”
Obviously
they did not intend him to believe it. Beneath the twins’ exotic scent Ghost
caught a whiff of decay, dry and stale, edged with pale brown. Their skin
suddenly looked brittle, as if the touch of a breeze would flake it away from
fragile ivory bones.
Ghost
wanted to ask them whether it hurt to rot, whether they grew lonely in the
grave.
He
wanted to know whether they were buried together in a casket big enough for two
bodies-big enough for two small dry bodies that knew how to fit together like a
puzzle of blood and bone. Or did their graves lie side by side, and did they
have to reach through the earth to clasp hands?
He
had to find out what they were, whether they were dangerous. Reluctantly he
reached out and tried to touch their minds; reluctantly he found them. Their
minds were like echoes, like haunted rooms from which all the life had gone.
The touch of their thoughts was light, fluttering, as cold and silver as
graveyard stone, as voracious as feeding animals. They took Ghost into the
grave with them, and he saw the darkest darkness that ever was, darker than a
starless night on the mountain where he’d been born, darker than the darkness
that swam up behind his closed eyelids when he lay in bed at night, darker than
the hour before dawn.
He
was lying on rotten satin, and he felt his tissues drying and shrivelling inside him, felt the secret loving movement of
the creatures that shared his grave, the pale worms, the shiny beetles with
their delicate black legs, the things without shape or name, too tiny to be
seen, the hungry things turning his flesh back into new rich earth—
“Ghost!
What the fuck are you doing?” Steve’s hands were on him, large and strong and
undeniably real, Steve’s bony fingers digging into Ghost’s shoulders.
Ghost
leaned back against Steve. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said —to Steve? to the twins?
He knew not, he cared not.
“What
doesn’t hurt? Who are you talking to?”
“Death
doesn’t hurt,” said one of the twins, and a light came into his silver eyes.
“Death is dark, death is sweet.”
The
other twin took up the litany. “Death is all that lasts forever. Death is
eternal beauty.”
“Death
is a lover with a thousand tongues—”
“A
thousand insect caresses—”
“Death
is easy.”
“Death
is easy.”
“DEATH
IS EASY DEATH IS EASY DEATH IS EASY DEATH IS—”
“Shut
up!” Ghost screamed. The chant swelled inside his head, became the rhythm of
his heartbeat, sucked him in. “Stop it! Leave me alone!”
Then
Steve’s arms were around him, and instead of the twins’ rotten-spice odor there
was only Steve’s smell, beer and dirty hair and fear and love, and Ghost buried
his face in the soft black cotton of Steve’s T-shirt. When he opened his eyes
again, the twins were gone. Ghost heard only the faraway roar of the power
plant across the water, saw only the branches of the oak, tangled and twisted,
stretching up to the clear, glittering sky.
Ghost
didn’t talk much on the drive back to Missing Mile. He told Steve only about
the lovely feral faces of the twins and their bright silks and their bewitching
dead smell. He didn’t want to wonder, he said, what kind of an omen those twins
might have been … or, worse than an omen, if they might have been real. Instead
he finished the whiskey and went to sleep with his head hung out the window and
his hair streaming in the wind, and Steve looked from the shimmering road to
the hill of Ghost’s cheek, the dark curve of his eyebrow, the satin scrap of
his
Obviously
they did not intend him to believe it. Beneath the twins’ exotic scent Ghost
caught a whiff of decay, dry and stale, edged with pale brown. Their skin
suddenly looked brittle, as if the touch of a breeze would flake it away from
fragile ivory bones.
Ghost
wanted to ask them whether it hurt to rot, whether they grew lonely in the
grave.
He
wanted to know whether they were buried together in a casket big enough for two
bodies-big enough for two small dry bodies that knew how to fit together like a
puzzle of blood and bone. Or did their graves lie side by side, and did they
have to reach through the earth to clasp hands?
He
had to find out what they were, whether they were dangerous. Reluctantly he
reached out and tried to touch their minds; reluctantly he found them. Their
minds were like echoes, like haunted rooms from which all the life had gone.
The touch of their thoughts was light, fluttering, as cold and silver as
graveyard stone, as voracious as feeding animals. They took Ghost into the
grave with them, and he saw the darkest darkness that ever was, darker than a
starless night on the mountain where he’d been born, darker than the darkness
that swam up behind his closed eyelids when he lay in bed at night, darker than
the hour before dawn.
He
was lying on rotten satin, and he felt his tissues drying and shrivelling inside him, felt the secret loving movement of
the creatures that shared his grave, the pale worms, the shiny beetles with
their delicate black legs, the things without shape or name, too tiny to be
seen, the hungry things turning his flesh back into new rich earth—
“Ghost!
What the fuck are you doing?” Steve’s hands were on him, large and strong and
undeniably real, Steve’s bony fingers digging into Ghost’s shoulders.
Ghost
leaned back against Steve. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said —to Steve? to the twins?
He knew not, he cared not.
“What
doesn’t hurt? Who are you talking to?”
“Death
doesn’t hurt,” said one of the twins, and a light came into his silver eyes.
“Death is dark, death is sweet.”
The
other twin took up the litany. “Death is all that lasts forever. Death is
eternal beauty.”
“Death
is a lover with a thousand tongues—”
“A
thousand insect caresses—”
“Death
is easy.”
“Death
is easy.”
“DEATH
IS EASY DEATH IS EASY DEATH IS EASY DEATH IS—”
“Shut
up!” Ghost screamed. The chant swelled inside his head, became the rhythm of
his heartbeat, sucked him in. “Stop it! Leave me alone!”
Then
Steve’s arms were around him, and instead of the twins’ rotten-spice odor there
was only Steve’s smell, beer and dirty hair and fear and love, and Ghost buried
his face in the soft black cotton of Steve’s T-shirt. When he opened his eyes
again, the twins were gone. Ghost heard only the faraway roar of the power
plant across the water, saw only the branches of the oak, tangled and twisted,
stretching up to the clear, glittering sky.
Ghost
didn’t talk much on the drive back to Missing Mile. He told Steve only about
the lovely feral faces of the twins and their bright silks and their bewitching
dead smell. He didn’t want to wonder, he said, what kind of an omen those twins
might have been … or, worse than an omen, if they might have been real. Instead
he finished the whiskey and went to sleep with his head hung out the window and
his hair streaming in the wind, and Steve looked from the shimmering road to
the hill of Ghost’s cheek, the dark curve of his eyebrow, the satin scrap of
his
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