by Lee Thompson
Ash said, “She thinks I won’t attack if she’s out front.”
Red said, “Maybe you won’t have to.” He raised his hands in front of him, palms facing each other, picturing as his hands pulled apart that he’d rend the air just beyond Leonora, and the creatures screamed before he saw the first signs of it working, before their bodies ripped like paper, and fuzzed out like static on an old television. Leonora stopped and turned, looking back over her shoulder, and Red watched her shudder in horror, almost feeling sorry for her because he knew what it was like to create something, to love that creation deeply and then watch someone else destroy it.
The creatures wilted as they writhed on the ground, none of them whole, the soil beneath them charring black as Ash raised his hands and fire shot up from the earth around each one, dozens of jets of it, surrounding Leonora, but she didn’t seem scared, only heartbroken. She was defenseless against her father.
No, Red thought. Not defenseless. She destroys him by sending her love to the wind.
And beyond her and the still, quiet dead, Ash’s wife kissed a weeping willow and eyes opened in the bark. Its branches stroked her cheek, teased the snake nest of her hair. The tree uprooted itself, spraying soil over her feet as it trudged forward. Red swallowed, thinking, Manipulating the air isn’t going to help me now. He turned to Ash and begged him to do something, but the old, tired man only stared at his wife, mirroring his daughter in his heartbreak.
Red stepped back and stopped as pebbles kicked loose of the soil plunked over the edge of the chasm. The willow trundled forward, its clinking branches like striking swords. Eyes filled the trunk like bulbous tumors, black and wet, and the roots dug furrows in the dirt. Ash looked past it as his wife moved toward them, swinging her hips, and Leonora moved off to their left, closing in. Her eyes locked on Red’s and she smiled slightly. In those eyes he saw Pig, the imaginary friend who used to think he was a ghost, or angel, or something more substantial, but who had turned out to be nothing more than a traitor, choosing Leonora and what she offered over everything Red had to give.
The tree drew back its branches, Ash’s wife just behind it, clapping her hands together, excited to watch her new lover trample the life from her old one. Red knew he had to do something because Ash was transfixed—like Red felt around Amy when she looked at him a certain way. He took a deep breath just as the tree swung its massive arms toward them, jerking the air behind Ash’s wife, pulling her forcefully into the tree. Her scream vibrated through the soil and into his feet as her head hit the willow with a sickening cracking sound. Red ducked, the branches making a loud swoosh over his head, and Ash grunted. Red looked up and saw him sailing through the air. The tree hit Red on its back swing. Air exploded from his lungs and he hit the ground hard, shaking his head. It drew back again.
Red cried, trying to clear his head so he could focus. The butterfly’s wings fanned his cheek as the tree swung a massive branch and Red jerked the air beneath it, and felt muscles tearing in his abdomen as he tossed the creature into the chasm.
He puked and wiped his lips, feeling weak suddenly.
Everything shifted as if he were on a boat and the waves had grown choppy.
Leonora charged him.
Her mother wept.
Ash picked himself up, smiling a crooked smile, but he looked like death warmed over.
Red pushed himself up, sucking in hot breaths, waiting for Leonora to collide with him, wanting to scream, See this, see this mark in my hand that bleeds magic? It’s what you gave me two years ago, and what I’ll use to destroy you!
Her arms pumped, her parents on either side of them, glaring at each other for a moment until Ash slapped the ground and a wall of fire flared in front of Red. He slammed the burning air forward, and Leonora shrieked as the flames bit into her.
She lay on the ground, shivering, and blackened. He turned away from the young princess, wondering where her sister Proserpine was, wondering if she was in his world or still here, close by in this one, and he wondered which side she was on.
Ash’s hands shook until he made fists and pointed one of them at his wife. He said, “You do not deserve life either!” And she shook her head, the snakes whipping about, fangs slicing the air, ripping holes in it. Fire blossomed from between her lips and at first it looked as if she was attacking, but her hands closed over her throat and tears slicked her cheeks, and Red thought, He’s started a fire inside her. And he thought, This is horrible.
A mighty gale rose and blew Red off his feet. He landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him. The sky had darkened and the bone fence surrounding the garden chimed with the sound of weeping. Red thought, Mr. Blue, imagining the angels’ bones in a new section that guarded the garden, and he wept too because the poor creature had been too weak to win his last battle.
Red’s eyes burned as he stood and he thought, Eat it before it consumes you. Not sure what the hell kind of thought that was, but his hands trembled and he saw the thing inside the wind, black and furious, as rain pelted their heads. He thought of Amy’s tears, of his mother’s, of the world within worlds in which he now stood, and even here love and hate ruled all. Red grabbed the corners of the wind and began folding it up like Ash had done to him days ago on the Lalko property, but he didn’t have a coin purse to put him in, and his bones ached from the force resisting him and sweat ran into his eyes, mixing with tears and rain until he had the god down to the size of a sheet of paper, his hands lacerated and bloody, everything in ruins around them.
Ash smiled a dark smile and looked from his destroyed family to the dim shape Red held.
Red wanted to ask, What the hell am I supposed to do with it? as the compressed air bucked in his hands, trying to unfold. He imagined its rage, saw in his mind’s eye tornadoes ripping him from the ground and throwing him so far his body would shatter upon impact, but he couldn’t let that happen. Ash pointed at the fountain where the butterfly sat on the rim, its wings fluttering madly. Red struggled over the murky waters and thought, Yes, wind can’t exist beneath it. He jammed his hands into the muck, surprised by how thick it was, nearly sludge, as he released the Wind with a Thousand Eyes beneath the surface and jerked his hands out quickly, wiping them on his pants, falling to the ground because he didn’t have any strength left and he was so sore he could barely move, but all he could think about was Amy, and his mother, and how cruel the world was.
The butterfly’s wings whispered against his neck. It moved down his chest and rested over his heart and he felt it melt into him, his mother’s long-lost hope, and Red cried for a while because he knew it was his duty to carry it for her until the day he died, but he wasn’t sure he was strong enough for that.
Ash said, “The wind has no need of a throne. It is restless, behind us, beyond us, high and low.” He helped Red to his feet and held him in his lap for a while as if he were a very small child, not a boy nearing manhood, and Red was fine with it because it felt good and he didn’t want to fight or think anymore, he only wanted to rest and return home.
Another day passed and Ash woke him and they both stared at the fountain where a boy had overcome a god because it had underestimated him, because Red had more power inside than he had ever imagined, and he could use it for good, not just in building mountains of regret. Ash looked sad as he said, “This place is my temple, my sacred place. Every man has one, and no one should ever steal it from him. Don’t let anyone ever take what lies close to your heart, what brings you peace.”
Red shivered as he listened and stared at the broken pieces of Ash’s kingdom.
He nodded and closed his eyelids, and imagined flying into the burning red star, the beacon, high above the desecrated garden and dead family, the ruined god drowned by pride, and the lonely one who sat on his throne surrounded by blood.
Eleven
Red stepped from the forest, head thick with the echoes of sorrow and the image of Ash on his bone throne forever lodged into his mind. His sneaker touched the lawn behi
nd his trailer and he saw Amy sitting on the back steps.
When he sat next to her, she held his hand for a moment, and then she pulled away and curled her hands in her lap and studied the forest. Red braced his elbows on his knees and said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Sure.”
He wanted to ask her what she was thinking but he thought he already knew so he placed a hand gently on her leg, wanting to say I’m sorry again, but only making silly blubbering sounds instead until she turned to him and laughed. She whispered, “Thanks for trying to make me smile, Red.”
“No problem. You have a great one.” He thought about what Ash had said, the poetry he weaved for Red’s mom in Glory on the Green as the butterfly tickled Red’s chest, buried beneath his flesh. He said, “You’re my quasar. The brightest point in my universe,” before he had a chance to think it through, think how she might react.
But Amy nodded. She said, “I love you too, Red. If that’s what you’re trying to say.” And she stared into his eyes as his face heated and he looked away, short of breath, the butterfly fluttering its wings, leaves falling from the trees to coat the forest floor.
A car pulled into the driveway. He heard his father laugh. It grounded him further. He wanted to weep. Amy held Red’s hand as they walked around the trailer, Maggie squirming and smiling in his dad’s arm. Red didn’t realize how much he’d missed her—missed all of them—until now, when the emotions flooded every crook and cranny of his mind.
His dad set Maggie down gently and she looked at Red and Amy and said, “You guys getting into trouble?”
Amy giggled. Red said, “Us? No way.” Trying to smile because he wanted to and he knew it was what Maggie wanted. It’d make her smile.
Maggie cocked her head, glanced at their parents and asked, “Is he lying?”
Their dad placed a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. Their mom said, “You know Red’s a good boy, Mags.”
Maggie squinted at Red. She said, “Something’s different about you.” Then her eyes lit up and she said, “Did you have another adventure with Dream Nothing?”
Red thought about Mr. Blue—Dream Nothing—another hidden cog either lost in limbo or extinguished. He shook his head. He said, “I wish.”
Red’s mom urged his father to take Maggie inside for some hot cocoa because the crisp fall air had turned her cheeks red. After they went inside, Red, Amy, and his mother walked as one over to the steps. Red’s mom pointed. Red and Amy sat. He wasn’t sure what she was going to say. She didn’t look angry, but that wasn’t proof of anything. She stared at them for a moment until the silence grew so heavy Red sucked in a breath and reached inside his coat, feeling butterfly wings tickle his fingers. He pulled it free from the place in his heart as Amy shifted next to him and Red’s mom’s eyes grew moist. She smiled and it warmed his heart and he didn’t know the right thing to say because he couldn’t hold on to it forever and let her down, he had his own dreams, and she hers, so he raised his hand, held it out, the butterfly standing on the last knuckle of his index finger.
His mom giggled, sounding so much like Amy, reaching out but stopping herself. His mom said, “You brought this back for me, Red?” Her shoulders shook and he imagined she’d start bawling—to finally have her hope back after all these years of living without it. And he wondered if she’d be different, if its return would change her personality, help her laugh more, enjoy herself, take life less seriously.
Red whispered, “I think you’re incredibly strong.”
She said, “I’m not anywhere near as strong as the two of you.” She wiped tears from her eyes and Dad and Maggie banged around in the kitchen, laughing and giggling.
His mother took the butterfly and held it in her palm as she sat down so Red was between her and Amy. Red held their hands and pulled them close. They looked over the driveway as the forest stilled and wind rustled leaves in the monstrous oak, casting shadows and slivers of light over the front lawn.
About the Author
Lee Thompson’s work is often surreal, dark, and based on near-fact. Google “Division Mythos” to discover the world he’s creating. Or visit his website at: leethompsonfiction.com.
About the Publisher
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Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
About the Author
About the Publisher
