Queen of Angels (33 page)

wide, colorless eyes, she said, still using the childs voice, We send the King to the Land Under the Sea, sou dleau. Then we dance. Which King is that? Martin asked. King of the Hill. King of the Road. Take us to the funeral, then, Martin said. It is everywhere. Now. The horse is tired of talking. She tripped away, toppling more shelves. She knocked against the large jar containing the cadaver. The jar wobbled on its low base, tipped one way and another and fell over, shattering on the floor. The smell that rose from the spilled fluid and sprawled cadaver was unbelievably vile. Martin and Carol backed away, hands clamped over their noseswhich did nothing whatsoever to block the fetor. Pardon me, the childs voice said as Madame Roach retreated from the mess. She trembled violently again, wrapped her hands around her neck, threw back her head and made strangling noises. Lets go, Carol suggested. Now. But the cadaver twitched in the shattered glass and fluid. It rose slowly on its arms, shot out one wrinkled knee and foot and stood. It wore a ragged pair of cutoff shorts and sandals. Madame Roach moaned and shrieked. The cadaver mumbled but could say nothing intelligible. It looked around with blind eyes and lurched toward the wall of drums. Martin and Carol sidled quickly into another aisle to let it pass. The cadaver picked out a smaller drum and pulled it from the wall with a twang of broken wires. It kneeled down on the floor and beat the skin heavily with dead fingers. At each beat the shelves and walls of the shop sucked inward, opening cracks and gaping holes. Through the cracks and gaps Martin saw a smoking darkness. Lets go, please, Carol said. He could not feel her. All he could feel was his own confusion. He had no idea where they really were in relation to Goldsmiths Country or whether they had any true control.. A shelf splintered in two and delivered hundreds of tiny glass jars to his feet. The jars tops broke away and insects crawled around the floor cluttering and singing in tiny childrens voices. The drum beat insistently beneath the cadavers fingers. Martin reached up for the toolkit. It came down intact, seemingly ready to use. He tugged on the ripcord and it turned into a knife, a huge Bowie knife, the blade smeared with blood. The cadaver dropped the drum and moaned, falling backward to the floor. | What did you do? Carol asked. | I dont know! On the cadavers neck welled a fistsized bubble of fresh blood red as roses. The surface of the bubble appeared crystalline. Martin stared at the gout, unable to see or think of anything else. His point of view dropped to a level with the blood | Martin and he swam into the gout. On all sides curtains of amber and red shimmered. His nose filled with the rich gravy copper smell. He was drowning in it swallowing choking breathing blood. The toolkit hung in his vision upper left ticking off another wide journey across the loci another fall away from the Country. | Carol Neither of them bad any control at all. Wherever Carol was, like himself, she was on her own. The blood fog cleared. Martin felt warmth and a sharp sensation of joining, a deep intimacy with something confused and terrified yet horribly foul.

Margery wrinkled her nose nervously. She did not like the traces on the equipment. She thought again about calling for Erwin but resisted again. Not enough time had passed for them to be alarmed; none of the alarms bad gone off. Other than the displacement and gyrations through the loci everything seemed in order. All was quiet. The three sleeping bodies in the theater breathed almost in unison, faces carrying only the expression that separates those sleeping from those dead.

if when a child nobody lets you forget what you are You are responsible for your Mama she was a beautiful lady. She: Picks up clothes scattered around the cluttered room, bends over her little darling, shows the beautiful rings on her fingers and the necklaces adorning her slender and graceful neck, her face is wise yet she is angry at you, the north wind blows from her eyes cold and freezes the water of the toilet you are sitting on. Something dark comes into the room and tells your mother Hazel she must go it is definitely time to go, people are waiting in line to die. Before she goes with the dark figure in a ceramic mask she bends over the little child on the potty and says You be good now. Mama has to go away. She wont be able to write or send you postcards. Another someone like Mama but not smells sweet like a garden lies in bed all the time twisting a lace handkerchief and weeping that her men just dont love her enough never enough her name is Marie the dark figure comes in tells her it is time to take your punishment. Marie weeps diamonds and when the dark figure beats her with a smoke arm she reaches out to the child and says, You be good now. Your Papa he knows I been bad. No more someones now. just the two children wrapped in their own red fur playing on the wood floor the dark figure comes he says Dont You be good now or youll make me mad When Im mad Im Beats the other red furred twin The twins go into a room and see a woman lying on the bed. She must be a woman but she is twisted like a broken timber like crossroads rearranged in an earthquake we go up to her onto the bed and see she has a face like Mama only its covered with paint, garish makeup, amber and orange and red in the sun through the window, the other twin says, Thats Mama, I say no it isnt. Yes Its Mama. Go to suckle on her breast. Milk flows from the teat white and then turns pink and then red. The Dark Man he comes in beats us beats the other twin takes him to the hospital white walls smell of alcohol squeaky vinyl seats He fell dawn a whole set of stairs the Dark Man says. They take the Dark Man away. The twins live elsewhere for a time, with a huge woman who puts amulets around their necks and tells them stories of snakes and wolves and bears and coyotes. The Dark Man returns and the twins live with him again. The Dark Man does what he does Shatters the little clay jar pot de t Inside is the very large knife big in hand. Martin stood on a cold snowy street looking up at shadows on a curtained window, struggling. Dramatic music score in the background. Big voice booming shrieking gurgling. Cant kill the Dark Man Lives forever. Comes back to claim you. Moves back into the apartment. The Dark Man does The knife moves The red furred twins escape its a miracle! And live in the land of grass. where the woman in jewels languishes on a great couch shaded from the bright sunshine, waving her feather fan, approving of all the twins do. except when she sighs and weeps that no man loves her nearly enough, that all her lovers cheat on her, that nobody brings her enough gifts, is she not Erzulie? I told you not to mess with that jar, Madame Roach says, taking him by the hand. Martin is confused but follows her up the long dark stairs. His arm and band are the arm and hand of a boy about fourteen, skin black. We stuffed your papa in that jar. But you had to mess with IL I dont know about o z, child. Now he wants to see you. Wants to ask you some questions. She leads him to a door and opens tne door, dragging him reluctantly through. Sir, I have brought Martin Emanuel, she proclaims, and pushes through a bead curtain into a sparsely furnished room. In the middle of the room sit two thrones, one empty, the other occupied by a broad faced man with a flat nose and a bald head, sclera of his eyes yeilow and lusterless. Youve come to ask us questions, the broad faced man says. Martin stands before him, Madame Roach behind; Carol is nowhere to be seen. I need to speak to somebody in charge. Im the one in charge, the man says. His face becomes lean, his skin white and hair gray. I am Sir and Im in charge. Martin knows instinctively that this is not the representative of Goldsmiths primary personality. It is all wrong. It takes the wrong forms; such representatives do not make themselves up from shadows or nightmares or Dark Men. I need to ask questions of whoever is in charge. Oh, hes in charge, Madame Roach says. Ever since the funeral hes taken command. Where is Emanuel Goldsmith? Arent you him? Sir asks. Or his twin? No. Im not him. You must mean the Mayor. The broad faced man laughs. The young mayor. He died of himself. I didnt touch him. He just fell down stairs by himself. Martin feels sick. I need to see him. The broad faced man rises, takes Martin Emanuels outstretched adolescern hand, opens the palm out, points to a spot of blood on the palm, smiles, shakes his head, leads him through another bead curtain into a room. A coffin sits on a bier in the middle of the room. The broad faced man roughly pushes Martin Emanuel up to the coffin. Theres the Mayor. Thats what the funerals all about, didnt she tell you? Martin reluctantly peers over the lip of the coffin. The white satin pads contain an impression of a body. But there is no body visible. Weak and puny. Insipid gros hOn ange. Always was. Just faded away, says Madame Roach. How could he die? He was primary. He feared he was white, Madame Roach says. He thought he was white as dawn and never did believe in who he really was. He wasnt white, was he? Martin asks. He was black as night, black as the heart of an uncut tree, black as the legs of a mountain, black as an undiscovered truth, black as a mothers breast, black as fresh love, black as cod where the sun hides its treasure, black as a womb, black as the sea, black as the sleeping Earth. He just didnt believe in himself. Not from the time he had to cut up Sir. Martin turns to look at the broad faced man. He sees the face of Colonel Sir John Yardley and then the cadaver in the jar.

I tried to teach him, the broad faced man says. I beat him and beat him to make him into a man. All pain no gain, Id say, all pain no gain that boy. Life took him like acid in a tight metal groove. He was weak. I was stone, he was mud. He killed me and now Im back and punishment is too good for us all. Martin touches the edge of the coffin, reaches for the impression in the satin and finds cold flesh instead. He draws his hand back quickly then forces himself to touch the invisible form again, finds outlines of a youthful face, lightly bristle-bearded, eyes closed, lips slack. Now hes truly white, Madame Roach. says. White as air. Martin turns to face Sir. How long have you been in charge? he asks. Always, I think, Sir says. Even when he cut my throat, the little bastard, Ive been in charge. Youre lying. Youre nobody, Martin says, using not just his voice but Carols as well. Youre not a primary. You cant be... You cant be anything more than a subpersonality or a bad memory. I control the river, Sir tells him and spreads his arm until the room fills with shadow figures. each wearing a cracked ceramic mask. I control the ocean. The ceiling is covered with dark clouds. How can I be nothing? Because, Madame Roach says quietly, the Mayor is dead.

Margery inspected the displays. The triplex had made another violent circuit of the mapped loci, this time in just a few seconds. As she watched, the probe gyrated again. She frowned; now she knew something was wrong. There was no precedent for this kind of activity. She checked Burkes metabolism and brain chemistry. He showed extreme emotion. Neuman seemed to have entered a state of neutral sleep and that was completely unexpected. Somethings wrong! she called out. Erwin had gone to the other side of the theater to observe Goldsmith and balance his balky neutral sleep. She looked at her watch. Burke and Neuman had been in Country for an hour and a half. Im getting bad readings. Erwin came around the curtain and confirmed her interpretation. All right, he said, taking a deep breath. We cut the connections. What about latency? Margery asked. This is pretty bad. Burkes in panic. Neumans out of things completely. I dont think we have much choice. Sever them. He circled the curtain and stood beside Goldsmith. Everythings reading stable on this end. How do you want to do itdisconnect before the interpreter, or at Goldsmiths junction? Margery bit her finger, trying to judge the consequences either way. Id feel much better if we sent David and Karl in to find out whats happening, Erwin said. I disagree, Margery said. Ive never seen Burke in a panic and weve never had an investigator enter neutral sleep during a probe.. . I wouldnt want to go up Country under those circumstances. I say cut them off. And soon. Jesus, Jesus, Margery said under her breath. She reached for the connector on Burkes neck. Im going to cut before the interpreter. Come over here. I want to sever Neuman and Burke together. Erwin rejoined her and placed his band on Neumans cable junction. All right? Do it together, she said. On count of three. One,

A massive snakelike whip struck Martin squarely in the back, bit in with metal fangs and jerked him away from the dark room and the coffin. His passage was horribly painful; he could not breathe and he could see only a cascade of burning sparks. Then just as abruptly be stood in the middle of a street in a small town. Unslaved cars from before the teens drove around him slowly. Pleasant faced drivers looked at him with expectant complacency as if he were a signpost. He rubbed his face with his hands, fully disoriented, then walked across one lane, dodging the slow cars, to reach the concrete sidewalk. Warm sun, asphalt streets with white crosswalk lines, small one or two story buildings on both sides of the street, family owned businesses. He could not read any of the signsthey were stylized gibberishbut he knew this place. A small town somewhere in California. His grandparents had lived in just such a town not far from Stockton. He stood in front of a hardware store. Across the street was a vacuum cleaner dealership. His grandfather had run such a businessa drycleaners shop. One summer Martin had helped him work a new ultrasound cleaning machine. Goldsmiths Country could not possibly provide anything so familiar. Where was he, then? He felt dizzy. Turning to find a place to sit, he saw black afterimages trail the people and buildings. He was in the Country stillbut not Goldsmiths, of that he was sure. He sat abruptly on the curb, his vision spinning. When the images settled again he felt something standing behind him, warm as a tiny sun. Glancing over his shoulder he saw a sandy haired young man looking down with a solicitous smile. | You okay? the young man asked. | I dont know. | You dont look like youre doing too well, is why I ask. Familiar voice. A reasonable midwestern drawl, self assurance minus self assertion. Martin shaded his eyes against the sun without really needing tothe brightness was not painful and examined the young man more closely. Familiar features. Short nose, brown eyes under silky red brows, generous mouth with well-defined dimples. | Dad? Martin asked. He stood, tottering again as the images wavered. My God, Dad? | Nobodys called me Dad before, the young man said. Not anybody as old as you, surely. Martin reached out to touch the young man, pinched the cotton fabric of his shirt between his fingers and felt the solid flesh beneath. The young man shrugged Martins hand loose inoffensively. | Anything I can do to help? | Do you know a Martin Burke? Martin asked. | We have a fellow named Marty. Young fellow. About nineteen. Martin knew where he was. He had long since learned in his dreams, in his deep meditations, that his own internal imagethe image his primary personality assumedwas fixed at about age nineteen. He had been fed back into his own Country of the Mind. He had no idea how such a thing could happen. The implications were more than he could absorb, fresh from his fear and disorientation. He had circled back and emerged in his deepest core, something he did not believe was possible. The sandy haired young mans features contorted and his skin paled. He looked over Martins shoulder and pointed a finger. | Whos that? Martin felt a chill at his back like a spike of ice absorbing all heat. Martin turned. The broad faced bald headed man stood in the middle of the street, blind white eyes directed at him, gashed throat bleeding in spurts onto the center line of the pavement. | Who is that? the young man repeated, alarmed. Rime grew on his red brows and hair, and his skin turned blue as ice.