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Display a printable version Lonely Cries the Winter Wind
Paul shrugged his way through the crowd and muscled up to the bar next to Thomas. He was short and fat, his voice like gravel, his gray hair cropped short. Thomas nodded at him. Paul signaled the bartender and then turned to Thomas. "You okay?" he asked, his voice casual but with concern in his eyes. Thomas shrugged, looking down into his beer. He clenched his right hand in his jacket pocket. No need to let Paul see. "Yeah, no harm done," he said. The bartended pushed over two beers and Paul paid. "Listen," he said. "You gotta stop letting them push you around. Ramco. HR might want it to all go away, but even they got to see that harassment in the break room and the johns is gonna get them sued." It's not like that, Thomas wanted to say, but Paul grabbed his hand and forced it out of his pocket. "Christ, Tom," he said, and then his voice failed him. Thomas's hand was covered with blood, oozing from fresh scars. The hand was already gnarled, arthritic, but the new wounds had opened up old ones. "Christ," Paul said again, and this time disgust and pity could be heard. "Why do you let them do that?" Thomas yanked away his hand and stuffed it back in his pocket. "Stay out of it, Paul," he said. Maybe a bit of his aspect leaked through, because he saw Paul look at him twice. "Listen," Paul said. He backed away just a little. "Listen, you be careful. Because they've got you pegged now, and they know. Me they'll never figure for a faggot, but you look the part. Be careful, Thomas, because they'll never rest once they scent blood." "I know all about blood," Thomas said. *** Paul left him alone and went back to his friends at the pool table. Thomas nursed his beer, rolling the sweaty glass between his fingers. It felt good against his burning hand. James had pushed it against the metal lathe on the floor. Thomas's white-hot screaming was consumed by the screaming of the machines as they ground through pipe and sheet, and up on the supervisor's mezzanine Danny Pitt closed his office door so he wouldn't have to see. A spotlight fell over the tiny parquet circle stage at the back of the bar. Velvet curtains swung open, and Lady Belle stepped out. Piano music tinkled in the background as she gripped the microphone and began to sing, her gown dripping from her elbows and puddling around her feet. Thomas turned to watch. Lady Belle wore mourning colors tonight, sequins sparkling on red velvet, her wine-red lips repeating the color in her pale-as-snow face. Her eyes were rimmed with black and her hair was captured under a red gossamer veil. She didn't have a voice for ballads; instead she sang low, deep, and full of homesickness. She sang for him, but she never once looked at him. Thomas waited by the bar, his burnt and broken hand forgotten, and thought he remembered the words from a long time ago, crying on a winter wind. He felt eyes on him and turned around. Paul stared at him over his beer, watching him watch Lady Belle. Thomas turned back to the stage, but the interruption made the singing lose its power. His hand hurt too – he decided to call it a night. He put a couple of dollars on the bar and pushed through the crowd. As he wrestled open the door one-handed, the wild, wet wind smacked him hard in the face, driving sleet into his eyes. Thomas caught a glimpse of La Belle through the window, starkly illuminated beneath the spotlight, and then one of the pool players moved around the table for a better shot, and she was blocked from view. He turned up his collar and ducked into his jacket, but he didn't tuck his hands in his pockets because the stinging sleet felt good on his injured hand. *** First Annual Henley Mardi Gras Parade! Someone had tacked up a sign over every Cleanliness Counts decal in the men's room and dingy lounge. The posters showed a wildly costumed man and woman, both grinning crazily, tossing beads and coins at a sketched-in crowd. Laissez le bon temps roulez, Thomas read, washing his ravaged hands at the sink. He elbowed off the tap and groped for a paper towel. The men's room door banged open and James walked in, filling the doorway. The door thudded against him; James did not move. "I know what you are," he said, his voice like a gravel landslide. Thomas nodded. He waited, hands hanging by his sides, wishing he could set loose his aspect. Not yet, whispered the wild wind, reaching all the way through the bricks and steel and corridors to find him from the outside. Thomas accepted its counsel. James still slept. If Thomas let his aspect slip, it would wake up his enemy. No telling who would get caught in that crossfire. Better to let the wild wind cry caution for now instead of cry havoc. But it meant that every time he crossed paths with James, Thomas got the worst of it. "Hey, you mind? Stand somewhere else!" Paul boomed. Thomas caught a glimpse of him in the small bits of space that he could see around James. The face on the big man in the doorway changed slowly, but he didn't move right away. "You fairies stick together," James said. For a moment his eyes flickered and Thomas felt a pang of alarm. Was James waking up? Then the big man blinked and he turned around. The look he gave Paul was full of disdain. "You can't protect him forever," he told him. Paul didn't say anything, just stood there with his arms crossed and his expression pugnacious. "One of these days we'll get him alone." He turned back with lumbering acceleration and punched the wall above Thomas's head. Thomas ducked, but a half second late – if James had been aiming for him… Concrete and tile shattered and rained down on Thomas's head. James stared at Thomas through the debris and finally walked away, letting the door swing wildly into Paul. The fat man stopped it with one hand, his eyes on Thomas. "You okay?" Thomas nodded, wiping away the dust and shards. "Thanks," he said. He nodded at the door. "You distracted him." Paul snorted. "You got a big problem here," he said. "He's right. I can't always be there. If it came down to it, I'm not sure I wouldn't back away. He's damn big and psychopathic." Thomas laughed. "And wait till he finds out what he can do," he said, but more to himself than Paul. Paul just grunted like he understood that and Thomas went on. "I know it doesn't look like it, but I can take care of myself. Thanks for this one, but you should stay out of the way for the next." Thomas headed back to floor, the rising whine of the machines cutting in full strength once he shouldered in through the heavy doors to the factory. He fumbled with the safety goggles until the machines' edges softened and he walked in shadow. An arc of white sparks fountained from one machine to the floor, the spray of burning droplets hanging in mid-space before winking out one by one. *** Two nights later when James came on shift, his skin went grey as soon as he stepped on the floor. Every electrical connection on the floor shorted out and the factory went dead, the smell of ozone in the air. James bellowed. He grabbed hold of the swing arm on the nearest tool and screamed again, dropping to his knees. Men milled uncertainly. The factory was dim except for the glowing red exit signs and reflected streetlight coming in from the narrow windows just under the ceiling. A door on the supervisor's mezzanine opened and a flashlight beam poked around in the smoky darkness. "Everybody all right down there?" called out Danny Pitt. "Don't know what happened to the power – we'll be back on line in a few minutes. Just hang tight." The beam of light swung over the men and machines and settled on James, swung away and then back uncertainly, and then hovered. He was panting and swinging his head from side to side. "Ah," said Danny Pitt. "You okay, Trow? Uh, someone help Trow down to the first-aid room—" he broke off and talked to someone behind him. "Okay, the aid room doesn't have power either so, ah, why don't we head on out to the street in an orderly fashion, and we'll try to get a handle on this later." Someone shouted, "I'm not clocking out!" but the flashlight had already retreated. Thomas made his way over to James and hauled him up. James looked at him, his eyes narrow slits. "I know who you are," he said, his voice thick and indistinct. "I know who I am too," Thomas said. He pretended to steady James under the guise of grabbing hold of his coveralls and propelling him toward the door. "Time to go," he said. He managed to push James backwards through the swinging doors, letting the big man's own momentum carry him and the coveralls protect him from the metal plates on the edge of the door. "I know who I am," James continued, his voice still thick as if his tongue were too big. He slobbered a little. "Go to bed," Thomas said when they were outside, and the freezing air, and James's own awakening, and the winter stars, making him burn inside. James roared and thrashed, throwing Thomas off him for an instant. "I! WANT! OUT!" His aspect flared. "Jesus," said Paul. Thomas had not noticed him come up. "What's wrong with him?" James swung his head ponderously between Thomas and Paul, and froth splattered along his chin. "Softskins," he said. His eyes gleamed maliciously. "Fairies." Paul threw up his hands in disgust. "Oh, for Chrissake," he said. He walked off, leaving James and Thomas alone. Everyone else had backed away as well. Thomas grabbed James by the front of his coveralls, and under cover of the darkness between the high walls of the alley, he let his aspect loose. At the sight James faltered. Thomas pulled him close and whispered in his ear. "You bet. And I've been waiting a long time for this, Bosee." He grabbed James' big hand and pressed it against the No Parking signpost, curving the fingers around the metal pole. James howled, lifting his head to the sky. The dim light from the distant street reflected off his pointed teeth and blackened lips. The tendons in his neck stood out like ropes. Thomas clamped down harder; only when James' scream broke up into sobs did he let go. He stepped back as the big man staggered, then sank to the cold asphalt cradling his hand. James looked up with glittering eyes. "Valri," he said. "I thought it was you." His voice was clear – it reminded Thomas of pale sun and green shoots. Thomas nodded. The wild wind skirled down the alley, setting up a scattering of leaves and trash and tossing it against the brick wall behind his back. Thomas felt the wind lift his hair from his brow, and he caught a glimpse of long, silver threads out of the corner of his eye. The distraction was all that James needed. The big man lunged to his feet and grabbed for Thomas with one hand, punching at him with the other. His fist connected with Thomas's nose, and a bright light and sharp pain went off in his head. When he could see again, James was gone and the wind had changed. The night was still cold but the simple breeze that slithered up the alley held a hint of spring warmness, and with it, James' words – No more waiting. We meet tonight. *** The Henley Municipal Golf Course sign creaked back and forth on rusted chains, swaying under the single yellow street light still lit along the drive. A spattering of cold wet wind drove under Thomas's coat as he headed up the driveway toward the back of the clubhouse. The tangle of trees in the dark ravine behind the nine-hole course was a graveyard of lost balls. He slid down the icy hill to the bottom, crunching through leaves and pushing aside the underbrush. The wind cut out, but the air was colder here. Thomas breathed deep, the cold driving deep inside him. His aspect came to the surface, and he could feel himself change. His hair whitened, his face and body thinned. His scarred hands smoothed out. The tips of his delicate ears caught all of the sounds of the woods – woodchucks in their sleeping burrows, the whoosh of a distant owl's wings as it flapped once across the golf course, then soared toward the ravine for better hunting. Spring is coming, sighed the wind. Soon hot summer will be nigh, and you will sleep again. Stay in this place, where the white snow falls always and the bright stars wheel in the dark sky. Stay where the moon is ringed with mist, and the ice is black underfoot. Thomas put his hand on a long, straight limb of ash, testing it, and snapped it off the tree. The crack resounded sharply in the night. He began methodically to strip his new staff of its crackling leaves and brittle twigs. He ran his hand over the now-smooth staff, satisfied with its strength and suppleness. He shrugged out of his coat, letting it fall to the snow. He wore only jeans and his work shirt, but the cold no longer affected him. Thomas knelt and picked up an abandoned golf ball, and tossed it underhand into the darkness yawning between the trees. The ball bounced a little, came to rest in a patch of roots and leaves, glowing, then rolled on into the twisted, narrow gap. Thomas followed, down into a clearing that did not appear anywhere on the golf course. The moon poured light onto the open space, sparkling on a clean expanse of snow, bounded by forest on all sides. The little golf ball rested in the snow, its glow almost unnoticed in the moonlight. The trolls waited, staffs ready. Thomas faltered at the sight. So many! Where are my winter brethren? The wind was quiet here and gave no promises. He clamped down on his despair and shifted his staff. It could not be helped. There were fewer of them now that summer laid more and more claim over the earth. "Well, look who's here," called out James. He had completely taken on his aspect, his craggy face filled out with planes and deep crevices where wrinkles had been. His shoulders broadened, and his legs had bowed, the thighs thickening like the boles of trees. He licked his narrow lips with glee, and his canines gleamed for just a moment. "Valri. We didn't think you would show up." Thomas's breath steamed lightly on the glittering air. "Enough talk," he said. The wildness touched him, and he laughed. "Enough talk, Bosee," he said, speaking in the old language. The troll hissed, his tongue flicking out. "I am here for the challenge." As if the use of his true name had taken away his speech, James brandished his stick. Thomas held his staff two-handed, the wildness coursing through him, and advanced on the summer trolls. They banged their staffs against the ice, their hissing steadily rising. "Hey, Tom, wait!" Thomas stopped, closed his eyes, and said a quick prayer to the Queen of Air and Darkness. Don't let it be him, Lady. Don't let it be him. He turned around. Paul came hustling up through the snow, his bulk carving a path through the pristine landscape. Behind him, waiting uncertainly under the trees, stood a small group, carrying – Thomas squinted. Hockey sticks. Golf clubs. A baseball bat. Down by the ice, the hissing and banging stopped. The night grew cold and silent. Paul panted, his breath steaming in the moonlight. "Paul," Thomas said, the name unfamiliar and hard to pronounce. "You can't be here." Paul shook his head. "Came to help. We knew something was up." He nodded his chin at James. "I heard what he called you. What he calls us. If he thinks he can get away with that, well, he'll find out what us fairies are like." At Thomas's attempt to break in, Paul shook his head, "This isn't about you anymore, Tom. This is about us." He swung his stick at the group in the shadows. "Because if he thinks he can take you on then he'll come after us, and we are by God sick of this shit." "Paul, you need to go. Now." "Have the softskins come to play?" boomed James. Paul turned to look at him, and looked again. His eyes widened at James's transformation. He turned back to Thomas, and Thomas could see that for the first time, Paul really saw him. Then Paul grinned. Some warlike aspect had gripped him, and even though he couldn't transform, his eyes were lit with an inner fire. "I didn't come all this way to back out, partner." He nodded at the small contingent behind him. "Besides, you'd be surprised. We knew there was something strange about you all along. We talked about it, and we decided that you probably needed help but you were too stiff-necked to ask. Steve here told us he knew where to find you." The group shifted a little and Thomas saw her – Lady Belle. He hadn't recognized her. She wore jeans and a heavy jacket that filled out her shoulders. Her hair was short and receding, and her face was fresh-scrubbed, though stubble obscured her jaw. The moonlight made her expression unreadable. She was not real. The aspect he thought he saw was nothing but a wig and makeup and clever lighting. I fooled myself, he thought. I saw a shadow and gave it form. With no hope, he hefted his staff. He was alone after all. "Do you accept the challenge, softskins?" James called out, his voice like gravel on the mountain. No, Thomas thought, but Paul shouted, "Yeah, we accept your challenge! And we'll kick your asses, you homophobic motherfuckers!" The troll song changed, the rhythm like the earth's heartbeat, deep and old and slow. James was all Bosee now, no human left in him. He chanted long and slow and deep, his club pounding on the snow on every beat. At his challenge, Thomas's aspect blazed up, silver light everywhere, despite his despair. He raised his staff over his head and shouted the rallying cry of his people though none was there to hear it: "For blood and winter!" And then he heard her. "For blood and winter!" She stood behind him, Lady Belle, her long hair and long sleeves flying, her pale face glowing in the moonlight. Her slender hands gripped her silver staff and her eyes were dark. At the edge of his perception Thomas heard James fall back. So did the others, human and troll. He took one step forward and knelt in the snow, leaning on his staff. Her small hand rested on the top of his head, and he felt the coolness spread from his head to his toes. Look at me. The command came like a cool fall wind whispering through the shivering leaves. Thomas raised his head. She stood over him, her eyes dark, her lips a deep wine-red, her pale skin touched with the faintest blush. A tendril of dark hair fell over her shoulder and across the velvet of her dress. He felt bathed in a cool restfulness, as if a fever had broken. She took his hand and drew him to his feet, smiling a cool, warlike smile, and together they turned to face the trolls. Where staff met club, silver light flared and smoking blood ran black. Thomas followed his queen as she led charge after charge, her dark hair flying. Raising his staff with joy, Thomas beat James back until the troll fell to his knees. The white snow of the clearing darkened with the still forms of men and trolls until only he and Lady Belle were left standing. With one last thrust of her staff, she punched it hard onto the chest of an unmoving troll. *** Thomas's head still hurt from the battle, and his aspect had gone quiet. People in the crowd looked at him and looked away. He hunched inside his parka, the sleet hissing against the fabric, and tried to ignore the pressing ache from the gash that ran down the side of his face. He could hear the band before he could see it, the Dixieland jazz skirling down the city canyons on the back of the wind. A few enthusiasts in the sparse crowd raised a cheer, and a couple of little kids, bundled in parkas and boots, started calling out, "Beads! Beads!" After long moments, as the wind blew rain and sleet and the music got louder, the band marched into view behind two shivering majorettes wearing ski jackets over their proud uniforms. They carried a bright green flag that read "Henley High School Marching Band Go Hogs!" From the gaps in the ranks it looked like plenty of hogs decided to stay in bed that morning. The crowd cheered thinly. Thomas was jostled and stumbled forward, catching himself. He looked back and Paul stood there, the livid stitches across his forehead cutting into his hairline. The first float – Lou's – was rounding the corner and coming down the street. As the float came closer it took on its aspect. Gone was the diesel truck – it was drawn by a team of six white horses, their manes and tails flowing almost to the street. Their harness shone of gold and silver. Sitting high above the horses at the top of the carriage rode Lady Belle, her gown and cloak a wine-dark red and her hair flowing long and black and free down to her feet. A silver tiara crowned her brow. "His name is Stephen Hammersmith," Paul said into Thomas's ear. Thomas looked at him and then looked back. He stepped forward, his heart beating hard. His aspect had fled -- would she see still see him in the crowd? "Thomas, listen. He's a forty-three-year-old transvestite who works the day shift down at Ramco and nights and weekends at Lou's." The crowd began chanting, "Beads! Beads! Beads!" "He's not who you think he is." Paul's voice cracked. The carriage drew near Thomas and stopped and the Queen looked down at him. She leaned down and held out her hand and Thomas took it, feeling its unblemished coolness like ice against his own scarred fingers. The Queen pulled him forward, and Thomas climbed aboard. For a moment the horses snorted like the sound of a diesel engine grinding gears, and then the carriage moved off behind the band, and Thomas looked back at Paul. The stocky man stood there, his brow furrowed, as the dancing crowd filled in behind the float and followed it down the street and he was lost from view. END
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| Last updated on 8/15/2008 7:35:53 PM by Jennifer Brozek |
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Lou's was always packed right before midnight when the swing shift let out at Ramco. Thomas looked up as the door let in the cold wet street smell and a jostling, rowdy crowd of six or seven, calling out orders and claiming the pool table. The air smelled wild. Before the door swung shut, Thomas got a whiff of snow on the rain-wet wind, snow from mountains a few hundred miles away from this lowland city.
Patrice Sarath is a novelist and short story writer. Her debut fantasy novel, "Gordath Wood," a book which combines Patrice's love for horses with her love for fantasy, is published by Ace. Patrice's short stories have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Weird Tales, Black Gate, Realms of Fantasy, and several other magazines and anthologies. Her short story "A Prayer for Captain La Hire," was reprinted in Year's Best Fantasy 3. Patrice has held many jobs, including that of short order cook, stable girl, shepherd (on an Iceland farm), and reporter; currently she is a business writer for Dun & Bradstreet, whose most famous former employee was Abraham Lincoln. She lives with her family in Austin, Texas.