《The Nightwatch Chronicles》


 Decisive Events - Part 1

    The door slammed behind me. In a few long strides, I blew bast the shriveled yard and put distance between the once quaint house and myself. Through a hazy grey I marched until finally collapsing against a telephone pole. I watched steam rise and unfurl from storm drains, my breath calming down slowly. A dull ache permeated my whole body, starting in my temples and simmering its way down to my toes. I went to breathe and there was smog instead of air; the anger in me fizzled out.


    So went the city.


    Looking around now with feigned curiosity, the familiar sights trundled on. Grey people, heads bowed, shuffling. You could push one over and they wouldn''t realize it until they hit the ground. The last gasp of anger settled in me and felt instead the bruises, like a membrane of discomfort all around.


    We had been fighting again. My birthday just a few days from now, words had been traded - then blows received. I couldn¡¯t remember what we had been talking about and I didn¡¯t care to try. Some ill part of me said I deserved it, caused these one sided fist fights. A more wholesome, kind part told me it couldn¡¯t be my fault and to care about me the way she had. Eventually, both halves took me by the hand and got me away, as neither wanted me to get hurt. Wincing, I held my ribs on both side as if to press a broken vase back together.


    For someone that only drank and collected insurance money, he had some sharp punches.


    My legs were numb and I swatted at them, trying to send the pins and needles away. They stung and shivered before I could lurch and continue on my way. Blocks passed in thoughts and colors, people blending into a babbling stream. Eventually the current deposited me on a familiar shore, a worn down cafe with a name no one could pronounce in a language no one knew. The most consistent way I heard it describe, which was itself a rare occurrence, was ¡®The one cafe near Chinatown with awesome coffee.¡¯ Memorable, but not namable.


    Copper chimes and bells greeted me as I pushed open a stained glass door. The floor below was checkered black and white, a massive chess board on which patrons were positioned. The walls were brushed with the colors of a meadow and had woven slats across the scenery, mimicking a fenced in vineyard. Across these structures their namesake crept, the reds and greens of Kiwi Vine grasping all around. Somewhere in this living room, a door creaked.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°What¡¯s this I have in my web?¡± breezed a woman. The voice had been fermented with honey and sage, aged over a seemingly infinite life to form a gentle taste to listen to.


    ¡°Oh, just a human boy,¡± I replied, turning to watch the dainty hermit twirl and weave. Her movement was of a ship without a sail, finding her way by something bigger than the wind itself. Chance nudged her on, perhaps.


    ¡°Oh, Human Boy. Will they be paying today in money or good intentions?¡±


    My face puckered from her scrutiny and I had to clamp down on my tongue not to laugh.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you always tell me that money is a poor man¡¯s currency?¡± I beam at her now, the crazy old woman always good at spirit lifting.


    She gave me a long, contemplative stare, rubbing her chin as she hummed with the sharpest of retorts.


    ¡°Maybe, but this backwards world puts the richest of the poor in charge. It¡¯s good to play along and not hurt their feelings.¡± She smiled, and the whole of her face - wrinkles, spots and creases- turned upward.


    Ms. Maui: the wisdom and kindness of a grandmother with the playfulness of an older sibling. She was the sort of person that made me hope against hope Heaven was real so that she could continue her convoluted acts of kindness for all of eternity.


    She wore her hair back in a tight bun, a cocooned butterfly wound with silken thread. Rarely could one see her eyes, either squinting or hidden behind a full inch of corrective lenses. On occasion she will misplace them and call me at all hours of the day to help her find them. More than once, they¡¯ve been on her forehead.


    ¡°Well?¡± She asks again, holding up her hands and rubbing her thumbs and forefingers together in the universal sign for ¡®give me money.¡¯


    ¡°Sorry, not today. But I was just coming to visit-¡± She cut me off by scoffing and dropping her tray down on the nearby table. The black pottery shivered and clinked making me wince. In one swift movement my arms were raised, but were then pulled back down to my sides. Hands that grasped like irons steered me to confront two unblinking depths, Ms. Maui¡¯s eyes threatening to envelop me.


    ¡°He hurt you again,¡± She said. It wasn¡¯t a question.


    I don¡¯t know, but I smiled. She released me and I sat down at the table with that black tea set, propping up my head on my hands. Letting out a low, long breath, I was set upon by a storm of care and wisdom.


    ¡°But, I fought back today.¡± Ms. Maui perked up at this and swung herself into the vacant chair across from me. Letting her palm show after a twirl of her wrist, I knew to continue.


    ¡°He called Mom a bitch.¡±


    (Part 1 of ?)

 Decisive Events - 2

    That was enough to set her off. The ancient woman, no taller than the middle of my chest, slammed both her hands down on the table and leaned forward, causing the whole structure to shift. What I thought was the leg of a chair snapping was thunder. I leapt in my seat and tuned to see the sky ripped apart. A wall of water dropped out of the sky all at once, day turning to night with its calamitous decent. Lightning descended and thunder bellowed.


    She tsked loudly, bringing me back indoors and to our conversation. The little woman crossed her arms and leaned back, glowering at the ceiling. Her chair teetered back and forth, unsure of whether to keep upright or tumble over.


    ¡°Your father is a fool. Is that all he did?¡± She spoke finally, tiny hands pounding down on the table for punctuation. I nodded, and she metered out a cup of tea. It banished the clamminess from my hands and I brought it up to my lips, nearly gagging. Squinting down into the murky liquid, I trained an eye back on her.


    ¡°What is this?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Tea. Good tea, so you¡¯d better finish that.¡± She waved a thin hand webbed with veins, propping her jaw up to glare across the room. Knowing my turn would not come for awhile, I sipped the caustic brew. It rushed down my throat, peeling off dead skin and stray food. My tongue could not comprehend what it was supposed to taste like. With a sound like air escaping from a crypt, the woman beside me came back to life with a deep breath.


    ¡°Your mother was a very good woman. She was good in a way that this world cannot allow. Think on that - someone so gentle and nurturing? It¡¯s surprising she made it as long as she did. It is surprising,¡± She continued, raising up in her chair as a cat does to stretch.


    ¡°That you have made this long too.¡± Reaching across towards me, her sagely grasp took my hand again. With strength tempered by compassion, she gave it a squeeze. I saw that she was smiling.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    ¡°But, I think soon, your time will come.¡± These words sent a tremor down my spine and I nearly spat up on her. Coughing the tea down into my stomach, lungs, whatever to clear the way, I managed to stutter a response.


    ¡°You think I¡¯m going to die?!¡± I gasped, gripping the table to keep from wretching. She exuded mirth without laughter, tiny eyes dancing at my concern.


    ¡°No, you won¡¯t die. But this city has been weighing on you for too long now. You do not belong in a place where money is the highest currency.¡± Ms. Maui spoke cooly, tilting her head back to pin me to my seat with her eyes alone.


    ¡°You need to leave. Soon. Do you understand?¡± She asked. The room had grown terribly cold and it hurt to breathe as it does with dry, winter air. There was something overwhelming about her, that which I had never experienced with the small woman. It was a presence or a tenacity of some sort, a subtle hint towards something cataclysmic. This was the tip of a very large iceberg, whether or not I knew it at the time. Her words carried meaning I would not comprehend until later that night when everything unraveled.


    ¡°I understand,¡± I said slowly. The tension eased up and the room unclenched. It filled up with air and the smell of gunpowder tea instead of the crushing void of anticipation that had been.


    ¡°But why do I have to-¡±


    She cut me off. ¡°No, no more! I prattled all I care to. I¡¯ll shorten for you: Your Father, foolish. Your Mother, splendid. You, leaving, soon.¡± Without a chance to protest, the woman was on her feet and to the door, turning the sign over from OPEN to CLOSED. She flicked off the lights and meandered to the kitchen where I managed to catch up with her.


    ¡°Hold on. You can¡¯t just tell me to go and not explain anything.¡± I said, not fully barring her from the door but trying to keep her attention. Scratching the side of her face, she squinted not at me but forward.


    ¡°Well, do you want to be here?¡± She finally asked, gripping the brass handle. Her look this time didn¡¯t drain the room of heat, two ancient coals smouldering deep within her head. I opened my mouth to speak but couldn¡¯t find words immediately.


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t. But why so urgently?¡± I managed to ask. From a purple drawstring pouch at her hip she produced another, smaller drawstring pouch, placing it in my hands. She beamed at me, face uplifting into a comforting rorschach.


    ¡°Just a hunch, dear. Have some more tea for tonight. This one will taste better, promise.¡±

 Decisive Events - 3

    All at once I was pushed from her shop with an umbrella in hand, the door sliding shut behind me. Her wind chimes were dancing furiously in the headlong gale, colliding with one another in frantic clangs. As I reached for the door, the lights clapped off and the room inside went cold, devoid of life.


    For an old woman she sure can move when she wants to.


    I opened the umbrella and put my shoulder to the wind, parting the torrent as best I could. It sounded like a room full of faucets, meandering down some rube goldberg machine to pour specifically on me.


    Through puddles deep my feet squelched. Every so often, a glowing car would whir by and I¡¯d scurry to the far end of the sidewalk to hide from a spray of mud. I was drenched, but perhaps I could make it back somewhat clean.


    Overhead, the city loomed. Perhaps it was my primal man, for this grid of metal and concrete was about as homely as a cavern to a bird. A small, thoughtful voice in me couldn¡¯t begin to parse why or how we had left the trees. Moreover, why we chopped them all down and covered their roots with fake slabs of rock. No one smiled here, and if they did, it was a tired smile or a polite one, in spite of themselves. Maybe it was something about the air or the water, that food that came in a can from thousands of miles away or that there was never a moment without light or sound from some engine. The constant hum in the air, a perverted recording of bees for when they all died out and took us with them. Even the rain, that was splattered onto my face, was filled with vile secrets that would burn my flesh if I let it be for too long. How long ago had it been that the world was cut open, sterilized, expanded, fenced in, diluted, inoculated, medicated, liberated, automated, sponsored, sold to the highest bidder? Who owned the world, and when had it been put up for auction? Why was this what they wanted it to be?


    My feet stopped splattering, pavement underfoot once more. Before me was a single path, straight and heavy with gloom. I turned off the main road and walked it alone, an orange door standing before me. The door knob was slick and cold, making it even more of a chore to open. As quietly as I could, I crept inside and immediately slipped up the stairs. At the halfway point, I peered over the landing down into the murky first floor. There, on the sofa, a halo of bottles gleaming around him in the low light, was my father. He wasn¡¯t moving - maybe he¡¯d died. I could hope, anyways.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    Now behind my door, my pulse leveled out as I slid several latches and chains across its surface. Safe. I wandered through the miasma of bawled up paper and seltzer cans that clung to the cold floor of my room, shedding my soaked clothing as I did so. Immediately I crawled under the heavy cotton blankets of my bed, tucking and swaddling myself until I could no longer feel my own weight. With but a crack of light showing through, a pleasant breeze floated past my bare skin and I immediately fell into a daze.


    Time passed around me. It was hard to tell what was real and what was leaking out from my head, thoughts bubbling free and taking shape. Faces swam on the ceiling, those I knew and those I did not. One came into focus and my heart tightened, compassionate eyes finding me even sequestered beneath my blankets. While monsters could not harm me under the covers, ghosts still could.


    Peeling free, I grasped at the darkness beside me until I found my lamp, turning a brass switch. It flicked on with some struggle, the filament old and ready to fizzle out at any moment. Not ready to molt my warm plumage, I took them on my migration, hasting from the nest.


    The ground had cooled, the meager warmth that had been draining down into the cement bedrock. By the sputtering bulb I found the silhouette of my bag, hinted in contrasting shades of dark. I shouldered it and wandered back to the receding glow, flicking on an electric kettle that squatted atop my dresser. In a jagged motion, I unclasped the bag and let it hurtle a short space from me to the bed. It landed disappointingly quiet and my face puckered.


    Steam gurgled forth, floating down in a heavy current. The bag Maui had pressed into my hands was crisp and oily somehow, as though a mound of fresh leaves had been asked politely to make a convenient shape. A thick wax stamp bound the whole, somewhat star shaped mass together. I could just make out its mark: A crescent moon with a simple eye overlooked two, four pointed stars, these celestial shapes encompassed within a circle. I wasn¡¯t sure why, but I felt as though the moon was watching over the two stars.