The Mark of Chaos

by Susan D. Kalior

I furrowed my brows. “Black Kings? Do you mean you are of African royalty?”

  He peered into me knowingly. “No.”

  “A cult then? Are you part of a Satanic cult, johnny?”

  “Not anymore.”

  I gasped.

  “Not any more, Jenséa, not anymore.”

  “But . . . Satan?”

  “What is Satan? A dude who went his own way and did his own thing. Isn’t that what America purports? Freedom?”

  “What is your connection to Satan?”

  “There is no Satan. And that fiction insults my kind.”

  “What do you mean, ‘your kind?’ ” I swallowed hard. “What are you?”

  “I’ll tell you more when you are ready.”

  “That man called me a Shen. What’s a Shen?”

  His finger traced the curve of my cheek down to my chin. “A Shen . . .” he kissed my lips gently, “a Shen is an unearthly light bearer, what you would call—an angel.”

  I bowed my head. “I’m no angel.”

  “You are,” he lifted my chin with his finger, “and shame isn’t appropriate. You deem yourself defenseless because you do not know you are a Shen. Therefore, you do not utilize your powers.”

  I gave him an incredulous stare. “johnny, angels don’t have bodies.”

  “How would you know?”

  “The Bible—”

  “—What?” He stepped back. “The Bible tells you so. How can you be so sure that some poppy seed eating philosophical lunatic or some power seeking politician didn’t compose the Bible?”

  “The Bible is sacred, johnny. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m no angel.”

  He shook his head. “You are an Angel with a capital A. Earth life is hard for you because you are so unearthly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are not grounded. You will not let the earth pull you in.”

  “Into sin?”

  “Into life. That’s why you are lonely. That’s why darkness has its way with you.”

  “Well, I have to fight darkness, don’t I? I mean, isn’t that the thing to do?”

  “You have to understand it, Jenséa. You have to deal with it. You have to make it a part of you, so that you can bear light without suffering.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, feeling stupid.

  “People attempt to silence those who evoke change.”

  “But I’m not trying to evoke change.”

  “Your true nature is to enlighten the masses with your presence, your brilliant and significant presence.”

  “I’m not that significant.”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding his head, “you are.”

  I studied johnny deep and hard, somehow understanding something, but I didn’t understand what I understood. I shook my head to get out of my own mind boggle. “What did that man want with me?”

  “You are a Shen. Shens are rare. He wants your spirit.”

  “My spirit?” I turned my head demurely to my shoulder, feeling defenseless. I had sensed not to trust that man. And I wasn’t sure I trusted johnny. I looked up at him, fear glinting in my eyes, “And you don’t?”

  “Yes. But I won’t take it.”

  “Oh johnny, if you are on my side . . . if you really are, then why do I feel like you are leading me on a journey through my horror paintings? I know that sounds crazy, but that’s what it feels like.”

  “Your feelings aren’t wrong, but I’m not doing it to be cruel. You’d make this journey with or without me. Your paintings were premonitions. We aren’t waiting for you to fall into them. I’m guiding you through them ahead of schedule. We’ll meet darkness on our terms.”

  “I don’t get it. How can we make events happen sooner than they were planned?”

  “Time is relative. Darkness is darkness. Go to it and the layout is all the same. I know the land you tread. I know it well. I’ll guide you through the rough spots so you don’t meander into them one unsuspecting day and meet your doom. We’ll get past the dangers now.”

  “You’re losing me. I mean . . . I hear what you’re saying but . . . this is not the Twilight Zone, johnny.”

  “It is, Jenséa, and you and I both live in it. I am master here.” He moved close to me, his body almost touching mine. “Let me teach you.”

  I cried, “You’re scaring me.”

  “You are always scared, and for good reason. Your history ever repeats itself. It is trying to repeat now. If you trust me, I can prevent that. I’ve created an opening in me to connect to you. I’ve never done this before with another. If you disconnect, if you remove the medallion I’ve given you, others could reach in through that opening and destroy me. I won’t allow that, and I would be forced to cut you loose to your own fate. Remember,” his eyes grew darker, “if you remove the medallion, you too will have an opening, making you more vulnerable than you’ve ever been. I can close what I’ve opened. You don’t know how.”

  He watched me with weighted silence, as if determining just how much of the message I’d received. Breezes blew back tendrils of hair that edged his face of dark beauty. Even his threat did not lesson my attraction. It did, however, afflict my stomach with the sensation of tiny monsters clawing me from the inside out. I couldn’t shake the feeling. If I ran from johnny, I’d still be left with my occult problem and go insane. If I stayed, I had to go through hell, albeit with a guide, but hell nonetheless. There was no answer to my dilemma, but complaining felt good.

  My hands slid to my stomach. “johnny, I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough.”

  He shook his head, sighing lightly. “You have your own kind of power that is beautiful beyond earth’s measure, a power I cannot know. I want it. I could steal it from you, the way others have tried, but then it wouldn’t be the same. I won’t take it. I’ll perish first.”

  My heart skipped a beat. Were my ears playing tricks again? I cocked my head. “You would die for me?”

  “Given you do not remove the medallion, yes, I would die for you.”

  My eyes got teary, and my heart opened Grand Canyon wide. “Are you saying that you love me, johnny?”

  “I cannot love,” he said.

  I was hurt and confused by his reply. “Well then . . . why are you willing to die for me?”

  “I want to feel alive, and the only way I can do it is to risk destruction. I’ve been indestructible for so long.”

  There was something odd about the way he said that. “How long, johnny?”

  “Long,” he said.

  “So, you want danger, and you will encounter danger if you help me?”

  “Is that evil?” he asked, “tell me, is it?”

  “I don’t know, johnny. I don’t know.”

  He took my hand in his and led us back to the street front. We walked along the sidewalk. A few minutes later, for some stupid reason, I started crying. A moment after, I knew why . . . but not because johnny told me first. My heart knew before he uttered the words. “You want to be loved by a man. You can’t remember ever experiencing that, not in this life or any other.”

  Tears fell. I wiped them away, embarrassed, staring at my indigo pumps clicking on concrete.

  He gave me a sidelong glance. “You want the romantic fairy tale with me, don’t you?”

  I nodded, and took a deep breath to keep from crying more.

  An old couple walked past us, arm in arm. And my tears welled again.

  With a sigh, johnny said, “I’ve been everywhere, done everything. What people call love, isn’t love. Their love is not real, and neither is yours, not yet, and maybe it never will be.”

  I squeezed his hand. “But I do feel a strange kind of wonderfulness about you. It must be a kind of love. It might be a true love, and maybe even a ‘let’s grow old together,’ eternal love.”

  He said, “But it’s not an unconditional love.”

  A car full of yelping teenagers sped up the road, young coyotes courting pain. Was johnny soon to follow?

  Sta
ring at the car growing smaller far ahead of us, I said, “It could be unconditional love. That would depend on all the truths you’ve not yet told.”

  “You mean, your love would be conditional to that. That is not love. You appreciate me because you need me. You need me, despite my nature, and I need you, despite yours.”

  I glanced up at his profile. “So that is all this is. I need you. You need me. Love is nowhere to be found?”

  I stumbled, missing the step off the curb to the narrow side street.

  johnny caught me, kind of loosely, almost sacredly. There was a kind of respect in the way he straightened me to a balanced standing pose. And there was more to what he felt for me than he had dared to say. I felt it beating inside him.

  He said, “I do feel something toward you, I’ve never felt before. I cannot be certain, but I think it is . . . adoration.”

  He took my hand quickly and guided us across the side street onto the curb that led us to another sidewalk, a seeming gesture to change the subject.

  I labored to remember that johnny was coming from such darkness he truly couldn’t feel love, and least of all divine love, which was to me the epitome of true love. But I hoped that maybe he was feeling some sort of sanctity in our attraction, and thus me. Could I convert him? Could I? If so, it would be my greatest mission in life.

  Looking straight ahead, he said, “You can’t turn the tables on me. I won’t let you.”

  And I knew he wouldn’t.

  We walked silently, glancing at each other from time to time, as if assessing the possibilities or impossibilities of what course our relationship would take. Finally, we reached johnny’s tenement, went inside, and made our way up to his apartment.

  When we entered, he said, “I need rest.”

  “Didn’t you sleep last night?”

  “I don’t sleep at night.” He walked through the kitchen and headed into the family room toward the black cushions.

  Following him, I asked, “Why not?”

  He glanced back at me grouchily.

  I decided not to push it. I’d had enough of the supernatural anyway. “While you’re sleeping, I’d best touch base with Randa. I know she’ll want me to spend some time at the gallery.”

  “No.” He laid down on the cushions, flat on his back.

  I crossed my arms. “No?”

  “Hushhhh.” He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  I crept to the door and tested the knob. I couldn’t get out. The locks were undone, but I couldn’t open the door. I crept to the phone and picked up the receiver. No dial tone. I sat stiffly in the big black chair and stared at johnny. He looked so . . . dead. I watched him for a long time. He didn’t move. I couldn’t even see his chest rise and fall with each breath. I stared and stared and stared, until I myself grew quite sleepy. My body relaxed into the chair. I closed my eyes and I was out.

  Chapter Seven

  I awoke in candlelit darkness to a plate of bloody undercooked beef in my face. I cringed, detesting the notion of devouring dead animals.

  johnny pushed it closer to my mouth. “Eat,” he said.

  He seemed agitated. I gazed over the length of him, black tailored button-down shirt, tucked neatly into black jeans. Was he going somewhere?

  I took the plate, glancing at the round digital clock on the end table. It read, 11:00 p.m.

  He said, “I must depart.” He turned away and walked toward the kitchen to exit the apartment.

  I rested the plate on the black end table. “Where are you going?” I rose. “Can I come with you?”

  “Oh no,” he said still walking, “no.”

  I followed him into the kitchen, my way lit by numerous fat black candles burning bright from here and there. I said, “I am afraid to be here alone at night. Please stay with me. Please.”

  He stopped at the door, his back yet to me. Next to his hip, his hand opened with splayed fingers, palm facing me. “Name your favorite music?”

  “Vaughn Williams,” I answered, “The Lark Ascending.”

  “Yes, Shen music,” he said.

  From every corner of the kitchen the first notes of The Lark Ascending played. The violin soothed me instantly. I looked around shocked, yet pleasantly mystified because there was no stereo and there were no speakers.

  He asked, “Your favorite book?”

  “The Bible,” I said.

  He grumbled. “Pick another.”

  “Sacred Poems, by S. Rallen. johnny, why won’t you face me?”

  He said, “Name another, non-religious in theme.”

  “Sleeping Beauty, the adult version.”

  “Ah,” he said, “Sleeping Beauty. That is appropriate.”

  Red sparked around his body. I even heard it crackle. I don’t know how I heard red crackle, but I did. I stopped breathing, staring hard.

  He sighed deeply, his voice grisly. “I’ll return.”

  He went out the door that mysteriously closed behind him.

  “Oh Blessed Saints,” I said, realizing I had lumped all the saints together. Something in me was changing, expanding to embrace a broader kind of spirituality, while somehow retaining the old. Since the regressions and dreams of religious betrayal, and my experience at the park shining light, how could I stop my mind from opening? Opening spiritually that is. When I thought of johnny, my mind cramped.

  Where was he going? And just exactly what was he going to do? He admitted that he caused people pain, people who wanted pain. I still was not sure what that meant. I rushed to the window and looked down at the Avenue. I saw him cross the road with a street tough glide. Prince of the neighborhood—my johnny. Hot passion consumed me. Crazy hot.

  His face—I wanted to nip his cheekbones and brush against them with mine. His neck—I wanted to inhale his musky fragrance and let it settle to my toes. His body—I wanted to . . . . Oh, why couldn’t he return now? Why did he have to carouse?

  And if he were here now, what then? I would not let my passion burn. I would force it into a coffin and bury it if I could, for it was an evil thing, a thing that made one lose control and fall into sin.

  I suddenly felt horrible. There were poor souls out there who called for pain, and apparently they were going to get it. And here I was lavishing in sinful feelings. How could I help these poor people? The only solution I had was to pray. I went to my knees and prayed for a measure of time I cannot recount. Then I tried something a little different. I hurled an idea out to the universe. If there is more to the spiritual world than what I believe . . . I surrender. I was a little afraid that God might strike me dead, or that the saints might not help me anymore, but I had to do it.

  Having been so long on my knees, I rose clumsily with a cramp, and stretched my hands skyward, bending my torso to the right, then left. In the glimmer of candlelight, I noticed the book, Sleeping Beauty, next to the plate of beef on the end table. Beef—poor cow. Sleeping Beauty—poor me.

  I crawled up into the black leather armchair, closing my eyes. It was quiet. The Lark Ascending had stopped playing. How had johnny made it play? How did he make the book appear? I saw him leave. There was no book. It appeared after he left. He was a magician, an evil magician. Maybe he came from a line of magicians, kind of like coming from a line of gypsies. But there was something in him trying to be good. My attraction was justified. Right?

  I opened my eyes, staring at the candle-lit book. Candlelight? It suddenly occurred to me that there were no lamps in johnny’s place. How strange . . . and why? I eyed the book again and contemplated reading it. Candlelight is wonderful to set a romantic ambiance, but when freaked out, and grotesque things cover the walls, such lighting is creepy. I needed to move, so I paced the floor nervously for quite some time. I explored the apartment further, searching for clues that could help me understand johnny, but found none. I finally nestled in the big black chair, picked up Sleeping Beauty, and began reading while tapping my foot and biting my nails.

  I couldn’t concentrate. I put the book down b
y the meat, which I couldn’t touch. Whenever I looked at it, I imagined johnny biting into some poor live cow. Why did I imagine that? Why?

  Finally, I took a hot shower and slipped into my indigo panties and the long black silk shirt I had worn earlier. I decided to slip my white pants on too, so that johnny wouldn’t take my bare legs as sign to . . . you know. I might not resist. And I must.

  Oh, everything is fine, I pretended. I should just go to sleep. I went to the main room and curled up on the black velvet cushions, realizing for the first time that johnny’s apartment was always the right temperature. I was never hot or cold in here. I exhaled briskly, not wanting to think of johnny’s magic anymore.

  Instead, I thought of Zeke’s Meadow, feeling soothed by the memories of grazing deer, trout in the winding streams, and pine trees brimming with chirping birds. I recalled the sacred moments when the flowers spoke to me, or at least when I imagined they did. They taught me about the beautiful little things so often overlooked—a smile, a color, a sound. I was grateful for the ability to daydream. How else could I cope? It was that or go nuts.

  I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and started pacing the apartment. I found myself in the bare-walled bedroom and sat on the king-size bed. johnny said I had Angel powers, Angel with a capital A. What exactly did that mean? And then I did something unprecedented for me. I deepened my mind, summoning truth. I offered myself to truth, whatever truth was, beyond all belief systems—even the religious beliefs that I held so dear. My forehead seemed to blossom like a morning glory. Truth. Truth. Truth. Truth guided my eyes to scan the black walls, as if there were something for me to see. And I jolted in surprise when there actually was something for me to see. Not physically, but psychically, I guess.

  I had a vision of a yellow parchment behind the wallpaper. I had thought the walls were painted. Time to investigate. I rose slowly and walked to the spot in my vision by the door jam. I had given myself to truth. Was truth now giving itself to me?

  I saw a faint line that wasn’t physically there. I’d never had such visions. Maybe something had been freed in me when I spoke at the debate, an Angel power perhaps. I traced my fingers along the imaginary line, paralleling the wallpaper edge. I loosened a section of the wallpaper and slipped my fingers inside. I felt parchment. With great and careful effort, I slid the paper out.