Flickers

by Arthur Slade

  In scientific language they are called nevus. The plural being nevi.

  It was easier to think of them as nevi. To reduce them to their scientific name. But birthmark was also the proper word. For they had marked her since birth.

  She had the sensation someone was watching her. All of La Casa Grande’s blinds were shut against the afternoon sun and the kitchen had no windows. She opened one eye and squinted at the row of palm trees at the far end of the pool.

  A footstep sounded behind her and before she could turn, she was soaking wet.

  14

  “Raul!” Beatrice leapt to her feet.

  Raul was holding a pail. Small chunks of ice had scattered between them. “I took the time to visit the icebox,” he explained. “The water didn’t feel cold enough.” He smiled, showing straight white teeth.

  “You’ll pay for this!” She grabbed a chunk of ice and threw it hard, but he dodged.

  “She who thinks big thoughts is easily snuck up on.”

  “Sneaked is the word.” Already the sun was warming her and melting the ice. “Did I mention you’ll pay for this?”

  “Aw, no harm done. And by the way, that’s a nice cap.”

  “Stop joking. And stop trying to change the subject.” She blushed a little and stroked the cap that hid her skull, pausing to play with the flower that adorned the top. She tested the aviator-style strap. “Isabelle picked it out for me. It’s made of the finest latex. Very fashionable.”

  “You make it fashionable.”

  He gazed at her face for a moment and she wondered if he was staring at her birthmarks. He’d never mentioned them in all the years they’d been playing together. She was torn between punching him and giving him a hug. Instead: “Let’s go for a walk, Raul. I’ve spent the whole morning inside.”

  “Are you gonna change out of your swimmer’s suit?”

  “No. It’s too hot. And I might just take a dip in the ocean.” She walked in her bare feet, which were callused by years without shoes. She led him past the end of the pool and back toward the garden. They went in silence for some time, the silence that old friends cultivate. Finally, Beatrice asked, “So what are you thinking about?”

  “Donkey urine.”

  “What!”

  “That’s what I always tell Papá. He asks, ‘What are you thinking about, son?’ and I say, ‘Donkey urine.’ Then he doesn’t ask again.”

  “Are you telling me to shove off?”

  “No. I’m saying I was thinking about nothing. It’s refreshing! You should try it.”

  Beatrice slapped him on the back, hard enough that he rubbed the spot. They followed the stone walkway on the west side of the property down to the beach. “How many thousands of years have those waves been hitting this coast?” she asked.

  Raul shrugged. “Three or four thousand, maybe.”

  “Oh, much longer than that,” she said. “Hundreds of thousands of years. Millions, in fact.”

  “Well, you’ve got the great big brain. You’d know.” He was staring out at the horizon with a half smile, watching the seagulls in the distance.

  “The ocean makes one feel small, doesn’t it?” she said.

  “No. I just want to swim across it. Or draw it.”

  “Oh, if you do draw it, I’d love to have that picture.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s wait until your birthday and see what happens.”

  Beatrice gave him an inquisitive look, wondering if he really meant that, but he only stared out at the water.

  They continued along the beach, their footprints following them. The sand squished between Beatrice’s toes, clung along the top of her foot. She thought briefly about going up to the Pluto Zoo on the hill, but it was so blazingly hot that all the animals would be hiding in their little wooden houses or nests. There was nothing more boring than overheated monkeys and zebras. And they were all so tame—even the lion, who’d appeared in several movies alongside her uncle. They were pale copies of wildlife.

  “Let’s play hide-and-seek,” Raul said.

  “We’re too old for that.”

  “It’s all in the way you play it. Hide-and-seek and truth-or-dare.”

  “What? What kind of game is that?”

  “One I just made up. You hide first. If I find you then you’ll have to answer my truth-or-dare.” There was something wolfish and intriguing about his look.

  “You’ll never ever find me,” Beatrice said.

  “I always find you. It’s easy-peasy.”

  “Fine.” She tugged her bathing cap tighter. “I’ll play.”

  “I’ll count to a hundred. You hide. See you in a hundred and three seconds.” He made a show of covering his eyes and started counting.

  Beatrice ran, her bare feet pounding on the soft grass. Isabelle had once said that truth-or-dare often led to kissing. At least it had once when Ronald, an actor Izzy’s age, tried to play it with her (he was fired from the set that very day). Perhaps a kiss was Raul’s goal. Her heart beat a little faster. It didn’t matter—he wouldn’t find her.

  She was partway up the hill, passing close to Mr. Cecil’s cottage. She knew Raul was frightened of the place, so she guessed it’d be the last area he’d check. She stepped right up to one of the windows, stood on her tiptoes, and grabbed the stone sill. She pulled herself up, crouched on the ledge, and peeked inside.

  The study had a large mahogany desk in the centre. A hand-cranked projector sat in the middle of that desk, with two canisters of film leaning against it. Beside that was a phonograph—on second glance she saw that it was attached to the projector with several cables. It was some kind of sound machine, perhaps an early version of the Cinétone. There was a rolling desktop along the wall. Next to it was a tall Egyptian sarcophagus with crossed arms, the only noticeable ornament in the room.

  There wasn’t any visible proof that Mr. Cecil dined alone in his study. Maybe that took place in a windowless room in the heart of the cottage.

  A glass bauble on the desk glowed with electricity. Her fingers itched to touch it. Mr. Cecil would never know.

  She pushed, but the window wouldn’t open inward. She shoved harder, her muscles burning, and it flicked open, exhaling the air inside.

  “What are you doing!”

  She turned and nearly fell off. Raul was standing below her, his eyes wide.

  “Playing hide-and-seek,” she said. “Playing to win.”

  “You can’t go in there.”

  “I can. I will.”

  And, without completely intending to, Beatrice stepped down into the study and stood on the hardwood floor, breathing in an overpowering antiseptic smell.

  15

  The room was silent and cool as if the heat didn’t dare enter. Sand had fallen off Beatrice’s toes onto the hardwood. She leaned back out the narrow window. Raul stood with his hands on his hips. “You went inside!”

  “There’s no one here,” she said. “Come join me.”

  “Are you nuts? If I get caught, my father could get fired.”

  “Mr. Cecil wouldn’t do that.”

  “Says you.” He pointed his finger at her.

  “C’mon, be brave.”

  Raul narrowed his eyes. “Brave? What’ll your punishment be? No bedtime reading? We’d have to find a new job, a place to live. Even food.”

  Beatrice bit her lip. Raul was right. He was risking far more than she would ever have to.

  In fact, when she looked closely at it, she was hardly risking anything at all. Mr. Cecil had been very clear that neither she nor Izzy should enter his cottage, but he’d never said what the punishment would be. She couldn’t picture any punishment that would outweigh the deliciousness of being inside his study and learning his secrets. She should have sneaked in here years ago.

  “He wouldn’t hurt me,” she said. “He thinks of me as his daughter. You can be my lookout.”

  “Be quick!”

  Beatrice went directly to the magic bauble on his desk. Embedded in three
upturned talons, it was half the size of her head, swirling with pink and blue electricity. It looked like one of Nikola Tesla’s plasma globes. She touched it. The colours danced around her fingers, the hairs on her arms stood up straight. The glass was warm and when she pushed hard on it, it felt as if her hand might sink right into the ball. The longer she stared at the moving colours, the more she felt as if time was slowing and the world was shifting gently into another shape, another form. It took some willpower to pull her hand away.

  The projector had slots for several reels, and the words Morpheus XII were written on a golden plate attached to its side. Mr. Cecil even named his projectors! The lens was a bulbous honeycomb of glass that looked more like the eye of a giant insect than an electric bulb. Beside it was the Cinétone, a phonograph-like device.

  Beatrice gently touched the projector’s On switch but paused. She didn’t want to spoil any of the story’s suspense for herself. After all, Isabelle had said there was a surprise in the movie.

  She went to the far wall. Shelves of black books stretched from floor to ceiling, all the silver titles in Latin and Greek. She opened one and stared at the words, wishing she could read Latin. She’d mention that to Mrs. Madge. She flipped to the next page—an ink drawing of a large male body being dissected, the entrails spilling out like snakes. She slammed the book closed and shoved it back on the shelf.

  She tiptoed over to the sarcophagus. It was taller than her, and the image of the pharaoh was painted brightly. The Egyptian coffin had been built with much more artistry and workmanship than any of the replicas used in Mr. Cecil’s movies. On the very top of it, at a jaunty angle, was a brown fedora that looked as if it had just been tossed up there and forgotten. Maybe there were Egyptian baubles inside. She tugged on the lid, but it was locked. Bah, there’s probably nothing but spiderwebs in there.

  The hat intrigued her. It didn’t belong to Mr. Cecil—he always wore white panama hats imported directly from Ecuador. She reached for it, but at that same moment the floorboard creaked behind her. She turned, bringing her arms up in reflex.

  Raul was inside the study, one hand on the windowsill, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  “Didn’t you hear me call?” he whispered. “You’ve been in here for twenty minutes.”

  “What? It hasn’t even been five minutes.”

  “No. It’s been way too long. Get out.”

  “Don’t be a wet blanket. Mr. Cecil won’t be home until late.”

  “Someone might see the open window.”

  She walked over and pulled the window shut. “There,” she said. The room filled with static electricity as if cutting the room off from the outside world had somehow charged it. The hairs on her arms stood on end again. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.”

  There was a low buzzing sound.

  “What’s that noise?” Raul asked.

  Beatrice tilted her head, listening. “It’s coming from over there.” She went to a nearby cupboard, put her hand on the gold knob, then opened the mahogany door. Inside was a large glass jar, but it was too dark to see why it was buzzing. She brought the jar into the light.

  Several hornet-like insects circled inside, wings whirring, mandibles opening and closing. They had long tails with stingers.

  “A collection of live scorpion hornets!” Beatrice whispered. “He actually has living specimens.”

  The size of the nearest insect was magnified by the glass. She inspected the tiger spots along its carapace. Raul came closer and the insects landed on his side of the jar. A jumble of white sticks rested at the bottom.

  “Are those bones?” Raul asked.

  “From a mouse, judging by the skull. These Vespidae actually eat flesh. And look . . .” She pointed at a few larger bones. “Those bones are from a human finger. See the remaining fingernail?”

  “Why would there be finger bones?”

  Beatrice had no answer to that. Not even a hypothesis.

  With a tick an insect tapped the glass with its tail as if it were trying to sting her. Another landed beside it and the two tapped at the glass in unison, both of them glaring at her with their compound eyes.

  “What are they?” Raul asked. “I’ve never seen an insect like them.”

  “I don’t know their real names. I call them scorpion hornets because of their tails.”

  Tick. Tick. Tick. The green venom from their tails dripped down and pooled at the jar’s bottom.

  Beatrice brought the jar closer to her face, squinting at their buzzing, moving bodies. They were not from this part of the world, she was certain of that.

  Beatrice! Help me! Help!

  Beatrice blinked and felt unsteady on her feet. Had she heard Izzy’s voice? She slowly shook her head, resisting the urge to fall to her knees.

  Beatrice! Help!

  She turned to Raul. “There’s something wrong with Isabelle.”

  As she spoke, she knew with certainty that Isabelle had experienced a deep pain. Had perhaps fallen and smashed her head. Or her heart had stopped. Beatrice’s own heart was pounding.

  “How do you know?” he said.

  “I just do.” She grew weaker and wavered for a moment. Raul caught her by the shoulder but her hands were too cold and clammy to hold on to the jar.

  It fell, tumbling over and over.

  The jar shattered on the floor. The scorpion hornets stayed in place for a moment, tails curling and uncurling, then they flapped the glass dust off their wings and rose into the air.

  16

  Raul grabbed Beatrice’s hand and pulled her toward the door to the hallway. A scorpion hornet buzzed past her head, its wings brushing her earlobe. She jerked out of the way, slapping at the air.

  “Ahhh!” Raul collapsed as if he’d been shot. Beatrice bent down and smacked a hornet off his neck, the back of her hand burning where the venom spattered her skin. Another scorpion hornet darted straight at her eyes. She batted it away, then bent down and tried to lift Raul, but he was too heavy. Instead she had to dig in her heels and drag him toward the door.

  “I. Can. Walk,” Raul said. He pulled himself to his feet.

  The hornets arrayed themselves in a semicircle and blocked the path to the door. It’s like they can think. They hovered in the air, flicking their tails. Venom dripped, burning tiny holes in the floor.

  “The window,” Beatrice huffed, but the moment she took a step in that direction three of the hornets broke out of the semicircle and blocked the way to the window.

  “They’re anticipating our actions,” she whispered.

  “Then let’s do something they can’t anticipate.” Raul’s hand covered the growing welt on his neck, but a bit of blood and pus leaked between his fingers. “What if we just stand still?”

  “You’re going to pass out at any moment.” She glanced around the room. “Maybe they’ll react to this.”

  She flipped a switch on the projector and that odd bulb sent light to a small screen. Several of the hornets darted straight toward it, leaving an open path to the hallway door.

  “Run!” Beatrice pushed Raul out of the room, tumbled after him, then slammed the door. Two of the scorpion hornets smacked into the door’s window, buzzing angrily, their tails twitching and spattering the glass with green venom.

  “Did any of them make it through?” Raul asked. His breath was ragged.

  “No. I don’t think—” A scorpion hornet buzzed right past her nose. She swung, but the thing dove, looped downward and landed on her bare leg. She slowly lifted her hand. Her heart thudded. Once. Twice.

  The insect stared up at her. Its tail arced down. It was like being stabbed with a burning-hot needle. She collapsed as the scorpion hornet darted off. It took all her strength to stand. She swatted madly as the insect flew around her head again. Raul windmilled his arms too, and the two of them began to work their way down a long hall, the scorpion hornet in pursuit.

  She yanked a painting from the wall and swung it, knocking the insect out of the air. The
thing thudded to the ground. Raul jumped on it before the hornet could right itself. It took two hard stomps before its carapace snapped open and its insides spattered across the floor. Smoke came up from the hardwood. The sole of his shoe was smoking, too. He jumped back as the broken scorpion hornet jittered and snapped its tail, trying to strike them. Beatrice stumbled over to a podium, lifted the marble head of Jupiter into the air and smashed it into the creature.

  Then they retreated to the end of the hall, charged through the door they found there, and tumbled outside into Mr. Cecil’s private garden. Beatrice slammed the door closed, and the two of them kept running.

  17

  Raul and Beatrice didn’t stop until they were well away from the cottage and hidden by several orange trees. The buzzing of bees and other insects was alarming. Beatrice leaned against a tree for support.

  “Your neck needs to be drained,” she said. A raw, red lump the size of a croquet ball had sprouted inches from his Adam’s apple. Raul scratched the flesh, making more pus leak out. “Don’t rub it!”

  “It itches!” He grabbed his right hand with his left and held it against his chest.

  “Believe me, I know.” She let out a long breath. “We don’t want to get blamed for all that mess.”

  “We broke a jar, smashed a painting, and knocked over a god’s head. We’re going to get blamed.”

  “No. No. We have to pretend we weren’t even together today. No one saw us. I was busy reading and you . . . you were off trimming vines. Mr. Cecil might think it was thieves. Like the ones who robbed the zoo last year.”

  “Maybe . . . maybe he’ll think that.” Raul didn’t sound like he believed his own words. “We can’t just leave those insects flying around in there.”

  “Mr. Cecil must know how to deal with them. And it’s not like we can go back inside. Jeez, that lump is getting bigger.” Raul’s white shirt was now stained by sweat and drops of blood and pus. “You’ll have to hide that from your dad. From everyone. Or Mr. Cecil will know it was us. At least I was smart enough to be stung on the leg.”