Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02 Read online

  “Woo-would you go with me to the pro-o-om?”

  “Of course, I would and don’t look so shocked. You’re pretty hot and a girl has needs.”

  Gary blushed for the rest of the day. Probably analyzing that last sentence through several bathroom pass masturbation sessions. The idea of that made me feel powerful, in a way that a previously disclosed molestation did not.116 I’m talking about one of Ethel’s boyfriends, not my real dad. He ran when he could and I certainly don’t hold that against him. He saw his opening and darted. I’d have done the same if I’d been given the latitude. I’m not talking about a rape or anything just some over the panty fumbling. I’ll survive.

  Oh … wait.

  Anyway.

  The prom was magical, and all. But I was looking for the payday, and I don’t mean to reference a peanut-studded candy bar as a phallic image. I was talking about losing my virginity. Some of you want to imagine that every girl’s fantasy is to do it with someone they love, hand the pussy over on some buffed and shiny silver platter, or some shit. Well, it isn’t every girl’s fantasy.

  If I learned anything from Ethel it was that a woman can want and enjoy sex without love entering into the equation.

  So … later.

  After Carly Bookman had snagged her crown— duh—I took Gary back out to his ratty old Volkswagen Rabbit and fucked the shit out of him—to put it nicely. For all his bellowing cries to God I was surprised we didn’t get a visit from our Lord and Personal Savior right there, or at least a cum-stained reliquary out of the deal. I bet to this day Gary still has the belt buckle dents in his back as a memento. Maybe one is even shaped like the Virgin Mary.117

  We never spoke again but he lost the stutter in those backseat screams and became quite the ladies man around Barnaby Ridge High. What can I say? I’m like a social worker for all my good deeds.

  Hmm. Yet no one was there to help me in my time of need.

  The grass slapped around my new sweatshop heels and bare ankles. There didn’t seem to be any alternative but to follow Tad and Corey and step right in. But where to do it? Was one place as good as the next? And what about that ominous Sanskrit message? A little over the top, if you ask me.

  I mean “know nothing and perish.” C’mon, what does that even mean? And who reads Sanskrit in Montana? I was pretty sure the ranchers aren’t writing their grocery lists in the ancient language.

  I marched up to the wall and touched the surface, expecting mercurial liquid. Instead I was confronted by a cold solid construction. I walked along, trailing my fingers across it.

  “The truth is all around me?” I wondered aloud. There was grass all around me, sky, air and one big impossible wall.

  Impossible.

  Or maybe that was the answer. The wall’s existence was impossible. How did it even get built? The thing was massive. Everyone would know about it if it were real. My eyes followed the swirls of Sanskrit and I bounded forward, head held high and eyes open.

  There’s no wall, I told myself. No wall.

  But there was.

  As my face connected, the material splattered across it like mud. Cold and wet and not at all like the kind that Helga spreads on at the supernatural spa, Riyadh Morte, which is—in a word—delightful. The feeling spread down my body until I was interred inside it. I hesitated for a moment, expecting the spasm to come. When it didn’t, I pushed further in and popped out the other side into a sopping humidity. The temperature was so hot that moisture rose to the surface of my dead flesh.

  Around me stood a lush forest of palms and banana trees so dense I was reminded of Vietnam War movies and gangrene and sweat. The scent of night jasmine hung in the air, and orchids grew from creases in the tree trunks. Either it was all an illusion or that wall was a door to a land that hated straight hair. Off to my right a raised wooden boardwalk meandered into the jungle, illuminated by the occasional metal fire pot.

  Tad and Corey hadn’t bothered to wait.

  I stepped off a slight grassed incline onto the boards and creaked through the jungle, half expecting to encounter a hungry tiger, or some psychotic aging Vietcong to roll out of the greenery in a viney wheelchair, clueless as to the end of the war and the fact that Vietnam was the new Bali. But the most perilous obstacle proved to be a dense clumping Bird of Paradise grown up out of the jungle floor and into the rotting damp boards; spiky flowers pecked at my blouse as I tried to give it a wide berth.

  As the jungle thinned, I came upon an arch with a scrolling pagoda roof. A bell hung from its ornately carved post. Beyond this rose a vast complex of Oriental architecture—Thai salas and pointy wats shared space with blue Chinese tiled mansions and many-storied Indian palaces. Wherever I was, it was not Asia, but some sort of recreation, without the massive population and third-world smells. An idealized version, like Epcot or restaurant row near the opera house.

  I reached out and grasped the pull in the center of the bell. Debated a moment and then clanged the bronze fish that hung there against the interior bowl. The sound echoed across the plaza toward the massive buildings in the distance.

  And, I waited.118

  The boardwalk snaked over canals dotted with water lilies, past little houses on stilts, with fabric for doors and stairs leading to sagging longboats. The roots of mangled trees wrapped and grew around golden idols, some Buddhas, others Hindu gods, a Quan Yin carved into the bark of a cypress. Near the end of the raised path, I noted movement.

  A dark boxy shape navigated the curves of the walk accompanied by a clopping and popping of wheels on board. A rickshaw as wide as the path was approaching, wheels teetering precariously, with Tad between the lead poles bearing the weight.

  “I see you made it through fine.” Tad was out of breath but jovial.

  “No help from you. That’s for sure.”

  He flipped the handles over the top of the seating compartment and climbed over the tiled roof. “It’s a little sketchy getting around but, if you get a good fingerhold here …” he pointed at a spot below the roof line. “You shouldn’t have any trouble. C’mon now, hop on.”

  Again, no help. Why is it I have to do everything myself lately? I stomped up to the edge of the boardwalk, glancing briefly at the murky water and noting a gathering of very large koi swarming the area. Insanely large. As I watched one broke the surface and snapped at the air with row upon row of razor sharp teeth.

  Lovely.

  I cringed and searched the side of the dark wood box until my fingers hit on a gap above the opening, made sure I had steady balance on my left foot and then swung my weight around. I aimed my foot for the floor of the carriage, caught it for a second but then the cheap Wal-Mart sole skipped across the threshold like a stone on placid water. My shins scraped the edge as I dangled from my grip, pendulum-like, losing one of my shoes to the snapping mouths below. Small sacrifice.

  Bringing my left arm around I was able to wedge my body in through the hole and skid across the floor on my knees. Lucky for me it was polished or I’d have had a mess on my hands.119

  I struggled to find a place to sit as there were only a few loose pillows and Tad had begun to pull. By the time I came to rest, we were already careening around the curves of the boardwalk, winding back and forth toward the complex.

  “You okay back there?” he shouted.

  “Perfect,” I said, stripping my other foot bare and tossing the shoe out into the canal.

  “That’s awesome. The Maha Durgha is known for her hospitality.”

  The rickshaw hit some loose boards, bouncing me around the cabin. “It shows,” I called out. “I’m super comfortable.”

  “Great!”

  Sarcasm was wasted on the brainwashed, it seemed.

  We rolled onto a hard surface, past a stone gate, and through the center of a black field. Figures roamed the dark rows of the expanse, squeezing powders from bellows they carried under their arms. The air was dense with smoke and shit.

  “What the fu—”

  “Langu
age, Miss. That smell is the mushroom field. It’ll dissipate. Remember, no cursing. The Maha hates potty words.”

  Fuck, I thought.

  This really was going to be an adventure.

  Tad stopped the rickshaw in front of a high peaked pavilion, shingled in crimson tiles like fish scales, the edges burnished in gold. He helped me exit the carriage—the first time he’d offered assistance the whole trip, I might add—and led me through a massive arch and down a center hall lined with potted tea trees and eucalyptus. The fragrance so filled my head that I swayed. Tad steadied me, laying my arm across his, and guided me past doorways expelling the waller of hundreds of voices. He sat me at a bench.

  “Wait here. I’ll see if she’s ready for you.” He jogged off toward the arch at the opposite end.

  I couldn’t resist the call of the voices. I stood, balanced myself against the wall and teetered across to the first doorway. A maze of office cubicles stretched out for hundreds of yards, each occupied by a young woman wearing a telephone headset. I couldn’t make out the conversations and to get any closer would surely alert them to my presence.

  A call center?

  What was going on here?

  Were they dealing in mushrooms?

  And then it hit me. Fishhook wasn’t just addicted to inedible sharp objects, but those little black mushrooms in his Tupperware. The last time he’d taken them he was so fucking high he could have entered pilot training.

  So that’s what was going on here. Drugs.

  I swiveled around and wobbled across the hall to rest on the bench.

  The boys weren’t cultists at all—they were drug dealers. Their guru was the mastermind. It all seemed logical.

  “The Maha will see you now.” Tad slipped his arm around me and helped me up. “She’s very excited about your visit. I believe she’s making tea for you.”

  “No, no. I really couldn’t possibly.” I thought of the tampons, briefly, and then excused the idea. It would be much easier to simply decline than to excuse myself to shove a wad of cotton up my ass. Why couldn’t she offer up a servant, even a very small one, something I could digest? I eyed Tad. He’d do.

  “But you must. The Maha will be very upset.”

  Once in the open air, my head cleared and I was able to stabilize my legs. Whatever fumes filled that hall were potent as Hell.

  A low table was set under a gazebo in the center of a formal garden, with dense strings of Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling casting a warm glow over a silver tea service. Again, no chairs, but pillows stacked neatly beside the table.

  “Have a seat. She’ll be with you in a moment. You may want to gather your thoughts, she won’t have long to chat.” Tad scurried back toward the pavilion.

  Surrounding the garden were three single-storied structures draped in silks that fluttered in the breeze-less night. The panels were drawn back from the furthest, and a tall woman approached, flanked by two men each carrying a tiered set of fringed parasols, one in shades of amber, the other vibrant navies—the umbrellas, not the servants. She stomped at the ground in drool-worthy high heels that were visible only as she lifted the front of her gown’s weighty skirt. The bodice was covered by a Victorian men’s coat in jet, fitted at her waist, open and turned back to reveal the voluminous skirt underneath. White lace trailed from her wrists and décolletage, and she wore a top hat at an angle over dreadlocks, some woven with wire and black pieces of plastic straps.

  The walk itself was totally Tyra. I nearly yelled out, “Bring it, bitch,” but thought better of it.

  Corey brought up the rear, arranging her train like a handmaid. The servants stopped at the edge of the gazebo and the Maha Durgha stepped forward, waving off Corey before he could introduce her.

  “She knows who I am, boy. Run along and …” She paused as she glanced at my feet. “Bring this girl a pair of shoes.” She angled her head and squinted. Her face scrunched up on one side like Nancy, from PBS’s Sewing with Nancy.120 “Size 7.”

  Impressive. I nodded.

  “Yes, Maha.” Corey scuttled away, bowing with each step and stumbling.

  “I’m Amanda Feral.” I reached for her and then withdrew my hand when the gesture was not reciprocated.

  “This I know, as well. You’ve come for answers. But I imagine what you’ve witnessed here has only aroused more questions.”

  Her skin was dark, stretched across a thin face without blemish, her pinched nose puffed at the nostrils like a goblet base and her eyes were large, brown as Belgian chocolate and wide-set. The woman’s presence calmed me. Charmed me. Mostly.

  “Yeah. I’d originally come to ask whether it’s possible for a human to see a ghost, by whatever means that would entail. You see. We picked up this girl—”

  “Yes. Yes. But, you already know the answer to that. In fact, it will happen soon enough as it is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Korean girl will die. Soon.” She smiled broadly, as though delivering happy news. “And then she’ll see her brother. Problem solved.”

  Everything but the fucking hand brushing.

  If it was possible, I’d have thought my shriveled heart sunk at the comment. Honey was going to die? How? And how could this woman be so sure?

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “It’s a gift from the gods. Does my name sound remotely familiar to your Western ears? No. Well no matter. I’ve been around for a long time, girl. I took my name in India, where the Hindus call me the Maha Durgha. It was pleasant enough to the ears so I kept it. My skills of premonition have waned like that moon over there. But, I’m still the best mystic I know. As for the girl, I’m only moderately accurate, but I’m fairly certain we’re talking about days, rather than weeks.”

  I tilted my head at the phrase “moderately accurate.”

  Someone else I knew was “moderately accurate.”

  “Moderately accurate?”

  “I see you’ve put it together.” She reached for the silver pot and poured a dark tea into my cup. “For you to smell. I know you won’t be drinking it.”

  She nodded and I took the cup. Its warmth spread through my fingers. The scent was everything I’d smelled so far, rolled into one—though the field of manure was thankfully absent.

  “The operators you saw are my business. You see, I still like to help mankind and as Madame Gloria I can do that. The mushrooms help them to see what I do. Spread the visions around. You may have noticed the fragrance, felt the lightheadedness?”

  “Oh yeah. It was fu—.” I cut the word off, remembering Tad’s multiple warnings. “Awful. Just awful.”

  “The ladies offer up their bodies as conduits for six weeks at a time—any more than that and there are side effects—the rest of their year is spent in this paradise.”

  I looked around at the menagerie of tropical plants, lined up neatly in rows and berms. “Is this even real? It’s just so … magical.”

  Corey tiptoed up to the gazebo, leaving a pair of Nike running shoes, Air-something-or-others, and backed away. I slid them on my bare feet with a nod to my hostess.

  “Of course it’s real, just embellished a little. The farm, the buildings.” She swept her hand across the horizon. “All very much real. The décor is a bit of glamour, a bit of the old world. I can’t seem to enjoy the metal valley of a city. It’s just not my style.”

  I let my eyes wander over the goddess’s eccentric ensemble. While outlandish and over-the-top, there was richness in the layering. A depth to the fabric. The more I examined it, the more detail was revealed.

  Human forms. Curling and contorting around one another.

  I saw myself in the folds, clinging to them. A man’s face emerged from the shadows behind mine. His arms next, slinking about my torso. We were naked, grasping at each other, grinding. Fucking. He was familiar though I couldn’t see his face. Strong. Then the fabric darkened to black. Chilled. A cave entrance loomed. A small figure, huddled on his knees crying. Shoulders
heaving. Mr. Kim.

  She shifted and the spell was broken. “A vision for you. I’m sorry. Only part of it was pleasant, I’m afraid.”

  Was I supposed to be thankful?

  I shook off the fashion trance. “Tad and Corey?”

  “Also real, though not drug dealers as you suspect—just loyal penitents. They’re particularly helpful to me.” She leaned across the table and grinned. “This is going to drive you nuts. That you are here at all is a complete coincidence. I didn’t even put it together myself. Corey filled me in on the murder. I hope you don’t suspect my boys, they just aren’t capable.”

  “Of course not.” I held the cup in front of my face, hiding behind it. Madame Gloria’s proximity was a little threatening for my taste.

  “Still, we can’t just let someone go killing your friends.” She sighed. “I suspect one of your traveling companions.”

  I immediately thought of Fishhook and his visions. I suspected him briefly but he was always so cracked out, he didn’t seem capable of wiping himself let alone a strenuous dismemberment. But he’d definitely seen something at the campground, right before he got loaded and he did act more like a zombie than Wendy or I ever did. Unless he was being controlled.

  “Is it possible that someone outside your compound could access your mushrooms? Are they for sale or something?”

  “They are. But they’re very expensive.” She rose and crossed the small space to glance at the descending moon. “I’m afraid that not all of my worshippers are as loyal as Tad and Corey. Some parcels have gone missing. I’ve heard that unscrupulous individuals have used the crop to control human beings, to make them a bit like zombies, the classic variety, not a mistake and certainly not in kind with your evolved species. More like a weapon.”

  “Terrible.”

  “Isn’t it? I advise that you watch for these mushrooms. Assuming you haven’t already seen them.” She spun to face me. “Have you already seen them?” Her eyes narrowed to slits.

  Was she fishing? I felt like I was being manipulated for an answer. I don’t like to be manipulated, so it’s no surprise that I reverted to my normal turns of speech.