“Johnny.”
“We need to get out of here,” I said. Then added: “If we can find our way, that is.”
Why had we come in here to begin with? Why, when the fellow who had pointed our way had been so obviously dead? I had no idea. We must have been bewitched.
Certainly Roger Wade seemed bewitched. He spoke my name again—
“Johnny”—as if I hadn’t said anything.
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“What?” I asked, looking mistrustfully at the shining mass of mingled poison oak, sumac, and ivy. That slobbery smacking sound was a good deal closer now. The man-eating plant, no doubt, anxious for its meal. New York Editors tartare, how yummy.
“These’re all poison,” he said in that same dreamy voice. “Poison or hallucinogenic or both. That’s datura, there, common name jimson weed—”
Pointing to a nasty snarl of green growing from what looked like a pool of stagnant water. “—and darlingtonia…joe-pye weed…there’s nicotiana and nightshade…foxglove…euphorbia, the dangerous version of poinsettia…
Christ, I think that one’s a night-blooming cereus.” He was pointing to a huge plant with its blooms tightly folded in against the dim gray light. Roger turned to me. “And stuff I don’t know. Lots of it.”
“You recognize the anthurium, of course,” said an amused voice from behind us.
We wheeled around and there stood a small woman with a mannish face and a stocky body beneath short, graying hair. She was wearing a gray suede beret and smoking a cigarette. She didn’t look hot at all.
“That one’s not dangerous, although of course the leaves of the rhubarb might interfere with your digestion— permanently, I wouldn’t be surprised—and the pods of the wisteria are also quite nasty. Which of you is John Kenton?”
“I am,” I said. “And you’re Ms. Barfield.”
“Miss,” she said. “I don’t buy that politically correct shit. I never did.
You fellows shouldn’t be out here on your own.”
“I know that,” I said dismally.
I might have said something else, but before I could, Tina Barfield did an amazing thing. She raised one foot, shod in a sensible black shoe, snuffed her cigarette, and held it out to her side, where a branch heavy with pods of some sort overhung the path (I could no longer think of it as an aisle, even though it was floored with the cracked remains of orange tile; we were in the jungle, and when you’re there it’s paths you follow, not aisles…if, that is, you’re lucky enough to find one). One of the pods split open, becoming a 114
small, greedy mouth. It ate the still-smoldering cigarette butt out of her hand and then sealed itself shut again.
“Good God,” Roger said hoarsely.
“It’s a kind of catchfly,” the woman said indifferently. “Silly bugger will eat anything. You’d think it would choke, but nope. Now that you’re here, let me show you something.”
She brushed past us and strode on down the path, not even looking back to make sure we were following…which we were. She turned left, right, then right again. All the while those arrhythmic smacking sounds grew stronger. I noticed that she was dressed in a cranberry-colored pant suit, every bit as sensible as her shoes. She was dressed, I thought, like a woman who has places to go and things to do.
I can remember now how scared I was, but only in a vague fashion.
How sure I was that we’d never get out of that horrible steamy place. Then she turned a final corner and stopped. We joined her.
“Holy…shit,” I whispered.
Ahead of us, the path ended. Or perhaps it had been overgrown. The plants blocking the way were a filthy grayish black, and from their branches flowers sprouted —I think they were flowers—the pinkish-red of infected wounds. They were long, like lilies on the verge of blooming, and they were opening and closing slowly, making those smacking sounds. Only now that we were upon them, it no longer sounded like smacking. It sounded like talking.
There comes a point where the mind either breaks or shuts itself down.
I know that now. I was all at once filled with a species of surreal calm I’ve never felt before. On one level I knew that I was there, looking at those hideous, slow-talking blossoms. But on another, I rejected that completely.
I was at home. In my bed. Had to be. I’d overslept the alarm, that was all. I wasn’t going to beat Roger to the office as I’d wanted to, but that was okay.
More than okay. Because when I finally did wake up, all of this would be gone.
“What in God’s name are they?” Roger asked.
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Tina Barfield looked at me with her eyebrows raised. It was the expression of a teacher calling on a student who should know the answer.
“They’re the Tongues,” I said. “Remember the letter? She said some of the Tongues had begun to wag.”
“Good for you,” the woman said. “You’re maybe not as stupid as you acted when Carlos first got in touch with you.”
For a moment no one said anything. The three of us simply looked at those blossoms opening and closing, their scarlet interiors winking. The soft, toothless whispering sound made me feel like clapping my hands over my ears. It was almost words, you see. Almost real talk.
Ah, fuck. Scratch that. It was real talk.
“Tongues?” Roger asked at last.
“They’re widow’s tongue,” Tina Barfield replied. “Known in some European countries as witch’s tongue or crone bane. Do you know what they’re talking about, Mr. Kenton?”
“About us,” I said. “Can we get out of here? I’m feeling sort of faint.”
“Actually, I am too,” Roger said.
“Leaving would be wise.” She swept her arm around, as if to encompass that whole world of dank plants and powerful smells. “This is a thin place, always has been. Now it’s thinner than ever. Quite dangerous, in fact. But you needed to see it in order to understand. The Dark Powers have been loosed. The fact that it was a brainless asshole like Carlos who loosed them makes no difference. He’ll pay, of course. Meanwhile, it’s unwise to tempt certain forces too far. Come on, boys.”
I didn’t like being called her boy, but I was willing enough to follow her, believe me. She lead us back quickly and with no hesitation. Once I clearly saw an earth-clotted root come snaking out of the foliage at the left side of THERE Street and slither around her shoe. She gave her foot an impatient jerk, snapping the root without even looking down. And all the time we could hear that low, whispering, smacking sound behind us.
Tongues, wagging.
I looked down for the crumpled balls of paper I’d dropped, but they 116
were gone. Something had grabbed them just as the root had grabbed Tina Barfield’s shoe and whisked my markers away into the undergrowth.
I wasn’t surprised. At that point if John F. Kennedy had come strolling out of the bushes arm-in-arm with Adolf Hitler, I don’t think I would have been surprised.
My espresso’s gone. I promised myself I’d stay away from the booze tonight, but I’ve got a bottle of Scotch out in the kitchen and I need a little, after all. Right now. For medicinal purposes. If it does nothing else, perhaps it’ll stop the shaking in my hands. I’d like to finish this before midnight.
(later)
There. Given the restorative powers of Dewers, I will finish by midnight.
And there’s no prolixity here, believe me. I’m writing as fast as I can, sticking to what feels like the absolute essentials…and writing it down feels oddly good, like recapturing some emotion you thought was gone forever. I’m still reeling from the events of the day, and there is a sense of having been torn free of a thousand things I always took for granted—a whole way of thinking and perceiving—but there’s also an undeniable exhilaration. If nothing else, there’s this to be grateful for: the thought of Ruth Tanaka has hardly crossed my mind. Tonight when I think of Ruth, she seems very small, like a person glimpsed through the wrong end of a telescope. That, I find, is a relief.
We were back in the office area in no time at all, following closely on Tina Barfield’s heels. It felt warm in the office area after coming in from outside, but after returning from the greenhouse the office felt positively frigid.
Roger slipped back into his overcoat, and I did the same.
The old man was sitting exactly where he had been, only with the paper once more raised in front of his face. Barfield lead us past him (I crabbed by in a kind of sideways scuttle, remembering that horror movie where the hand suddenly shoots out the grave and grabs one of the teenagers) and into a smaller office.
This room contained a desk, one metal folding chair, and a bulletin board. The top of the desk was empty except for a jar-top with a couple of mashed-out cigarette butts in it and an IN/OUT basket with nothing in 117
either tray. The bulletin board was empty except for a little cluster of thumb-tacks in the lower corner. There were a few picture-hooks spotted around, each located in a vaguely brighter square of cream-colored wallpaper.
Sitting by the door were three smart suitcases of the same cranberry shade as the woman’s suit, but I hardly needed to look at them to know that Tina Barfield was not long for the House of Flowers…or Central Falls, for the mater. I guess there’s just something about old “Poop-Shit” Kenton that makes people want to put on their boogie shoes and get out of town. This is a trend that began with Ruth, now that I think of it.
Barfield sat down in the chair beside the desk and rummaged in the pocket of her jacket for her cigarettes. “I’d ask you boys to sit down,” she said,
“but as you can see, seating accommos are limited.” As she tapped a cigarette out of the pack, she looked critically at Roger. “You look like shit, Mr…I didn’t catch your name.”
“Roger Wade. I feel like shit.”
“Not really going to pass out, are you?”
“I don’t think so. Could I have one of your cigarettes?”
She considered it, then held the pack out. Roger took one with a hand that was far from steady. She offered the pack to me. I started to decline it, then took one. I smoked like a chimney in college—it seemed to be the thing to do if you were creative, like growing your hair long and wearing jeans—but not since then. This seemed to be a good time to start again. As H.P. Lovecraft’s Necronomicon might put it, When Tongues wag, behold, the lapsed smoker will return to his evil ways; even unto three packs a day will he return. And while I’m on this subject, I might as well confess that double espresso wasn’t all I got at the little Korean deli around the corner; I scored a pack of Camels, as well. The unfiltered ones. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars, go directly to Lung Cancer.
Carlos’s former boss eased a book of matches from under the cigarette-pack cellophane, struck one, then lit John’s cigarette and my own. That done, she shook the match out, dropped it in the jar-top, scratched another, and lit her own cigarette.
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“Never three on a match,” she said. “Bad luck. Especially when you’re travelling. When you’re travelling, boys, you need all the luck you can get.”
I took a deep drag, expecting my head to swim. It didn’t. I didn’t even cough. It was as if I had never been away. That may say everything that needs to be said about my state of mind and emotion.
“Where are you going?” Roger asked her.
She looked at him coolly. “You don’t need to know that, my friend.
What you do need to know I can tell you in five minutes or so. Which is good.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s quarter past one right now—”
Startled, I looked at my own watch. She was right. Only an hour since we’d stepped off The Pilgrim. A lot had happened since then. We were older and wiser men. Also more frightened men.
“—and I told the cab company to have someone here promptly at one-thirty. When that horn blows, boys, the conference is over.”
“You’re a witch, aren’t you?” I said. “You’re a witch, Carlos is a warlock, and there really is some sort of coven at work in Central Falls. This is like…” But the only thing I could think of was Rosemary’s Baby, and that sounded stupid.
She waved her hand impatiently, leaving a trail of blue-gray smoke behind. “We’re not going to waste our time bandying words, are we? That’d be primo stupid. If you want to call me a witch, fine, yeah, I’m a witch. And if you want to call a bunch of people who mostly got together to use the Ouija board and eat deviled ham sandwiches a coven, be my guest. But don’t make the mistake of calling Carlos a warlock. Carlos is an idiot. But he’s a dangerous idiot. A powerful idiot. Luckily for you boys, he’s also a kind of golden goose. Or could be. Carlos is like some of the stuff out there in the greenhouse. Foxglove, for instance. You eat it in the woods, it can stop your heart like a cheap pocket-watch. But if you process it and inject it—”
“Presto, digitalis,” Roger said.
“Give that boy the kewpie-doll,” she said, nodding. “I don’t have time to give you fellas a complete history of the Dark Arts and Powers, and wouldn’t even if I did have time. Except for geeks and dweebs, it’s as boring as anything else. Besides, you wouldn’t believe the half of it.”
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“After what we saw in there, I’d believe anything,” Roger muttered.
She puffed her cigarette, flared her nostrils, and blew out twin jets of smoke. “Bolsheveky! People always say stuff like that, but it ain’t true. Ain’t true a minute. Take it from me, big boy, you wouldn’t believe the half of it.
But you believe enough right now, maybe, to pay attention to what I’m telling you. Which is why I brought you here, okay?”
She mashed her cigarette out in the jar-top and peered at us through the rising smoke.
“Lesson one, chilluns: whatever Carlos told you, take it as the literal truth. He’s too dumb to lie. Whatever you saw in those pictures he sent you, take that as the literal truth, too. As for the plant he sent…use it! Why the fuck not? You should have something out of this, if only for the inconvenience he’s caused you. Use it, be careful of it, and don’t let it get grow too far. Ouija says SAFE—I asked—so you’re okay for now. There’ll be bloodshed, that’s unavoidable, but unless they have help, the dark forces can only take their own. As long as your new houseplant doesn’t get any innocent blood, everything is jake…in the short run, at least. Ouija says SAFE. Of course if you play tag around the buzz-saw too long, sooner or later someone is gonna get cut. Just a fact of life. Point is this: when you’ve got what you need, give that plant a nice DDT shower. Don’t be greedy. Adios ivy.