Me and the Devil: A Novel (26 page)

“Killin’ this tree.”

Beautiful hamadryad. The tree must not die, lest the spirit of the nymph die too.

Killing this tree.

Recalling his butcher knife, I thought of my own new magic-handled butcher knife: the gleam of its blade, the beauty of the petrified blue maple of its grip, imbued and imbrued with all the shades of all the skies of all the days and all the nights that ever were. A world apart, those butcher knives. A world apart.

I did not feel like getting up, but I did. I went into the kitchen,
unfastened and opened the black case that lay on the counter, and stared awhile in the afternoon light at the magic handle and the gleaming blade.

Killing this tree.

Because I feel like it.

A world apart.

Killing this tree.

I nodded off, sitting upright on the couch. I dreamt that Lorna had a baby. A darling little baby girl that grew quickly into a darling little toddler. I cut her little throat and drank from her all her blood as she lay cradled silently in my arms. I was wakened by the doorbell.

Playing that night with some wide black silk ribbons that were in a box of gift wrapping I came across in a closet, Melissa and I discovered that we could control the flow of blood from her legs, increasing and decreasing it, by tying off one or two or more places on her thighs with these encircling ribbons, and could control it further and more subtly by tightening or loosening the ribbons in a variety of ways and to various degrees. A black-ribboned faucet-works of bloodletting.

We delighted for hours in our blood-play.

I untied all the ribbons and drank my fill, licking at her flesh between long, deep draughts. Warm and luscious, all of it: the soft, girlish flesh; the blood so fresh. My goddess lay beneath me and washed the blood from my lips with her tongue.

“But sweeter to live for ever; sweeter to live ever youthful like the Gods, who have ichor in their veins; ichor which gives life and youth and joy…”

Oh, so very, very much sweeter. So endlessly sweeter.

Casting aside a pillow and kneeling beside her, I wrapped my cock in her ponytail and began to slowly move my hand. I sensed her own hand in the dark between her legs. I clenched the fistful of her soft hair round my cock. I could now hear the motions of
her hand on herself. The flounces of her body grew more intense, and I accelerated the thrusts of fists, hair, and cock until the tugging of her ponytail caused her head to jerk with the force of those thrusts; and her body arched in one great trembling, and we groaned with release together.

We lay there, close, like spent animal mates in a cave where the winds of the wild did not enter.

“I’m your whore,” she whispered happily through lips that barely moved, “your dirty little whore.”

Then something like the beginning of a faint laugh became and ended as a breath of sleep.

“No,” I whispered, not knowing if her ears could hear me. “You’re my goddess.” A sound of contentment seemed to issue from her. “You’re my beloved.”

“Jst,”
I thought I heard her say, or try to say. But it was the exhalation of her breath alone that spoke.
“Jst.”

I was more than sated. I was glutted. My eyes were closed. I could not and I cared not to open them. And then I was fast asleep. If I dreamt, I remembered nothing. It was as if in the sheltering cave where we lay, so safely and so close, even dreams could not enter.

Sabled night became day. Melissa was already awake, showered, dressed, and drinking coffee when I woke, feeling like a great cat softly, slowly roused from rest by the fingers of the sun. Melissa was standing by the desk, holding her cup of coffee in two hands, looking down at the sheets of paper that lay there. I went to the kitchen and set some water to boil for my own coffee. She was still standing there, looking down. I kissed her neck. She did not respond.

“Where’d this come from?” she asked. Her voice was without its usual brightness.

I glanced down at the now familiar scrawled words—

—and all the rest, without reading them. I don’t even know why I glanced. Probably just to be sure which of the pieces of paper she was talking about.

“I wrote it,” I said.

My voice possessed the brightness that was usually hers, the brightness hers now lacked. That spirit writing had no effect on me now. I felt only the effect of renewed life. I was sanguine and serene, at one with the morning and all that was good; vibrant with exuberance and strength.

“I don’t remember writing it,” I told her. “But I must have written it. I just found it there one morning. It’s my handwriting. I just don’t remember writing it. And I don’t know what it means. It was very strange. One morning, there it was.”

“When?” she asked.

“When what?” I was thinking about the water on the stove. I was thinking about how exquisite that cup of coffee would be.

“When did you write it?” There was an impatient urgency in her voice now. “When did you find it here?”

“I don’t remember. A few months ago, something like that. Like I said, I just found it there one morning. It wasn’t there and then it was. I must have written it in the middle of the night, then I must have forgotten about it; and then there it was.”

“A few months ago?”

It was not impatient urgency that I heard in her voice. It was fear.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Before we met? After we met?”

“Right around then. Maybe a little before we met. Yeah. Maybe right before then. Why? What does it matter?”

Leaving her with my questions, I went into the kitchen and made my coffee. I sat down on the couch with it and lit a smoke. She had not moved from where she stood.

“And it doesn’t mean anything to you? You don’t know what it means?”

She spoke with her back to me. She looked great in her blue jeans.

“No, not really. Just crazy talk. Maybe it meant something to me when I wrote it. If it did, I forgot what it was, because it didn’t mean anything by the time I found it there.” I drank some coffee, drew some smoke. “Why?” I repeated. “What’s the big deal?”

I looked out the window. Strange. It was getting dark. More rain? No. Very strange. It was dark as night.

I was shaken to see her turn. She was a leopard. On the floor, down on all fours, big and menacing. She opened her mouth wide, baring great sharp teeth, and with a deafening roar and claws extended, she leaped suddenly upon me and—it was all in a single fluid, terrifying instant, from her standing there to the wild killing weight upon me—I felt the claws and teeth sink into me and knew it was the end: the end of this single fluid, terrifying instant; the end of everything; and I screamed into the black of night but had no voice; and—

With a jolt, I woke in a cold sweat. I lay there, my eyes wide open, as my heartbeat settled.

I remembered nothing of what had horrified me so. I felt only good fortune and thanks that it had not been real. Then I felt only good. Yes, I was good. All was good. I could smell very clearly the scent of coffee.

Melissa was standing by the desk, a cup of coffee in two hands, looking down at the sheets of paper that lay there. I went to the kitchen and set some water to boil for my own coffee. She
was still standing there, looking down. I kissed her neck. She did not respond.

“Where’d this come from?” she asked. Her voice was without its usual brightness.

I glanced down at the now familiar scrawled words—

—and all the rest, without reading them. Yeah, yeah, enough already. I don’t even know why I glanced. Probably just to be sure which of the pieces of paper she was talking about.

“I wrote it,” I said.

My voice possessed the brightness that was usually hers, the brightness hers now lacked. That spirit writing had no effect on me now. I felt only the effect of renewed life. I was sanguine and serene, at one with the morning and all that was good; vibrant with exuberance and strength.

“I don’t remember writing it,” I told her. “But I must have written it. I just found it there one morning. It’s my handwriting. I just don’t remember writing it. And I don’t know what it means. It was very strange. One morning, there it was.”

This piece of paper, the words on it, which once frightened me, no longer did. Not now, not this morning.

“When?” she asked.

“When what?” I was thinking about the water on the stove. I was thinking about how exquisite that cup of coffee would be.

“When did you write it?” There was an impatient urgency in her voice now. “When did you find it here?”

“I don’t remember. A few months ago, something like that. Like I said, I just found it there one morning. It wasn’t there and
then it was. I must have written it in the middle of the night, then I must have forgotten about it; and then there it was.”

“A few months ago?”

It was not impatient urgency that I heard in her voice. It was fear.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Before we met? After we met?”

“Right around then. Maybe a little before we met. Yeah. Maybe right before then. Why? What does it matter?”

Leaving her with my questions, I went into the kitchen and made my coffee. I sat down on the couch with it and lit a smoke. She had not moved from where she stood.

With a wave of faintly disorienting presentiment, I felt as if I had been here before. Then I inwardly laughed at myself. Of course I had been here before, I told myself: I lived here.

“And it doesn’t mean anything to you? You don’t know what it means?”

She spoke with her back to me. She looked great in her blue jeans.

“No, not really. Just crazy talk. Maybe it meant something to me when I wrote it. If it did, I forgot what it was, because it didn’t mean anything by the time I found it there.” I drank some coffee, drew some smoke. “Why?” I repeated. “What’s the big deal?”

No, not just been here before. Been here, in this very same moment, with this same cup of coffee and this same cigarette, in this same conversation.

I looked out the window. It appeared to be a lovely day. The sky was blue, the light of the sun was like that of soft-glowing hammered gold.

It was then that I remembered the dream that had wakened me with a current of panic.

Suddenly she moved. Putting down her cup of coffee near mine, she went to her big black shoulder bag.

“Because,” she said. There was an edge of distress in her voice.

Digging into her bag, she took from it a small leather-bound journal and leafed through it in what appeared to be a great hurry for a minute or more. Then she stopped, stared down at one of its pages.

“Because,” she said again. She brought the journal to me, held it out for me to take from her. As I did so, she pointed to one of the pages to which it lay open. “Here,” she said. “Read this.” The distress in her voice was more pronounced.

The entry was dated. As I began to read, she told me what I already knew by looking at the date: “That was about three weeks before I met you.” She took her coffee and sat down beside me with a deep nervous breath as I read what was written:

“Weird dream. Couldn’t move. Lost in the dark. Like a tunnel. Somebody spoke to me in a language I couldn’t understand. He was dressed like an ancient Egyptian. Then I could understand him and I said something in the same language. Can’t remember what we said. I had become somebody else. Then I wasn’t anybody at all. I wasn’t in the tunnel anymore. I was in a tree. High grass all around. I was a big leopard in a big tree. A lot of sun but a lot of shade. I felt sleepy. Where were my children? Then I was still a big leopard in a big tree but I was thinking like a human. I remembered kneeling by a river, a lake, an ocean, something, and praying. Then I was back in the tunnel again and I didn’t know who or what I was. I began to move. I knew that if I moved I would get out of where I was. More like I was being moved. Very slowly. Floating very slowly. Toward some kind of light. And I was praying something again. Or chanting something. Or maybe just a voice inside me. I was moving so slowly I didn’t have to breathe. I felt like I knew something that was more important than anything I knew. I forgot it but could remember it. Something about eternity. I understood eternity. Something like that. Can’t remember. Then”
—I turned the page—
“I felt something great start to embrace me. Like big arms or something. But soft. Like whatever I was floating
in or through was comforting me. Then I felt the light would not be there and I wished I could get up. I wished I could get out of there because something I remembered about what I knew about eternity scared me. Something bad. Can’t remember. Very weird dream. Didn’t really turn into a nightmare but came close. Don’t even know if I was really asleep or half asleep and just imagining. Weird!”