Magic Cries

by Miriam Greystone

  “Jake!” Molly would have been horrified if she could have believed what she was seeing. But it didn’t quite seem real. Jake had been doing so well! He had seemed completely better! “What the hell are you doing?”

  They looked at each other, and Molly felt despair twist inside her. But there was no fresh mark on Jake's scarred arm. She wasn't too late.

  “Come on, Jake,” she said firmly, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “We're leaving.”

  He stood immediately, as she knew he would. She stormed out with him right beside her. As soon as they reached the street, she turned to face him, a hundred different accusations on her lips.

  Then she realized the needle was still in his hand.

  “What is wrong with you, Jake?” she cried, her voice edging toward a scream. “Drop that thing!”

  He stared back at her, his eyes swimming with emotions she couldn't understand. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his fingers twitched.

  But he didn't drop the needle.

  “Molly . . .” he grunted, his voice rasping, “you have to leave me.”

  “What?” Molly squinted at him. Had she been wrong? Was he high already? What he was saying didn’t make sense. “I don't understand.”

  “I know you don’t,” he laughed, the sound hollow and bitter. “That’s the problem. Did you really think it would be that easy? That you could make everything better just like that? A few days getting sober, a good long sleep . . . and then, all of a sudden, everything would be alright?”

  He took a step closer to her. She could see tears glinting in the corners of his eyes. He still clutched the needle in one hand. With his other hand, he reached up to touch her face. “You don't know. Someone like you—you couldn't possibly imagine what it’s like to be as damaged as I am. I’m in love with you, Molly. Between that, and that voice of yours, you've got a big hold over me. You could make me do a lot of stuff if you wanted to. Almost anything.”

  She started to speak, but he shook his head sharply, and the words died in her throat.

  “But even with all that power and all that love . . .” he looked away from her, and the words choked out, “I'm a mess deep inside, in places that your power doesn't go. You can make my body do anything that you want but my mind, Molly, and my soul—they're the most messed up of all. Deep down, it's like all I'm made up of is broken glass. If you saw that, for real . . . if you knew how messed up I really am, or some of the things I've done . . . you wouldn't want me. And you’d be right.”

  He shook his head. “It's been so good, these weeks with you. So very, very good. But all that's over now. Now you have to know the truth.”

  “But . . . Couldn’t I . . .”

  “Couldn’t you what?” Jake’s voice snapped with sudden anger. “Are you going to order me to stay in our bedroom in the Refuge forever, Molly? Maybe tell me to sit on my hands? Tie a leash around my neck if we ever have to go out in public, just so you’ll be sure that I’ll stay clean? Do you want your voice to be a cage that holds me for the rest of my life?”

  “Of course not!” Molly gasped. “I want to help you, Jake. To cure you. Not to make you a prisoner.”

  “That’s what you have to understand,” he said, his voice grating. He leaned in toward her, his eyes wide and glistening. “There is no cure. Not for me. There never will be.” He looked down at the needle in his hand. “It's time for you to walk away.”

  “And what happens then, Jake?” Molly swallowed hard against the sob building in her throat. “If I walk away right now, and leave you here? Tell me.”

  “I die.” He answered simply, his face showing no emotion at all. “That’s the only way this is going to end. I’ve known that for a long time. It might happen tonight. Maybe in a week. It won’t be long. Not now, when I've been missing it so much . . .”

  He could have punched her in the stomach and it would have hurt less. Hearing Jake talk about his own death so calmly was the worst thing that Molly had ever heard.

  “No.” Molly reached down and pried the syringe from Jake’s fingers. She hurled it down on the cement and stomped on it with the heel of her boot. “That isn’t going to happen. I won’t let it. It isn’t too late, Jake. Not for you, and not for us. I'm not giving up on you. Come with me now. We’re going home.”

  Bea

  The last thing Bea would have expected to do while being flown through the air in the arms of a winged man who looked like a Calvin Klein model was sleep. But she did. She had not slept for days while on the ship, and the concussion to her head made everything wavy around the edges. The angel's arms were smooth and tight around her, her legs curled around his waist securely.

  “Maybe I'll die now,” she thought to herself as she drifted off, “and wake when he's carried me to heaven.”

  The thought made her smile and, smiling, she slept.

  She woke on a sandy shore with the ocean stretching broad and deep before her. The sun was blistering hot on her sensitive skin. The angel held her shoulders to keep her steady on her feet as she blinked and gazed around to get her bearings. She felt a little lightheaded, and not entirely sure that she wasn't dreaming.

  They were in front of a lighthouse. It towered up above them: white with broad red stripes. Three stone steps led up to the lighthouse's red painted door, which was rounded at the top. The angel watched her closely, holding onto her arms, making sure she wouldn't fall when he let go of her. Bea smiled up at him.

  “No, really,” she said, wishing her voice sounded steadier. “I'm fine.”

  He raised one eyebrow in disbelief, and then let go, still holding his hands out as though ready to catch her if she crumpled. When he saw that she was alright, he held up one finger in front of him. Bea didn't understand.

  “What?” she started to ask, but he held up the finger again, then leaped up the stairs, opened the door and walked into the lighthouse, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Bea stared after him, totally confused.

  She heard some sounds from behind the door—a sound like hands clapping, and then feet scuffling on stone. She would have wondered more fiercely what was going on if she hadn't been so tired. As it was, she just looked blearily at the sand around her and wondered how badly she would get sunburned if she curled up right now and took a nap. But then the door opened again, and her angel beckoned to her, reaching out a hand to help her up the steps. She took his hand in hers, and let him pull her in.

  Inside, it was dim, and so cool that the air felt damp. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust after the midday sun blazed down on her just minutes before. The door opened into a large, circular room, pierced in the middle by a spiraling stone staircase. It was surprisingly luxurious. A dark blue carpet covered the floor, and thickly embroidered tapestries hung all along the walls. A small, carved wooden table stood next to the door, as though the angel would have a set of car keys to set down. Bea could see doors set into the stone along the far side of the curved wall, but every one was shut, and the angel was pulling on her hand, leading her up the stairs.

  They went cautiously; her steps were slow on the stone, her feet bare and blistered, her gait unsteady. The angel was patient, walking backward to watch her as she came. Bea knew that he could have carried her, if he wished, but was glad that he didn't. She could do it . . . she just needed time. They passed other floors as they spiraled upward, but Bea's eyes were fastened on her feet's painful progress, and she did not look around her as they went. It was only when they reached the top and finally stopped climbing that she looked up.

  The room was beautiful. Deep red carpets covered every inch of the floor. Richly embroidered cushions lay in piles in every corner. Half the wall was made of windows, which opened to the east and made you think the whole world was perfectly blue water, stretching peacefully out to the ends of the earth. The other half was lined with books piled high on wooden bookshelves built deep into the wall. There was a tray waiting, perched on a low table on the floor. Bea sat down beside
it on the rug, which was as soft as a bed. The angel pushed the table closer to her and nodded encouragingly.

  There was bread, and a thick paste to spread on it that reminded her of hummus but wasn't. There were bowls of sliced fruit and olives. There were two rough clay mugs, one filled with water, the other with wine. Bea sipped from both of them gratefully. The water was clear and cold, the wine deep red and strong. The angel smiled as he, too, picked up the mug of wine, lifting it up toward her and bowing his head slightly before he took a sip. They ate in silence together, sharing the same plate, sipping from the same goblets. They did not touch or speak, but there was something so quietly powerful about the way they shared that meal. Bea did not feel at all surprised when they were finished, her angel came and lay down on the piled pillows beside her, pulling her down to him, curling tight against her back. Their legs tangled together, and she could feel the rough bristle of his chin against her scalp. She didn't mind. One of his arms draped over her, the other was a pillow for her head. She could feel him pressing close against her, and it occurred to her that if she weren't so very, very tired, she could think of any number of things she'd rather do than sleep. But her eyes were heavy, and her body refused to move. She only had time to register a deep, piercing feeling of contentment before she sank into sleep.

  When she woke up, Bea was covered in the softest blanket she had ever felt. She lay long minutes, holding it against her, keeping her eyes closed, relishing the sun, warm, against her face. But she did not look.

  Had she died? Had she been dreaming?

  She refused to care, refused to wonder. She was warm and surrounded by softness. Her body didn’t hurt.

  “Enough,” she thought. “Let this be enough. Let me die now, peaceful and happy. Let me die before I want again. Let this moment stretch out and on. Let this be my eternity.”

  He had looked at her, and his eyes had been full of something her mind was afraid to name. He had pulled her so close, and they had fit so easily together. So easy, the way his hand slipped under her head, the way her legs wrapped up and curled tight around his waist.

  “Please God,” she thought, praying for the first time since they had found the tumors, since everything had happened. “Please let me slip away, now, before I find something that it will rip my heart to pieces to lose. Before I get ripped to shreds. Again. Please. Let it happen now.”

  But death still would not come.

  She opened her eyes, and he was there, sitting across the room from her, exactly as beautiful and perfect and horribly wonderful as he had been before. He was leaning against the wall, pillows piled high behind him, reading. But the moment her eyes opened, he set the book aside and sat up straighter, smiling at her. Bea smiled back, but her smile was laced with sorrow.

  She held the blanket against her skin, suddenly self-conscious of her nakedness. The angel smiled, somehow seeming to understand exactly what she was thinking. He went to a small wooden chair by the doorway. Clothes were draped over them, and he handed them to Bea, watching the smile that crept onto her face as she examined them. A sleeveless tunic that fell past her hips, handspun in thick, cream-white cotton with strands of gold and silver interwoven throughout, that tied once in the front. She slipped it over her shoulders with delight – she had never worn anything so soft. A pair of loose-fitting, billowy pants, like pajamas, to pull up to her hips.

  As soon as she was dressed, he pulled her toward the little table, which had been laid out with fresh food. They sat across from each other again, silent. There was bread, baked thick with nuts and raisins, thickly cut chunks of pineapple, and mango slices. Again, they drank clear water from the same earthen mug, sipped red wine from the same rough goblet. Bea did not speak.

  For so long now, she had felt that she had been slowly slipping into silence. It had hurt that the world still wanted words from her. Friends and relatives would ask how she was feeling, but there are no words for how it feels to have your own body self-destructing from the inside out. Bea hated to try to find words to answer them with. She hated trying to smile while she lied. But the silence she found with her angel was smooth and soft. It asked nothing of her. It didn’t expect her to put on a show, or be brave, or try to pretend everything was okay.

  Bea looked into the eyes of her angel and found that there was nothing left to say.

  When they had laughingly divided the last bit of bread between them, the angel stood and walked over to the window. Bea stood and padded on the chill stone floor to stand beside him. It was late morning, she thought, judging from the sun, bright but not at its full heat quite yet. There was nothing to see but sky and sun and water, and Bea leaned against the angel, not even hesitating before she wrapped her arm around his waist. He reached back, and lay his arm across her shoulders. There was no hesitation in their caress . . . it was the most natural thing in the world. Bea looked out at the beauty before her and thought that there was nothing else she ever wanted to see.

  But then her angel stepped away and leaned over, pushing at the window with his hand. It swung open over the sea.

  It was then that Bea realized . . . it wasn't a window at all.

  It was a door. A door that opened into empty air.

  He turned to her, his smile an invitation, and instantly Bea was clinging to him, laughing and screaming as he held tight to her and launched them both out into the sky. She kept her eyes open this time, refusing even to blink. Her heart was pounding, but not with fear. Her whole body filled with exhilaration and joy.

  She had thought life was used up for her, and over. And now there was this!

  The angel flew low and close to the water. Bea could see their reflection on the surface, could sometimes even glimpse the dark shadows of fish below. She could feel him looking at her, watching the delight in her eyes as she looked, laughing silently when she whooped and hollered and skimmed the surface of the water with her hand. The wind rushed all around them. Bea's eyes were constantly drawn to the angel's wings. They were so unbelievably powerful, beating slow and steady, filling with air like black leather sails puffed full with great bursts of wind.

  He set them down on a beach of smooth white sand, ringed by tropical trees and deep shadows. The water was clear blue crystal; Bea could see the rocks along its bottom, could spot a fish here or there that darted toward the shore and then quickly fled back out to the sea. Bea quickly shed her clothes and ran splashing into the water; her angel settled himself down on the shore.

  “Aren't you coming?” she hollered at him. The angel leaned back on his hands and smiled as he shook his head.

  “You're crazy!” Bea yelled. “This water is amazing!”

  But he just sat back and watched her. All day she went back and forth between him and the water, now sitting next to him in the sun, letting the waves kiss her toes before receding, now swimming in the waves, looking back to see him smiling out at her.

  It was a day of silence and perfection, filled only with sunshine, the sound of the waves, and occasionally Bea's delighted laughter. When the clouds began to turn purple and pink, her angel gathered her in his arms and carried her back.

  It occurred to her that “back” was already “home” in her mind, and she felt wonder, pain, and happiness mingle in her heart as he set her down on the stone floor.

  Bea looked around the room. They had been gone all day, but it was not exactly as they had left it. A fire burned, waiting to greet them, in the stone fireplace. Blankets had been smoothed. The little wooden table was laden with fresh food.

  “Someone's been here,” Bea said, speaking for the first time in hours. The angel looked at her, not surprised, not trying to explain.

  “Who else lives here?” she asked him, knowing he would not answer. He looked back at her, his expression guarded. She began to walk toward the rounded red door that opened out into the hallway, her hand reaching for the knob. He reached out and caught her hand in his, holding it tightly. When she looked at him, she saw something pleading in his e
yes.

  She studied him for a moment. Then, she understood.

  He would not stop her. She could walk all through this place that had already become her home. She could throw open every door, examine every dark corner, drag all its secrets into the light. But he didn't want her to. He held her back, gently, his eyes asking her to stay. To leave the red door unopened.

  Instantly, Bea dropped her hand and turned back, pulling him with her toward the meal that had been laid out for them. It delighted her that her angel had asked something of her, something she was able to give. And no mystery, no darkness down the stairs, could call to her more strongly than the chance to sit across from him, next to the fire.

  They ate and then lay down together, the windows still thrown open, letting the wind and the dark and the smell of the sea wash over them.

  This night, Bea was not tired, and when he curled against her, she turned toward him, tasting the salt on his lips. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her to him. There was an eagerness in his eyes, and a joy so sharp that it was pain.

  Bea had been with other men, had made love many times before. But she had never given herself over to another person, had never thrown herself against someone so fiercely, had never thought to herself, “Anything he asked of me, I'd give it. Any price to be with him, I'd pay. Anything.” The moonlight streamed in through the open windows, and Bea and her angel made love in its light. There was pressure and pleasure, and the sound of Bea crying out in delight.

  When it was over, and he was sleeping, Bea looked down at him: the smooth planes of his face, his arm still wrapped loosely around her.

  It was only then that she realized she loved him. And she lay her head against his shoulder and wept.

  Evie

  The gong’s call echoed off the curved stone walls around them, multiplying and growing louder and louder until Evie’s ears rang from the sound. A flock of disturbed birds burst from a crevice in the mountainside and spiraled up and up, toward the blue sky above them, complaining as they went. Evie stood, hardly daring to breathe as the sound grew and then slowly dwindled to nothing, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake.