Green Eyes

by Lucius Shepard

  ‘That’s impossible,’ blurted Jocundra. ‘Valcours is buried in the crypt. There’s no dirt. The bacteria couldn’t have bred.’

  ‘His head,’ said Otille; she was tying and untying the sash of her robe. ‘They buried it down by the pool.’

  ‘As I was saying,’ said Ezawa, frowning at Jocundra, then turning his attention back to Donnell. ‘You and Magnusson received a hybrid strain. One of the thrusts of the project, you see, has been to isolate a cure for Otille’s hereditary disorder, and with that in mind, we interbred Valcours’ bacteria with a strain taken from another grave located here on the grounds. The grave of Valcours’ magus, his victim. Lucanor Aime.’

  ‘And Aime,’ said Donnell coldly, more calmly than Jocundra might have expected. ‘His patron deity, that would be Ogoun.’

  ‘Ogoun Badagris,’ murmured Otille.

  ‘Astounding, isn’t it?’ said Ezawa. ‘The good magician and the evil apprentice still warring after over a century. Warring inside your head, Mr Harrison. When Otille suggested the hybrid, I ridiculed the idea, but the results have been remarkable. It’s enough to make me re-embrace the mysticism of my ancestors.’ He gave a snort of self-deprecating laughter. ‘The entire experience has been quasi-mystical, even the early days when the lab was full of caged rats and dogs and rabbits and monkeys, all with glowing, green eyes. Pagan science!’

  ‘You’re going to die, Ezawa,’ said Donnell angrily. ‘Just like in the movies, and pretty damn soon. One morning after this breaks, after the papers start howling for your blood, and they will, you can count on it, that old time religion of yours will stir you to wrap a white rag around your head and sit you down facing the sunrise with a fancy knife and a brain full of noble impulse. And the ironic part is that you’re going to be swept away by the nobility of it all right up to the time you get a whiff of your bowels and see the tubes squirming out of your stomach.’

  He broke off and looked toward the door. Only Simpkins was there, but Jocundra heard dragging footsteps in the hall. ‘Who is it?’ asked Donnell, whirling on Otille.

  ‘He says he can feel you, too, but from much farther away,’ Otille’s voice devoid of emotion.

  ‘Our latest success with the new strain,’ said Ezawa. ‘He’s much stronger than you, Mr Harrison. Or he will be. I think we can credit that to his having been a full-fledged psychic, not merely a latent one.’

  Donnell leaped toward Otille, furious, but Simpkins intercepted him and threw him onto the floor. Otille never blinked, never flinched.

  ‘Fisticuffs,’ said a man at the door. ‘Marvelous! Wonderful!’

  He wore a black silk bathrobe matching Otille’s, carried a cane, and the right side of his puffy face was swathed in bandages; but both his eyes were visible. The irises flickered green.

  ‘Papa!’ Jocundra gasped.

  He regarded her distantly, puzzled, then inclined his head to Donnell in a sardonic bow. ‘Valcours Rigaud at your service, sir,’ he said. ‘I do hope you’re not injured.’

  Jocundra took a step toward Ezawa. ‘You killed him!’ she said. ‘You must have!’

  ‘It’s questionable he would have lived,’ said Ezawa placidly.

  ‘Did you kill me, Otille?’ Valcours affected a look of hurt disillusionment. ‘You only told me I had died.’

  It was impossible to think of him as Papa anymore. He was truly Valcours, thought Jocundra, if only a model conjured up by Otille. Death had remolded his face into a sagging, pasty dumpling, reduced all his redneck vitality into the dainty manners of a moldering, middle-aged monster.

  ‘I had to,’ said Otille; she walked over to him and took up his hand. ‘Or else you wouldn’t have come back.’

  Valcours drew her into a long, probing kiss, running his free hand across her breasts. He cradled her head against his chest. ‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘The joys of life are worth a spell of mindlessness and corruption. Don’t you agree, Mr Harrison?’

  Donnell sat up against the wall, his head lowered. ‘What have you got in mind, Otille?’

  Valcours answered him. ‘There’s a world of possibility to explore, Mr Harrison. But as far as you’re concerned we’ll keep you around until I learn about the veve, and as for your beautiful lady…’ Before Jocundra could react, he prodded her breast with the tip of his cane. ‘I believe a fate worse than death would be in order.’ He laughed, a flighty laugh that tinkled higher and higher, traveling near the verge of hysteria. Tears of mirth streamed from his eyes, and he waved his hand, a foppish gesture that should have been accomplished by a lace handkerchief, signaling his helplessness at the humor of the situation.

  ‘You had your chance,’ said Otille bitterly to Donnell. ‘I wanted you to help me.’

  ‘Help you rule the universe, like with the evil fairy there?’ Donnell said. ‘I thought you wanted to be cured, Otille. How could I help you with that? But you don’t want a cure. You want zombies and horrors and icky delights. And now’ - he cast a disparaging glance at Valcours - ‘now your wish has come true.’

  ‘Be still!’ said Valcours with a hiss of fury. He raised his cane to strike Donnell, and Jocundra recoiled, bumped against Simpkins, and jumped away from him. In his rage, Valcours possessed a melevolence previously muffled by his effete manner.

  ‘You know, Ezawa,’ said Donnell, ‘you’re in big trouble with all this. Maybe even bigger than you could expect. What if this fruit really is Valcours, what if you’ve really worked a miracle?’

  ‘What if?’ Valcours was once again the dandy, complaining of a gross indignity. ‘I’m the very soul of the man! Like the resin left in an opium pipe, the soul leaves its scrapings in the flesh. The essence, the pure narcotic of existence! Whether my dispersed shade had misted up anew, summoned forth by modern alchemies, or whether all is illusory, these are questions for philosophers, and have no moment for men of action.’ He giggled, delighting in the flavor of his speech.

  ‘See,’ said Donnell to Ezawa. ‘It’s going to blow up in your face. Fay Wray and the Mummy here will meet the Wolf man, have a group hallucination, and then comes the shitstorm. He’s her puppet, and she’s out of her fucking mind. Do you honestly believe they can keep it together?’

  ‘Simpkins!’ shouted Otille. ‘Get them out of here!

  Before Simpkins could cross the room, Valcours launched a feeble attack on Donnell, attempting to batter his legs with the cane. But Donnell rolled aside, pulled himself up by the desk and snatched the cane from Valcours. He spun Valcours around, levered the cane under his jaw and started to choke him.

  ‘This bastard’s weaker than I am,’ he said. ‘I bet I could crush his windpipe pretty damn quick.’

  Simpkins held his distance, looking to Otille for instruction; but she was again in thrall of the listlessness which had governed her during most of the encounter. Spit bubbled between Valcours’ lips and he thrashed in Donnell’s grasp.

  ‘Look at her, Ezawa,’ said Donnell; he increased pressure on Valcours’ throat until his eyes bulged and he hung limp, prying ineffectively at the cane. ‘Don’t you see what they’re hamming up between them? This is her big chance to make it in the Theater of the Real, to go public with her secret third act. A gala of obscenity. Otille and Valcours. Lord and Lady Monster together for the first time. Help us! Help yourself.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Ezawa had risen and moved around to the side of the deck. ‘She’d ruin me.’

  ‘You’re already ruined,’ said Donnell. ‘And it’ll be worse if you let it go on. She’s so far gone it won’t stop until you’re scraping dead virgins off the streets of New Orleans. This women thinks evil’s a nifty comic book and she’s the villainous queen. Maybe she is! Whatever, she’s going to do evil, and the word’s going to get around. Help us! I’ll finish this one, and we’ll all jump Simpkins.’

  Ezawa’s face worked, but his shoulders slumped. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘No, huh?’ Donnell let Valcours sag to the floor. ‘Another time,’ he said, prodding him with his foot.
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br />   ‘Hit him,’ said Otille in a monotone. ‘Don’t kill him, but hit him hard.’

  Jocundra draped herself around Simpkins’ neck as he went for Donnell, but he threw her off and her head struck the desk. White lights seemed to shoot out of her eyes, pain wired through her skull, and someone was holding her wrist. Checking for a pulse, probably. She wanted to tell them she was all right, that she had a pulse, but her mouth wouldn’t work. And just before she lost consciousness, she wondered if she did have a pulse after all.

  On the fourth day of their confinement Jocundra remembered the trick door in the Baron’s room, but for the first three days their position had appeared hopeless. Donnell’s jaw was swollen, his eyes rapidly brightening, his skin paling, and he would scarcely say a word. He stared at the bedroom walls as if communicating with the peaceful ebony faces. The wind blew twice a day, not as strongly at first as it had for Donnell, but stronger each time, and they would watch out the window as Otille, invariably clad in her black silk robe, led Valcours back and forth between the veve and the house. Their meals were brought by Simpkins and the chubby ‘friend,’ an innocent-looking sort with close-set eyes and a Cupid’s mouth, whose presence seemed to upset Donnell. Simpkins would wait in the hall, picking his teeth, commenting sarcastically, and on the evening of the third day he gave them some bad news.

  ‘Brother Downey has gone the way of all flesh,’ he said. ‘We hog-tied him and put him on the veve, then the late Papa Salvatino started walking around and a pale glow came out of his fingers. Well, when that glow touched Brother Downey, you would have sworn he’d gotten religion. Quakin’ and shakin’ and yellin’. I was up on the hill and I could hear his bones snap. Looked like he’d been dropped off a skyscraper.’ He worried his gums with a toothpick. ‘Sister Clea ran off, or I reckon she was next. ‘Bout the only reason you alive, brother, is Otille’s scared of you. If it was up to me, I’d kill you quick.’

  It was then that Jocundra remembered the door. Two iron brads held it in place, but removing them was not the main problem.

  ‘We’ve got to wire it so we can trip the release,’ said Donnell. ‘Then we’ll lure Simpkins in, try to trap him in the alcove, and hope we can take them one at a time.’

  They worked half the night at prying off the molding, both of them breaking fingernails in the process; they disconnected the release mechanism and undid the springs of their bed, straightening and knotting them together to attach to the mechanism; they jiggled loose two bed legs to use as clubs, shoring up the bed with books, and refined their plan.

  ‘You’ll be at the table,’ said Donnell, ‘and I’ll be about here.’ He took a position halfway between the alcove and the table. ‘When the guy sets down the trays, I’ll go for him. You drop the door as soon as Simpkins starts to move. Then you hit the other guy. The worst case will be two against two, and even if Simpkins does get through, maybe we can finish the other one off first.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘When I hit Papa on the boat it was all reflexes. Fear. I don’t know if I can plan to do it.’

  ‘I think you’ll be sufficiently afraid,’ he said. ‘I know I will.’ He hefted his club. ‘Afterward, I’ll head to the veve and see if I can get control of it.’

  While the wind was blowing the next morning, they ran a test of the door. Donnell stood on the table beneath it and caught it after it had fallen a couple of inches.

  ‘Let’s do it tonight,’ he said. ‘He’s getting stronger all the time, but I still have a physical advantage. You keep away from the veve until it’s over. Find some car keys, grab some of the videotapes. Maybe we can use them. But keep away from the veve.’

  Jocundra promised, and while he wound the bedsprings around the leg of the table beside her, she tried to prepare herself for swinging the club. It was carved into whorls on the bottom but the business end was cut square and had an iron bolt sticking out from the side. The thought of what it could do to a face chilled her. She let it lie across her lap for a long time, because when she went to touch it her fingers felt nerveless, and she did not want to drop it and show her fear. Finally she set it against the wall and ran over the exact things she would have to do. Let go the wire, pick up the club, and swing it at the chubby man. The list acquired a singsong, lilting rhythm like a child’s rhyme, drowning out her other thoughts, taunting her. Let go the wire, pick up the club, and swing it at the chubby man. She saw herself taking a swing, connecting, and him boinging away cartoon style, a goofy grin on his face, red stars and OUCHES and KAPOWS exploding above his head. Then she thought how it really would be, and she just didn’t know if she could do it.

  Donnell had never been more drawn to her than now, and though he was afraid, his fear was not as strong as his desire to be with her, to ease her fear. She was very nervous. She kept reaching down to check if her club was still leaning against the wall, rubbing her knuckles with the heel of her palm. Tension sharpened her features; her eyes were enormous and dark; she looked breakable. He couldn’t think how to take her mind off things, but at last, near twilight, he brought a notebook out from his bureau drawer and handed it to her.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘Pictures,’ he said; and then, choosing his tense carefully, because his tendency was to think of everything he had planned in the imperfect past, he added, ‘I might do something with them one of these days.’

  She turned the pages. ‘They’re all about me!’ she said; she smiled. ‘They’re pretty, but they’re so short.’

  He knelt down, reading along with her. ‘Most are meant to be fragments, short pieces - still they’re not finished. Like this one.’ He pointed.

  The gray rain hangs a curtain from the eaves

  Behind her, as she tosses

  The mildewed flowers to plop in the trash,

  Tips the leaf-flocked vase water

  Out the window, as she leans

  Forward looking at the splash,

  As she pours up from the ankle up to slim waist

  And white breast and shawl of brown hair,

  Every curve seems the process

  Of an inexhaustible pouring,

  Like the curves of a lotus.

  ‘Just cleverness,’ he said. ‘I didn’t do what I wanted to do. But all together, and with some work, they might be something.’

  She turned another page. ‘They’re not,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My legs.’ She quoted:’”… the legs of a ghost woman, elongated by centuries of walking through the walls.” They’re not that long.’ She spanked his hand playfully, then held up a folded piece of paper, one on which he had written down ‘The Song of Returning.’ He had forgotten about it. ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘Just some old stuff,’ he said.

  She read it, refolded the paper, but said nothing.

  He rested his head on her forearm and was amazed by the peace that the warmth of her skin seemed to transmit, as if he had plunged his head into the arc of a prayer. He rubbed his cheek along her arm. Her fingers tangled in his hair, and he felt drifty. The lamplight shaded the skin of her arm from gold into pale olive, like delicate brushwork.

  ‘Jocundra?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He wanted to tell her something, something that would serve as a goodbye in case things didn’t do well; but everything he thought of sounded too final, too certain of disaster.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  She bent her head close to his and let out a shuddery breath. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she whispered.

  Her reassurance reminded him of Shadows, how she had comforted him about the brightness of his eyes, his aches and pains; he felt a rush of anger. It had never been all right, and chances were it never would be. He did not know who to blame. Jocundra had made it bearable, and everyone else was either too weak or too riddled with sickness to be held responsible: it seemed that the whole world had that excuse for villainy.

  There were footsteps and voi
ces in the hall.

  He fumbled with the wire, uncoiled it, thrust it into her hand, making sure she had the grip, and ran to his position near the alcove.

  It almost didn’t work. She almost waited too long. Simpkins yelled ‘Hey!’ and came running in, and at first she thought the door had missed him. But then he pitched forward hard, as if someone had picked him up by the feet and slammed him down, and she saw that the door had pinned his ankle. The chubby man looked back at Simpkins just as Donnell swung, and the club glanced off the side of his head and sent him reeling against the wall. Simpkins screamed. The chubby man bounced off the wall and started walking dreamily toward Jocundra, his hands outstretched, a befuddled look on his face. Blood was trickling onto his ear. He heard Donnell behind him, turned, then - just as Jocundra swung - turned back, confused. She caught him flush on the mouth. He staggered away a step and dropped to his knees. He gave a weird, gurgling cry, and his hands fluttered about his mouth, afraid to touch it. A section of his lip was crushed and smeared up beneath his nose, and his gums were a mush of white fragments and blood. Donnell hit him on the neck, and he rolled under the table and lay still.

  Simpkins’ eyes were dilated, his face ashen, and he had begun to hyperventilate. The door had sunk a couple of inches into his leg above the ankle, and a crescent of his blood stained the wood. Just as they stooped to lift it, a pair of black hands slipped under from the other side and lifted it for them. Jocundra jumped back, Donnell readied his club. The door came up slowly, revealing a pair of brown trousers, a polo shirt, and then the sullen face of the Baron. Simpkins never noticed the door had been raised. His foot flopped at a ridiculous, straw-man angle, and he stared along the nap of the carpet with scrutinous intensity, as if he were reading a tricky green. His nostrils flared.

  ‘You people don’t need no damn help,’ said the Baron, surveying the carnage. Clea peeped out from behind him, depressed-looking and pale.