by Lee Thompson
“Did you let him take your magic?”
Red sighed, thinking, You’re talking to a bird, dude. You must be sick.
He said to the raven, “I don’t have any magic. No one does. It doesn’t exist.”
“He’s taken so much from you. From everyone who has risen to make a stand.”
“Who? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Red climbed out of bed and opened the window. “Get out of here before you get me in trouble.”
The raven said, “I leave when I’m ready. Don’t forget the butterfly. She needs you as much as you need her. There are very hard times ahead. Lean times.”
“Out!” Red waved at the window. His hand was black too, he realized. He looked burnt. And the bird was distracting him. He needed it out of the house, needed the raven to shut the hell up because he couldn’t think with it squawking about butterflies and lean times and things taking his magic.
He wished he’d been good at sports, at least then he’d have a baseball bat or tennis racket to shoo it from his room. He sighed and stared at the raven for a minute. “I’m leaving. You better be gone when I get back.”
“You poor boy,” the raven said. “You’re breaking Dream Nothing’s heart.” It appraised him with beady eyes, nonplussed and eager to get to the heart of the matter. Red looked around for something to drive its presence from his room, but before he found anything the raven burst from the bed with a flash of onyx wings and the roar of a midsummer storm. Red’s skin grew hot and moist and his mouth dry as the bird flew into the sunlight and exploded. He shook his head.
God, something is seriously wrong with me.
Everything looked normal as he walked into the kitchen. His parents were at the table. They were holding hands, which he hadn’t seen them do in a long, long time. He couldn’t remember what day it was, or why his sister wasn’t with them.
Red said, “Is Maggie home?”
They looked at him and his dad nodded but his mom said, “No.”
He was about to say, “So which is it?” But thought, Screw it. I’ll check her room myself. But his throat was parched so he grabbed a glass from the cupboard first. He filled it with orange juice, feeling like they had been talking before he got in there and that he was holding them up. Red went back down the hall and knocked on Maggie’s door. She said, “Come in if you want to die.”
He thought, I’ve died once. What can a second time hurt me? He shook the strange thought away and knocked again. Maggie said, in her high, chirpy voice, “Leave me alone. You suck.”
Red kicked her door. “What’s wrong with everyone?” He drank his OJ and was about to carry the cup back in the kitchen but stopped in his tracks when he saw the raven on the table and his parents leaning in, all of them whispering like they were trying to keep secrets from him.
He blinked and realized the glass he’d held a moment ago was gone. His fists at his sides, hurting, he opened his eyes, closed them tightly, and opened them again. The raven flew up, flapped around the table and then dove into the sink and disappeared.
Red thought, Huh.
His parents stared at him with worried looks cut into their faces. He wondered if he wore that same face—if the mask was torn away, or if the rage he felt at them, at himself, at everything since waking, had come up from a dark part of him he hadn’t known existed. He bit his lip and said, “What?”
Anytime before they would have told him to watch his mouth or tried to comfort him and see what was wrong, but they just sat there like some mindless zombies, like mannequins without hearts, and it only made him angrier. He walked out the front door, down the steps, waiting for them to follow, to say something like they always had, but they never came, they never spoke. He kept walking down the driveway until he hit English Road.
He trudged down the dirt roads, the five miles to town, his skin itching and heart full of emotions that nearly overpowered him at times. His mind kept trying to grasp at something he felt he’d forgotten, but it eluded him like a shadow fleeing into the darker corners of his mind every time he reached for it. Red wanted to tell himself, Don’t be scared, because he didn’t think there was anything to be frightened about—only things that frustrated him.
He passed the post office and walked up Amy’s street, his hands crammed into his hoodie, imagining a boy that crept through the world like a ghost, unnoticed, alone, and it pained him to think that there probably were people like that, ghosts like that who died right there, on that porch while the sun beat down on a hot summer day, or the wind bit necks with crispness and coming winter, and those people were trapped by their memories, enclosed in a box of who they were and who they wished they could’ve been, but there was never enough time to do everything that you wanted to do, so you had to be picky and you had to hope you made the right choices.
Red knew he didn’t make the right choices too often. Half the time he had no idea what he was doing. And sometimes he suspected his parents were just as lost, just as confused by life and their place in it.
He smiled despite the emptiness consuming him. Amy’s house hadn’t changed much. Her dad had patched a hole in the roof and the tar glistened, plastered haphazardly over part of the shingles. An old Ford Bronco sat in the drive, bearing as much rust as it did original tan paint, and Red thought: if Amy’s dad is really a drug dealer, wouldn’t he drive something much nicer?
He walked up the cracked sidewalk, his gaze locked on the front door. Moments like this, when he felt control was in his grasp, but slippery, always excited him though he could never tell anybody that.
He glanced at the living room window but didn’t see anybody moving inside.
He wasn’t sure Amy’d be home, but that didn’t matter; he came to speak to her dad.
A hard knot formed in his throat and his eyes grew misty. He clenched his hands and beat on the door. Someone moved inside, the scrape of boots on hardwood, a voice saying, “Who is it?”
He knocked harder, heard a man he assumed was her father say, “Shit,” and then yell, “Just a second.”
Red thought, He thinks I’m the cops. He shook his head. If the local sheriff had a problem with Mr. Lafond, it seemed like he’d have thrown him in jail a long time ago. It made Red wonder why Dave Flickie didn’t do that if the rumors were true, part of him twisting inside, imagining the big sheriff getting dope off the man, or taking a cut like the dirty cops did in the movies because it seemed most adults only cared about getting something out of other people, about lining their pockets, doing what they wanted without thinking about how it affected the people around them.
The door opened with the stench of cheap cologne trying to cover the stench of B.O.
Amy’s dad had a big gut and wide shoulders but his face was thin and he rubbed his hawkish nose and raised his chin. He said, “You’re the Piccirilli kid. Amy’s not here.”
Red said, “I’m not here to see her, sir.”
He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “What’s this about?”
“Can I come in?” Red said, proud that his voice came out so even, so mature and measured. Amy’s dad shrugged and stepped aside. Red crossed the threshold and the door closed behind him. The house stank as much as Amy’s dad, but overpowered instead by lemon cleaner. The furniture and floors were polished to a high shine. Red looked back and said, “I didn’t expect you to be a neat freak.”
“No? What did you expect?”
Red shrugged. “Not this.”
Amy’s dad led him beneath a large archway and into the living room. He pointed at the couch while he claimed a La-Z-Boy by the door. “What can I do for you? Looking for some extra money?”
Red almost said No, but something danced in the man’s eyes and Red leaned back into the couch and nodded. “Sure. Who can’t use extra money?”
Her dad laughed, a hearty, full sound. Red thought that men like him laughed easily; they weren’t self-conscious like a lot of people. Red smiled. “What kind of work do you have that I could do?”
“Okay.”
“What has Amy told you about me?”
Red leaned forward too, surprised by the lie sliding across his tongue as smooth as oil, spilling from the tip, between his lips and clawing at Mr. Lafond’s ears. “She hasn’t told me anything.”
The man stared at him for a moment and then leaned back and laughed again. He met Red’s steady gaze and said, “I like you. By God. You’re a little lying shit. But you’re good at it. My guess is you’ve been practicing it your whole life and that’s good, because if you want some work, you’ll have to hustle, you’ll have to believe the lies you’re telling.” He laced his hands together and his eyes hardened, the smile gone, replaced with a bitter curl of downturned lip. “But don’t ever lie to me again. Lie to everyone else. Not me.”
Red nodded, uneasy with what Mr. Lafond had said—not the threat, but how easily he believed that Red had spent a lifetime perfecting the craft of deceit, when he hadn’t. He hated lying, thought it only brought you grief and the condescending gaze and judgment of those who found you out. But he also learned that he liked it. The lie felt good. It was easy. Much easier than he ever thought it could be. And again he wondered, Who the hell am I? Something is not right…
Something shifted inside him and the room dimmed. Mr. Lafond darkened until he was nothing more than a black smudge on the Lazy Boy, and a raven, perched on the floor lamp, opened its mouth to speak, but Red said, “Quit following me.”
“You’re breaking his heart, killing the butterfly you should be saving, but you’re still lost beneath the water. You’re a weak and sad boy. Self-destruction kisses those who long for its intimacy, whose hearts have turned to ash.”
Red looked away from the raven, did his best to focus on Mr. Lafond, drive away the darkness surrounding him. But the smudge stood and entered the dining room without a word. He watched it walk into the wall, spreading a stain that ran from nearly floor to ceiling. Red rubbed his hands against his pant legs and stood, thinking that if he went anywhere near the stain he’d somehow lose himself to that other place where red beacons called and dragonflies made short work of giants.
The raven jumped on the coffee table.
Red glared at it and said, “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to free the giant. Use your magic. Restrain the wind before…”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re confused. Restrain the wind…”
“You’re confusing me! All of this is. I don’t feel good.” And he didn’t. His stomach was rumbling and his mind filled with incomprehensible images that flashed like lightning, streaks so bright and surrounded by so much darkness. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead, hoping he could find his center again. From the chair, Mr. Lafond said, “You don’t look good, kid. Maybe the strain is too much. You can’t kill a dragon if you lay down your sword and shield.”
Red looked up and opened his mouth to answer, but a strange little man sat there, not Amy’s drug-dealing dad. The Stickman had his legs crossed Indian-style, elbows perched on his knees, fingers steepled at his chin. He smiled.
Red said, “Who are you?”
“I’m everyone.”
Red shifted on the couch, kicked his foot out and bumped the coffee table.
I’m everyone…
It triggered a memory, one of a giant in a faraway land, the large creature’s voice soft even as his eyes stormed and his lips moved, saying, I am you.
The strange man said, “I’m everyone.”
Red said, “I heard you.”
“Hearing and understanding is not the same thing.”
The raven pecked Red’s knee and he jumped as dots of blood blossomed on his jeans, three holes that merged into one. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt. He slapped at the bird, hoping to dislodge it, but his hand passed through the bird, like the branch Amy had swung sliced through Ash’s projection in the field. Red tried again to no avail.
The Stickman said, “I hate that your kind tries to destroy what’s only trying to help them.”
Red stood. “I feel like something is missing. Your kind has been taken from me. It’s not right. It’s never right.”
“No, what you feel is what I’ve given you. Truth, and there is so much more to come before you can open your eyes and either succeed or fail. We’re kings, you and I, but only one of us can claim the throne.”
Red spat on him. “That’s what I think of either of us being kings. I can’t even take care of myself. And you’re a thief.”
The raven cawed. “We’re all thieves.”
Lightning sliced the sky and lit the room in magnetic haze.
Red thought being ignorant was a lot easier, it left you blind but more at peace.
Stepping from the living room, he stared at the stain on the wall, what had become, or what had always been, of Mr. Lafond.
Red glanced over his shoulder. “It’s true, isn’t it? Amy’s dad is helping people kill themselves.”
Ash stood on his right, the raven on his left, and he felt something between them—a pulling between the two—and he wondered if the man was showing him truth, then what was the raven trying to show him?
With a heavy heart, he left them and walked outside and stared at the sky, impressed by its gray brilliance, like a sheet of lead highly polished beneath the spinning wheel of God’s indignation.
He wiped his eyes, annoyed that he was crying again, and he didn’t think he had a reason to. The raven flew by, crying too. Red watched it disappear into the trees across the road and he wondered where Amy was. He walked around town for a while until he stopped on a dead end road where a house sat, burned nearly to the ground, its walls chewed away, a mix of black and white, and behind the ruined structure a small shed sat at the back of the yard.
His memory grew fuzzy but he stared at the shed anyway, thinking that some image there was calling him and if he just studied the little building long enough the mystery would reveal itself.
He walked toward the back of the yard.
The doors creaked open before he ever reached them.
Red paused. “Hello?”
Darkness filled the shed.
Red took another step forward. “Amy?”
She stepped from the shed and Red smiled. His heart felt lighter suddenly. He thought, Please, be real. I need you.
Tears stung his eyes again. He said, “I’m trapped by the truth.”
Amy took his hand and her touch warmed his skin as the leaves upon the trees changed color and the wind spoke of mysteries in the raven’s voice.
She pulled Red into the darkness and he went gladly.
* * *
She led him into the pitch-black warmth and they sat there, the rest of the world beyond their reach, and something felt right about that, the way it should be, Red thought, because life got too busy at times and what mattered most was who you loved and who loved you and the rest of the world just had to fend for itself.
Amy said, “I’m worried about you.”
Red wanted to see her face, but he believed she brought him in here for a reason. He hoped it was so that they could kiss. His heart rate doubled and his palms started sweating. “Don’t worry about me. I’m okay.”
“But you’re not. You can’t see it. Your eyes are closed. This is where you are, moving from one place of darkness to the next with only stray seconds of light in between.”
“My head hurts.”
“Your heart, too?”
“Why would my heart hurt?”
“Because,” Amy said, “he’s purged you of so much.”
“Who?”
“Don’t you remember? We were in the field, at the hunting shack, and he stopped. He was one person, but he had two bodies.”
Red shook his head. “No. I don’t understand why you’re making up stories.”
“Do you remember Pig, Red? Do you re
member Mr. Blue? Leonora? How your friend betrayed you for what he thought was love, for what he really wanted—his own life…”
“Shut up, okay?” He pulled his hand from hers. “I don’t remember any of that.”
They sat there quietly for a minute. Amy cleared her throat. She touched the tips of his fingers and he wanted to melt because even though he was frustrated by all of her crazy talk, he loved her. She said, “Listen to me, Red. Okay?”
He nodded, took her hand into his and scooted closer because she was the only thing that felt right.
Red thought, She’s the only one I can trust.
“Okay,” he said.
“Tell me what you remember. You know, like over the last couple of years. Do you remember our times together?”
The darkness pressed all around them. He wanted light more than anything. He hungered for it even as he fought against its approach, the harshness of it.
He heard Ash whisper, that’s why the darkness comforts you, isn’t it, boy? It’s not as harsh as the light.
Amy said, “Tell me the truth. What do you remember? Be honest with yourself.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you remember, Red?”
She sounded like his mother in a way, picking at him, and it irritated him. He focused on what her face looked like in the light, what her fingers felt like closing around his hand. He shrugged, breathing her in, the smell of her and the damp shed, wishing everything could be this simple. “I wish I could just spend more time with you.”
“You’re avoiding the question. And I’m sure that’s how Pig felt too, with Leonora.”
She flicked a lighter and the flame blossomed and chased the darkness from around her hand and face. Her eyes grew moist and he wanted to hold her and tell her that everything was going to be okay, that they’d find his memory again and she’d mean even more to him, which seemed impossible because she meant the world now.
He smiled sadly, thinking, I’d do anything for you. If you want me to remember, somehow I will.
“You’re here and there,” Amy said. “Like Ash was when he took you from the Lalko’s property. Part of you is trapped, yes, but part of you is freer than it’s ever been.”
