These next two chapters are some of my personal favourites. I hope you enjoy them as well. Feedback response on Sunday, hopefully!
~14~
Stick and Carrot
(sackcloth and salvation)
A thumbnail moon in the velvety throat of night, stars sprinkled like pearls. Upon the empty beach the whole world seemed asleep, dreaming of dismay and delight in equal measure without chemical assistance. It was that transcendental time of night when it ceased to be very very late and became instead very very early. Beyond the sucking hiss of the waves tasting the beach there was very little sound. The ocean smelled tired and old, bathed in the salt tears of that thumbnail moon.
(fereste-te de omul insemnat de Dumnezeu!
beware the man marked by God!)Tara was sitting on the beach, her feet buried in the cool damp sand. The solid weight of the sand was comforting, as was the whispering susurration of the waves. She was beyond tired; she knew she should go home and get her screaming over with, but Newton’s First Law held her.
(a body at rest)Her motorcycle was parked at the top of the strand. After making her deliveries of the night
(it has been six nights since I kissed Willow
honestly, am I really going to keep reckoning my time like that?)Tara had followed a long dormant impulse and driven out of the town of Sunnydale altogether. She felt reckless and haunted as she drove down the deserted highway; the only people on the streets were police officers enforcing the curfew and the occasional emergency vehicle. By this time of night nothing was abroad in California; nay in the whole country, and Tara had the highway entirely to herself and her enchanted bike.
She had driven the highway south at speeds guaranteed to loosen a few brain cells, riding without a helmet, letting her hair stream behind her in a mockery of her life. A wild sensation had overcome her, and she had wished she could keep speeding down this highway. First San Diego, and then the Mexican border city of Tijuana, ringed with the immense concrete bunker-walls that delineated the line between countries. In Mexico were jungles of tropical rainforest where she could hide for a hundred years.
It had been nearly fifty six years since she tested her boundary. Since Laura left her.
When she was fifty miles from the poppy den, she found she could travel no further. The compulsion laid upon her by her Master was absolute; the pain in her neck and elbow terrifying. She parked the motorbike instead, took off her sneakers and walked barefoot in the cool moist sand. Even then the pain was nearly crippling, making her eyes water and her teeth ache.
She had looked out upon the vast waves of the Pacific Ocean, at the stars that were sprinkled along the velvet throat of sky, and thought of her collar. Of her bondage to this Master there was no end in sight. It would carry on forever, far beyond these oceans and the lands beyond, far beyond the stars that dared to shine over her slavery.
There was no way to run from him, no way to fight him, no way to take her own life and deny him her own small role in his domination of the world.
She thought of suicide only when at her lowest. Despite the centuries of slavery the world still had some small pockets of beauty and wonder, tiny corners of fascination and delight.
Like this tiny pocket here and now, seated on the strand with sand packed over her toes, her face uplifted to the struggling light of the thumbnail moon.
Besides, there was one way to release herself from captivity. The very idea of it and the price it would toll was beyond her comprehension at this moment. She redoubled her concentration on the waves, the cool damp sand on her toes, trying to stay in the moment instead of riding on the stream of the Source.
Despite the horrors she beheld every night in her nightmares, Tara was not inoculated or protected against grief and suffering; each new disaster and calamity struck her empathetic heart. Five hundred years of bondage to this Master had been preceded by thousands of years of history wherein she beheld every facet of human suffering, every horror, every catastrophe.
Five hundred years ago she had lost Lilith amid the second greatest suffering of her long life. It had taken several hundred years to forget the sting of that calamity. When softly pregnant Laura first blithely walked into her den as a client sixty years ago, Tara had battled the obvious attraction and had lost. Loving Laura for those three glorious years had been a blessing and a curse at the same time. Laura had been so perfect for her, a bastion of endurance, a wellspring of love, and the horror of Lilith’s demise finally eased into the past.
With the memory of Laura to sustain her, she could look at the night sky and hold strong. Five hundred years of human suffering poured out upon her in an inky flood each and every night and yet she held strong; she thought of Laura’s baby, of Laura’s hair in the sunlight, of Laura’s perfect lips. If Tara was going to be a mule that her Master rode to endless power and immortality, he would have to flog her every step of the way.
Tara had long ago stopped trying to make Eva understand her feelings.
Tara packed the sand tighter around her ankles and tried to escape a realization that had been slowly dawning these past six days.
The indefatigable strength she had once possessed to outlast her Master was rapidly fading. The horrors of the dream-world were taking their toll, the restoration of her lifeforce longer and harder each morning. Even Laura could not help her now; her love was old and assuredly dying. Tara was a mule, and every whip-stroke was close to being the last. Soon she would capitulate to him, become a willing slave to his plan, because at least that would be the end. It would be over, and freedom would once again be hers.
That’s what he promised. That was the price of her freedom, and the freedom of the other Apothecaries throughout the world.
So many of her race had already fallen to him, had surrendered to the collar willingly in exchange for these promises of freedom. Sineya had been the first. Cassie was the most recent.
Tara would not join them.
She did not even know which of her sisters was yet free, save for Eva’s news of Satsu.
The water of the ocean crept up the beach and sucked away the sand on her feet, pulling it back into its maw. Even this she could not prevent.
It would have been far better if she had never kissed Willow on the lips. Six long days had now passed and Tara was beginning to believe that she would never see Willow again. The red-haired woman had not even come to the poppy den as had been her custom in the preceding weeks. It was inevitable; the woman who had so captivated Tara’s heart and imagination would become just one of thousands of one-time clients.
Already Willow was beginning to fade into the blackness of the past. Soon she would lose her shape and form and become nothing. As each day passed, Tara thought of her less and less.
(no wishes
no fantasies
no reason to believe that anything is ever going to change)These affirmations were easy enough in the daylight. At night, they were harder. At night Willow joined the ranks of the others that Tara had loved other the years, Laura and Lilith and Zahara, and it was all because of that infernal kiss.
If only Willow had not kissed her like that. If only it had been simple, utilitarian, on the forehead. Just one of thousands.
But Willow had kissed her on the lips, had kissed her like her life depended on it, and because of that kiss Tara remembered all that she was missing. Tara remembered what it had been like to have that love in her life. Tara remembered all that she had sacrificed.
All that had been taken away by her Master.
Damn Willow.
And damn Willow’s lips.
(face it, Tara, it’s not like you didn’t freely participate)Tara could not deny that she kissed Willow back. Who wouldn’t? When assailed by thirst, doesn’t one drink from any fountain? When in pain, doesn’t one seek relief in any form? When in famine, doesn’t one reach for nourishment?
(love hunger)Tara had only taken what was offered, as if athirst, in pain, hungry.
And once the tongue is whetted, doesn’t the appetite beg for more? Especially when there is no hope of relief in the foreseeable future?
One sip, one morsel was all that Tara had been given. Now she had to become accustomed again to the lack.
Now she mourned her bondage more than ever, and wished she could tie millstones about her ankles and wade into the ocean, never once looking back on the world that had maligned her. The water would envelop her and douse her spirit.
A sharp jab from the mark in her elbow, and she rubbed it with sand-covered fingers.
Death was the last gift she was denied. The last gift of her race would remain hidden.
Tara pulled her feet from their sand-homes and scooted out of proximity to the advancing waves, and then lay on her back to stare at the stars.
The Age of Pisces was ending. The Age of Aquarius was about to begin.
The age of freedom, of technology, of the water bearer.
Any way she looked at it, she was doomed.
Sleepiness crept up her limbs, began clouding her breath. She heaved herself off the sand and walked on shaking legs to her bike, stumbling over weeds barely seen by the scant light of the thumbnail moon.
Despite her exhaustion and near-inability to drive a vehicle, Tara eventually arrived home safely. She locked her bike in the shed and mounted the back steps to her apartment as if in a haze. The rooms were swathed in shadow, but a little light from a single street lamp came through a gap in the curtains to shine on the picture of Buffy’s wedding she had placed on her small kitchen table.
Drawn to it, Tara picked up the picture, her hand moving over the young man between the girls. This must be the Xander Harris that Harmony mentioned. She traced Willow’s face next, sensing a sweet felicity, a shy innocence.
Then Tara touched Buffy’s face and felt once again that wrenching sense of wrongness, of destiny thwarted, a candy coating of happiness and bliss that every girl should feel at her wedding.
No fantasies, Tara. What secret was Buffy hiding, and why was she hiding it from her closest friends?
Tara took the picture in her hands and ripped it in half, slowly, carefully, separating Buffy and her friends from the groom and his allies. Then she stacked them and ripped again, across their torsos, and stacked and ripped again. She tossed the pieces into a shallow glass bowl and incinerated them with a candle lighter. The stink of charred photons seemed to bring her to her senses.
She fell asleep that night without thinking of Willow. If she screamed, she didn’t remember it. She even woke relatively refreshed and was restored easily and thoroughly.
An earlier incarnation of Tara would have reminded herself that it was the seventh day after Willow. This Tara didn’t care – there was no Willow.
Another form of Tara might have reminded herself of the vast number of days of enslavement to the Master. She used to count them as if it actually meant something. Why bother? Nothing really changed. Nothing ever would.
She was in rare form that day. Inspecting the vials, she found that one of them had gone glossy black. She picked it up, recognizing the name of the high school principal, Bob Flutie. For the last dozen years he had been plagued by dreams of his students going mad and killing him in one way or another. She held his vial in her hand and called to him.
Once she sensed that he was on his way to her, Tara opened a drawer on her worktable and pulled out a little leather pouch. Inside was a finger bone, tinged with immense age, a single runic symbol on it.
Eve. Source of life.
Tara held the little piece of bone with her eyes closed and called for Eva. Only moments passed before she felt a tiny emanation of power that signified the message had been received, and that she was on her way home from wherever on the planet she had been.
Her breath calm and regular, Tara dressed in all-black clothing; a silk asymmetrical skirt, a tight top that left her belly exposed and yet had long sleeves that flowed over her wrists. A black velvet choker on her neck with a single silver ornament, that of the Ouroboros. She pulled her blonde hair up, piling it soft and high on her head, fastened with a dark flower.
A day of celebration for Bob Flutie, or so he would believe.
Tara was taking books off the shelf and stacking them haphazardly about the room when she heard a small cough in the doorway. She glanced up to see Eva standing there. The catalyst’s mouth was slightly open; she took a few steps further into Tara’s parlour and raked her with her gaze. “Well, Tara, you look amazing. I could just gobble you up.”
Tara merely smiled and continued piling books in small precarious stacks. It drove Bob crazy. “His name is Robert Flutie, but most people call him Bob,” she began explaining. “He’s been coming to me for about a dozen years. He’s the principal at Sunnydale High School. He tries to be friendly to the students, but then they don’t respect him. Deep down he’s actually scared of them and tries not to show it.”
“Any particular triggers I should know about?”
“He has this thing about hyenas. I never heard the whole story, but something happened in the local zoo with the hyenas and now he’s terrified of them.”
“That should be enough to work with,” Eva said. “Send him up when you’re done with him.” There was a distinctive leer in her voice and Tara shuddered at the thought.
“I’m only doing my job,” Tara replied. “You’ll do the rest.”
“All right, all right,” Eva said, putting up her palms. The lush woman edged through Tara’s doorway but paused just inside. One more slow burn of a stare over Tara’s body ensued. “I mean it, Tara,” Eva smirked. “Damn, you’re a hottie.”
This time Tara did blush, and waved the woman away so she could finish her preparation. She could hear Eva chuckle on her way up the stairs to her own apartment.
Tara was in the kitchen preparing the tea tray when the chime came. She glanced in the vid screen and saw Bob Flutie coming up the stairs. Determined stride. Straightened tie.
Apprehension like a stench from his skin.
She carried the tea out into the parlour and stood by the chair. He entered the room and stopped just inside. Before he could flee, she said, “Welcome, Robert.”
Her voice was the noose around his neck. He came to her, meek as a lambkin. She put her hand on his wrist, her touch light and devastating. “Time for the next step,” she said quietly.
It took about twelve minutes to share a pot of tea together and for his questions to be answered. When he stood up again, his face was brighter, excited. She had planted a vision of perfection in his head, an ideal dimension where neither students nor hyenas existed, a place of contentment and peace that he richly deserved for all the pains he endured in this life, on this plane.
She charged no price this time. She took from him a kiss on his forehead and sent him floating up the stairs to Eva’s apartment. She did not watch him go. Neither she nor anyone else on this world would ever see him again.
After he was gone, she tidied her books, put them back in their ill-assigned spaces on the shelves. She turned to her workroom and had finished one dream, about to start another, when there came an alarm from the vid.
Alarm, not a chime.
Her heart lunged in her chest as she ran to the vid screen and touched it. “Anya?” she asked when she saw the petite blonde woman through the feed.
She was not her usual bubbly capitalist self.
“Tara, he’s on his way.”
Ice now, flash freezing her spine. In moments it would shatter. “How long?”
“Fifteen minutes, tops.”
“Thanks, Ahn.” The woman from the poppy den signed off quickly, no doubt to make her own frenzied preparations. For her part, Tara quickly debated the value of changing into less provocative clothing, or keeping this on to prove that she had worked today, despite the fact there was no black in her hair.
She decided to keep these clothes on. He would know what they meant.
In the midst of all her thinking she tried to tell herself that it was merely coincidence that the Master was coming. He didn’t know she had pushed the boundary last night, did he? Could he?
She ran into her parlour with a rag and soft bleach, wiping down every exposed surface. Tea. He would want tea. Earl Grey, with a touch of lemon honey. Real cream. Scones to serve it with. Did she have fresh scones? Was her living space clean enough?
(I don’t have enough ink)Her head was pounding as she finished her preparations. She stood and religiously watched as the vid screen showed his arrival. Anya had resumed her usual verve and Tara envied her. They seemed to be speaking animatedly about work and money and other meaningless things. Soon enough they stood up together and he shook her hand.
Tara changed feeds to watch him come up the stairs, and he shook his head at the symbols spray painted on the walls. She got up, smoothed down her skirt, poured hot water into the prepared pot of tea. She could hear his step now, and he was not alone.
Tara lifted the tea tray and slid through the curtain separating her quarters just before he arrived at her landing. She saw his hand part the beads. “Knock, knock!” he called as he pulled the beads aside to let himself through, holding the beads aside for his deputy. The small and trim shadow of a man was carrying a cardboard box.
Did he leave his bodyguard downstairs in one of the few blind spots in the surveillance? In the car, perhaps?
She continued forward to put the tea tray down on the little chintz table. As he saw her, his face broke into a broad grin. “Tara!” he exclaimed, walking easily to her, shaking her hand as he always did, two pumps with the other hand holding her elbow. “You look dangerous today,” he continued. “Did we just send Eva another client?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” Tara stammered.
“That’s my girl!” he exclaimed.
United States President Richard Wilkins the Third stood in Tara’s parlour, dressed in an immaculate three piece suit. As Tara looked at it she knew it had been tailored by hand in a Sicilian shop, with a tailor so nervous he would prick the ankles in taking up the hem, uttering useless apologies. President Wilkins wore shoes so buffed and shined they could have reflected the entire underworld. He stood in that genial way he had mastered so well; despite being President of the United States she could practically see him rolling up his sleeves to play a rack of snooker after, of course, wiping the cue of any germs left behind by the previous user.
He was aging remarkably well for being over five hundred years old.
Tara would not lean on anything while he was here.
(does he know I pushed the boundary last night?)By his face alone, Tara could barely tell what he was thinking or planning. He showed only what he wanted others to see. His devoted citizens saw an accomplished and adamant supporter of cleanliness and high moral standards, who had made the United States the single most peaceful place on Earth to live, with free post-secondary education for all who desired it, universal health care, and astonishingly low taxes. Strict curfews and a well-established police force led to communities who rarely needed to lock their doors at night. And if voting was compulsory, as was two years of military service for every citizen when they came of age; that was a small price to pay for such standards.
His rivals saw a charismatic pseudo-hero with down-to-earth looks, a gracious countenance and landsliding support in Congress for bills that would slowly suffocate the populace, with prison time for expressing foul language and littering in public, and corporal punishment for crimes of drunk driving, theft, and failure to maintain clean households. He instituted the death penalty for assault, rape and murder.
His slaves saw a patient and methodical serpent, with access to knowledge, wealth and power beyond imagination.
And to all he was a God, like that of the Good Book, seething with brimstone and blessings alike. With fire and forgiveness.
(sackcloth and salvation)By contrast, his deputy was an echo of a man, who rarely spoke or even smiled. Sometimes Tara mourned the inevitable fate of Allan Finch.
“You’ve got the place looking great,” her Master was saying, walking along one bookcase with a single finger outstretched to catch any appearance of dust.
Thank the formless gods that Anya always found out when he was coming, even on surprise visits such as these. Tara wondered if her contacts were in the capital city of Los Angeles or if she employed more electronic means of surveillance.
How much money could she be persuaded to part with for such an effective early warning system?
“Thank you, sir,” Tara replied.
“I only wish your neighbourhood could be as pleasant,” Wilkins continued. “The waste disposal crews must be slacking off, and you know what that means!”
(as the Queen of Hearts would say, off with their heads!)Tara simply nodded, and ducked her head, and manufactured a small blush for her cheeks.
“I brought you some books to add to your collection,” Wilkins said magnanimously, waving to Mr. Finch. His deputy put the box down on the little table between the squashy chairs. Wilkins flicked open the lid and drew out the book on the top. “I had a meeting with Stephen Hawking this past week, he was advising me on a particular matter, and I asked him to sign a copy of his latest book for you. You can add it to your collection on Quantum Mechanics, wherever that collection may be.”
He handed the slim hardcover book to her and she feigned delighted surprise by opening the flap and gazing at the inscription. How generous of her owner.
(brimstone and blessings)“That’s just swell, isn’t it?” Wilkins continued. “The rest of the books aren’t as valuable, but you should enjoy them nonetheless.”
Tara found her voice and replied, “I appreciate that, sir.”
“Well, you know I like to keep my staff happy. A happy worker is so much more productive than an unhappy worker, wouldn’t you agree?”
(does he know, does he know about the boundary?)Tara nodded her head, holding the new book to her chest as if a shield.
“Which is why it surprised me, Tara, to discover that you tested the boundary last night,” he abruptly continued.
This time her blush and sharp upward glance were real.
As was the terror that congealed inside her organs.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, to defend herself and her poor choice, but not even strangled air emerged. Every thought was slain between her mind and her mouth and lay quivering on the back of her tongue.
“You know, I just don’t understand it sometimes,” he said, closing the cardboard flaps of the box and reaching out his hand for Mr. Finch’s dollop of hand sanitizer. “Society these days. Can’t even go on a peace-keeping mission without one of my own citizens trying to kill me. I mean, what more do people want? I create a clean country with no homeless people and very low unemployment, universal health care and free education, low taxes. What are my thanks? An assassin and a knife. As if it could have done any good. As you know, Tara, no mortal weapon can kill me.
“And then there’s you, Tara. I know you love reading, so I keep your bookcase well stocked. You have a beautiful apartment, you work with the public in a dignified manner, and you pull a stunt like last night. What more do you want from me, Tara?”
(only my freedom)She opened her mouth once more and just as promptly closed it.
His face was darkening with anger; she could smell his cologne and the sharp sanitizer. “Maybe there has been just a little too much carrot lately, Tara, and too little stick. There are other places I can send you, you know. My friend, the Khan of Mongolia, could always use more women like you to help influence his enemies. The Shah of Persia has asked for you personally more than once for his harem. You should feel lucky I don’t agree with that sort of dealing.”
The ice inside her nearly snapped her muscles, and she had a hard time standing on her feet. She could actually feel her cheeks going pale in shock.
“You tested the boundary fifty six years ago as well, didn’t you?” he accused.
This time a white wall of faint slammed over her eyes and she sat down on the arm of the nearby chair heavy and hard. She blinked her eyes and tried to keep from passing out.
“Yes, yes, I know about that, too, Tara. I didn’t bother confronting you on that one; it was only to be expected after what happened with, what was her name, Laura? What happened this time? What is going on in your head that I don’t know about? You haven’t fallen in love with another client, have you? It turned out rather badly last time.”
Tara couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “How do you know about Laura?” she asked quietly, carefully.
“I keep tabs on all my possessions, Tara. Especially the valuable ones. Now, I’m willing to keep skating a little line here. A happy worker is a productive worker. I don’t mind you enjoying a bit of happiness as long as you keep working. Ink and echoes, that’s all I want from you. Dally with whomever you choose as long as the work comes first.”
(fire and forgiveness)He sounded magnanimous and generous and Tara wished she could smash the tea tray over his head. “Yes, sir,” she replied.
“Now show me how much you’ve managed to collect since last time.”
Tara took a deep breath and led him through the curtain into her workroom, glad that she always kept her living spaces clean and tidy. He stared at the four golden vials and asked, “Have you come across any new golden clients lately?”
(oh god
help me)He was looking at her with casual interest, but she knew he was calculating her body language, her skin colour, and would carefully evaluate how she spoke her next words.
She ducked her chin half an inch, inclined it slightly to the side and turned one side of her mouth into an apologetic smile. “I’m s-sorry, sir, but I have not. I have two clients that are getting very close to manifesting gold, but no one new.” A glance to the rug to complete the false apology.
“That’s a shame,” he replied with a sigh. “I know you’ll keep trying.” He waited while she unlocked the cabinets and opened the doors to reveal eight jugs full of ink. The ninth had a skim of ink in the bottom and the tenth was empty.
“Carrot and stick, Tara,” he said quietly as he looked at the offering. “You better pull this around and record fast. If not for the sake of productivity alone, then maybe something else will motivate you.” He pretended to think for a moment, and then snapped his fingers. “I’ve got the solution. You catch up on the quota in the next seven days or I’ll kill Laura.”
His threat formed hands around her throat and squeezed until she could barely breathe or see straight.
He continued, his voice steady and near friendly. “Stay in the boundary, Tara. Do your job. Get my ink. Or Laura dies. You try to warn her, she dies. If she suddenly leaves town, she dies. Anyway you look at it, Tara, get me what I want,” and he brushed up next to her, his breath moist and conversational in her ear, “Or I will see her raped, desecrated, ruined and broken. This is it, Tara. The fairy tale is over.”
He straightened up and took a step back. Her hands shook so badly they fumbled with the cabinet doors. She followed him out of her workroom and back into the parlour.
“I hope you take our little chat to heart,” he said as he paused by the entrance. “Keep your eyes on the prize, and we’ll all get through this. Just a little while longer and it will all be over. You’ll have your freedom back. Unlike some people, I keep my campaign promises, Tara. Never forget it.”
With that, he was gone up the stairs to Eva’s apartment, Mr. Finch two steps behind him. She immediately leaned against the counter near the entrance of her parlour, her heart racing, her breath a calamity.
His evil genius was a presence that remained in the room. He had made his point abundantly clear.
(sackcloth and salvation)~
To be continued on Sunday with Chapter 15: Clockwork Goddess
Jen
aka
Tara the Phoenix