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Angela Prescott is a woman on the run living in a strange city. She is befriended by Tommy T, a homeless waif who helps her find a job as a waitress. After she's attacked late at night in the alley behind the café, Tommy T seeks help from his mysterious champion, a man whose only refuge from terrible memories and unbearable pain is an underground haven hidden in a city park. Tommy T is an artist, a creator of comic book heroes, and he believes in this man, for he has seen him work wonders in the dark of night... |
From Chapter Two:
A glimpse of Tommy T's mysterious champion...
He'd never brought anyone into his dark refuge, and he was a fool for doing it now. But he'd been a fool over lesser things. The boy promised not to follow and not to hang around, especially during daylight, when he could easily draw unwanted attention. He offered to check in, to be a runner, to help in any way he could, which was good. The boy had gotten him into this, after all. The question of trust, at this point, was settled. The hideaway had been discovered but not violated. The boy had proven his integrity.
Just taking her through the small opening in the rocky embankment proved tricky. He lowered himself feet first, pulling the woman in after him with the boy managing her lower half, like two firemen handling a hose. "Wait right there," he told the boy. "I have something for you to do."
"A mission?"
"A mission."
If that's what the kid wants to call it, he told himself, why the hell not? The word fit fine with the rest of the scene they'd been building together, each in turn throwing in some hokey element. He'd spoken few words when the boy had first discovered him, and those he'd virtually growled. Since that time, he'd perfected the voice, so that it didn't leave him with a sore throat.
"There's stuff I need, and I'm not even sure . . ." Traditional stuff. Old ways. No doctors or cops, she'd said. That left the old ones. "I know someone we can ask. Just wait there."
"Ain't goin' nowhere without orders."
He shook his head over the boy's fervent enthusiasm. Under other circumstance he might have allowed himself to be amused. But he was cradling a battered woman in his arms, carrying her down the dark tunnel that led to the place where he lived. Taking another step, adding another bit of folly. He ought to let the people up there take care of their own. If anyone caught him at this, they'd lock him away and throw away the key. If anything happened to her while she was in his care, he'd probably end up doing it himself, locking himself away from humanity entirely, sealing up the portal to their world and giving it up for good. He was about half a step away as it was, and his hold on that half step was tenuous at best. This was one hell of a lot to ask, but only he knew the full extent of his risk.
He needed no light to find his bed, but once he'd settled her there, he lit several tall tapers, hoping the candlelight would reassure her should she awaken.
He took quick inventory of the injuries he could see without undressing her. They'd beat her up pretty bad. When he spoke to her, she responded. Didn't make much sense, but she responded. Her skin was cool to the touch, so he wrapped her in a blanket. The boy's first errand involved a name, an address, and a message. He wrote the message in Lakota, then made his way back through the tunnel to the door.
"You still there?"
"Right where you told me to stay," the boy reported.
"What name does the woman go by?"
"Angela."
"Angela," he repeated, testing the name out quietly and half smiling, thinking he'd gone out to break up a fight and ended up toting an angel home. He tucked the note into a hand-made envelope with some cash and handed it out through his hole in the earth, his angel-swallowing hole. "Where I'm sending you, you might know these people. Old couple, good people. They won't ask any questions, so you don't volunteer anything. I've written down everything I need them to know. Got that?"
"Got it."
"They don't know about this place. You're the only one who does, and we're gonna keep it that way. Now, can you find the address on the outside? It's on Franklin Avenue, not too far from the school."
"It'll take me ten minutes to get there, max."
"That's if you cut across the lot behind the warehouse. Better stay away from there, take your time, play it safe."
"It's after curfew," the boy reminded him. "I'll be runnin' the gauntlet. Don't worry. I'll get there and back without being seen. I know how."
"Take off, then."
He could have sworn that was exactly what the boy did, straight into the night sky. He heard a little scrambling, and then all was quiet. He went back to his patient.
His patient. Holy Jesus, what was he thinking? He knew CPR, some first aid, some traditional remedies his Lakota grandmother had taught him way back when, but he had no idea whether any of that would serve her needs. Who was looking for her, and how bad was the threat? Bad enough for her to risk depending on his care? He knew why he avoided cops. He knew why the kid did. But this woman could have stepped off a TV screen or the pages of some magazine you'd buy in a grocery store. Pure mainstream middle-class wife, mother, minivan driver material, this one.
And he was going to have to take her clothes off. Some of them, anyway. Her pink uniform was torn, and she was all cut up and bruised and God knew what else. He put a cold compress over the part of her face that was already puffed up like a bloated carcass. Then he drew warm water from the solar collector he'd rigged up in the rocks that formed part of his roof and poured some into a small pot, to which he added a handful of dried herbs. The rest of the water went into a basin with soap and a soft cloth. Cleaning her up and disinfecting her wounds with what he had on hand was a place to start.
"Angela?" he whispered close to her ear as he changed the compress.
One eyelid fluttered. The other was swollen shut. "Who are you?"
"Nobody you know. You know Tommy T, though, don't you?"
"My friend," she muttered, groaning. "My only . . ."
"He asked me to help you. Said you . . ." She whimpered when he touched her injured arm. He drew back quickly, as though he'd been singed. "If you want me to get you to a doctor, I will."
"No, please." She caught his hand. Her fingers were cold, slight, trembling. "Your face is . . . I can't see it."
"It's nothing special," he told her, wondering how he must look to her, still smeared with the clay paint he'd chosen to hide behind. Her efforts to get that one eye open almost broke his heart. "Just a face."
"Clown face," she whispered, clinging desperately to his hand. "Love the clowns. Best part of . . . Are you a clown?"
He probably was. He winced at the thought as he gently swabbed her face with soap and water. She tried to turn away, but he persisted in cleaning her face and the cuts on her arms. She sucked her breath between her teeth when he applied antiseptic.
"Sorry. That stings, I know." He leaned close and blew on her gashed skin. "Better?"
"Eyes like Baltic amber," she said, peering at him through one slit. "Jewel eyes."
"You're dreaming." He didn't know what she was talking about. Jewels were out of his league. He started unbuttoning her shirtwaist dress. "Tell me where you feel pain so I can help. I won't look at anything you don't want me to see, but you've gotta tell me—"
"Head hurts." She laid claim to his hand again and guided it to the back of her head. "Here."
She had a lump the size of a wren's egg and just as delicate. He touched it gingerly. Her hair was a little sticky, but she wasn't bleeding much. A goose egg was usually a good sign. He'd heard that somewhere. He chose not to remember who'd said it, but he'd been through the door marked EMERGENCY more times than he cared to count. He figured she had a concussion, which could be no big deal, or it could be fatal. He was counting on the former.
"I feel sick," she warned.
He helped her sit up, held her head, stroked her hair, grabbed a tin basin. Not much he could do for a concussion except watch for the bad signs, give her something to soothe her stomach. The vomiting left her shaken and clinging to him. He took a deep breath and held her until the retching stopped and the trembling subsided. Then he coaxed his tea down her throat, stroking her with careful hands and soft words.
The effort left him shaken when he sat back and looked at her, really looked at her lying there in his bed. He hadn't been this close to anyone in a long time, and his visceral quaking was merely the proof. He sat on a straw cushion and leaned back against the woven willow backrest as he drank what was left of the tea. He didn't need any of this. Not the kid, not the woman, not the intrusion into his life, such as it was. It was a life, and he'd built it from scratch, pebble by pebble. He had his obscurity. And when the pain came he had his dark, silent refuge. It was a strange way to live, but it was a life.
A peppering of loose pebbles echoed in the air shaft, warning him that something was stirring overhead. He climbed to the entrance and waited until the boy announced himself.
"I had a hard time gettin' the old grandpa to come to the door," Tommy T reported as he handed the canvas bag down blindly, as though he made regular deliveries to a hole in the ground. "Some of this is just, like, bandages and food, right?"
"Right."
"How's Angela?"
"She's resting. I think she'll be okay."
"You sure?"
He wasn't about to repeat himself. Nothing was ever for sure.
"You were right," the boy went on. "I said I was just a runner and didn't know nothin' about what was in the message, and nobody asked no questions, nothin' about you. You know what? I know that old guy from school."
"A lot of people know him. He practices traditional medicine."
"Cool." Then, diverting to a little skepticism, "So what I brought is just roots and herbs and stuff."
"It's medicine."
"She might be worried about her dog," the boy said, hovering in the world above. "If she says anything, tell her I'm on the case."
"You don't know where she lives."
"I'll know by morning. I'll check in later, man." The voice was withdrawing. "Not when it's daytime, though. I won't hang around when it's light out."
On the note of that promise the boy left.
The night was nearly over. The air smelled like daybreak, laden with dew, and the river sounded more cheerful as it rushed toward morning. Normally he would ascend to greet the break of day. The one good thing about the pain was the relief he felt when it lifted. Relief and weariness. He returned to the deepest chamber of his refuge, where his guest lay in his bed, her fragile face bathed in soft candlelight. She would feel the same relief, the same weariness when she awoke in her own bed. She'd be sore, but he could ease the soreness. He could lessen the swelling. He touched a twist of sweet grass to a flame and breathed deeply of its perfume. The scent of serenity, he thought, rendering the city and its hazards utterly remote.
He made an infusion from the mixture of herbs the old man had prepared and applied it to the tattered angel's broken skin. He made a paste from ground roots and applied it to her swollen bumps and bruises, singing softly as he did so. Grandmother songs, remembered through the scent of sweet grass and the heavy dampness of the still night. The angel moaned, as though she would add her keening to his lullaby, but another tea soon tranquilized her fitful sleep.
Finally he doused the light, lay down beside her, closed his eyes and drifted on dewy-sweet morning air.
Copyright © 1997 Kathleen Eagle
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