Dreams and Shadows - By C. Robert Cargill Page 0,2
clinging to the underside of the balcony, was a writhing mass of brown, bulbous flesh—a silently snarling beast with a misshapen head and an uncommonly large brow resting above tiny, jaundiced, bloodshot eyes. Its balding head gripped slight patches of graying hair, wisps desperately combed over concealing the wrinkled flesh beneath. Muscles bulged out in odd places, beset by dripping flab.
Its giant monkey-like arms gripped the edge of the balcony as it writhed in agony at the tuneless sound escaping betwixt Tiffany’s lips.
For Dithers, a Bendith Y Mamau, Tiffany’s song was the last screeching wail of a strangled animal; the dismal, shrill sound of a pack of harpies swooping down upon their prey. She meant well, but that didn’t stop him wincing painfully at each misstruck note. Dithers flailed against the wall, praying the veil wouldn’t fail him and leave him exposed so high up. He held firm, thankful that he was dangling above another balcony and wouldn’t have far to fall were she to begin slaughtering a song he actually knew.
He’d heard bad singers in his life, but this mother hadn’t a chord in her throat that could strike so much as a single note, let alone string together a melody. She deserved what she had coming to her; she deserved it for what she was doing to music. Reaching back, Dithers checked the squirming leather sack dangling from a strap slung over his shoulder. All he needed was for that suckling beast to return to her bed so he could perform the single most important task of his life.
In his cradle, Ewan drifted into an infant’s slumber, the notes of his mother’s tune drifting in and out of his formless dreams. Tiffany smiled, knowing she had a good two or three hours more before he would gurgle and coo again. She lingered for a moment, marveling at the wonder in the crib. Her hand stroked the top of his head and he fussed—just a little—before settling back. Her song ended, and she retreated swiftly back to bed, stepping lightly so her footsteps wouldn’t wake him.
Dithers breathed deep, squinched tight his eyes, saying a silent prayer. In one fluid motion, he swung back, kicking off the bottom of the balcony, slinging himself around—up and over the bars—before landing graceful as a cat. He glanced around—no one to see him, not so much as a pigeon or an angel this high up tonight. He’d have liked to smile, but the job wasn’t over, too much still to go wrong.
Focus. Eyes on the crib.
He darted in through the open door, brushing past the gossamer curtains, giving a cursory glance to ensure he wasn’t seen. No one must know. No one. But the building was new, its otherworldly inhabitants yet to properly stake their claim to the nooks and crannies of every dark corner. All the better. He didn’t want a fight. He just wanted to grab the kid and go. With the kick of his foot, he was perched upon the crib’s railing. He took a brief moment—nothing more than an instant—to think about what he was doing, running over the checklist one more time.
Then he reached into his sack with one hand, scooping up baby Ewan with the other.
In one rehearsed motion, he swapped the contents of his bag for the child in the crib. Then he was off, vaulting over the balcony, soaring blindly out into the night below without pausing to admire his own handiwork.
Dithers sailed seventeen stories down, his outstretched arm catching the trunk of a tree, swinging him, spiraling around, leaving a candy-cane scratch in the bark. His feet had barely touched the ground before he tore off into a full run, making his way behind a building, out into the darkness. In the sack behind him, enjoying the bumpy ride in a cushioned bag, a groggy Ewan smiled and cooed.
He would never see his mother again.
Seventeen stories up, the curtains still rustled. Beyond them, in the crib, a child looking remarkably like Ewan lay in identical pajamas. Spattered with vomit and feces, reeking of the thick smell of swamp rot, the child fussed, uncomfortable on the cozy mattress. There wasn’t the slightest hint of glamour in the air, not a bit of mountain laurel on the breeze. It was about as awful and antiseptic a place as he’d ever been. And so he began to scream.
Tiffany shot up out of bed as if it were on fire, tearing away the covers, running full speed toward