Something Wicked Anthology, Vol. One

by M. Scott Carter

  27 March 1914

  We are leaving. We've had a second night without any sleep. Somewhere close to our camp we heard the sound of low chanting. It continued the whole night.

  29 March 1914

  I cannot find my compass. I remember Abbot asking me to use it when he went out exploring. I am sure he gave it back to me before - before he died. Each of us has volunteered to go out into the jungle, to try and track our way back to Kakenge. Other than myself, I only really trust Otto to have any modicum of luck in such a trial. He can take care of himself. I want some more time with the ruins and would feel better if Malgier was with me. Allister has retreated into himself. All of us are scared but he's not hiding it very well. A dark cloud has settled on him. At times he appears genuinely scared. Other times he appears disabled by melancholy and a profound sadness.

  28 March 1914

  Otto is gone. No-one saw him leave.

  29 March 1914

  I spent most of yesterday and today sitting at the edge of the hole in the ground. Really, that's what it is. I would like to go down again but do not trust Allister and Malgier to be able to lower me and get me back up again safely. Allister's will to live has seemingly left him. He doesn't talk. He does nothing but stare into the fire. When I close my eyes all I see are those words scratched in the rock. Folded and molded.

  30 March

  It seems completely ridiculous, but I cannot recall what year it is. I look at my previous entries and something about the date I have been putting down looks wrong. It seems as if the world - out there - is something that never existed. That the jungle is all there is. All there ever was.

  ----

  Allister killed himself. He used one of the machetes. I had to pry the piece of bloodied paper he was clutching from his stiff, dead fingers. It was an apology to God. There was a quote from the Bible. They sacrificed to demons, which are not God, gods they had not known, gods for whom time does not exist, gods your fathers should have feared."

  ----

  The chanting doesn't stop now. Last night there was screaming in the jungle somewhere close. It sounded like Otto but I told myself my mind was deceiving me. Otto would never scream. Not like that. Malgier and I have drunk most of the water. I asked him why he had really come on the expedition. He couldn't give me a satisfying answer. He only said that he would die anyway if he didn't. He too, seems resigned to his fate.

  I do not feel any sense of guilt. They all came on the expedition of their own free will. But I did not tell them everything. I only showed Malgier my father's letter. I know now what it was I’d felt when that shadow appeared in our camp; when I saw the writing on the rock.

  It's now a matter of choosing how we want to die. Malgier keeps drawing his symbols in the sand. When the sun sinks below the horizon and the jungle darkness sets in we can both feel something stirring at the perimeter of our camp. The chanting gets louder. We have no food and almost no water left. If we venture out into the jungle we will die.

  ----

  We've drunk the last of the water.

  ----

  I cannot find Malgier or his books. There are footprints leading into the ruins toward the cave. I'm afraid of following them because I do not trust myself. I have decided I want to see what it is; I want to see what haunts us. I want to know what the jungle hides. My father must have known me better than I thought. Terror and beauty - they are one and the same thing. I have wiped clean all of Malgier's symbols. The dust has settled. I am sitting in front of the slowly dying fire. When it comes for me tonight I will meet it alive. If it wants me, I want to know why.

  SCISSION

  by Domenico Pisanti

  1.

  He walked into the restaurant, a man in his early fifties; someone who turned heads and for a brief moment reminded all who glanced in his direction of a happier time in their lives. Then it was business as usual. A waiter was already making his way towards the man, who was looking around as though trying to find someone.

  “Howzit, sir. Are you here for the lunch special? It’s a carvery today. Table for–?”

  “For two,” he said, absently, and then seemed to focus on the waiter in a most direct way. “I don’t have my reading glasses, Kenneth, but this is Scission, is it not?” He wasn’t in the habit of making mistakes, but his eyes were a little faded these days. Still, he could feel her. This must be the place.

  The waiter blinked in surprise at the use of his name, but then remembered that his nametag gave him away. “Ja, sir, of course. Voted best restaurant two years straight, ek se!” There was real pride in his voice. The tall man looked so familiar to Kenny. He wondered if he was someone famous, maybe even internationally famous. He almost wanted to say, “Here stood Seal.” Except it wasn’t Seal. He’d have to ask Mpho, the assistant manageress who was always reading Heat magazine and keeping up with who was who in the entertainment zoo. The tall man turned his attention to Kenny and the young waiter felt like he was having a nap on the couch on a lazy summer afternoon.

  “Has a lady come in here, Kenneth?” The man asked.

  Kenny snapped out of his daydream. He cleared his throat. “Lady, sir?” His voice implied that many ladies came in here all the time, and could you be more specific, sir?

  The man grimaced. The windows overlooking Sandton and the Michelangelo Hotel let in a ray of sunlight, which glanced off his perfectly bald black head. “I believe you’d remember her.”

  “Oooh! Yes!” Kenny’s eyes lit up with delight. A thin sheen of perspiration immediately covered his forehead. He whistled. “Ja, of course sir. She chose the best table. She said she was expecting a companion. Please follow me.” Kenny made his way through the restaurant. It wasn’t that full, but it was the height of lunch hour, and the businessmen would be coming in shortly. Nothing was ever accidental with her. She never missed an opportunity to have a dig at him. Even this restaurant had been carefully chosen – not only for its location, in the beating heart of Johannesburg’s business district, but also its name: Scission.

  She’d never forget – never let him move on. Some scripts were doomed to be re-enacted, dances waltzed through time. He already felt tired, which meant she had succeeded in her first attack on his defences.

  The waiter walked past three tables where people sat alone. The table she had chosen was near the back for privacy’s sake, yet raised on a dais, so that the view was uninterrupted through the solid wall of windows that curved around the restaurant.

  She looked up, and both men gave a sharp intake of breath. Her skin was olive-coloured, with a hint of cocoa, her eyes so dark they might have been violet. Her hair was a curtain of raven, the sheen made you want to touch it to believe it was real. She wore a summer dress the colour of burning autumn leaves that hugged every curve, to her advantage. There was a glow about her of pure confidence, danger and sex appeal. She had a daiquiri in hand and was sipping at it, the ridiculous umbrella bopping as she looked up and saw the tall man. Her smile was as bright as the window behind them.

  She stood up, and the grace of her movements brought another shudder from the perspiring waiter. “Your table, sir. I’ll give you a minute to decide on drinks,” he stammered, then reluctantly walked away to join the huddle of waiters all lounging nearby, trying to make their obvious stares anything but.

  Her eyes looked up into his, and the energy between the two seemed to hold the restaurant in thrall. He discovered that his hands were shaking as they took hers. She’d always had this effect on him – on anyone really.

  “Are you impressed?” she whispered, the curve of her smile and upraised eyes toying with his resolution.

  “You’re early,” he replied, and had to clear his throat.

  Her smile curved upwards. “Maybe I missed you. Maybe I thought, this time round, I’d make an effort. Does it impress?”

  “You’ve never fallen short of impressing anyone.” He paused. “And what do I call you this time?”

  Her smile lost some of its lustre
. They were still standing. “Oh, you’re so boring. Why break the moment with an inane question like that?”

  “You know me. I’m a traditionalist.”

  “I think you love being human a little too much, love the labels.”

  “Names are power.”

  “What do I call you, then?” Her breath carried the scent of cherry blossoms, and the heat of her body was all over him, trying to find a way in. Her fingers played with his. “I see you have no wedding ring.”

  “There is only you.”

  “The universe is so big. You haven’t been looking hard enough.”

  “With you in it, why should I look elsewhere?”

  “Flatterer.”

  “You look lovely, by the way. But then, you always do.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.” And for all her power and strength, he could see that he had pleased her. It broke his heart a little more. He knew they could never be together again.

  “Alright, then. I’ll go first. Just for the record, and the rules. Miranda. And you are?” She had taken possession of his hand again.

  “Jeff.”

  “Oh, come on! Of all the names in the world!” She sat first, the same graceful movement. He plonked his long frame into the chair opposite her. He noted an empty daiquiri glass standing to one side; the one she was now sipping from was in front of her. “Low marks for imagination, Jeff. How American of you. The alcoholic in the White House will be so thrilled!”

  He did not rise to the bait, but instead lifted the wine list to peruse. Behind him, the first group of businessmen came swaggering in, some on their cell phones, others talking rugby. One or two in the group called a ‘Howzit’ and winked to the two youngest waitresses. A man in a suit of blue silk lifted his eyes from his conversation for a moment, and staggered to a halt, his conversation forgotten. Miranda smiled a secret smile at him. Then turned her attention back to the old man.

  “Fans of yours?” the old man asked politely.

  “Could be,” she returned, and sipped the daiquiri, enjoying the discussion that was still going on near the window on her account. “But we’re not here to discuss business, are we?”

  The waiter suddenly reappeared. He had wiped his forehead free of perspiration. “Are you ready to order, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’d like a bottle of red. Graham Beck.”

  “And only from the vine, never the vein,” she said, and giggled at her own joke. The waiter raised an eyebrow, his hand poised over the note pad. “Imagine drinking your own son’s blood! Two sins in one: filicide and cannibalism! What a pickle!”

  “Graham Beck, Merlot. Any year is fine.”

  The waiter left, trying not to stare, only for a different reason this time.

  “Miranda.”

  ‘Yes, Jeff?”

  “Breaking a rule isn’t going to do either of us much good. You have to behave, and not step out of any bounds. That is part of the agreement.”

  She made a movement with her hand, like a puppet speaking. “Blah, blah, blah. That is why we have these nice minders all over. To make sure I colour inside the lines.”

  “I noticed when I came in. Some are friends of yours–”

  “And some of friends of yours. That table over there. The old lady looking lost and so not part of the scene, is a dead giveaway.”

  “Well, subtlety doesn’t run strongly in your people either. Who does that man over there in the spiked hair think he is? Beelzebub?”

  “Everyone needs a hobby.” She said this with real fondness in her voice. The silhouette of a man with four flies tied to his shirt collar showed against the bright light through the windows “Ah, see. That is why we need minders and rules. Just like old times, Jeff. Wouldn’t you agree? Us arguing over a nice meal. Oh, what’s the matter now? Don’t you like this place I chose for us?”

  “I’ve never liked any of the places you’ve chosen for us.”

  “Well at least it isn’t on top of a mountain in Tibet. To me that smacks of bragging, and pride is the first deadly sin, may I remind you.”

  “All I’m saying is, it’s far more peaceful than the Spanish Inquisition.”

  “Don’t look at me. I just wanted to appreciate all your creations, not just mountains.”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled. The lines on his face were a little deeper than when she had last seen him. She didn’t mean to dig at him so much, but they always brought out the best and the worst of each other.

  They remained silent until Kenny returned with the bottle of Graham Beck. He poured, Jeff sipped, approved, and his glass was filled. Kenny hovered. “Er…are youse going to have starters? Or just go for the carvery?” His thick Afrikaans accent grated over the English words.

  “Hmmm. Well that all depends on whether Jeff here is going to be interesting company. We may do seven courses, or just a quick meal. What do you say, Jeff?”

  “I’ll have a starter please. The calamari and salad.”

  “Another of these,” she purred, holding up her daiquiri.

  “So!” she said, leaning forward so that he could get the best view of her cleavage. “What is it going to be first, sex, religion or politics? Because let’s face it, nothing else is worth talking about.”

  “I find it hard to imagine that after all these years, you’re still bitter.”

  “Me? Bitter! About what?”

  “About us.” He sipped his wine, and watched her face in that way that had always frightened her. He wouldn’t dare cheat and go against the rules, but she sometimes wondered how much he knew what she was thinking. Even in these human suits, he had an unpleasant way of seeing through her carefully constructed armour. “The venue alone is a start.”

  “Scission?” She threw her pretty hair back and laughed, eliciting worshipful glances from the table of businessmen. He continued to watch her. “That’s really amusing.” She threw her carefully manicured hand out as if dealing cards, indicating the two of them, “That would be like saying Hitler had a small disliking for Jews. Are you saying your first clue was the name of this restaurant? Are you really that dense? Because there are more…obvious reasons why you and I find ourselves where we are now.” Her eyes darkened for a moment, like pools of black smoke. “I despair, I really do.”

  “I only ask, because each time we do one of these…” It was his turn to deal an invisible hand of cards. “I always hope you’ve moved on.”

  “Honey,” she said, leaning forward, and catching his hand in mid-air. She kissed the back of his knuckles with her soft, full lips, and the sensation rippled up his arm. “If I stopped being bitter, you’d be the first to know.” She ended with a whisper. A part of him – the part that would always be in love, as well as lust, with her – took a moment to reflect that it was these kinds of tactics she used each time they met. It had almost led to a disaster in a cheap motel more than once.

  “You’re not doing that again, Miranda,” he said in a tight voice, and removed his hand from hers.

  “Doing what, sweetness? Doing what you crave and want?” Her eyes looked through lashes as soft and large as palm leaf shadows. “Scission – the act of cutting or dividing – a split. Yes, maybe I chose this restaurant in this area of Johannesburg because I knew just how much you’d understand–”

  “I understand how hurt you are. After all this time…I am sorry–”

  “Shut your mouth and keep your pity away from me! I need neither!” she suddenly spat.

  She sat back, and he saw her blink a little too rapidly. Kenny reappeared, his brow soaked again. He handed the daiquiri to her as carefully as he could, and she touched his hand in the briefest of moments.

  “Your boss is ripping you off. He pockets the tips,” she said, and the young man’s eyes clouded for a moment. “I thought you should know.”

  “Miranda–”

  “What?” Her smile as innocent as an altar boy’s. Kenny looked as if he’d been hit hard in the solar plexus as he walked away, stiff and taut. “I’m right
ing a wrong. You should be proud.”

  “Rules,” he growled.

  She heaved her bosom in a deep sigh. “Are you going to be this…principly all day?”

  “Are you going to misbehave all day?”

  “Is that an invitation, Jeff?”

  2.

  “There must be some mistake. I didn’t order this.”

  “This is from the gentleman at the window.” The waiter’s face pleaded that she accept the drink. She sighed, and nodded.

  “Much appreciated.” She squinted over the waiter’s shoulder towards the young man with the flies tied to the lapels of his jacket. The man’s face was hidden by the light of the windows behind him, but she spied the flash of a smile. She lifted the whiskey and sipped with pleasure. After a few moments her eyes moved over the table of businessmen, back to the focus of her attention: the couple at table six.

  “Thought I’d introduce myself.”

  She nearly knocked the entire glass over. The buzzing of flies filled her ears. “Oh my–”

  “Didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice was low, pleasant and American.

  Like hell you didn’t, she thought, and turned her most radiant smile up at him. “Just nerves. It’s the occasion, I’m sure.”

  “Buster Leebs at your service.” He held out his hand. It was the smoothest hand she’d ever seen. Like a suit that had never been worn, she thought. “These little guys are…” the smooth finger pointed to each fly in turn. “Azrael, Michael, Gabriel and Raphael.”

  “Interesting.”

  “And let me guess: Joan of Arc? Mother Teresa?”

  “You flatter me – just call me Marleen…well, you may as well sit down. It looks like they,” she pointed with her chin towards the tall black man and the curvy brunette, “aren’t going anywhere.”