Ashima was the first to realize that gods in the raiments of judgment had arrived, and she stared open-mouthed, too shocked to scream. Indeed, in the few seconds before the gunfire began, there were no screams from any of the six, only gasps of surprise and throttled pleas. Only three of the six managed to push up from their chairs in the little time that fate had allotted them, though they had no chance to flee or fight.
To Alecto, Ashima was not her mother’s sister, because her mother was Gaea, and it was not a Fury’s role to grant mercy. Nor were there words or need of words, only the voices of the pistols roaring point-blank. A brightly colored dress of silk flared like the wings of an exotic parrot before an attempt at flight failed, and the dazzling silk furled around the fallen form of the broken would-be flyer. Figures in desperate postures, each concerned only for himself. Gesturing antically. Grotesque expressions perhaps common in the subterranean streets of Pandemonium. Those who stood then at once fell into those who remained seated, or they collapsed back into their chairs. The six-sided table shuddered, and the cards slithered onto the floor, fanning out arrangements of numbers and royal images that perhaps a gypsy might have read to ascertain the ultimate destination of the hosts and their four guests.
Start to finish, the judgment lasted less than a minute. And when it was finished, there was no time to survey the aftermath, let alone to dwell upon it or to wonder what it meant. Anyway, it was nothing. It meant nothing. Besides, there was more to be done—and in as timely a fashion as possible.
21
A darkness arises around the perimeter of the kitchen, not a failure of the light, but a gathering of shapes that remind Booth Hendrickson of large birds, although he can’t discern any of their features. They are shadows where nothing exists to cast them.
The voice of his interrogator comes and goes. Sometimes he answers her, sometimes not. As the shadows congregate at the edges of his vision, hope retreats through the intricate spirals of his mind, and despair advances.
There was a time long ago when he was alone in the dark, but not afraid, alone in the dark with nobody to see, when like the boy in the books, he would say aloud, I think to myself, I play to myself, and nobody knows what I say to myself.
But that is not the darkness to which he is now returning, as the control mechanism weaves its web across his brain. The darkness coming will have no play in it, no delight; and no thought of his can ever be kept secret from those who command him in his servitude.
The coming darkness is that found in deep places, down where the crooked staircase leads, where the steps slope horizontal as well as strictly vertical, a nautilus of stairs, a maze, serving rooms where you must feel your way blindly because you have not earned a light to carry.
He has been there before, long ago, humbled to the condition of a beaten dog. He knows the misery of servitude, of being absolutely powerless. He would rather die than return to enslavement. But he is restrained at this kitchen table with no means of killing himself. And once the web’s radials and spirals map the contours of his brain, he will be able to take his life only if ordered to do so.
He knows the truth of the world. He has been taught. There is no escaping the cold truth of the world.
Rule or be ruled. Use or be used. Break others or be broken by them. In every case, his only remaining option is the or.
The rising darkness rises farther, reaching the summit of the walls, spreading to the ceiling from which shapen shadows depend like black cocoons, encroaching on the table at which he sits. The only light in all the world is that surrounding the table, and the source of the light is she who rules him. She is clothed in light, and her face is luminous, and her eyes are blue fire as she poses her questions.
Where are you, Booth? Are you still here with me? Do you hear me, Booth Hendrickson? Can you hear me? Where are you, Booth?
He is in despair; that’s where he is; it is a despair so pure that it will never evolve into desperation, which is energized and reckless despair, for he is without energy, drained.
Where are you, Booth?
For fear that she will take away her precious light and leave him enswarmed by darkness, he answers her. To his surprise, Booth speaks about that of which he must never speak. He tells her where he is—or rather where he has been and where he foresees himself: “The crooked staircase.” Once the words have been spoken, the spell of silence is broken, and what was forbidden to be expressed is suddenly expressible.
22
What had happened was nothing. It meant nothing. Nothing at all. The still, small voice within assured her of that. Those in this house who had appeared to be people were not in fact people. The earth was a stage, those on it merely characters guided by a script. These people’s story was no more important than any other, which is to say not important at all, mere entertainment for the gods.
What transpired next was nothing more than stagecraft. Alecto had been a minor divinity in ancient Rome as well as in ancient Greece, but her rank didn’t mean that she was colorless. By their nature, the Furies were colorful, agents of retribution, marked by flaunt and flourish, shine and swagger, and it was incumbent upon anyone who would write about Alecto, who would become a vessel for Alecto, for the Chandi aspect of Kali, for others of their dark divinity, to uphold the sacred tradition of flamboyance.
Tanuja stood on the stoop, waiting, the front door open wide behind her.
The cul-de-sac was quiet in the night and muffling fog. At the only other house that contained light, luminous windows seemed not part of any structure, seemed to float in the mist like large video screens made of some lighter-than-air material, none of them tuned to a channel, offering no drama, as if none could compete with events occurring in the Chatterjee house.
There were no shadowy forms of alarmed residents at those windows, no sirens in the distance. Most likely, the brief burst of gunfire had not traveled through walls, through night, through fog, through other walls. But it was not unlikely that even if the sound carried, those near enough to hear it were lost in a video game or binge-watching whatever, or were seeing out Saturday with a joint of good weed, having traded reality for one virtual reality or another. The scripts of their stories did not require them to hear.
Through the lamplight and the darkness and a thickening sea of fog, Sanjay returned with the coiled orange extension cord and the reciprocating saw. He was tall, trim, all in black. For a moment, a sharp fear pierced Tanuja, a terror of Sanjay, but this was only her little brother, her twin, blood of her blood, and the fear at once quieted away.
They did not speak when he arrived at the stoop and followed her into the house, for there was nothing that needed to be said. There was merely stagecraft to perform. Set decoration. Steps to be taken. Always one step at a time. Never knowing what was next until it needed to be done. According to the script by which they lived.
For a while, as they worked, Tanuja thought of Subhadra in the storm of the unfinished novelette, of the beauty of falling rain in silver skeins and the splendor of lightning born from a cumulonimbus womb, of the majesty of thunder like the rumble of colossal wheels moving creation along mysterious tracks….
When the six severed heads were placed at intervals along the walkway leading to the front door, sister and brother stepped out of the night, into the foyer, she with her back turned to one mirror, he with his back to the other. They stood face-to-face, an arm’s length apart. Cool fog slithered through the open door, drawn by the warmth of the house.
Sanjay wept quiet tears. She asked him why, and he didn’t know why.
She said affectionately, “Chotti bhai, little brother.”
He said, “Bhenji,” and his tears flowed faster.
She said, “Peri pauna,” which meant “I touch your feet,” though she did not stoop to touch them, for he already knew how profoundly she cherished him.
His reply, “Peri pauna,” brought tears to her eyes.
Not quite sure why she said it, she said, “Every story must have an end. That is the way of stories.”