The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror 2012

by Guran, Paula

  “What’s the job?” I ask.

  “Well, you won’t be stealing cars.”

  I nod. “I’d like that.”

  “If you screw this up . . . ”

  “I won’t,” I tell her.

  I probably will. So far it’s been the story of my life. I can see in her eyes she’s thinking the same thing. But I’m willing to give it a try and she sees that, too.

  Her lip twitches again.

  “We’ll make a man out of you yet,” she says.

  It’s a ways to the rez. I reach over and turn on the radio, moving through the bands till I get the tribal station. Her lip twitches a third time. She must be in a really good mood.

  Uncle Herbert lives like he’s still in the shadows of the Hierro Maderas. He’s got a basement apartment that smells of piñon, sweetgrass and cedar. He’s eating Indian tacos and beans and flatbread that I have to admit taste as good as anything I ever had back home. And he still makes his coffee the way we do on the rez, water and coffee all mixed up in the same pot. Doesn’t matter how well you strain it, you’re still picking grounds from between your teeth, but seriously? I can’t think of a better way to start the day.

  He was a medicine man back on the rez, but he left when the war of words between the traditionalists and the casino crowd got too heated.

  “If we were supposed to fight over possessions like white men,” he told me, “the Creator would have made us white men.”

  Except now he lives here in Baltimore and works as a foreman for a company that provides the set-up gear for conventions and shows. Go figure. I feel like telling him he’s living like the casino crowd, except he’s poorer, but keeping my mouth shut’s been working pretty good these days so I keep it to myself.

  The work’s easy. It’s hard, sweaty work, but you don’t have to think—that’s the easy part. We just follow the floor plan that the organizers give us. We haul in all the tables, chairs, and podiums, set up the bare bones of the booths, build stages—whatever they need.

  Uncle Herbert’s got a solid team. They’re mostly Mexican and black. They aren’t afraid to work and they love Uncle Herbert to a man. It was like that back on the rez, too, which is why he left. People were ready to go to war if he just said the word. He knew if he stayed any longer, he’d ending up doing that and he didn’t want anybody’s blood on his hands.

  “Do you miss it?” I asked as we drove home from a job one night.

  He’s got this old Ford pickup that’s held together with rust and body filler, but it runs like a charm. Me, I’m still saving for a ride.

  “I miss the quiet,” he said, then he looked at me and grinned. “And I miss living on Indian time.”

  Having spent the eight months before I came up here following an institutional schedule, I’m used to getting up early and being on time. But I gave him a smile and nodded.

  “I hear you,” I said.

  Uncle Herbert goes to bed early—pretty much after dinner. I’d maybe get bored, but I fill my time. I’m trying to teach myself wood carving. I don’t have any tools except my jackknife, but wood’s cheap and I’ve got all the time in the world to learn. Uncle Herbert doesn’t have a TV, but he’s got an old radio that someone left on the curb. He tinkered with it until he got it working again, so I listen to Public Radio while I work on my carvings. Little bears and lizards and birds like Hopi fetishes except they’re made of wood. Sometimes I go to the corner bar and nurse a couple of ginger ales while I watch a game on their big screen.

  We get all kinds of gigs but the ones that give me the biggest kick are where the people all play dress-up. Since I got here we’ve done two sci-fi conventions. The set-up’s no different than it is for any other kind of convention, but if you hang around the back halls of the hotel you can watch them walking around like spacemen and barbarians and everything in between.

  Some people really put a lot of work into their costumes and seeing grown men and women dressed up like their favorite characters just puts a smile on my face. It reminds me of the powwows where everybody trades in their jeans and Ts for ribbon shirts and jingle dresses. For a couple of days they get to step out of their lives and be the people they wish they were.

  But the sci-fi conventions have nothing on our current job. With the sci-fi crowd the regular folks outnumber the ones in costume. At this FaerieCon pretty much everybody’s in costume, from the organizers to the people working the tables in the dealers’ room. There are a lot more girls, too—pretty girls with sparkles in their hair and faerie wings on their backs. The guys are working the faerie theme, too, but some of them look like walking shrubs in cloaks with leaves sewn all over their shirts and pants and masks that look they’re made of leaves and tree bark.

  “Man,” Luther says, “I’d like me a piece of that.”

  I nod like I do when anybody says something to me. I find when you do, people pick the response they want so you don’t have to actually say anything.

  He’s checking out an Asian girl who wouldn’t have been out of place at one of the sci-fi conventions. She’s wearing leather with lots of buckles, high boots and a short skirt. Her top hat’s got brass buttons all over it and what looks like a weird pair of binoculars resting on the brim. And of course she’s got wings.

  “She looks good,” Luther says, “and she knows it. Wonder what she wears when she’s not playing dress-up?”

  I shrug.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Doesn’t make much difference. Girl like that, she doesn’t even see a guy like you or me. But she sure is hot.”

  I go get another table from the dolly.

  I’m outside on a smoke break later when I see one of those guys wearing a costume all made of leaves. I quit smoking since I moved to Baltimore, but I’ll take the break. This guy’s pretty old—in his fifties, I’d guess—and not in the best of shape. I watch him for a moment as he wrestles with some big box in the back of his van, so I go over and ask him if he wants a hand.

  “Hey, thanks,” he says as I take one end of the box.

  We put it on his dolly and get another box from the van.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say.

  “Sure.”

  “No offense, but what makes a guy your age dress up the way you do?”

  He laughs. “What do you think I’m supposed to be?”

  “I don’t know. A tree?”

  “Close. I’m a Green Man.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  He straightens up and launches into his spiel. As he talks I’m still not sure I get it, but I like his enthusiasm.

  “The Green Men are the messengers of spring,” he says. “We’re the ones who carry the seeds of rebirth. We’re always looking for a good resting place because we have to sleep away the winter, dreaming the promise of renewal.”

  “And that’s a Baltimore thing?”

  “No, it goes back to England. Have you ever been over there?”

  I shake my head.

  “You see the image of the Green Man all over the place,” he says. “On pub signs and on carvings in churches. They’re literally everywhere. On some buildings you see them in place of gargoyles, the water draining from their open mouths. The funny thing is, people don’t really notice them anymore. And if they do, most of them don’t understand their significance.”

  “That they’re messengers of spring,” I say.

  “Exactly. We’re symbols of hope, but it’s more than just a promise. The Green Man brings in the spring. Without us, all you get is winter.”

  “So the people coming to this convention—it’s like a spiritual thing for them?”

  “Partly. For some of us. But it’s also fun to just dress up and fill a hotel with a gathering of faeries and goblins and all.”

  We’re done loading his dolly and he locks up his van.

  “So how come it’s all European faeries?” I ask. “I’ve never heard of Green Men before, but I’ve seen faeries in kids’ books and the people here look like they do in
the pictures, or in a Disney movie. How come there aren’t any native faeries?”

  “You mean Native American?”

  “Sure, but I was talking more about North America in general.”

  He gives me a curious look and I realize that since I moved here, this is the longest conversation I’ve had with anyone except for Uncle Herbert.

  “I’ve got to get this stuff inside and set up,” he says, “but you should come by my booth when the Market closes. We can talk some more then.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think I’d fit in with your crowd.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he says. “We come in all shapes and sizes.” He offers me his hand. “I’m Tom Hill. If you change your mind, I’m in booth forty-eight.”

  I take his hand. “I’m Joey Green,” I say, then I laugh. “Maybe I would fit in.”

  “What’s the story behind your surname?” he asks.

  “As in what does it mean?”

  He nods.

  I shrug. “It just means one of my ancestors liked the sound of it. We never used surnames until the government forced us, so people just made up whatever they felt like calling themselves.”

  “I still think this is an auspicious meeting,” he says.

  I’m not sure what the word means so I just give him another shrug.

  “Thanks again for your help,” he adds. “Think about dropping by later.”

  “Sure,” I tell him, because it’s easier than coming up with excuses.

  I don’t realize I’m going to take him up on it until later in the day when this part of the job’s all done. Uncle Herbert comes over to where I’m sitting with the rest of the crew, listening to them talk.

  “You ready to go, Joey?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “One of the guys in the show asked me to stick around so I thought I might.”

  He checks me out with a look that would do Tía Luba proud, then he just nods.

  “I’ll see you later, then,” he says.

  I like the fact that he trusts me enough to not feel like he’s got to give me any advice.

  “You got your eye on one of those girls?” Luther asks.

  I don’t bother answering.

  Luther laughs. “See if she’s got a friend for me,” he says as he heads off with Uncle Herbert and the others.

  I have second thoughts when I go back into the hotel. What do I really think is going to happen here? Hill’s probably going to just give me a blank look when I show up at his booth.

  I hesitate in the doorway of the Market. The place is transformed. It looks more like some old-fashioned market set up in a forest glade than a dealers’ room in a hotel. Somebody comes up and starts to tell me that the room’s closed, but I tell him I’m part of the set-up crew.

  “I’m supposed to meet Tom Hill,” I add.

  The man nods. “Do you know where his booth is?”

  “Number forty-eight.”

  But when I get to the booth, he’s not there. There’s only a pretty girl about my age in a silky green dress with flowers and leaves sewn onto it. Her long red-gold hair hangs in a braid halfway to her waist and she’d got the little points on the tips of her ears that everybody here seems to have. I walked by a booth that was selling them on my way to Hill’s. The girl has a closed book on her lap—a big old book with a tooled leather binding—and she’s playing with a beaded bracelet of some kind. The only thing that seems out of place are the cat’s-eye sunglasses she’s wearing.

  I stand at the booth, unsure again, so I check out what’s for sale. Hill specializes in tooled leather masks. His work’s incredible. I’ve got a cousin who does this kind of thing with boots, so I know how much artistry and skill is involved. Most of the masks are intricate collections of leaves with eyeholes. Some are simple, little more than leafy Zorro masks. Others are so complicated I can’t imagine how many hours it took to complete them.

  I look at the price tag on one of them. If people are buying these, he’s making a good profit.

  I’m about to turn away when the girl suddenly lifts her head. She looks in my direction but her gaze doesn’t quite find me.

  “Is someone there?” she asks.

  I feel like telling her that she’ll see a lot better without the shades on but all I say is, “I’m looking for Tom Hill.”

  “He’s my dad. He just stepped out for a couple of minutes to talk to the rest of his hedge, but he should be back soon.”

  “His what?”

  She laughs and it sounds like delicate bells.

  “Are you new to the con?” she asks.

  “Pretty much.

  “Do you know what a Green Man is?”

  I nod, but she doesn’t go on, so I add, “Yeah, your dad was explaining them to me.”

  “Well, a hedge is what they call a line of Green Men. I think they’re working out a welcome for one of the Guests of Honor.”

  “Okay.”

  She laughs again and I find myself wishing I had a recording of it so that I could play it whenever I wanted.

  “Why don’t you come into the booth?” she says. “You can keep me company while you wait for him. I promise I don’t bite.”

  “You should be careful about who you talk to. I could be anybody.”

  “But that’s one of the cool things about life,” she says.

  “What? That strangers can be dangerous?”

  “No, silly. That we can be anybody we choose.”

  “It doesn’t really work that way in my world,” I tell her.

  “Now you really have to come sit with me and tell me all about this world of yours.”

  Why not? I think. Maybe I can get her to laugh some more for me.

  As I come around the table to where she’s sitting, the bracelet she’s been playing with drops from her hand.

  “Crap,” she says. “Would you get that for me?”

  She doesn’t even look at where it fell.

  Why don’t you get it yourself, princess? I want to say, but then I suddenly realize something and I feel like a heel.

  “You can’t see, can you?” I say.

  “Well, I can see light and dark shapes to some degree, but I’m pretty much legally blind.”

  She just says it like a fact with no hint of bitterness or self-pity.

  I don’t know what to say so I settle for, “Bummer.”

  “Yeah, I miss colors most of all, especially with all the costumes here at FaerieCon.”

  “So you weren’t always blind.”

  She shakes her head. “I like to say that I strayed into Faerieland and it was such an intense experience that I went blind—you know, like the stories say some people go mad when they come back.”

  “Faerieland,” I repeat.

  “Work with me,” she says.

  “Okay. You lost your sight going into Faerieland. Got it.”

  “And so,” she goes on, “the only way I can get my sight back is if I return there. Or maybe I can find my way to Bordertown and some faerie mage can cure me.”

  “Bordertown?” I repeat. “The only border towns I know are places like Nogales and I don’t think you’re going to find any faeries there.”

  “No, I mean the capital ‘B’ Bordertown that sits between Faerieland and our world.”

  “Right.”

  “I thought you were working with me,” she says.

  I grin, but she can’t see it.

  “Well, let me know if you need someone to take you there,” I say.

  That earns me another hit of that intoxicating laugh of hers.

  “Are you volunteering?” she asks.

  “Isn’t that how it works in faerie tales? You’re supposed to help people out as you wander around trying to make your fortune.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?”

  “No, I’m just trying to save up enough to buy myself a pick-up.”

  I sit on her extra chair and lean down to pick up the bracelet for her.

  “Here,” I say.
/>   She takes my hand in one of her own and plucks the bracelet out with the other. Then she lifts her free hand toward my face.

  “May I?” she asks.

  It’s like butterfly wings on my skin as explores the contours of my face.

  “You’ve got a strong nose,” she says.

  “Yeah, that’s why they called me Big Nose back on the rez when I was growing up.”

  I don’t add that they stopped because I went after whoever used the nickname. If you don’t nip something like that in the bud, you’re stuck with it for life. Just ask Six-Toes George, Uncle Herbert’s brother.

  “You’re Native American?” she asks.

  I nod, then add, “Yeah,” because I’m not sure how much she can see with her limited sight. “I belong to the desert tribes. Kikimi on my mother’s side and my dad was a Yaqui.”

  “Not exactly faerie tale country.”

  “Not so much.”

  “So what brings you to FaerieCon?”

  “I’m with the crew that set up the booths,” I tell her. “I ran into your dad this afternoon. He said I should come by so we could talk some more.”

  I figure that’ll be the end of any interest she might have in me. Girls like her don’t hang out with the behind-the-scenes joes who are supposed to stay invisible. But she only smiles.

  “I should warn you,” she says, “when Dad says ‘talk’ he usually means he talks and everybody else listens.”

  “He seemed okay to me.”

  “Oh, he’s awesome. He’s just not a good listener. The good thing is that he’s full of all sorts of interesting information so he’s rarely boring.”

  “That’s not a problem,” I tell her. “I’m more of a listener myself anyway.”

  “Really? You’ve got such a compelling voice.”

  Is she flirting with me? Time to shut that down. The last thing I need is to have some nice middle-class white girl flirting with me, even if her dad does think he’s a tree.

  “I just find things work out better when I don’t talk too much,” I tell her. “I can have a big mouth and it gets me into trouble. Or at least it did back when I was still drinking.”

  That should do it.

  “How old are you?” she asks.

  “Seventeen.”