Article 1298 of rec.arts.prose: Path: chaph.usc.edu!usc!phakt.usc.edu!not-for-mail From: pechever@phakt.usc.edu (Heckler) Newsgroups: talk.bizarre,alt.prose,rec.arts.prose Subject: Binah : Wax Followup-To: poster Date: 22 Feb 1994 03:12:20 -0800 Organization: X Industries Center for Thaumaturgical Research Lines: 210 Sender: pechever@phakt.usc.edu Distribution: world Message-ID: <2kcpak$pds@phakt.usc.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: phakt.usc.edu Summary: FINALLY got this mf out the door. Comment demanded, esp. from ed gail. Keywords: QBL Mother crone black sorrow death mother-of-form old woman throne X-Author-Rant: Looks like I'll finally get around to finishing the series; X-Author-Rant: I'll probably have to repost the whole damn thing when I'm done X-Author-Rant: just to refresh everyone's memory as to the continuity. Xref: chaph.usc.edu talk.bizarre:190142 alt.prose:4227 rec.arts.prose:1298 Lydia sits in her store all day, dreaming. She sells cards and statues and small romantic knickknacks; the shop smells of old incense and brass polish. Every now and then she sells a candle. The candles are what she thinks of as her real merchandise, even if she only sells four or five in a year. They take a lot of time and effort to make, but every person pays a different price. Sometimes she takes money, sometimes . . . other things. But today, Lydia is not thinking about her candles, or her shop, or her stubbornly strange hair that refuses to be all black or gray or white. She isn't thinking about anything in particular, because one of her customers is going to walk in soon. One of her real customers. And then things will be interesting. A woman comes into the store, slender and pale. She strides instead of walking; everything about her is busy. In Lydia's mind the woman's thoughts run _see tom at three got to find a card for jake what did sue want to talk about? god that merger paperwork's gonna kill me_ and so on and on, a bundle of forms and phosphor wrapped in starch and nude pantyhose. The starch-woman buys a greeting card and leaves in a muted whisper of nylon and nondescript florals. She was not the customer Lydia is waiting for. She reclines in her old wicker chair behind the antique glass counter full of tiny handcarved wooden animals and lets her thoughts chase themselves around her head like a litter of puppies. * * * He has been in the store for ten minutes, browsing, before Lydia notices him. Everything about him is brown, black hair giving way to mahogany skin around hazel eyes, and she feels a twinge of homesickness (the boy does to her soul what the cold mornings do to her ankles) for the South of her girlhood, so far away. He moves gracelessly, though unobtrusively; he tries very hard to make as little noise as possible. Lydia can tell that he knows he is not graceful, and tries to make up for it by being delicate. She smiles at him to show him that she is awake, and he moves towards the counter. "Hello, Mother." Lydia smiles in appreciation. It warms her to know that, even in this steel and plastic tumor, the forms have not been wholly forgotten. This, then, is her real customer, and one who knows what he buys. Looking at the boy more closely, she sees a tightness around his eyes that bespeaks some constant trouble, and his smile, while genuine, is restrained. She listens to his thoughts run _tired so tired of being broke all the time rent and food just barely making it month after month it's driving me mad_ in a litany that colors his movements gray instead of brown. "Son, can I help you today?" She keeps her voice friendly but aloof; she can help him, but not carry him. "Mother, I -- " Suddenly he flushes, the blood staining the mahogany a startling red as his shame wraps around his heart. But his need proves stronger than his pride, and he goes on. "I need a money-charm." She nods -- relieved he was able to bring himself to ask -- and gives him a candle, a short creation of dull pink wax. The wick is black. "Take this home and light it. Look at the flame as it burns. Stay in your room until it burns all the way down, even if you think you already know what to do." The candle goes into a small paper bag -- never plastic for the candles -- and the boy takes it in nervous hands. His eyes are the color of honey melted over green glass. "Thank you, Mother." He begins to move towards the door; Lydia is struck by an impulse. "Wait!" He stops as if shot, and almost runs back to the counter. She rummages in the cedar box under the wicker chair, pulls out a fifty, hands it to him. "To tide you over." He is -- shocked? Confused? Perhaps a little angry. "Mother, I should be the one paying -- " "And you will. But not now. Go." And she pretends to sleep in her little wicker chair. He nods stiffly and leaves without saying a word. * * * Two customers in one day? Lydia runs her hands through her strange hair in surprise. This one is pale and tall; his hair glows a dull red in the shop's fluorescent lighting. She can smell the questions in his head; they all have to do with advantage and smell strongly of filth. He is so much an animal that everyone thinks him human; all his best thinking is done on an instinctive level, where concepts fall like bells tolling _food/power/sex/power_ over and over again. A woman has left him. The animal does not let anything leave him until he puts it down. Lydia has known men like him before, but never one whose arrogance was so justified. His instincts have learned finesse from the human veneer around them; he will not bludgeon the woman back to him, but will draw her with a subtler power. And the animal recognizes the power in her candles. He will buy a candle for her. The man does not know why he does it but is helpless to do anything but obey the animal's dictates. Lydia overcharges him outrageously for the candle, partly to make up for the fifty she gave away to the boy, partly out of rancor at the way he smells. The man grumbles, but the animal knows what it wants. The man pays. After she's put the money away in the cedar box, Lydia feels a little better. She burns some incense to get the animal's smell out of the air. * * * The woman's thoughts jolt Lydia out of dreams of a straight road, a good wagon and an honest horse. The woman's mind is delicately poised chaos. Large sunglasses cover her eyes and her black hair hangs loosely about her shoulders. Picking her inflections very carefully, Lydia whispers, "Can I help you?" It is all she needs. The woman breaks down into hysterical sobs, and Lydia comes out from behind the counter and holds her while she tells her story. It turns out to be a very old one. He beats her, but she keeps returning. Her friends become alienated. Her work suffers. Lydia quietly listens to it all, making tea in the back of the store while a "back in 15 min." sign hangs over the locked door. The woman is a third customer, evidently. This is not ordinary at all, and Lydia frowns briefly before reaching into the drawer for another candle. There have been years where she didn't have three customers. But the woman's need is plain, and Lydia presses the candle into her palm over her tired protests. After the woman is gone, Lydia finds a bracelet on the floor. It is made of gold, and clear stones are embedded in it like frozen Perseids. She tucks it into the cedar box, chuckling. One way or another, payment is always made. * * * That night, Lydia sleeps with her black Gypsy eyes wide open. She's never dreamed with three candles burning before, and the images in her dreams switch back and forth in a chaotic me'lange of image and sound. As her old and wrinkled body sweats with the strain, her mind flits about the city like the moon's breath. _The boy is sitting naked on the floor of his tiny studio apartment. In half-lotus, he stares fixedly at the flame of the tiny candle, his posture screaming attention._ Lydia's attention wanders; she looks at the apartment. A single bed -- more of a cot, really -- in the corner. A framed poster of Baryshnikov, yellowed with age and exposure. Tape over the cracked windows. A well-kept guitar in the corner, next to a small drum. Sudden motion catches Lydia's eye; the boy is twitching. _Not twitching but something more purposeful than that. The boy is dancing, swaying to some internal music. Slowly he unfolds, raises his arms high, bows to an unseen audience. The candle's flame sways with him. The boy moves faster, dancing around the room, flicking sweat into the corners. A rictuslike smile contorts his features._ Lydia wants to see him dance, wants to stay in this room more than anything else, but just then the dreams shift and _There is a smell of animal in the air. He lights the candle at a dinner table and retreats into the kitchen, where delicate foods of seduction are laid out for two. He puts the champagne into the refrigerator and retreats to the living room to wait for the doorbell._ Lydia wastes little time on the animal's surroundings; her senses are consumed by his repulsive grace and languor. He sits quietly, waiting as if in ambush, and she feels the third candle being lit _hurriedly, in a bathroom before leaving. A flare of the match, a dab of perfume, and out the door. She ducks into the cab, moving her head sideways so the cabbie wonÕt see the bruise. Maybe the crazy old woman was right, maybe she can get rid of him once and for all_ -- Lydia snorts. At least the boy had respect. Still, she should expect no better in this time, when all her kindred had been either forgotten or turned into caricatures. Tossing fitfully, Lydia sleeps and dreams. * * * _The boy is panting on the cot after his dance; the candle gutters in the dish. The telephone rings; last week's audition, the one he'd given up hope for. The lead was discovered dead of a heroin overdose. They need a dancer. Tonight. In a few hours. After stammering his assent, he scribbles down directions on a napkin. He replaces the telephone in its cradle and weeps quietly with release. The animal is smiling at his prey. Dinner has gone splendidly; she has returned to him, and it is as if she had never left. She is quiet. Submissive. His. In the waning candlelight, he reaches towards her and something flashes incongruously silver amidst the pastel tablecloth and his chest feels heavy -- She is happy and light-headed. She knows what to do, she can feel the warmth telling her how to get out of her trap. It is all so very easy. Smile at him, compliment him. Eat his food. Feel the expensive steak knife in your hand. The handle is made of some obscure resin, or maybe polymer -- the important thing is that it won't suck up blood like wood. Here he comes, up and over -- and again, just to make sure, and again until it's over. Wash everything, put it away. Root around in his closet for a screwdriver, pry apart his door's chain with it. She giggles at the symbolism. Leave the door shut but unlocked, two fragments of broken chain hanging from the frame. Maybe a night on the town, to celebrate and calm her nerves. * * * She nurses her one drink at a small bar that offers contemporary dancers as part of the entertainment. One of them stands out from the rest, a lovely mahogany coil of motion, following the drums wherever they go. She drinks, and watches the lovely young boy dance, and returns his strange smile._ heckler & thanks to denis johnson (jesus' son) for breaking the longest writer's block on record -- English triangular to artificial nipple repair gun. This is not spleen. I English every time reparations to hardwood plate reticulation is taken. Glass incursion to impede communication. And then where would we be? --scott (kludge@grissom.larc.nasa.gov)