Neverland's Library: Fantasy Anthology Read online

  The demon who swims through the grass, Charlotte thought, but didn’t say it aloud.

  The girl nodded.

  “Yes. That’s who. It’s as real as we are.”

  Charlotte, sweet thing, didn’t know what to say. Fifteen years of being told she was a decent person whose brain worked incorrectly. That visions are visions. That being insane isn’t anything to be ashamed of, not really. Except when, of course, it’s something to be ashamed of.

  “I need to think about it,” Charlotte said quietly. A tiny little star chimed and chirped and zipped over to her. It climbed into her lap and began to purr. Charlotte held it gently, feeling the warmth of the star in her cupped hands.

  “Of course,” said the girl. She patted the star on the head, and then did the same to Charlotte. “We’re here. Take your time. And when you want to go visit your mother, I’ll come with you, if you’d like. We all will.”

  The boy with wings stood in the doorway and nodded at the girl’s words. He held his hand out to her, and the invisible girl took it. They both smiled. Charlotte smiled back. The star chimed.

  “I think I like you,” she told the star. “It would be so wonderful if you were real.”

  The star snuggled closer. Charlotte crawled under her covers and brought the star with her. For the first time in a long time, she was truly happy.

  Several days later, she decided she was finished hiding. Crazy or not, she needed to see her mother.

  She got dressed. Brushed her brown hair. Stared at herself in the mirror.

  “I can do this.”

  The star jumped onto her shoulder and nuzzled her earlobe. Charlotte grinned.

  “You make things easier, you darling thing. I think I can go if you come with me.”

  She stood on the porch, looking at the trees and grass and beautiful wonder outside. It had been so long. She had become used to white walls and carefully cultivated hospital grounds. But this? The wildness was stunning. The freedom intoxicating. She wanted to run down the hill, screaming with frustration and joy.

  “Why don’t you?” asked the Boy Who Hangs the Stars. He was smiling at her, his wings beating calmly. The star leaped from her shoulder to his and meowed.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t…”

  “Then come with me, Lotte,” he said, and took her hand.

  They ran. Ran through the grass, ran down the hill. Charlotte remembered the way her pigtails flew when she was Lotte, not Charlotte. She recalled screaming with joy and fierceness and delighted terror when she felt like her legs were outrunning the rest of her body. The boy laughed, his wild hair even wilder, and Charlotte realized she was laughing as well.

  Laughter. Joy. This was real.

  They reached the bottom of the hill and tumbled to the ground. Breathing heavily. Still laughing. Charlotte rolled onto her back and stared at the sky.

  “We waited for you to come back,” the boy said. “None of us thought it would take so long. But you’re here, and we’re happy.”

  “I’m still not sure if I believe in you,” Charlotte said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” Another voice. A ghost girl with blonde hair. White Mary, if she remembered correctly. “Believe or don’t believe. It doesn’t matter.” She smiled, and it was lovely.

  “I’d like to see my mother,” Charlotte said. She stood up and brushed the grass from her. “I’d also like all of you to come, if you don’t mind?”

  She looked at the ground, feeling shy. Feeling like she was asking too much.

  Hands in hers. A chiming star in her hair.

  “Of course we’ll come,” said the winged boy. White Mary nodded.

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said. “Thank you so, so much.”

  The cemetery was surrounded by tall apple trees in full bloom. Grasses swayed. Charlotte picked her way through the headstones until she found her mother’s.

  She dropped to her knees, the air knocked out of her, head and heart hurting.

  “Mommy,” she managed, and that’s all she could say, because suddenly she was crying so hard that she could barely breathe. All of the sunny afternoons, the cold winter nights. All of the things about becoming a woman, about figuring out who she was, and her mother wasn’t there to ask. So much time lost. So many empty arms for both of them. And why?

  “Lotte,” the Boy Who Hangs the Stars said, and his ethereal voice held warning. She looked up, wiping her eyes, and saw that the sky was darkening, the wind starting up. Far in the distance, the long grass parted like water.

  “It’s coming.”

  She didn’t need to be told what. She knew. Knew deep in her bones, in that primal part of her that housed things like fear and regret and rage. The demon who swims through the grass.

  The invisible girl who glowed like a star was on her knees beside Charlotte.

  “If you run, maybe you can escape him. Maybe if you’re fast enough, you can make it to the house.”

  “I can carry you,” the Boy Who Hangs the Stars said. He spread his beautiful white wings, and they blotted out the sun. “I can get you home safely. Come on!”

  “No,” Charlotte said, and the word surprised all of them. She said it again, louder. With more force. It felt good. Felt like majesty.

  “No. I’m not going to run. Not this time.”

  The demon swam closer. The invisible girl’s glow diminished, seemed to pale. The boy reached out and held her hand tightly.

  “We’ll stay with you,” he said, and Charlotte bit her lip and nodded. She stuffed her tremoring hands in her pockets and stood her ground, waiting for the demon to show.

  It didn’t disappoint.

  “Charlotte,” it breathed from deep inside the grass. Its voice was ancient and cold, stirring up primal feelings in Charlotte. She tasted horror. The fear of being chased, of being eaten. The things that she thought had evolved out of the human psyche long ago.

  “Demon,” she said curtly, and her voice was surprisingly strong. The boy and girl stood beside her. A team. A tribe.

  The little grinning shadow demon with the zippered teeth danced nearby, watching the exchange. “Oh, goodie,” it said with its hollow voice. “Just like old times. I’m ready to play, Lotte. Are you?”

  “Back off,” she told it. “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to this one. You’re the one that burned my house, right? Hurt my mother?”

  The demon, still hidden in the grass, chuckled.

  “I told you. I warned you not to ignore me. Your mother was filling your head with bad thoughts. Untrue thoughts. Telling you that I didn’t exist. A mother shouldn’t be telling a little girl things that are untrue, should she?”

  Charlotte tasted something like blood on her lips. It was rage. It tasted good. Tasted wholesome. She could feast on it for weeks. For always.

  “She was my mother, and you stole her from me. Stole my childhood from me.”

  She sounded dark herself, her own kind of demon. Fierce and powerful. She felt the support of her friends. The boy with wings and his star. The invisible girl. White Mary.

  “There are more of us than you,” she said, and her anger gave her strength. She took a step into the grass. It was long and tall and filled her with terror and mystery. She grit her teeth and took another step. Another.

  “What are you doing, girl?”

  The demon who swims through the grass sounded worried. Sounded like somebody who wasn’t used to being challenged. This gave Charlotte new strength.

  “Why, it’s called revenge, demon. You took something precious from me. Now it’s time I do the same to you.”

  The shadow demon who watched them stopped its chittering. Squeaked through its zippered teeth, and dove into the grass. Scrabbled away.

  Charlotte grinned.

  “Looks like your little pet took off. I suggest you do the same.”

  The demon laughed, but it sounded forced. Sounded afraid.

  “What could you possible do to me, girl?”

  Cha
rlotte shrugged, but kept venturing into the grass. Each step felt like power. Each step felt like gain.

  “I’m going to kill you. Maybe not at first. It might take me a few tries. But, oh, how I’m going to love the trying.”

  The demon who swims through the grass was her nightmare. It was everything she was afraid of, besides her own mind. But her mind wasn’t broken. She was whole. This was real. It was all real, and the very reality of it took her fear away.

  There was a sound. A strangled growl. The meadow swirled, and the demon who swims through the grass retreated. Whirled around and swam away, the grasses bending and flowing around it like filthy water, like fire.

  “Come back here!” Charlotte shouted. “Get back here, you coward!”

  “Lotte,” said the invisible girl, and Charlotte calmed. Ran her hands over her face and took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry, you guys. I’m just…I’m angry…”

  She couldn’t say anything more because they had thrown their arms around her. The boy. The girls. The star slipped itself into her pocket and peeked out, just as it had when she was their dear Lotte, not Simply Charlotte.

  “Welcome home, Lotte,” White Mary said. Her hair blew around her face in a wind that nobody else could feel. “I’m so very glad you’re back.”

  “Me too,” Charlotte said, and she meant it. She was back where she belonged, with those who knew her best. It was time to make a new life for herself. The best kind of life.

  They walked up to the house. There was so much conversation. So much talking and laughing. Recreations of Charlotte wading into the waist-deep grasses, going after the flustered demon. More laughter. Delicious, beautiful laughter.

  At the foot of the hill, Charlotte’s mother stood by her headstone, watching her little girl. Lotte had grown so much, become so strong. She had the gift to see things that few others saw, and this made the mother grateful. They could start anew. They could start right.

  She disappeared into the evening. Soon she would visit her brave little Lotte, and this fairytale, like so many others, would indeed have a happy ending.

  On the Far Side of the Apocalypse

  Peter Rawlik

  DAWN IS ANNOUNCED BY a trio of Cherubim singing hosannas and hallelujahs as they dart between buildings and around street lamps and over underpasses. As I watch the sunrise, the three baby-faced, dove-winged angels stream by clad in chrome-spiked leather and sunglasses, their fingers and teeth stained yellow from fat, greasy cigars that trail smoke like streamers behind them. Today is Sunday, like yesterday and the day before and the day before that. According to the City Watch, every day is Sunday. Not a decree mind you, just an odd pattern established, perhaps by default, by Metatron, the Voice of God and Divine Governor of His City, the City of Angels.

  Welcome to post-apocalyptic Los Angeles, a city finally both secular and divine. Walking through the streets (or what remains, for what need do Angels have of streets) are the homeless, the mad, and other residents who fight for space against the teeming throngs of refugees from Las Vegas and the pilgrims from Denver, Rome, and Mexico. L.A. has become Mecca, the final refuge, the new Babylon for those who remain. The official census lists the population at forty-two million, but pagans are not included in the polling. Private estimates place the coast’s population at over a hundred million. The pagans, mostly Hindus, Buddhists, and New Wiccans are not recognized by, nor subject to the laws of the Inquisition and are therefore free to assume certain less than legitimate enterprises without fear of retribution. The Tao Tong controls the drug trade throughout the city, while prostitution is held in the velvet glove of the Ishtarian Sisterhood.

  The press of humanity, whether forty-two or a hundred million, is almost intolerable. There isn’t enough food, or water, or facilities to satisfy the need. Not that it matters much. The Angel of Death no longer walks the Earth. No one dies, only the plants and animals, creatures without souls retain that blessing. Starvation, dehydration, disease, and violence, all combine to drag the standard of living below any standard of acceptability. The atrocities of Germany, Eastern Europe, South-East Asia, and Africa were all just small-town, playhouse theater compared to the reality of California in the new millennium.

  I gather my things for my walk across the city, a walking stick for defense, a hat to keep the sun off my head, and an umbrella for the rain. On the way out, I pause and gather apples from the tree on the patio. It is an old tree, old when my parents were young. Despite its age it is small, with small apples, no larger than a child’s fist. When I gather the fruits, the guardian of the tree curls down around my arm, binding me to the tree with its scaled body.

  The three heads that hiss in unison form a chorus of a voice, “Is it time Man-Killer? It has been a long time. I have almost forgotten. Is it time for my tree to grow?”

  I take the time to stroke each of his heads. The flesh is soft and warm to the touch. I lift his body and whisper softly into his six ears, “Soon, old friend. Soon. I promise you.”

  The serpent draws itself up as if to strike. “I should have killed you when you stole the tree. I should have struck. I should have made your muscles knot, your bones break, and your brain burn. I should have made you shrivel and die.”

  “You know the law. You cannot touch me. No one can touch me. Not without fear of retribution.” I hold the serpent’s stare with my own.

  “I know the law, Man-Killer,” he concedes. “I also know the Lawmaker has abandoned your kind. I could strike you now and not fear His wrath.” Like a cobra, the serpent sways before me, watching for my guard to drop.

  “You could, old one. If you are sure that He is gone. Are you sure? Do you know something that all the Angels and humans do not? Feel free, serpent. Strike me down with your poison. Only be sure in your heart that He is gone. Be sure, because I myself hold no such belief.”

  The beast hisses in disgust, spitting acrid venom on the floor as he uncoils from my hand. He slithers back amongst the branches, leaving me to gather the last of the apples. By the time I finish my coat pockets are heavy with the dark, sweet fruit.

  I stumble down the stairwell and into the open streets. Immediately, I am caught behind a tour group frozen in place, gazing awestruck at the sky. Above the masses, the countless Celestial Orders of Angels dance in a strange aerial ballet with scrolls of gold leaf, trumpets and rose petals trailing behind them. Their guide, a licensed civil servant of the Celestial Bureaucracy, supplies the spectators with names.

  “There, ladies and gentlemen, there, just coming around the tower! In red and silver, that is Jehudiel, Archangel of the Spheres. His battle with the demon Marchosias tumbled down Chicago. And look behind him, Oertha whose valiant defense of Havana was all in vain.”

  I chuckle to as the crowd releases an audible “Oooohhhh.” Jehudiel and Oertha, indeed. Those two are Farris and Hizarbin, minor angels, cogs in the wheel of the Angelic Politic, bureaucrats of no standing and no particular fame. Although Farris is known in some circles for his preference for young, Asian boys. Not all Angels are angels.

  I push back the ignorant, misguided faithful and decide to take a shortcut through the Soukh. The marketplace reeks even worse than the rest of the city. It is a heavy acid and earth and rot smell, an odiferous mélange of what is sold in the Soukh. The first shops are clean and brightly lit and fully sanctioned by the administration. These are tourist shops, full of the usual flotsam and jetsam of human kitsch. The t-shirts are everywhere: I WAS JUDGED AND FOUND WANTING; MY PARENTS WENT TO HEAVEN AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS STUPID SHIRT; or my personal favorite, I SLEPT THROUGH THE APOCALYPSE. There are even some of those small water globes with cityscapes in them. When you shake them, millions of tiny angels and demons swirl in a maelstrom of imitation Armageddon.

  Deeper in, the common gives way to the uncommon and you can find merchants offering the most unusual items for sale. Relics of Popes and Saints are common and, in most cases, fraudulent. Offers of heavenly swords and unearthly halos are not
unheard of. These, too, are presumed fraudulent. You can, however, for the right price, buy a genuine heavenly relic. Items guaranteed to be Angelic in origin: Angelic feces, Angelic vomit, and Angelic urine. Angel piss has an unearthly color, and a sweet, burning cinnamon smell. The pilgrims buy it for twenty ounces of gold to the gallon, and more for the Higher Ordered Angels. A king’s ransom for the waste of an Archangel. All sanctioned by the Hierarchy, and they get their cut. These days, Angels have need of gold.

  At one of the more popular booths, six or seven merchants struggle behind the table trying to satisfy the souvenir needs of two-dozen devotees from Quebec. Around the crowd, a small mob of beggar boys have staked out the marks and have begun their routines. The youngest of them is six. There have been no children born since the Judgment, and there are no new souls. One of these young ones wanders toward me, looking for a handout. He is bright-eyed and full of life. I tempt him forward with an apple offered in my palm. He takes cautious and furtive steps. He is afraid of me, but he is also afraid of being noticed. If an older boy, a stronger boy, sees him with this prize, he won’t keep it for long. His fingers, short, thin, and strong reach out for the apple. Another step, small but sure, and his palm reflects in the red skin of the fruit. He almost has it. A thin malicious grin grows on my face. Another second and the prize will be his.

  In an instant, the child is jerked back. A look of surprise, fear and sudden shock fill the lad’s face. An older boy, at the most twelve, perhaps the band’s leader, perhaps the boy’s brother, clutches the younger by the scruff of the neck. Like a kitten carried by its mother, the child dangles in the air almost immobile. The older boy whispers something furtive and esoteric into the young boy’s ear. He knows something, this older boy. He knows I am a danger. I watch the child’s eyes grow wide in understanding. I smile at the two of them. I smile sweetly, and the child shudders.

  “Don’t worry, boys, I don’t want kill you. You have nothing to fear from me, unless, of course, you’re family”.

  The older boy takes a brave, cautious stand. He speaks with authority, clear and true, “Are we not all your family, uncle?” He spits at me. Not on me mind you, just at me. It is an old gesture, a desert custom, ripe with implications.