and tempt an owl into a visit.

He will smell me on the breeze. Will smell my teeth and tongue, my blood from when I bit my lip - and that will draw him.

He will smell his gift, chewed on, mixed with all I am, and he will come.

He will smell my offering of milk and vine, tomato soup, and he will drink the bait.

The powders that were meant for me will go to him, instead.

The tiled floor is cold.

Once sedated, will he fall? If he sits, as an owl, at the edge of the table and sips...

I'd best leave a towel on the ground. Something warm for him to drop on. Something piled, for I may dream a vivid dream and not awake in time to help him before morning rounds.

I'll leave my blanket bunched below, and tell them I was warm. They only touch it once a week, and never before noon.

I hope he likes unsalted crackers. I think they were out of the other kind.

The day goes quickly. I look into the sun and think of ice cream, frozen lipstick and the lives of lizards on a stick. Every now and then, when sight goes white, I turn and focus on a dimmer subject.

Nurses. Doctors. Floating clipboards. Busy ants. A Goblin King holds parsley in his glove.

Wait.

That's not right. Not here.

"You have no power..."

"Ah, but I do," says he, and runs a silk-soft frond along my jaw. "What of desire?" He lifts his hand. I follow the motion with hungry eyes. I drink each nuance as he brings the garnish to his nose and sniffs. "Do you deny it?"

"Your kingdom is vast," I repeat, and then stop. My lips are dry, but I do not want to lick them. Not in front of him. Not now.

He kisses the tip of his finger - a shushing, warning and caress in one. "The Goblin King's kingdom is vast," he corrects, "but I am here as a private man." He smiles and takes a step toward me, flicking aside the sprig of parsley. I think I should step back, but it takes more than a moment for the thought to translate into action. That wasted breath is all he needs to steal my wrist with his left hand.

"Let me go!"

"Be careful what you wish for, Sarah." Ignoring my struggles, he holds me closer and lowers his head so that our noses touch. "I may be inclined to grant it."

Jareth's eyes have falling leaves in them, in red and gold.

"Let m-" A hand claps over my mouth.

The room returns, and with it the mundane. A nurse is at the bedside, taking my blood pressure.

My blanket, I am glad to see, is on the floor and undisturbed. Parsley floats atop the soup, untouched.

"Did I sleep?" I ask.

"All afternoon," the reply. "Are you hungry?"

Hungry. Not sleepy. This is telling, and I nod.

"Good," she says. "We saved your soup for you. Sweet dreams."

I hear an owl's hunting cry, then smile and sink into my pillow-case.

Sweet dreams?

They will be.

End Chapter 2