Arctic Smoke

by Randy Nikkel Schroeder

  The hallway dipped, went dark. Seri followed what appeared to be tiny running lights that winked all along the joint between walls and floor. The hallway opened to a luciferous lobby. She squinted, saw that the lights were actually snowflakes, dicing through a cracked window to swirl and curl across the hotel’s spirit breezes.

  In the eye of the blizzard stood Rooke, gnawing a fingernail, clutching his Bible, path blocked by of all people the freak from the Lethbridge clearing. The freak stared through greasy bangs with one good eye, toe tapping, stiletto heels squeezing pink feet. He had Rooke pinned with a ragged walking stick.

  “Let us pass,” Rooke said.

  “Ha!” The freak jiggled the stick, stuck out his tongue to catch the snowflakes. “So that ye may visit the island? An island, yes, but which island: Serendip, Patnapida, Prince Edward, Hades itself? Nay, such are the islands of lost souls. Especially Prince Edward.”

  “This is Foggy Island.” Rooke said.

  “Nay!” The freak cracked his own head with the stick. “This isle is named Azoth, and has no fewer than seven directions.”

  “You stare with Odin’s eye, old man.”

  “As do you.” He tapped Rooke’s glasses with the stick. “Yet I care not a whit for your malapropic convolutions.”

  Rooke took a step backward and raised the Bible. “I seek a thief. “

  “If you follow this path, you will end hither in a forest of Christmas trees, by the fog of the river. Perhaps in the arms of your own dear brother.”

  Rooke started. “What do you mean?”

  “The one you seek is at the tip of the island.”

  “This man is going nowhere,” Seri called.

  They ignored her. Rooke’s fingers quivered on the Bible.

  “Who are you?” Seri said.

  The freak let his stick descend. It tapped the tiles. “Once I was of the House of Darker.”

  Rooke clapped the Bible. “Where is the path? Where is the brother?”

  The freak cracked his own head again, then clubbed the floor—tock tock tock —breath shrieking from nostrils.

  “Old man, where is the brother?” Rooke yanked a white scarf from his pocket and wrapped it around his own neck.

  The freak covered his corroded eyeball. “Say brother no more. Your whispered incantations put me in mind of my own family, for whom I bear eternal hatred.”

  “Where?” Rooke demanded.

  The freak considered. “Once we bore only love,” voice wisping. “Only love. But the thrower came between us.” He spat. “The thrower and the master himself.”

  “This thrower is your brother?”

  “He is a knife thrower. His plans will fail.”

  Rooke’s face stiffened. He stepped forward, wagging the Bible till shreds and pages swished from between covers and floated to the floor. “Where is the one I seek?”

  “I have told you.”

  Rooke bit down on his index fingernail, then yanked hard and pulled it right off. He turned, strode past Seri, finger dripping, white scarf flapping, lips pulled to a grin.

  “Ted.” She grabbed his shirtsleeve. “Don’t listen to this madman.”

  “Jeremiah the prophet was mad.” He brushed off her hand. “Oh—you mean insane?”

  “Ted. Stop. Think.”

  “You still here?”

  Back into the dark hallway, pricks of snow flitting like fireflies. Joists and floorboards creaked, as if the hotel was an old galleon shifting with the tide. The walls brightened, and the hallway broke to a frozen tearoom honeyed with moonlight—fine bone teapots and snowy scones, some half-eaten, atop mahogany tables laced with Irish linen, studded with icicled jam pots. Wedgewood cups and saucers. Walls papered in silk, an oriental rug stormed with wild designs, turned up at one corner, tassels bedraggled. A room long abandoned, a century-old tea party preserved in ice.

  Seri shivered.

  Rooke stood between skirted chairs and an abandoned tea service, mumbling at his open Bible. Behind him, an enormous yellow moon hung at the picture window, its daffodil glimmer brightening a cabinet lined with china figurines.

  He hummed a few bars, then sang softly in a luscious tenor: “Now God be with us, for the night is clo-sing, the light and darkness are of his dispos-ing . . . .”

  Seri paused. His voice was so lovely, she almost let him go. “Okay Ted. That’s the benediction.”

  “Shhhh.” He reached down to tug at a skirt. “This room is designed to resist obscenity.”

  Seri reeled for options. Her words were grotesque in their inadequacy. What other leverage did she have here?

  Rooke sang, with growing vigour: “Before Jehovah’s aw-ful throne, ye prophets bow with sacred joy, know the Lord is God a-lone, he can create, and he destroy.”

  Seri clasped her hands. Lord, a sign please?

  “How about Psalms, little prophet girl?” Rooke held forth the Bible.

  She saw it was the one of the few sections not slashed to bits.

  “King David’s book.” He licked a finger and flipped a page. “I will make my arrows drunk with blood.” Flipped another page. “Happy be he who takes their little ones and dashes them against a rock.”

  “Out of context,” Seri blurted.

  Rooke pointed out the picture window. “Look for once. There is no context.”

  “You want to live by the Psalms?” Seri saw a glimmer of hope. She briskly stepped into the tea room. “I’ll quote you Psalms—All the paths of the Lord are mercy. Sing unto him a new song—”

  Rooke sang. “Guide me O thou great Je-ho-vah, pilgrim through this barren land.” He winked. “Come, little prophet girl, sing with me. Ladies only on the second verse.”

  Heat cascaded Seri’s cheeks, beneath her collar, between her breasts. “Cease from anger, forsake wrath.”

  Rooke clapped his hands. “Don’t get mad, get even.”

  “The Lord is my shepherd.”

  “You are a sheep.”

  She dropped a fist, knocked a frozen teacup. “Ted. Jesus Christ.”

  “He can’t hear you. He’s busy throwing snowballs at the angels.” Rooke sat on the table. “So. Our hands are no longer tied.”

  “Stop toying with me.”

  “Are you a toy?” He fingered the white scarf.

  “Listen to me! I know what’s going on here, I’ve been watching you—”

  “And I you!” Rooke clapped. “Oh, dear little believer.”

  “I’ve been watching you since—”

  “A watched kettle never boils. Psalms chapter zero.”

  “You’re mad!”

  “Is this my tea party?”

  She stepped back.

  “Don’t go away mad.” Rooke rose from the table. “I love you.” Chased with an acidic laugh.

  “Ted, you’ve lost it.”

  He stepped towards her. “We are all lost! Psalm 21:12.”

  “My God. Ted.”

  He looked at her. “Oh, Serendipity. Couldn’t you think of a single woman prophet?”

  Seri felt a sudden empathy, as he stared at her, gnawing his nail-less finger. For the first time ever he seemed fully present, like his gaze wasn’t piercing her, but seeing her, really seeing her, all expectations dropped.

  Then her stomach seized. In his presence she also felt the shadow of absence, the places where Rooke held himself in utter distance. Dear God, maybe there was no communion in this world, only endless manipulations. She tried to think of a rationale, an explanation, incantation, anything.

  Rooke laughed. “He despairs of escaping darkness, Job 15. Or she.”

  Seri clutched a frozen teacup. “Ted, don’t give in to this. Psalm 51: He will wash you whiter than snow.”

  “All tables are covered with vomit. Isaiah 28.”

  “Renew a right spirit within me, it’s the theme of the Psalms, don’t you see?”

  “Which Bible are you reading?”

  She tightened on the teacup. “Ted, you can be renewed. Psalm 30—weeping may endur
e for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

  “Open your eyes, li’l Elijah.” He gestured out the window, teeth clenched. “Morning never comes up here.”

  He raised the Bible and came for her.

  “Ted, I’m going to have to—”

  “She surrenders, her towers fall. Jeremiah 50.”

  Seri raised the teacup. “You are crazy.”

  “I wish. Oh how I wish I were crazy.”

  He seized her hair.

  “Ted, you’re hurting me.”

  “Always hurt the one you love. Old Testament, right?”

  He seized her arm. She yanked free. The teacup broke in her hand. Wham. He smashed the Bible across her head, loose pages exploding. He recoiled, smashed her again. She tripped and hit the carpet, chin knocking, tongue slicing on teeth. Rooke’s picture fluttered down, zinc moonlight winking between the burned out eyes of his former friend.

  “What is one true thing, baby Jonah?” Rooke kneeled on her shoulders, scarf-end fluttering down. He slapped her. “Forty years in the wilderness?” Slap. “Slavery to Babylon?”

  “Ted, please—”

  “You’re just like your father,” he rasped. “Here. Bring this back to him.” He stuffed the Bible down her shirt. Then rose, straightening his glasses. “Goodbye, Serendipity. Thanks for the ride.”

  Seri clenched her teeth, tried to rise. Not Goodbye, Ted. See you soon.

  See you soon.

  See you.

  See. . . .

  She tried to hear it in Gran’s voice, but summoned instead her father’s, unremembered for so many years, now clear as prairie sky. She didn’t believe the words, any more than he would have.

  Her head fell back. She heard Rooke’s footfalls, then his heavenly tenor, softly down the corridor—

  Our old mal-i-cious foe, is set to work us woe

  Both la –dee –da—forgot the words

  La –doo –dee –da –da –doo—

  † † †

  She rolled over and raised herself to her knees, tongue swollen. She believed Rooke now. She had failed utterly on every step of the journey. She had lacked the faith and sinews. She was early Moses, or Abraham’s wife, Sarah, who laughed bitterly at God’s promise, who did not believe. She was Job’s whining friends, or all the weak kings who turned to idol worship. She was Jonah, who ran away. She was the daughter of Pastor William A. Hamm, failed prophet, backslider, coward.

  She shook the butchered Bible from her shirt, bookmarked Psalms with the fallen picture. Then she stood and limped to her room, where she ripped open the nightstand drawer and hurled in the Bible. Yes, she would be shaken. She kicked the drawer closed, then peeled her clothes and headed for the shower to scrub away the filth of wisdom.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Need to Be Tied

  “Well, ’migo, shall we sit together till we freeze to death?”

  Without his glasses, Lor saw mainly blots and blurs. Alistair looked like a wizard halfway to vanishing.

  “Think about it,” the wizard continued. “We’ll unite mystically with the big ice, follow Franklin in a totally different way, a family of annihilation.”

  Lor wiggled numb fingers. “Wish Franklin were here.”

  “A true believer.” Alistair nodded, blew on his knuckles.

  “Wonder where he went.”

  “Probably on some island blissed out like a Buddha.”

  “And we’re here at a no-show festival, freezing to death, with nothing to eat.”

  “Shit.” Alistair twisted his brim. “Shall we eat your guitar?”

  “Don’t you touch it.”

  Alistair stood and coughed a cloud of frost. “W’then, I’m going to look for the night manager one more time, see if we can’t rustle up something real around here.”

  “I’m going to my room. If I can find it.”

  Alistair strode for the door. “Adieu. We’ll meet again.”

  “Right,” said Lor. “Perhaps we’ll all meet again. Some sunny day.”

  † † †

  Lor passed a darkened alcove where Night Manager Peart perched on an overturned armoire, peering out like an owl. He continued to his room, opened the door to a humid blast. A host of singing candles lit the insides. Bright yellow bananas filled a woven bowl, flanked by a pitcher of ice, a bottle of gin. Shower water pounded the tub in the open bathroom.

  His mouth watered. Had he eaten anything since coming to the Agartha? Had he even been in his bathroom? The shower stopped. A cloud of steam drifted out, followed by a dripping figure in towels.

  Lor reached to grab the doorknob. “What are you doing in my room?”

  “This is my room.” A woman’s voice.

  “What number—”

  “Close the door. We’re losing steam.”

  He bumped the door closed.

  “What do you want?” the woman said, still veiled in shower mist.

  Lor squinted, wishing for his glasses.

  “Well?” the woman continued. “Speak up.”

  “What number is this room?”

  “Never mind the number,” she said. “Who are you, breaking in here?”

  He had no answer.

  “Are you family?”

  “No.” Lor wiggled his fingers around the guitar case handle, then added, “I don’t have a family.”

  “The way you hug that guitar—”

  “Don’t touch it,” he blurted.

  Her face remained hidden as she towelled her hair. “Are you an orphan?”

  “Not really.”

  “Anyone out there you love?” Mist curling between her limbs.

  Lor wiggled his fingers. “No.”

  “When you came in, I thought you were my companion.” She paused. Her voice soured. “Coming back to. . . .” One towel dropped from her glistening skin.

  “Your companion?”

  “He is so cruel, so capricious. And yet. . . .”

  Lor peered into the steam. “Someone you love?”

  A long pause.

  “Forget love,” Lor said. “Take it from someone who knows.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Lor.”

  “Ah!” She clapped, dropping her towels. “The twists and turns of this earthly life. Told you we’d meet again!”

  “Oh.” Lor squinted. “Shit.”

  She stepped from steam to candle light, peroxide buzz cut wicking beads of water. “Come in, punky. Out of the cold with you.”

  Lor turned to flee, doorknob stiff in his hand.

  But Darci Shimozowa was laughing, buttoning a long silk shirt. “Little spell of mine. Come in, come in. A little refreshment, in order to finish your journey.”

  Lor opened his mouth to answer, found only his thickening tongue.

  She cracked her knuckles. “Do you know what you are chasing yet?”

  He jiggled the doornob. “Something’s chasing me.”

  She grinned wickedly. “You’re back for more. Always the same story.”

  “No.”

  “You men chase orgasm as the crow flies.”

  “I’m not chasing—”

  She frowned. “I’m talking about the world of men, punky. Come. Sit with me on the couch.”

  Lor twisted the doorknob.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “You still have my jacket,” he blurted.

  “Are you cold?”

  “I’m hot.”

  “Take your shirt off.” She sat on the couch and crossed her legs. What long toes she had.

  Lor closed his eyes, suddenly remembering old lovers. The Jainist, who wouldn’t step on bugs, whose utter difference sharpened his attraction. He’d had to leave her. The wet one who soaked his futon through to the carpet. Over the top, he’d had to leave her. The goth girl who begged for unmentionables when she came. God, he’d run from that one, same way he should be running now.

  He opened his eyes, found himself on the couch.

  Darci licked her teeth. “You still
have his dust?”

  “Nope.”

  “Run north. All the way. I’ve already built the warding.”

  He shifted. “That snowman out front?”

  “Yes. Snowman.” Her voice turned bitter. “What kind of thrice-fucked warding can melt? There is no real power in this world.”

  “No.”

  “Let me hurt you,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “You’ve still got my jacket.” He tried to rise. But she grabbed his hair, yanked him down, bit his throat. He shrivelled like he’d just stepped into the Arctic Ocean.

  She let go of his hair and peeled off his belt.

  “No,” he said.

  “Sometimes you need to be tied up to be free.”

  “Ha, ha.” He fought her. “No.”

  She stood, wrapping the belt around one hand. “We need to cut through this resistance.” She opened the nightstand drawer and removed a knife, then tossed him the bottle, a glass, an ice cube.

  Lor poured himself two fingers of gin.

  Darci plucked a banana from the bowl. “Careful with the panty stripper.”

  He splashed half of it back, kept his eyes up and open. The ceiling was pasted with flourescent stickers: stars, moons, planets. He looked down.

  Darci was peeling a banana with those long fingers, bent way over, knife between her teeth. The handle was jade, the blade wavy like a Malaysian kris.

  “Admiring the knife? Belongs to my lover.”

  She took away his tumbler, still half full.

  “Over here.” She sat back and patted the couch, biting ice with a crack.

  Lor shuffled over.

  She sliced banana chunks with the kris and crushed them into the gin, using the blade as a stir stick. Lor leaned closer to look at the mash. Phantom smells twitched his nostrils—lime and lilac, pine bark and peppermint. The knife’s blade sucked as Darci pulled it from the mash, sparkled as she set it on the nightstand.

  Lor thought it was his watery eyes.

  “Here—” Darci spooned banana mud with her fingers. “To cool you.”

  “No.”

  She smeared a handful across his face, over his lips. It was cold in his mouth, warm at the back of his throat. Pushing him down with her belted hand, she unzipped his pants and reached for the knife in one musical movement.

  “Darci—” He tried to rise.