Читать книгу Minos - Burt Weissbourd - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

“Shrinks sap your strength,” Sara complained to Abe. She was sitting in his cherry leather chair. “I know this already.”

“I never thought of that,” Abe admitted. He liked Sara. She was keenly observant and honest. What confused him was that these same qualities led her to another version of herself, the virgin priestess trying to summon the Oracle. “That can’t be good,” he added.

“Not good is right.” Sara picked at a scab on the back of her wrist. She wore a long black dress, a long-sleeved black jersey, her spiked collar, and a simple silver necklace with a black damascene silver stallion hanging from the chain. The bright red streaks in her hair were bold as flashing neon. “I mean you want me to explain everything.

“What should I do?”

“The Beast is rising. I need more power, not less. Help me with my power.”

“How?”

“I’m not sure yet.” She spotted an old match, way under his desk, picked it up and tossed it in his big stone ashtray.

“Thanks,” Abe said, realizing that even when Sara was thinking, she was scanning, taking in every little thing.

“Tell me more about the Beast.”

“Why?” Sara looked right at him. “I mean…so far, when I try to tell you about the Beast—hard, scary things I’m sure on—you don’t get it, at all, which frustrates me, makes me feel even worse, and saps my strength. So what’s the point?”

Abe’s brow furrowed; he understood all too well how she felt and why she felt that way. “Yes, you’re right, I’m not getting it. But believe me, Sara, I’m trying—”

“And that’s what I mean. It’s not working. Trying isn’t the same as understanding.” She set the edge of her scab in his ashtray with her fingertips, slowing down, shifting gears. “Besides, it’s not safe here.”

Abe liked that she wasn’t giving up. He wondered how he could make it safe. “Where can you talk about it?”

“In my magic circle. No where else.”

“I think you could be safe here,” he suggested.

“That’s not right. This isn’t safe for me or for you. The Beast could crush you like a bug.”

Abe thought about this. “I’m not afraid of the Beast.”

“Hah,” she snorted. “Peirithous, the Lapith, he wasn’t afraid.” She leaned in, wound like a coil spring. “He invited the Centaurs to his wedding feast. They were wild beasts, half-horse, half-man. Since so many people came, the Centaurs were seated apart, in a cavern. They pushed away their sour milk, and filled their silver horns from the wine-skins. They were not used to wine. When Hippodameia, Peirithous’ bride came to greet them, Eurytion, the Centaur, leaped from his stool, knocked over the table, and dragged her away by the hair. The other Centaurs joined in, raping women and boys. Peirithous and his best friend, Theseus, had to rescue Hippodameia. They cut off Eurytion’s ears and nose. The bloody fight between the Centaurs and the Lapiths lasted into the night. And the great feud between them began. Peirithous should have been afraid.” She sat back. “And so should you, mister. Period,” she added.

Abe listened carefully, spellbound. “Who was Peirithous?” he eventually asked.

“Peirithous was king of the Lapiths. He was a brave king, but rash. He became Theseus’ good friend, his honorary twin.”

“Theseus, it seems, is a good friend to have.”

“Yes and no. Theseus’ friends often die.” She nodded, a fact.

“Go on,” was all he said.

“Theseus’ horseman, his charioteer, they say he was murdered on the Isthmus Road. Sciron forced him to wash his feet, then kicked him off a cliff, into the sea, where he was devoured by a monstrous green turtle. Later Theseus killed Sciron—he threw him from that same cliff, serving him as he served others.’”

Abe just nodded. She was so specific. In the world of the Beast, there were rules and harsh consequences. He made a decision. “Sara, I’d like to help you reach Theseus. I’d like to help you fight the Beast. Think about how I can help. I’ll follow your lead.”

“Mister, this isn’t like dancing.” She shook her head. “I guess our time is up, huh?” And frowning, she left.

***

Not so pretty now, are you? Minos was thinking, remembering how Snapper had looked when the drug took hold and caused him to fall and crack his head on the hardwood floor, out cold. Minos smiled, working on his plan for the Snapper, as he cruised Broadway.

He had a kernel, a sprouting seed, of a big idea. He could feel it, twisting and turning in the past, working its way into the present. He had to give it time to evolve, to grow into itself. He knew that if he didn’t go too fast, didn’t force it, his big idea would work itself out and present itself, fully formed, in his mind. If his instincts were right—and more and more, he had pretty good ones—he sensed that this idea could touch the past, the present and the future. He’d nurture his plan for the Snapper, let it breathe until it was ready to fly.

One more thing to do, so he turned west down Pine. Yeah. Something Snapper had said. A threat, this thing about how he was protecting his interests. That was kind of funny, because Snapper wasn’t ever very careful. His idea of protection was putting on a condom, afterwards. Yeah. Minos smiled at his private little joke. Still, Minos had to be sure. He’d check it out while he waited for his plan to crystalize. He’d start with the sweet-looking boy with the curly red hair. He wondered what Snapper had given him. Maybe it was nothing, one of his come-ons. Or maybe it was something, and Minos would have to go back to work. He knew where to find out.

Ten minutes later, Minos was across from the Blue City Café, waiting in a doorway. He took out a red and white pack of Marlboroughs. Smoking was a new game, and a good drag still gave him a little hit, without fogging his mind. He even had a lighter that worked in the wind. Minos lit up, watching and thinking. If the redheaded sweetie wasn’t already in the café, he’d be there sooner or later. Teenagers were like geese or salmon, always going back to the same place.

***

The Blue City Cafe was west of Broadway, between Pike and Pine. Over the years, the cafe had taken over the entire first floor of an old Victorian house. The main floor walls were now exposed fir posts. The downstairs had become an oversized, laid-back living room, with small groupings of sofas, tables and chairs. In one corner there was a kitchen with a tall glass counter where customers could order from an eclectic menu. In a U shaped group of couches, set against the back wall, Billy, Amy, Randy and Alex were deep in conversation, sipping their lattes. Randy and Amy were seniors. Billy and Alex were juniors at Olympic, and had been classmates since Billy transferred, almost two years ago.

Amy rested her hand on Billy’s thigh as they sat, side by side, on the couch. She wore jeans and a loose brown wool sweater that couldn’t hide her fine figure. Short black hair framed an intense, expressive face. Her touch was gentle, and it made him feel good about himself.

“You have to admit,” Randy was saying, “Sara’s alright. I mean doing that Greek Oracle shit at school. That was tight. I bet Dean ‘be-your-own-self’’ Sentor freaked out.” He rose, circling the couches with his iPhone, taking pictures. Like a restless child, Randy was always on the move.

“I heard she carved a magic circle in the bathroom floor,” Amy added. “Probably made Sentor’s eye start twitching.” With her free hand, Amy ran her fingers through her short black hair. Her lips were full and her eyes were almost as dark as her hair. When she was listening carefully to someone, Amy pursed her lips and squinted ever so slightly, until her expression was almost feline. To Billy, everything about her was sexy.

They laughed, picturing their dean, nonplussed, eyelid working, his face covered with red blotches. During this, Randy started taking impromptu pictures with his phone. They were used to this; Randy was always taking pictures. First Billy, then Amy. Eventually, Billy and Amy posed together, arms around each other, cheek to cheek, and finally, to stop him, tongues out.

“Nice,” Randy quipped. He handed the phone to Billy. “Do me and Alex.”

He stood behind his boyfriend, hands on his shoulders. Randy’s long, fiery red hair belonged on some Viking warrior. He was well-built, freckle-faced with handsome, delicate features. Randy whispered something in Alex’s ear, then he put his hand down his shirt.

One of the popular kids, Dave, came by. “Yo sweeties, where’s your voodoo bitch friend, the fire starter?” he snidely asked. “We’re wondering—is she some kind of witch?”

Randy, Alex, and the others ignored him; they were used to this. Dave snorted then moved on.

After Billy took several pictures of Randy and Alex, Amy took the phone from Billy, took his picture. “I want that one,” she said, taking Billy’s hand.

Billy sat back down beside her, pleased she wanted his picture, unsure why she seemed to like him so much.

“What was Sara doing, anyway?” Alex asked, after a moment. Blond, blue-eyed Alex was from stern, Scandinavian stock, and he was often teased for being so serious. His sea-blue eyes took in everything, and he thought about what to say before he said it. When he spoke, he spoke softly, and his friends listened carefully.

“She told me she’s afraid that her friends are in danger.” Randy shrugged, raised his hands. His expression, however, was serious. “She was worried about The Horseman and Peirithous, whoever they are. Sara said she’s trying to raise Theseus. She says that’s why she’s calling up the Oracle or whatever the hell it is she’s doing,” Randy explained, frowning now. He was up again, moving around, snapping more pictures of other people in the café.

When he took a picture at a table with popular seniors, Dave raised his middle finger. Randy blew Dave a kiss.

***

Minos waited, preoccupied. He was thinking about the Snapper, about how he thought he was so cool, so good-looking. About how he made fun of the Master. Minos was picturing him now, waking up—strapped to the gurney, his mouth taped shut. In his mind, he could see the fear in Snapper’s eyes.

It came to him then—clear as a bell—his plan for the Snapper. It just popped. And now, Minos could see it—crystal clear—in his head. A death mask to send the Snapper to the underworld. The Cretan Bull, a likeness. He pictured the Cretan Bull then, trapped in the underworld. Tormented by the furies in Tartarus, a prison of eternal suffering. He felt a chill, a frisson. Yes, it was just right. Perfect. Even poetic.

Yes, the Master would be pleased and proud.

***

Randy went from table to table, snapping pictures. It never occurred to Randy that he might be intrusive; he simply marched to the beat of his own devil-may-care drum. At times, Randy was reckless, or had an attitude; and often, he was not quite as prepared, or as smart, as he needed to be. They all remembered when Randy had hitchhiked to LA on a whim and run out of money. No problem. He sold uppers to an undercover cop to pay his way back. “Sara thinks she’s protecting us,” Randy added, an afterthought.

“Weird. From what? What kind of danger?” Billy asked. Something about this made him uneasy.

“She says there’s this beast—yeah, that’s what she calls it—anyway this beast kills people. He’s rising—I think that’s like waking up. She thinks he’s going to kill again.”

“How could she know that?” Amy wondered.

Randy shrugged. “She says she just knows.”

“That’s pretty crazy,” Alex weighed in softly.

“This is getting too serious,” Randy interrupted. “Sara’s just Sara. Since she was little she had her own made-up ideas about things. There’s nothing we can do about the way she is. She’s pretty much in her own zone.” He shrugged again, scratching his head through long red curls. “When Peter gets back, it’ll be better. He’s the only one who understands what she’s talking about.” And, they all knew, the one who’d most often kept Randy out of trouble. When Randy would casually tempt fate, as if that was no big thing, Peter was usually there to bail him out. Since he left, Alex had stepped up, but so far, he didn’t have Peter’s flair for great escapes.

“When’s Peter coming back anyway?” Billy asked. He’d met Peter and heard stories about him, but he didn’t really know him.

“He doesn’t really have a plan. You know what he’s like. Sara says she got a postcard from Amsterdam. That he’ll be back this summer.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Ten months, more or less. He left last summer. He’s got the whole year before college. When he’s ready, he’ll be back. Anyway, he’s the only one who can make sense of her stuff.”

That didn’t seem quite right to Billy, but he let it go. “It’s Thursday. I’ve got a ton of homework,” was all he said.

“Me too,” Amy added. “Come to my place and we can work.”

Billy put his arm around her slender waist as they rose to leave. She was as tall as he was.

Randy reached in his backpack, took out a book and handed it to Amy. “For the architecture project,” he said.

Billy noticed that Dave was watching Amy.

“Thanks,” she stuffed it in her pack. When she saw Dave staring at her, she rested her hand on Billy’s backside.

Outside, Billy saw a man hunched over in a doorway across the street. The man was dressed entirely in black, and he seemed to be shuffling back and forth, staring at the sidewalk. He was on something, or just weirded out, Billy thought. Something about the way he was moving back and forth—you couldn’t really tell how old he was. Billy kept his eye on him, liking his long leather coat. He watched the man light a cigarette—inhaling deeply, deliberately, like it was a special treat, then blowing the smoke into the air. That’s when the man glanced up, for just an instant, and Billy saw the purple birthmark on his face. The man’s left eye twisted shut when he smiled.

Billy thought he was smiling at him.

***

At the corner of 19th and Galer, on Capitol Hill, five streets came together in what Sara thought of as the “Italian intersection.” The southern tip of Interlaken Park, just a finger, reached up to close the northern edge of the circle. It was below Volunteer Park, a straight shot down Galer from the cemetary where Bruce Lee was buried. Sara sort of smiled, remembering that, as she carried her things down Interlaken, the street that wound into the park. Before long she was passing the Hebrew Academy, a lonely little outpost on the hillside, then turning down again into the wooded area. Her spot was more than a hundred yards from the road, hidden in a small stand of firs. She scrambled down the hill, out of sight. She knew just where she was going. This time of year, there was never anyone down there during the day. At night, there were some drug dealers, or so she’d heard, but she’d never seen them. Surrounded by her trees, Sara began unpacking her bags. In addition to her canvas shoulder bag, Sara had a black duffle bag filled with the heavier things she needed to reach the Oracle.

After chanting over the salt and the water, then sprinkling the mixture around her magic circle, making it safe, Sara set the little iron cauldron on her tripod. She double-checked, making sure it sat right in the center of the large circle.

Today, she said an extra blessing as she made the sign of the cross on her forehead. She was careful to keep her first and second fingers extended, and the third and fourth bent toward her palm with the thumb on their nails. She’d recently read in a book on psychic defense that that was the way to do it. Satisfied, she continued unpacking her bags. From her canvas shoulder bag she took olive oil, wine, and milk, pouring a splash of each into the cauldron. Beneath the cauldron she lit a propane fire, then she added herbs, rock salt, and finally, a lock of hair. From her black tote bag, she took her candles and set them at each of the five points of the star in her circle. Sara lit the candles and said another prayer.

She raised her Athame high, chanting, “I call on the Oracle of Delphi, servant of Apollo, the lord of the silver bow.” She added more wine. Sara closed her eyes, drinking wine Ambrosia now from a soft plastic bottle, moving slowly around the cauldron, which was beginning to bubble. “Hear me great Apollo, serpent-slayer. I summon your Oracle.” Her movements were a little faster. Wine Ambrosia ran down her chin. “I must find Theseus. There is great danger. Help me now.” Sara stared into the bubbling cauldron. Hands in the air. Watching, waiting. “Give me a sign. Hear your priestess. Secret sister of Theseus. Oh mighty Apollo, God of truth, hear me now. Poseidon has been scorned. The Beast is rising.” She slowed, raised her Athame high, still staring at the boiling potion in her cauldron. She swayed back and forth, summoning the Oracle, eyes on the boiling potion. And louder, “Nothing. You grant me nothing. Then there must be blood. The gods must dance in blood.” Sara stiffened, and with one fluid motion, she brought her Athame down, slicing across her forearm. “Accept my offering, great Apollo, keeper of light. And to you, Poseidon, earth-shaker, I offer again to you, to appease your anger.” Sara sliced again, letting her blood flow down her elbow and into the bubbling cauldron. “Hear me. Hear me now. Bring me Theseus. Show me his sign.” She raised her arm again, watching the blood swirling in her potion. In the cooling shadows of the spring afternoon, Sara raised her Athame high and danced lightly around her simmering cauldron.