by J. D. Palmer
Her voice is syrup. Calming. Insult or perspicaciousness, it doesn’t matter. She seems to see the trials of the last months. And better, she seems to understand.
“I will find her,” she says softly, and steps forward to cup my face between her palms. I jerk back but she is silently insistent. Eyes staring into mine as she slowly raises her hands again. I’d swat them away if I wasn’t worried about angering her. Worried about losing this chance, however improbable, of finding Beryl.
“I will find her. We will search for her for as long as it takes.”
I stare back into her eyes, dark brown pupils with a golden ring around the iris.
“For what?”
A cruel smile curls up her face as she steps closer to me, her fingers pushing back from my cheeks to curl around my ears, small fists clenching the hair at the back of my neck to pull my head down towards hers.
“A small thing. A favor for me.”
I pull back my head and she tightens her hold on my hair, eyes intent on mine.
“What favor?”
She casually hops up so that her legs straddle me, sending me stumbling backwards, my hands instinctively catching her around the waist so that we don’t topple over. Ribbons of cloth tightening and loosening and falling down from around her shoulders. Slinking down from her arms. She leans forward into me, her head above mine now, her hands still wrapped into my hair.
“Oh, I cannot tell you now.”
“Tell me or I won’t do it.”
She gives a heavy sigh, one hand releasing my hair to lift my chin up. “Then I won’t help you. And I don’t know if you have the time to wait.”
I lower her towards the ground, my hand seeking to disengage the grip she has on me. She tightens her legs around my waist, for a second, then slides off me and walks back to the side table. She pours another glass of wine for herself, turning and staring over the rim at me with expectant eyes.
Dammit.
“I will do it.” I say. Hating that she already knew that I would agree. “But not until she is back. And safe.”
“Safe is such an arbitrary term. But okay.”
“Fine. Tell your people to find her, or whatever it is you’re going to do. Now. Please.”
“Not that simple. My people don’t follow my orders. They follow something greater.” She walks out of the tent. “Come. You are part of the show.”
The show. As she she puts it. An unwanted walk and an unwanted amount of eyes. Everyone she calls her “people” gathered around an enormous fire. Flames built at the base of a small hill, an unnatural slope due to some whimsical landscaping or an errant attempt to build an artistic edifice.
We stand above.
All eyes on us. This, in and of itself, is enough to make me nervous. Too open. Too watched. Too… exposed. I don’t know what to expect, I’m sure this shows on my face in some way or another. Only made worse when I see the concern on Theo’s face. The judgmental look on Josey’s. Gods he’d be so much better up here.
Sheila looks excited.
Cyrene stands with her head down. Arms wrapped about herself. A slow sway, as if moved by the wind. An occasional tremor. I stand like a man who doesn’t know what to do.
The minutes stretch.
“Blood is needed.” She speaks, not looking up, and there is an intake of breath from her people. Two men step forward and without looking up she holds up a flat palm, halting them. “From the man who walks the wastelands. Freely given. For a price.”
A woman circles around us, careful not to get between Cyrene and myself, apparently the man who walks the wastelands. I hear Sheila snort and I almost do myself.
This is fucking nonsense.
“Do you give blood to get blood?”
I want to keep scoffing at these questions. I want to. They are questions that border on the ridiculous. But my fear of failure is not a laughing matter, not something to be minimized. Hope is the knife at my throat, holding me silent. To trust, and perhaps fail… Or not to trust, and never know.
It’s an easy decision. Now. Now it is.
“Yes.”
An arm slowly raises, palm up, and after a second I place my hand in it.
“Don’t flinch,” she whispers.
The knife whips across my palm and I do flinch. I grab her around the throat by the hand closest to her, the hand not weeping blood. I grab her and force her to her knees and take the fucking knife from her. All in seconds. And I don’t even realize that she has her hand out again, telling her people to back away. That she has her eyes open, looking past me, up to the stars. That the other hand is taking my blood that drips down her chest and is smearing it. Across her collarbone and around her neck. On her forehead and beneath her eyes.
I let go. I’m horrified by my reaction.
A little.
I’m horrified by hers in a new way. She grabs my hand back and stares at the palm. The open slice of flesh producing blood in a slow and insidious way. A glow, a rise, a Lichtenberg figure on the palm before the pooling begins.
“A woman alone. Dirt. Running. Alone but not alone. Water gone. Concrete gone. Food gone. Iron gone. A low hill. A single tree.”
She says the words in another voice. An unearthly voice. Deeper. Husky. As if someone else is saying these words, and she only a conduit.
She shudders, her head coming up and eyes blinking as if she has just awoken. She takes in a deep breath, exhaling slowly as she dramatically collects herself.
“We must find this girl. Bring her here. To safety. And if done then the blood price will be paid.” She rises to her feet. Clutches my bloody hand and raises it to her breast. “Vow that the blood price will be paid.”
I nod. “It will.”
“Say it. Say it! For all to hear.”
What the fuck?
“I vow to pay the… blood price… should my friend be found and brought here. And not be hurt,” I add hurriedly. I can’t help but feel like there is something else going on, some small print to a contract I don’t understand.
She smiles. A smile of one who has accomplished something. Victorious. Spiteful.
She spreads her arms. Slowly turning in a half circle until her back is to me. “My dear ones… Go. Go and do this, for it will bring us all that we desire.”
There are whoops, and cheers, and I see fists raised in a solemn salute to this woman. The men who drove us here approach and Cyrene leans forward to talk with them. Whispers of words that I can’t catch. But they nod and trot off to their cars, departing in haste to leave high funnels of dust in their wake.
“Now?” I growl. And she doesn’t say a word. Just looks into my eyes with a glint that makes me so nervous, eyes that say they know something I don’t. She slowly unwraps a black ribbon from her arm and winds it around my hand before leading her coterie back to her pavilion.
“Now what?” Theo asks, as he and the others join me. I glance around. We are alone, but not. Men and women mill in small clusters around tents and cars, talking, but their bodies facing us. Eyes kept in our direction.
“We wait. We fucking wait.”
Hours pass and we gain a small understanding of these people. Their reverence for Cyrene is apparent, as is their resolute trust in her ability to guide them. They absolutely believe in her ability to foretell the future. Or at least divine a path.
I want us to stick together, to be ready to fight or flee at the first sign of trouble. But as the hours tick on we all grow restless. I ask Sheila and Josey if they feel like talking to some of the people. See if they can find out anything about them. Or, it’s implied, a way to take one of their vehicles. Josey is happy to oblige, and it’s not long before I hear a guitar playing in some tent on the far side of the camp.
Sheila’s wicked grin almost makes me regret asking her. She stalks towards a group of three young men, danger in every sway of her hips. Theo and I watch as eyebrows are raised, and one of the men develops a particularly panicked expression. She turns and gives a little w
ink as the men escort her away towards another tent.
“Should I go with her?” Theo asks.
“Only if you want to warn them.”
He gives a little chuckle before returning to seriousness. “So we wait?”
“Yep.”
“You okay?”
I turn to look at him, startled by the concern. “My hand? I’m good.”
“Nah man, you okay with… You dealing?”
I appreciate the sentiment. But I’m too close to snapping as it is, my walls are up and not letting any of this in. I cannot talk about it, for that would allow me to think about all the what ifs. Better to keep despair padlocked in a box and shoved into the dark recesses of my mind.
“I’m fine.”
He nods. I should ask him how he’s doing. Hell, I realize now just how stressed he is. Meaty fists opening and closing and constantly rubbing his forehead. But I don’t. I don’t ask, because I know, and… I don’t know how to behave in situations like this.
Silence. Silence as night approaches and we are given water, and food, and invited into tents to eat and sleep. We decline.
Well, I decline. Theo stays with me.
Sheila and Josey return later that night. Sheila’s drunk and looks pleased with herself. Josey is solemn. But they paint an interesting picture of these tinsel people. Strangers, drawn together from the surrounding area, even as far as Wyoming. Scavengers. Traveling from place to place under directions from Cyrene until all food in that area has been found and consumed. Then onto somewhere else.
“They talk like they’re on a spiritual journey,” Josey says. “They say that she has foreseen a place for them to live, but that they aren’t ready for it yet.”
This is so bizarre.
“They’re pathetic. No sense of organization. And they don’t have any balls. Shit goes down, we got this.” Sheila looks like she would more than happy to take on the whole camp.
Cyrene sends someone to invite me to her tent late that night. For what is not made clear, but is definitely implied. I decline. I do not feel like being toyed with. And my temper is too short to deal with someone who is, ostensibly, helping me find Beryl.
Where are you?
We take turns keeping watch, even as we are watched, and do our best to sleep. I pretend, knowing this will be a night that is darkness and hard dirt and rolling from side to side. My mind exhausted from worry and anger and only the pain in the palm of my hand provides some sense of continuity, of reality, in this odd place.
I drift.
I’m at a diner. It’s filled with people, happy and boisterous, and a kid runs by our table shrieking with joy. Cars make their way down the street outside, slowly driving past pedestrians enjoying a sunny day.
John slides into the booth across from me, briefcase and coat carefully arranged next to him. He’s clean-shaven, hair carefully combed and his shirt a pristine white that I haven’t seen in some time.
I am myself. I feel the unkemptness. The disarray of my hair. The length of my nails and the grime that lives underneath. The stained clothes. The lines on my face and the bags under my eyes.
He checks his phone, casually scrolling through messages and swiping to delete emails. Then he flips it over and pushes it away from him, his small, patient smile on his face.
“How are you, Har?”
I don’t know what to say to him. A shrug and a shake of my head. I’ve been better.
He leans back into the booth, arm draped atop it as he considers me. “I make a lot of plea agreements as a lawyer. A lot of deals. Bargains. Mostly to diminish time and money wasted. The outcome apparent to both sides, at least to the people representing.”
He doesn’t elaborate and I sit there, numb, thinking of this. Of him making deals, and the deal I made with Cyrene.
A waitress approaches. A blurry figure with an apron and a bun tight on a faceless head. A pen and pad and an air of impatience. “What can I getcha?”
John gives her his smile. “Are there any second chances on the menu?”
“Not today, hon.”
“I’ll just take the usual, then.”
She turns to me. “And for you?”
John looks at me expectantly. I don’t know what to say, again. I shake my head. John looks up at her. “Give him what I’m having. And a cup of coffee.”
She scribbles our order and leaves the paper on the table, face down, before cruising away. John and I are left staring at each other.
“Did it bother you? The deals you made?”
He thinks for a second before shaking his head. “No. The deals always represented justice. A process that needed to take place before bringing about a mutual understanding.”
“What about… What about murderers getting let off for making a deal? For turning on other people?”
An eyebrow is raised. “You want to ask me about murderers?” His voice is quiet. “About those who aren’t loyal?”
“Yes.”
“It’s all the same. Har, we don’t know what people deserve. We only know that everyone gets a chance to be seen, and heard, and felt. That is how law and order is carried out.”
I disagree with him. The old anger rising. But I don’t say anything. Because maybe I want to understand what he is saying. To really take it in, and in doing so, make peace with this man.
“I always knew all aspects of the plea agreements, though. I never made a deal without knowing all the facts.”
Fuck you. “Did you never have a desperate moment in your life? Did you never have one moment where you’d trade everything you have and everything you are to protect someone?”
His eyes fall to his hands, sadness stealing across his face. “Once.” And he looks up at me. “What a boring, safe person I was. I didn’t realize how dangerous that could be.”
I wake up before any food, or coffee, is delivered. John’s last words echo in my head, and I don’t know if that is actually something he would say, or just a remnant of who I used to be rising to the surface. I do not know anything new, other than that I have slept through the night. And that I am sad, and a bit angry, and unable to shake the sense that I have done something wrong.
BERYL | 12
WHEN YOU HAVE been broken down as much as I have, you learn empathy. You see what other people are dealing with. You feel the pain with them. You can put yourself in their shoes. Empathy gives you understanding, but it doesn’t necessarily give you sympathy.
There’s a difference.
Sometimes, when people confuse the two, there is a call to action. A call for sacrifices, made without considering the picture as a whole.
Only the people who have been through the thickest part of the thorn patch, the ones who have survived violence of the soul, only they will know this is true… Empathy is a beautiful thing. Sympathy is for the rich and the ignorant. Death and life are two sides of the same coin. Joy is only achievable with suffering.
I am too far gone.
And I’ve become far too good of a judge of people. Theo sleeps peacefully, mostly, when he knows where everyone is and that we are safe. Josey talks in his sleep. A lot of it is angry. Sheila sleeps because of the whiskey. And Harlan…
He cries out of one eye. A curious thing. Always the right eye. Sometimes I wake to find my palm beneath his cheek, the small stream of tears drying to leave crusted white lines across his temple.
“They’re coming.”
I freeze at Ghost’s words. He gives a cocky smile, tooth glinting in the morning sun. He keeps walking, apparently unconcerned.
I can’t hear anything. We trudge on. His pace picks up as we angle across a shallow hill towards a rock formation, gray rock twisting and jutting out sideways in odd angles that reminds me of a large, squashed tea pot.
We reach the rocks and he hops up onto a shelf and sits with his feet swinging. Pike flops down beneath him, both of them grinning at me like they know something I don’t.
Which is probably true.
I turn a
round and scan the area around us. I still don’t see anything.
“You said they’re coming?”
He nods. “You’re using your eyes.” His voice drops and he adopts a heavy accent. “You’re ignoring the hoofbeats in the ground.”
I feel my face twist and he smiles at my derision.
“I promise I’m not bullshitting you. Not this time.”
And he laughs as my frown deepens into a smile.
Dammit.
“So we’re just going to wait here?”
“Yep. No point running anymore.”
I don’t say anything. I guess I might as well sit, too. If he isn’t going to explain why we aren’t running, or hiding, or getting ready to die, then I’m not going to ask. He enjoys being mysterious. That he has some sort of plan is obvious.
There is a vibration. A thrum that echoes up through my feet. I look up at Ghost and he gives me a smug smile.
“Told you.”
A growl from Pike joins the growing thunder of hooves. He sits up and gives me a perplexed look. I give him a shrug and pull the knife from my boot.
Ghost gives a loud guffaw. Too loud for the fear starting to grow in my chest. Too loud for this open landscape. A vast land that shouldn’t feel so claustrophobic.
“You filched another one of my knives?”
I don’t bother answering and he lets loose with another laugh. “Dammit Beryl, we might be related.”
The sound of hooves changes from a tremor to a series of scattered thumps emanating from the far side of the rocks. I hear voices, Julian’s loudest of all.
We wait, Pike growling and standing to pace back and forth in front of me.
You aren’t going to die today.
A head pops out from the side of the rocks. Like we were kids playing games, a gun held clumsily as one of Julian’s cohorts scans the area in front of us. He disappears, then Julian struts around the rock formation, doing his best to look calm and in control. But his eyes jump around the rocks as if he expects us to have a hidden army.
