From Dark Places (3 page)

She laughed and glared at the woman, who looked away with all the inbred British embarrassment passed down over generations.

“It wasn’t a disaster,” she whispered across the table in a mock conspiratorial tone.

“Millions died!”

“But it was so interesting.”

He sat back, his body wanting to distance him as far as it could without offending her. He hated it when she was in this mood.

“Don’t be heartless.”

She laughed again, this time almost knocking over her coffee cup as she struggled to stay on her chair. It seized her completely and he forgot his tension briefly, savouring the sight of her so filled with amusement.

“Darling, admit it, it’s time for another one. Remember Hitler? He was thrilling.”

“He was a madman.”

“At least he did
something
. Not like your last one.”

“Hitler’s antics led to the deaths of thousands!” he snapped. “Why do you have to be so bloodthirsty?”

“Me?” she widened her eyes until they were big and round, like a coquettish girl. “I didn’t give birth to him. I didn’t raise him.”

“Technicalities. Besides, my last one did do wonderful things, you just didn’t notice.”

“Enlighten me.”

“She only helped to discover DNA. But I suppose that isn’t nearly interesting enough for you.”

She rolled her eyes again. “Oh please. Don’t pass off a dud as an accomplishment. Besides, that one doesn’t count. You did it behind my back.”

He didn’t try to deny it. The silence stretched between them until she leant forwards and grasped both of his hands in hers.

“Darling, don’t be like this. Look, humanity needs this. It needs another visionary. Someone bold, daring, someone with an idea that will change the world.”

“It’s different now. It’s not the same as it used to be.”

“It should be easier than ever.”

He caressed the back of her hands with tiny circles of his thumbs. “I don’t know beloved. It always ends up in a huge war or a new religion. Neither do any good. And there are the rules to remember too.”

“Don’t worry about those. One little change and no-one will notice. They’re old and stupid anyway. I do take your point about the religion or war thing though. That’s why I was so pleased with Mao.”

“That was just religion in another form,” he muttered.

“Darling, you’re bored too, you just won’t admit it. You used to find it so much fun. Remember–”

“Don’t bring him up again,” he warned and pulled his hands away from hers. “That was just freakish. That bloody Peter… he just went on and on about it…”

She laughed. “What about Constantine? He was interesting.”

He shrugged.

“Oh come on.” She sat back. He knew she was thinking of her next exhibit, she wouldn’t let this rest. “What about Genghis?”

“Good grief, no!”

“Charlemagne?”

“He couldn’t even read. I don’t know why you were so pleased with him.”

She shrugged. “He was enterprising, despite his limitations. I know one you’ll remember liking; Shankara.”

He blinked. “Which one was that?”

She tutted. “Chishti then. He was charming. You know, the Sufi.”

This time he shrugged. “I’m sorry beloved, but I just don’t want to see more death and fanaticism.”

“It’s not our fault!” she said peevishly. “It’s not like we interfere once it starts.”

“Oh, go on then.” He threw his hands into the air. “I know there’s no talking you out of this. What did you have in mind?”

“She’s going to do it!”

“Shhh.”

“Why? It’s not like she can hear us.”

He frowned. “Because I want to be able to hear her.”

They stood in an average suburban kitchen, watching a woman read the recipe.

“I love this part, darling, don’t you? When she decides whether to try it or not. I bet she’s thinking; ‘Is this real? How could it work?’”

He couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “Yes, but it’s harder to find women who’ll try it these days. It was so much easier when there were wise women who’d sell them a fertility recipe for a goat. Still, there are few people more desperate than an infertile woman who wants a child.”

“She’s already decided, she left the bowl of water out last night. One more cup of tea and then she’ll start. I bet you she will.”

He squeezed her hand. “I won’t bet. I agree; one more cup.”

The woman put the kettle on and they laughed. Moments like this made him so happy, the way they could share the minutiae of events leading to a Creation. All that potential being brought into the world, there was nothing better.

“Okay, Pammy,” the woman muttered to herself. “Nothing to lose. The worst that happens is I make an awful cake. And the best… well, let’s hope for a boy. No a girl. Actually,” she looked up at the ceiling, “actually, Universe, I don’t mind if it’s a boy or a girl, I just want a healthy baby.”

They watched the kettle click off and Pammy make a cup of tea. She sipped and read until she knew the instructions off-by-heart and the tea was gone. With a sigh she put the cup in the sink and disappeared out the back door, returning with a large bowl of water from the garden, placing it on the kitchen table.

“Right,” she said, going to the pantry for a basket of goods, setting it next to the bowl and smoothing the piece of paper on the table top.

“One pint of water that has caught the first rays of sunlight on midsummer morning—check. The heart of an unopened rose— check. Two pounds of flour milled by a son without a father… well, this will have to do—check. Three tablespoons of honey from a hive less than a year old—check.

“A drop of blood from the hopeful mother. Oh, that’s me, and I’ll do that at the time—so, check. A tablespoon of salt, one ounce of yeast— check, check. Right then. Time to start.”

They watched her measure the ingredients into a sturdy ceramic mixing bowl, its mottled glaze telling a story of a thousand cakes beaten into existence within it.

“I like your recipe. Do you think she’ll get it right?” he asked. “She’s been thorough so far. Maybe this will be a good one.”

She shrugged as the woman pricked her finger with a wince, shook the drop of blood into the bowl, then mixed them all together. “Maybe. They always get something wrong. Who knows?”

He watched the woman, Pammy—he reminded himself, begin to knead the dough. He could feel the potential filling the room, crackling like static electricity. It always made him feel light headed but he persevered. He felt his beloved’s hand quiver in his and smiled at her. She was too fixated on the process to notice.

Pammy leant into the dough, compressing it with her hands and pushing it away before folding it back on itself. She soon fell into a rhythm but it was hard work, harder than she thought. After quarter of an hour she’d built up a sweat and wanted to stop, but the recipe had been very specific. Sixty seven minutes…

“You’re making her work for this baby, beloved,” he whispered and she nodded.

“Why don’t you go and find us somewhere to celebrate?” she whispered back. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

He agreed readily. It had been a long time since he had managed to last through a Creation from start to finish. He got sucked into the meeting of forces, the swirling maelstrom of magic and mundanity. It was overwhelming. The image of his swirling coffee foam came to his mind as he wandered out of the house. True creation was like sucking light down into the darkness. The mundane plane was so very dark.

He found himself back on the leafy street, saw a woman walking a dog, a car drive past. All so normal. No-one knew the next world-shaker was being made in the house behind him. The secret made him smile.

He strolled under the avenue of trees, looking for the perfect place to rest with his love once their work came to an end. She was so thorough. She always rode out those strange feelings made by the creation, letting him relax. And these modern times were so much more comfortable. Twenty-first century Winchester was a world away from the filth of Mongolia and Palestine, and the ancient world in general.

Then it struck him. He was getting lazy. Just like these modern times of convenience and comfort, he took the easiest route through something he once took so much pride in. They’d spent too long here, it was evident. As soon as this Creation was over, he’d insist they spend some time somewhere more challenging. Africa perhaps, or Bangladesh. Somewhere harsh.

He returned to the house, hurried down the hallway to the kitchen, expecting to see his beloved standing where he’d left her. It hadn’t even entered his mind she could be doing anything else, let alone pouring something into the dough as the poor woman stared at the clock, willing the minutes to tick by.

“What are you doing?” his voice boomed and the culprit leapt away from the woman. “What did you add?”

“Nothing critical,” she said back hurriedly, watching his form change with his emotions.

“Rule breaker!” He pointed a finger at her, a talon thrusting through the flesh. “How dare you! How dare you interfere once the Creation has begun!”

She shrank away from him. His wrath filled the small kitchen as the woman continued to knead—on and on—push, stretch, fold over.

“Darling one, please don’t be angry, I just wanted to make this mortal even more special.”

He raised himself up to his full height and she cowered beneath him, his fury taking her from the mundane plane with him, the kitchen fading into pastel colours and transparent shapes. He seethed, realising she’d done this every time. Every single Creation he had dawdled away from, she had interfered. Hitler, Genghis, Jesus and all the others, all made extreme by her meddling.

He would end her. As soon as the thought came to him, he calmed. It was inevitable, and something he would have done a long time ago, if he hadn’t fallen in love with her.

As he relaxed, the kitchen restored itself around them. He saw the hope and relief in her eyes. He smiled. She didn’t see the lack of warmth in it. He went to Pammy and sniffed at the dough she pounded. A bitter ingredient had been added.

“You wanted another war,” he said sadly but received no reply. He didn’t need one.

“What are you doing?” she asked nervously but he ignored her. “Darling? What is that? Is it a spice? What’s in that bottle?”

He poured three drops from the bottle he kept in his pocket. “Tears of joy, wept by a man who had lost all hope.”

After sweet spices were incorporated to balance out hers, powdered breath from a lover’s sigh was added, then distilled hope from a crystal vial.

“Why are you doing this?” she shrieked. “You’re breaking the rules too!”

“I’m undoing your work,” he hissed and she backed away. “It’s too late for this to be a normal child, even to be a world-shaker. So I’m making my own child. This time, I won’t get the ingredients wrong.”

“This… time?” her voice quavered.

He simply looked at her and she knew he’d Created her. They weren’t equals as he had let her believe. Out of love? Out of carelessness?

“But you said there can only ever be two of us—male and female—humanity reflecting us. What will it mean to have a third?”

“Third?” He stepped back from the sparkling dough, feeling the heady rush of a thousand million potential lives coalescing under the mortal’s hands. “There will be no third. Only ever two, beloved. And the final ingredient comes from you.”

He caught the sound of her scream, pressed it tight between his palms into a cold, oily droplet and let it slide into the dough.

This one would be different. This time, the recipe was perfect.

“Sixty-seven minutes!” the woman gasped and flopped into her chair. “Thank God for that.”

BURNT

The ruined house was still smouldering when she arrived. As much as she had tried to prepare herself, all she could do was stare at the shell and watch the wisps of grey smoke twist up into the morning air. Most of the whitewashed walls remained, now blackened from smoke and pitted with blown-out windows. They looked like rectangular sockets in a strange face—the charred front door assuming the role of gaping mouth, mirroring her own.

It was cold, the sun had yet to rise above the mountain and the rain stole any residual heat from the air and the fire. The noise from the surrounding forest was so loud, as though the animals protested at the violence of the fire in their habitat. They would have been used to the little house, nestled in the clearing all these years. For it to suddenly roar brutally must have been a shock.

The rain mingled with the tears on her cheeks, the fat drops feeling like fingertips drumming on the top of her head. Her sodden clothes hung heavily on her and she dripped like the trees around her, motionless, taking it all in. A hoot in the woods tore her attention from the house for a moment to look into the encroaching darkness.

Why had she come? Why put herself through this? Nothing could be done now.

Wretchedness anchored her to the spot and she forced herself to move, as if somehow walking away from the feeling would leave it behind, abandoned in the muddy footprints. Moving towards the house, she could hear groaning, as if it were crying in its death throes. She felt sorry for the house, she had loved it. So many happy times wrapped themselves around her here. Green mornings and pink sunsets, toasted marshmallows and home-made lemonade, all came to her here.

She stopped, letting the sobs swamp her body. The stench of the black smoke insulted those bright memories. The temptation to turn and run was strong. To leave and never come back, taking herself and those sparkling moments far away so they couldn’t be soiled by the soot and the smoke and the fumes.

But she didn’t give in to it. She was braver than that.

She reached the threshold, wiped the tears away with the back of her hand and peered in. She remembered when it used to be a smart little one-storey stone house, with yellow gingham curtains and carved wooden window frames. Now the roof was gone. The internal ceilings had collapsed and the loft lay smashed in the room below.

The plaque above the door had somehow survived the fire though. She read the words of her grandmother, etched and hung by her grandfather.