Elizabeth Hand - Glimmering

He woke to silence. A blanket had been pulled over his shoulders. He had no idea how much time had passed. The image of Jule’s crumpled body glowed as though branded upon his retina. For an instant he thought the suicide had been a terrible dream.

Then he saw that the bed was not his own. There were papers and photographs scattered along the wall. The pillow he leaned upon smelled of sweat and stale makeup. Jule was dead, and Jack was somewhere within the GFI Pyramid, surrounded by evidence of a forgotten wartime atrocity.

“You’re awake.”

Nellie Candry knelt at the end of the futon, brass candleholder before her. In it three small candle ends burned brightly. She picked it up to move closer to Jack.

He rubbed his eyes. She had removed her death’s-mask makeup. In the dim light her scars looked fresh, unhealed. “What—what time is it? Did someone call from downstairs? About a ride?”

“Not yet. I checked about an hour ago. We can try again. It’s just past four.”

“Jesus. My grandmother must be frantic—”

“No—it’s okay, someone got hold of her. I called downstairs to check with security. Apparently she’s very upset but one of your brothers should be there by now—”

“Dennis.”

“They’re very anxious for you to get back. Of course.”

“I thought some cop was supposed to give me a ride. They kept me down there for two hours, and now they don’t have the decency to help me get home? What the fuck is going on?” He began to shake again. “Who the fuck are you?”

Nellie moved to one side of the futon. She put some books on the mattress and set the candlestick atop them, reached for something at the foot of the bed. “Here.”

It was a mug, steam lifting from it. Jack thought of knocking it from her hand.

But of course he did not. He took the mug, gingerly and held it before his face. He hoped it would be coffee, but it seemed to be some kind of tea. The heavy warmth in his hands felt good. The steam had a rich herbal scent like cannabis. He sniffed it tentatively.

“What is it?”

“Tea.”

He took a sip, swallowed, and made a face. “What kind of tea?”

Nellie picked up another mug, identical to his. “It’s just some herbs and stuff. To help you feel better.”

They drank in silence, inches apart on the futon. Jack felt the warmth of her body, too close to his. The simple act of drinking calmed him. As the heat dissipated, so did that earthy, rather unpleasant taste. He finished it and Nelly took the empty mug. She turned to him, sitting cross-legged and so near that her thigh nestled against his leg.

“How do you feel?”

Jule’s scorched eyes wavered in front of him. “Horrible. I feel horrible.” There was a dull tingling in his tongue and gums, as though he’d rubbed them with cocaine. “I need to go—Nellie. I want to go. I don’t want to be here.”

He shuddered. The sensation rippled from his shoulder blades down his spine and outward. The tingling in his mouth became part of that same elemental shiver. She had poisoned him.

“What is it? What did you give me?”

“It won’t hurt you.” In the tremulous light she looked more exotic, the slant of her dark eyes more pronounced, her sleek black hair thick and rough, like an animal’s pelt. “It’s something I learned about when I made my documentary in Iceland. They drink it there, during rituals—it helps the no’aidi on their journeys.”

“What?”

“Shamans. They send the gandus out, the no’aidi —” Her hand traced an arc above the candles. “The shamans. It helps them fly.”

He recalled the stave he had seen in a corner, the lewdly grinning effigy with its single antler. “I started in social anthropology, ethnobotany…”

“You drugged me—”

“It won’t hurt you. Amanita muscaria —fly agaric. It grows on spruce and birch trees. The reindeer eat it because it intoxicates them. The active chemical is ibotenic acid. They excrete it in their urine. The shamans drink it, and then save their urine—the ibotenic acid is converted into a hallucinogen called muscimol. It’s not toxic. It just helps inaugurate the effects of other drugs.”

Jack bent over and began to retch.

“No!” Nellie knelt beside him. “It won’t hurt you, I’m sorry—really.”

Her pupils were big “I was—so shocked —when I saw you down there. And your friend. And that little girl…”

Jack stared back at her, then whispered, “Rachel. You could see her.”

Nellie nodded.

“You saw Rachel.”

“I saw her,” she said, slowly. “I see them, sometimes. They’re everywhere.” Her face was dark and slick with sweat. She arched her neck as though her clothes scratched her; grimaced and pulled her dress off. Beneath it she was naked. There were dark blotches like myriad aureoles across her body, scars left by petra virus.

She gazed at him with wide stoned eyes. “Everywhere, you can see them everywhere.”

“Who?” Jack shivered. His fear suddenly seemed very distant, detached, and somehow observable—he knew it would be waiting for him, later. He felt bizarrely clearheaded. “Who do you see?”

“The dead. You’ve seen them, too.”

“No.”

“Yes. You saw her—the girl, downstairs—”

“I knew what she was. You recognized her. Who was she?”

He said nothing. After a moment he forced out the words, “Jule’s daughter. She was hit by a car and killed four years ago on Christmas Eve. He—before he killed himself, he told me that he had seen her. He said she didn’t forgive him.”

“Of course not.” Nellie’s voice was dreamy. “That’s why they’re here—because they don’t forgive us. That’s why we can see them.”

Jack felt a chill as though a window had been thrown open, in that place with no windows.

“It’s true.” Nellie’s voice rose and fell in a sort of chant. “They’ve come to take it back. This is the world of the dead now. We gave them Verdun and Auschwitz and Chelmno and Sarajevo and Montreal, we gave them the forests, we gave them the oceans. We gave them fucking Antarctica. And now we’ve given them the sky, too…

“We killed everything, Jack. We made this world a dead world, and now the dead have come to take it. It is Ruto’s world, now—”

She got to her feet, stumbling. She was holding the staff and the wooden mask. “Ruto is the Sami goddess of the plague. She takes us from our beds and brings us to Tuonela, the Land of the Dead. She crosses Pohjola the wasteland and brings us to our graves.”

She turned away. Jack tried to stand, but before he could she looked back again. The gaping mask was gone. A slight dark-haired woman stood there, eyes shining as she began to sing.

Jack staggered to his feet. She reached to steady him and he took her hand, frightened yet comforted by the sense that something in the room was real.

“It’s all really happening, Jack,” she murmured, as though she read his thoughts.

“That’s how it works, when it doesn’t kill us. We become gates.”

“Gates?”

“This.” Her hand fumbled at her jeans pocket. When she held it up again he saw a small bottle there, brown glass, rubber dropper-bulb, white label with black letters—Fusax 687.

He dug into his own pocket. His fingers closed around the familiar vial, drew it out. He stared at it in terror, then at her.