GARDENS OF NIGHT

by Greg F. Gifune

  And then, silence.

  Brooke’s face arrives, emerges from the darkness. Her hair is mussed and her eyes are brimming with lies. She pretends to be all right but she’s not. Marc can see it in her face, a face he knows well. He has traced every inch of it with his fingers, kissed every spot. And he knows those eyes and all that lies behind them even better. It is not a memory, not quite, but something similar.

  With familiar hands she clutches his cock. Holding the shaft, she presses the head to her lips. As it enters her mouth she closes her eyes and suckles nosily. Some time later, it leaves her mouth with a loud pop and her eyes snap open, like she’s been jarred from a deep sleep. “It’s almost there,” she says dreamily, “I can taste it.”

  Someone yanks him back, pins and holds him still with rough, powerful and calloused hands. Sour breath washes down over his face as eyes above him blaze with anger. A gravelly voice whispers so only he can hear. “In the realm between this world and the underworld, at the roots of the tree, that’s where they dwell.”And then those same hands have hold of what little hair he has left. They force him up so he can see Brooke. He’s in her mouth again.

  He cums. Blood.

  It pours from his cock, escapes lips that even then are clamped onto his erection, runs down across him, splashes his belly and coats his skin, matting down hair and filling his navel as Brooke gags and tries to pull away. But she’s held there by another set of hands, forced down deeper until her eyes roll to white and a slow trickle of blood seeps from her nostrils. Her blood mingles with Marc’s, wets them both down in a rain of crimson, impossibly flowing from him even as he tries to kick and get free.

  “Yggdrasil… it’s dying…”

  His body writhes about, convulsing as if hit by an electric shock. He can smell his flesh burning.

  “Water and fire are the keys. They are life. They are passage.”

  Consumed by a sea of screams, the whispers die. The forest is all around him again, the world spinning and the trees threatening to crash down and crush him. But instead he simply stumbles into a clearing, leaned forward and moving so fast and with such force that he slaps the ground with a resounding belly-flop. His hands break his fall as best they can, but the ground is hard and coarse and scraps his palms like concrete might.

  As he scrambles onto all-fours, he sees a small cottage.

  In the center of a stone walkway leading to the front door stands a lone figure. “Who’s there?” the figure – a woman? – asks. “What do you want? What are you doing on my property?”

  Marc struggles to his feet. Lightheaded and confused, he paws spittle from his lips and looks around, trying to get his bearings. “I don’t know.”

  The woman’s thin gray hair is combed straight back from her forehead in a rather severe style, hooks behind her ears and stops just short of her shoulders. Dressed in black leather boots, a long black woolen coat with matching scarf wrapped around the neck, accentuating a jaw-line and a stoic face, flesh pale and eyes concealed behind large round sunglasses, the lenses black as coal, she looks like some displaced and aging fashion model from the 1960s. Sleek and thin to the point of appearing somewhat emaciated, she remains statue-still, arms hanging at her sides. One hand clutches a small revolver.

  “I’m staying at a chalet not far from here,” Marc explains. “I went for a walk in the woods and I…” His eyes go to the revolver and his bowels clench. He takes a wobbly step back. “I’m not well, I – I got confused, I’m sorry.”

  “Are you lost?” Her voice is less anxious now, nearly kind. “Is that it? You’re lost?”

  Please put the gun away, he thinks. Don’t make me take it from you.

  As if she’d read his mind the woman’s posture relaxes and she saunters a bit closer, heels clacking stone. “I’m sorry about the pistol,” she tells him. “But it’s not every day a man I’ve never seen before comes running out of the woods like the hounds of Hell are on his tail and collapses in my yard. Not to mention that a woman alone in these parts – especially a woman like me – has to be careful.”

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “I’m not frightened.”

  “I’m just…”

  “Lost?” she says again, a slight smile pursing her thin lips.

  Marc nods. “Have I been here long?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. Perhaps she’s gauging the sincerity of his question, but with her eyes hidden he cannot be sure. “I watched you a moment or two before I came out. I saw you fall, you went down awfully hard. Are you sure you aren’t hurt?”

  He halfheartedly inspects himself. “I’m not hurt.”

  “You said you weren’t well.”

  He shrugs. “A bit dizzy.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Marc.”

  “I’m Wilma. Wilma Malloy.”

  He forces a smile. They so seldom come effortlessly anymore. “I’m sorry, Ms. Malloy, I –”

  “Wilma’s fine. Can I call someone for you, Marc?”

  “Call someone?”

  “Surely you can’t be out here all alone.”

  A sudden wind, cold and harsh, escapes the trees, rushes into the yard and slices through them both. In unison, they look to the forest.

  “There’s another storm coming.” Wilma sighs. “Soon.”

  No, the whispers tell him. It’s already here.

  Six

  Marc steps from the car, ignoring his instincts, and moves toward the man in the driveway. He’s still a good twenty or thirty feet away, and his face remains obscured by shadow as the setting sun behind him sinks lower in the sky. Marc is about to ask the man if he can help him with something when his cell phone begins to vibrate. Marc snatches the phone from his belt and glances at the display.

  ~Private Number~

  Though he normally would’ve ignored the call something tells him to answer it. He has the strange sense that being connected to another human being at that point might be a good idea. He holds a finger up, indicating he’ll be with the man in a moment, and answers the phone. “Yes?”

  An empty hiss...

  “Hello?”

  The line clicks, dies.

  He holds the phone out and away from his body as if hopeful it might somehow explain itself. With a shrug he returns the phone to his belt and looks to the man in the driveway. He’s moved closer, closed the gap between them, and has come into clearer view. His head is slightly bowed, and he appears to be staring at the driveway. “Hi,” Marc says. “Can I help you?”

  “There is no fate,” the man replies in monotone, “that cannot be surmounted by scorn.”

  Baffled, Marc stops in his tracks. “Excuse me?” But even then, though he is not sure he heard the man correctly, or if in retrospect he even spoke at all, the words have purpose, meaning. He knows this, wants to question it – needs to question it – yet senses he understands in some primal way. He can’t place it, but the phrase is vaguely familiar and summons emotions that are at once puzzling and terrifying. And it changes something in him. He feels it come awake. Alive… shifting… moving…

  Something horrifying...

  As the man raises his head, the shadows part to reveal his eyes and face, and it is then that Marc realizes he should’ve never gotten out of the car.

  * * * *

  The cottage is small but more spacious inside than he’d imagined. An old woodstove in the corner burns strong, filling the house with waves of stifling heat. Marc normally finds such levels of warmth oppressive, but here it generates a sense of comfort and reassurance, cradles him in the knowledge that he is safe within these walls. Decorated with curious combinations of country charm, ironic chic, and a series of furnishings one might expect to find in an upscale Manhattan apartment rather than a cottage in the woods of upstate New York, the main living area consists of a Parisian Style black table, scrollwork wrought iron corner shelves housing various trinkets and knickknacks, and a pair of comfortable chairs that bookend a matc
hing loveseat. On the maple coffee table is a tattered copy of The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays by Albert Camus, and a pair of aged photographs in small standing frames. One features two little boys and a cat. The other is a posed group shot of a rather motley crew that looks to have been taken on a city street. A modest and nondescript rug covers much of the hardwood floor, and on the far side of the room a divider/dressing screen with an Asian motif stands open as if left there mistakenly. Along with the aroma of burning wood, a vague scent of potpourri hangs in the air, and the walls are adorned with numerous framed pieces of art, mostly abstracts mixed with a Warhol reproduction. One in particular catches Marc’s eye, a poster-sized framed photograph of a woman decked out in a sequined ruby gown. Her makeup is heavy and she wears a large platinum wig. In her hand is a microphone and she appears to be singing. Despite the patent changes, and stage lights out of frame that paint her in a soft indigo hue, Marc realizes the woman is his hostess, the photograph presumably having captured her during an onstage performance of some kind several years ago.

  He hovers about a while before sinking down onto the loveseat.

  Moments later Wilma steps through a wall of hanging onyx beads in the doorway to the kitchen. She carries a quaint serving tray on which two cups of tea, a server of milk, a silver bowl full of sugar cubes, a miniature pair of tongs, two spoons, napkins and a small plate of shortbread biscuits have been placed, and sets it on the coffee table with a smile. Trailing seductively behind her is a black cat, its tail raised and yellow eyes watching him. “This is Mr. Tibbs,” she explains, cocking her head toward the animal.

  “Interesting name.”

  “My brother was a Poitier fan and, well, it’s a long story. His name is sort of a tribute to my brother.”

  “Hello there,” he says to the cat, who seems fascinated by him but keeps his distance.

  After handing Marc one cup Wilma takes the other for herself, adds a spot of milk and a sugar cube then moves to one of the chairs and sits. “For God’s sake, don’t stare so, Tibbs. It’s rude.”

  Thoroughly apathetic, the cat slinks away, hops into the other chair and begins to bathe with manic repetition.

  Coat and sunglasses removed, Wilma’s figure is even thinner than Marc originally thought, and her eyes, while pretty and wise, also appear quite tired. This is a person who has lived life to the fullest, but the majority of that life is behind her. Despite what he suspects are her best efforts, Wilma’s face has aged considerably from the one in the photograph, and rather than a sequined gown she instead sports black jeans and a black turtleneck, which along with her black leather boots contrast nicely with her silver hair and pale complexion.

  The revolver is no longer in hand or on her person.

  Marc wonders where it has gone.

  “Well, it’s certainly not every day that I invite strange men into my house,” she’d told him while they were still outside, “but I usually have very good instincts when it comes to these things. I’ve found that the lost often have a way of attracting one another without even realizing it. Maybe it’s synchronicity, maybe fate, who’s to know? Why don’t you come in and sit a while?”

  “It’s OK, you don’t have to –”

  “You’d never try to hurt me, would you, Marc?”

  He stared into the black lenses. “No, ma’am, I wouldn’t.”

  “You’ve been hurt quite deeply yourself, haven’t you?”

  Unsure of what to say or how to answer, he shrugged.

  “Come in for a bit,” she’d said, rescuing him. “Catch your breath and have something warm to drink. Then we’ll see about getting hold of someone to come and fetch you. I don’t know about you, but I could use some company and adult conversation for a change.”

  Marc sips his tea. It’s weak but feels good on his throat. His palms, scraped from his fall, still ache but aren’t bleeding, and the warmth from the cup soothes them. He remembers earlier times, when he was good at this kind of thing, when he could slide in and out of nearly any social situation with relative ease. Now negotiating even the simplest things have become insurmountably awkward. “Thank you,” he says, raising his cup to her, “it’s very good.”

  “Nice day for tea,” Wilma says, crossing her legs at the knee. “So are you new to the area or renting?”

  “My wife, an old friend and I are staying at a chalet not far from here. They went into town for breakfast and supplies.”

  “An enchanting experience for sure.”

  “I wasn’t supposed to but I went for a walk while they were gone.”

  “Under house arrest, are we?”

  Marc smiles softly, dutifully. “I have some issues.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “It’s all right, I – I mean, I’m not dangerous or anything, I just…”

  Wilma points to the tray. “Have a cookie, love.”

  Marc takes one, nibbles it. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  “I have my moments.” Wilma gives him a wink. “Where are you from?”

  “Massachusetts, near Cape Cod.”

  “Small world. And more synchronicity. I grew up not far from the cape myself. Spent quite a bit of time in Boston in the 80s too.” She smiles but seems distracted by more serious matters. “I’ve lived in Greenwich Village for years now. Normally I’m not here this time of year, but I needed to get away for a while, was so hoping for some peace and quiet, and if nothing else, being out here certainly provides one that. I’ve always been a city girl, but I’ve come to appreciate this place. We – my partner Christopher and I – bought it several years ago as a getaway. We used to come every year for a few weeks in the summer months. He loved it here. This is the first time I’ve visited since…”

  Quiet descends on them like the vulture it is.

  “Chris died a few months back.”

  He somehow knows that there is more to it than that. This man did not die from a heart attack or cancer, but something else, something unexpected and avoidable, something pointless. Violent. There are indications in Wilma’s demeanor, in her soul only someone like Marc can see and feel; a residue of evil unique to violence and those it scars. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. We were together a very long time. I miss him terribly.” She sips more tea. “Horrible thing, but then death almost always is.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know something about that yourself, don’t you?”

  He nods.

  For now, she leaves it at that. “This is the first time I’ve ever come here alone, actually.”

  “I shouldn’t have intruded,” Marc says, “I’m sorry, I –”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re my invited guest. Besides, I’ve been out here all alone for days, puttering around this place and wallowing endlessly in my own sorrow. Isn’t that cheery?” She takes a cookie from the tray. “Tibbs is a great friend, but he doesn’t say much. It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

  Marc feels a connection to her, shared knowledge and pain. This person has known violence and suffering well, and not in small amounts. They are kin.

  She points to the Parisian table, and a framed photograph there of a dapper looking older man and herself, arm-in-arm. “That’s Chris and me, taken just last year.”

  Marc studies the photograph a moment. “He looks like a nice man.”

  “He was.”

  “You look happy.”

  “Yes,” she says, eyes glistening just for a moment.

  “What happened, Wilma?” He wishes he could snatch the words from the air and return them to his mouth before she hears them, but it’s too late. He sips his tea, avoids eye contact and finishes his cookie.

  “Someone split his head open with a baseball bat,” she says evenly.

  Marc clenches shut his eyes, hiding from the man in the photograph and the blood and screams calling him.

  “He was on his way home from the market late one afternoon when a group of young men in a car began harassing him. According
to witnesses Chris tried to cross the street and get away from them, but they followed. They cut him off at the next corner – just a block from our apartment, can you imagine? – and one of them got out and beat him to death with a baseball bat. Right there, on the street.” This time, when she brings the tea to her lips, her hand is trembling. Cup rattles against saucer. “Terrible things…fear, hatred, anger.”

  Not always, he thinks.

  “And such a waste of a wonderfully kind and gentle man who on his worst day wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”

  Marc feels the sadness churning, becoming rage. “And you?”

  As if broken from a trance, Wilma adjusts her position in the chair and asks, “What about me?”

  “On your worst day, would you hurt a fly?”

  She looks into Marc’s eyes as if truly seeing them for the first time, but says nothing. Very slowly, a wry smile breaks across her face. “Hard to say.”

  “What happened to the men who did this?”

  “They’ve yet to be caught. One witness got a partial license plate but it hasn’t amounted to anything. The police are going through the motions but I suspect that’s largely due to the political pressures and media attention. It’s being considered a hate crime, of course, but I still don’t think it’s gotten the highest priority. Much as things get better out there, some things never change. In the end, who cares about some dead faggot?”

  Marc opens his eyes. “I do.”

  In that moment he envies Wilma in ways he can never express and she will never realize. Even after such violence, she functions. She welcomes a stranger into her home. She trusts. She loves. She lives.

  For Marc, there is no going back. His secrets – perhaps secrets no more in her presence – are webs he cannot escape, murderous vines he can never untangle, desperate and bloody hands clawing violently at him from below, pulling him back to flames that burn them all.

  With twisted sounds lingering in his head, odd shrills of agony set to a backdrop of noise somewhere between the distant buzz of helicopter blades and the drone of heavy machinery, Marc scampers away, reciting mantras to calm himself, assurances and lies that everything will be all right if only he stays calm and breathes. His eyes lock on the coffee table, searches it for something, anything, to focus on.