Jewelweed (40 page)

“I'll say,” he said. “How come I've never seen you before?”

“Maybe you just don't remember. I have one of those forgettable faces.”

“Never,” he said with a coughing laugh. “Besides, there's plenty more to you than a pretty face.”

“Very clever, Larry. I'm sure you could have forgotten those other parts too.”

“No, no, you're new all right.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I'm not sure. Are we having fun yet?”

“Just about there.”

Then Frieda came up behind Dart, grabbed her around the waist and arm, and pulled her toward the dancing area. “Come on,” she said. “I can have more fun with you than anyone else.” She stopped and got them another drink as they made their way across the room.

Dart smiled. Thinking of herself as fun had a strange appeal. Why had no one ever said that to her?

Lucky Two Shoes came over then, took the drink away from Dart, and tried to pull her away. But Frieda was having none of it.

“She's mine,” she said. “You go ogle with the rest of the boys.”

“There are people Danielle needs to meet,” he said.

“I'll report you to the party-pooper police,” threatened Frieda, taking the drink back from him and handing it to Dart. “I have friends in high places.”

Dart smiled reassuringly into Frieda's eyes. “It's okay. I'll be right back,” she said, and went with Lucky to the other side of the room.

“Turns out the Thomas couple own a summer place somewhere near you,” whispered Lucky. “They want to talk. So chat them up on local stuff. And give me that drink.”

“I can handle it.”

“Give it to me now,” he said. Something ugly flashed from Lucky's eyes. “I've spent too much time on this to have you mess it up.”

She handed him her drink.

Curt and Darlene Thomas told Dart about their property along the Thistlewaite River. They pronounced the names of their horses with the cherished inflections most people reserve for their children, even though their names were Smarty, Fudge, Noodle, and Sweet Treats. They all came from long lines of champions, whose names were provided with the same adoration, as if they were all family members. Their boat had even been named after one of their favorite horses.

All too soon, people were starting to leave.

Dart found another of the Magnificent Seven and proposed a toast to prosperity. Lucky Two Shoes cornered three men and two women near the lounge area and surrounded them with his facts. When one of them finally broke free, his hold over the rest of them shattered, and they fled.

The musicians were packing up. A group of men and women began playing poker at a table near the exit doors, and a second table was designated for the same purpose. Ties and suit coats were coming off like autumn leaves, tossed over the backs of chairs. Someone went to look for poker chips. Two men carried a punch bowl over and put it nearby. The catering staff carried in coffee.

“Is it all right to smoke?” asked someone.

“No,” came the obvious reply.

Lucky Two Shoes came over and said it was time to leave. Dart found her purse and they walked across the room, behind the poker players, toward the open doors.

“Good night.”

Dart realized she'd had far too much to drink. Her mind was dancing about crazily to its own accompaniment. She looked longingly back into the room. Then she looked down at her feet, and fixed on the ends of several painted nails poking out of the ends of the shoes. They still looked great, but for some reason her connection to them seemed tentative. Then a little voice started up in the back of her head.

That's a terrible idea, she thought. You're not making any sense.

Lucky was shaking hands with the last person in his circuit around the poker table, a gray-bearded man with a jaunty flat-brimmed hat. She waited, feeling increasingly nostalgic about the preceding four hours. Someone had actually called her fun.

Across the room a plate dropped, clattering horribly against a table and then the floor. Everyone turned to look. Dart couldn't believe it had happened—the coordinated sequence, its timing and rhythm, as if it had been planned by fate and anticipated by the cautionary voice in her head. Her participation seemed almost scripted, and she reached into the lining of the nearby coat, found the necklace, and slid it into her purse.

On the ride back to his condominium, Lucky Two Shoes was silent. As they drove through liquid darkness, the lights seemed fuzzy and wavy.
Twice, she put her hand into her purse to feel the sharp edges of the jewels, giddy yet appalled that she had actually taken them.

Inside the condominium, Lucky wasted no time coming after her. This didn't surprise Dart. In fact, she had expected it. She owed him a piece of her for the evening. No one ever gave you something without getting something in return. She knew that. Still, the up-closeness of Lucky was so unpleasant that at one point she pushed him away. The malicious expression returned to his eyes, and Dart simply resigned herself to a deal she hoped never to make again.

T
he first few days of hot weather came as no surprise. The residents of the Driftless Region took them in stride. Their summers always seemed to include a few mornings in which striking a match or toasting a piece of bread seemed thermodynamically ill-advised, and a few nights when the possibility of boiling the Arctic Ocean seemed a more than reasonable trade-off for using air conditioners set on high.

As July turned to August the blistering heat intensified and the humidity rose accordingly. Drawers swelled shut. Cutting boards refused to be pulled out of kitchen cabinets. Blackened by mold, refrigerator gaskets dripped water, and a frosty gasp accompanied the opening of freezer doors. Guitars, fiddles, mandolins, violas, and pianos went horribly out of tune. Attic floors buckled, prying four-inch nails out of joists. People carefully considered all alternatives before venturing into direct sunlight, and in shade moved as slowly as possible to avoid making currents in the thick, oven-like air.

To make matters worse, it hadn't rained for three weeks. Despite the tropical humidity, plants withered and the soil cracked open in places. Runoff streams dried up, ponds turned pea-green stagnant, and rivers sank to dangerously low levels, discouraging fish and depressing fishermen. Trees clenched leaf-fists, holding on to the little moisture they still contained. Grasses stopped growing, turned brown, and sequestered their precious plant spirit in underground roots, desperate each morning to suck the manna of dew with the tips of leather-dry tongues.

August Helm sat under the fan in his bedroom, looking out the window. His mother, concerned that he had not come out for breakfast, insisted he eat something for lunch.

He mumbled a civil refusal and returned to staring outdoors.

Several hours later, he got up, dressed, walked to the bathroom, and filled his canteen. When Winnie saw him she said, “August, there are storm warnings this afternoon. Don't go too far from home.”

August walked out through the garden, past the brittle leaves and drooping flowers. The morning sun had already been covered by a milky haze. Adjusting his cap, he moved the canteen strap to the other shoulder, then headed into the woods and down the valley. A cloud of biting flies swarmed around him, attacking exposed areas of skin.

At the trail leading to the melon field, August noticed that the litter, cans, and bottles were gone. On the edge of the field, the melons were hardly bigger than the last time he'd seen them. Halfway across, he wondered why Lester Mortal had not come out of his hut.

Perhaps he's not home, August thought, and continued through the field to the edge of the woods. When he reached the hut, the thick front door stood open, and the vines covering the windows had been removed.

“Mr. Mortal,” he called into the open doorway. “Are you home?”

“Yes, August. Come in, come in.”

Inside the hut, everything had changed. Ample light entered the windows. The weapons and ammunition were gone and the wood chips swept away, down to the hard-packed dirt floor. The crude furniture had been washed, along with the table, chairs, shelves, and counters. Pictures hung on the walls, in appealing shapes with bright colors.

When the hermit walked out of the back room, August hardly recognized him. His beard was gone, his hair was cut short, and he was dressed in tan shorts, tennis shoes, and a bright blue button-up short-sleeve shirt. Only his lumbering manner and eyes betrayed his earlier self.

“Hey, August,” he said. “I didn't expect to see you today. Very hot out there.”

“What happened here?” asked August.

“What do you mean?”

“You've changed your appearance, Mr. Mortal.”

“I have,” he agreed. “Would you like something to drink or eat?”

“I would,” said August. “I haven't eaten for several days.”

The hermit went to a hand-dug hole in the floor, lifted a wooden cover off, and drew up a plastic bucket with a rope. “I have a little aged Swiss, homemade mustard, brown bread, and ginger tea.”

He set a place for them at the table.

The food and drink were cool and delicious.

“Where's Milton?” asked the hermit.

August hesitated, tried to speak. Then he muttered, “Milton was betrayed by everyone, Mr. Mortal. In the end he was murdered by a convicted felon who said he hated bats.”

“I see you also have a shiner,” said the hermit.

“That's nothing,” said August, waving his hand dismissively. “My friend Ivan repaid them three times over.”

“I'm really sorry about your bat, August.”

“Thanks, Mr. Mortal, but I'm afraid I have no desire to live in this world any longer. My soul has been poisoned. What happened to all your weapons?”

“I sold most, gave a few away.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, all of them.”

“That's too bad. I was hoping I might borrow one.”

“Why?”

“I feel a need to learn to shoot. Many things, it seems, could be solved by a rapidly moving lead bullet.”

“That doesn't sound like you, August.”

“That's the point, Mr. Mortal. The world is no longer the place I imagined, and I'm ashamed for the way I used to think. What a fool I was.”

“That sounds a little harsh.”

“Perhaps you didn't see it that night, then.”

“See what?”

“Strangers—the flames leaping from the faces of your burning figures, sprouting into the open air and disappearing.”

“That's what happens when oil-soaked wood burns.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Mortal, but your ceremony did not succeed. The evil you hoped to remove from the world is still here. In fact, it's even worse.”

“It wasn't my intention to remove evil from the world, August. I only wanted to make peace with myself.”

“I know what those strangers were,” said August. “I didn't at the time, but I do now. They were demons entering this world from beyond.”

“Demons?”

“Yes, Mr. Mortal. Your ceremony opened a channel and demons came pouring in.”

“From where?”

“The lowest regions of hell. The seven heavens and seven hells are not nearly as stable as most people think. Along with everything else, they change. Right now, the earth is moving from the neutral zone it has occupied since the first recorded scripture—between the angels of light and the dark principalities of the air. Our planet is turning into a new region of hell, and the demons are coming.”

“That's a little extreme, August.”

“No, it's not, Mr. Mortal, and you should know better than most. The evidence is everywhere—senseless wars, torture practiced openly, needless starvation, homelessness, higher and higher suicide rates, pollution, species extinction, and the greedy arrogance of the thousand hired thieves in government.”

“More cheese, August?”

“No, thank you, I've had enough.”

“Then I wonder if I might share something else with you.”

“What is it?” asked August, his voice lacking all interest.

“It's a map. Not many would see its importance, but I believe you may.”

“What kind of map?”

“It was drawn freehand by my uncle.”

The hermit lumbered off into his bedroom. When he returned he was carrying a piece of fiber-rich paper, as thick and limp as a blanket and lined by many folds. When he spread it flat on the table in front of August, the map took up the entire surface and flopped over the sides.

“First you should know that Uncle Ray was one of my favorite people when I was growing up. He worked most of his life in a local logging crew, cutting and hauling trees out of woodlots throughout the Driftless—as far away as Iowa and Minnesota.”