597
When the castle door came into view, as her car approached the curb, Lady Gates saw straightaway that aught was amiss, and said unto her companion, But steady, for these woods are not as they were; and sometime among them run bandits and drunkards. Then bethought she to say also, I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s going on: but called she then to mind an old counsel of her upbringing, to wit, that she never express regret before regrets are sought. Howsobeit with these old counsels and their sway, which ever arise before us like shadows at noon, their strength did wane as she assayed the walkway, and the excrement strewn down it, and the broken glass, and the ashes: I’m sorry, she thought again, and yet again did check her inclination, scrutinizing instead the countenance of her companion, whose face betrayed no special outrage. For if a man, at cards, cries out when dealt the queen, all will know his fortune and fold their hands; and while still green and young and indeed in the bloom of his youth, not for nothing had Marc Buckler at his studies been thought one who might succeed, were he to learn patience, and to favor the small gain over the grand sack, the lined pantry over the glitter of the counting house. Yet alack! for further ventures to the counting house, and for errands to the pantry, as the great door of the castle gives way to Lady Gates’s key, the better for her to behold the Great Angel of the Transformation before her, its limbs all atwitch, the iridescent colors of its skin revealed in the glint of the late sunlight. For this was the time of early evening, when shadows grow; then did Lady Gates, mindful of her client’s presence, and thinking on her feet as befitted her station, reach for the light switch while closing the door behind her in a single movement; and all was revealed.
Jolly in the face both of danger and an advantage to press, saith Marc Buckler, What the fuck; nor could his Lady protest, for, under her breath, a language better suited to the common knave did issue in whispers; for all was ruin; yet not the ruin of the vandal but the cunning of the imp; spells on countertops, racks rearranged into shapes better suited to the coven than to an empty property awaiting one young enough to pay the markup; wares all about repurposed as if to confound evil spirits; and behold, the dam breaks, I’m sorry, says poor Lady Gates, these neighborhood kids, I didn’t know.
See, then, the throb and ebb of light from the entryway to the chambers of the knights’ council; and a moment of mutual understanding between Lord and Lady, that they are not among their own, but have breached some castle grounds whose customs, to them, seem strange; and behold, upon the floor, the outlines of bodies, mockeries of life, blind oracles; which both do regard overlong, Marc Buckler remarking upon them, What happened here, and his Lady in response, I have no idea, I’m really sorry; and he seeing the words ANGEL and PLAYPEN and perhaps feeling, in his coward’s heart, the turn of the play; and she seeing BEYOND and ETERNAL, and bethinking herself to return to the surer safety of the outside; Come, says she, obviously something happened here, again betraying the careful stewardship of her father, never apologize for anything, they smell blood; it is too late; I’m really sorry, I had no idea, and him a-following, his visions of wealth all a-glitter with the youthful vigor of unknowing; and, from the darkness, unseen, emerging, lo, a brave knight, his sword mighty, his strike sure, a swordsman forged in the fury of self-preservation; and as has been seen on battlefields for as long as men have done battle, he who follows last is first to fall; and behold, this ocean of blood, the sword-point hath pierced the neck; he falls retching; see now Lady Gates gaze in horror upon this young knight all mad, his mail but rude, the outfitting of the peasant; Get away from me, you son of a bitch, she cries, but finding the door closed, fumbles; Where is the Goddamned doorknob; and does the blade fall once, or twice, or three times sidewise upon her skull; yet living, Marc Buckler beholds; the blows that fall like rain; the careful silence of he who wields the sword; nor can Lady Gates cry out, her head struck by iron; she has found the doorknob; yet but one blow from the flat of the blade and her hand retreats; the doorknob knocked from its housing; she must join her companion upon the floor; and in the dusk remain where she lies until some deeper grave be found, if the cunning of the knight who guards the castle gates can abide but a short span longer.
NORTHUMBRIAN WHISPERS
The initial reports went out over the airwaves; cases like these are godsends to local radio. Something lurid to make drive time pass more quickly between work and home, something so juicy it makes Dad turn on the TV news as soon as he gets in through the front door. Bill, what? Shh, listen. Some kind of satanic thing. That stuff in New Jersey? No, down near the freeway. The freeway here? What other freeway is there? Shh. Well, you said it last year, whole lot of new people lately. Too many, last time I checked, this is just, wait, shh, here it is.
Rumors began to spread as soon as the news hit the wires: on the campuses of the middle and high schools first, filtering down a day or two later to the elementaries. These would grow distorted and bizarre as they traveled, the inevitable process of myth-building in an age of print and video: seven kids in a pact with Satan to kill, unrepeatable atrocities visited upon the bodies, old corpses dug up from the lawn. Signs and symbols to describe with fear and wonder. Nocturnal rites inside the dirty bookstore. Younger kids, hearing, genuinely frightened but too proud to show it, would, when they passed the stories along, embellish new details from the reservoirs of their dreams: I heard they lit the bodies on fire. I heard one guy was covered in oil but he didn’t burn. My friend lives near there, he saw the burning bodies. For real? For real. My brother said there was a lady inside whose right leg was twice as long as her left one, she had to drag herself around by her hands. How did she kill anybody if she couldn’t run after them? Somebody held them down for her right there on the floor.
The detail of the lady with one leg twice as long as the other is one I found in an openly skeptical news report, one of the few pieces about the killings to be broadcast beyond the confines of California during the week that followed. A teenager, whose name the paper, citing general policy, had declined to publish, said he’d heard it from at least three people, including somebody who claimed to have known Siraj personally. Siraj? Siraj, yes, with a j, new kid, everybody at the whole school knows he was involved, he’s crazy, he can’t shut up about all the shit he gets up to, excuse me, all the things he does—this as fellow students nearby, also unnamed, erupt with laughter and then try to compose themselves. Find him, though, for real, he knows all about it, swear to God.