Fledgling
By J.R. Godwin
Disclaimer: "Labyrinth" belongs to Jim Henson & Co. I'm not making any money off of this.
12/15/2015: I've added an extra scene at the end of this chapter. Something was missing, and it took me a few months to figure out what it was. Otherwise this chapter is the same.
Hershel: My father didn't bother with comforting lies, he used his fist. He was a loveless, violent drunk, and no good to anybody. He drove me from home when I was fifteen. Didn't lay eyes on this place again for many years. I was not at his death bed, Rick, I would not grant him that. And to this day, do not regret it. Some men do not earn the love of their sons.
-The Walking Dead
Lieutenant Dan: Forrest, I never thanked you for saving my life. (He hops overboard and begins to leisurely swim across the water.)
Forrest (voiceover): He never actually said so, but I think he made his peace with God.
-Forrest Gump (1994)
14.
I quit working for Muriel in June ... for two reasons.
First: it's months after Mom's suicide. In the movies, people bounce back from tragedy in the time it takes to shack up and light a cigarette, which goes to show how crazy and unrealistic Hollywood is. I need more time to grieve, because I'm clearly not doing well. I can't eat, the goblins are driving me nuts, and I haven't figured out what to do after grad school. Also, Muriel's still a jerk.
And second: a vampire shatters my nose in a brawl outside Logan Gentlemen's Club on 3rd Avenue.
The day I discover vampires are real starts out pretty normal for a Friday. I've sent out a hundred job applications with no response and given up out of cold desperation. Muriel has sent me on a dozen errands this week, and today's no different. I make deliveries in Brooklyn, then Manhattan, and finally some out of the way place in Jersey called Matawan, which takes up most of the afternoon. By the time I return to Park Slope, the sun is sinking below the trees and sets the sky on fire.
Nix comes to greet me at the front door and curls around my ankles. "Red sky at night, sailor's delight," he says with vicious glee. "Got any plans tonight, O Champion of the Labyrinth? Perhaps an outing with your girlfriends? Or an inning with the Goblin King?" His tone makes this last comment obscene.
I eye him strangely. "I never said anything to you about my time in the Labyrinth. How do you know about that? Did Muriel say something?"
Nix grins cheekily and refuses to elaborate. He picks himself up and sashays back into the house, chuckling under his breath in a way that must inspire terror in the mice and starlings I've seen him hunt in the backyard.
"You spoke of peaches, when we first met," I call after him, "and other things no one else could know about me. There's more to you than meets the eye. I'm going to figure you out eventually."
"In due time, little bird," he croons softly. "In due time." And then he's gone, vanished through the open basement door at the base of the stairs with a flick of his tail.
"Don't pay him too much mind." Muriel has appeared from the kitchen, wearing her usual slacks and pearls. "He's under my control, but that doesn't make him harmless."
I can't look away from the yawning basement door. "What the hell is he?"
"Have you figured out what the Tarot means yet?" she counters.
"No."
Muriel sighs and turns away, as if she's been expecting as such. "I have a final delivery for you. It's on your way home, more or less. Ah ... it may be sketchy. I want you out of there by dark and texting me the moment you leave. Speak to no one and move like a shadow."
That's the thing about Muriel: I can't hate her properly because, despite her insults and crotchety attitude, she obviously doesn't want me to die. Don't give her brownie points for what she's supposed to do, Williams. You learned to manage down your expectations from Mom.
"Bring the abomination?" I ask cheerfully, but Muriel doesn't smile.
"I know the Goblin King likes to bestow nicknames on all of us, but I trust you won't sink to his level," she sniffs.
No brownie points.
When Nix finally bounds up from the basement stairs, he's licking his lips and grooming his stinky fur like a proud veteran of war, and I know he's just killed a mouse. But then he winds sensuously around my ankles again and says in a simpering way, "So, Champion, your place or mine?"
The address isn't difficult to find. It's a large brick building near the waterfront in Red Hook, hidden beneath Route 278 like a bat in a cave. The lighting here isn't so good, and men stand at the corner of 3rd Avenue, chain smoking and muttering to each other. I pull my collar up and add a gruff swagger to my walk.
"This is bad," I tell the furry creature at my side.
Nix snickers. He's in his element. "Why? There are far worse things in the dark than thugs and rapists, you know. Like me."
"Thanks for the optimism."
"I'm quite serious. See that fellow there? With the scar on his cheek? Just finished a stint at Attica for kidnapping and assault with a deadly weapon. The big fellow next to him is an enforcer for the Giordano family and the third guy ... well, never mind. Don't worry, they won't do anything to you here. Too many witnesses. Keep your chin up and don't smile. It makes you look weak."
A bouncer opens the door when I knock. Inside, I hear the steady thump of club music. The guy looks like he could stop a Buick with his bare hands. "Yeah?"
"Delivery from Muriel," I say, holding up the package. It's small, maybe the size of a book, wrapped in brown paper. "For Patricia."
The guy opens the door wider. "Deliveries for Patricia gotta be hand delivered. Orders from the top. She's upstairs in the office." He eyes Nix. "No animals inside."
"The cat comes with me. No cat, no hand delivery. Orders from the top." I'm not rude, just matter of fact.
He frowns, and we spend a minute staring each other down, but I don't blink. Finally he mutters and opens the door wider. "In back and up the stairs."
The music here is louder, and it's hard to see in the dark. What few lights I see are garish and red, chasing shadows in patches across the floor and walls like an arterial spray. There's a bar near the door, but it's so dark I can't tell the gender of the person pouring drinks, and around one corner I finally spy the source of the thumping music, and see women dancing on a stage.
"A strip club?" I look down at Nix.
He says something, but I can't catch it over the noise. From the look on his face, though, he's being a perv. I pass the crowd and head to the back, where I find the staircase as promised. It's quiet here, and I easily find the office door and knock.
"C'mon in!" says a bright voice.
I walk into a small room that looks as if someone sneezed all over it. There are stacks of paper and accounting books all over the place, but I spy a desk and a head behind it. Patricia is a small woman, with black skin and box braids. Her nails are perfectly manicured, and there's something about her that sets me on edge that I can't explain, even if she does seem nice.
When I walk in, she immediately gets up. "Oh good! You must be Muriel's newest. Thanks." She notices Nix but, unlike most people, she's neither disgusted nor confused. She's surprisingly wary. "Who's this?"
"This is Nix. Sorry, I hope you're not allergic to cats."
"No, not at all," she says, but the brightness has vanished like the flame on a snuffed candle. "Well, tell Muriel thank you and to please bill me."
"Sure thing." And I see myself out. Instead of braving the crowd and that thumping music again, I sneak out the back door, which spills into the alley. I glance at the furry abomination at my side. "Has she met you before?"
"Never seen her before in my life, sweetheart," Nix says.
"She seems to know you."
"I inspire strong reactions in people."
"I don't think-"
I stop dead. Nix plows right into my leg. There's a woman and a man in the alley. He's a working stiff judging from the suit, she's a leggy blond wearing nearly nothing. One of the dancers from inside? She's got him up against the brick and her face buried in his neck. Well, this is embarassing. I'm about to back up the way I've come and leave the lovebirds to their privacy when she pulls her face back, and I see blood. A river of it. Holy shit. Holy shit! I'm not talking she bit her lip or anything, I'm saying she's a wolf feeding on a carcass. Blood everywhere.
The moan groans as if he's been gutted, and I flinch. Oh my God. Oh my God.
The woman hisses at me, and I realize I've muttered something aloud.
Save him! Before I can properly register what my brain's doing, my hand's grabbed at the dumpster next to me, snatched up a plank of wood, and hit her in the head. The woman goes down with a snarl. The man crumples to his knees, clearly in shock.
"Uh, Sarah ..." Nix says.
"Get Muriel," I tell him, but then I hear a bellow of outrage.
Someone grabs me by the hair and slams me facefirst into the brick wall. Pain, oh my God, pain. I hit the ground like a marionette that's just had its strings severed. The pain is incredible. I think I've landed in a puddle, because my face is all wet, until I realize the water here is too warm, and it's not water. It's my blood.
"Enlighten me on what part you didn't understand when I told you to be careful? What do you think I meant by move like a shadow? Did you think I meant to say, start fights with the clients?"
"Someone make her shut up," I groan.
"Excuse me?" Muriel sounds enraged.
"She doesn't know what she's saying." Nix's voice, over the din of other people in the background. "She's delirious."
"Ms. Foster, we need to see Sarah alone now. The doctor will be in shortly. Who let this cat in? We don't allow pets!"
Once I've got my head on straight, I realize I'm at the hospital. I'm not sure how I got here until Nix fills me in: Patricia called Muriel to say her assistant was lying in a puddle of her own blood and to please pick me up. Apparently Patricia hates ambulances - they mean cops, and questions, and Patricia evidently doesn't like those things. It makes her customers nervous. So Muriel came to stuff me into her car and take me to New York Methodist. I wake up on a gurney in the hall.
The diagnosis: a fractured nose and a mild concussion. I stay in the hospital overnight while the doctors prep me for surgery, and another two days after that for observation.
"You're a very lucky woman," says a nurse. "The swelling should go down in a few days, and your concussion symptoms are already clearing up. Your mother was worried about you, you know."
I manage to claw my way far enough out of my delirium to slur, "She's not my mother."
Shayna and Reimi watch Boudicca while I'm in the hospital. After a few days, New York Methodist releases me into Muriel's care. My mentor is surprisingly quiet on the way home. I doubt it's out of concern for my headache. I still feel like my skull's being held together by staples. When Muriel pulls up to the front of the house, she turns off the ignition but makes no move to get out. She just holds the steering wheel for a moment, and then she says, "You could have gotten killed. I think we need to discuss appropriate behavior on the job."
"Are you serious? The guy was being mauled by that psycho. What was I going to do? Let him die?"
"Vampire," she corrects me.
"Excuse me?"
"She's not a psychopath. She's a vampire."
All the air leaves my lungs as if someone's jumped on my chest. Hysterical laughter threatens. "Vampires are real?"
"Isn't it obvious?" You idiot goes unspoken, but I hear it in her tone.
"No, actually, it wasn't," I snap. "It would have been nice to get that heads up before you sent me into a vampire den."
Muriel makes a hand movement as if flicking away a fly. "That would have caused unnecessary drama."
"Bull-fucking-shit!"
"When I tell you to do a job, I expect you to do it. You can't expect explanations all the time, and believe me, most of the time you don't want to know the details."
"So this is my fault? Again? No. Wrong answer." I pop the door. The world sways a little, but that's just the concussion. "I'm not going to work with someone who can't respect me. We're done. Have a nice life."
I slam the door harder than I need to and walk away. It's over an hour from Brooklyn back to New Brunswick by train. My head throbs the entire time.
The swelling starts to go down within a few days. I have too much nervous energy and nothing to do with it, so I clean out my closets and find the business card from the Director, when I met him at Mom's funeral. Why not?
The secretary sounds bored when I call. "Sorry, how do you know him?"
"I'm Sarah Williams, Linda Young's daughter," I explain slowly, already regretting having called. "We met at her funeral a while ago."
"Hold on a second," she says, unimpressed. She's gone a long time. When she returns, her tone is much warmer. "He says would you like to come to lunch? You're real lucky, he just had a spot open up this week. Then he'll be gone for a month scouting locations in Asia."
Yes? Yes. I'm so shocked that it takes a beat before I realize I've spoken aloud.
Not much is known about the Director. Oh sure, there's the public stuff you can find on his Wikipedia page, and a few things he's dropped in interviews, but otherwise he's a pretty private person. He's been a big name in Hollywood for forty years and directly mentored greats like Spielberg and Scorsese, and Chris Nolan's admitted that he borrowed a lot of the Director's techniques in some of his own blockbusters. Hollywood loves the guy. Some call him the Godfather of American Cinema.
So it's with great trepidation that I arrive at his building. I can't share too many details, for privacy reasons. Let's just say he lives in a ritzy area in downtown Manhattan. You can figure out enough from there, if you wanted to.
The doorman has to ring upstairs before he'll let me past the front desk, and from there it's a smooth elevator ride to the penthouse. His wife opens the door - I'd made it clear to the secretary that I felt uncomfortable visiting the Director alone at home. Surprisingly, the secretary understood my concerns completely and assured me his wife would be there.
I don't know what I was expecting, maybe a petite young blond, but his wife is clearly an older woman with an older woman's elegance. She's a bit like Muriel in style, but much warmer. "And you must be Sarah!" she exclaims on the threshold. "I'm Penelope. Please, come in."
It's a wide open floor plan with a 360 degree view of the city. I immediately spot the Chrysler Building. "You came on the perfect day," Penelope continues. "We've had lovely weather all morning. I think you can see all the way to Central Park. Have a seat, I'll bring you tea."
The furniture is elegant but comfortable enough to sink your butt into. A border collie watches me lazily from the corner and wags her tail but doesn't get up to inspect me, as if she's already decided I pass inspection. There are crayons scattered across the coffee table, and children's stick figure drawings.
"Thank you for coming!" I jump up as the Director strides into the room. He wears jeans and hasn't shaved that morning. "Oh, no no, please don't get up on my account. Make yourself at home. I apologize for the mess. Our grandchildren were visiting."
"They're very good," I say honestly. "I like the one of the boat."
"Isn't it good?" he says proudly. "That's my grandson's. We had them up to see us on Nantucket last week and took him whale watching. It was his first time on the ocean. Terrific experience for children."
Penelope returns with the tea at the same time as a woman in a clean pressed outfit who's clearly a maid or a cook. "Lunch is ready, sir," says the woman.
"Thank you, Lucy, bring it in any time," says the Director. He looks at me. "Chloe, my assistant, said you were okay with meat."
"Oh yes, thank you," I say shyly.
And really, it's a wonderful lunch: creamy tomato bisque to start, and then grilled chicken with a watercress salad, and mango sorbet for dessert. It's as good as a Michelin restaurant, or better. We talk about New England, and I mention my family's trips to Cape Cod when I was a girl, and Penelope asks if I've been to South Street Seaport here in Manhattan, which is a jolly place if you like boats. I'm good at small talk and putting people at ease. You can thank the psychology training.
"So what have you been up to since the last time we spoke?" the Director says finally, putting his tea down. "I told Penelope how we met. I hope you don't mind."
"I'm so sorry for your loss," his wife says kindly.
I wonder how long I'll have this loss, or people will be apologizing to me for it. "Thank you. It's ... it's been hard."
The Director pours more tea for his wife before she can ask. "It often is. And few people will understand."
"No," I say, "they don't."
"Do you know how your mother and I met?" he says brightly. "I'll never forget it. Young thing, she was, had only been doing commercials at that point. Or that's what my production assistant said. They sent her in to read for The Last Hustle. My first film back in the States after a few years' absence, I was punchy, real nervous. The American critics had savaged my last few films out of Europe. I needed to hit this one out of the park or I'd be a laughingstock. No producer would ever greenlight me again. Anyway, this young girl comes in and nails the reading on the first try. We couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe she hadn't already been snatched up by somebody. As time went on, well ..."
It's okay, you can say it. Mom could be difficult. But the words won't leave my mouth.
"Personality matters just as much as talent," he continues. "Even more, I'd say."
It's the first time I've heard anyone outside my family admit that Mom was anything less than an angel. I gape a little. The Director smiles warmly at me. "If you prefer ice cream, I think we still have some. Our grandkids aren't big fans of sorbet."
"Oh no," I insist. "The sorbet was great."
"All the same, I think I'll have some. Penelope?"
"No, thank you, dear. My teeth."
So the maid returns with chocolate ice cream in crystal dishes: one for the Director and one for me. I love ice cream and won't say no. It comes with these solid silver spoons that are warm and slice through the ice cream like melted butter. It's delicious and sweet but not too sweet.
"We get this from Odd Fellows," Penelope says. "Nice place in Brooklyn. They don't make ice cream like this anymore."
"What was it like, working with my mother?" I ask suddenly.
The Director chews thoughtfully on his ice cream. "What was your experience with your mother, my dear? Hmm? You don't want to say it, I know, because you're polite. Well, I'll say what you're thinking: she was a great woman, but not a good one. Was that not your experience?"
I'm staring again. "Sorry, no, I mean, yes. I mean ... I've just never heard anyone speak like this. It's nice."
"Nice to have validation, eh?" He chuckles. "I remember after our second film together, I started to see the signs. The way she spoke to people, especially the film crew, like they were beneath her. And then, of course, there was the drinking and the drugs. I can't tell you how many producers I had to plead with on her behalf. This was after the 80s, when the news came to light about her stints in rehab, and how she'd fail to show up on sets. She'd become such a liability to productions. Terrible shame. That woman had such a fire in her. She spoke of you a lot."
"What'd she say?"
"She wanted you to be just like her."
My stomach drops a little. "She always saw me as an extension of her."
"Narcissists do."
There's that word again. "I feel bad, you know. I mean, you're supposed to love your mother. Your mother's supposed to love you."
The Director is very thoughtful for a long time. "... what I'm about to say is controversial, my dear, but here it is. Evil exists, and sometimes it has children. There, I've said it. It takes a lot more than childbirth to make a woman a mother. Some never make the transition, more's the pity."
I'm smiling. I'm smiling like an idiot. Why am I smiling? I feel seen. There's no other word for it. I want to scream from the rooftops, I want to dance up Park Avenue, I want to shout to the world who I am and who my mother was. "Yeah."
"My mother was much the same," he admits.
"Abraham," his wife says in a warning tone.
The Director puts a calming hand on her arm, but his focus stays rooted on me. "You know I was born in Poland."
"Yes, sir, I read your Wiki page."
He laughs. "Well, so you know a bit about my story, but there's a lot I never told the papers. Too painful. You know, when Steven first got the script for Schindler's List, he offered the picture to me. He said a Jew had to make this movie or it wouldn't work, but I couldn't do it. I later learned Polanski turned him down for the same reasons. We couldn't make a story showing our families being murdered. Too gruesome. We needed a young Jewish director, not someone from our generation.
"I was born in Lodz," he continues. "My mother never drank and always honored the Sabbath. From the outside, she was a perfect wife and mother. Inside the house, she was a holy terror. One of my first memories is of her beating my brother so badly that she broke his arm. We didn't call it abuse, of course. We had no words for domestic violence back then. If people had known, they would have said she was difficult, but that doesn't accurately describe my mother's tyranny. If she could have gotten away with it, I'm convinced she would have killed the lot of us.
"It was my father who saved me, passing me through a hole in the wall of the ghetto and into the hands of a Resistance Fighter, who took me underground. I was seven. The Nazis liquidated the ghetto soon after. I never learned what happened to my family. After a few years, I stopped searching."
I've forgotten about my ice cream. There's a clock ticking in the background, and the dog whines, but I don't think the Director hears any of it. He's reminiscing.
"The Resistance took me to a safe house out in the country," he continues. "I stayed there with a farmer's family for a few years, until one day we were betrayed. The Gestapo came one afternoon and arrested all of us. After the war, I learned that they shot the farmer and sent his wife and children to Dachau. They survived, I don't know how. They've been living in France the last fifty years. I last saw them a decade ago, and I send them gifts every Christmas. They have great-grandchildren now. Wonderful people. Anyway.
"The Gestapo took me to a house with bars on the windows. It was the town jail. The Germans had taken it over as a way station before sending people to the camps, and they took me to a shed in the back. When they opened the door, I saw it was full of children. I immediately recognized my friend Moshe. We'd been schoolmates, and he had disappeared from the ghetto shortly before I did. I'd never learned what happened to him. Moshe said he'd been spirited away underground and had been living with a Polish family, just like me, but they'd been found out and here he was.
"The Nazis kept us in there for a long time. Months. They'd open the doors to bring us food ... but sometimes it wasn't to bring us food. Sometimes it was to take a child away, and the child never came back.
"We began to hear explosions, great explosions that shook the ground and rattled the roof over our heads. We could peek through cracks in the shed and see the electricity outside go out. I learned later this was the Warsaw Uprising. The Resistance had timed it to coincide with the Soviets bombing the city to drive the Nazis out. They failed, of course, and the Germans wiped out half the city and shot most of the civilians. By the war's end, the city had gone from a million people to a hundred thousand, most of them into mass graves.
"The Nazis became very nervous, then, and they stopped bringing us food and started taking more children. Every time the door opened, another child went away.
"Moshe asked me about his family. Had I heard anything? Were his parents still alive? I told him I didn't know. I was ten now. I hadn't seen my family in three years. I didn't think they'd even recognize me anymore. I had nightmares about that, where I found my father again and he said, 'You're not my son! Who is this stranger?' I wasn't even sure what year it was.
"More children disappeared, until one day it was just Moshe and me. We hadn't eaten in a long time. The next time the door opened, God help me, I prayed they'd take Moshe instead of me. And they did."
My ice cream's melted. Suddenly, I realize the collie's head is in my lap and I've been stroking her fur for the last few minutes.
"I sat alone in the dark for a long time. No one came. By now the explosions had started again, but they were coming closer and closer. I thought they were going to bomb the town ... and then the next time the door opened, the uniforms had changed."
He smiles at me, but the smile has no humor in it, and then he removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. I don't know what to say. Penelope coughs and looks at her manicured nails, obviously upset. Her husband pats her hand and puts an arm around her.
Me? I'm horrified.
"It's a wicked thing to say," he murmurs, "but the war saved me. If I had stayed with my mother, I would not be alive. She would have killed me. I was saved but at the expense of so many others. It's a terrible survivor's guilt. I try to make my life count so that the losses weren't in vain. My children and their children are my legacy, and my movies, of course. People need stories."
"I want to tell stories," I say quietly.
"Ah, so you're a storyteller too. Excellent. You know, every society needs storytellers. They're the ones who keep hope alive when it's most needed."
"I have a friend," I say, "a very old friend, who would agree with you."
"As old as me?"
"Older," I say with a laugh. "He's seen terrible things too, but he still loves humanity. You could say he's in love with all of us. He's surprisingly optimistic."
"Have you given thought to your paintings?" the Director suddenly asks.
"Oh! Um, yes. Well ... it's been a crazy few months. I dropped out of grad school."
"Why?" He looks aghast.
"I don't think it was the place for me."
"What were you studying, dear?" asks Penelope.
"Psychology. I was going to be a therapist."
"Grand profession," says the Director. "People in New York think you're crazy if you don't have a shrink. You would have done very well at it."
"I think so too, but it's not what I wanted. I just didn't know it until after Mom died."
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know," I admit. "Is that wrong? I'm twenty-seven. I should know this by now."
"Should you?" asks the Director, and I have no idea how to respond to this. "I'm eighty. I'm still figuring out who I am. It's the great imperative in life and it never stops. Do you know how we learn what we want?"
He obviously wants me to answer. "How?" I ask.
"By doing. By creating. We play around and figure out what brings us joy and what feels right, so we follow that. Life is a game. That's how you'll find your answers, and yourself. You won't find it by listening to other people's definitions of you."
I feel like this one statement is the entire education I missed in K through 12. It makes me feel deliciously warm. "Thank you."
"I have a friend," he continues, "partners with the Met, runs a few galleries here in Manhattan. I'd like to introduce you. I think he'd like your work, and I know he has high end clients with your tastes. Name's Imamura. Splendid fellow. You need to meet him."
I'm speechless. "I don't know what to say."
"You're welcome. I'll have Chloe set you up."
Play. The point of life is to play. I take another look at the applications I've sent in to coffee shops and bookstores and companies in need of an assistant. God, Shayna was right; I have been thinking too small. What do I really want? What would I do if I thought failure was impossible?
I make a list of my favorite companies: the ones whose products I use in my apartment, or whose commercials make me laugh. Some of them need help with their websites. Their words are boring. They need a storyteller. Corporate people call it marketing.
A friend of a friend introduces me to a Vice President at one of these companies, a global giant whose cartoon movies I watched all the time growing up. I send the woman a brief email with my ideas, which I think could help them make more money. I can rewrite these pages on your website and create some ad campaigns for you, I write, and describe in detail how I'd do this.
She writes me back immediately. Love your ideas. You're in NYC, right? Can you come to my office for coffee?
By the end of the week, I have a signed contract for my first project and a check for $5k. And because I'm a freelancer, I can wear jeans and work from Starbucks.
I guess the solution to post-grad school life was under my nose the whole time. Jareth would call it magic.
It's been a week since I quit working for Muriel. Transitioning to self-employment isn't that hard. Within a day of my first project, I'm sitting in a New Brunswick coffee shop, Boudica at my feet while I type away on my laptop. The sun is shining. Chloe the Director's assistant has me set to meet with Imamura the following week to see my paintings. I feel more in control of my life than I have in a very long time.
Then a familiar leggy blond ruins it by sitting down across from me. "Hey."
Skreech! Boudica snarls as I back my chair up in a panic. Of course I recognize her. It's the vampire who decked me outside Logan's. "I'll scream."
"Please don't," she says. Up close, she doesn't look particularly strange. She's pale, sure, but dressed like a college student on break. Jareth's hair is so blond it's almost white, but her blond is golden and clearly came from a bottle. She's got a nose ring.
"How the hell did you find me?" I demand.
"Muriel," she mutters, adjusting her sunglasses.
I'm going to kill Muriel.
"Look," the blond says awkwardly, "um, how's your nose?"
"Fine," I say flatly.
"You're not making this easy," she says in an accusatory tone. "Look, uh, I'm sorry about that night. You scared the shit out of me."
It takes everything in me not to screech, and I still don't quite make it. "Me?! I scared you?"
"Well, c'mon, stranger walks in on me and my boyfriend and hits me with a two by four, of course I'm gonna be scared."
"Your boyfriend?"
She rolls her eyes. "Yes, I can be in a loving, committed relationship, even as a stripper."
"You were biting him!"
"He likes it," she counters. "You never been bit before? Seriously?"
"I'm not having this conversation."
"Wow," the blond breathes. "Muriel said you were clueless when it came to vampires, but I didn't know it was this bad. Uh, I'm Amanda, by the way."
"How can you be outside in the sun if you're a vampire?" I demand.
Amanda snorts. "You read too many novels. I'm not a big fan of the sun, but it won't set us on fire or anything. How do you think we manage to hide in society so well if we kept nocturnal?"
"I can't believe this."
She smiles then, which makes me pause. Her teeth are a little too sharp and her eyes (when she flicks her sunglasses down) are a little too red. There's something alien about her that makes my flesh crawl. It's different from Jareth's strangeness but no less unsettling. "Fine, don't believe it," she says. "But let me apologize all the same. I can see how a newbie would make assumptions."
I'm not buying this. "You tracked me down just to apologize?"
Amanda looks away. "Well, Patricia was pissed. And when she heard from Muriel that you're best mates with the Goblin King, well. I thought she was gonna kill me. So, um, I'm sorry about your nose. Please tell your boyfriend it's no hard feelings, and if he's gotta blame anybody, it was all my fault. My clan's on good terms with him and we'd like to keep it that way."
"He's not my boyfriend."
"Uh huh," she says, unconvinced.
"Are all vampires this friendly?"
"Are all humans?" she counters. "Don't be so racist. We're not a monolith." She stands to go. "Anyway, uh, are we cool?"
"Piss off," I tell her.
Amanda chews on her lower lip. "Listen, it's not my business, but you're obviously a rare human who spends her days running into vampires and hobgoblins. If you don't know how to play the game, you need to learn fast. Not everyone's as nice as me. I could have killed you."
"I'll take it under advisement," I say, crossing my arms over my chest as if shielding myself. Amanda shrugs and quickly vanishes into the afternoon crowd. My latte's gone stone cold. I don't even notice. Boudica upsets the other patrons because she won't stop growling.
The goblins clamber around the door to greet me when we return home. Lucky has a new sock for a hat, and several of the goblins sport new armor. "You guys have been shopping, I see. You weren't terrorizing the sales staff at Saks, I take it?"
"His Majesty got us presents!" exclaims Hobb.
"He said we've been very good," adds Orson.
"No blowing stuff up," says Lucky. "Much."
That's surprisingly thoughtful of Jareth. I'll have to thank him next time I see him for taking care of my goblins. I've become fiercely protective of them. "What do you guys know about vampires?"
The goblins gasp altogether. "Vampires!"
"Tricksy!"
"Bitey!"
"Dangerous!"
"We don't know much," Bertrand admits for all of them.
"I appreciate your honesty," I tell him. "How's the Goblin King?"
"Misses you," says Lucky. My stomach flip flops while the rest of the goblins coo like a bunch of scandalized kindergarteners. Lucky is unfazed. "Says he's surrounded by idiots."
"That's us," says Wicket.
"Nuh uh," insists Skeet. "That's his goblins. We're Her Majesty's goblins."
I take my brother to the mall back home in Nanuet. It must be nice to have the entire summer off, but I still don't miss being a kid. Toby's going into high school this year. "I asked Katie Deng out," is the first thing he says when I arrive at our parents' house. "She said yes."
"Well, well!" I say. "That took guts. What are you guys going to do?"
"Not sure. Uh, I think we're gonna have coffee, and then we're gonna play tennis. Do you know how to play tennis? Cuz I don't."
"You swing the racket and keep the ball inside the white lines, I think. Does Katie play tennis?"
"All the time. Her parents belong to the country club."
"You should ask her to show you. She'll feel important and, if you ask for help on your swing, it'll give her an excuse to touch you."
Toby squints at me. "That's ... really smart. Almost sneaky. I like it."
We walk around the mall for a while. I haven't been to the local mall since I left home for college. It's changed a lot in the last decade. They added more stores and spruced the place up, made it real high end. We spend money at the arcade, ride the merry-go-round, eat sushi at the food court, and go to the movies. It's a coin toss between soppy romance and killer robots, but we mutually agree on killer robots. I'll watch anything, as long as I get to sit in an air conditioned theater.
Toby rests his feet on the seat in front of him. "How's the new job?"
"Oh. I quit."
"What? I thought you liked it."
"Not really. It didn't work out."
"Aw. Sorry to hear that, sis."
"It's okay. Did I tell you I got a contract?"
"Dad said something about that. Working for the Mouse! That's really cool. So I guess you're not sad about grad school."
"No. I had to do something different."
"You've always done something different."
I eye him. "What's that mean?"
"Well, you're different, aren't you?" he asks. "You'd never be happy doing what everyone else is doing. Everyone else is so boring."
During the movie, I become aware of a warm sensation that has nothing to do with the temperature. It's the same feeling I got weeks ago, when I tracked Jareth down at the psychiatric hospital. It feels like a little sun blooming in my chest behind my heart. It starts between my breasts and pools liquid fire into my belly. I lace my fingers over my stomach and sigh.
"Sarah?" Toby asks in the dark next to me.
"I'm okay."
I can't be certain - I mean, it's not like I have actual words to go on, just a hunch - but I think Jareth's looking for me. I can feel the tug. I wonder if Muriel's told Jareth I quit, or why. I'm okay, Jareth. I'm safe. Let me be.
I don't know how, but I think he understands. The sensation drifts away like dandelion fluff on a breeze, but it doesn't entirely vanish. My belly still feels warm and delicious full when I go to bed that night, and it has nothing to do with food.
That night, I dream of the Tarot.
I don't know why. I brought the deck with me after leaving Muriel's, but I haven't looked at the cards since then. I stuck them in a drawer and kind of forgot about them.
In the dream, the cards are gateways to other worlds. The colors come alive and the figures move like ghosts. I run through all the cards, hopscotching my way through different dimensions. I see children, magicians, demons and knights, kings and queens, lovers and angels, smoke and water and fire and flowers. It's a tangled riot of light and sound, and it all ends with a thunderclap that leaves me sitting up in bed hugging a goblin to my chest.
Jareth! I want to speak the name aloud, but I don't dare.
Muriel doesn't answer her door when I knock, so I use the key I still have around my neck to let myself in. The house hasn't changed in the week and a half I've been away. I find the mistress of the household in the kitchen making coffee. She pauses when I walk in, but otherwise she doesn't look that surprised to see me.
"How's your nose?" she asks, setting a second cup of coffee on the table.
I don't move from the doorway. "Better. The doctor said I shouldn't have any permanent damage. Uh, Amanda came to see me."
"I wasn't sure if she'd find you," Muriel admits, "but vampires are good trackers. I didn't think it would be that difficult. Cream?"
"Just some sugar, thanks."
"Did she apologize?"
"Yes."
"Good. I didn't think Patricia would want the Goblin King's wrath on her family's head."
"I got a job."
"Did you?"
"Yeah. I have one client, trying to get a few others."
"What are you doing?"
"Marketing."
The corner of her mouth tips up. It's not quite a smile, but it's a very near thing. "Storytelling. How apt. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
"The Tarot cards," I say slowly. "They're about life, aren't they?" Muriel cocks her head at me. "I mean, they're not about predicting the future, they're about us here, right now. Life, death, love, transformation. The cards tell our own stories."
Muriel waves a hand at the table, so I take a seat. She makes no move to sit. "Correct. The cards are very much about life."
"Does your offer stand? About being your apprentice? I'm still interested."
"Are you now?" She looks amused, but it's not sarcastic.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I think this is the only way forward," I admit. "I see things and know things that most people never will. I need to know how to navigate this new world."
"Is that the only reason?"
"Well. With great power comes great responsibility, right? How can I make a difference if I don't know what I'm doing?"
"Hmm." Muriel leans against the counter and sips her coffee. I still haven't touched mine. "Most applicants never make it to becoming an apprentice. They wipe out before they can tell me anything about the Tarot cards, and I like it that way."
"You only get the people who are dedicated."
"Yes. And quite frankly, I'd rather they wipe out early than suffer. Do you know how many apprentices I have trained? Twelve. I have trained twelve apprentices since I began. Of these, five are dead, four won't speak to me, and the other three are still active magicians themselves. The washout rate is high, and the margin for error is slim. So I try to make people hate me and quit early. Do you understand?"
"You still should have told me about the vampires," I counter.
"No, I shouldn't. Most people don't respond well to such news, which is why ignorance is such a gift. It's a protection. Until I had a better idea of your character, it's much safer to have you run errands and possibly quit because you think I'm a nasty old woman than learn something that would potentially ruin you."
"Well, look, if we're going to work together, I need you to be honest with me," I tell her.
"Or what?" she dares.
"Or I'll be a pain in the ass."
She throws back her head and laughs, really laughs for the first time since we've met. "At least you have a spine! I will make a deal with you, Sarah. I will tell you as much as you need to know, and I will watch your back. And you can push back on me as much as you like, but sometimes I will say no and you will just have to deal with it. In return, I ask that you exercise common sense and not get into anymore fisticuffs. Is that agreeable to you?"
"I don't know," I admit. "I don't tolerate crap very well."
"Evidently," she says dryly, "but I'm not looking for a servant. I'm looking to train a magician. Are you in or not?"
"Alright," I tell her, and I no longer feel any of the frustration or anxiety I got from my first meeting with Muriel. Things are on my terms now, more or less. "Can I ask you something? Jareth said we were a good fit."
"His Majesty, Sarah."
"Yeah, him. Why would he say something like that?"
"I don't claim to understand his motivations. You must understand, I don't know him well."
"How long have you known him? How did you meet?"
"That is a story for another day. I suppose your training will have to take place around your freelancing work."
"I run my own schedule now, so I'm flexible."
"Good. Can you start now? Wait a minute."
Muriel leaves the kitchen, and I see her go upstairs to the long hallway with the paintings that change themselves. She's gone for a while, and when she returns, she holds a fat white candle in an old silver candlestick, and a book with a torn leather cover. She plunks both of these onto the kitchen table in front of me.
"Your first assignment," she says, "is to light the candle."
"Okay," I say, not getting it.
"Without matches," she finishes.
"How about a lighter?"
"No."
"Then how ...?"
"Indeed?"
"What," I say, "am I supposed to clap my hands and make the candle light itself?" And here Muriel just grins, like a mischievous child. It reminds me too much of Jareth's maniacal expressions whenever he's bested me. It's very unsettling. "You're serious. How do I ...?"
"Don't overthink it," she says. "Also, read this book."
I stare at the cover. "Latin?"
"One of the major languages we use in magic. You'd do well to start learning now."
It can't be that much more difficult than French or Arabic, and I tell Muriel so. She smiles again. I'm not used to seeing her smile. It's unnerving. I laugh a little under my breath. "You know, I ... it's been a long time since ... I mean, I don't get along well with older women."
"Ah." Muriel seats herself back at the table. "Now I start to understand the Goblin King's plan a little more. I assume this has to do with your mother."
We haven't spoken of my mother since our interview, when Muriel made her snide remarks about Mom the Megabitch. I don't know why I felt so defensive of a terrible person. You're supposed to defend your mom, no matter how awful she is. There's no heat in Muriel's voice when she mentions Mom again, but lightening may as well have just struck the kitchen. The room feels charged. A wall between us has dissolved.
"Yeah," I say, and I'm embarassed by how my voice cracks. "I had a talk this week with ... with this guy. And he just understood me, completely. It's been so hard, you know? How do you mourn the passing of such an awful person? A person you're supposed to love? How can I love myself? I'm such a loser that my own mother abandoned me."
"Your mother did the best thing by leaving and sparing you more damage from her ridiculous, selfish behavior," Muriel says firmly. "You weren't abandoned, Sarah. You were saved."
You can hear a pin drop. My mouth drops open, useless. I want to speak, want to say something, but what can I say? I still have a lump in my throat, the same lump that's never gone away since Mom's funeral. The lump moves out of my throat and into my eyes, and suddenly, to my horror, I'm crying.
I didn't cry when the news told me Mom died. I didn't cry at Dad's house. I didn't cry at the funeral. I didn't cry when Jareth came back. I haven't cried for any of it. I've been numb for months. I thought I must be a terrible, cold, selfish person. Now I'm sobbing and snotting all over Muriel's kitchen table.
Nix must have just arrived. I can hear him make a smartass comment from the doorway, but I'm weeping too hard to catch what he says, just the tail end of Muriel shooing him away. She pets my hair while I hide my face in my hands and sob like an hysterical child.
"I'm s-sorry about your t-table," I finally manage to say, once I get a hold of myself. The glass table top is streaked with snot and tears.
Muriel tells me to think nothing of it. Even magicians use Windex. And she smiles at me, as if she's made the funniest joke.
Sleepy Hollow Cemetery again. It's cool here even in the summertime, because of the wind blowing in off the river. You can't actually see the river from Mom's plot, but I know it's there, hidden by the trees, a silent sentinel winding its way up from Manhattan.
I almost can't find the grave again. The funeral feels like a hundred years ago, even though it's only been a few months. I have to pick my way up a long drive (where the limousines parked), and pass a familiar copse of birch trees ... and there it is, a small gravestone on a gently sloping hillside. I don't remember much from the funeral because of the shock, but I remember the little cross and the doves set in marble.
Mom died in the spring, but now I'm here to finally bury her.
I couldn't compel myself to wear black again. I just couldn't. So instead I'm wearing a nice summer dress I got on sale at Marshalls, and ballet flats, and my hair braided to the side the way I saw it done by some Fashion Week model in some photo on Pinterest. I had purposely avoided the mirror as I got dressed, afraid I'd ruin my makeup if I cried, but I'd caught a glimpse of black hair and white lace, and I'd decided I must look good enough. Mom never cared how I looked anyway, so I can't see her caring now.
So here I am.
I stare at the grave for a beat. It's covered in stuff: mementos and balloons and roses and buttons. Who are all these people?
There's a family about a hundred feet away, sticking little American flags in a plot and telling the children to "say hi to Grandpa." I feel very exposed all of a sudden and wish I'd worn something with sleeves.
I smile, and surprise myself to find it's very genuine. "Hi, Mom."
Unsurprisingly, Mom doesn't say hi back.
"... um, I brought you something." I hold up an armful of lilies. "I wasn't sure what kind of flowers you like, but the guy at the flower shop said lilies are good. They mean a new start."
This is so awkward. I sigh and look at the family nearby. They've said their goodbyes and are walking down the hill. I'm alone now.
I look back at the grave. "You were a terrible human being, Mom. I don't know why. And I don't know why I'm the only one who knows, apart from Dad. You were sweet to the rest of the world and saved your meanness for those who were closest to you. I never understood it, and I blamed myself. I've made a new friend recently, and she made me see that it was never my fault, that you were just an unhappy person. So I'm here to bury you, finally, and pray you've found the peace you couldn't have in life."
I bend down to arrange the lilies among the other gifts, then straighten up with a creak in my back. They look nicer than I'd expected. Suddenly, I'm glad I sprung the sixty bucks for them. "If it's any consolation, Mom," I mutter, "I will never be the woman you were. It's definitely a consolation to me."
Mom's still not answering, which honestly is preferable. I can't imagine how hysterical she'd have gotten if I'd ever said these things to her when she was alive. She'd have torn me to shreds. The thought makes me smile and my eyes prick with tears I refuse to shed, because I'm wearing mascara.
You know how you often don't notice something until it's gone? I suddenly realize birds have been singing since I arrived, and now they've gone silent. My arms prickle with gooseflesh, and when I glance up at the trees, I see they're empty. Everything in the forest is hiding.
And then I see why ... a small white owl, perched in the branches of a monstrous sycamore tree overshadowing the hill. Of course, it's a barn owl. Even from here, I can see the heart-shaped face and the dead black eyes. When he sees he's been spotted, he eagerly hops along the branch and lazily flaps his wings, but otherwise he doesn't budge from his spot.
Seeking permission.
I sigh. "Jareth. Come."
It's barely a whisper, but owls can hear prey from a long way off. He glides down from the tree and disappears behind a grieving stone angel, and then a man steps out from behind it, wearing black armor and a blank expression.
I'm strangely glad to see him. Jareth is a constant in an ever-changing world. He silently joins me at my side, and together we stare at the grave.
"You'll scare people if they see you dressed like that," I say, though I won't look at him. Chastising the Goblin King is an intimidating thing even under the best of circumstances.
"They won't see me." I can hear the self-satisfied tone in his voice, and I know he's grinning. "Come to pay your respects?"
"To bury the dead, finally."
"Ah." There's a lot of understanding packed into that one word, and I feel oddly grateful I won't have to explain. "I'm afraid I know much about that."
I risk a glance at him. "I imagine you've lost a lot of people in your time."
He tips his head like a bird. "I am life itself, and the harbinger of death, for each is merely a flip-side to the other ... but to answer you, yes. I've lost people."
"How do you get over it?"
Jareth actually pauses to look thoughtful. "I don't. But you needn't forget a person in order to accept they've gone."
"And what if they were a bad person?" I'm starting to feel angry, and I don't know why. "What if I want to forget them?"
"Sarah," Jareth chides, as if I'm being stubborn, "you are your own woman. Of all people, I can certainly tell you that." He makes a mocking flourish with very little bite to it. "... my Champion."
Do as you please, but bury the dead. I can hear it in his voice. I can't help smiling at him then, and when he bows to me, I reward him with a little bow in turn. Then he disappears, leaving a small white owl shivering atop the gravestone. I hold out my arm, and he hesitates with his massive claws, but then he gingerly climbs up my arm, leaving no marks, and perches atop my shoulder, fluffing himself against my cheek.
Should I take him with me? Muriel would pitch a fit. I've only known her a short while, but I can already tell Jareth makes her nervous.
Before I can decide, Jareth has leapt from my shoulder and pounced in the grass. When he soars back into the trees, a mouse dangles helplessly in the claws that just seconds ago gently touched my skin.
I am life itself, and the harbinger of death.
I start shaking, and can't stop until I reach the car.
To be continued.