Jilo (11 page)

“But he ain’t gonna mess with you now.” Pushing herself up a bit, she turned her face to the heavens, as if she were greeting God himself. “He ain’t gonna risk it now that he knows I’m still around.” The veiled face turned back to May. “You’re gonna have to let me teach you the things I taught your mama. And her mama. And her mama before that. Hell, girl, your family and me, we go a long way back.” The Beekeeper held her hand out to May. May felt ill at ease; Maguire had made a very similar statement. Did this creature, too, feel it somehow held ownership of her people?

May took a step or two closer and reached out, willing herself to have the bravery to touch this phantom. Her quivering hand fell back to her side. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid.”

Focused on her guest, and her own trembling, May hadn’t noticed the front door opening. It was the screech of the screen door that alerted her to Jilo’s presence. The little one pushed the door outward, and with one chubby fist in her mouth, stumbled out onto the porch. Her eyes filled with delight at the sight of the Beekeeper.

“Jilo,” May called, but it was too late. The child had already bounded, arms flung wide open, to where the Beekeeper sat.

The creature reached over and scooped the child up into her embrace. “This one,” she said, “she isn’t afraid of magic.” She chuckled as Jilo reached out with her wet fingers and pulled the veil high. “She ain’t afraid of nothing.”

THIRTEEN

The Savannah Morning Star

July 13, 1936

Page A1

Local Luminary Leads Delegation to Berlin Olympics

Distinguished Savannah businessman Sterling Maguire (shown center in above photograph) will lead a group of seven Georgia state dignitaries to the Games of the XI Olympiad that are to be held next month in Berlin. “Before his death, my father grew to be a great admirer of the German chancellor,” Maguire said. “I share my father’s enthusiasm for this dynamic new leader of the German nation. By combining the best thinking of our own American industry with the subversion and removal of the undesirable and decadent elements of society that led to his country’s decline, Chancellor Hitler has single-handedly pulled the German people out of the morass they found themselves in following the Great War. As the German people have learned from great Americans like Henry Ford, so is there much we Americans can learn from great Germans like Adolph Hitler.” When asked about earlier pressures from certain fringe elements to boycott the Berlin Olympic Games, Mr. Maguire stated, “Consider the source. Why would those who would reject the Messiah Himself be any more kindly inclined toward Chancellor Hitler?” The delegation is scheduled to arrive in Berlin a week prior to the commencement of the games to allow for an official tour of the city and the new 100,000-seat stadium. The highlight of the visit will be an opportunity for the delegation to meet with both the chancellor and Minister Hermann Göring.” (Story continues on page A10.)

May took her time cutting the piece from the newspaper, making sure to hold the scissors firmly in hand and to cut precisely along the straight-edge lines she’d drawn as guides. She flipped through the pages to find the article’s conclusion, then repeated the process, although that bit didn’t really have much to add about Maguire. It went on about some new thing called television that was gonna let people miles away from the games watch them just like they were sitting there. Kind of like radio, the article explained, just with moving pictures, too.

She dabbed a bit of paste on the back of each portion of the article and added it to the scrapbook with the other news pieces she’d collected about the Maguires since the last time she’d laid eyes on them, there in the basement of the Pinnacle. Maguire had kept plenty quiet; he must’ve received the Beekeeper’s message loud and clear. May had been watching for news of him in the papers, and she always had an ear open for any talk on the streets. Kids still went missing, but at least none had turned up butchered like the boy she’d buried out back. All the same, May was taking no chances. Sure, she was using her magic on a regular basis now, for the benefit of others as well as herself, but she wasn’t going to accept silence as surrender. May was determined to know her enemy, track his doings, and try to figure out when he might make his next move against her.

“Fletcher Maguire, Industrialist, Humanitarian, Dead at 62” was the first headline to have caught her eye. It had been front-page news only six weeks after she’d helped the father steal his own son’s body. The article alluded to the stroke Fletcher had suffered the night of her mama’s passing. From the way the elder Maguire’s body had looked, May had thought him much older. Maybe it had been a result of her mama’s final attempt to rid the world of him, or maybe it was the hate burning in his soul that had aged him so. She wondered how long it would take his foul spirit to burn through the son’s young flesh.

Some days after the grand obituary stained the front page, a single paragraph, buried toward the back of the
Star
’s section C—too far back to be of much interest to the whites and not part of section D, which carried most of the colored news—announced that Mrs. Sterling Maguire had traveled to Arizona with the goal of divorcing her estranged husband. Six weeks and one day later, the society page announced Sterling Maguire’s engagement to a blonde Birmingham debutante with a foreign-looking last name.

These more personal items glinted like gold among a pile of other mentions about Sterling Maguire fulfilling some civic duty or other, or mentions of the various businesses in which he owned an interest, a lot of them with names as foreign as his new wife’s.

May examined the man’s fine young features once more before closing the book and sliding it back under her mattress.

FOURTEEN

September 1936

For the first time in months, really since the first night she’d used magic, May dreamed about her mother. In the dream, she was walking behind her mama—recognizable only by the curve of her shoulders and the way she carried herself—but her mama wouldn’t turn back to look at her no matter how she pleaded.

May awoke to a scent of cigar smoke, something she hadn’t smelled in her house since her mother’s passing. She sat up in bed, suddenly alert, fearful that one of the girls had caught something alight. But no, she realized the next moment, this odor could be nothing other than a foul-smelling cheroot. She figured the scent was nothing more than a remnant of the dream.

Specks of dust danced in the air, and it surprised her to see sun streaming in through the window. She hadn’t missed the sunrise more than a few times in her adult life, and perhaps only a few more times than that as a child.

She sure as hell was no longer a child now. Lifting her old carcass out of bed became a bit harder with each passing day. This morning everything hurt. She swung her legs out of bed and rubbed her aching knee, consciously willing relief to it. The Beekeeper had shown her how to channel healing energy from the earth itself into her aching joints, which eased the stiff pressure and allowed her to move as freely as she had twenty or more years ago. The only problem was that the magic’s cure was only temporary. She had to connect with the magic again and again, willing it to rise up from the earth into her muscles and bones, “like sap rising in a tree,” as the Beekeeper had put it. May worried it was like an opium smoker returning to his pipe, and the more she came to depend on magic, the more of herself she’d lose to it.

It was Maguire who’d done it to her. If magic was a trap, a snare into which Maguire had willingly fallen, he’d dragged May in with him. One trap, two souls. May understood her mama better now. Her mama had done her best to protect her from magic, and May would go to her grave doing the same for her girls. At first she doubted she’d ever be capable, but now she was determined to succeed where her mama had failed. She’d take Maguire down before she drew her last breath.

As her feet made contact with the bare wooden floor, she heard the click of a door and watched as her closet door eased open. A warm and bright amber light spilled into the room, but instead of marrying itself with the natural glow of the sun, it swirled around in it like the sheen of oil on water. The angle at which the door had opened blocked the source of the glow from her sight.

Laughter, rough but jovial, sounded from behind the door. Last year, she would have figured she was dreaming. Today, May knew better. She rose to her feet, hoping she could deal with whatever nonsense had slipped into her home before the girls awoke.

She crept up behind the door, using it to shield herself from sight, planning to peek through the crack to see what awaited her. Just before she reached it, she realized how foolish it was to think whoever or whatever stood on the other side of that door didn’t already know she was there, so she stepped into the door frame, clutching the knob as if it could somehow help her maintain one foot in a sane world.

The cramped dark closet she’d always known had given way to a room whose boundaries were larger than those of her entire house, larger, she reckoned, than Savannah itself. The light she’d witnessed shone from a golden chandelier, much grander than anything the Pinnacle had ever boasted. The walls of the grand chamber before her were lined floor to ceiling with mirrors, so the dazzling bulbs, each like a miniature sun, were augmented through reflection. Beneath the chandelier stood a table whose length seemed to run on nearly forever, its far edge disappearing into the horizon, melding into its own reflection.

At the table sat a man—or at least what at first blush appeared to be a man. May was no longer so quick to make assumptions. His back was to her, but he reached up over his head and waved his hand forward, beckoning her.

“Come in, little sister,” he called. In the next instant he was on the opposite side of the table, facing her.

The man, jet haired and as handsome as any matinee idol, was dressed in a worn smoking jacket. He sat in his chair reversed, with one arm draped across its back. On the table before him sat a battered top hat with a band dyed a shocking shade of red and a wicked-looking knife with a long curved blade. He lowered his head, gazing at her with a playful, mischievous look in his midnight-blue eyes. His long, elegant fingers held one of the cigars May had smelled. The other was tucked neatly between the lips of the Beekeeper, who hovered near the man, her feet not touching the ground.

“Ah, now the party can begin,” the Beekeeper said, chewing the words out from around the cheroot. Her hand held an empty decanter, which she raised as if to toast May’s arrival. Regarding it with disappointment, she pushed it away and reached into nothingness to retrieve another dust-covered bottle. “Do come join us, dearie.”

May cast her eyes toward where the floor should be, but there was nothing but an endless depth. Stars twinkled within the sea of blackness, so she cast her eyes upward, rationalizing that its surface was so well polished, it reflected the overhead sky. That supposition was quickly dashed when she saw that the stars above did not align with those below. She tested the surface’s solidity, tapping it with her toe before trusting it to support her weight. When it didn’t fall out from under her, she took another step inside, pulling the door almost closed behind her, unwilling to let go of the knob in case the floor changed its mind and decided to swallow her whole.

“It’s only familiarity that makes you so sure the floor beneath you will hold you up. This”—the Beekeeper wiggled her gloved fingers over the yawning chasm beneath her—“is energy.” She pointed over May’s shoulder to the world that lay beyond the now halfway-open door, “Just as all that is energy. Now stop trying my patience, child. Come.”

May did as she was told, releasing the faceted glass knob and taking another step out into a seeming nothingness. The surface beneath her feet felt more solid as her confidence in its solidity grew.

“Yes,” the Beekeeper said, reaching out her hand, which May gladly caught hold of. In that instant, the world beneath her gave way, and she, too, was floating. Her grasp tightened on the Beekeeper’s glove. “Do not worry, child,” the Beekeeper said with a laugh. “This world is just as solid and real as the dream you know beyond the door.” She pulled her hand from May’s hold, and May realized that while she didn’t feel a surface beneath her, she wasn’t tumbling through an eternal darkness. The world around her was sufficient to provide her with the support she needed.

How is this possible?
May posed the question silently to herself.

“I don’t know,” the man said, then lifted his cigar to his lips. He took a puff, and as he blew it out, he raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “How is anything possible? It just is. We just are. You just are.” He paused. “I have missed our sunrise meetings,” he said, his lips pulling into a pout. She would have remembered this man, but before she could ask him what he meant, he stood and pulled her into a tight embrace. His lips brushed against her ear, the sensation causing her heart to leap and fanning a fire she had thought long extinguished.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo,” he whispered. Without releasing her, he stepped back, eyeing her from head to toe and back up again.

“Lester?” the name came to her, though she couldn’t bring herself to believe this flesh-and-blood man could be the rooster who’d greeted her so many mornings on her way to work.

“As good a name as any,” he said. “I’ve been called many worse.” He winked at her, then let her go and returned to his seat next to the Beekeeper. “Come, little sister. Sit. Join us.” He motioned with a flourish of his hand toward the chair across from his own.

Without realizing she had even moved, she found herself across from him. He turned to face the Beekeeper. “She is not as dried out as you led me to believe. There is still much life in her.”

“I never said otherwise,” the Beekeeper shot back. She snatched up the knife from the table and wagged it at her fellow, then picked up the bottle and used the knife to cut back the wax that had been used to seal its cork. “I have only said that she
denies
that life.” She worked the cork from the bottle and sent it sailing across the room. “Hold this,” she commanded May, passing her the burning cigar. After taking a swig from the bottle, the Beekeeper snatched the cigar back and pressed the bottle into May’s open hand. “There. Taste.”

May turned the bottle around in her hand, examining it. Curious yet cautious.

“See, my friend,” the Beekeeper called to the man, “she crosses the chasm to join us, but she is still terrified of letting herself go. This one is not afraid of dying; she is afraid of life.”

These words snapped something inside of May. She had spent her entire damned life being so careful—head down, voice modulated to sound respectful. She gripped the bottle and pressed it to her lips, tipping her head back and drinking till she choked. The white man patted May on the back as she held the bottle out to the applauding Beekeeper.

“So, what do you have to say for yourself, little sister,” he asked, as she felt her insides catch fire.

She said the first thing that came to her mind. “Hallelujah.”

The Beekeeper and her associate burst out laughing in unison, and despite herself, May joined them. “Hallelujah, indeed,” the man said and swiped away the bottle, tipping it to his lips and downing half its contents in a single draft.

“Hey, hey, hey.” The Beekeeper swatted him on the back and wrestled the bottle from him. “Not all at once.” She brushed aside her veil for another quick taste, then took a seat at the table and set the bottle down in front of her. Humming to herself, she rocked back and forth until her chair was balanced on its two back legs. She turned toward the man. “I’m proud of her, you know. I wanted her as a child, but her mother denied her to me. And she”—the Beekeeper pointed at May without looking at her—“denied herself to me as well. Until that fool servant of the Red King forced her to turn to me. She came to me not out of love for me, but out of fear of the Red King.”

“Well,” Lester began, his tone conciliatory, “the Red King is a fearsome creature. And little sister, she was just following her mother’s wishes.” He nodded in May’s direction. “She’s a good daughter, and you, Great Mother, should appreciate that.”

“Yes,” the Beekeeper said, though there was still a shred of resentment in her voice. “It has made our work harder, though, and I must prepare her for what is to come.” Her veiled face turned toward May. “After all, there are worse things out there than the Red King.”

May startled at her words. “What could be worse than the Red King?”

“The outsiders,” the Beekeeper said, then turned to Lester as if looking to him for corroboration. “Tell her about the outsiders.”

He leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. “Ah, yes, the outsiders, little sister. You wake quivering from your dreams of the kings, but there are many more fearsome beings in creation.” His bright and feverish eyes caught hers and held them. “The outsiders, they’re the ones who came here and changed the native animal,” he said, the bright light of the chandelier overhead creating a play of shadows that made his handsome face appear masklike. “They made man less like himself, and more like them.”

“Let us make man in our image,” the Beekeeper pronounced. Tilting the bottle to her lips, she began to sway and dance.

“And they made you wrong,” the man said, taking no heed of the veiled one’s gyrations. “Too much of this, not enough of that. No, you may fear the Red King, but the Red King, he fears those from beyond.

“Those they invested with magic, the ones you call witches, were the trickiest of all. They rebelled against the outsiders and sent them back beyond the sky, locking them”—he raised an arm and swept it around in a wide circle—“out there.” He reached out and snatched the bottle from the Beekeeper’s grasp, draining its contents and sending the bottle sailing to the floor. May watched as it slipped beneath the surface, falling into the endless forever. When she looked up, another bottle had appeared in his hand.

“The cleverest of the witches drew a line,” the Beekeeper sang out, “locking some things out, but locking some things in.”

“Things,” May began, “such as yourselves?”

“No, little sister,” the man said. “Not like us.” His eyes grew round with terror as he leaned in toward her. “Like
them
.” He pointed behind her, and she gasped and spun around, only to see her own reflection. Although her spirit dropped at the sight of her own fearful expression, the pair of them burst out laughing.

May turned back to witness the man using his sleeve to wipe away tears of mirth. “No, little sister. The Lady and I, we’ve been here as long as there has been a here to be.”

“The globe, it formed and cooled around us,” the Beekeeper said. “Your kind and all those that came before, they crawled from our flesh, they breathed in our spirit. When the outsiders came, they corrupted you, causing you to forget us and serve them. The outsiders planned to strip us of life and steal our magic. So when the witches rebelled, we helped them. Not that they knew . . .”