Then, clearly bored with the subject, Riley rattled the ice in an empty glass that sat at his elbow, which Pamela took to mean that he desired a refill on his Diet Dr Pepper.
Nothing more was said about the faun or Pamela's deranged ego that night. After a while, Riley left the apartment to revive his martyred hunt for a cashmere scarf to replace the one he'd lost, and Pamela was left alone with her thoughts.
She wasn't quite sold on the idea that she herself had created the faun. But the whole question of desire was one that had been left hanging quite egregiously. The faun had asked her if she desired anything ... and he'd said he would help. But he hadn't helped at all! The blatant unfairness of it rankled Pamela.
Pulling out her calendar, she scanned it with a seriousness of purpose typically associated with fighter pilots. Taking a red pen, she circled a particular date with great force and decisiveness.
* * * *
On the red-circled night in question, there was a party being held at the residence of one P.K. Stubbs, an antique dealer known both for the obsessive care of the items he sheltered in his home and the fastidious daintiness of his person. For weeks the party had been the subject of pleasant anticipation, as much because of P.K. Stubbs’ notorious prudery as Comus’ now-notorious ability to overcome such old-fashioned quaintness. P.K. Stubbs wouldn't let things get out of hand, the common wisdom ran; surely it would be Comus’ Waterloo.
But by the time Pamela got to the party it was in riotous swing, with three lovely 16th century miniatures hanging from indiscreet and utterly inappropriate hangers, a very nice Louis Quatorze bedroom set being used in such a way that it would obviously require reupholstering, and P.K. Stubbs himself, desiccated and pale, doing things to the marble statues in his library that were almost guaranteed to diminish their resale value.
Pamela found Comus in the center of a pile of naked women. They were giggling and feeding him grapes, all bosoms and hair and armpits. Prominent among them was Magdalena Delancy, pale and skinny, her shoulder bones sharp as edged weapons. The women had denuded P.K. Stubbs’ houseplants and made a wreath of ivy and philodendron to ennoble Comus’ brow. And he did look magnificent, malicious and powerful and wild. He regarded Pamela's clothed body with intense boredom.
"Yes?” he asked.
No words came out of her mouth. Pamela was uncomfortably aware of Magdalena Delancy staring at her, her eyes shimmering and fey. Was it just her imagination, Pamela wondered, or had Magdalena's eyes gotten ... greener?
"Yes?” Comus asked again, louder, impatience and imperiousness mixed in equal measure.
"I want ... I desire ... I desire you to go back to the park and quit all this gallivanting around!"
She said it loudly, then closed her eyes as if she were blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. But when she opened them, Comus was still there, looking at her with disdainful astonishment.
"Come again?” he said. He let a lazy hand trail over Magdalena's exposed nipple. Pamela gasped. She reached forward and slapped Comus’ hand down.
"I desire you to quit ... fondling ... Magdalena ... Delancy!” she said, more loudly this time.
"That isn't what you desire,” Comus said, taking her hand and placing it firmly on Magdalena's breast. “This is."
Pamela pulled back, clutching her hand to her chest. “That's a lie, a horrible lie!” she screeched.
Comus shook his head. “Neither of you knows the first thing about yourself,” he said, inclining his head toward Magdalena. “She doesn't know what she desires either.” Magdalena blushed and looked away. “She thinks her desire is to be the most hated woman in New York. But all she really wants is for one person to love her and tell her what to do."
Pamela stared at Magdalena's face, watched the embarrassed flush creep up into her red cheeks. Astonishment filled her. Comus was right! Pamela would never have guessed it. She suddenly felt something she'd never ever thought she'd feel. She felt sorry for Magdalena.
"Poor Magdalena,” Pamela murmured gently.
Magdalena's face went from pink to red and back again. “Like I want pity from a ... from a mousy little goose like you! Someone who won't even stand up for herself! You disgust me!” she screeched, shaking with humiliation. She detangled herself hurriedly from the pile of naked flesh. She ran into the bathroom, slammed the door.
"Go after her,” Comus said, looking up at Pamela. “I told you I'd help you. She is what you truly desire, all the way down to the bones of your feet. There's nothing you can do about it. You think hating her will help, but it won't. It'll just make you miserable."
"You mean, filthy-minded thing!” Pamela took a step backward, heart pounding. “You don't know anything. You're just ... a dirty old goat! I'm sorry I ever created you!"
Comus narrowed his eyes at her. “Created me?” he said. “What an interesting thing to say. Who told you that?"
"My son,” she said. “Riley. A good, upstanding boy! If he knew what kind of ... what you think of me!"
"Your son?” Comus said. “The spoiled brat?” Sudden interest kindled in his voice. “He sounds very perceptive."
"Oh, he is,” Pamela breathed. “He's a genius, and a very good boy.” Thinking about her son made Pamela feel a little better. She had a son, after all. That meant she couldn't possibly have any ... feelings for...
It was all just too horrible to think about. Pulling her coat tight around her body, she lowered her head and turned to go. Comus’ voice rang against her back. “I can help you, if you'd like,” he said.
Silence lingered. Pamela turned, looked at him. “What do you mean?"
Comus smiled slightly, but said nothing.
"Tell me,” Pamela said, her voice low. She suddenly realized she was shaking, shaking all over, as if there was an earthquake in her belly. “Help me."
"I will help you,” Comus said. “But not here. Not now. I'll come to your house for dinner tomorrow night."
* * * *
Pamela prepared for Comus’ visit with the strength of ten. She channeled her formless anxiety into cleaning, and when she went so far as to pull the refrigerator out into the middle of the kitchen in order to get the mop behind it, Riley was moved to comment:
"Is this about those filthy unexpressed desires of yours? Really, mother, this is becoming quite disturbing to my routine."
"Don't be ridiculous,” Pamela snapped. “Go read one of your stupid books and leave me alone."
Riley stared at her in amazement. His mother had never spoken to him in this way before. He drew himself up indignantly.
"Mother, you're the one with the unexpressed desires. I see no reason why you should take them out on my poor defenseless books!"
Pamela stopped mopping, and fixed Riley with a look of such intensity that it made him take a step back. She bared her teeth at him. “I don't have any desires!” she roared. “If you're going to stand around, at least make yourself useful! Go put the fruit on the table! He'll be here any minute!"
A few minutes later, the downstairs buzzer sounded. Pamela hurried to the door. Their visitor—or rather, visitors—were already on the step.
The faun was there, and beside him, curved in perfect relation, stood Magdalena Delancy. She was wearing a sleeveless black dress, beautifully simple. A fur coat hung over her arm. Around her perfect throat she wore a strand of pearls. Pamela swallowed hard.
"I didn't expect you both,” she whispered.
"Well, don't think I wanted to come,” Magdalena mumbled grumpily, pushing into the apartment. “But he says he can help."
"He'd better.” Pamela glared at Comus.
The faun threw his head back and laughed. “Humans,” he said. “Always the same."
"Comus ... Magdalena...” Pamela said, as they came into the living room, “This is my son, Riley."
Riley stared at the faun, at his stocky goat-legs, his shining black hooves. It was clear that the reality of Comus was far more intimidating than the intellectual abstraction of Comus.
>
Pamela noticed his bewilderment with strange satisfaction. “Still think he's a product of my deranged ego?"
Riley was at a loss for words, but it was Comus who spoke next. “Actually, our dear little Riley is almost right. At least, he's closer to right than ordinary people ever get."
"Hah!” Riley said.
Comus touched an index finger to the underside of Riley's chin, gently lifted it. “I said almost, you silly, self-satisfied little twit,” Comus said, staring into his eyes. “To be precise, I am a product of the deranged id, not the deranged ego. You really should try actually reading Freud, instead of just carrying his books around as props."
Riley pressed his lips together, obviously scrambling for a suitable comeback. Instead, he settled for jerking his head away, cheeks flushed a violent pink.
Comus smiled. “Next, I am not the product of Pamela's deranged id, or Magdalena's, or any one person's in particular. I am the product of every thwarted desire in this city. I am New York City's deranged id."
Pamela and Magdalena, who had taken seats as far away from each other as possible, exchanged glances.
"You see, Riley ... this city is fueled by dissatisfaction. It is driven by longing, desiring, wanting. Every once in a while, however, an anomaly will occur. One person. One special person who is completely, utterly, totally satisfied."
Pamela didn't like the way this was going. Leaping to her feet, she grabbed the bowl of fruit that Riley had put out. “Peach, anyone?"
"Riley,” Comus said, his eyes glittering, “is there anything you desire?"
"That's the question you asked my mother!” Riley said softly.
Pamela froze, the plate of fruit heavy in her hands. She wanted to say something, to cry out a warning, but she couldn't force words past her lips.
"Riley,” Comus repeated, spinning each word out like a silken thread, “is there anything you desire?"
"No,” Riley said abruptly, shaking his head in annoyance. “What could I possibly desire?"
"Ah,” Comus said. “Then you are the one I have been looking for. The one for whom I have been called forth. The one I must eradicate."
The room grew dark and green. The whole apartment plunged into a thick gloom, as if the lights and windows had been darkened all at once; there was an eruption of rustling, slithering; underbrush and vines exploding from nowhere. Couches melted away. Walls and tables were gone. And just like that, they were in a wood, a cold dark wood with oak trees stretching up to an invisible, stormy sky.
It took a few moments for Pamela to get her bearings after the abrupt translocation. She was lying prone on the muddy ground, she realized, her cheek cold and damp. And then she heard Riley screaming.
"Mother!"
Riley was some ways off. Something was advancing on him, something large and black and shimmering; Comus, Pamela thought, horrified. He didn't look even partially human anymore, he was huge and malformed, the edges of him blurring strangely with each movement, and so black that he seemed to be pulling in what little light found its way into this strange wild place.
"The City is disgusted by you.” The thing's voice was deep and resonant, the voice of something that could only eat from the inside out, a tree whose roots cracked concrete. “The City will not abide you. The City demands you be expelled. The City demands that purity be restored!"
"He's the defender of the City's purity?” Magdalena's voice was pitched somewhere between astonishment and amusement. Pamela glanced over at the woman, who was stretched out on a mossy sward, watching the proceedings with fascination.
"Mother! He's going to kill me!” Riley squealed.
"Like hell he is,” Pamela growled, throwing herself at the huge, light-absorbing beast. She got her arms around the thing's waist, screeching and roaring, bracing her heels in the slippery soil and pulling back with all her might.
"Magdalena!” Pamela barked, as the thing roared and thrashed her from side to side. “Magdalena, get over here and help me!"
"Who, me? He's not my son!"
Pamela screamed in full-throated frustration as the thing reached back, grabbing a handful of her blouse and trying to shake her free. Pamela dug in her heels, blinking back tears of rage.
"Magdalena Delancy, you selfish, self-centered, horrible bitch! You are the meanest, rottenest, vilest woman I've ever met. And I'll tell you something else! Your parties stink!"
Pamela caught glimpses of Magdalena's astonished face. “My god, you're a tigress!” she heard Magdalena murmur. “I never imagined..."
"Magdalena!” Pamela screamed, her voice cracking with strain as the beast whipsawed her around, scraping her leg hard against a tree. She felt blood trickle down along her anklebone. “Get over here right now and help me!"
In a flash, Magdalena was at her side, digging her long red manicured fingernails into the beast's scalp. The creature screeched, arching back, as the combined weight of Pamela and Magdalena forced him back, first one staggering step, then two. Reaching up, Pamela got a hand around the thing's ear and she twisted it hard; it wailed and screamed, sunk to its knees. Pamela and Magdalena swarmed up over it, battling him down, their hard little fists flying, thudding against black flesh. The thing sunk deeper and deeper beneath their combined weight.
"Die! Die, damn you!” Pamela was in a frenzy, her eyes alight with bloodlust and vengeance. Magdalena's eyes kindled in response, and she took up the chant: “Die! Die! Die!"
They were sinking, sinking down, down into the ground, into the fragrant soil. All around them was the sound of the beast, roaring like the wind through trees, roaring with the pain of dreams desperately dreamed but never achieved, the agony of souls that never experienced a moment's peace.
And then, with a roar and a mighty burst of effort, the beast freed itself, flinging both women aside. Magdalena went flying, landing hard against an outcropping of granite, her body making an awful hollow thump. Pamela fell heavily to the ground; the thing reached down and wrapped its hand around her throat, lifted her struggling to her feet, pinned her back against a nearby tree.
Pamela wrapped her hands around the beast's grasping claw, looking into the monster's eyes. They were a bright unnatural green. But they were Comus’ eyes, unmistakably.
"You horrible brute,” she choked past swollen lips. “If you've hurt her..."
"The purity of the City must be restored.” The words moved in her mind, vibrating her whole body. Lights were beginning to dance behind her eyes, light and blackness all mingled together.
"It will be,” she said, staring into those green eyes, holding them, willing the blackness to stay at bay for just a moment longer.
"Do you promise?” The beast's thoughts were like ants in her skull, itching along every neuron. “Do you swear?"
"I swear,” Pamela rasped.
"All right, then,” Comus said. “Fair enough."
And then, just as Riley had predicted, Comus vanished in a puff of smoke.
* * * *
Pamela fell to the ground, hands clutching at her throat. When the spots cleared from her vision, she stumbled over to where Magdalena lay softly groaning in a pool of dappled sunlight. Pamela brought a tender hand up to brush dirt from Magdalena's cheek; when Magdalena's eyes met Pamela's, they were filled with wonder and admiration.
"You were magnificent!” she breathed. “The way you ... why, you killed that thing! With your bare hands!"
Pamela wrapped her arms around Magdalena's body, held her tight, then held her a little less tight when Magdalena's agonized yelp indicated that she must have broken a rib or two in the fall. Magdalena buried her face in Pamela's shoulder, tears making streaks down her muddy cheeks.
"I think you're wonderful,” Magdalena said, her voice soft and muffled. “I'm sorry ... I'm so sorry ... that I was so horrible to you all those times."
Pamela kissed the top of her head. “Never mind,” she said. “It doesn't matter now."
* * * *
It was at about this mome
nt that Riley, who had been cowering behind a tree, took up a piteous groaning. “Mother!” he sobbed. “Oh, mother!"
"Shut up, Riley,” Pamela said. “If you can moan, you'll live."
"I can't believe the gall of that ... that thing!” Riley said. “So now it's a crime to like your life or something?” He looked around himself, eyeing the verdancy with horror and contempt. He plucked a twig from his hair and held it away from him in a two-fingered grip. “Where the hell are we?"
"Central Park,” Pamela said, helping the injured Magdalena to her feet. “In the ravine."
Riley looked at his mother and Magdalena, who remained clasped in each other's arms long after any conceivable medical necessity would have caused them to do so. Riley's eyes widened. “Mother, what the hell are you two doing?"
"We're going home,” Pamela said.
"And about time, too!” Riley said, spryly leaping to his feet and dusting the muck from the back of his trousers. “I could use a bath and a nice hot cup of tea. You know how I like my tea, mother."
"Riley,” she said loudly. “From now on, you'll get your own goddamn tea."
Riley blinked at her. “What did you say?"
"I said, ‘from now on—’”
"I heard the words, Mother ... but I find the sentiment surrounding them egregious! Insupportable! After all I've been through, you choose this moment, of all moments, to..."
"And speaking of tea, you'd better get your own teapot to brew it in too. Because as of this moment, I'm kicking you out. Into the street without a penny.” Pamela lifted a hand, snapped her fingers. “I'm cutting you off like that! I'll have your things sent wherever you'd like."
"Pamela,” Magdalena said softly, reproachfully, “don't do something you'll regret. This won't make any of us happy..."
"Exactly,” Pamela said, looking deep into Magdalena's eyes.
Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #217 Page 14
