I had but little time to write the second letter. My Nomads were not behaving predictably. That interference from the Priestess of Morning was only part of the cause. After all, Teresa herself decided to detour them to her mother—I had to spend precious time trying to locate them again. This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to happen.
Traipsing between two worlds, following the movements of both the Church of Midnight and Church of Morning, I was forced to hasten preparations with the Heart bearer. The cloud cover would hold out as long as I did. Unfortunately, all of my power waned the closer October 31st approached. My strength lessened; Chaplain Cloth’s grew. With luck the clouds would continue to blind the Priestess to the Nomads’ whereabouts.
On top of a dumpster lid, just around the block from the Happy Moon Travel Lodge, my pen had flown across the parchment:
Martin & Teresa,
Go under the cover of rain to the city’s north side. Find a neighborhood adjoining an industrial park. Your meeting place is 108 Wenlock Way. Pick a mushroom from the lawn. The Heart of the Harvest has grown within these four: Jesse Jordon, Nancy Jordon, Steven Jordon, & Rebecca Jordon. Make your visit with the Bearer brief and follow his instructions to the word. It is vital you do so.
—Messenger
I delivered the letter then to the hotel manager and as I left, prayed silently for my two champions. If they didn’t protect the Hearts, that gateway would be compromised. The Old Domain would flow into this world like a poisonous ocean and chaos would return. They were faced with this every year, yes, but never had it been this certain.
~ * ~
Out of everything in the letter, Martin kept concentrating on the mushroom. Why the shroom? he thought again, shaking his head. Teresa was taking a shower, trying to hurry while the rain still came down in buckets. Getting her up had been a chore to beat all others. Coughing throughout the night, she’d probably not gotten a wink of sleep, and the same went for him.
Her pack of cloves sat on the nightstand by his piece. Nothing ever got through to Teresa, not even saying he’d likely kill himself if he lost her. Sure—you’d probably just go out and find some redhead with big titties, she always joked. It wasn’t funny to Martin. Because he knew who she really spoke of, even if it didn’t register with Teresa—that waitress she’d caught him with had red hair.
Back then, young and dumb, Martin didn’t know if he’d live from one October to the next. Back then, he never thought Teresa was for real. She was so strong, independent, unbreakable in so many ways. In a sense, the screwing around had been a test, just to see if Teresa could be hurt. Martin had much success and in his moment of shame her psychological walls fell in. Since then he hoped he’d picked most of those walls back up. Bizarre, but Teresa Celeste was all he’d ever wanted anyway. He’d told her as much. A decade later, she probably still didn’t believe him about that.
He slid over the cloves and took out one of the slender black sticks. He considered lighting it up, so when she came out she’d see him smoking and then... what would she say? Would she get pissed? He should do it. His stomach revolved at the wild smell though. Carefully he plugged it back inside the pack. Even if they did successfully protect these four Hearts this year, he had to wonder if he’d be sitting in the van one day real soon, playing the game: What did the Messenger take from you? Replying, “Teresa, my partner, my friend, my life.”
Martin scanned the parking lot. The green swimming pool dappled with raindrops glistened like an enchanted lake. It seemed out-of-place with the beat down Chevy pickup and oil stains outside its gate.
He knocked and moseyed into the stuffy pea soup bathroom. Teresa was blow drying. She clicked off the blowdryer and her eyes widened. “Did it stop?”
“Still going like a hundred year flood. I’m going to take a shower too.”
“I thought you were going to wait until we got back.”
“Nah.”
He stripped off his boxers. As he went past she grabbed his penis and squeezed.
“You’re a tease.”
She smiled and released. “Never gets old.”
The hot water felt great and the complementary Happy Moon shampoo, though smelling like lice therapy, left his scalp tingling. He scrubbed his flesh with his bath brush in meaningful circles, slowly transforming himself into a soap-suds creature.
Teresa came back through the steam with her hair in a ponytail. It had only been dried enough as to keep from leaving her shirt wet—this was sensible Teresa at her best, for it was raining outside, after all. She stopped at the threshold and entered a brutal, but swift, coughing fit. Martin counted them. Six, and then a final seventh one that made her gag and reddened her eyes. She cupped some water to her mouth from the sink and dabbed her face with a piece of toilet paper. The soap on Martin’s body lost its invigorating quality and began to feel sticky, unnecessary. He started washing off.
“How’s Colton water taste?”
“Rusty.” She blinked to refocus. “I’m going to run up to that burger place. What do you want?”
“I doubt they have organic meat. I’ll have a garden salad, extra croutons. Hold the pesticides.”
“A salad! Oh you’re going to grow yourself an inner tube, fatso!”
He rinsed the rest of the soap away from his neck. It was just nice that she was hungry for a change. “Get me double whatever meatwich you’re getting, and make sure the animal suffered a while before they hacked off its head.”
Teresa’s smile was lackluster. “I was joking. I’ll get you what you want.”
He became aware of how loud the water from the showerhead was. “Better be quick while we have the rain. Messenger’s orders.”
Teresa barked another short cough into her fist and closed the bathroom door.
“Be careful,” he added.
~ * ~
After breakfast, the Nomads set out into the city of Colton to meet the Hearts of the Harvest. Martin had been to cities in unsalvageable disrepair but Colton wore a miserable charm around its neck. The city had the smell of time perking from its splintering foundations. Flyer-covered thrift stores, dislocated railroad tracks, blackened radiator shops, intersections that came together in weird arachnidan angles, one bedroom shanties that crowded flaking white Victorians. Everything was clutched in a dearth of American concern, which was a complicated, less honest scarcity than other places in the world. As they drove past a quaint little Catholic Church, Martin saw the grinning masks of the congregating people. They used the masks to hide their irrelevance. Destitution had helped forge a droopy-eyed apathy for anything beyond the liquor stores and strip clubs. Maybe it was Martin’s own jaded view projected on them. He could accept that.
But if it wasn’t just him, then what a shame for Colton, and other cities like it. This great railroad hub had meant something to someone once. It no longer counted now, but one couldn’t deny a notable energy had once run through Colton’s veins. No wonder the Hearts had ended up here.
Teresa was taking a catnap. It wasn’t a long drive to the Bearer, and Martin had told her as much, but she snapped at him to quit his grousing. The morning had been somewhat peaceful and he didn’t want the bickering to evolve. Teresa had been eerily pleasant, even purchased him a silly toy from the burger restaurant.
“You said you always wanted an aquarium, remember?”
It was actually a little fish bowl with a fake cartoon goldfish staring back with bright white eyes. It looked frozen in the plastic sphere; dormant, benign, safe from the outside world.
“Thanks.” He kissed her then.
His mind returned to the moment and he enjoyed slowly gliding through the rain in their fortress on wheels. A new vehicle awaited them at the Bearer’s. Every October. There always was. Seeing this Quadravan go would be bittersweet. It wasn’t the most expensive, the most fuel efficient (not close), and it was not the newest vehicle the Messenger had ever pushed on them. But it felt reliable and felt comfortable.
Bye-bye, beautiful, he thought as he caressed the dashboard. You’ve done your job. Time to rest.
~ * ~
“Tony!”
Something exploded in her ear. Teresa threw her hands over her head and ducked. The passenger door rocketed across the street on a sled of sparks and hit the curb with a clang that made her teeth set together.
Martin twisted her face to his and pressed his fingers into her skull to focus her. “You’re safe. You’re safe.” When Teresa nodded, he gently let his hands fall away and added, “Don’t build anything else, quick-draw. You might have sent the mantle my way.”
“I had a dream about last year. Tony, we lost him, Martin—we lost him! He was with us. Then—How did he get away? What happened—where?” She sounded so stupid but the blubbering words came out uncontrolled.
“Cloth is playing with you. Tony’s not the first one we’ve ever lost, Teresa. It’s okay. We’re okay.” His words cut through her dream hysteria and made her sober. “It won’t happen again. Just don’t worry, okay?” he said. “Just pull it together.”
Teresa considered a moment if she’d come fully awake or not. She leaned over, held Martin, and her shoulders trembled and guts began twisting. Tears wouldn’t come but she was closer to shedding them now than she’d ever been. She couldn’t even remember crying after she found Martin with that waitress of his.
He studied her expression. “Must have been one hell of a dream. You weren’t even asleep for ten minutes.”
She sat back. Only now did she realize what she’d done. The passenger side door rested across the street, half-propped up on the curb. “We should get going,” she suggested in embarrassment. “Where are we?”
“The GPS says about half a mile away from the Hearts. Are you sure you’re okay now?”
She went to strip off her seat belt.
“Let me get it.” He jumped out of the van before she could argue.
Teresa watched as he trotted across the street and lifted the door up. “Heavy, but the window didn’t even break,” he commented. “I told you we have a tank.”
“Put it in the back of the tank then, General Larson.”
Teresa waited for him to get back in and start up the van. As they rolled on, the wind blowing through the van’s open wound felt wonderful. Houses began to look less run down, their simple architecture suddenly fascinating. The rain cloudy sky even seemed to grow metallic through its gloom. When they arrived at the location on the Messenger’s letter, they both had to take a moment to process their new surroundings.
The grass blinded them with green, the house’s sandy paint came alive with snapping gold flake, and the Spanish tiles ran down in a perfect formation like a rich strawberry waterfall. Teresa knew this wasn’t reality. Without the Hearts nearby, the grass was likely burnt from dog piss, the house’s paint faded like said urine, the strawberry Spanish tiles most likely crumbled and dusty looking.
Teresa scanned the area. She spotted a mallard duck on the mailbox. The painting might possess little actual artistic acumen in reality, but here and now, through the Hearts’ influence, each of the duck’s feathers had fine slices of iridescence running through them. The bird appeared tangible, touchable. So much, in fact, that it might take off and leave the plain black mailbox behind.
She stretched her eyes down the street and found other houses glowing with a hint of the same immaculacy. She wondered if those people sensed even a little of what lived next door. Being that the blood of the Old Domain ran through both her and Martin’s veins, supposedly they were the only ones who could notice—and even they couldn’t notice the Hearts’ influence forever. They became accustomed to the luster, eventually. Last year the Heart had been exceptionally powerful. Tony Nguyen had made his studio apartment shine like El Dorado. But that sight was meager compared to this.
The overwhelming power contained in that house made Teresa’s breakfast twist in her stomach. If she was feeling this reeled by the Hearts, imagine what kind of sacrifice they would make for Chaplain Cloth.
Outside the rain had thinned. It wasn’t torrential anymore and the hoary old clouds appeared happy with the prospect of death. A large vehicle sat in the driveway under a tarp. Martin gestured with some enthusiasm. Under that tarp would be their new vehicle. Teresa acknowledged his little-boy-excitement but was still entranced from her dream.
She never let Martin take all the blame for Tony, although most of the responsibility had been his. In her case it had been over ambition—pride. Pure and simple. With Martin, he’d gotten fancy with the mantles and that made him sloppy and eventually exhausted. It was bound to happen over so many years, getting cocky after saving five or six Hearts in a row. Over the years Martin had developed a displacement mantle with a trigger point that blasted through the ghost-matter, creating a type of invisible landmine. Teresa had never found these types of mantles as reliable as Martin. She’d rather they set real mines and C4 charges. Mantles were delicate at times, and the long-lasting mantles could be debilitating. It wasn’t in their best interest to experiment on Halloween. She knew that before last year, but she got comfortable. They both got way too comfortable.
A finch flew into the influence and went from a dull liver color to chocolate. The finch sang and looped around before lighting on a eucalyptus next door. If only it could stay this way forever and we could put up some strong mantles, seal this place off until November. It would be like living in Candyland or the southern Californian version of the North Pole.
But there were no mantles strong enough to keep Chaplain Cloth away. If one was set in his way, he’d tear it down. In the end, the barriers she and Martin created only bought them time. That was it. If they slowed down Cloth until the first of November, then that was good year.
“The rain,” Martin said uneasily, looking up. “Time to stop thinking and go in there.”
“What if one has a wheelchair, like in Duluth? We almost lost her.”
“Yep, but does it matter? We didn’t lose her. Of course the next year we lost that track and field guy—”
“And Cloth nearly took your head off,” she added.
“Well that wasn’t something I wanted to remember.”
She stared at the house. “So what do you think?”
“The Jordons are probably a family,” he said. “Mama bear, Papa, Gilligan and Beavis.”
She didn’t find his humor appropriate and sighed.
Martin sighed too. “Well, you know we can’t drive away.”
“The Messenger should have found someone else, someone in good health. I didn’t even think I’d make it here—not this time last year. Look, this is too much responsibility. Four? Four? We couldn’t even save one Heart last year.”
Martin slammed the door so hard the hinges shrieked. Teresa watched him for a moment. He turned to look at her. Then, slowly she slid out of her seat and grabbed where her door used to be, pretended to slam it.
He stared in disbelief. “You’re too much.”
“Oh I know.”
They locked hands and crossed the street. She plucked a chilly white mushroom from the lawn. “Good one,” Martin complimented.
He looked up just in time to see the drapes in the front window fall away. The Bearer knew they were here.
When they got up to the porch the front door opened and a hand came through. The skin was a rich bronze, the fingers male but delicate, the wrist forked with veins. Teresa placed the mushroom in the palm and the fingers folded over like a Venus flytrap. A sigh came through the door. Teresa couldn’t tell if the sigh was of relief, exhaustion, or disgust. She was aware only of splendor ebbing through the doorjamb. Sugar fumes. Vanilla hope. Life-giving dreams of pine and clean skies.
The hand dropped the mushroom on the porch. A finger jutted at Martin. When words came, the very sound of them was a stinging annoyance through golden bliss. “Pick that up please.”
Martin gave Teresa a sidelong look. “Anything you say, chief.”
He stooped down.
“Not with your hands,” the voice said quickly.
Martin’s brow lifted.
“Draw from the Old Domain.”
“Yeah,” answered Martin and he looked at her. “I get it now. This is our proof of ID.”
A cool shadow crept over Martin’s face for a minute. There was no sound in the neighborhood. Nothing. Stillness. The process seemed to stretch on forever. Teresa felt a small, paper-thin mantle come into being. With his mind Martin slipped it under the mushroom. The mushroom rolled a little, but he rooted underneath it with a mental shove. The mushroom lifted to eye level. It floated there, as if supported on nothing, and wobbled as his concentration fluxed for a moment.
The Bearer’s finger swung to Teresa. “You, crush the mushroom, please.”
Teresa dipped into the freezing pond in her own brain. Her mantle came into existence immediately, yet did not have the style or grace of Martin’s. His was a slip of royal parchment; hers was a paper ball destined for the trashcan. Stylish or not, when she brought it down on the mushroom, Martin forced up and the mushroom flattened.
They released and a mushroom pancake dropped down onto the porch.
“Anything else?” asked Martin.
The hand pulled inside and the door shut. A chain unlatched and clattered against the doorframe. The door opened, steady with deliberate caution.
The Bearer was not short in the conventional sense; he was in that four-foot category that didn’t migitize or dwarf him but had the stature of a taller man. Or so Teresa thought anyway. He was a handsome man. His deep, romantic black eyes stared from within graphite caves. Not as romantic however, was his wife-beater and boxer shorts with a school of extraordinarily happy fish. Teresa caught the subtle addition of sombreros on each smiling mackerel.
“So you are the Nomads.” His voice had a Bearer’s usual dislocated accent, like textbook English language. The Messenger had Bearers moving constantly and they never had time to absorb culture, let alone dialect. In a way, they were the same creature as the Nomads, except that their job eventually had a terminus. Usually.
The Bearer extended his hand and his lips peeled slightly for a smile. “I am Enrique Gonzalez. I am sorry I am not dressed yet. I expected you to arrive here at this house yesterday.”
Teresa drove two sharp coughs into her fist to get them out of her system.
Concern touched Enrique’s eyes. “We must get you on your way before the rain stops falling.”
Martin held out a hand to catch raindrops. The sky was white overhead. All gray had fled. They began to step over the threshold and Enrique held out a hand. “I should mention that the Hearts’ potency is harsh at first.”
Teresa gestured to the brilliant cast of the neighborhood. “We couldn’t help but notice. Don’t worry, we’ve done this for a while now.”
Enrique’s dark face pinched. “Yes, I am certain. But as you come inside, things will intensify. I will walk you through and we can take breaks along the way to make it easier.”
“Breaks?” she asked. Did this kid think they were rookies?
“Try to hang on to each other or something stable, so that you do not fall and hit your head. It may take a while to acclimatize. But you will.”
“We know how it goes, Mr. Gonzalez.”
Enrique waved them inward. Teresa went in first, steeling herself. When they both stepped completely inside the house, the atmosphere roared into a symphony of terrifying beauty. The living room was only the first movement of that symphony.
~ * ~
I know the feeling of dedicated worship. It grabs me completely against my will and subjugates my initial detachment from an otherwise complete stranger. Though I follow these special people all of my life, meeting a Heart of the Harvest always creates a lightning strike of loyalty—there is boundless pride just sharing the same oxygen with them. After only a moment I feel I’ve known them for a thousand lifetimes with not the slightest spark of a secret having ever fallen between us.
And this experience was no different for my Martin and Teresa.
~ * ~
Crossing the threshold took Martin to a completely new, painful location in the territories of love. It would be natural to assume the feeling would be four times greater with four Hearts, but that wasn’t the case—calling it just exponential would be vapid. The experience transformed everything into a cerebral circumlocution of both the fascinating and abhorrent. Martin cared about Teresa more than anything else; his soul was patterned around their bond. Yet at that given moment he’d have ripped the ties apart to that bond and done something awful just to service this new love.
Teresa pitched over and he winged an arm under her chest to keep her from falling. The discharge of her wheezing lungs made Martin sweat and taste blood. His empathy had pulled him into a different zone. He felt as Teresa felt: a burning piece of murder in his chest, a quaking need to soothe it in smoke. All this and he still didn’t care about her problems; he cared about whether the Hearts were safe and if his head would keep spinning on three separate axes.
“Here if you please,” offered Enrique. “You will sit on the couch and you will try to regain yourselves from the influence.”
Martin didn’t remember the man. If he and Teresa passed out, how would they know the Hearts were safe? What would they do if they woke up and found them gone? It would induce suicidal heartbreak.
“You okay?” Martin must have been staring at Teresa for some time now, and she him, but neither processed the other. Teresa had just pawed her way out of a grave, her pretty brown hair coarse like decaying plants in a riverbank, her skin bloodless and true white, her eyes two simple stones with the intelligence amputated from their shine.
“Teresa?”
She turned away, stoned on the Hearts. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I will fetch you both some water.” Enrique was talking to different people, coherent people.
Martin rubbed his temples and concentrated on the wrinkly contours of the gray carpet. His head was sore from worrying. An endless song emanated off everything like heat waves. Being inside the house wasn’t getting easier—the love was getting worse.
Just then the living room sang at the top of its lungs,
Oh Hearts, come unto me and give over your fear.
Rest your heads in my company, rest your heads for old time’s sake,
Rest your heads in my cool gray wrinkled flesh. Love me, love me.
Sink into my couch and live inside my excellence.
Don’t forsake my love, and Hearts, never fret.
Oh-oh-oh, Hearts, you can never, ever, never fret!
“I don’t think I can stay here anymore,” said Teresa with a wild animal look in her eyes.
Martin hated her for even suggesting such a thing. “You want to leave?”
“I can’t stay in here, knowing they’re so close.” Her knees popped as she sprung up and rounded the couch.
“Wait!” The world went flat and tipped. Martin’s shoulder crunched against the corner of two walls. He laughed as the bone relocated into its socket. Why he laughed was beyond him, like everything else.
In the kitchen Teresa grappled the stove. Enrique filled two glasses of water from a pitcher. The ice water and lemon wedges cast silver and gold shadows across the mauve tile countertops. Enrique nervously giggled softly for a moment—or had it been loud, had it been a lot? “Couldn’t wait, huh?” he said. “Okay, but you will need a longer break than that I fear, if you both do not want to pass out on the floor.”
Martin stumbled to the adjoining dining room and sat at a card table with peeling avocado vinyl. Teresa joined him. On his tiptoes Enrique rummaged through a cupboard. Martin wanted to help him, for the first time feeling taller than someone else, but he was glued to the avocado table. To the left of Enrique the refrigerator sang an angry song with its compressor:
Hummmmmm, Hummmmmm—My waiting’s so atrocious!
Hummmmmm, Hummmmmm—Precocious but so hating!
Hummmmmm, Hummmmmm—To be cold without your love!
Hummmmmm, Hummmmmm—My waiting’s so atrocious!
“Do you hear the song?” Martin whispered.
Teresa leaned to his ear. “You mean the whales mating?”
Enrique set down the glasses and pulled a box of Saltine crackers out from under his arm. “This is the best food that I have to offer. I cannot go out much, as you might have guessed. I am about sick to death of cheese pizza.”
Teresa took a long drink of her water and then her head moved side to side like a junkie. “How can you live like this?” Then, what seemed like an eon later. “Mr. Gonzalez.”
Enrique’s smile shone like a pearl boomerang. Martin was afraid it would come after him. “In about an hour you will both feel normal again. That is why the Messenger wanted you to meet them before the Hunt. It is just something our kind goes through from this kind of exposure.”
“Our kind,” Martin mused. “Tied in blood to the Old Domain.”
Teresa’s voice boomed over the appliance caroling. “This is so much different than the Hearts of the past. I have a question.” The last sounded really boisterous, so obnoxious that Martin wanted to run screaming from the room, but he shook his head violently to regain control. “The Bishops are tied to the Old Domain, aren’t they? This is more intense than anything... anything... we’ve ever seen. What if the Bishops can sense this?”
“As you know, the Bishops are not tied through blood. They’re corrupted earthborn. We’re safe from them, at least for now.”
“Cloth?”
“He belongs to neither world, but you know not to underestimate him.”
“Yes, we do know that much.”
Martin writhed against the need again and had to thrash a little. The sensation had stacked up. He needed to be free of it. “Can I ask something?”
“You don’t need permission,” said Enrique.
“Aren’t we fooling ourselves going through all of this? One way or another, the gateway will open. The churches will unite.”
“If we fail, you mean.”
“If is damned generous. If the churches are this close then it’s only a matter of time. Maybe not this year, but what about next year, or the year after? It’ll happen. It almost happened last year. We’ve lucked out that the Bishops haven’t posed a problem, but we know they’ve made major trouble for Nomads in the past—the Church in this world only grows stronger. We’re only two. Why won’t the messenger get the hint that we need more help?”
“He asks the Bearers this every year,” Teresa said, abjectly.
Enrique’s eyes warmed like simmering peanut oil. Martin suddenly wished he hadn’t embarked on this subject. “We trust in the Messenger.”
“That’s all? And what does that mean? Plain craziness, if you ask me.”
The Heart Bearer leaned toward him. “Every day is crazy. What can you do about it? Nothing. The Hearts must not be sacrificed because we get down on our lot.”
Martin couldn’t tell if he disliked Enrique now, or just had no room in his heart for anything else. Absently he toyed with his puka shell necklace in an attempt to forget the Hearts. The cool ridges of the shells calmed him sometimes. Not now. They were rough. They were wrong. He suddenly stood from his chair, thinking it would help. The world didn’t agree. He couldn’t pretend any longer. He needed the Hearts.
“Oh, sit down,” said Teresa.
Martin dampened the urge to wail and pull his eyes out. The kitchen and dining room were still alive, the refrigerator still singing, but he was learning how to live with the racket.
“I know you are tired.” Enrique looked him up and down. Martin pictured him as a little boy, not because of his shortness, but of the clean clarity in his eyes. Innocence lived there. “But I cannot protect them the way you two can.”
Martin laughed silently for a moment and they stared at him. Finally, he straightened. “You can’t protect them, so what good are you people anyway?”
Teresa shot him a nasty look.
Enrique entwined his hair-cuffed hands. A few moments passed. Nobody human said anything but the refrigerator wanted to embark on an adventure.
At last Enrique said, “You will be more at ease when we go down to meet them.”
“Down?” asked Martin.
“The basement. They’re waiting for us.”
“I don’t hear them.”
Enrique’s smile looked like that of the mackerels on his boxer shorts. “The Hearts are resting.”
Teresa wobbled as she got to her feet. Martin thought about helping her but decided he was still angry at her reprimand.
They followed Enrique down a bare hallway to a sepia door. He flipped a light switch. The stairwell flickered several times. Underfoot, the wooden stairs belted out an ode. With every step the words became more incomprehensible. Martin’s hands moistened as he gripped the rotting banister. Teresa descended behind him and her footsteps added a chorus section.
How long?
Soon.
Where?
You should know.
I don’t. Where?
Where? Ha! Where and where and there and here; love lives, love dies, who knows, can we, into the where, there and here, there to hear fear; dying to die, living to lie, now we’re inside, wiggles in, wiggles sin, to fear and mirror and tear and here.
Andwhere? Waiting. Andthere? So atrocious. Andlovelives? Never. Anddieloves?
Ever. Livesdies? Fret. Wholivesdies? They? No. Onelivesdies? Theyareone.
Fourareone. They-are-the-way-way-the-are-they. LOVE LIVES. Thehearts.
Thehearts. Thearts. Who?
Love lives within.
Not long. So soon.
~ * ~
Enrique swung a newspaper back and forth. The image was a little disturbing at first and Teresa flinched. The Bearer only smiled and tossed the paper away. “I had a feeling you both needed more... decompression time.”
Martin was at her side, his arm pillowing his head against the bottom of the stairs. Out cold.
“It’s a good thing you guys did not faint at the top. I do not think I could have guided you to the ground the same way.” Enrique shook his head.
Teresa poked Martin in the ribs. His eyes flew open wide, hand going for his handgun. She grabbed his hand and didn’t let go until relief poured over him. He looked around suspiciously. “The stairs were talking.”
Teresa snorted. “Really?” she said, “and what did they say?”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Yes we are,” Enrique slapped his thigh. When Martin glared at him, he said, “Please come this way. The Jordons are waiting to meet you.”
The basement buzzed with fluorescent light. The room itself was a shallow brick box. They were all weary bricks down here; the grout had struggled for years to hold an illusion of support and now there was no illusion left to give. Cracks, spider holes, running fissure tangents leaking from corroded pipes. The light painted contours in the gray stones.
Teresa wondered what would happen when the Hearts left this place—would the bricks give in and collapse? She could feel the stinging heat from the light fixtures above and yet she was drowning in icy shock. She had seen many Hearts on the road, and in many shapes; the Hearts came in all varieties: moms, dads, grandfathers and mothers. Some were lovely, other lunatics, and some were teenagers. As Nomads they had no say. They just had to protect them no matter what. She and Martin loved them every year, without a choice in the matter, and at least for the short time they knew them, through and through.
So why’s this so hard to accept? she thought.
Martin stretched his neck at the twisting pink forms in their basinets, his jaw hanging. “What in the hell?”
“Wait a minute,” Teresa reproached.
“You feel them, do you not? They’re stronger than the others.” A proud smile spread on Enrique’s face. “The blood fruit grows within all four.”
Martin pointed at the babies, apparently too in the moment to voice any concern.
“I don’t understand,” stammered Teresa. “They can’t all have it?”
“They are quadruplets. As potent as Tony Nguyen was, last year’s fruit was only a glimmer on the sun. They are enough to blow the gateway wide open many times over.”
Martin stepped toward the basinets, overcautious.
“Babies? We don’t know how to take care of them,” said Teresa.
“Never changed one diaper, not one,” Martin said to himself, sounding slightly crazed.
“They are marvelous babies. You will easily learn.”
They studied the Jordons for a moment. The four didn’t look vastly different from one another. All had that soft, reddened look of new life. All had thin downy pates, too frail for full color. They indeed looked to be healthy babies. Teresa tried not to make eye contact; it would be difficult to concentrate on anything but them if she did. Martin averted his eyes as well. He would probably act out against it, try and cheat the obvious—that was Martin, the silent revolutionary.
“As you might have guessed, I have not been a Bearer for long. You might say that I have had an intense cultivation period, very short, but challenging. This is an uncommon situation, without doubt. Nguyen’s Bearer worked with him all the way into his college years—I’ve only had four months with the Jordons.”
Martin grasped the back of his head to keep from pitching backward. Here came that acting out part. “Wait, wait. Nah, I’ve got issues with this. What happens on the Day of Opening? Carry a baby in each arm like grocery bags? With the whole church coming down on our heads? This is fucked, really, Enrique. Who made this shit up? We’ve never had babies before. There’s too many. We’re only two people.”
“Knock it off,” Teresa told him. “A Heart is a Heart.”
“Oh please,” replied Martin. “At this age these kids have the brains of a jellyfish.”
“You could only be so lucky—”
“I have papooses for twins,” Enrique interjected. “They are quite comfortable and secure for running. I’ll be bringing them along when I drop the Hearts off.”
The Nomads turned together like mirror images. “We’re not taking them right now?” asked Teresa, “Why wouldn’t we? We can be out of California before nightfall.”
“Things are different now. You are being watched. The Messenger has sheltered you from the Church, but only here. And he cannot keep the entire city of Colton covered forever. Away from the motel, the sky coverage will fluctuate.”
“Outrunning the Church is smarter than hanging around.”
“They will go after you. Cloth knows the importance of the Hearts this year. He’ll make sure his mortals follow you. There can be no adjustments,” said Enrique. “The Messenger was unambiguous in the directions. I will deliver the children around six o’clock PM the night prior to the Day of Opening. Take enough supplies up and stay in your room until I arrive. I put a duffel bag in the Wrangler out front. I’ll contact you at the motel if the plan changes.”
“We can’t keep the babies with us?” asked Martin.
“They’re watching you, not me. Do you understand?”
One of the babies whimpered and cocked its head to the right. Teresa examined the miraculous foursome. So wrinkled, so easily in distress, so terribly young. Her affection forced itself inside and warmed her blood.
Martin deflated completely. He’d been through too much now to ask a lot of questions, and as always, he knew that he had no say in what happened as far as Halloween went. “Once you bring them to our room, what then?”
“What has it always been?” Enrique watched them, a somber oil painting. “You run like the devil. From the devil.”