by Amy Cross
“These are wonderful,” I mutter to myself, walking to the door and back as I feel my blistered and aching feet being supported by fresh, firm padding. Taking a deep breath, I feel as if I'm almost ready to cry.
“So who is he?” the waitress asks with a faint smile. “Boyfriend? Husband?”
“Just a -” I catch myself before I allow myself to describe Attaroth as a friend. He's most certainly not a friend, even though the simple act of leaving these shoes for me is quite possibly the nicest thing anyone has done for me since, well, forever. “He's just someone I know.”
“I get it,” she replies. “There's no harm in accepting a few gifts now and again.”
“Did he give you a message for me?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“He just left his card number and had these shoes delivered?”
“Well, sure, and he said there's some other stuff in the motel room.”
Staring down at my new shoes for a moment, with the smell of cooking meat filling my nostrils, I'm momentarily distracted before looking back over at her.
“I'm sorry, what?” I ask. “Motel room?”
***
I think this might just be the first time in my life that I've ever used a key to open a door.
As soon as I step into the motel room, I feel a shiver pass through my body. Over the past ten years, I've slept in alleys, gutters, ditches, bushes, fields, and on park benches and abandoned buses, and in derelict houses, but I've never once had a room like this to myself. Still, the guy on the front desk said someone called through and reserved this place for me tonight, which I guess means that Attaroth wants me to stick around at least until the morning. Given the circumstances, I figure I don't have any other choices. I'm so tired of running.
Hearing a thudding sound, I look over at the wall. Someone in the next room is playing loud music, and it sounds like there's quite a party taking place.
“Have fun,” I mutter.
After checking out the bathroom, I find myself standing in the middle of the quiet room, enjoying the peace and quiet. There's a part of me that has always wondered what it's like to live this kind of life. I remember sitting shivering by the side of a road once, watching a nearby motel and trying to understand what it would feel like to be one of the people going in and out of the rooms. The problem is, it's hard to find a job and somewhere to live when you're technically and officially dead, although I've ended up in a few by-the-hour motel rooms over the years when I've really needed to make some quick money.
I'm not proud of selling my body those times, but I had no choice. If I hadn't done it, I'd have starved or frozen to death. Besides, it's just a body. It's just meat. Reaching into my pocket, I take out my meager collection of coins and then I feel something else further down; pulling it out, I find that it's the whalebone lighter that I took from Beatrice's room all those years ago. I guess it's crazy that I've kept it and not tried to sell it, but no matter how much I need the money, somehow I feel as if this is something I want to keep.
A reminder of where I come from.
Hearing a sudden ringing sound, I look over at the old-fashioned phone by the bed and realize that someone's trying to get through to me. I take a seat on the bed and pick up the receiver, although I've already got a pretty good idea who's going to be on the other end.
“And how are you finding the facilities?” Attaroth asks.
“You contact me by phone now?” I reply, hearing what sounds like a man wailing and moaning in the background. “Where the hell are you?”
“India. The holy man is really losing his mind now, so I'd rather stick around and watch. He thinks I'm a demon.”
“Aren't you?”
“Don't be rude. I hope you enjoy the food and the motel room.”
“The food was good,” I reply, looking down at my belly, which for the first time in years feels full to bursting point. “The shoes too.”
“Aren't you going to thank me?”
“Thank you.” Hearing the music being turned up next door, I look over at the wall for a moment. “Why did you do all this?”
“I like my workers to be comfortable and happy.”
“Workers?”
“You know what I mean. Hold on.” I hear a ruffling sound on the other end of the line. “Nasruddin, be quiet! I'm on the phone!” In the background, the wailing reaches a new, heightened pitch. “He's quite losing his marbles,” Attaroth continues. “Literal marbles as well as metaphorical ones. He's running around like a lunatic, naked except for a -”
“What do you want?” I ask, interrupting him.
I wait for a moment, but it's almost as if I've given him pause for thought.
“I need your help,” he says finally.
“Bullshit.”
“It's true!”
“You're a god! Or... Whatever the hell you are, you don't need my help.”
“And yet here we are,” he continues. “Look around, Clay. Tell me where you are.”
“I'm in a motel room.”
“So literal. Where are you really?”
“I'm in a crumby little town.”
“I guess it's dark outside, is it?”
“Let me guess, you've phoned through to the local bar and arranged for me to have an open tab?”
“I have, as a matter of fact.”
“I won't use it.”
“Then watch a movie on the in-house channel. Everything's covered.”
“I just want to sleep,” I whisper.
“So sleep. I hope the bed's comfortable.”
“Any bed's comfortable,” I tell him. “I just... Why can't you tell me what you want?”
“You'll find out in the morning.”
“Don't play games with me!”
“I've spent ten years chasing you down, Clay.” He pauses. “There's something very important that you have to do for me, but you couldn't do it until recently. Trust me, if I'd really needed you sooner, I'd have caught you sooner. I let you run for so long because it amused me, but I hope your current sleeping arrangements are enough to demonstrate that I have a kind side.”
“I'm tired,” I tell him.
“Of course you are. You've died so many times.”
“This is different,” I mutter, before sighing. “Why am I still here?”
“That's what I'd like to know.”
“You're a god, aren't you? Shouldn't you know everything?”
“I know I call myself a god,” he continues, “but sometimes that's just me being vain.”
“What are you, then?”
“None of your business. I've certainly been worshiped as a god, though. Surely you remember Jacob Kenseth and his disgusting little cult?”
“They thought you were going to lift them up to a higher plane of consciousness,” I reply. I wait for a reply, but all I hear from the other end of the line is the sound of Attaroth chuckling to himself. “You think this is funny?”
“I think Jacob Kenseth was a foul, evil man who abused a lot of people.”
“You're not wrong there.”
“The fact that he did it in my name is a source of eternal shame,” he continues. “Do you know that if you search for the name Attaroth online, that ridiculous cult is the first thing that comes up? It's almost enough to make me want to change my name completely.”
“I'm sorry your followers dragged you through the mud.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Of being a god? Or a demon? Which are you, exactly?”
“Can't I be both?”
“I don't know. Can you?”
“They weren't my followers,” he replies, “not really. Jacob Kenseth was just a fool who happened to learn a little about me. He had quite an open mind, so he picked up on certain things, but...” Another pause. “We're getting ahead of ourselves, Clay. There's no point talking about the past, let's focus on the future. You've got a nice bed and a comfortable, quiet motel room. Enjoy.”
“Not so quiet,” I reply, looking
over at the wall again. “The guy next door is playing music.”
“Is it disturbing you?”
“Well, I -”
“I'll fix it.”
Sighing, I open my mouth to reply, before hearing a loud bang from the next room.
“Fuck!” a voice screams. “Fucking fuck!”
As I stare at the wall, I hear footsteps running in the next room, followed by the sound of the door being opened. Seconds later, I hear a car being started and then screeching away across the parking lot.
“He won't be bothering you again tonight,” Attaroth says, sounding very pleased with himself. “Now get to sleep. You'll need to be fresh in the morning when you...”
I wait for him to finish.
“When I what?” I ask.
“I'm sorry, Clay,” he adds, with sudden weight in his voice. “I want you to know that I'm truly sorry. I'd never put you through something like this if it wasn't strictly necessary, it's just... Even a god needs help from time to time, and you have certain special qualities that make you perfect for this little assignment.”
“What am I doing here?” I ask. “No more games, Attaroth -”
“Must dash,” he replies, interrupting me. “My friend has begun to climb a tree, and I plan to be at the top to meet him. I'll see you soon, though. We have a lot to discuss, Clay. The fact that you can't die makes you so very fascinating to me.”
“I'm -”
Before I can finish, I hear the clicking sound of the call being disconnected. Placing the receiver back on the cradle, I turn to look across the motel room and suddenly I feel as if I'm being watched from every angle. Attaroth might have made a few generous gestures today, but none of that negates the fact that he seems to have steered me in his favored direction, and I'm uneasy at the idea that he wants to use me for something. After all, the last time I spent any time with him at all, he ended up damn-near driving me insane.
Ten years ago
“No!” I shout, running into the room and then turning to slam the door shut. My heart is pounding as I wait, but I can already hear footsteps outside and I know damn well that he followed me along the corridor. Turning, I look across the room and see to my horror that there's a man resting on a nearby bed; even worse, I realize after a moment longer than I've seen the man before:
It's the soldier from earlier, the one who shot me.
“Clay,” the calm man whispers from the other side of the door. “I'm humoring you by staying out here, but we most definitely need to talk.”
“Go away!” I shout.
The man on the bed doesn't stir. I think he's asleep, and I guess he can't hear anything I say.
“Clay,” the calm man continues, “this is ridiculous. Who else are you going to talk to? You're in a phase of existence between life and death. It's very curious, I've never seen anything like it before. Usually I can burn ghosts with ease, but something about you seems to be resisting. Why don't you come and talk to me properly and we'll see if we can work things out?”
“I want -” I start to say, before realizing that I'll sound stupid if I tell him that I want my mother. Even though it has only been a few hours since I last saw her, it feels like an eternity.
“I've been aware of you since you were born,” the man continues. “Doesn't that make you feel special? There's something about you, something odd, something that makes you stand out from the rest of the world. Do you know how many hundreds of generations of humanity I've witnessed over the past few thousand years? In all that time, not once have I ever encountered anyone quite like you. It's as if you break all the laws of life and death.”
“Go away,” I whisper, with tears running down my cheeks.
“I know you're smarter than your years would suggest,” he adds. “An only child, raised by an insane mother following the death of your father, taken to live with a cult led by a madman whose hands wandered whenever the two of you were alone... It's no wonder you had to grow up fast, Clay. Hell, it's to your credit that you haven't completely lost your mind.”
Running over to the window, I reach up and try to open the clasp, only to find that it's stuck.
“Clay?” the man calls from the other side of the door. “Clay, this is foolish. Talk to me.”
Standing on tip-toes, I struggle to get the clasp to turn until, finally, I find a small screw that seems to be holding it in place. After fumbling with it for a moment longer, I finally manage to turn it and then I push the window up. A blast of cold wind hits me as I lean out into the night air, and I see to my horror that I'm up on one of the top floors of the building, at least twenty meters above the ground.
“What the hell?” asks a voice nearby.
Turning to look over at the bed, I see that Aaron, the soldier who shot me, is sitting up. I guess he still can't see me, but he must have noticed the window suddenly opening, seemingly by itself.
Leaning out again, I look for anything that I might be able to use in order to climb out, and finally I spot a drainpipe that I might just be able to reach. The thought of climbing out the window is terrifying, but it's better than staying in the hospital and letting that strange man come after me.
“Damn thing,” Aaron mutters, climbing out of bed and shuffling over to join me at the window. Stopping right behind me, he reached up and grabs the open panel, struggling for a moment to get it to move before finally sliding it shut again. “Got to be -”
Suddenly he freezes as he spots my reflection in the glass. We make eye contact, staring at one another, and he takes a step back, as if he can't quite process what he's seeing.
“No,” he whispers. “No, please, you can't -”
I turn to him, but he's still staring at my reflection, as if that's the only way he can see me.
“No!” he shouts, running to the door and pulling it open before racing out into the corridor. As he goes, I spot the calm man standing in the doorway, watching me with dark intent.
“Shut the door,” he says firmly.
I shake my head.
“I need you to shut it so I can enter,” he continues. “Come on, Clay, enough's enough. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to know what the hell you are.”
Leaning back out through the window, I look over at the drainpipe. It might not look too strong, but I figure I'm not too heavy so I should be able to grab hold and then climb carefully down to the car park far below.
“Clay,” the man continues, “don't do anything stupid. “You're all alone. Who the hell else are you going to talk to? No-one else even knows you're here. You're a ghost without a form.”
Climbing up onto the ledge, I try to ignore the freezing cold wind that's blowing against me as I reach out and try to grab hold of the drainpipe. I'm just a little too far out, but when I strain extra hard I'm able to get the tips of my fingers to brush against the side. If I could just get another couple of inches closer, I'd be able to grab hold properly.
“Clay!” the man shouts. “Get back in here right now!”
I look back at him, and for the first time I can see anger in his eyes.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks. “Jacob Kenseth was a madman, but he had a few things right. My name is Attaroth and I command you to stop what you're doing and come over to me.”
Turning back to the drainpipe, I lean further, clinging to the window by one hand while using the other to reach out. Finally I'm able to get my fingers around the pipe, but getting a proper grip is going to be impossible. Balancing for a moment, I know I should climb back inside but at the same time I can't risk getting caught. Figuring that this is my only option, I lean as far as possible until finally I feel my weight shifting and I start to fall.
“Clay!” the man shouts.
Grabbing the drainpipe with both hands, I hold on tight and just about manage to keep from falling. With tears streaming from my eyes, I start inching my way down.
Today
“Do?” Debbie says, frowning as she stands behind the counter in the diner. “
I don't really know that there's a whole lot to do in Silverglade. Have you walked to the end of the main street?”
“First thing this morning,” I mutter, sitting at the counter and picking at a plate of scrambled egg.
“Then you've kinda exhausted all the tourist possibilities,” she replies. “Sorry, but this isn't exactly the kinda place where people come to visit. There's a couple of hundred people in and around the town, and that's about it. Have you tried the shopping square?”
“There's a shopping square?” I ask, trying to quell my rising excitement.
“Round the back of this place,” she replies, “but I guess it's not that special. You could always just, I dunno, chill.”
“I'm not very good at that,” I mutter.
“Sorry,” she continues, “but -”
Hearing the door open, we both look over just in time to see a handsome twenty-something guy making his way inside, wearing a set of overalls that have been tied around the waist.
“Hey,” he says, heading over to the counter and setting a toolbox next to me. He glances at me briefly as he takes a seat. “The usual, Deb.”
“This is my brother,” Debbie replies, “Benjamin.”
He reaches over to shake my hand; despite my general preference for avoiding physical contact, I reciprocate.
“Are you new in town?” he asks.
“I'm just here for a day or two.”
“Doing what?”
“I...” Pausing, I realize that I don't have an answer.
“Some guy's paying her bills,” Debbie butts in. “Fancy, huh?”
“You got a Sugar Daddy?” Ben asks with a smile.
“It's not like that,” I reply, looking down at my eggs. Yesterday I was starving, but today I'm already feeling stuffed. “I'm just sort of... chilling.”
“You picked a fine place to go about it,” Ben mutters, as Debbie heads through to the kitchen. “Silverglade's known as the most boring town for three hundred miles in any direction, probably further.”
“And we're proud of that fact,” Debbie calls back to us.
“There's benefits,” Ben adds. “It's not boring being boring, it's kinda...” He pauses, clearly searching for the right word. “It's zen.”
