Darkly Human

by Laura Anne Gilman

  At the end of this escalator he stopped, hitting his hand against the sign that thanked him in Spanish and English for not giving money to panhandlers. The pain made him wince. At least in that they were equal, humans and he. Pain was a bitch. He hit his hand again, then gave up. The siren call, as strong as blood, had him again, and he had no choice but to give in. If it was to be done, it had to be done fast. Get in, get out, go home.

  Punching the up button, he waited for the elevator that would take him to the rooftop parking lot.

  He adjusted the camera in his hand, barely aware of the sweat that ran down the back of his neck and down the front of his shirt. Shifting closer to the roof edge, he leaned against the ornate masonry, bracing himself. A glint of light caught his attention and he squinted, the hair along his arm rising in protest. “One minute more,” he told himself. “Just one damn more minute, you bitch, and I’ll have you. Come on, come on, do it for me!”

  He swallowed with difficulty, wishing for the water bottle at arms’ reach, as impossible as if it were on another planet.

  Another flicker of light caught the first building, fracturing against the wall of windows.

  “Come on,” he said under his breath, unaware of anything except the oncoming moment. He could feel it, a sexual thrill waiting to shoot through his body, better than anything, even the flush of the first draw of blood. This was why he was alive. This was it, this was the perfect moment… He drew the camera to his face, focusing on primal instinct. The light rose a fraction higher, and he was dropping the camera, running for the maintenance door, aware only of the screaming animal need to hide, survive, get away from that damn mocking bitch. The camera lay where it fell: abandoned, broken.

  “Goddamn,” he swore, shaking himself free of the memory. “Go home, Westin. It’s a fucking picture. Not worth dying for.”

  The woman exiting the elevator glanced at him, pulling her coat closer around her body as she swept past him, eyes forward in a 10-point exhibition of New York street sense. The first rule: never let them see you seeing them. He moved past her on instinct, not realizing until the doors had closed that he passed the Rubicon.

  “Well goddamn,” he said again, but he was grinning. A predator’s flash of too-white teeth, a grin of hungry anticipation. His fangs tingled, the veins underneath them widening in response to the rush of adrenaline coursing though his body.

  The parking lot was mostly deserted — the late-night partiers having headed home, and the Jersey commuters not yet in. There were a handful of cars parked in the back for monthly storage, and one beat-up blue Dart pulled in as he stood there. He waited in the shadows until the driver, a heavy-set man wearing work-boots and carrying a leather briefcase, passed by him into the elevator.

  Going to the edge of the lot, he sat on the cold metal railing, hooking one foot under the to keep himself from slipping the five stories to the pavement waiting below. The air was noticeably colder here, the wind coming at him without buffer. Dawn was coming, damn her. He could feel it in every sinew of his body, every instinct-driven muscle screaming for him to find a dark cave to wait the daylight hours out.

  Forcing himself to breathe evenly, he took control of those instincts, forcing them back under the layers of civilization and experience. There would be plenty of time to find a bolt-hole somewhere in the massive bulk of the Port Authority. He had done it before, here and elsewhere. It was all timing. Timing, he reminded himself, and not panicking.

  Squinting against the wind, he swung his body into better position, facing eastward, toward the East River. Toward the rising sun.

  Idiot, a new, more rational voice said in tones of foreboding. Do the words ‘crispy critter’ mean anything to you?

  He shrugged off the voice, lifting the camera to his eye. There was only the moment, and the shot. His entire universe narrowed down to that one instant, his entire existence nothing more than the diameter of the lens. His fingers moved with a sure steadiness, adjusting the focus minutely, his body tense.

  A particularly aggressive gust of wind shook the rooftop, making him lose the frame. Swearing, he fought to regain it, all the while conscious of seconds ticking by, each moment more deadly than the last. A taloned claw clenched in his gut, and sweat ran along his hairline and down under his collar. “Damn, damn, damn,” he chanted under his breath, a mantra. The muscles in his back tightened, his legs spasming. But his arms, his hands, remained still, the muscles cording from the strain.

  The first ray of light touched the rooftops, glinting deadly against empty windows. He swore again, his finger hovering over the shutter button. “Come on, baby,” he coaxed it, a tentative lover. “Come here. That’s it, you’re so perfect.”

  Another ray joined the first, the faintest hint of yellow in the pure light. The hairs along his arms stirred underneath the turtleneck, his heart agitating with the screaming in his head to get out get away you dumb fuck get out!

  His hands remained steady, his eyes frozen, unblinking: waiting, just waiting. He could smell it now, that perfect moment, with more certainty than he’d ever known. Everything slowed, his breathing louder than the wind still pushing the building beneath him, his body quivering under the need for release.

  A third ray sprang across the sky, then a fourth and fifth too fast to discern. Suddenly the rooftops were lit by a glorious burst of prism-scattered light, heart-stopping, agonizing, indelible. A ray flashed towards him, reflected by a wall of glass, and glanced off the brick barely a foot to the left. His forefinger so so slowly pressed towards the shutter button while every muscle twisted in imagined agony. “Come on come on come on…” he whispered, holding himself back for the perfect second.

  The smooth metal was underneath his fingertip when the first light caught him, slashing against his cheek, his chest, reaching though the skin into his vital organs. He screamed, falling backwards in a desperate attempt to keep the deadly light from him, slamming to the cold cement floor even as his finger pushed, even as his ears heard the click of the shutter closing underneath the sound of his own primal voice.

  His skin was burning, the blood seeping from the pores of his face and arms. The pain was everywhere, searing him, branding him. Tears tinctured with red washed a track down his narrow nose.

  Crawling to his feet, Westin barely retained the presence of mind to shove the camera back into its padded carry bag before dragging himself to the elevator and slamming his fist against the “down” button. Blood dripped down his arm and onto the fabric.

  The elevator opened in front of him. Westin pushed himself into the empty space, shaking. He leaned against the back wall and drew a deep breath, knowledge of his own stupidity battling with the sheer exhilaration of a different sort of Hunt.

  All too soon, the rush was over, and he was himself again, drenched in sweat and drying blood. In his memory, the sun rose like some killer angel, and he knew his actions for what they were — vanity.

  But he would do it again.

  Harvey and Fifth

  A woman sits curled on a bench near the Survivor Tree, her legs tucked under her, arms at ease by her side. Her spine is curved gracefully, the impression of repose. Jeans, boots, black tee and windbreaker don’t seem enough to warm her slight frame but she gives no indication of being cold. The fingers of her left hand flex periodically, as though grasping for something. Other than that, she does not move.

  Too much silence.

  Bear witness, it says. Bear witness.

  Sunlight dapples through, stroking the cold granite, illuminating office windows no-one gazes out of any more. In the spaces between open walls, voices are hushed, steps are slowed. Cars mute themselves when they drive past, construction sounds whisper, sirens whine. This is a place of the living among the dead.

  May you be in heaven an hour before the devil knows you’re dead.

  The sun shifts, the air cools. She stretches her legs, wincing. A couple walks slow through the orchard below, hand in hand, silent. Their steps are muf
fled in the grass. The woman leans her head against her companion’s shoulder, turning her face to his suit jacket. They are twenty- something. They may not even remember, any more…

  It has been that long. It has been no time at all.

  “Have you ever seen the face of the devil?”

  “No ma’am, I have not. But I have seen his handiwork.”

  They run the tapes in the museum next door. Interviews. Aerial shots. Commentary and scholarship. The guard walking his path below believes in the devil with a human face. “God has his plan,” he says, as though that explained everything.

  Sometimes, God blinks. Sometimes, the devil turns aside.

  There can be no other reason why she’s alive.

  The kaleidoscope inside her turns and turns, and the light is always broken. She laughs when she should mourn. She mourns … endlessly. This is not her first visit. Every year, she swears it will be her last. There has never, for so many years, been anywhere else she was. There’s a space within her that always tells Oklahoma time. 9:01. 9:03.

  Dust never arrives; one minute it waits, the next it is there. Lights shine from the ground, carefully placed, illuminating up. In the shadows you can see outlines of what was: if you squint…

  She can see it all.

  She can’t see anything at all.

  5-6-7-

  all good children go to heaven.

  Heaven, she thinks, must be a very boring place, if only the very good were let in.

  She turns then, folds her arms on the cool curving stone wall, rests her chin, sighs. She shouldn’t be here. There’s nowhere else she can be. Let midnight be the witching hour. Twilight is when the barriers fall. And tonight—

  Tonight.

  Bear witness, this place murmurs. Bear witness. Tonight, the rules change.

  Slowly, the grounds clear. The couple is gone; the lone walkers bundled into cars, home or to hotel rooms. Only she and the guard remain. Darkness enfolds the tree, sharpening the lights surrounding it, leeching colors into matted silver.

  Somewhere, distant beyond the cityscape, a church bell rings the hour. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

  A scuffle, a giggle from somewhere in front of her, the sound carried in clear dark air. Her breath catches, holds until it burns. Please. Oh, please…

  In her entire life, this is the only thing that’s healthy.

  The silence is less now; trees speak, water listens. Shadows tumble and twirl. Under low-scudding clouds, shadows race to touch the cool water of the shallow-running pool, sprinkle it at each other, look in hope for minnows or frogs. Some clamber on chairs, lights winking out then reappearing as they pass. Giggles, fidgets, pushing and shoving.

  One, larger, more curious, more aware, looks up at the sky, tracking the in-and-out game the silver-red moon plays behind clouds. Do they remember? Do they know?

  If Heaven is perfect, it must be so very, very dull.

  To die, to sleep;

  To sleep; perchance to dream, ay, there’s the rub…

  She rises, walks down the shallow steps, her breath frosting slightly in the air. Shadows slipslide, scatter. One paints its face with tiger stripes, pulling a tail into being, prancing on two feet as though on four. Another shakes a cape out from narrow shoulders, manages to soar a few feet before landing on soft brown grass, shaking in giggles of triumph.

  In the pass of the moon from one cloud to another, a menagerie of animals and creatures emerge: a spaceman, a cowboy, a princess, a clown. Two aliens poking each other with ray guns, waving their green and gold antenna at each other. A ghost, a firefighter. A black cat and a striped one, and a great-eared shaggy-coated dog with a tail that doesn’t wag. And more, dancing in the October night wind, shaking out soft shadow-bags and dashing about.

  A larger shadow here, there. Perched on granite steps, Lucite chairs. Watching. Guarding. They know she’s there, a tacit truce for the night, for the hour. She fights the urge to lunge herself at them, to be enfolded in nonexistent arms.

  Their arms can not catch her when she falls.

  A whispersoft sound behind her. Down the steps, into the harsher light of the street, careful to stay on the sidewalk, holding hands. She follows, hands shoved into pockets, clenching. Candy corn left in small plastic bags, woven in the wire of the external fence, tucked among cardboard signs and cloth mementos. Small fingers pick them, squabble, move on. Their hands trail the fence, staying close, not venturing too far out from the comfort zone.

  The tiger discovers candy bars. Bite-size, nineteen left in a neat pile on a plastic plate. They are doled out with careful consideration, each disappearing deep into bags and pockets. Then soft racing footsteps up the shallow steps, back through the archway.

  Some pull towards the children’s wall, others push for the far archway, the broken stones. A pause—they will not separate. A small shadow strikes out and the others follow, streaming up the stairs to the Tree.

  A box of apples wait, a hand-scrawled note attached, unread. Quarter-sized pieces of toffee are in a basket tied with an orange and black ribbon. One, two, four apples disappear. All the toffee is taken. The ribbon is released into the air.

  For thereby some have entertained angels unawares…

  The woman sits heavily on the bench, watching the taffeta tangle in the breeze, coming to rest on the sere branches of the elm. She feels like that, too often. Released, but unable to stray.

  Children left the first candy. A Mexican sugar skull, the newspapers reported. The next year, a bag of Sweet Tarts, a handful of Hershey bars. Eventually, it got out of hand; too much, too much generosity. But despite restrictions, the offerings still appear. The guards look the other way, collect what’s left in the morning.

  They don’t forget.

  And they never wonder where the missing pieces go.

  Bear witness, the wind tells every living ear. Bear witness.

  And in the chilled night air, a woman crouches on a cold cement step, and weeps chocolate tears.

  Rodeo

  Zan spread the crème carefully over cheekbones, avoiding the delicate skin around the eyes, stroking down into the neck and then up again, to ensure full coverage. The clown under her hand held still, barely breathing, as though afraid to disturb her ministrations.

  “This is the story,” Zan said. “This is the story of what a clown must do.”

  Her apprentice stood behind her, at enough distance not to jostle her arm, but close enough to see what she did, and hear what she said.

  “To be steadfast, and strong; clever and quick.”

  Back in the days before the Age, clowns were everywhere. Her own master had told her so, showing faded photos and posters advertising their craft. He had taught her how to wash away her own features and replace them with crème and blackstick, to articulate her joints, and submerge herself into the persona. Into the performance.

  Now she was too old. Too brittle. Now she taught others to perform, passing on what she knew into the next generation.

  There were three basic faces, although each performer added their own touches. The best were remembered along with Pierrot, Grimaldi, Adler, Blackendorf, Putter; their faces recreated on the wall of memory that led to the dressing rooms.

  She added the black diamond this clown preferred around his eye, making the grease crayon lines thick and clear. It brought the attention to his gaze. It also kept the glare of the lights from blinding you while you worked. This clown – Jordan, his name was. He had taken the traditional surname of Tex when he joined their trope, but people called him Jordan. He kept it simple. She appreciated that.

  A final stroke of the crayon, and she pursed her pale-pink lips in satisfaction, feeling the dry skin tug itself into even worse wrinkles as she did so.

  “You are a clown. The scion of an illustrious line. The keeper of a legacy that goes back before the Burnings. Before the Wicked Times.”

  This was ritual. It soothed a stomach tied up with pre-performance knots, reminded a clown of wh
at they did, and why.

  “When the spotlight hits you, and you hear the screams, you will remember this. And you will make us proud of you this day.”

  Jordan looked up at her, and she nodded once, solemnly, then stepped back to allow him room to rise, her apprentice scuttling out of the way before he was stepped on.

  “Go, Tex. They’re waiting.”

  “Ma’am.” The one word he had spoken, since he sat down in her chair. Jordan sat down, but Tex was the one who left.

  He moved out into the hallway, spurs clinking on the tile as he took each step, the tap-tap of his boot heels a familiar syncopation.

  Her apprentice started to clear her materials away, but she sent him off with a quick flick of one hand. Her veins were blue and thick, but her gesture was still steady, and he bowed slightly and left her alone with her thoughts.

  He went down the hall, ignoring the others who stopped, watching him as he walked past. He stopped only long enough to take a coil of heavy rope and a crushed-brim hat from a shelf with his name marked on it in thick red pen.

  Then further down the hall to the chute, a heavy black door in a steel wall, reinforced over the years until it was impossible to knock down, impossible to slip around.

  The scouts waited for him there. Four of them; more than usual, for one clown to cover. But scouts were easy to train. Clowns took longer. And so they were hoarded, used more carefully.