Dead Light March

by Daniel José Older

  “I guess.”

  “And anyway” — Bennie wiggled her eyebrows — “dat ass!”

  Sierra rolled her eyes. “How did we get on this topic anyway?”

  A group of school kids streamed past them, all decked out in feathers and masks. “Hey Dr. Fenton!” Bennie called as their tall teacher strolled behind them, taking in the sights. Bennie turned back to Sierra. “How we got on this topic: It was an explanatory example of the central hypothesis of today’s topic.”

  “What topic is tha —”

  “Musicians are trash.”

  Sierra felt the real world snap back into place very suddenly. “Girl. That was literally yesterday’s topic. You been on that topic for an entire twenty-four hours. You don’t feel like you maybe are giving it a little more time than it’s worth?”

  “How would you know what topic I been on?” Bennie’s eyes got sharp and Sierra took a step back. “When you are here, you about eighteen thousand miles away, obviously overthinking some shit and don’t wanna tell me about it and then you gone to who-knows-where and then you back and got that faraway look again and throwing out random tidbits of meaninglessness just to swerve the conversation away from how messed up you really are.”

  “I —”

  “And you prolly feelin’ all alone ’bout some mess, like you the one and damn only, ever, always, and you gotta carry this whole whatever burden on ya own, and meanwhile, you the one not talking to anyone about it, you the one making yaself all alone, with ya self-fulfilling-ass prophecy ass.”

  “Whoa.”

  “And it ain’t even like you gotta tell everyone about it, but you literally hanging out with your best friend right now acting like the single solitary cowboy after the apocalypse. Are you high, girl? And it ain’t even like I’m some civilian, Si. I’m a shadowshaper. You made me one. Fill me in, yo.”

  For a full ten seconds, the two girls just stared at each other. Then Sierra exhaled, found herself smiling. “Damn, B.”

  Bennie cocked her head. “What? What that grin mean?”

  “Means you right. And that was a helluva read.”

  They stood facing each other in front of the modern glass awning and ancient pillars of the Brooklyn Museum. Nearby, a fountain pumped rhythmic bursts of water into the air; they came splattering down seconds later as little kids ran and screeched with laughter.

  “I’m just sayin’ —”

  “I know what you’re sayin’,” Sierra said. “And you’re right.” Sierra headed toward the sitting area by the fountain. “C’mon. Imma tell you all about it.”

  “Mina?”

  “Hm?” She snorted and rubbed her eyes. The endless cycling of techno and warm, recycled air in Mort’s SUV had lulled her into a cozy nap. It made sense: She hadn’t slept since yesterday morning. The three of them had wasted away countless hours at the diner, talking about nothing in particular: favorite video games and TV shows, random tidbits and fun facts. Conversation had been surprisingly easy with these two strange men, and then the sun had risen, the whole night having slipped suddenly away, and Mort had stood and cracked his neck and said, “Shall we?”

  Mina hadn’t been sure what that meant, but at that point, she didn’t care — she’d fallen a tiny bit in love with Mort from the moment he’d mentioned that he loved ice cream in his hot chocolate and the video game Metroid. The unexpected combination of those serial killer eyes with that easygoing aloofness had thrown her completely for a loop.

  Yes, he was too old for her and yes, the whole bizarre situation was probably every kind of stupid, but when he and the grumpy-looking but surprisingly gentle older man in the track suit, Bertram, had hopped into the SUV at dawn and said it was time for a stakeout, Mina hadn’t thought twice about jumping in with them.

  And now it was well into the afternoon and the conversation and coffee drinking had continued all the while somehow, and then Mina had drifted off, only to wake to the gentle cooing of her name.

  Bertram. His voice a touch gravelly from cigarettes or a cold maybe.

  “Mina,” he said again.

  “I’m up.” He was turned around in his seat, smiling at her like some kindly grandfather, not a golden phantom trinity’s minion on a stakeout. He didn’t touch her, she noticed, just said her name. “Something happen?”

  Bertram nodded at Mort, who was sitting in the passenger seat, eyes closed, nose in the air, sniffing. Mina scrunched up her face. Bertram shrugged. “He’s found something, seems.”

  “Almost,” Mort amended without opening his eyes. “Almost.”

  “What is it we’re looking for again?” The Sorrows and their strange missions seemed like a whole other world from this SUV.

  “Shadows,” Bertram said with a slight scowl. “Children of the Shadows.”

  The Sorrows had said she’d find other Children of Light at the diner, and Mina had gone looking for the absolute opposite of what she’d found. Still, she hadn’t been disappointed so much as surprised. But it meant she had no idea what to expect of these shadow children. Snarling, twisted forms began to materialize in her imagination. “Are we the Children of Light?” Mina asked, still feeling bleary-eyed from her nap.

  The techno churned on; Mort sniffed the air some more.

  “You and I are,” Bertram said. “This one’s what you might call a freelancer. A hound for hire, so to speak.” A bit of laughter tinged his voice.

  Mort chuckled between his sniffs. “Good one,” he muttered. “That was good. Hound for hire. Gotta put that on my business cards.”

  “I do have a way with words,” Bertram acknowledged. “Probably shoulda been a poet. Or a PR consultant. But yeah, Mort here finds things. Spirity woo-woo type things, specifically, but he’s not aligned with any particular house. Although, deep down inside” — Bertram smized — “he loves us best.”

  “What’s he do when he finds ’em?” Mina asked.

  “Depends on the job, doesn’t it, Mort? But today, the Sorrows want something special, and it connects to Mort’s other special talent. You want to show her, Mort?”

  The hound for hire opened his eyes and looked slowly at Bertram, then Mina. Those death-bringing eyes. Mina suppressed a shudder. “I want to know,” she said, in case Mort’s decision hung in the balance. “Show me.”

  A moment passed, a terrible, aching moment. Mina was just beginning to ask herself why, oh why did she want so badly to see what secret powers this man possessed, when he smiled and said, “Raise your left hand, palm out.”

  She did, a little too quickly perhaps, and hoped it wasn’t trembling or sweaty.

  “I promise,” Mort said, raising his own left hand to face hers, “this won’t hurt and I won’t do any damage. At least none that I won’t immediately repair.”

  “Uh … okay.”

  The Sorrows had done the same with Mina once, their three warm, glowing palms converging over her pale one. They’d cooed and nodded appraisingly, then told her the light already lived in her, but they could augment it if she liked, a form of initiation. She would be a part of their secret world, reborn to them, in a way; a Child of Light. At this point, Mina had gotten over that they were somehow connected to her creepy Grandma Tess — they were opposite her in almost every way — and she wanted nothing more than to become a deeper part of their world. They protected her — she could feel it in the way they swirled around her, their gaze, both ferocious and somehow soft. Motherly even. Their world was the only one that made any damn sense anyway.

  The Sorrows had whispered in unison, Do you, Mina Jane Satorius, accept the power of the House of Light within you?

  Mina closed her eyes, nodded. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes.”

  She felt two of them circling her, waves of heat and light pulsing as they swept past; it was like being in some divine car wash.

  Light exploded through her and the silence washed over everything. Mina felt her mouth drop open and the world fell away. All that was left was light.

  And the
n voices: Do you embrace the power granted to you by the light?

  Mina nodded, croaked a yes.

  And will you use it for good and never evil?

  That part must’ve been some archaic leftover, but good and evil were relative anyway, so … “Always good, never evil.”

  And do you renounce all other associations with any other houses or spirits?

  She didn’t know what these houses were and she didn’t know any other spirits, and anyway, yes, God yes, absolutely yes. The light poured through her, unrelenting and unstoppable. The world was gone still, but the light remained. “Yes,” Mina whispered. “Yes.”

  And then the whole blessed, glowing universe seemed to issue forth from Mina like she was Mount Doom at the end of Return of the King and when it was over and the world slowly returned, all she could do was pant and blink.

  Your power is seated within you, the Sorrows whispered. You may use it to protect the holy House of Light, to save your life. You are armed now, a warrior of the Sisterhood.

  And the light had stayed with her, an ever-churning source of inner power. She hadn’t tried to figure out how it could save her life yet, but it was always there, waiting, frothing, spinning. And now, in the SUV, with the techno blasting away and Mort’s palm against hers, she felt the light leap up as if to meet him and then slowly seep through her palm.

  Everything grew slowly cold around her: the car, the street outside, her own hand — all went dim. “What …” Mina gasped. “What’s happening?”

  “Mort is a taker,” Bertram said. She’d forgotten he was there. Everything in her was focused on the last sliver of light still inside her. And then it was gone.

  “No,” Mina whispered. “No …”

  Mort shook his head, a slight smile on his lips. “It’s okay, dear, look.” And all at once it was back, that glow; it seemed to light her very arm as it seeped lovingly back through her and then settled into its rightful place. “I told you I’d repair whatever I did, didn’t I?”

  “Lord, you gave her a fright,” Bertram said. “It’s alright, girl. We’re here. You’re safe.”

  Mina nodded, shook.

  Mort patted her twice on the arm and then turned back to the steering wheel and closed his eyes. Then he sniffed.

  “Anyway,” Bertram said, “you and I, yes: We are Children of Light, Mina, and don’t ever forget it. That feeling you have inside, that warmth, the joy at having that glow back — that’s our legacy, our heritage, our power. The Light is what led us to the Sorrows, and the Sorrows led us deeper into the Light. And here we are.” He smiled the grandfather smile. “I don’t know you — well, after hanging out in a diner for a whole night, I feel like I do, but really I don’t, of course — but you are my sister, Mina Satorius, and I will protect you, whatever happens next.”

  Mina didn’t know what to say to that. No one had ever said anything remotely so kind to her in her whole life. Grandma Tess was forever grouchy; Mina’s mom had died when she was very young, and the kids at school were too busy acting cool to look out for one another with such gentle ferocity. But the world was a very cruel, broken place, and it hadn’t even occurred to Mina how much she had wanted a protector until she very suddenly had one.

  She fought off a startling wave of emotion and was about to thank him when Mort perked up. “Got ’em!” he said. “The Brooklyn Museum.”

  Bertram grinned and revved the engine.

  “Like that?” Pulpo said, rounding off another four bars of a walking bassline and landing easily on the one.

  Juan nodded. “Yeah, just like that.”

  “Yawn.”

  “Shut up. I know.”

  They were in Juan’s room. Pulpo had his guitarrón — a great big wooden instrument shaped like a pregnant belly with a short, thick neck — and Juan strummed his black, nylon-stringed Martin. They sat across from each other, backs against the beds, like they always did when working on songs, except usually this was exactly the kind of day that would bring either a deep sense of peace or jittery, uncontrollable excitement. Today, it brought only the ever-heightening sense of dread.

  “Can we now talk about what we’re talking about?” Pulpo said. It had been two hours of working on other stuff, stuff they already knew what to do with, stuff that made them both roll their eyes and fake yawn. It was time. Juan made a face.

  Pulpo rolled his eyes. “Just hum it, kid. Stop putting off the inevitable.”

  “Melodies are for people who listen to Kenny G in waiting rooms on purpose.”

  “Juan.”

  “Like, they go to waiting rooms not to wait, but for the musical selection.”

  “Juan!”

  “Fine! Sheesh.” Juan closed his eyes. He didn’t have to look for it or piece it together, the damn thing was still swimming along just below the surface like an annoying eel. All he had to do was let it out.

  “Whoa, it really is in five,” Pulpo said. “How’d your sister know that?”

  “She didn’t, I told her. She was just showing off.”

  Pulpo looked a little crestfallen. “Ah. Less talk, more hum.”

  “You asked me a —”

  “Hush now,” Pulpo said, raising the guitarrón and plucking a few heavy notes. “Is that Mixolydian?”

  Juan shook his head, feeling his way along some chords beneath the melody. “Dorian, I think.”

  “You’re mad. Only monks and madmen write shit in Dorian. And it’s in five? Lord.”

  They had a semblance of something now: Pulpo’s bass notes gave it heft, each new chord Juan worked out brought some sense of shape. Juan exhaled.

  “Uh-uh,” Pulpo chided. “You ain’t gettin’ off that easy. This song wants to stay melody. Quit that strumming and give it to me in octaves.”

  Juan glared as Pulpo’s fingers found their merry way up and down the thick strings. “It’s almost like you’re the musical director and I’m just some kid.”

  “Less talk, more weird mad monk melody, thanks.”

  Juan snarled, found the opening note, plinged it along with its octave and then danced a few frets up for the next one.

  “Wow, son,” Pulpo said after they’d stumbled through it a couple times, each stronger and more resonant than the last.

  “What?” Juan snapped.

  “You in love.”

  A moment passed. Juan scoffed. “Nah, you buggin’.”

  Pulpo rolled his eyes, started into the song again. “Let’s not waste time.”

  “Wait,” Juan said, launching back into the melody. “Are we doing the thing where we only speak in rhyme?”

  “If we are, it’s your fault, not mine.”

  “It’s like they say: When life gives you lemons, demand a lime.”

  “Keep dancing ’round the topic, man, ignore the signs.”

  “How you know it’s love and not just that she’s fine?”

  The song wound along between them for a moment as Pulpo pondered.

  “A righteous query, my g, and it’s true her body would make any man pine.”

  Juan stopped playing. “Excuse me?”

  “Bam!” Pulpo yelled, raising both hands in victory. “Answer to your question! If you just thought she was fine, you wouldn’t care if I did too. But no, you broke the rhyme scheme and stopped playin’ and for why? Bruh, you sprung.”

  “You —” Juan snarled, but then his phone interrupted with a crash of music. He shoved his finger at Pulpo as he put the phone up to his ear. “Saved by the bell or whatever. Yeah?”

  “The hell you mean, yeah?” Sierra growled. “And who got saved from what?”

  “Never mind,” Juan said. “Wassup?”

  “Me and B out on the Parkway and the revelries starting up — y’all comin’ out?”

  “She, I mean, yeah, which ones why … wait, what?”

  Pulpo snatched the phone. “We’ll see y’all in a bit, Sierra.” He hung up, looked at Juan. “Case closed, my g.”

  “You like that stuff, jerk chicken?” Mo
rt asked.

  Bertram shrugged. “My stomach can’t take all that spice anymore, man. I’m old.”

  “You’re about fifty times more in shape than me though, grandpa.”

  Another shrug. Mina laughed but her heart wasn’t in it. Maybe it was the exhaustion. No. The sinking feeling started when Mort stole her power, sucked the very light out from inside her. Sure, he gave it back, and yeah, it was a power she didn’t even really understand yet, but still … that emptiness it left behind — the echo of it still chilled her.

  Hundreds of people flooded the Parkway. They strutted past on stilts and in groups pulsing with laughter and new music. They wore feathers and flags and bright colors and jewels. Joy erupted from every corner and cross street; the wet September air smelled of smoked, spicy meats. Cops, the only white faces besides Mina, Mort, and Bertram, marched through the crowd with stern frowns, hands on their belts.

  “Anything?” Bertram asked.

  Mort had eyes closed again. He shook his head. “So many people. Could be any … wait.” He frowned. “This is … no.”

  “What is it?” Mina asked, trying to keep the rising terror out of her voice.

  “It’s like …” Mort’s whole face contorted. “It’s big. And that’s why I could sense her from so far away. This is not what we’re after.”

  “Is it a shadow child?” Bertram said. “They said any shadow child.”

  “Yeah, any shadow child. This ain’t any shadow child. This is something … bigger.” Mort took a few steps backward. “Uh-uh. Above my pay grade, folks, sorry.”

  Mina exhaled a sigh of relief but wasn’t sure why. None of this felt right. “What is it? Where are they?” She glanced around but the throngs of partiers revealed nothing out of the ordinary; no lurking high minister of shadows revealed itself.