Pockets of Darkness

by Jean Rabe

  “As long as it takes,” Bridget mused. “And how long do you think that will be?”

  “If you work hard, my student, I believe you will be ready in three or four years.”

  “Three or four—I don’t have—”

  Hilimaz gestured to an open doorway. “Now, we will pray to Enlil to bless our efforts this coming night.”

  “I’m Catholic,” Bridget thought, but her words were vocalized. “And it can’t take three or four years.”

  “Catholic? Maybe Enlil knows your god, Cathol. And maybe your Cathol will not mind you praying to Enlil.” The potter motioned and Bridget felt herself tugged through the doorway. “Maybe they are related, our gods. Or maybe Enlil fathered some of Cathol’s children. Maybe Enlil fathered Cathol.”

  ***

  Thirty Three

  The home they went to that night was opulent. It sprawled at the end of a street, rising two stories with a flat roof rimmed by plants that draped over the sides and in some places veiled windows like curtains. Lights glowed from only one side of the home, but the stars were so bright in the cloudless sky that the ornate details of the place showed clearly.

  Bridget had never seen so many stars.

  “Enmebaragisi is a prominent merchant,” Hilimaz explained. “The wealthiest of men from a line of wealthy men. Yet all his gold did not keep the Aldî-nîfaeti Pua-tuma-sin at bay.”

  Enmebaragisi greeted the old potter, bowing deeply and gesturing her inside. Bridget guessed him to be in his sixties, his dark face deeply lined like a crumpled paper sack, and his hands were wrinkled, his hair sparse white wisps that hung down to his shoulders. The wife, Shag-ana, could have passed for a teenager, and her belly was so swollen it looked like she was going to give birth any moment. There were two others in the main room, both young men that appeared roughly the same age as Shag-ana; maybe the man had been married before and they were sons. Bridget forced down her curiosity and thought of Otter.

  Hilimaz paced the room, the damp bowl cradled in her hands. She didn’t bump into the people or the furniture, but she shuffled slowly and hummed softly, the same tune Bridget had heard when she’d first spied the potter during her delving.

  Hilimaz was clearly intent on whatever she was doing, and Bridget turned her thoughts to Otter. She thought about Adiella’s pit in the subway, and for an instant heard a voice with a distinctively Brooklyn accent. The Brooklyn accent became clearer: “Marsh, you suck at cards, you know.” Faintly she felt a vibration beneath her, the rumble of a subway train.

  Bridget pried her mind away from Adiella’s pit and focused on Hilimaz. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling and set the shadows of the room’s inhabitants against the walls. Hilimaz’ shadow traveled, as did another, they looked to be dancing. Bridget stared at the twin shapes, one no doubt the Aldî-nîfaeti Pua-tuma-sin that the potter had come to catch. Why didn’t the demon flee the house? Why risk getting snared?

  Interspersed with Hilimaz’s dissonant notes was “Pua-tuma-sin.” Perhaps the demon couldn’t flee because Hilimaz had its name, that being the hook that had caught the fish. Over and over and over she’d told Bridget names were power. Yaqrun—that was the name of the lava-spewing tentacled beast Bridget had released in the museum and that subsequently had burned down her brownstone. What the hell was the name of the other one? And, more, what was the name of the Aldî-nîfaeti that dogged her and had slain people she’d cared about? The warty, puss-oozing son-of-a-bitch that had gnawed on Jimmy’s heart right in front of her?

  Bridget sensed the air growing hot and dry and saw the disparate-aged couple and the teenage boys huddle together. They all breathed shallowly, and it looked like Shag-ana was in distress. She clung to her husband with one hand, and the other on her belly visibly quivered.

  The tempo of Hilimaz’ tune increased when the potter reached a sharp corner and turned the bowl upside down. Bridget felt as if the air had been sucked from her lungs, the sensation so intense and hurtful, like she was physically present in Enmebaragisi’s house. Her senses spun and she felt herself circling downward. Just how deep was her mind in ancient Sumer?

  The demon’s shadow looked like shiny black paint running toward the corner where Hilimaz placed the upended bowl. The creature took on dimension as it fought to stay free, half extricating itself from the wall. It was a hideous thing, man-shaped but with elbows and knees grotesquely oversized and covered with spikes. It had no flesh on its legs and arms, just blackened bones, and it had no feet. Its torso was covered with flesh, or rather a writhing mass of insect-things that expanded and contracted as the Aldî-nîfaeti breathed. The monstrosity clawed at the air with its seven-fingered scabrous hands, and it opened its maw and keened. The head of it was vaguely simian, like Yaqrun’s, and its tongue was a serpent that unfurled and snapped at Hilimaz, striking her again and again.

  The potter had been speaking, but Bridget had been so caught up in the demon’s manifestation that she’d not caught most of it.

  “—I heal and annul. With these words I catch I bind. Weapon of clay, mother wet-earth, in the names of angels Sariel and Barakiel. I, Hilimaz, shackle the Aldî-nîfaeti named Pua-tuma-sin. In so doing I free the hearts of Enmebarasis and Shag-ana and her coming child. I ease the troubles of the descendants of Ekur. I, Hilimaz, protect this house from all vileness. Bind and seal and capture forevermore the Aldî-nîfaeti named Pua-tuma-sin.”

  The demon’s keening became a knife, so sharp and painful. Had Bridget been able to physically react, she would have held her hands to her ears and slammed her eyes shut. But her senses locked in place, she was forced to watch and listen as Pua-tuma-sin’s serpent tongue continued to lash out at the potter and its scream became so high-pitched it dropped Enmebarasis and the others to their knees.

  Then in a heartbeat the noise was gone, and the demon with it. Bridget glimpsed its scabrous claws dig at the earthen floor as it was pulled under the bowl. Hilimaz bent, turned the bowl upright, shuddered, and collapsed. Bridget feared the old potter was dead, but after a moment she saw the woman’s chest slowly rise and resume a normal rhythm. The family recovered and hovered around Hilimaz.

  Bridget heard them all clearly, though they spoke the long-dead Sumer tongue.

  “Praise be to Enlil and Utu and Nannar,” one of the teenage boys said.

  “The gods are good,” Shaga-ana said. Both hands were pressed to her belly, and her feet were apart as if she had trouble balancing. Sweat was thick on her forehead. “The gods keep my baby safe by freeing this home of the ruinous Aldî-nîfaeti.”

  Enmebaragisi gingerly touched his young wife’s chin and tipped her face up to his. “Our child will not be eaten, beloved. Enlil and Utu, Nannar, and Prael blessed us.”

  “It was her,” the other teenage boy said, pointing to Hilimaz’s prone form. “Not the gods, father, it was the witch who saved us. She—”

  “It was the gods,” Enmebaragisi countered. “They worked through the blind woman, she is their focus in this city, their vessel. She is nothing more.”

  The young woman pulled away from the group and went to a chair, eased herself onto it, still holding her belly. “We must pay her, husband. We agreed—”

  “Of course.” He waved a hand and the boys retreated to a room out of Bridget’s sight. She kept her gaze on Hilimaz, worried that the potter had been gravely injured. It was selfish, Bridget was concerned about herself and Otter, needing the old woman to be all right so she could continue the lesson.

  The two boys returned with a small chest. Enmebaragisi opened it. Inside were jewels and pieces of gold. He selected a thin gold bracelet and what looked like an uncut sapphire. He closed the lid and gestured again, and the boys took it away.

  “That is not enough, husband,” Shaga-ana said. “Not for ridding our home of the Aldî-nîfaeti.”

  The merchant laughed. “She is an old, blind woman, my heart. What does an old, blind woman need with wealth? This will buy her food and tools for her clay. She does not need more.” He
handed the pieces to his wife. “I have business to attend, my heart. When Ruabi-ruve awakens, pay the witch and send her on her way.”

  Bridget smoldered. The merchant didn’t act grateful, pleased, yes, but he hadn’t even displayed the courtesy of helping Hilimaz off the floor. The two boys did that, but after Enmebaragisi left and the young woman asked them to. They settled the potter in a chair, and when she came to, they gave her something that smelled like strong coffee.

  “Thank you, Ruabi-ruve,” the young woman said. “You have made my home safe, and my child-to-come will live without fear.” She tentatively stretched a hand forward, took Hilimaz’s free hand and placed it on her swollen stomach. “If this is a girl, I will name her for you.”

  Hilimaz left several minutes later, the gem and bracelet in her pocket, the damp bowl held carefully against her.

  “That man is rich.” Bridget still fumed.

  “Certainly,” Hilimaz replied. “But I am an old, blind woman, and what do I need beyond food?”

  Even unconscious, Hilimaz must have heard the merchant. Bridget studied the potter’s face, looking for some trace of ire at the sleight the merchant had committed. The old woman’s expression was serene, though Bridget noticed a horrid mark on the scarred side of her face, where the demon’s snake-tongue had bit her.

  “Still,” Bridget persisted. “He should have paid much more for what you did.”

  “Bridget the-strong-willed, do you not believe he will make atonement for his rudeness in the world after this? Do you not believe there are repercussions for unfortunate behavior?”

  She did believe it, and worried that her own soul was bound for some very dark place. “He has so much wealth. I saw gold and gems and—”

  “And in your Catholic world so far removed in time and distance from this place, little ghost, what has wealth gotten you? Has it made you at ease? Joyful? What has it provided for your soul?”

  ***

  Thirty Four

  “Yaqrun.”

  “Yes, Bridget the-strong-willed, that is the name of the demon you released, and the one you must recapture. Say the name again and again so you will never forget it. Say it each hour of each day until you are ready to catch the beast. And if you do not say it often enough, I will say it for you.”

  Bridget worried that months had passed in the blink of an ephemeral eye, based on the crops growing and being harvested—chickpeas, lentils, onions, lettuce, leeks. Barley and wheat were growing tall. She and Hilimaz traveled near the river, where homes were made of tightly woven reeds, and watched fishermen bring in their catch, from across the fields, hunters toted gazelle they’d speared. She worried that Otter and the others had left the pit, perhaps had been slain. She couldn’t pull her mind back to look in on them, Hilimaz held the leash too tight.

  “I need the name of the other one, Hilimaz. The other one I released.” Again Bridget described the massive slab of Silly Putty that she’d watched devour the flaming museum guard. “More than that, I need the name of my demon, the toad-thing that shadows me. You promised to help on those counts. And I need to know if my son—”

  “I promised to teach you. I’ve done that. Provide names?” Hilimaz shook her head, as she had the many other times Bridget had asked. “I never promised that. Enlil has not provided the names, little ghost, not today and not on the other days. Perhaps there are Aldî-nîfaeti Enlil does not know, and so you may never know their names and never have power over them, never be able to summon them into a piece of pottery. But you know the name Yaqrun.”

  If Bridget had kept a piece of that broken pot she could have delved it and discovered the name of the Silly Putty beast through the memory of the person who’d trapped it. But she’d lost that shard on the subway.

  “Maybe we should try to find the other witches who trap demons.”

  “And how many times have you suggested that?”

  “I have lost count.”

  “And how many times have I said that is a foolish thought?” Hilimaz laughed. “What makes you think, little ghost, that because I catch Aldî-nîfaeti, I know others who catch them also? I do not. The mother of my long-dead husband, she caught Aldî-nîfaeti, and she taught me. And now I teach you. Before many more years pass I must find another one in this city to teach, pass the craft on.” She stared out across the river as if she was actually seeing something. “You may teach whoever you please when we are done.”

  “I know only a couple of witches in New York. Lady Lakshmi, Goater, Beran, Adiella.” She said the last name like it was profanity. “There is not one of them that I would—”

  Hilimaz made a huffing sound like sand blown across dry ground. “I say you are a witch, and that makes the learning easier for you. But one does not need to be a witch to catch the Aldî-nîfaeti. You need the name and the words, you need clay and the words. A strong heart helps. Anyone can say the words, Bridget the-strong-willed. Anyone who can learn the words and can stand up to fear.”

  “Then … then … why aren’t there lots of people in this city who can catch the feckin’ Aldî-nîfaeti?”

  Hilimaz laughed, long and musical. “I am old and ugly and blind, little ghost. If others knew how to snare the Aldî-nîfaeti in this village, the people would have no use for me at all. Better that I am needed and whispered about and feared and revered, that I am the only demon-catcher here. Better that they think I am important and mystical. So I will not teach my craft to anyone else here until my days grow even shorter. These people who I have helped … if they paid attention to my words, they could learn the snaring, too. But these people do not notice my words, the catching spell, they notice only the Aldî-nîfaeti that vexes them, and they are too afraid to notice anything else.” She paused. “You, I teach you because you are not really here. You are not a rival for my attention. You, I teach because you are a mystery and because I have your name and some power over you. You, I teach because it gives me something interesting to do. And above all things, you I teach because Yaqrun is in your very far away time and place city. I hate Yaqrun more than I love life, and you will catch that Aldî-nîfaeti.”

  “My son—”

  “Do not worry about your son, little ghost. The time you spend here is nothing.”

  Bridget thought often about Otter and prayed that Hilimaz was correct, that he’d be there in Adiella’s pit when she returned.

  “Now, we will recite this new spell again and again.”

  Time shifted as Bridget committed more spells to memory and watched as the old potter engraved bowls, certain now that she could duplicate the characters. Each spell was a little different, various gods’ names invoked, but all had a central theme.

  “Yaqrun,” Bridget said again one morning. It was fall, the crops were being harvested and the air, though still pleasant, had the faintest chill to it. “I am ready, Hilimaz.”

  “So you believe, little ghost. But what of the other that you released? And what of this toad-thing you tell me follows you? Are you ready for them?”

  “I have no names for them. And each damnable day I spend here you tell me you have no way to gain their names.”

  “Sad little ghost.” Hilimaz’s expression was forlorn. “And that your toad-thing is bound to metal?” She made a tsk-tsking sound. “Metal cannot capture the Aldî-nîfaeti, or truly imprison it. Only clay. I have told you this in all the days you have spent here. I have told you this again and again, and yet you do not hear. That toad-thing is not a prisoner. It is something else. When will you listen?”

  Bridget did nothing to hide her ire. “And I have told you in all the days that the feckin’ Aldî-nîfaeti who dogs me is caught, bound.…” She stopped herself. “Bound.” It wasn’t caught, not inside something, like the other Aldî-nîfaeti had been snared in the clay. Her demon had a presence and waddled around New York City at her heels. It had killed Tavio and Jimmy and certainly Dustin. It had killed women Elijah Stone knew and how many others through how many other years. It was a feckin’ serial
killer. “It isn’t caught,” she said. “It’s attached, but not caught.”

  “Finally. So long it took you to say those words, little ghost.” Hilimaz’s expression turned smug. “This Aldî-nîfaeti you speak of is bound, yes, but not imprisoned.”

  “My curse.”

  “Maybe,” she stroked at her chin. “Maybe it is not a curse. Who would bind an Aldî-nîfaeti? And why?” Bridget noticed the old potter had dry clay on her hands. Hilimaz had been missing things lately, the clay on herself, bumping into her bench and stumbling. The vagaries of age were catching up.

  Just how long had Bridget been inside the bowl?

  “Four years,” Hilimaz said. “You have been here four years, little ghost. And yes, you are ready for Yaqrun. But the others … with no names … you will have no power over them. Neither your god Cathol, nor Enlil, has given the names to you. Maybe you will never gain those names and those beasts will be forever free. A demon lives forever, you know. But you are ready for Yaqrun, and that is my only concern. Come visit me again, little ghost, and once more give me something interesting to do.”

  O O O

  “Mom? Mom!”

  Bridget opened her eyes. Otter was on his knees in front of her.

  “Mom!”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but her tongue was like sandpaper and her throat was dry.

  “Mom!”

  Marsh shouted too, and Rob, Quin. She felt the rumble of a subway trundling along, and heard her demon babbling … and through the racket, she understood every single word the beast spewed. She’d learned Sumerian in her time with the old potter.

  “Mom!” Otter shook her shoulders.

  “M’okay,” she managed. Bridget realized the bowl wasn’t in her hands, it lay next to her like it had fallen out of her lap.