Styx and Stones: Chapter Three
Brigit huddled against the headboard of her bead, clutching her stuffed aardvark and wailing as if Death was coming for her. For all the poor child knew, he was.
Darkness, everywhere she turned her head.
Mama couldn't help. Mama didn't know what was going on.
Mrs. McFearson, religious and superstitious to a fault, thought the devil was coming for her family.
So the very first thing she did upon hearing her daughter's story was rush out the front door of her tiny house, across the street, to the tiny church standing on the corner of the opposite block.
She didn't notice the car careening toward her until she was in the middle of the street.
The car swerved and smashed into Mrs. McFearson's own car, parked on the curb. Both cars burst into flames.
People spilled out of their houses, women with their dishwashing aprons on, and small children home from school, still in their uniforms.
Grabbing the arm of the clergyman who had come down the church's steps to witness the scene, Mrs. McFearson pulled him back into her house, caring not a whit for the cars now flaming in her driveway. She found Brigit just as she had left her. Scooping up the wailing child, trying to calm her with soft, rushed words of comfort, Mrs. McFearson brought Brigit out into the living room. The priest was using her phone to call the fire department.
Brigit continued to cry, wrapping her arms around her mother's neck in an iron-tight grip of fear.
Dorothy sat on the passenger side of the Griffon, much as she had always done, only this time she couldn't stop thinking about how the tag at the back of her neck was itching terribly. She made a mental note to cut it out of the dress as soon as was physically possible. Her shoes were pinching a bit, and her nose wouldn't stop itching.
She sneezed, and spent a few moments thinking about what an odd feeling it was.
Roger smiled his mysterious little smile and handed her his handkerchief.
She looked at it for a moment, the proceeded to dab lightly at her nose, turning away from Roger as she did so.
He chuckled at this and said, "Never new you'd be so shy."
She threw the handkerchief at him.
"Agh, that's disgusting! And hasn't anyone ever told you not to throw things at the driver?"
The faintest hint of a smile slipped through Dorothy's pseudo-serious façade as she fiddled absently with the large black buttons on her coat. Norman had made sure she put it on when she and Roger had ventured out, for the day had turned cold and dark whilst she was in her shock-induced slumber.
It was the thunder that had awakened her: a deep, slow rumble just over the horizon. There had been voices, talking above her in muted tones.
The lights in the living room had slammed into her eyes and bounced around in her skull. Roger was poised above her, bathing her face with a cool washcloth. His dark eyes swallowed her up, and for a moment she thought she had fainted again. A stinging pain in her hand pulled her back to reality, and she looked down at her blood-soaked arm to see Norman stitching up a jagged gash in her left palm. There was blood on the sofa, blood on her nightdress, blood on Norman's hands and shirt.
Dorothy passed out again.
She awoke finally when Roger was moving her back to her bed. He laid her down on the cool sheets and pulled the covers up around her. Norman helped to clean the blood off her arm, and Roger sat with her while she ate breakfast. It had been oatmeal with brown sugar and orange juice, which Norman brought her in bed. Dorothy had enjoyed the orange juice, but thought the oatmeal was a bit bland.
After discussing her like she wasn't there, Norman and Roger decided the best course of action would be to investigate this woman Dorothy had been to see. A short argument later -which really only involved Roger, because Dorothy could do no more than glare at him- and she had convinced Roger that her opinion on this matter outweighed his own. They had left her to dress, which she had done in a very slow and meticulous manner, marveling at the feel of the wool in dress, the silk in her stockings, and the leather of her shoes. She had to have Norman fasten her shoes because she couldn't negotiate them on her own with her injured hand.
The car lurched to a halt, breaking Dorothy out of her momentary lapse into memory. She and Roger exited the car, and found themselves standing at the sight of the now-closed carnival. The gates were chained and locked, and there didn't appear to be anyone within.
Roger swore.
Dorothy looked at him sharply, then began walking toward the gate, confident that a way in was readily available if it could only be found. Roger followed, pulling his keys out of his pocket so he could pick the lock.
"This is trespassing," Roger said almost amiably as he removed the lock and chain. The gate made a terrible scraping sound as he pulled it partially open and ushered her inside. Dorothy frowned because she knew he was only being cheeky, with his too-bright smile and his sweeping gesture. So, instead of going ahead of him she let him stand like that for a few moments. He finally huffed, straightened, and muttered something under his breath.
She raised an eyebrow at him, and he pushed her in front of him in a manner that, while gentle, bespoke of his annoyance.
The grounds were silent, still. Nothing moved except the two of them. Dorothy made sure to walk slowly, so Roger could stay close as she led the way. This place made her nervous, as if thousands of creepy, crawly things were milling around under her skin. There was electricity in the air, and it smelled like rain, though Dorothy was not yet able to comprehend this with her limited senses. Things were too new, too brilliant. Their light blinded her to their subtleties.
But Roger knew, and mentally made a note to get this over with and get back to the car as quick as possible.
Dorothy stopped suddenly in trepidation as the bulky, coarse construct of purple fabric loomed over her. Roger stumbled into her, and she stumbled forward. He caught her by the shoulders before she could fall. She looked back over her shoulder at him, shooting him a slightly teasing glance: one eyebrow raised, smile quirking the corners of her mouth, as if to say, "My, whatever would people think if they saw us on the street like this!"
Roger chose to ignore the look, because of the mixed feelings it elicited in him. Instead he stepped around Dorothy, pulled back the tent flap, and entered. Less than five seconds later, he exited.
"There's nothing in there!" he said, startling Dorothy. She flinched as his voice tore through the shroud of silence encompassing the carnival grounds, and then pushed past him into the tent.
He was right. There was not a thing there, except for a few broken shards of wood: what had once been the table and chairs she had sat in no more than 24 hours ago.
Dorothy scowled. This was supposed to be easy. It had to be easy. She could barely cope with her newly gifted mortality, and now that batty old fool expected them to chase her across town?
What if it wasn't across town?
What if it wasn't even in Paradigm?
Dorothy took the white-on-black stone out of her pocket and threw it at the ground in frustration.
Roger did his best not to chuckle at the rather juvenile display he had just witnessed. "What are you, thirteen?" he jibed in good humor.
Dorothy just glared at him and left the tent.
Roger sighed and shook his head, then bent to retrieve the cast-off stone. The damned thing shocked his fingers when he picked it up, and he was tempted to leave it.
"Well, I've got a few leads I can check," Roger said as he exited the tent, still looking at the stone in his hand. It was drizzling now. "We can…" Roger trailed off, as Dorothy was not really paying him any attention.
She was looking up at the sky, blinking furiously as the rain fell into her eyes.
"You've been out in the rain before," Roger said, frowning in a perplexed manner.
Dorothy just glanced at him as if to say I couldn't feel it then,and tilted her face upward again. Her eyes were the same color as the dark grey sky.
Grabbing Dorothy's forearm, Roger pulled her toward the car.
"Wait at the bar," Roger told her in a tone that brooked no arguments. He laid a few bills down on the counter and asked the bartender to "get the young lady a soda."
"Don't see you around much, Red," an elderly gentlemen in an old dress coat rasped quietly from his stool at the bar. "Looks like a helluva injury, there." He gestured to her hand with his drink. "Get your hand stuck in a food processor?"
Dorothy smiled shyly and shook her head. She nearly choked on the drink the bartender set in front of her, but it was quite good once she managed to get around the carbonation. She removed her coat in the warmth of the bar, settling it over her lap.
"Don't talk much?" the old man asked, his dark eyes crinkling at their corners as he smiled.
Dorothy shook her head again.
"Oh, that's all right," he said, taking a sip of his own drink, "I'm not much one for idle chatter anyways. It's a waste of good air, if you ask me.
" 'Sides," he added, leaning forward as if he had a secret. "I haven't heard a thing since I was thirteen."
Dorothy cocked her head to the side, eyebrows drawn down as she frowned.
"Don't frown so, miss. Lip readin' ain't that hard," the man said. "I done alright, and a smile like that oughta be out in the open where everyone can enjoy it."
Dorothy blushed, but smiled anyways.
"Who was that grumpy young man you walked in with?"
Dorothy scowled.
The old man chuckled. The chuckle turned into a phlegmy cough, and he pulled out a kerchief and covered his mouth. An oddly melancholic sense of loss seeped into the back of Dorothy's mind. Mr. Wayneright had been like that, late in his life, and suddenly Dorothy missed him terribly. He was the only thing close to family she had ever had.
She glanced at Roger, sitting in the corner with the man in the funny little hat. They were conversing surreptitiously in soft voices.
"He seems like a nice boy, but you give him hell if he treats you wrong, Red."
Dorothy smiled at the old man again, and took another sip of her soda.
Roger collected her a few minutes later, looking even more disgruntled than he had all day.
"No one knows a damn thing," he muttered, taking her coat and helping her into it. "You'd think he'd be able to dig something up, with the kind of money I pay him…"
"Can I help you?" he asked then, turning to the old man, who was smiling at Dorothy.
She was smiling back.
"You just take care of Red, and I'll be fine," the man said, lifting his almost-empty glass and swigging it down.
Roger looked more disgruntled than he had a few minutes ago, but before he could retort Dorothy had grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the bar.
The rain had abated, and the sun shone weakly through the thick clouds.
"I think I might have found something," Roger said, opening the car door for her. "The carnival's supposed to be open again this evening. I figure we can go a quick dinner, run a few errands for Norman, and…"
He trailed off with a rather un-Rogerlike "Hn…" and cocked his head to the side as if listening for something.
Dorothy thought she heard sirens.
A small crowd was gathering at the end of the block.
"Come on," Roger said, grabbing her uninjured hand and pulling her out of the car. He proceeded to walk quickly to the scene of the accident. This, for Dorothy, constituted a light jog, and while she knew her body could more than handle it, the slight burning in her lungs was enough to distract her form her surroundings. She nearly ran headlong in to some poor old woman with a walker.
Roger just pushed through the people, making sure to keep Dorothy in his sights, and came to stand beside the flaming car that was drawing the crowd. Then, Roger being Roger, he had to make sure that everyone who might possibly be in danger was as far away from the burning wreckage as possible. The door to the house nearest the wreck was standing ajar, and the loud wailing of a frightened child could be heard. Naturally, Roger rushed to the sound. Dorothy was right behind him.
What they found was rather mystifying. There was a priest, youngish but beginning to grey at the temples. He appeared to be exorcising or praying (Roger wasn't sure which) for a young girl, who was clinging a very frightened woman. The mother and child were huddled on the couch, the priest kneeling before them.
Something about this scene struck Dorothy as rather peculiar, and a deep, rolling fear settled itself in her stomach. Suddenly dizzy, she clutched at the doorframe, the small dingy living room spinning around her.
A second or two, no more, and it had passed.
Now she was drawn to this little girl. There was something similar about the two of them. She could feel it in her chest, the way it constricted at the sight of this small child, as if in sympathy.
Or empathy.
She made a dash for the darkened hallway behind the couch, ignoring Roger's shouts, the screaming mother, the wailing child and the chanting clergyman. The last door down on the right belonged to a little girl and Dorothy though it as good a place as any to look for the now-hated object she prayed she wouldn't find.
But there it was, lying calmly on the bedside table, next to a lamp fashioned out of a toy carousel, as if it meant for her to find it. She could feel the little white hawk grinning cheekily at her from its background of black stone.
With shaking hands she picked it up. It blazed against her palm, growing warmer, until it was all Dorothy could do not to drop it.
There was an unfamiliar ache in her chest, and a burning wetness on her cheeks as she carried the stone back to the living room to show Roger.
I figured I should make this chapter good and long since it took me so damn long to get it out. Sorry folks, I just can't make myself work on anything. Hope you enjoyed this installment, and maybe it won't be too long 'til the next chapter.
But don't count on it…