Read Magic Time: Angelfire Online
Authors: Marc Zicree,Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff
Tags: #Fantasy, #General, #Fiction
Magic Time: Angelfire (6 page)
He left, and I got a bite to eat—bread, jerky, dried fruit. Just about everything is dried or jerked these days. Then I fetched my pack out of the wagon and went up to Admissions and got myself a room on the ward. The guy there actually had me sign a guest register.
“Hey, when this is all over,” he said, “these kinds of records might be the only way of tracking people down.”
Either that made sense or I was groggier than I thought. I signed in and the guy handed me a towel and told me how to get to the showers. The
showers
, for godsake! I was so dazzled by the thought of showers that I didn’t take offense at the suggestion that I needed one.
The admissions guy warned me that at this time of night the fires under the hot water reservoir had been banked down for hours and wouldn’t be stoked until just before dawn. “Water might be a little cool,” he said.
It was merely lukewarm. Felt great anyway. After, I dragged myself to my room, lay down on the bed and tried to sleep. I couldn’t. I don’t know how long I lay there trying, but I finally gave up, rolled out of bed, and wandered out into the hall.
From the ward I could look down toward the core of the building and the lobby, a two-story atrium with a lot of plate-glass windows and a skylight—almost like being in the open woods at night. I made my way down the hall past the gift shop (now a small supply store that took barter rather than money, according to Admissions Guy) and into the atrium. I curled up on a sofa in the lounge, my head resting on the arm so I could look up and see the sky.
The rain had stopped and the moon was still there, wearing a veil of clouds. She wasn’t full; it looked like something had taken a bite out of her. No matter. As days passed, she’d wax and wane and wax again. And there were stars, twinkling like a promise.
Something in the darkness of the west wing caught my eye. A shadow shifted, oozed. Static electricity arced across every nerve junction in my body.
I rolled my head a little to one side so I could see the
mouth of the corridor from the E.R., which opened right next to the door of the pharmacy. After a moment of watching, there was more movement. Someone or something had just slithered around the corner into the darkened store.
I put the thought of shadows or lurkers aside and rolled off the sofa to slink across the moonlit floor, keeping low and using the groupings of furniture as cover. I passed soundlessly through the glass doors and paused to let my eyes adjust to the deeper darkness in the cluttered room.
My ears found the movement first; a secret scuffling, as of really big mice, came from the storage area behind the pharmacist’s counter. I crab-crawled across the front of the room, then slipped up and around the counter.
I could now see a tall figure standing at the head of a row of shelves filled with drugs of every description. A bluish flame glowed. By its light, he was reading something that hung from the shelf—a clipboard. Papers shuffled. He sighed.
He moved quickly then, down the row of shelving into even deeper darkness. I waited a beat, then scuttled forward to the head of the row of shelves.
The light flared again. He was kneeling at the far end of the row, exploring something on the back wall. The blue flicker revealed a cross-hatch pattern. Metal clattered on metal. He was trying to break into the lockup where I suspected they kept the really potent stuff.
I glanced around, looking for some source of real light. On the counter next to the deceased cash register was an oil lamp. I scurried, stretched and fetched, then fumbled the lighter out of my pocket.
The rattling was fainter and more purposeful suddenly. Whoever this was, he seemed to know how to handle locks. I moved with all speed back to the shelves.
He’d doused the light, but even in the dark I could tell the thief was making progress. The rattling stopped and the door of the cage creaked open.
I crept up the aisle, holding the lantern and lighter at the ready. Inside the lockup, he was fumbling in the drawers.
36 / Marc Scott Zicree & Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff
“Damn it, damn it,
damn
it!” The voice was a croak.
I lit the lantern and thrust it through the door of the lockup. “Hey!” I said. (Original, huh?)
He froze, hands full of bottles and packets, something like pain in his dark eyes.
“Goldman? What the hell are you doing?”
GOLDIE
T
here
are some moments in life you can only survive. Moments in which you find yourself desperate for oblivion, or a mantra—anything that will just get you through it.
I remember one night, coming up out of the subway tunnels near Central Park, running into a pack of young punks out hunting “moles,” which, since I had a subterranean address at the time, included me. My life narrowed to a circle of dark figures with gleaming eyes, the ominous creak of leather, lips forming crude and entirely rhetorical questions, biting cold.
It was the last week of November, and Manhattan was lit up for the holidays—Chanukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa— take your pick. When the punks instructed me to take off my clothes, I suspected I’d get my fifteen minutes of fame by being the poor, naked, homeless schmuck found frozen to death on the first day of the holiday season. I’d make the headline news, and probably a handful of Sunday sermons as well.
I couldn’t run; I couldn’t fight; there was nothing I could do with the moment but just get through it. So, I thought of the Chrysler Building pointing up through the snow; a million frozen falling stars drifting down to blanket Fifth Avenue and catch in the bare branches of its hundreds of trees—and I spontaneously broke into “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”
The punks found a naked mole-guy singing holiday jingles amusing, which derailed some of their misdirected spite and got me through the moment until some friends from the underground came to bail me out.
My failed attempt on the pharmacy’s goodies leads to one of these moments. There is no threat of physical violence here in Dr. Darryl Nelson’s cozy first-floor office, but there is a circle of eyes—anguished, disappointed, disapproving. And there are questions, none of them rhetorical.
I discover again (as if I could have forgotten) that an enemy’s hatred is less painful than a friend’s disappointment. There is no mantra for this occasion; there is more at stake here than my dignity.
Cal’s lips have stopped moving and though I haven’t really heard him, I know the nature of the question. Doc, perched on the corner of a large antique desk, looks pensive. He is as reluctant to pass judgment as Colleen is to withhold it. I barely graze her face. It would be hard to read even if I cared to try. Where she sits, behind Doc in the window casement, she is half in shadow. Her condemnation, I can
feel
.
I pan back to Cal, whose eyes beg me to come up with a reasonable explanation for what I was doing in the pharmacy tonight. Moment of truth. Question is, what variety of truth? Half-truth? The whole truth and nothing but? Are they ready for that? Am I?
I open my mouth and a half-truth slips out. “I couldn’t sleep.”
I wait for somebody to feed me a straight line:
So, you were just looking for something to help you sleep?
No one feeds me anything. I wonder if Cal the Earnest knows how hard it is to lie to him, or even withhold from him. I start again, flashing for just an instant on the cold sweat I woke up in about an hour ago. “I was having a hell of a time sleeping. I don’t know, um, maybe all the—the stuff that happened today just, um …” That isn’t it. Not
really. I scratch my head. Time for a haircut. “I thought maybe some sleeping pills…”
Doc stirs. “You could have come to me, Goldie. I would have gotten you something, gladly. So would Dr. Nelson, I imagine.”
No accusation. He exposes me with simple compassion. “C’mon, Goldman,” says Colleen. “You were after something a lot more potent than sleeping pills.”
Cal raises a hand and she subsides, looking mutinous. He says, “If there’s a problem, Goldie, let us help you.”
He makes it so easy. Flashback to my parent’s living room and three different pairs of eyes. If someone—any-one—had uttered those words back then… But they didn’t, and the rest, as they say, is history.
You’re just like Grampa Ziolinsky, Dad said. An impossible drama queen.
I take a deep breath.
Focus
. “Tegretol,” I say, “I wanted Tegretol.”
Cal’s face is a total blank, then he glances at Doc, as if for a translation. In the miserable silence, I can hear flames fluttering in their lanterns. Doc raises himself slowly from the desk.
Cal shoots him a sideways look. “What’s Tegretol?”
“A trade name for carbamazepine, a drug most often used to medicate epilepsy.” Doc doesn’t take his eyes from my face. “But this is not epilepsy, is it, Goldie?”
“No.”
Now he nods, comprehension and understanding flickering in his eyes. “You are certain of the diagnosis?”
“I diagnosed myself when I was seventeen, but no one at home was buying. They went into denial and I went into college. I had to flunk out and hit the streets before a friend got someone in social services to listen to me.”
You don’t need medication, Dad said, you need self-discipline
.
“How long?”
“I’ve been on carbamazepine for about eight years—on and off.”
“Your last dose?”
“Months ago. I thought maybe the Change might… oh, I dunno… change that, too, but…” I shrug.
Cal says, “What is it? What’s wrong with him?”
Perverse as it sounds, the metallic note of anxiety in his voice is music to my ears, because I hear neither anger nor judgment in it.
Doc turns his sad, gray gaze on my friend. “Goldie is bipolar, yes?” He glances back to me for confirmation. “Manic-depressive. This is a disease most commonly treated with lithium, but carbamazepine is sometimes prescribed for a particular type of manic depression—rapid-cycling bipolar affective disorder is the clinical name. It can be kindled— triggered—by physiological or psychological trauma.”
As always, the clinical terms, so cool and tidy, give me a chill. Even the warm, Slavic lilt of Doc’s voice can’t lend them heat. I realize I am shaking from stem to stern. Cal moves a few steps closer to me, entering my space, supporting me with his eyes, then with a hand on my shoulder.
Ah, a friend from the underground coming to bail me out
.
I take a deep breath. This is okay. I’m just not used to sharing this crap with anyone. In my underground days, only Professor John had known something was seriously loose in Goldman’s attic, and his only response had been to get me to the Roosevelt when I melted down.
“How bad is it?” Cal asks me.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Things have been so weird, I haven’t had time to think about it.” Except at night, of course, when I lie awake thinking about it, running down behavioral checklists and probing my memory.
Have I felt this before? What was that emotion?
“I keep… waiting for signals, you know? Wondering if I’m going to slide. For a long time—for as long as we’ve been out here—I’ve had weird shit happen to me. Some of it in my head. But it wasn’t like either mania or depression. It was just weird. I wasn’t sure whether I was just having a normal episode or whether the Change had—” I catch myself. What can I possibly have imagined the Change had done?
“A normal
episode
?” repeats Colleen. “What the hell is that?”
Cal stops her with a glance. “What’s different now, Goldie? Why tonight?” he asks.
Well, now—that is the $64,000 question, isn’t it? I suppose I could blame it on our brush with the Shadows, but that would be cheap and predictable. I feel something dark and viscous and suffocating moving around in the long, dark, convoluted corridors of my brain. I find I want it to stay there, where it’s hidden itself.
“Insomnia,” I say. “Lack of appetite. Jitters. A return to journal-keeping. Scary thoughts.”
“What kind of scary thoughts?” asks Cal.
“Did I say ‘thoughts’? I meant ‘moments.’ Scary moments. Vertigo. That sort of thing. Nothing earth-shaking.” Just the usual sense of being dangled over the Grand Canyon by a hair. I tuck both hands under my arms.
“We all have vertigo in these times, Goldie,” Doc tells me. “I would like to reserve judgment about giving you carbamazepine—if indeed we have any.”
“Um, there’s some lithium and some valproate,” I say. “I don’t respond well to lithium. I’ve never had valproate. I didn’t find any carbamazepine.”
“Under the circumstances, Goldie, I think you will understand if I do not leap to medicate you. We live in a time of unknowns and we have all been subject to unnatural stresses. Are you willing to wait? To see what happens?”
To see if I go flat freakin’ crazy? Sure, why not? Panic flickers momentarily in my gut. But, no. He’s right. Based on what I’ve told him, any other course of action would be premature. And I am altogether unsure I want to tell more, so I leave the other half of the truth where it lies.
Doc gives me some valerian root tea—surely the most foul-tasting swamp water in creation—and sends me back to bed. He promises it will relax me. I actually drink the tea. It helps. But it doesn’t keep my masochistic mind from poking at itself.
I lie in the dark, wondering if I should have told whole
truths and examining the experience—nightmare or hallucination or vision—that sent me to the pharmacy. I am in a dark tower—like a castle keep—full of dead-end corridors, subterranean passages, and moldering stone. This is blurry, indistinct. I know that outside is light and freshness and freedom, and inside is cold, dead murk.
Below, beneath the foundations of this ruin, is a cesspool of something black and oozing and malevolent. It boils there in relative silence, incongruously making a sound as benign as falling rain. But as I explore this dark place, looking for a way out, I feel it wake and begin to rise. With a dreamer’s omniscience, I know it is coming up to meet me, climbing stairways, drowning corridors, filling rooms.
I climb, of course. In horror films, they
always
climb, while the viewer is thinking,
God, what a schlemazel
! because the
schlemazel
always climbs his way into a dead-end corridor.
I’m no different. I climb a stairway that I somehow know leads to a room with only one way out—straight down.
At intervals, I turn back and catch a glimpse of what has oozed up out of the bowels of the Tower. It’s black and oily and gleams like liquid obsidian. And in the bulging tongue of stuff that licks up the stairwell after me, I see myriad almost-faces as if they were a swarm of insects in amber.
But it’s what I hear that really makes my skin crawl. There is a voice for every face, a whisper, a growl, a cry, a shout. It’s enough to make me rethink my certainty about multiple personality disorder. (Maybe Mother’s diagnoses weren’t sheer crap, after all, and I owe her an apology.) It also terrifies me, because in the same way that I can almost see the faces, I can almost hear the voices, almost understand what they’re saying. And the closer I strain toward understanding, the more thoroughly, soul-chillingly scared I get, because I know that this thing
wants
me to understand, and that if I understand, it will engulf me, and if it does this, I will go ape shit, stark-raving mad.
Or I’ll drown, which is pretty much the same thing.