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In the Light of His Millions of Stars

November 27, 2006 3 comments

As I grew up in the San Francisco Bay area, not knowing there was a God didn’t bother me. And it wasn’t until I moved to Aspen with my two-year-old daughter that I realized no one on this earth really knew me – the inside me, the lonely one, the betrayed, abused, hurting one.

A little past midnight on a clear winter night, I walked out of town far enough that I couldn’t see any lights or hear the noise. I wanted to be alone to cry my bottled up tears. Was there a God?

It was hard to find darkness because the millions of stars overhead lit the night so brightly that I could walk in their shine. I saw a rose growing at the side of the road – through the snow, in the middle of winter. The aspen trees had shed all but a few of their quaking, golden leaves which seemed to glow from within with flickering candlelight.

I wondered aloud: “God, how can this rose be alive in this cold, so late in the year? The aspen trees don’t worry about ‘who am I? where am I going? why am I here?’ They just plant their roots and grow. Same with the rose. Then why don’t I know why I am here, why I am alive? How come I can’t just grow and be Vicki?”

I cried. Then there were no tears left. I sat on a rock, shaking with the cold. Yet inside something changed and now I felt warm, at peace. I knew Jesus had heard me. He was taking me to my home in Him and He hasn’t abandoned me since.

Yes, I had turned away from Him after my divorce. For years I had tried not to think about Him. Still He didn’t leave me. He waited.

Now, almost forty years later, He is still with me and I want always to live in His presence.

People will sometimes say to me, “Oh, you’re religious.”

I say, “No – not religious, but I do have a living, loving relationship with God. I am a stone in the creek, rolling around against other stones, the water washing me, smoothing out my rough edges, making me fit where God knows I need to be.”

I thank God for that first encounter with Him in 1967. My life has never been the same.

by Vicki Foley Theriault

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Brother Oswald’s Lick

November 27, 2006 6 comments

My friend in the Army said he was going to take paratrooper training not because he liked jumping out of airplanes, but because he liked to hang around with the fellows who jumped out of airplanes. I play music not because I’m a musician, but because I like to hang around with musicians. Playing music is a lot less lonely than trying to write.

Thinking about playing music always scared me. How was a fellow ever supposed to fit all those notes in there where they belonged, I always wondered. It must take “talent,” I thought, and I knew I didn’t have musical talent. I flunked accordion when I was a child, after all. My friend Doug, who plays guitar and banjo and fiddle, would disagree. He would say, “It’s not talent, it’s practice.”

Doug convinced me and another friend, Ed, that it would be fun for us to play music together. What was the worst that could happen? What did we have to lose? So we started getting together on Wednesday nights after work, 11 p.m. to 4 a.m. Yes, there was some beer involved. Doug picked the banjo. Ed was learning to play rhythm guitar. What should Tom do? Well, thought Doug, who was leading this adventure, it might be best if Tom played dobro. Every place you stop the Stevens steel across the strings over a fret on the neck of the dobro, that is a chord – open is G, the fifth fret is C, the seventh fret is D. It won’t even make your fingers sore.

What else do you need to know? That the dobro is like a guitar with a hubcap on it, a resonator guitar? That the strings are set up high enough you can’t push them to the frets, but instead you make notes by sliding the steel to different places on the string? That you wear a thumb-pick and two finger-picks on your pickin’ hand, and have to learn to do forward and backward “rolls” and other such picking patterns? No – you don’t want to know too much too soon.

If you’ve got a guitar and a banjo and a dobro in the band, you have to play bluegrass. You know that, don’t you? And you have to play “Wabash Cannonball,” because Brother Oswald played it, and he was the old dobro player’s dobro player. “Wabash Cannonball” was his signature piece. And if I was going to play dobro I had to show Brother Oswald some respect by being able to play the song he made his own.

Learning lead for that song was difficult enough for a fellow like me, who worries every note into place, but finally I got to the point I could do it. I could break out of backing up the singer into my own “From the great Atlantic Ocean” going up the strings and back.

Yet I had not mastered Brother Oswald’s turnaround between verses, where he licked and slid his way from the G note at the fifth fret on the high D string across all the strings here and there to the lowest G on the thickest of them. He started it at the last word of the verse and ended it just as the band wanted to enter the next verse; he did it in time to the music, and he made it fit. Or maybe he made them add two measures to the standard turnaround, cuz he wasn’t done yet.

And, if you’ve heard him do it, you know it’s a wonderful lick. He was a remarkable dobro player and a funny guy. He had to be funny, because in those old bands the dobro player was also the clown. Yet I didn’t know enough about playing dobro to clown around, that’s for sure.

We played together for weeks and months and years, every Wednesday night after work, Doug and Ed and I, playing the old songs, learning some new songs, trying some new things. Somewhere in there I resolved to learn Brother Oswald’s turnaround lick for “Wabash Cannonball” and stick it in when no one expected.

Home alone before work, I would listen to Brother Oswald play the lick, and try to play it myself. I listened and tried it. Rewound the tape, listened again, tried it again. Listened and tried.

It was another Wednesday night. We had opened our beers. We had played maybe “Mountain Dew,” maybe “Goin’ Down the Road Feeling Bad.” Doug kicked off “Wabash Cannonball,” sang that first verse, hit the last word of the last line. And it was like Brother Oswald was there in the room with us, taking the steel down the strings all the way to that bottom G.

Doug looked up. Ed looked up.

“Wu-hoo!” we said, and we kept playing.

“Do it again,” Doug said.

And Brother Oswald did.

“Take the lead now,” Doug said, and I did. And I ended it with Brother Oswald’s lick.

Playing music was never the same.

by Tom Montag of The Middlewesterner

__________

For more information on the dobro, see here. For more about Brother Oswald, see here.

Read more…

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Threshing Machine

November 24, 2006 4 comments

Entangled in the beaters it must be hard to recognize
The driver at the wheel of this combine.
Ego torn, hope beaten, pulled under by your fears
You search anxiously for some onlooker to do
What only you can do.

Years ago a child caught in the thrash of dysfunction
Not big enough to reach the off switch, waited for rescue until
Only blame survived.
Who else will hold them accountable?
A child clings tight to that wheel.

Tomorrow anger will again paralyze both the victim and the driver.
Gathering each straw, you let the grain slip away.
It is a choice to drive deeper into this harvest of despair –
Your crop to sow.
Turn off the machine, girl.

by susurradeluz of a line cast a hope followed

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how much, and easily

November 21, 2006 3 comments

how much, and easily
or seeming so, she moved in me
to produce such things, such things.

she sings, i think, and bites her lower lip
a tiny bit, in the pictures i have seen.
i hope to see her someday soon, again,
often and again.

hold fast: how fast, into the spicy dark
the dream of icy dark can melt.
how soon, how soon…?

abstracted from tomorrow or next year
into just now
into “just then…

the air was cold
my fingertips were cold
her fingertips were cold
when first our bodies met-
legs, stomachs, arms&chests&lips-
but heat grew outward from our hips
often and again
.”

how cold, nostalgia’s sting.

by Matthew Lafferty

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The Effect

November 19, 2006 7 comments

Head in Water

“Head in Water”. Natalie d’Arbeloff. Oil on canvas. Collection of
Karl Genus, New York.

 

I was eighteen and in Paris, staying at my aunt’s place on Rue de L’Université on the Left Bank. It was what they call a “studio” but nothing like the romantic concept of north-lit scruffy splendour above the rooftops. It was a ground floor room off one of those typical Paris courtyards entered by pressing a buzzer that sets off a Pavlovian reaction from the concierge sitting in her lodge just behind the heavy pre-Revolutionary doors: her head pops up and the investigative powers of generations of concierges snap into action in her brain, confirming primeval suspicions that everyone is hiding something, even those who have grown frail pushing the same door open for twenty years. My aunt had lived in this room for about that length of time and her days flowed in slow, steady rhythm from home to work and back again. She was a civil servant in one of the Ministères in the neighbourhood. Her studio, which I had been invited to share whilst deciding what to do next, was small, dark and comfortable, nostalgically furnished with reminders of the past. The yellow satin-covered bed fitted into a mahogany surround which could by some sleight of carpentry convert from single to double divan. There were mirrors and glass bibelots and an art nouveau lamp-stand with two naked brass figures languidly leaning and lots of gilt-framed family photos, and there was an aquarium – yes, I’m almost sure of this – a goldfish tank, to separate living from cooking space. Kitchenette and bathroom were windowless nooks squeezed into the layout but somehow everything had its place and you didn’t feel cramped. Two tall, barred windows looked directly onto the street so you had to draw the curtains and close the wooden shutters at night, but you could still hear snatches of conversation as people walked by. I liked this room and had it to myself most of the time, as my aunt was at work all day, and on weekends she would usually go and visit her mother – my grandmother – outside of Paris.

The first time it happened was like this:

It might have been morning or afternoon but without a lamp on, the room was, as usual, in chiaroscuro. I sat at the dining table that doubled as a desk and closed my eyes. I decided to make a mental list of every single thing that was bothering me and then to put it aside. Quite a lot of things were bothering me but I obeyed my rule of simply naming, listing and putting aside, resisting the ever-present temptation of filling in the details, joining up the dots and jumping to invariably flawed conclusions. I began by naming my most superficial concerns – shoes too tight, hair looks awful, etc. – and moved on up the hierarchy of things, people, events or emotions which, singly or in combination, made up the state of unhappiness I was experiencing at the time. With such strict instructions to eschew embroidery and explanation, it didn’t take long to complete my list. The next step was to mentally fold it (I didn’t want to be bothered with an actual paper list) and put it somewhere out of sight. My aim was not to deny or solve the problems by this method, but merely to see what, if anything, would happen if my mind were temporarily cleared of them. The word “meditation” never occurred to me and had not yet become fashionable in the West, so my approach was strictly DIY and innocent of all Eastern influence. Surprisingly, I found it quite easy to be a blank slate once the list was out of the way. The next task I set myself was to listen intently and count every sound my ears could pick up. One by one, with the meticulous attention of a train-spotter or bird-watcher focused on the job, the smallest auditory signal was perceived and logged: individual cars’ engines, a more distant traffic hum, the clatter of heels on the pavement, voices passing by the window, some kind of boiler noise, a creaking, a rustling, a crumpling, a tooting, fragments of music from a far-away radio, my own breathing, and so on. The process was more absorbing and demanding than I could have imagined and all sense of time vanished, so I have no idea how long it was before I opened my eyes (I had kept them closed from the start of the experiment). That’s when it happened.

Everything was different. I mean literally, visibly different. I don’t know how to describe this difference without having it labeled as a “psychedelic” or “out-of-body” experience. I was absolutely in my body and in that room but it was as if someone had enhanced the focus, sharpened every outline, made it all crystalline and hyper-real. It felt both ordinary and miraculous, as if I’d been seeing the world through cataracts before but now had 20/20 vision for the first time.

Wanting to know if the Effect would continue outside the room, I went for a walk. It did continue. Every single thing became miraculous – what other word can you use when the ordinary world, without changing anything of its familiar appearance, becomes “other”? Transubstantiates? Transmutes lead into gold while still remaining lead? I vibrated with every person, every building, every object I passed. I was the strings on a violin on which the world was playing an extraordinary fugue. I walked down Rue de l’Université to the Rue du Bac and into the Boulevard Saint-Germain and sat down inside the cool, high, solemn beauty of the Eglise Saint-Germain and then I walked some more. The Effect, the amazing grace, didn’t stop but gradually became fainter as the day wore on and after that first time, I realised that it wasn’t a once-and-for-all phenomenon but would happen only after I’d gone through the ritual of list-making and sound-counting. So I began to do the ritual every day and each time it was easier and quicker.

Then other things started to happen. I would be sitting at the table in the room after doing the ritual and my mouth would open of its own accord and my throat would stretch, as if something that wasn’t me wanted to speak. I observed these things calmly, detached, like a scientist engaged in an experiment. There was no sense of panic or abnormality even if, by certain criteria, something far from normal was going on. I decided that I would try to paint while in that state and, taking advantage of my aunt’s absence during a holiday, I set up my easel, my palette and some blank canvases. I must tell you that, for me, drawing and painting anything figurative is usually a slow process and nearly always requires a model – i.e. something to look at, human or otherwise.

I sat in front of a blank canvas, oil colours laid out on the palette in their usual arrangement, brush in hand, and waited. Very soon I began to tremble as if shaken by strong winds, heart beating fast, driven by something beyond my conscious control. I began rapidly dipping the brush into paint, mixing colour combinations I never used, stabbing at the canvas with feverish speed, creating forms which appeared and disappeared before my astonished eyes in a style that was not mine and which I have never replicated. When it was finished I was exhausted, disoriented, didn’t know that hours had gone by. I’m including a photo of the first of three or four paintings I did while in this trance state.

After a while, I began to realize that the Effect and the trance, while probably related, had different sources, one positive and one negative: the Effect was good for me, the trance wasn’t. I didn’t fancy being a “channel” for some obscure occult forces, even if they wanted to use me to paint some quite interesting pictures. I didn’t like all the trembling, the heavy breathing, the sense of being possessed, drained. Magic tricks don’t appeal to me.

Perhaps, by opening a valve in my mind, clearing out the clutter and becoming completely open for a time I had allowed the miracle of the world to be revealed but simultaneously became vulnerable to invasion by less salubrious elements floating around in some other dimension. Or maybe I was just a hypersensitive eighteen year-old. Take your pick.

by Natalie d’Arbeloff of Blaugustine

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(haiku)

November 16, 2006 3 comments

The Strangers Club

November 11, 2006 3 comments

“I wish I could stop dreaming,” the bartender said moodily.

As it had all afternoon, light rain tapped without much interest on the high, narrow windows above the rows of colored bottles, windows that, by night, went almost invisible, given away only by faint stars, to anyone who dared look that high.

Ina was alone at the bar in the otherwise empty club, the only place in town which had yet begun to feel familiar to her. This was the first time the bartender had spoken to her in hours.

“I’m sorry?” she said, warily.

“I wish it would stop raining,” the bartender repeated, like a man with a long practice in wishing for things he knew he would never see.

*

A new spy, working for the first time, has all the same advantages as a newly minted coin, or a blank page: no identifying features, no marks or blemishes, and, most important, no history. For that single assignment, a new spy is still what every other spy strives for the rest of their lives to be: nobody.

For a handler, the moment is enormously tempting. To send an unknown into a foreign embassy, a rebel group, a smuggling ring, to send someone who, even in the course of their true history, might actually be a cleaning girl, a student at the university, a country boy looking for work on the docks of a strange city, unrecognized by anyone they meet, is a rare opportunity. In most cases, however, the rarity of the chance is balanced with the new spy’s lack of experience, and the risk both to them, and to any significant operation, should they fail their first test.

But now and then, someone takes the chance.

*

Alex Arlin was responsible, depending on which reports she read, for the deaths of hundreds or thousands of men. Ina’s government understood that. In some cases, he had actually acted in cooperation with them. They weren’t interested in vengance, or even simple punishment.

They were interested in a secret.

It wasn’t Alex Arlin’s secret. It was a woman’s—a dead woman’s. But Alex Arlin, who had been seen making a visit to her apartment in the week before her death, almost certainly knew it. In fact, at that point, it would have been almost impossible for her to keep hidden. What nobody knew was whether or not he had understood the significance of what he had seen.

The woman, before her death, had masterminded the theft of one of the government’s most cherished experiments. After her passing, no trace of it had been found among her things. There was a chance that the experiment had failed, at the mercy of an amateur, in which case there might, in fact, be nothing left to it. But if it had fallen into other hands, it could prove deadly to the innocent, and dangerous to the nation.

The experiment was a light, but an enormously bright one, contained without an obvious energy source or filament in a glass jar about the same size as a quart of peaches. Because of its strength, and the heat it generated, disguising it completely would have been dangerous, if not impossible. What was its purpose? That wasn’t relevant to her assignment, Ina was told. A light that bright had some obvious military uses. But, one of her handlers intimated, it was possible that President Rivi might simply have become interested in manufacturing his own stars.

In any case, if the device had been in the dead woman’s home when Alex Arlin visited, it must have attracted his attention, whether or not he understood what he was seeing.

Ina’s task: to make him tell her a secret he might not know he was keeping.

*

“A painter,” Alex Arlin repeated. By this time, he was an old man, but handsome, blue eyes bright in his sun-darkened face. A little less than half his black hair had gone true white, still curling despite the close cut. A broad scar shone on the back of his left hand, which at one time must have been cut almost in half.

Ina nodded.

“And you paint..?” When she didn’t go on, he added: “Lost horizons? Rain?”

She smiled. “It doesn’t always rain.”

“You are new here, aren’t you?” he said, nodding to the bartender as he placed a drink before her.

“I don’t know if I’m new, or just a visitor,” she said.

For the first time, she could see, she had his attention. Like any good spy, he looked away, now that he was interested. “That,” he told a blue bottle of gin, “may prove to be one of those enduring questions.”

*

Deliberately, she never asked him what had brought him to the city, in the same way that, until she kissed it, she never mentioned the scar on his hand. Was he a lover of art? Where had he traveled?

That first night, he told her the story of his earliest journey, as a young man, begun with his closest childhood friend, who had died on that trip, he told her, after falling three hundred feet down the side of a mountain, distracted by an indescribable sunset. Using rude torches and the sound of his own voice, Arlin had held off the mountain lions for that endless night, and at dawn begun to drag his friend back to the village at the foot of the mountain, a journey that would take him three days, the last parched with thirst due to his miscalculation of how much water he could afford to throw away in order to bear his friend’s weight.

Ina was fascinated. She had spent a week before her arrival immersed in his true history, and knew that the year he was now describing to her he had actually spent, along with several others, in the belly of a prison ship, the only imprisonment to which he would ever submit, and one which ended along with the lives of half a dozen sailors, who were unable to swim the short distance to land when the ship finally exploded.

The story he was telling her now, however, had none of a liar’s attention to detail or dramatic flair. He told it simply, even haltingly: an old man who had finally found someone to listen. Had some other old man told it to him once, at some other club, in a similar fashion? Had he heard it from another young man, even one of his victims, days after it happened? Or was it one of a hundred secret histories he might have created from the rags left to him in his own mind, while he was trapped in the belly of that ship?

“And did you leave him there?” she asked, when he seemed to have finished.
“I had to,” he said.

For a long moment, the two of them gazed at each other, without speaking.

*

“Ina,” Petren broke in breathlessly. “Will you dance?” Petren was a soldier, from her country, too tall for his uniforms, with eyes as big as a child’s, and still overjoyed, as he had been at their first meeting, weeks before, to see a girl from home in the foreign city.

The strangers club was just as it sounded: a club for any visitor or sometime resident of the city who didn’t belong in any of the more respectable establishments for various professions, military men, university graduates. Petren, of course, had a soldier’s club of his own, but since he had met Ina, her first night in the city, in the course of his long, blissful crawl through the town’s various watering holes, he had made a habit of returning to the strangers club, which welcomed all comers, to lead Ina tenderly and with great clumsiness through national dances neither of them really remembered, after which he would cling to the bar, and wax nostalgic about the girls, the skies, the bread of the country they had left.

This time, Ina hesitated. At once, Petren noticed the old man, and, with a drunken southerner’s decorum, raised his hand to his head, a gesture of respect.

“No, of course,” Alex Arlin said. “Please, dance.”

Ina glanced at him, but he was looking, not at her, but at the young soldier, measuring him with disinterested but chilling precision.

Quickly, as if throwing herself in the line of fire, Ina rose to take Petren’s hand, and led him through the maze of cheap tables scattered between the bar and the dance floor.

*

Moments after she took her accustomed seat at the bar the next evening, one of the girls whose bright dresses flashed turquoise, emerald, silver, gold, red, like rare birds among the drab crowd, appeared at her elbow.

“Mister requests you join him,” she said.

For a moment, the two of them regarded each other. The girl couldn’t have been older than seventeen, her skin and features flawless beyond her blue dress, her eyes already dead.

Then Ina inclined her head, and the girl pointed.

Arlin had taken one of the cavernous half-moon red leather booths, obscured from view by great swags of gray velvet, lit only by a small but dauntless candle which cast gargantuan shadows over the dark paneling. The booths lined the back wall, until they were interrupted by the dance floor, which ran on up to the stage that occupied the far corner. From his booth, Arlin could see everything: the bar, the dancers, the diners, the door, and the crowd, of less than a hundred, most faces, even after a few weeks, already familiar to Ina: the professor; the prospector; the ambassador’s son; the disgraced theologian and his plain young assistant; the white-haired lesbian; the men of indeterminate business with their diamond pins; the pretty, ferocious boys; the eternal girls.

“I like to consider myself a patron of the arts,” Arlin said when she stood before him.

For the first time, she smiled at him; then, at his gesture, sat down.

Alone with him in the booth, she was suddenly overcome with the shyness of extreme youth. Struggling to regain herself, she gazed out at glittering brass instruments of the band, its strains slightly muffled by the velvet.

“You painted today,” Arlin said.

She nodded.

When she didn’t speak, he continued. “And what did you paint?”

“If I could tell you that, I wouldn’t have to paint it,” she said, and looked back at him.

He glanced away, clearly displeased.

A smell like bourbon, lime, and smoke, which might have been his cologne, hung in the close air around the table. In the dim light, years dropped away from his fine face. His solid hands were scarred but still strong. One of the best ways to gain trust was to tell a secret of your own.

“It’s just the horizon,” she said. “In the afternoon. I say they came from my imagination, but they’re all the same: just the place I grew up in and haven’t gone back to.”

“You can’t, or you haven’t?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

With perfect assurance, he took her hand in both of his. A small blue flame lit up at the bottom of her heart, turning to gold as it brightened and spread, as if consuming paper.

*

The next day, she really did begin to paint, a vice she had never before indulged in, smearing a clumsy ocean horizon across a small canvas-covered piece of board she had found on the back shelves of the corner store, daubing in a gaudy sun, and then wiping the whole thing away with turpentine, leaving no evidence but the pigment caught in the crevices of the canvas.

That night, Arlin examined her hands. “Sky,” he guessed, at a crescent of pale blue that followed the curve of her cuticle.

She nodded.

He turned her palm over and found traces of grey. “The sea,” he said.

She shook her head. “No.”

On her other hand, he discovered the cadmium red of her unsuccessful sunset, and glanced up, in question.

“Flowers,” she said. “On the mountain.”

*

It was later that week that he began making confessions.

A young man from one of the continent’s southern states was seated alone at a table opposite their booth, just one of countless who would spend a night in the club’s embrace, before disappearing forever. Ina and Arlin had both gone silent watching him, caught by something in the way he watched the girls go by, eager but terrified, as if they were true angels, who might destroy him with a glance. In another life, Ina might have sat down with him, at least long enough to make sure he had a companion for the evening.

“Those die like men,” Arlin said.

Ina turned to him. “You’ve seen it?” she asked.

“A train full of them,” Arlin said, without reaching for his drink or her hand. “All fighting to push their friends through the windows.”

From her training, Ina knew this to be true. Hundreds of soldiers had died there, without ever reaching the front. She looked at him in astonishment, which she hoped he might mistake for innocence.

*

It became obvious to her almost immediately that these weren’t slips, or missteps on Arlin’s part: they were distinctly confessions, unbidden by her, often unconnected to the thread of their conversation. He offered them without apology or explanation, but with details so lucid that in the few cases that his accounts conflicted with her government’s intelligence, she was inclined to doubt it and not him.

He was haunted by faces and hands. Again and again, he named them: a face emerging from the smoke, only to fall back again, or framed in the flash of a blast before it vanished forever; hands clinging to wood or metal, even as blood seeped from them, or guns, flags, cigarettes dropping from them.

Sometimes the stories filled in gaps in his known history: a summer he spent in a room he’d carved from ice on the other side of the world; a network of treehouses in the vast forest that spread south of her country’s capitol; a one-man submarine he’d commissioned over all the engineer’s protests, which accounted for a decade of his disappearances, before it was scuttled or stolen by a pack of children from the docks of a neighboring nation.

He told her these stories as if she were made of stone, simply naming the events, as if at the request of some unseen questioner: a list of crimes so audacious that they would have made him a hero had they been committed in the service of any single nation.

Every few days Ina began another imaginary painting, chose between dawn and sunset, second-guessed herself, began again. Then the two of them sank into silence, watching the small world of the club spin by beyond the velvet.

And then, each evening, he kissed her eyes and left.

*

Ina never stayed long after him. In those small hours, alone on the starlit streets, she saw and heard all kinds of things she couldn’t be sure were real: the shadows of cats which turned to children and then, in an instant, back again; women in white who seemed to glow like the dead; flocks of angels or birds which blotted out the moon but were gone in the instant it took her to look up at them, and footsteps that seemed to follow her everywhere she went.

Back in her apartment, she tuned her radio in the dark to the proper station, decoded the instructions in her head, and then, at random, listened to the gentle voices of the children reading strings of numbers over the shriek or whine of noise codes in other languages.

*

When she awoke, Arlin sat in the winged chair at the window, as featureless as a shadow against the blinding sunlight that poured through the glass behind him. A dead man lay on the floor beside her, his throat neatly sliced, his hands clenched like claws in the rigor of early death, his blood an even oval on the pale wood beside him.

Ina observed him unflinchingly, then sat up and looked at Arlin.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“Anna Poe,” she said. “The light in her apartment.”

“I helped her take it to the roof,” he said. “I imagine it’s still there.”

“Thank you,” Ina said.

Arlin rose to stand beside her bed, and reached over the dead man to cup her face in his hand. “I didn’t kill her,” he said. “I haven’t killed anyone for years.” He dropped his hand and looked down at the dead man. “You might call him one of my—loyalists.”

“He told you,” Ina guessed.

Arlin shook his head. “I recognized it,” he said. “As soon as we met.”

Ina’s heart awoke suddenly, beating at twice its normal speed, as if it alone might be able to save the rest of her body.

By now, Arlin was at the door. “You can take care of this?” he asked, glancing down again.

Ina nodded, holding her hands and face steady with enormous effort.

Arlin smiled faintly. “You’ll do fine,” he said.

by Carey Wallace

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