Chris Adrian - The Great Night

“She’s pretty,” Will said, which was a serious understatement. He reached out and touched her belly, wondering too late if it might offend some part of the crowd in front of the other statue.

“It’s our Lady,” Lyon said, “and our Lord.”

“I figured,” Will said. “Are they going to talk?”

“No,” Lyon replied. “They’re only statues.” But Oak had to be pried away from the feet of the male, and Fell climbed up the side of the statue and whispered something in its ear. “Onward,” said Lyon, and gave Will a little push toward the doors. There was another, grander room beyond them, a cozier hall than the last, only about half as big, with grass on the floors and flowers on the walls, and a ceiling hung with hundreds of little colored lanterns. It was empty of furniture except for a table the size of a flatbed truck piled with food and surrounded by chairs of every conceivable size, and empty of people except for the girl, who had called herself Eleanor Roosevelt. She was sprawled in a chair with a bottle of wine in her hand.

“You all again,” she said.

“What’s your name?” Will called out to her, not understanding why it made him so angry to see her sitting there appearing to enjoy herself.

“Puddin …” she said, frowning at the bottle. She took a swig out of it, and said, “Molly.”

“Well,” he said, “Okay then. I’m Will.”

“I know. But I don’t know why your name is Will. Do you think that means something, that I named you Will?”

“I don’t think you should drink that,” said Henry. “Or eat the food.” The three others — Lyon, Oak, and Fell — had fallen to the food on the table and were stuffing themselves.

“O sad feast!” said Oak.

“O Great Night!” said Fell. “O Last Night!”

“The wine is a little strong for mortal tastes,” said Lyon, who had taken the leg of something that looked fancier than a chicken but was too small to be a turkey, and was licking it like a popsicle. “But eat up. This feast only happens once a year, and great care has gone into the preparation. Everyone is scattered on the hill, and most of them are too upset to eat now. It’s all going to waste, which is not so terrible, since the Beast will put the whole world to waste come dawn, but it will lessen the shame of it all if you taste and enjoy. And how nice, anyhow, that the hill has chosen to feed you.”

“I don’t know if I would eat any of this,” Henry said, but he was sniffing at a delicate-looking cupcake.

“Food,” said Molly. “The apples mean something, and the dates mean something, and the pig means something, and wine means something else, and your names all mean something and Peabo means something. How am I supposed to figure all that out?” Will recognized a drunk girl when he saw one, but he didn’t know how she could have gotten this drunk since they’d seen her in the hall. Her eyes were half-lidded, and she slurred when she said figure and supposed .

“Shouldn’t we be moving along?” Will said. “I thought we were headed for the exit.”

“That’s all fine,” said Molly, taking another swig of wine. “That’s all perfectly fine, but I think I can’t leave before I’ve figured anything out. I just figured that out right now. I’m crazy with a purpose, and when I figure it all out I’ll be all better, and you will all be somebody else entirely.”

“I think you’ve had enough of that,” Will said, and took the bottle from her. She hardly had to stretch to reach another, which she took up and cradled to her chest but didn’t open.

“I told you,” said Lyon. “This feast is on the way and of the way. The hill would feed you, and the Great Night would have its feast.” He threw a piece of the bird to Will, who caught it, then dropped it, and batted it to the table. It was piping hot. “You’ll never taste the like again,” Lyon added, “even if you’re not murdered by dawn, even if my Master rouses from his slumber and saves us all, even if you live a fat span of bored and boring mortal years.”

“It’s a party!” said Oak, jumping from seat to seat.

“But not the one it should have been,” said Fell, who had taken a seat at the head of the table in a chair that was too big for him, and sat balancing a bottle between his legs. “It’s not a very great night. Or maybe it is great, in the way that last things are great. Just don’t think,” he said, waving a hand around to indicate the empty seats and the empty hall, “that it’s usually like this.”

“If you eat the food,” Henry said, “then you have to live here forever.” He was holding the cupcake a lot closer to his face.

“A myth! A myth!” said Oak, bouncing by him and shoving the cupcake in Henry’s face. “It’s a lie. You stay as long as we like you, no longer!”

“Or as long as the world lasts,” said Fell, “whichever is shorter.”

“Or until the way out is clear,” said Lyon, sitting down. Henry was spitting icing out of his mouth and trying to wipe the cupcake from his eyes. Oak pushed him down into the chair, and for once Henry didn’t say not to touch him. Will sat down next to Molly, listened carefully for the banging on those other doors, wherever they were, and heard nothing. He poured himself some wine but didn’t drink it yet. He told himself he shouldn’t be sitting down. There was too much to do: finding a way out of the hill, finding a sapling, finding a way out of the park, deciding how to break the crazy, wonderful news to Carolina. There wasn’t time, really, even for a snack, but the food all smelled really quite nice — overwhelmingly delightful, in fact. As he turned his head he caught different scents. Something smelled like cardomom; something else like baked eggs. Any delay was ill-advised, but a snack seemed in keeping with what he was coming to think of as his very sensible reaction to the night’s turn toward wonder and horror: he was taking things as they came and trying not to let fear or bewilderment compromise his appreciation of the extraordinary things all around him. He needed to pay attention, after all, to give a proper report to Carolina, because she might ask him anything. What color pants was the boy with the tail wearing? What sort of buttons did the little old man’s suit have? Was Henry circumcised? Did the strawberries taste like strawberries? If he was going to tell her a coherent story, he needed to pay careful sustained attention and not skip over things in a headlong rush to the door. Thinking of the door, he thought again about their pursuer, but there was no noise in this hall except for the voices of his companions and the quiet rustle of paper on paper as the lanterns swayed in a gentle breeze that came, never twice from exactly the same direction, with the rhythm of breath. He took a sip of the wine, which tasted like whisky.

“Is that really my ultimate terror?” Molly asked, “a little black boy with limited opportunities?” She was slouching now, and he found his anger at her had dissipated with the first sip of wine, which seemed a little quick for it to be an effect of drunkenness. He was most certainly not going to get drunk at this table. It would make no sense at all to report back to Carolina that he had seen some wonders and then gotten supernaturally drunk, and have the story end prematurely in a blackout. It was more, he thought, that he could appreciate how drunk she was, and that made him better disposed to her. She seemed more sad than angry now, and more confused than belligerent. She looked like she was getting ready to cry, and that was a look he was used to running from, yet now it only engaged his sympathy, which was … swelling. There wasn’t really a better word for what he experienced as he looked more closely at her, a feeling like someone who cared about her was standing up inside of him and stretching.