Jilo (10 page)

“You have to accept the power. You have to invite it in,” the elder Maguire said. “Or perhaps you’ve changed your mind? Should I have Sterling fetch Barron after all? Maybe you’ll be more willing to cooperate after he’s tasted one of your sweet girls.”

May looked up at him, and it was in that precise moment she lost her lifelong battle—not her struggle to resist the power, but her struggle to resist hate. She let the magic surge through her, though her fondest wish was that it would destroy the old man and his son, wiping the Maguire seed from the face of the earth.

She felt heavier, as if gravity had grown stronger, or the floor beneath her had caught hold of her and was trying to pull her down. When she looked down at her hands, she was astounded to see the magic flowing through them—no longer tiny sparks, but liquid blue flames jetting out of her own body and into the design on the floor. The strange fire tore along the path set out by the intersecting lines and engulfed the circle at the center of the star.

“It’s working, Father,” Sterling said, his eyes wide with joyous amazement.

“Yes,” Maguire responded, “it is.”

The energy jumped from the circle to the figure eight within it. Sterling began laughing, cheered on by their success, but the laughter abruptly stopped. He began making strangled, whimpering noises, and the look of joy in his eyes turned to one of fear. “It burns. Why does it burn?”

“Because,” his father said, “it’s fire.”

May watched as the flames rushed away from Sterling and turned full force toward his father. For a moment May hoped she’d have her wish, that she would watch this monster burn, but he seemed to welcome the fire. He watched as the flames climbed up his worthless legs, then threw back his head in a triumphant gesture. Rather than consume him, the flames entered him, traveling into the now-writhing marks of the collector.

Sterling reached over with his free hand, trying to pry himself from his father’s grasp, but the old man’s fingers fixed on the younger man’s arm like a steel trap. The collector’s marks rose up from Maguire’s body, deserting first his left arm, then his torso. The whole design, now a living band of energy, wound its way around his right arm, forming a tight coil. Then it rose up, in a sudden flash of activity, and a head like a serpent’s shot out and buried its fangs into Sterling’s arm. The younger man began screaming, but May could only feel contempt as she noticed urine puddle on the floor around him.

The head of the marking buried itself into the young man’s otherwise unblemished soft pink skin, then writhed its way through his arm. Just below his agonized cries, May could make out the sound of flesh separating from muscle to make way for the mark. It may have taken a mere minute, maybe two, but soon the marking had completely deserted the father’s body and insinuated itself fully into the son. The pattern that had once covered Fletcher was now in the same configuration on Sterling. Fletcher’s body had been left with nothing but the scars of May’s mama’s attempts to end him.

Then there was a bright flash of light, one so blinding it caused May to remove her hands from the figure etched into the floor and shield her own eyes. That light, she realized in a breath’s length of time, had come from those same hands. For a few moments the world around her was drowned in piercing light, then her right vision slowly came back to her. When it did, she could see in an instant something had changed.

The elder Maguire sat staring down at his wrinkled and spotted hands, his eyes wide in horror. “Father,” the old man’s voice creaked out as he looked up at Sterling. “What have you done?”

A wide smile broke across Sterling’s face. “I thought you agreed it was a shame to let someone waste their potential.” The voice belonged to the younger man, but something in his tone spoke of Fletcher Maguire.

“You,” May began, not quite sure how to phrase it, “you took your own son.”

“Ah, May, don’t look at me like that,” Sterling said. “A body can only be marked as a collector once. You get one mark, and then you have to tend it, like a garden. Your mama corrupted that body,” he nodded to the old man in the wheelchair, “she salted the fields, so to speak. I had no choice but to find new accommodations.”

The old man raised his head. “Help me,” he called to her. “Help me.”

“Now, now,” Sterling said, crossing the room to retrieve the shirt that had been cast aside earlier. “Why on earth would she want to do that?” He pulled the shirt on, and began buttoning it, clearly delighted with the nimbleness of his new fingers. May stood, never once taking her eyes off the pair, and stepped away from the diagram.

Once he was dressed, Sterling knelt by the old man’s wheelchair and started to button up the shirt that had been his own just moments before.

“Father,”
the old man pleaded.

Sterling reached back and slapped the old man, the sound of the blow echoing in the large room. “Don’t ever call me that again, or I’ll have you committed. And it would be a shame for Fletcher Maguire’s reputation to be ruined by having him end his days in a madhouse.”

Sterling looked up at May. “You’re free to go,” he said. “You’ll find there are stairs at the far end of the hall.” He smiled and gave her a wink. “Of course the exit lets out at a different point each time. Let’s hope you don’t find yourself stranded too far from home.”

May had no idea what the man was saying, but she started backing her way toward the door all the same.

“Oh, May,” Sterling called. “One more thing.” She froze in place. “Now that you have access to all that magic, don’t go thinking you’re done with me. What’s yours belongs to me, girlie, ’cause
you
belong to me.” He stood and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair, nearly running as he pushed the old man’s body right up to her. “And don’t be thinking about trying to run away either, ’cause I got ways to cure you of your drapetomania right quick.”

TWELVE

A cloud of dust kicked up around May as she made her way home. She didn’t stop, didn’t look up to determine its source. She knew it had to be the same police car that had been trailing her for miles. It would come to a stop every quarter of a mile or so, wait for her to pass, then continue to move. It was a message from Maguire. She was being watched, and the whole damned world was on his side. This time the car didn’t rev up its engine and speed past. It pulled up alongside her instead.

“You ain’t thinkin’ ’bout leavin’, now are you, Auntie,” a voice called out. She glanced up at the deputy who’d spoken to her, but she couldn’t risk doing or saying anything that would give them the excuse to put her in the back of that patrol car. Maybe that was Maguire’s intent by having them follow her. No doubt, he delighted in the thought of her stewing behind bars, helpless in the knowledge there was nothing she could do to save the girls from the monster he kept in his jar.

“We gonna keep an eye out on you.” The officers in the car laughed, then hit the gas, showering her with a cloud of dirt and tiny stones.

May ignored the sting of rocks meeting flesh. She had to focus on the problem at hand. She had to figure out a way to protect the girls.

Martha had promised to look in on the girls while May was at work. May and Martha had never been the closest of sisters-in-law—Reuben had never enjoyed the best of relations with his brother, Martha’s husband—but May knew she could count on Martha to keep her word. She was probably with the girls now. And even though Martha couldn’t stand the sight of the girls’ mama, she wouldn’t hold that against them. She’d help May protect them.

How far from home would May have to go to escape Maguire’s reach? Perhaps her only hope was to learn how to use the magic she’d now claimed to protect herself and the girls. Problem was she had no idea where to start.

May rounded the corner to discover the patrol car that had been following her sat at the head of the turnoff leading to her home. She lowered her gaze and quickened her pace, but an odd feeling crept over her as she turned wide to avoid going near the patrol car. She looked up.

It struck her at once that the car appeared to be empty, though she could hear the idling of its engine. Fearful that they might be planning an ambush, she scanned the area around the car and picked up her pace, though not fast enough for it to be perceived as running, an act that might cause the policemen to give chase. She had made it only a few yards when a sound, something caught between a dog’s pant and the whimper of a frightened child, caused her to look into the tall grass growing around the drainage ditch that lined the road. The unexpected gore made her startle and nearly scream. A cloud of flies was feasting on a sea of blood, already baking dry in the morning sun, on a large stone by the side of the road. One of the officers from the car was writhing on his back in the grass, his belly ripped clean open, his hands frantically trying to restore his insides to his abdomen. May knew he should be screaming,
would
be screaming, but the flies that had failed to find purchase on the stone had packed his mouth full with their wriggling and opalescent bodies.

May barely had time to take three steps back before a scream from a few yards farther down the road wrested her gaze from the bloody scene. Her eyes landed on the man’s partner, struggling near a patch of blackberry bushes. Turning in wild gyrations, he was swatting and clawing at something black that rode on his head. As he stumbled closer, May could make out what that blackness was. Lester, the rooster she greeted each dawn, had his claws buried in the man’s scalp, and was happily going about pecking out his eyes.

May heard her own voice rise up, ready to give witness to her own terror, but a few strained groans were all it could muster before her mind commanded her to flee. She ran. Not like the old woman she was, with stiff hips and aching knees, but like a frightened deer that has heard the first gunshot and knows that there are hunters in the wood. She carried on, not stopping and not looking back until she arrived at the gray dirt road that led to her house. Then her years caught up with her. Drops of sweat rained from her forehead, even though she felt colder than she’d ever been. Her heart was pounding so fast in her chest she thought this might be the death of her, but the white walls of her small house peeked through the scraggly pines, and their promise of safety urged her on. The adrenaline that had carried her home deserted her completely, leaving her to struggle the short distance to the house, feeling every bit like there were lead weights around her ankles.

She carried on around the bend, one heavy halting step after another, already breathless when she arrived home. Though she thought she’d had all the fright a body could survive in a single day, the sight that welcomed her stopped her dead in her tracks. The Beekeeper, masked by her heavy veil, stood at the center of a miraculous garden that had sprung up since morning. A few hours ago, there had been only spotty grass and dry soil in this place. Now buds were bursting into full bloom, their opening timed for May’s arrival.

May drew nearer, and after several moments passed, she realized her feet were no longer touching the ground. A part of her mind told her that she should be terrified of this creature, but its warning voice grew fainter the closer she got. May rubbed her eyes, certain the shock she had just suffered had stopped her heart. She could not be floating. She knew that. And this impossible creature could not have returned. Could not be standing dead center in a miniature miraculous Eden. No. None of this could be real. She opened her eyes, sure the image would have faded.

Still, the Beekeeper remained, and now May recognized the buzzing sound that accompanied her presence. It was matched by a kind of fluttering, shimmering vibration that made it impossible, even beneath the glare of the full sun, to capture a steady image of her.

May glided right up to the edge of the garden, where the intoxicating scent of yellow jessamine, a flower long past its normal blooming season, vied with whiffs of white gardenia and a kaleidoscope of four-o’clocks. Bergamot and honeysuckle beckoned a tiny hummingbird that hovered and bobbed, as if in homage to the Beekeeper, the founder of this feast, before darting around the flowers.

The soles of May’s feet lowered to touch the earth. All fear had sloughed off now, and her heart told her to run and throw herself into the Beekeeper’s waiting embrace. But before she could move, before she could act on her will, Martha appeared before her, walking clean through the Beekeeper without taking notice of the creature’s presence. The flush of the magic fell away, causing the garden to disappear, its miraculous flowers disintegrating to dust, and May’s unquestioning trust of this creature seemed to melt away in the same instant.

Martha came to a stop in front of May and grabbed ahold of her wrist, piercing her with her frightened, tear-filled eyes. “There were men come by a while ago.” She pointed toward May’s house behind her. “Things are pretty busted up in there. What did you do, anyway?” She dropped May’s arm and pushed her way around her. “No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know nothing about it. I’m sorry, May. I truly am. But I can’t have any kind of trouble. I can’t be a part of this.”

“But the girls . . .”

“I’m sorry, but I got children and grandchildren of my own to worry about. I can’t go getting mixed up in whatever trouble you’ve done gotten yourself mired in. I’m sorry,” Martha said again, but she didn’t look back as she stomped her way toward the drive, her determined pace carrying her quickly away from May’s yard and toward the bend in the road.

“Let this drab little sister go home.” May jumped at the sound of the voice, and turned to find the Beekeeper once again stood behind her, although the miraculous garden seemed to have disappeared for good. “You don’t need her, ’cause you have me.”

“I gotta see to my girls,” May said, sick at heart for them.

“Don’t worry about your babies. They’re safe. And we’re gonna see to it they stay that way.”

“But they must be frightened.”

“Frightened? Those babies of yours are a hell of a lot tougher than you think. If I were you, I’d make sure they knew it was me before I stepped foot inside. They’re getting ready to flatten the next person through the door.” The Beekeeper first chuckled, then pushed the bottom of her veil to the side and spat. “Dry. Dry. Dry. What the hell does a body have to do get a drink around here?”

Something about the sight of this faceless creature spitting in her yard convinced May she must be dreaming. Any moment she would awaken. Begin her day, her
real
day, not this mad fantasy that couldn’t possibly be real.

“I can get you some water . . .”

“I do not want water,” the creature’s tone turned harsh.

“Chicory, then,” the words tumbled from her mouth. “I have chicory. I could brew you some.”

The Beekeeper lunged forward. “I do not want your damned chicory. Do I look like a whore for your damned chicory? What kind of goddamned house do you keep, that you ain’t got even a drop of drink for your friends? Your mother, she knew how to treat a guest.”

This was madness. May crumpled, falling to her knees. Dream or no, she’d had enough.

“There, there, my dearie. Not to worry.” The Beekeeper waved a gloved hand in the air, and a bottle appeared in it. Her other hand pushed back the bottom of her veil, revealing the same terrible emptiness that had so frightened May the night before. It was a blankness, a void that gave a person’s very soul a sense of vertigo, as if there were a danger of toppling into it and falling forever.

The eternal darkness she sensed within the creature caused her mind to flash on the horror at the turnoff. “Did you kill those men?”

“Only the one,” the Beekeeper responded. “Needed the other alive to tell the tale.” She took another swig. “That bastard used those men to send you a message, so we used them to send him one back.”

She wanted to feel bad that a man had died, but she couldn’t. May began shaking. She wrapped her arms around her chest to help still the trembling.

“You calm yourself.” The woman waved her free hand over the bottle in her other hand. May jolted when she felt the glass in her own hand. “Go on, taste.” May began to refuse, but the Beekeeper carried on. “It is very good rum. It has the pepper’s fire,” she added before returning her focus to the bottle. “No? Your mama and I used to drink until we were both falling down drunk. Falling through each other. Falling through the stars.” A wistful delight sounded in her voice.

“I am not my mother,” May responded, holding the bottle out to her.

The Beekeeper wiggled her gloved fingers, and the bottle was once again in her clasp. “More’s the pity,” she said, then brushed back the veil for another swig. As the veil fell back into place, she jumped to a new train of thought. “She can see me, you know, your little one, even though she isn’t of your blood.” The creature’s tone made it sound like she was contemplating the implications. “But the other two. The ones who should be my daughters. Nothing. I stand directly before them . . .” The Beekeeper was suddenly mere inches away, her veiled face an intimate distance from May’s, her hand waving before May’s eyes. The Beekeeper took a step back, then stood there swaying, “. . .and nothing.”

May trembled. “She’s my grandbaby. Blood or no.” Fear and longing battled in her spirit.

“Well, of course, the heart speaks the truth even when blood itself lies.” The Beekeeper fell back, suddenly several yards away. “But the little one. She’s claiming the others’ magic. Making it hers. This is something that should not be.”

This odd being frightened and soothed her in the same instant, but the need to protect her own pushed her toward the side of caution. May squinted, trying to pin the quivering image in place for inspection. “What . . . are you?”

To May’s amazement, the veiled creature began sashaying from side to side, her feet lifting and landing in a peculiar kind of dance. “I am what I have always been and what you would make of me.” She began to weave a circle around May, brushing up against her, catlike. “Embrace me, and I am the gentlest of mothers. Flee me, and I am the cruelest of predators. Offer me again your da—” She paused playfully on the word, then continued, “—
delightful
chicory, and you will find out for yourself where I land between those two extremes. Your foolish Prohibition has ended, has it not? For all I have to give you, I do not ask for much in return. Your mother certainly had no trouble finding a suitable offering.”

“My mama told me never to have any dealings with you.”

The creature snorted, her veil puffing out a bit as she did so. She stopped her dancing and took a few heavy old woman steps toward May’s house. May was about to chase after her, intent on stopping her before she could reach the children, but the Beekeeper came to a halt and eased down onto the front steps.

“It’s true, my friend didn’t want us to meet. I promised her that, if possible, I would let you pass through this world without knowing me. That’s why I have stayed in the background, keeping a watchful eye over you but never initiating contact,” she said, then slipped the bottle up beneath her veil. This time she took a long draw from it. “But that son of a whore . . .” She paused. “Maguire,” she offered, raising the bottle in salute. “The worm forced me to break my vow. Just as he forced you to break yours.” She leaned back on the steps, propping herself up on her elbows and splaying her legs in the most unladylike fashion possible on the step below.