Chap. 12
Future Holdings
The following Thursday..
The café was dank and dark, all it's lights dimmed to prepare for the poets that were to read tonight. After some time, they began to approach the stage and perform their pieces. Most were god-awful, dragging on from pieces about cows and communism, to an air-guitar tribute to Jimi Hendrix. One poet even sat upside down and read the dictionary backwards. Each one seemed to go on for about twenty minutes, and some went even longer. But all of them were artists, at least in their own mind, and they were playing to a crowd of their peers. They were applauded and loved for their creativity and uniqueness. After all, that was what everyone in the café had been known for. For them, the poetry mattered less then the way it was performed.
Of course, in such a group, perhaps the most unique perspective comes from those who exist outside what is established. Two such beings were within the crowd tonight. They sat together, at the far side of the room, drinking simple coffee and watching the stage with twin looks of impatience. The man was dressed in beige khakis and a long brown overcoat covering a U2 shirt. He wore a cap on his head that covered his black hair. Every so often, he would wince and rub his side, as though it pained him. The woman next to him was dressed in blue jeans, a short leather jacket, and a Distillers T-shirt. She wore no cap, allowing her red hair to flow freely from her head. Both figures wore black sunglasses and watched the stage with dire concentration, waiting for someone to come on.
Finally, their patience was rewarded. The owner brought on the next poet, a young girl with purple hair, dressed in a blue cloak and black leotard. Quietly, she took the stage and pulled up a stool. Reaching a pocket within her cloak, she pulled out a piece of paper that glistened in the lights of the stage, mainly because it was completely covered in tape. Clearing her throat, the girl began to read…
OctoberInspired by the Wasteland, T.S. Eliot
My life is the cruelest month, death
Breeds onto the living soul, stopping
Never, building up fear's cold breath
Mixing hope and desire, a
Little life, forgetful in the snow,
Forgetting the knowledge of birth,
That the others all know
A summer, from the blackest sky,
Going in moonlight to the
Rays of the sun,
I was a child,
Fear in my heart to try,
He said,
Hold to me,
And let not your soul be dead
Yet still do the roots clutch
Branches grasp at
Broken pieces of my crutch
My shadow rides at morn to bite,
But I no longer run;
I will show you sun in a handful of night.
The girl stopped then, her poem done. For a moment, there was silence in the café. Then, slowly, the sound of applause built throughout the room. It grew louder and louder, as those who had been obsessed with performance were finally touched by emotion. Yet as the girl looked over the crowd, she saw none clap harder or with more emotion then the man and woman who had helped inspire the poem.
Later, the trio returned to the Tower, and in Brett's room, talked of the night. "Man, I can't believe you actually listen to some of those people." Brett said, as he leaned back in a chair, massaging his side. The bat was healing fast from the effects of having Trigon in his body, but he was still sore. "They're not all bad." Raven countered. "Come on, that kid with the air guitar actually spent five minutes tuning the thing." Sara replied. "But you….. goddamn, how did you ever write……" "I-I kinda had help." Raven said, blushing a little bit. "You were good inspiration." Brett blushed then, though it was hard to see underneath his fur. "I just do what I can." He replied. "Which apparently means letting a demon inside you so it can be destroyed." Sara said. "She's right about you, hon." "Well, I had that part figured out already." "I've been meaning to ask." Raven interrupted. "Where did you read that?" "Oh, I found it in that old tome over there." The bat said. "I marked the passage, if you want to see it yourself." "I think I will." Sara said, walking over to the counter where the book lay. Picking it up, she flipped to the page Brett had marked.
But as Sara read over the passage, her eyes widened in horror. "Brett, you're sure it was this book?" she asked, a quiver of fear in her voice. "Yes. Why, what's wrong?" the bat asked. Sara read aloud the text, "The demon Trigon may onlybe forever trapped when his mortal body is wiped from the earth." "I don't get…" Raven began, but then recognition dawned on both her and Brett. "HIS body." They said in unison. "We needed to destroy HIS body to destroy him. He's still in Hell" Brett said, his hand going to his forehead. "But that means he actually has to come here, to Earth…" "And he still can." Raven said, her head hanging low. "It looks like you were right Sara. I will never be rid of him."
At that, Sara slammed the book shut. Slowly, she walked over to Raven and pulled the girl's head up. "We'll find a way." She said. "I was wrong about you Raven. I never should've said that to you. I'm sorry." Brett got up and stood by his wife, as Sara continued. "I promise, I'll find a way to help you." "We will." Brett said. Raven looked at the two of them, and then in a very uncharacteristic move, she embraced both of them. The Knights were surprised, but after a moment, they returned it, and enjoyed this moment of feeling as though they still had a family. Then again, not every family is made of blood. Some are made of deeper things.
THE END
