“The cargohold,” Hamzah muttered, putting his hand to his suddenly sweaty forehead. The room was swinging again—the carpet seemed miles away, and it seemed to be crawling with the bodies of the dead.
“Don’t listen to them!” Beth’s voice interrupted. “Hamzah, it doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter what happened then! What matters is you’re alive now!” She was fighting through the ghosts—they were getting thicker all the time. Janelle was curled up like a snail, an isolated little bundle of pink and blond lying low under the passing storm. Her mother tried shoving one of the ghosts into the television, but her hands just went right through.
“If my coffin was in the cargohold . . . ” He cupped his mouth, feeling motion-sick. “I’m part of that flight.”
“Come away with us . . . ” the ghosts warbled, pawing at his clothes, making his knees pulse with undead pain. “We can go together. We can leave the fire together.”
“No!” Beth shouted, but he could see that she was drowning. Their funereal smoke was making her eyes water. “I am not going to let you take him too!”
Hamzah outstretched his hand to her, open and empty as it had been from the very beginning. His hand shot through the ghosts and Beth grabbed hold of it. For a second she stopped screaming. He was still whole. Something was still whole.
“Let’s talk,” said Hamzah. “Come on.”
They went to the bedroom and talked. The ghosts thought Beth was preparing to kill him, and except for a lingering old man ghost trying to hide in the grains of the wooden closet, they wanted to give them privacy.
“They’re still in the fire,” he whispered. “They won’t leave without me. Beth, they’ll never leave you two alone.”
“I’ll take it. What about you.”
He sighed, knowing what she would say. “What about me.”
“What if you came back for us?” She lifted her head and stared at him with her mouth open, as if it was what she had wanted to say all summer. He touched the corner of her mouth and her chapped lips tried to smile. “Maybe Janelle was right.”
“As a present for you,” said Hamzah, effortlessly returning the smile. “Right, maybe that’s right. But maybe it’s been long enough.”
Beth covered her eyes. “But we still . . . ”
“Everything dies, Beth.”
She looked at him. His hands were in her hair; his eyes were bright but tired. She kissed him.
In a few hours Beth gathered the strength to go to the medicine cabinet. She passed the congregation of ghosts without word, and this time they courteously seeped out of her way. Then she returned to the bedroom and softly closed the door. Softly was the way the world would end.
By the time the man from the National Transportation Safety Bureau arrived at their rickety house on Coolidge Street, Hamzah was back in the coffin he’d come in. The yard was still blooming, and the NTSB investigator looked shocked to be wading through high grass when the house itself looked so tame. He looked back at Beth, holding out his clipboard like a wing.
“Aren’t any snakes, are there?”
Beth shrugged in her bare legs. “They’re probably not poisonous.”
The investigator resumed goose-stepping toward the exposed coffin. “And you say it fell out of the sky the day of the crash?” She nodded. “There was something wrong with the cargo door, you see, ma’am. Caused the whole damn crash.” He shook his head as Beth listened to the wind. “Must not be nice having a coffin in your backyard.”
Beth shrugged. “He was good company.”
The investigator laughed and Beth took a deep, lung-searing breath. She could smell fall coming from over the Rocky Mountains. Black birds like boomerangs crossed overhead, and the trees were the color of fire.
About the Author
Nadia Bulkin watches Air Crash Investigation before traveling by plane. It makes her feel better. She has a B.A. in Political Science from Barnard College and hopes to attend graduate school soon. Her stories have been published in Strange Horizons, Fantasy Magazine, ChiZine, and elsewhere. Her story, “Intertropical Convergence Zone,” was nominated for a Shirley Jackson Award. She lives in suburban Nebraska. At 6pm in her Nebraskan hometown it is 6am in her other hometown of Jakarta, Indonesia. For more about her, visit nadiabulkin.wordpress.com or intertribal.livejournal.com
Story Notes
Bulkin’s title is taken from Bruce Springsteen’s song, “Atlantic City”: “Everything dies, baby, that’s a fact, but maybe everything that dies someday comes back.” (It is highly doubtful the author was born when Nebraska, the album that tune is on, was first released—which may truly prove some things never die.) But if you think the true darkness in this surreal little tale has anything to do with a dead man coming back to life or ghosts, then you need to read it again.
BRUISE FOR BRUISE
ROBERT DAVIES
Joss Coffington came to Promise to find the girl with God on her back.
He had heard many rumors about the strange town before, and had passed along a few he had made up when he was on his sixth or seventh beer, but it wasn’t until he heard that particular rumor, that of the bruised girl, that he finally took to walking. He wasn’t alone on those dusty back roads, either, and most of them that crowded Joss on the road were going to see the girl, too, going to the town of Promise, where monsters were born.
Some said it was contaminated well water or rainbow glinting oils that shimmered on the creek, drowned ill spirits or chemicals that spurred the blood to strange, unseen designs. Others claimed it was unseen radiation pulsing from the new power lines that snaked across the sky, trailing alongside the highway between here and there. Still others said it was simply divine will made flesh, a harsh judgment made upon a town founded by sinners when the country was being born. Perhaps it was without any reason at all, but each passing year saw strange folk filling the small houses and narrow roads of Promise, united only by their differences, untouched by the world beyond.
The birth rate in Promise was low—snake-belly low to be precise. Whether the fault lay in the seed or in the womb, none could say; but, in those jackpot moments when life found root, the town of Promise could be sure of one thing: after nine months of morning sickness and sibilant prayer, something never seen before would be spilled screaming into the world, or silent as the case may be.
Sometimes there would be something of the mother in the child, and sometimes something of the father; there was always something of the town. Leathery wings sprouted oftentimes, as common as fingers. Fur of every hue. Horns and scales were plentiful, too. Lots of feathers and thorns and glass and steel. Beneath the apple trees and the pine, anatomy was negotiable. Anything was probable. Every now and then, though, the tired wet nurses, long inured to the strange fecundity of flesh, would whistle in awe as they lifted a newborn from the amniotic slime.
Something truly special would be seen.
The Eddington triplets were each born with an extra mouth on their foreheads; the better to sing His praises, Father Quine had said, smiling. Justice Peck arrived, took two deep breaths, and burst into silent blue flame. The great-granddaughter of Old Khoas was born flower-faced and her every breath was a yellow cloud of pollen. Jirrup the Younger emerged limbless and scaled, and like the original beast his eyes were eyes of gold. The blind watchmaker’s daughter Undulia grew monstrously fat and fetid as she approached her blessed day. She spilled her blue-eyed daughter in a ruinous, thick tide. To the shock of all, this newborn daughter, grunting and wailing, then gave birth to another smaller girl the size of a fist, swollen with child. This last tiny daughter, still nameless, still shivering with the chill outside the womb, stood shakily and birthed a finger-sized son whose wormy penis dragged on the floor.
Ruth’s twin brothers, Luke and Persistence, came into the world in a crimson flood, the jagged steel knives growing out of their fingers and cruelly hooked thumbs must have sorely treated their mother’s insides. She had survived, though it had been doubtful considering the b
lood that had come that December morning, and it was this improbable survival that made her someone of consequence in the town, with handsome Father Quine singling her out as a model of right living and righteous prayer.
Ruth Mingleton, however, seemed plainer than milk when she came two years later. Excitement and congratulations for a healthy girl quickly gave way to uneasy smiles and averted eyes, until soon the townsfolk were crossing the street to avoid the Mingletons and their enigmatic child. Ruth was one of the untouched, it seemed—a curiosity in a town of curiosities.
Ruth’s father was let go from the sawmill; later that week, he was let down from the wobbling rafters of their ancient barn, his pants filled and his throat maroon. Her two brothers, her mother and Ruth kept to themselves then, the pale blue curtains drawn, the doors bolted. They seldom ventured into the town save for the Sunday sermons of Father Quine, though they sat at the very back, and for the necessary staples of whisky, gossip, and salt. They helped keep the glass smith in business, so it seemed, as their windows were often shattered by stones; the perilous, unkempt lawn in front of their house came to glitter in the moonlight.
They lived like that for years until Luke and Persistence snuck away one night and got themselves hitched to the passing Carnival of Blood and Thunder, which was keen on upgrading its freak show. But too much cheap whisky, an aversion to cayenne, and too many fistfights over the insatiable and mercurial Lobster Girl finally got them fired on the outskirts of Biloxi in a thunderstorm, and they came back to the town, heartbroken, penniless, and sullen as ever.
And so the story has it that it came in the darkest part of night, with a hammer and with nails and with hands that wielded them with a feral mastery. Down through the ceiling, or up through the floor, one could not rightly say. It came upon Ruth on the eve of her thirteenth birthday and made her anew. It found the bruises beneath her skin and made of them a poetry. It found the songs in her bones and made them break. It found the angel she saw on the tain and ruined its pale and perfect skin.
Ruth Mingleton didn’t even cry.
She awoke to find bluish yellow smears spread across her skin—an image of a thorn on her cheek, a suggestion of velvet wings on her stomach, a golden hint of the lip-stained Grail on her inner thigh. The bones beneath her skin only accentuated the designs: her breathing would give flight to a seabird on her right shoulder; the shift of her jaw would rock the ark on her throat.
It was Ruth’s mother who brought the bruises to the attention of Father Quine.
Dressed in the perfect fuligin of faith, Meticulous Quine sported great, snowy wings, just like ancient Uriel of the Scarred Palms. His black eyes glinted, and his voice was honey. He saw something in the bruises that most others did not. Ruth’s mother saw it, too. They prayed together.
The townsfolk quickly took interest in Ruth then, began to murmur that she had finally revealed the gift of her birth. Of course, many claimed they had known all along that Ruth was special, revealing the hidden bits of wisdom they had hoarded for years, awaiting this day of revelation. Others, mostly those left-handed it must be said, still expressed doubt, but they were quickly silenced by the knowing frowns of Father Quine or the squinting glare of Ruth’s mother. Ruth’s brothers would shake their glinting fingers and make them ring.
The excitement in the town waned rather quickly, what with the coming of the harvest and the promise of another deep, implacable winter.
It was then that the breathtaking bruise of the thrice-nailed Christ across her back appeared. While the lesser transgressions on Ruth’s arms and legs quickly healed, the Christ refused to fade. Indeed, He seemed to gain solidity with every passing day, and the stony dust of Golgotha circling her waist sprouted pale yellow flowers that glistened when she sweat.
The townsfolk crowded the narrow lane to the Mingleton’s house from sunrise to dark, pleading for a chance to see, perhaps to touch, whispering and pointing out those that had thrown stones or foolishly spoken ill words before.
The pilgrims came soon after.
They came first from the outlying tobacco farms and cornfields, and then neighboring towns and fishing villages, and then from those distant states where truth can be a crime. Some carried the heavy riches they had acquired, eager to lay them before Ruth; others came with only scraps of cloth wrapping their bloody feet and foreign tongues in their mouths. One and all they came for the daughter of bruises and the stories on her skin.
Father Quine and the town elders ordered a scaffold and stage of rough-hewn wood to be erected on the Common, on the very spot where a meteorite fell in the time before trees. Blood-red tents quickly sprung up around the scaffold, followed by hawkers’ tables and kiosks and craft-laden blankets until the entire common resembled a harvest fair. Meaty smoke rose from hissing, snapping cooking fires. Brightly colored pennons snapped. They built the ticket booth on the distant edge of the Common. To lessen the taint of commerce around such a profound miracle, Father Quine had said. Great lengths of yellow rope were strung up to form an orderly queue, snaking back and forth across the trampled grass.
Luke and Persistence collected the golden tickets at the foot of the stairs at the side of the stage, spearing them with their jagged fingers. At the ticket booth, Ruth’s mother counted the money, each coin like a rosary bead in her calloused hands. Father Quine passed through the crowds nibbling on sugared insects, looking about with unconcealed pride, his wings stirring the warm, summer air.
Ruth sat on a stool at the center of the stage, a flask of warm water by her feet. She wore denim shorts and a thin white shirt that barely covered her tiny breasts. It was ripped open in the back, the better to reveal the bruised face and chest of the crucified Christ.
Nobody ever asked, but the bruises did hurt her. Each new one ached to the very heart of the bone. Sometimes Ruth awoke with a cracked rib, her breath piercing like a knife. Sometimes she awoke only to faint away from the nauseous pain writhing beneath her skin. Still, she would sit patiently on her stool as the sunburned pilgrims bought their tickets, formed a line, and ascended the stairs to examine her flesh. Lesser, smaller bruises appeared daily on her wrists and throat, her feet and her belly, her breasts, but the pilgrims hardly noticed these scenes from forgotten pages of the Bible and those other books.
They had come only for the Christ.
At the end of the day, Ruth’s mother would climb the stairs and lead her back home, Luke and Persistence following a few steps back. Ruth always trembled as she walked, her legs grown stiff, her stomach empty. A few of the more pious pilgrims would trail behind the Mingletons and gather in small groups outside their house; some took to picking up the shards of glass that still littered the lawn, placing them on the tongue and swallowing them. But all the curtains were drawn tight, and in time the darkness and the silence would urge the pilgrims to move on.
Her mother examined Ruth every evening, her calloused hands flexing as she traced the fading lines of bruises and injured flesh. She marked which bruises were fading, and which were still visible. When she was done, truly done, she sent Ruth to stumble onto her mattress. Ruth slept, but she never dreamed.
After two weeks on the stage, Ruth hardly saw the pilgrims anymore as they passed before her. The pain of her new bruises and splintered bone paled beneath the simple, dull ache of sitting there, pilgrim by pilgrim, hour upon hour, sunrise until sunset. The sun burned her skin. Insects bit her eyelids and buzzed in her ears. Through it all, her bruises shone with vitality, in strange, curious shapes that beguiled the eye.
So, of course, Ruth did not notice when Joss Coffington stopped before her, and she did not hear when he stifled a cry. Only after several moments did she realize he stood there at all, his shadow shielding her from the blinding sun. He did not look at her wounds; he was looking at her face, at her.
“I love you,” he said. He stood there, unmoving. Ruth looked up and caught a glimpse of his face before he was ushered off the stage by the stern-faced Father Quine.
Ruth was not so complacent after that. She started to look at the pilgrims as they came to see her, looking into their faces for something, making some uncomfortable, making some regret. Father Quine suggested a hood, and her mother agreed; but a few days later a crown of thorny bruises circled Ruth’s brow, with glinting red berries of blood, and the hood was forgotten and the ticket price was raised.
Joss Coffington returned, day after day, ignoring the dark looks of Father Quine and Ruth’s mother, ignoring the increasing cost as they tried to dissuade him. He paid whatever they asked and climbed the stair to stand before her, shielding her from the hot sun, if only for a moment. Most days he said nothing. On others, he again professed his love for her. Sometimes he smiled, but it seemed quite difficult for him to do. He always stood until he was forced off the platform by Father Quine or one of Ruth’s brothers.
So it came to pass that on one of those August days that made you curse the sun, Ruth waited on the stool, ignoring the countless pilgrims that passed by her and their pleas for healing or riches or prophecy. She was blind with agony, sweating. A large bruise on her right leg showed the epic Fall of Jericho; the whisper of angels casting down that ancient wall had nearly broken the femur in three places, so fierce was the reckoning of their angelic fury.
It was late in the day, and he had not yet come. She feared they had finally scared him off. Her mouth was dry but she did not care any longer. She almost let herself slip from the stool, let herself slip from her skin.
Father Quine’s voice broke the silence, and a scuffle broke out in the line. Ruth turned to see Joss Coffington push Quine and a few pilgrims aside and dart up the stairs.
He ran to her and put his hand on her shoulder.
“You don’t have to stay here,” he said.
The Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror, 2010 Page 60
