Midian Unmade

by Joseph Nassise

  He moved past the familiar marble. The lawns and graves were well kept here, unlike Midian. He was still at home among the dead, even the beautiful dead of Los Angeles. Even the name, Hollywood Forever, seemed a lie, but a lie with a promise. Among the familiar stones, paths, and crypts the real rhythms of the Breed began to return to him. Not what he played in clubs and bars, but what had come through him in Midian.

  He drummed for her. He drummed for her dead friend. He drummed for himself and all the Breed. Not for those pretending, but those who were. When he walked, he was never alone. He was Iblis, and he was born of fire.

  ANOTHER LITTLE PIECE OF MY HEART

  A Story of Midian

  Nancy Holder

  The air belowground in Corazón was thick with the scents of incense, blood, and meat. Good scents, holy, but if they had a sound, it would be a closing door. A gate, shutting. A tomb collapsing in on itself. Separated, away.

  From Cabal.

  Other sounds clanged against Coeur’s eardrums, but these were like slowing heartbeats. She had just received her three sacred words, her mantra. Her path, then, would be Dark. The chant had been chosen for her by the elders, and divulged to her by Jean-Marc, first elder, who was her father. This was her initiation into the holy work of the tribe: some rejoiced, others mourned, all sought to confuse.

  Her words mourned.

  They were not the three words she had longed to hear. They were words of the past. Of moving away from the Beloved:

  Invasion.

  Diaspora.

  Exile.

  Coeur’s vocation required her to think the words until they were a part of her. To find her own darkness and increase it, to send her thoughts out to the night on behalf of the tribe. Corazón must never forget that they had been and still were in mortal peril. Decker, the Antichrist who had led the human attack on Midian, was forever dead. Ashbery had been his disciple, and in the fighting had been made an imbecile who was somehow privileged to hear the plans and dreams of the Nightbreed, which he could relate to Eigerman. Eigerman, his minder, was Decker’s other acolyte. And Eigerman had sworn not to die until he could put an end to the Breed, forever.

  Because of the imbecile, each of the tribes silently chanted words to clog Ashbery’s mystic channels—to confound and deceive their mortal enemy. All of the tribes, each with their own mantras, whispered such barriers into being. It was marking time, in a way. It was waiting. Stalling, some said. But it was a life.

  Sange, who was exactly Coeur’s age and so was initiated at the same time—they were both eighteen tonight—smiled when Jean-Marc whispered his three words into his ear. Coeur knew then that he had been given the words of the Light:

  Rendezvous.

  Rebuild.

  Restart.

  The words of hope, and also of defiance. If Ashbery heard them, he would translate them like this: When Midian is rebuilt, we will dance on the graves of the human race. You will become dust, and you will be utterly forgotten.

  Only the elders could utter the Prophet’s name aloud:

  Cabal.

  His human name was Boone, and he had been chosen by the Divine Creator whose name no one but Cabal was worthy to speak:

  Baphom-t.

  Cabal was to lead the people while they were scattered over the Northern Hemisphere. Cabal had caused the fall of the Nightbreed, but Baphom-t had decreed that Cabal would also bring them together when the Moon and stars aligned, and Midian rose again in glory. When the crass and brutal sun burned the human race away, and the Moon regained her luminous dominion. Then the Nightbreed would caper and dance over the world made new.

  And then she would see Cabal.

  Until that time, the Nightbreed must hide below, as they had done in Midian. In simplest terms, they must outlast their enemies. As it had been written: “Keeping the children from the roofs at night, the bereaved from crying out too loud, the young in summer from falling in love with a human.”

  And on the night of her initiation into the tribe, and the receipt of her three sacred words, Coeur knew that she was in terrible trouble. Her sin was grievous. Because other words filled her head:

  Let’s

  Run

  Away.

  The tears that she shed during the ritual weeping of every initiated Dark member were genuine. The pain that coursed through her body as she knelt in the dirt and her wings were sewn together was real. But as the elders cut her hair and burned it with the incense that clogged and choked the passageways of their village, she wasn’t meditating on the suffering of their sundered god, Baphom-t. She wasn’t mourning the flight of a dozen tribes hastily formed as Midian fell, each given a piece of the One to protect until He could be made whole again. She wasn’t showering Cabal with filial love and obedience.

  She was thinking of the human boy aboveground who was waiting for her. Because it was summer, and she had fallen in love.

  After she had put on her black robe and the music started, she stared at the chunks of meat and told herself over and over that they weren’t Bobby. They couldn’t be Bobby. Sange, in a white robe and feasting hungrily after the long fast, sidled over to her and smiled.

  “Coeur, are you all right?” Sange asked. His dark eyes were set deep in a face of hollows and valleys, and fleshy lips that would now mouth three happy words nearly every waking hour.

  Sange towered over Coeur. He was so muscular that when his wings had been sewn together (like hers: symbolic of their hobbling until Midian was restored), cords of muscle bunched along his shoulder blades. When they were younger, she had thought him the most beautiful of the Breed she had ever seen. And that was still true.

  But then she had learned that beauty truly was only skin deep.

  Yes, she had gone aboveground. She blamed it on the Internet, which of course she couldn’t access deep in the earth. But the elders went upside to communicate with Cabal and the other tribes. They discussed the possible sightings of Eigerman. They debated whether or not it was safe yet. They traded news about their tribes: births, illnesses, abundance of meat, lack thereof.

  It wasn’t hard to go up. She dug herself a little tunnel—it had taken only a month—and stumbled out into the night. Sweet, fresh air. Stars. The moon, which was the eye of the Creator. She whirled in a circle, laughing, and took off all her clothes. Her hobbled wings strained to flap in the breeze. She raised her arms, dreaming of flying.

  No one caught her; there were no consequences. And she began to think that maybe the elders looked the other way as a matter of course, and others did what she was doing. She tried to hint to Sange, test him, see if he had gone up.

  It was pretty clear to her that he hadn’t. He had never even thought about it, as far as she could tell. And from now on, he would think only of Rendezvous, Rebuild, Restart. He wouldn’t think about cacti and coyotes, as she did. Or about a boy who rode a horse and who sometimes rode with other humans. And who talked about Albuquerque and the Balloon Fiesta and other clues to their whereabouts—details that the imbecile could use to locate her tribe, and destroy it.

  She shouldn’t go. She couldn’t.

  Or … she could go forever.

  That was Bobby’s mantra: Let’s run away.

  He had seen her one night; he’d been walking his horse because the animal had thrown a shoe. When she had spun naked in the moonlight, arms raised, laughing, he had shouted so loudly that the coyotes had yipped and the wolves had howled. She had rushed at him like a hunter, ready to make meat of him. There had been no hesitation; she was Nightbreed, and he was not. He was game.

  But then she saw his eyes. Deep brown, enormous, and somehow familiar. She stood rooted as he found the courage to approach her, and then he spoke, and she understood him. She didn’t know if his language was the same as hers, or if it was a mystical connection such as the one between the imbecile Ashbery and the Breed.

  He spoke triplet words:

  Who

  Are

  You?

 
Not What are you? For her, always, there had been no thought of “who” when it came to humans. The named humans were evil: Decker, Ashbery, Eigerman. The once-humans had been renamed: Cabal and his woman, known only as She. Breed names.

  Except that when Coeur didn’t answer, he said, “My name is Bobby.”

  Why, oh why had she fallen in love with him? Why did his name ring in her ears during her initiation? Why was it so hard to hear Invasion Diaspora Exile?

  Bobby had seen, and she had told him only a little. Only that she wasn’t from outer space (not really), or a strange Native American angel, or a goddess. And that there were others, and she was bound to them. That by meeting him, and stealing away to be with him, she was endangering her family.

  “Then run away with me,” he said.

  Maybe he didn’t know that if she left her tribe she would be in worse danger. There was safety in numbers. A Breed alone was a walking target. Unless Eigerman wouldn’t bother with just one.

  Maybe Eigerman would hunt her down and torture her for information. Cabal had told them that the human devil had followers now, who sat at the feet of Ashbery and listened, rapt, as Eigerman translated what Ashbery was saying. They had pledged to rid the world of the abominations. To them, Decker was a saint, not a serial killer who had driven Cabal nearly mad. But who, in his way, had contributed to Cabal’s transformation.

  Would Bobby contribute to her transformation? Was her transformation important?

  Cabal. She wanted to see him, hear him. She wanted to know the path she must take. Cabal would tell her her fortune. He would give her the answer. How else to explain her obsession with Cabal?

  Unless all were so obsessed.

  Bobby believed that he would be delivering her from horrible monsters who were torturing her—sewing her wings together!—and forcing her to live in servitude. She couldn’t tell him otherwise. She didn’t want him to know anything about the Breed. He already knew too much.

  She didn’t know if she could change him with a bite. No one in the tribe had ever changed anybody. She couldn’t ask because she couldn’t confess.

  It was insanity even to think it. And a terrible betrayal. She was putting the tribe in danger every time she so much as thought of him. He was aboveground, waiting.

  Once the initiation and feasting were done, it was custom to spend the night alone. It was the last night alone; ever after, one was joined in resolve to protect the tribe.

  And of course, to protect the piece of Baphom-t that the tribe guarded: in the case of Corazón, it was a fragment of His beloved heart.

  Coeur had never seen it. She didn’t know where it was kept. Only the elders saw it, and only on special occasions. Sometimes she wondered if it really existed. Or if Baphom-t was just a happy dream the elders had created to give the people hope.

  If only she could ask Cabal.

  She loved Bobby.

  She hated her words.

  But maybe they were the correct ones, because they would remind her that love could bring the downfall of the Nightbreed. Look at Cabal. His love for his woman had led to the destruction of their home.

  But Cabal was going to make a miracle.

  Cabal, not Coeur, was Baphom-t’s chosen prophet.

  But she was His child.

  Bobby was not.

  The odor of meat filled her nostrils but her stomach clenched. Sange touched her shoulder very gently.

  “Coeur?”

  “I’m—I’m … I hate my words. They’re the Dark ones,” she blurted. She was horrified. She hadn’t planned to say that. It was sacrilege, she was sure of it, especially since her father was the leader of the elders.

  Sange blew air out of his cheeks and took her hand. He hadn’t touched her for years. When they’d been little, they’d roughhoused constantly. Her wings strained against their stitches and she had a sharp image of flying with Bobby. But Bobby had no wings.

  “I’d hoped you get the words of the Light, like me,” he said, “so we could chant together.” His smile spoke other words. She’d always thought she’d wind up married to Sange. He was gentle and direct; she didn’t think he knew what the word “duplicity” meant.

  What am I going to do? What should I do? She wanted to ask Sange. Instead she smiled sadly at him and said, “I was hoping for that too.”

  He took her hand and laced his fingers through hers. “The right thing will happen.”

  “Do you really believe that?” she asked, and he nodded.

  She reached up on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his. He growled with pleasure; then she darted away, grabbing a chunk of meat.

  But she still couldn’t eat. She looked at the faces of her tribal family, so familiar, yet changing with the years. Then she felt a gaze on her, and looked in that direction: it was her grandmother, who had been horribly scarred during the fall of Midian. She wore a veil over her face; she had once been a great beauty.

  Coeur glided over to her and offered her the meat in her bloodstained hands.

  “Grandmama,” she said.

  Her grandmother waved the meat away and Coeur set it on an empty plate. The old lady lifted her veil and Coeur didn’t flinch as she kissed the deformed, crisscrossed cheek.

  “Look at you, all grown up,” her grandmother said fondly. “Initiated.”

  Coeur smiled falsely and nodded. “Ready to begin the work.”

  “I wonder.” Her grandmother cocked her head. Her milky eyes bored in on Coeur; Coeur prickled with anxiety. “Walk with me, child,” her grandmother said, extending her hand.

  Coeur helped her to a standing position and her grandmother laced arms with her. Then she lowered her veil into place and together they left the feasting hall. Coeur looked over her shoulder at Sange, who was across the room, surrounded by his brothers and sisters. He was laughing with them, celebrating. Coeur was an only child. Her father was first elder, and her mother was always busy with the affairs of the tribe.

  Her grandmother was revered; she could go anywhere she wanted in Corazón. Guards saluted her and moved aside from passageways Coeur had never seen before; together they descended a steep, dark tunnel.

  The walls boomed and thrummed; the vibrations pulsated through Coeur as if she had walked into a gigantic living animal. As they went deeper, she saw rivulets in the surrounding rock that glowed then went dark, glowed-glowed, went dark. A heartbeat.

  An arched wooden door maintained the rhythm, and it opened at the touch of the old lady’s hand. She looked at Coeur and said, “Before we go in, I will speak three words to you: Follow your heart.”

  Coeur gasped. Her grandmother smiled as gently as Sange and said, “I followed you up, child. I know about your human boy, and your plan. And you must follow your heart.”

  Coeur was speechless. She swallowed acid. Her wings strained.

  “But I don’t know my own heart,” Coeur began, and her grandmother laid a finger across her lips.

  “You love him. The Prophet has shown us that human and Nightbreed can become one. He was human. She was human.”

  Coeur gaped at her. This went against all teachings. All. This was blasphemy.

  “I’m older than this tribe,” her grandmother said. “I was there, Coeur. It’s been forty years, and change must come. That is the lesson of Cabal.”

  She spoke his name!

  Cabal. He was the apex, the centrum, the new thing. If only she could speak to Cabal herself, and learn what she must do.

  “And, I believe, the wish of Baphomet,” her grandmother continued.

  And she spoke His name!

  Coeur was nearly catatonic, unaware of movement as her grandmother led her into a dazzling chamber of visceral heat. Glowing, scintillating; Coeur had to shield her eyes. Her hands began to sear. She tried to turn away, but her grandmother planted a skeletal hand beneath her chin and turned her face to the fire.

  “Open your eyes.”

  It was a struggle, but she obeyed.

  A flash of an image: inside a
charred box, meat, jewel-like and glistening, dripping and bloody; her mouth watering until the saliva turned to steam. Beautiful, beautiful.

  The heart of her god.

  The tribe created barriers with their thoughts; Baphomet created universes. Into Coeur he poured His thoughts, His mantra.

  Follow my heart.

  Her brain bubbled.

  Follow my heart.

  “Child?” her grandmother whispered.

  She grabbed her grandmother around the neck and choked, and choked, and choked. The old lady struggled, her eyes bulging, her atrophied wings fluttering. She could not live. Could not know and say such things and live.

  Cabal would agree.

  Coeur let the body fall to the floor.

  She left the chamber and shut the door. Stumbled up into the feasting room; then clawed her way up into her own little tunnel; emerging in the desert where Bobby paced. His cry told her he was there; his arms were strong as he embraced her. His mouth on her.

  His promises.

  “Cut the stitches,” she whispered, turning.

  He was ready; he had brought a hunting knife. He was not afraid or revolted. He cut through the thread, nicking her, apologizing. He didn’t know that she saw nothing but light now. Some might say that she was blind. Others, that she was like Ashbery.

  He kissed her, hard, murmured, “Fly us away.”

  Her wings flapped for the first time in the cold desert night. She saw Baphomet’s eyes and all other pieces of Him in the planets and moons above them. His heart in the vast desert below. She flew and flew with Bobby against her chest; Bobby, erect and ready to meld with her and make futures, to begin a new race.

  The tribes had hidden their god for forty years.

  She soared up, up, to where there was no air. By then, Bobby was frozen; he held fast to her, his penis a length of ice, his words adhered to his lips.

  I love—

  She let go of the corpse and it dropped, where it would be pulverized. Never traced. Then she ascended, out of the atmosphere and into space. Following Baphomet’s heart. Of which she was now a piece.

  Revival

  Resurrection.