10. Promise
Soundtrack for Chapter 10:
Olivia Newton-John: "Magic"
Def Leppard: "Love Bites"
"What on Earth makes you think I can fight?" Jareth asked, nonplussed. The banging on the door intensified, but he crossed his arms, looking down at her in mild outrage. The high piping voices—Voices plural, Sarah thought, so that means at least two of them to deal with—sang sweet requests for entry. The room seemed to stretch, making yards of space where inches had been, yards and miles between them and her mother's door. "Or that I even want to?"
"I thought you could do anything," Sarah said, surprised.
"Do you really believe in me?" Jareth said, in a tone so conceited that she had to resist the temptation to smack him. Vanity notwithstanding, though, she could tell his question was in earnest.
"I do," Sarah said quietly, reaching out to touch his face. "I've always thought you were capable of anything. Even the beautiful things. Even the terrible ones."
"So you do fear me," he said, satisfied. "Very well then, Sarah, I'll do as you ask, for a price."
"What price?" She withdrew, instantly suspicious.
"The next time I attempt to seduce you, you allow yourself to be tempted." His voice was a black velvet counterpart to the silver sparklings of the Alfarstreussel singing and scrabbling at the door.
"That's all?"
"Oh, that and a kiss." He smiled. Beyond the door, she heard Nan's pleading scream rising up above the jeering high-pitched laughter of the little creatures.
"Okay," she said grudgingly. "Since I have no choice."
"There's my girl! So now. You stay out of it," and he pushed her back, so that he stood between her and the threat at the door. "I don't want them touching you. But if you must, and there's no other help for it, pry their masks off. Unbind them. That will stop them, or at least distract them. Whatever you do, don't let them tie you up. Certainly do not let them take you."
She looked at the poker. It was a ludicrous thing as a weapon, something never meant for a real fire, something made of hollow brass with tin rivets, something that would bend like a paperclip under the first serious blow.
"Or we can still run," he suggested, reading her second thoughts.
"No," she said.
"That noble streak of yours will get us all killed yet," Jareth said cheerfully. "Now, Sarah, watch me." He closed his fantastic, impossible eyes. "Watch me and imagine I'm all the things you believe I am… and I will be."
Jareth clasped his hands together in the attitude of carved kings resting atop their stone tombs, and he breathed. It was one breath, and in that breath, he glowed. Sparks and ash fled up his legs and hair, and as they left, his jacket had gained armor over his shoulders and arms, and dagger-spurs to his gloves which were now heavy with a knight's jointed vambraces.
She heard the door go with a scream of wood, heard the door slam open, and heard the heavy clank of belled chains slithering across the expensive parquet floor. She took up the poker in a batter's stance, ready to crack skulls if she had to, and ready to defend Jareth if she'd pushed him into a fight he couldn't win.
Sarah wasn't sure, afterward, if the fight was perhaps something she dreamed, because he was as perfect as her fantasies.
The Alfarstreussel came. There were three, each armed with a daft-looking switch. Nan was on the back of the third. They rushed forward as a mob, four feet high, the tree-branches that made horns over their wooden masks adding an extra foot, grasping at him with their terrible withered hands, lashing out at him, but he danced around them, spinning, dodging. He used his heavy gloves as weapons, jabbing and gouging at their fur-bundled bodies, parrying their blows. She saw one switch make contact with his leg, and his body smoked there like the seam of a broken teakettle.
Jareth made it his main business to encounter the tallest of the company, the one who carried Nan on its back. It struck out at him with its stick, laughing maniacally, and he fought well, his taller body and longer reach almost evening the odds. He severed the chain that bound it with one stamp of his heel, and he struggled to claw its mask off with the hooks of his greaves.
She shouted a warning as the two flanking him divided into four, moving to knot his legs together in their chains. She shoved the curved edge of the poker into their web, and pulled with all her strength. And she pulled with that other sense she was beginning to recognize in herself, the power that let her unbind things. The lengths of chain burst asunder, and the trailing edges whipped away out of the apartment with the agonized and speedy writhing of stepped-upon nightcrawlers.
She cried out as their suddenly-freed owners turned upon her. One giggled as it struck her across the wrist in an almost coy gesture. First there was numbness so deep she thought it nothing, and then the slash burned so cold she screamed. Her skin smoked, went the ice-grey of frostbite… but she refused to drop her weapon. She struck back, parrying a blow by another that only grazed her skin with its chill, disarming her assailant. "Jareth!" she cried out, realizing she had broken her promise, and left him to fight without the attention that fed him.
And he was there, turning on his heel, moving like a shadow, the shadow of an owl, and his talons were fierce in her defense.
He seared the four where he struck, fire against ice, moving with impossible agility. And he sang as he danced, choreography impeccable, a song whose tune she knew, but the words unfamiliar, as the four became eight, but only two with masks.
Nothing so brutal could have been beautiful, but it was, this fight.
And in the space of a few more moments, it was suddenly over. There were two devastating hookings of his gloves which parted the wooden masks from unseen faces, masks which came to rest smoking upon her mother's expensive carpet, and there was Nan, cruelly bound and gagged by red leather thongs, lying on stinking goatskins which were now empty.
"Well?" Jareth asked her, hands on his hips, smoking from cold blows, winded, hurt, but decidedly pleased with himself. "What do you have for me?"
She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
"I call that weak tea," he grumbled, "I call that a promissory note, Sarah!" She rushed to Nan. "Are you hurt?"
"It's not bad," Sarah said, worrying the leather knots loose with the fingers of her working hand, and with her teeth. Her injured hand stung with cold, and it felt paralyzed. Jareth limped to the fire. He took a handful of the flames and pressed it to his injured leg like a compress, and sighed with relieved pleasure. "Help me with her, please?" she asked.
"Just use your magic," he said with disdain, rubbing fire into his ribs. He collected the abandoned skins and threw them on the fire, and they burned with the smell of pot roast.
Unbind, Sarah thought, pulling hard at the most stubborn knot. It loosened, and the entire bundle fell away, and Nan was freed.
The redhead looked half a wreck, her punk stockings and skirt more tattered than they had been earlier that night, though less artful. Her exposed arms had quite a few ugly bruises, as if she'd been pinched, and her legs a few grey-white lash-marks, where she'd been struck with the branches. "Are you okay?" Sarah asked Nan, pulling a length of cord out of her bruised and bleeding mouth.
Nan gulped a mouthful of air, nodded, and then grabbed Sarah and sobbed against her in terror. "You saved me," she said, when she was able to say it. She rubbed her arm over her eyes, smearing her mascara into a mask. "And you," she said to Jareth, as he handed her a glass of her mother's sherry, "You saved me." She gulped and began to rub her wrists and ankles. "Why?" She looked at Sarah again. "I wouldn't have done it for you." And she burst into tears again.
Jareth gave Sarah a significant look over Nan's curly head, and handed Sarah another glass. She drank, and found the liquour devastatingly sweet and warmingly potent.
"What happened?" Sarah asked her, when she'd calmed. Nan's drink sloshed in her shaking hands.
"It was a bloodbath," Nan said. She shook her head in denial. "I don't think it was what had been planned. Not at all." She closed her eyes and gulped her drink down in two swallows. "That thing in the box—"
"The Elf," Jareth said darkly, picking up the empty wooden masks and stringing them through the mouth and eye-holes with discarded red cords.
"It got out," Nan said. "I don't know, I don't know. The little things—"
"Alfarstreussel," Jareth said, coldly informative, slinging his trophies over one shoulder.
"They came out, and they all grabbed their chains and pulled, and it came out. The Elf. It killed people," Nan said.
"My mother?" Sarah asked with a mixture of dread and hope.
"She got away. She and some of the crones, they tried to fight it back into the box. But there were too many of the little ones. I saw your mother throw a hex at them, but she… she ran. They were the smart ones. The ones who stayed… My mum and my sisters, and at least five of the novitiates… they got tangled in the chains. The little ones put them in the box. And the … the Elf, it was hungry, it was roaring…"
"And?" Jareth asked. "How did you get away?"
"I ran," Nan said. "I made it twenty blocks before the… Alfarstreussel caught me. I thought they were going to take me back. Kill me! Put me in the box!" More tears ran down her face. Jareth refilled her glass. "But they were too excited... they just kept running, hunting..."
"What of the brethren? Pardon the term, Nan Bullen, but what of the other familiars? What did they do?"
Nan's voice was soft as a shadow. "They ran away. The… Elf's roar was so loud, none of them could hear the commands our mothers were shouting. They ran away. They betrayed us. It was only five minutes, but they all… ran." She stared at Jareth with her green cat's eyes. "Even Prickpetal, and he's been in my family for over five hundred years."
There's that number again, Sarah thought. Five hundred years. She glanced over at Jareth and didn't care for the expression on his face. It was too satisfied by half. "Not even one stayed to defend their witches?" he asked.
"The only one who lifted a finger to save any of us is you, Jareth," Nan said, reaching out her hands in supplication. "I owe you my life. We both do." Kneeling on the carpet, she placed devout kisses on his fingertips. "Thank you. Thank you."
"You see, Sarah, it's not a hardship to kiss me," Jareth said. He stroked the redhead's curly brow and gave her an affectionate smile, which Nan returned. Sarah looked away, trying to suppress her jealousy. She didn't want to see Jareth touching someone else, smiling at someone else. "We'll keep you with us, Nan. You can teach Sarah proper deportment."
Sarah snorted flounced off to check the door.
"Now, can you walk, Nan?" she heard him say to her, and heard Nan reply in the negative.
One set of hinges had pulled completely out of the frame, but the others were sound. The foyer was a wreck of silver and crystal shards under the dim brownout lights. She wrestled the door back into place one-handed and threw the bolts into their splintered holes, wondering why she was bothering. It wouldn't take much to bring the door back down. She cradled her aching wrist as she tottered back to the living room, in time to see Jareth applying golden fire to Nan's injuries.
"Better?" he asked her kindly.
"Much," she said, groaning with relief.
"And you, Sarah," he said, coming to her with an orb of fire in his hand. To her, it looked as if he were offering her a peach made of crystal, made of fire.
"I'll be fine," she said, trying to be superior and aloof, and trying to figure out how to retreat without it looking like running away. "It hardly hurts at all."
"You're lying, but I'm wondering why you're lying," the Goblin King said. "You've saddled me with additional responsibilities. Surely you aren't going to go about all night with a useless hand? Come now, think of me. You can't leave me to do all the heavy lifting myself." He held out his other hand, palm open.
She could barely feel him as she placed her hand in his, and he brought the orb of golden fire down upon her wrist. She bit down on the sound she wanted to make. The fire lapped at her skin like a squirming animal, then bit in deeper through her flesh so tongues of flame seemed to gnaw at her very bones. The fire was full of heat that didn't hurt, but the intensity of the sensation made her want to shriek. And then the fire was gone, and she opened and closed her hand without pain or stiffness, and the lash-mark was gone from her skin.
"Better?" he asked, but with an edge of salaciousness that had been missing when he had asked Nan the same question. She only nodded.
"Good," he said. "Now, ladies, while I think it's no bad idea for us to leave this place for elsewhere, Sarah has brought something to my attention that bears consideration." He resumed his seat in the chair before the fire, masks clattering together as he propped one leg on his knee. "To wit, the Alfarstreussel keep finding us. Even with the spoor of your ribbons and bows, they shouldn't have been able to find Sarah and I, at least not so quickly in such rapid order. This stinks of witches' malice. I suspect there's some sort of lure or jinx on one or both of you."
"I agree," Nan said. "But I can't imagine where it came from. I didn't have time to get my coat, and that's the only time anything on me was out of my sight." She picked up Sarah's coat from the floor and began running her hands over it, turning out pockets and the hood. "It will be small, something physical, a strand of hair or a pin…"
"Linda, at least, wouldn't have put any malficia in Sarah's clothing. I know that for certain. What of your mother, or your sisters, Nan Bullen?"
"Unless the world doesn't make sense anymore, no. I don't believe they'd hurt me. They've been training for this night for years." Nan scowled at Sarah's coat as she folded it and tossed it to the couch. "Nothing there that I can find." She looked at Sarah and tried to communicate something.
"What?" Sarah asked, feeling like the world's biggest idiot.
"You'll need to take off your lovely dresses," Jareth said, with an amused smile. "Airclad, I believe the old word is, appropriate for witches dancing before their god." He settled back more comfortably in his chair, and the fire blew into height and red heat.
"Oh, brother," Sarah said. She took Nan's hand. "Nope. My bedroom is this way. You," she said to Jareth, "You can wait here and imagine all sorts of interesting things instead."
"No kiss, and now no striptease. Sarah, you're so cruel."
"Ignore him," Sarah said with disgust. She closed the door of her bedroom with gratitude and chucked her shoes in the corner. She offered Nan first go at the bathroom, and followed her quickly. She hadn't managed to stain herself, but it was a near thing. Nan had left her own bloodstained tights in the wastebasket.
"He's terribly sexy," Nan said, pulling her gauze and lycra dress over her head as Sarah upended her suitcase over the bed. "Are you sure he can't hear us?"
"I'm not really sure of anything where he's concerned," Sarah said curtly, reaching behind her own back to unhook her sash and then to unzip her dress.
"Endless risk, dealing with them," Nan agreed. She looked around as if gauging eavesdroppers, then shook her head, no longer wearing the pliant and sensual mask she had worn before Jareth—and Sarah could see now that it had been a mask. Her voice was so quiet and cautious that Sarah had to bend very close to hear her.
"Sarah. There's a story about witches and their familiars you should know." She raked idly through Sarah's supplies of winter socks and stockings, choosing a pair of black nubbly stockings and stepping out of her shoes to put them on. "They used to say that when a magician studied the arts, every thirteenth pupil belonged to the devil, and that was the price men paid. But among the witches, they say every thirteenth daughter who learns the Seven Wonders from a demon familiar belongs to the Goblin King. I'm a thirteenth daughter, and I think you are, too."
"What's a Goblin King?" Sarah asked, keeping her face neutral. Nan began feeling over her empty dress as she had done with Sarah's coat, and Sarah imitated her, though not sure if she would recognize a jinx if she felt one.
"The Goblin King is one of the arch-dukes of Hell, the Flame-White Duke. They say he governs over a kingdom of goblins, lesser demons, and that he sings to them about time and pain and mortal flesh. There's a prophecy that says he'll take a thirteenth daughter to wife, and use her to make a son. The anti-Christ. The end of time and pain and mortal flesh…" Nan trailed off. "I used to think it was just a fairy-tale, just the witches' personal version of the boogeyman. My mother always said Hell was just something the priests made up to keep the people afraid. But now I don't know."
"Huh," Sarah said, frowning. "Have you found anything? I can't find anything."
"Let's switch," Nan suggested, and they did, but everywhere Sarah touched, all she could feel was fabric and thread.
" I wonder about tonight," Nan said. "About how our familiars betrayed us. All of them, like it was part of some sort of plan. And I'm wondering now if the Goblin King really is real. Tell me, has Jareth ever told you about the Goblin King?"
Sarah opened her mouth and answered without thinking. "No," she said truthfully, glad that Jareth had never spoken of himself in the third person. "I have a storybook about him. The Goblin King. A play. He steals the baby of a queen and has to be overcome by a will as strong. And he—" Sarah broke off and looked angrily at Nan. "You're using the voice of command with me," she said. "Not very friendly when I've just saved your life!"
"Sorry," Nan said. "It's not completely under my control. Truly, I didn't mean it." She fluffed out her dress and slid it back on over her gamine and braless body. "I like your dress. Need me to do you up?"
Sarah took her help.
"You don't think he would… give you to the Goblin King, do you? Or me? I mean, he saved us both tonight, and you quite a few times. He'd protect you, don't you think? Or me, if you asked him? If Hell is real, I don't want to go there."
"Maybe Hell isn't that bad," Sarah said dryly, feeling taller and stronger, defiant of anyone's plans, as Nan hooked her sash for her. "I promise you, Nan, if I can help it, I won't let the Goblin King get you. But I wouldn't trust Jareth. Not at all." She picked up her party shoes and Nan's high-tops and stalked out.
"What's that?" Nan asked, as they returned to the Goblin King's presence. Sarah was too busy holding Jareth's eyes to hear her at first. "Sarah? On your shoe. Oh, warts, oh shit, Sarah, stop!" Jareth came to them, making a trio. There on the sole of her shoe was a black dot. Nan turned over her own shoes, sensible chucks that Sarah envied. There were three black spots on her soles.
"Don't touch them," Jareth cautioned, as he took up Sarah's shoe. He prized at the black dot with his thumb, until it came out, like a thorn. It was a tack. He held it in his fingertips for them to inspect. "Every step you took was like a neon sign pointing your way," he said.
"I didn't feel them," Sarah said, dubious.
"Well, you wouldn't, would you? They're self-concealing, even from sensation. My question, Sarah, is where did you pick them up?" He cast the tack into the fire, where it shrieked and sizzled and gave up a puff of black smoke.
"It was Apollonaire," Sarah said, infuriated and certain. "Jareth, he was waiting in the vestibule when Nan and I came out of the bathroom. Check your feet."
"This sort of thing won't adhere to me," Jareth said, but he inspected his boot-heels one after the other, which showed clean. "Apollonaire?" he said grimly. "It was House Locusta which drew the right to choose the hunter for this rite. They've laid their plans well, if so, but I've laid mine better." He took Nan's shoes from her and tied the laces together.
"You aren't going to get rid of them?" Nan asked. Sarah went and put on her mismatched boots and, with some regret as they were the only extra pair of shoes she had, got her loafers for Nan. "No," Jareth said. "We can use these as bait, to lure the Alfarstreussel into a situation that we control. But I don't think that place is here. It should be a place where there is light, and heat, and music, and people. Holy ground would be useful as well, for protecting the two of you, but I wouldn't be able to enter myself, not if it's a place of active worship. Hm." He slung Nan's sneakers over his shoulder where they clacked against his bolero of wooden masks. "I can't imagine a place that has all of those things, even in this city of wonders."
Nan slipped on Sarah's loafers, holding on to Sarah for balance. "Well, there's always the Limelight."
Jareth and Sarah both looked at her, intrigued.
"The Limelight?" Nan said. "The dance club? Open all night? It used to be a church, but now it's the best place for good coke and shitty hash?" Sarah exchanged a glance with Jareth, both equally confused and intrigued. "The Limelight? With all the club kids and their year-round Halloween costumes? For Christ's sake! The Limelight!"
"By all means," Jareth said. "The Limelight. Let's go to your profane church and set our snares there."
Author's Note: Like most of you, I've been having a hard time with the advent of blackstar. I have a lot of sad feelings, and I wish I could say something magnificent and good and healing here. But I have nothing.
This chapter is part of a story, and not a eulogy. I just wanted you to know that I'm sensitive to your pain, because I'm feeling it myself. If reading this story gives you relief in escapism, or if you forgive it its deficits because the author isn't in the best place, or it's not coming at the right time for you and you just need to turn away, that's all okay. Thank you, too, writers and artists working here and elsewhere, who are showing us all what a shadow of a blackstar looks like. It's a shadow made of light.
He casts a mighty shadow.