Caitlin Kiernan - Silk

And the Dragon fills up the roiling floor-joist sky, spreads His scrawny hard sermon arms wide, his dragon wings, and the book is a blazing red sun bleeding out his voice. Ugly black things cling to His hands and face, biting things and Walter is on hands and bloody knees now, clambering for any hold, crawling as the earth shivers and goes powdery. And he remembers his wings, his beautiful charcoal wings, mockingbird boy, and that’s why Preacher Man hates him, isn’t it, and he tries to stand, spreads them wide, but the raining fire has scorched them raw, ragged feather scorch, and the Dragon laughs and laughs and laughs.

“Come back with me,” Spyder says, her hands around his wrists, but Preacher Man looming over her shoulder. “It’s gonna be all right now, Walter,” but the world turns, water down a drain, down that mouth, and the earth tremoring so he can’t even stand up.

“Help,” he says, every time, and every time she smiles, soft and secret Spyder smile, nods and puts her arms around him so that Preacher Man howls and claws the sagging sky belly until it bleeds; the sour rain sticks to them like pine sap, turning the powdered ground to tar. “He won’t let me leave, Spyder. He knows what I’ve seen, what I know…”

And she turns and stares up and into His face, like there’s nothing to fear in those eyes, nothing that can pick her apart, strew her flesh to the winds and singe the bones, and she says, “He’s not part of this,” and “You can’t have him.” And the tattoos on her arms writhe electric blue loaded-gun threat, and now Preacher Man, who is also the Dragon, is not laughing. Now He takes a step backwards, puts the pit between them, His protector, and His face is a rictus of rage and pain, and He is fury.

“Lila,” He says, “what you’ve done to me, you’ll burn in Hell forever.” Voice of thunder and mountains splitting to spill molten bile. “What you’ve done to me, you’ll burn until the end of Time.”

And the blue fire flows from her, crackling static cage that He won’t touch, and she’s pulling Walter from the muck, hauling him across the shattered plains, days and days across the foothills with the Dragon howling her damnation, her sentence, but Spyder doesn’t look at Him again, ignores His promises. Drags Walter over the pus-seething caleche and stones that shriek like dying rabbits, stands between him and the rubbing-alcohol wind that whips up dust phantoms and throws burning tumbleweeds.

“Close your eyes, Walter,” she says again and again, and at the end he does, because the long-legged things are so close, and he knows the climb’s too steep, that he’s too tired and she’s too exhausted, and the jaws of the skitterers drip the shearing sound of harvest…

…and he jerked awake, hard like hitting a wall, and the fat dude sitting across from him was staring. Walter wiped cold, oily sweat from his face, and the fat dude whispered, “Hey, buddy, if you need a fix, and you sure as hell look like you need a fix…” Walter shook his head, stumbled to his feet, and the basement hell was still more real than the predawn fluorescent glare of the bus station. He made it to the men’s restroom, to a sink before he puked, sprayed half-digested McDonald’s and coffee, heaved again and again until his insides cramped and ached, but his head was starting to clear and at least there was no one else in there to see.

He ran cold water in the next sink over, cold water in clean porcelain and splashed his face. Shivered and the roll of his stomach, braced himself, but it passed and he splashed more of the gurgling water across his face. Looked up into the mirror and the long, bristling legs were draped limply over the door and sides of the stall just behind him. Every detail clear in the hateful light, and something was dripping onto the filthy tile underneath. The air smelled like cleanser and vomit and rot. Walter whirled around, so fast and him still dizzy so he almost fell, but there was nothing there. Four silver stalls and no one and nothing in any of them.

“Christ!” he screamed, slammed the doors open one after the other, commodes and toilet-paper dispensers and bus-station shitter graffiti.

And the door opened and the fat man was staring at the sinkful of barfed-up cheeseburger and fries, shaking his head, “It’s good shit, man, and you are hurtin’. I ain’t no goddamn DEA man,” but Walter pushed past him and out the door, across the terminal to the Greyhound counter where the clerk glanced up at him from his receipts and claim slips. “Are you all right, Mister?” he said, reaching for the phone. “I can call you a doctor, if you need a doctor.”

Walter shook his head, trying to see through tears, the schedule behind the man’s head, and he dug his ticket out of his jacket pocket, laid it on the counter. “No,” he said. “I just want to exchange this. Can I do that? Can I exchange this ticket for one to Birmingham?”

“It’s cool with me, man,” the clerk said and took the old ticket to Chicago away.

And the white-haired old woman who had always lived just across a kudzu patch, downhill and next door to Spyder, next door to Lila and her parents, to Spyder’s grandparents before that: the old woman who’d lived there nearly sixty years, in the rambling big house her husband built in 1934, before he went away to Europe to be killed by the Nazis and buried in France: the old woman who’d spent her life alone, because she could never refill that empty place in her heart or soul, alone and watching the world fall apart around her: who had always kept her eyes open.

She woke up in the hospital-quiet hour before sunrise, same time she’d awakened every morning for decades, never mind the pills, the medication they gave her to keep her calm and make her sleep. She woke and the moment of disorientation stretched, fog in her head after the dream, and this was not her bedroom, not her things around her. The strange ceiling and tubes leading from her arm and nose up to IV bottles and bags, wires to the glow of the machine that told her that her heart hadn’t stopped, not yet, that made soft green peaks and valleys of her old pulse. In seventy-seven years, how many times does a heart beat? and she remembered where she was and remembered the squeezing pain in her chest and sighed, closed her papery-thin eyelids for a moment. But it was all still there when she opened them again, the hospital room and her memories.

“For the love of Pete, what were you doing in the backyard that time of night?” her niece had asked, middle-aged woman who tried to look younger. “What were you doing out in the cold in your gown and slippers with that old shotgun in the first place?” Had asked her that question again and again, and always the old woman told her that she’d heard the possums or raccoons in her garbage again, or maybe it was dogs, she’d said. Shameful, people letting their dogs run loose and getting into the trash, strewing it all over, and it’s shameful, and her niece kept making that puppy-sad face which meant she was thinking about nursing homes again.

Why were you out there? and for an answer she stared at the dark curtains, the dark places in the corners of the hospital room. Knew she wouldn’t tell the truth, not about the shadows at her bedroom window or the sounds that had come out of the phone when she’d tried to call the police.

“It’s a wonder you’re not dead,” her niece had said and Yes, she’d answered, you get this old and it’s always a wonder you’re not dead.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

She’d been dreaming about sitting with Trisha Baxter after her husband had died, sitting in the warm May sunshine outside Trisha’s house, drinking Coca-Cola and talking about nothing in particular, just feeling the bubbles on her tongue, the sun on her face, watching Lila playing in the dirt with a toy-soldier army.