“More than what happens when I don’t imbibe? The pain only recedes one of two ways. Alcohol seems by far the lesser of the two evils…No one’s hurt but myself.” The man reaches for the bottle at his side, his gaze staying on the monk even as he pours.
“And no one is saved. This isn’t the true path, lad. You may have to bear the pain before you can overcome it.”
“I fear what I may do in that interval. Even if you don’t. If this is a test, Brother Gable, I’ve failed. Accept it as I do.” Downing his newly filled cup, the man reaches again for the bottle.
“I’ll never accept the failure of our faith, lad. You can’t fail: it’s been foretold. That one, like you, would come with such power, and such grace—”
“Then you marked the wrong child.”
The monk’s gaze flickers to the man’s brow before he can check its motion; at a loss, he looks away and shakes his head. “The symbol only unlocks your inner potential, lad.”
“I won’t be your false idol. If your prophecies speak the truth, they speak it of another.”
The monk whirls back, the intensity returning to his eyes as he leans forward urgently. “You’ve already fulfilled so many of the requirements, given so many of the signs, done so much in so short a time. And you still have more, so much more to accomplish. Don’t do this, lad.”
“I’m sorry, Brother Gable. But as you’ve already guessed, I asked you here tonight to tell you that I’m leaving tomorrow.”
* * *
The man named Briad yelled in alarm, then excitement, then religious resolve. Tables groaned as they overturned, blades hissed as they slid free of sheathes. Shouts for blood, Jenowade, and the demon’s death quickly warred with and overwhelmed the few calls for caution and calm. The stranger felt a hand grasp his collar, jerk him upwards, dare a defense.
He closed his bloodshot eyes, and all sound stopped.
He felt a hand snatch itself away, and sensed an arm start to spasm.
He opened his clear eyes, and watched an inky, shimmering snake free itself of a shaking forearm and wind upwards.
He raised his gaze to the ceiling, and battled euphoria as a throat gurgled and a weight hit the floor.
* * *
“Reconsider, lad, I beg you.”
“I’m sorry to break your trust, Brother Gable, but I can’t be something I don’t believe in.” The wanderer shoulders his pack and checks to make sure its straps won’t chafe.
“You’re turning your back on your chance to save the world. You will realize that.”
“All I’ve realized is that this isn’t a ‘gift.’ This is a flaw, my flaw, and I won’t subject others to my failing any longer.” The wanderer begins to walk, picking up speed as he heads for the misfit forest.
The monk hurries along beside him as best he can. “We sheltered you here these past years for a reason, lad! You can work miracles! You can make people believe! You can save us, save us all! If you would only believe yourself, believe in yourself…”
“I believe in your kindness and your hospitality, and I thank you for these many years of it. But not this unasked-for power. Let me be…as I will let others be if I’m strong enough.”
“Lad…”
“Goodbye, Brother Gable.” The wanderer passes through the redbrick gate, the furthest limit of the abbey’s grounds.
Stopping with a frown, the monk clears his throat to say something more and then pauses, as if debating the wisdom of doing so.
The wanderer strides on.
* * *
Downing his last drink in solitude, the stranger savored the bitter aftertaste with a slow roll of his tongue. Scaly green ink and crimson vitality pooled together at his feet for some time before he eventually set the cup down, fascinated by the way the stain crept ever larger as the two hues merged slowly into a single, oily black…Looking away, he stared next at each of the room’s lamps. As punishment for the discomfort they’d so recently caused him, he winked them out with a thought, doing his best to ignore the parallel between these extinguishings and the bloodier one he’d perpetrated moments earlier.
Shaking his head, the stranger stood to his full, unbowed height and fumbled in his pocket for a suitable payment. What coins he had he scattered about his mug before beginning to walk away, navigating the now dark room by the blue glow emanating from his pulsing brand.
But he couldn’t help hesitating over the rumpled form once more, his eyes drawn back to its puddle of wasted life and spent tattoo. Pausing in mid-stride to reach into his pocket, he removed the girl’s black pebble, rubbed it once, and spent several moments comparing its shiny darkness to that of the fluid below. Finally, with a quiet sigh, he placed the stone upon the damp vest, centering it between the middle buttons.
Nodding slowly, the stranger straightened and left the tavern.
* * *
“It may be best then, lad, if the world never comes to know your name at all.”
The reply comes without so much as a hitch in gait, a backwards glance, or a scrap of hesitation: “I couldn’t agree more.”
SMILE
C’mon, Mom. This is ridiculous…Twenty-five minutes late and counting.
A reluctant sun peered out from the parting clouds, offering perhaps an hour of illumination in paltry compensation for an otherwise grim, gray day. Tammy tapped her feet to an erratic beat, her arms crossed sharply over her rumpled jersey.
She’s…beautiful. That blend of determination and depression on her face…So poignant.
What little traffic there was sped by her bench indifferently; she’d counted a grand total of eight cars in the last ten minutes. Her cleats dangled by her side, their laces joined by a bowknot that lay atop the seat’s armrest like a blooming white flower. As the sweat permeating her jersey began to chill, Tammy huddled further into herself and glanced at her watch.
It’s six o’clock, Mom. We practice four to six everyday…Do you really forget, or just not care? Even Kathy’s trailer trash parents remembered her. How hard is it to remember me?
Stay still a minute, child. Yes: hold that pose…But do I sketch or shoot?
A red dot appeared in the distance, grew into a promising blob…and then coalesced into a maroon minivan. Tammy’s shoulders slumped noticeably. The van sped by, and the tally of cars that weren’t her mom’s reached nine.
Leading the team in goals and assists and I can’t even get a ride home…Thanks, Mom. Mary offered a ride but you always say you’ll come…And I’m always dumb enough to believe you. Everyone else is probably home eating dinner already…Coach is so used to it he doesn’t even stick around anymore.
She must be waiting for someone. No telling how long, then. So it has to be a shot. Quickly now…
She glanced down, contemplating her blackening toenail and wondering how long it would take to fall off.
Molly’s a total screw-up and her mom still picks her up on time…I do everything right. Why can’t you just remember? And why is this field so in the middle of nowhere…Private education shouldn’t mean isolation.
A familiar rumble perked her eyes and ears back up. Honking repeatedly, her mom’s crimson SUV screeched to a halt.
Out of time! Just take the shot. Now, before she moves…One little push…Stop stalling…There.
Tammy jerked slightly, her arm brushing against the hanging cleats as a spasm flickered through her body.
“Baby! Baby, are you okay?”
“…I’m fine, Mom. Just tired, I guess.”
“Okay. If you’re sure…Oh my God, Tammy! Your toe! What happened?”
She collected her socks and the still swaying cleats before responding. “It’s fine, Mom. Kathy slide-tackled me pretty hard, but it’ll be all right. I’ll live…Can we go home?”
“Sure, sure. Buckle up and we’re off…And I’m so sorry for being late, Baby. Baskin Robbins to make up for it?”
Shut the fuck up, Mom.
“Can we just go home?”
“All right
, Baby. Whatever you want.”
Squealing violently again, the SUV slammed through a three-point turn and roared off, leaving behind the now desolate soccer field, empty despite its neat new lines and goalposts.
The things you do to pretend you’re still an artist…And she’s so young…Wait until tomorrow at least. Give her that much time. The film will keep…There’s no rush.
The surrounding plains lapsed into shadow, prairie grass fading from vibrant to obscure with the dimming light. Traffic petered out to nothing.
Eternity’s not in any hurry.
* * *
She threw back her head and laughed so hard she almost snorted.
“Don’t forget to breathe, Tammy.”
“Then don’t make such funny jokes.” She started giggling again, fought to control herself, and eventually did so with a deep breath and a grin. Her father’s mouth twitched slightly as he resumed rocking in his favorite easy chair and perusing the paper. Tammy’s grin held steady for a moment before lessening slightly.
Why can’t you be around more, Dad?
“Do you really have to leave so soon? You just got home Tuesday…”
“You know I’d rather stay, Tammy, but this time of year…How ‘bout this: I’ll knock of work early tomorrow, pick you up from practice, and we’ll go out to eat somewhere nice.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Your Mom’ll want to be off with her gaggle anyway. And then I promise not to take another trip until the semester’s done. Deal?”
I love you, Dad, but don’t make promises you won’t keep.
“Deal.” Tammy slumped back into the couch, snatching the remote to un-mute the TV as a score flashed across the screen. “Game’s back on.”
* * *
The artist sat cross-legged in the endless warehouse, contemplating the products of his past indulgences. Sculptures, friezes, paintings, drawings, frescoes, forgings, etchings, pictures…
A catalogue of sins stretching back to the beginning: the stilled results of your sad addiction, rendered in every medium imaginable.
His gaze settled on a small statue nestled between two larger pieces of somber sculpture. The artist’s breath caught and held for some seconds before he eventually sighed and gave in to the urge to walk over to what was in many ways still his favorite work.
Robin…You had such a brief time left. And I was there to share it with you.
The young boy was carved so exquisitely that he looked like he was only sleeping, capable of rousing at any moment.
Would that you could…
The artist sighed again, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked back to the center of the giant gallery. Once there, he stopped to execute a slow turn that let him take in the entirety of his vast, morbid collection.
So many…Too many.
He shut his eyes and navigated out of the main hall and into his studio by memory.
What’s one more, then?
His eyes were moist when he re-opened them and picked up his camera.
Just one more…
* * *
“You’re quite the young writer, Tammy. This really is an impressive story. For an author of any age. Well done, well done.”
“Thank you.” Tammy looked down at her lap and, despite her chair’s unforgiving rigidity, leaned back as far as she could.
Mrs. Swanson nudged her glasses higher up the bridge of her sharp nose. “Don’t be over modest, Tammy. Really, this is quite good. My advice was mostly trivial, and you improved upon all of it. This is real quality. I’d like you to submit it.”
I thought it was God awful…
“Really? Isn’t it a little too long?”
“For something this outstanding they’d probably make an exception. I’ll even ask them personally, if you’ll promise to submit.”
Tammy snapped forward into a fully upright position. “Would you really? Thanks so much, Mrs. S. It’d awesome to see it in this year’s edition…If they take it.”
Mrs. Swanson shook her head slightly. “They will, Tammy, they will. The judges won’t be able to say no.”
I didn’t think it was that good…But maybe they’ll like it anyways?
“I guess I should then…Thanks again for all your help—and you really did help a lot.” The legs of her chair screeched softly against the tile floor as Tammy rose to leave.
“Maybe a little, Tammy, but the lion’s share of the credit is all yours. As it should be. See you in class tomorrow, and thank you for coming in early.”
“Thanks again. Bubye.”
“Goodbye.”
* * *
The pitch black of the closet remained as disconcerting as ever. Not that it was any obstacle; the artist removed the film from the back of the camera, wound it round its plastic holding reel, and loaded the resulting bundle into the developing tank as smoothly as if the dark had been light. Capping the tank, he reached unerringly for the switch and flipped it on. The small room rushed into form, revealing blank walls and a single table littered with film scraps and empty canisters. His current roll secure in its lightless tank, the artist stepped out of the claustrophobia, ready to develop.
That’s right: get lost in the minutiae…Ignore the guilt.
The tap water took its usual interminable amount of time to settle at sixty-eight degrees. As he waited, the artist began measuring out developer fluid into one of the many battered metal jugs scattered atop the sink.
While you’re at it, pretend what you’re attempting isn’t just a pathetic copy, a sad imitation of a level of craftsmanship you’ll never achieve again…
The water’s temperature finally right, he mixed the appropriate amount with the developer, stirred quickly, and poured the resulting composite into the film tank. Setting the timer for eight minutes, he began gently shaking the tank, the first step toward coaxing his next image to life.
And by all means, describe the process with euphemisms to make yourself feel better: you’re “giving” life…not taking it away.
* * *
“Hey, Tammy! Nice game the other night. You’ve really got some wicked handles.”
Blushing, she peered around the door of her locker to make sure it was really Jared.
Is he finally going to ask me?
“Thanks…”
Jared was shifting his weight at regular intervals. “Three assists, though. That’s impressive. More than makes up for missing that open net.”
Seems like he likes me…Open net? What game was he watching?
“I suppose…You were there for the whole game, then?”
Shaking his head, Jared continued swaying from side to side. “First half. Had to go drop my brother off after that. You guys were up three to one, though, so I figured it was safe. Good call, huh?”
Just ask me…
“Yeah…” Tammy fumbled through her various supplies by feel so she could keep her eyes on his.
“And can you believe Molly scored five goals? What a little wizard. Anyways…I was wondering if…You’d maybe go to the spring dance with me?”
Yes!
“Sure.”
“Great.”
The bell mercifully cut short the awkward pause. Jared shifted again while Tammy clutched her algebra book to her chest.
“So…I gotta go to social studies.”
“Yeah, I’ve got math…”
“Talk to you later about it?”
“Definitely. Bubye.” Beaming into her locker, Tammy hurriedly sorted through her notebooks.
Finally…I don’t have a nice dress that fits though…Wait, what? Five goals? Molly?
Tammy walked into class two minutes late with a mumbled apology and a furrowed brow.
Was Jared joking? Molly never got off the bench…
* * *
You could still turn back.
The artist grit his teeth, removed the perfectly developed strip of film from the drying cabinet, regarded it closely, and nodded in approval. Holding the strip at h
ead height and arm’s length, he maneuvered it to the light board. Backlit by such brilliance, the strip’s lone negative seemed suffused with black and white vitality.
It’s not too late to stop.
Sliding the single shot into a protective file carrier, he eyed the trash can next to the light board for some moments before moving on.
Ah, but you’re hooked.
His grip so loose the file carrier threatened to fall out of his grasp, the artist entered the low, red glow of his darkroom and made his way to the enlarger.
So be it.
* * *
The lunch lady raised her eyebrows at the boy standing behind Tammy, gesturing with her ladle for him to keep moving.
Hello?
“Um, could I get some of that, ma’am?”
Starting slightly, the middle-aged woman looked over at Tammy, squinted, and shook her head as if to clear it. “Sorry, miss. Completely missed you there. One scoop?”
“Yeah…That’s plenty. Thanks.”
The lunch lady was still shaking her hair-netted head as she served the bemused boy, who’d finally been able to move up. Tammy shook her own head, and then let her thoughts slip back to math and the quiz she’d just gotten back. She began calculating the total for her meal as she shuffled along in line.
Only three items…You can do this.
The pimple-pocked cashier stared right through her for several moments until she cleared her throat. He mumbled an apology, rang up her lunch, and asked for fifteen cents more than she’d predicted.
Outcasts: Short Stories by Nick Wisseman Page 3
