The Children of Old Leech: A Tribute to the Carnivorous Cosmos of Laird Barron (6 page)

“Tea,” she said, shocked at how much effort it cost her to speak.

A hand in hers, warm and familiar. She flicked her eyes left, and behind the calm set of her father’s face, she saw all the things she knew he feared.

“Did you have any customers?” Dr. Yam asked. “I haven’t seen any sickness like this.”

“What do you think…?” her father couldn’t finish, squeezing her left hand.

Dr. Yam frowned, holding up Wah’s right arm. Even half-delirious, she could see the red splotches on her hand, and the squiggly red lines that stretched up toward her elbow. The patchwork seemed almost to writhe beneath her skin.

“It presents as an infection of the blood, but you have the chills and delirium of a fever, or poison. You saw no one?”

Wah squinted backward, through the shadows congealing in her mind. There were the dreams, of course: a skull-faced man, fracturing into a million horses that galloped in clouds around the world. And there was…

“Golden silkworms,” she muttered.

“What’s that?” the apothecary said, leaning forward.

“We have a shipment,” she said.

Her father and Dr. Yam looked at each other and shook their heads. She wanted to tell them that a rider was coming, but when she opened her mouth, she started coughing, and then she was falling. The cave yawned and swallowed her whole.

***

Wah woke in darkness. She didn’t know where she was, or when. The sound of raindrops on the roof brought her further awake, and the dank chill in the air spoke of Seattle. In another room, her father’s voice, low. The memory of her last period of wakefulness came back, Dr. Yam’s concerned expression. She tried to look at her arm, but it was too dark. There was a dull heat under the skin of her arm and shoulder. Pain when she tried to think back further, but it didn’t seem important.

The distant murmur of her father’s voice reminded her of something else, the faintest memory. Pine trees, a lantern? She shivered, and that did the trick.

“You must understand,” Mama Sung said, “this is an honor for her. She becomes a goddess by the end of the legend.”

The wind whispered through the trees outside of the old house. Somewhere in the distance, the laughter of other children, her cousins playing amongst themselves. But Wah loved her grandmother, in no small part for the tales she told, full of magicians and monsters, and so she did not resent sitting with her on the bench while her mother talked with her sisters.

“I don’t like it,” Wah said, shuddering uncontrollably. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

“Liar,” Mama Sung said, not unkindly, and when Wah returned with more tea for her grandmother the old woman continued her story. “As I was saying, before a scared little girl interrupted me…”

“I’m not scared,” Wah said sulkily.

“Liar.” Mama Sung sipped her tea. “Ah, that’s better. So yes, the horse hide came to life, and fell upon the bratty girl. It wrapped her up tight and carried her off, away into the forest. And when her friends went looking for her, they found the skin hanging from a high tree branch, bulging down like a sack full of wet rice. One of the girls was bold enough to climb up for a look, and do you know what she saw?”

Wah shook her head, feeling dizzy.

“The hide was transparent, like that of an onion, and so through the horse skin she saw her friend, curled up inside. But the girl had changed, her head growing heavy and long like a horse, her body stretching out oh so thin, and that’s when she realized what had happened.”

“What?” Wah asked, breathless.

“She realized the horse skin was a cocoon, and when her friend emerged she would be a beautiful silkworm. And so she did, and although her family wept to lose their daughter, they rejoiced to welcome a new goddess to the heavens. Now isn’t that nice?”

“No, it’s not nice at all. It’s a nasty story.” Wah looked up past the lantern that wavered from a pine bough in the breeze. She was peering into the darkness of the treetop, trying to see if a cocoon hung somewhere over their heads…

“Birth is never pretty,” said Mama Sung, lifting Wah up so that she could reach the lower branches and begin to climb. “The worst sorcery comes from feeding one poison worm to another. It concentrates the essence, the dog to the viper, the viper to the spider, the spider to the centipede, the centipede to the worm. This gold silkworm she mentioned…”

Looking back down to the empty bench far below, Wah realized the memory had become a dream. Dr. Yam’s voice swirled down out of the pungent pine, the scent not from her childhood in Ch’eng-tu but her new life in America, and she clung to the sap-oozing bark, listening. Her father reached through the sticky boughs and patted her forehead dry, and blinking, she drifted up toward the shining heavens. One by one, the stars were blotted out as the horse skin stretched itself wider and wider, filling the night sky with its embrace.

“Thank you, Dr. Yam,” her father said. “You’ve saved my daughter’s life.”

The pain had actually risen, but as Wah returned to herself, the fever seemed to be slackening. The cot felt wet and rumpled beneath her as she blinked and the old apothecary swam back into focus. Dr. Yam was scowling at her with an expression that made her wonder if he was altogether happy about her recovery.

***

By the following afternoon Wah was able to leave her bed, and by the end of the week she felt as though nothing had ever been amiss. Quite the contrary, she felt better than she ever had in her life. Other than the dreams, at least, but dreams were just that, nothing more. As the nightmares worsened, she awoke from them feeling strange and high, almost invigorated.

Her father insisted she check in with Dr. Yam to see if she should keep drinking the foul tea he had prescribed. She would have thought her rapid recovery would have pleased Dr. Yam, but he seemed downright grouchy when she called on him. Being made to wait while he served the men in his shop was bad enough, but when the last of them left, he had her lock the door behind them.

“I told you, I’m fine,” said Wah, scratching absentmindedly at her arm. She spoke English, since her Cantonese was even worse than his Szechuanese. “I had the fever before, back home.”

“You have a fever, to be sure,” said Dr. Yam, returning to his counter and reaching beneath it. He retrieved a small brown paper bag, the kind he used to fill his prescriptions. This one was already weighted down by something. “You must be very careful, Wah Sung.”

Taking the bag, Wah’s eyes widened and her hand shook as she looked inside. “Apparently so! What are you trying to—”

“You can fool your father, but you can’t fool me.” Dr. Yam leaned across his counter. “You brought this on yourself, Wah, and for your father’s sake I hope you put an end to it before it grows worse. And it
will
grow worse.”

“Are you saying I should…” Wah imagined the taste of metal mixing with her own blood, but instead of revolting her it sent a delicious shiver up her spine. She rocked on her heels, paralyzed by the unexpected sensation. Then came the fear and disgust his suggestion should have conjured from the first, and she shivered, picturing her father all alone in the shop. “What would he do without me? I feel fine, why should I…”

Dr. Yam offered her a wan smile. “This cure is not for you, child. It’s for the sorcerer who poisoned you. He will return, and when he does… well. Now you have the medicine.”

Wah gulped, wrapped the bag tightly around its cargo, and shoved it into the pocket of her trousers. Hurrying out of the shop and into the hubbub that was an unseasonably warm and sunny weekend on King Street, she was glad for once that she could not afford the tight-fitting dresses that were becoming popular. Rounding the corner to their shop, Wah stopped short at the sight of Jim Sasaki and Sam Lee tying their team to the post. Somewhere in the wagonload of precariously stacked barrels and crates, she knew, was an ordinary-looking box with far-from-ordinary contents.

A pall fell over the sunny street so quickly that Wah found herself glancing up to see if something unnatural had obscured the sky. Dark clouds were racing in from the coast, and rain began to patter against the shingles and perpetually soft streets, but she took no further notice, other than to pull her damask jacket closer around her. She looked around the intersection, gaze restlessly roving over faces familiar and not, but nothing seemed out of order.

Even so, she knew Mr. Kernochan was nearby. Watching. She scratched at her arm, wishing for the hundredth time that the rash would just go away.

The skies opened, releasing the pressure she hadn’t noticed in the air. She went to greet Jim, and his smile was a familiar comfort. She busied herself with the delivery, helping unload the wagon, checking the order forms against the manifest, and trying not to think of the weight in her pocket.

***

“I won’t be gone long,” her father said, adjusting his hat. “But don’t wait up.”

Wah nodded, grateful for once that the Chans’ pai gow game had come around again. Her father was careful with money, and he rarely gambled, but every few years, it appeared, his will weakened.

And what of it? He’s only flesh, only food for the worm.

She blinked.

That wasn’t the first time in the past few days that she’d heard the cold voice in her head, whispering cold, cold things. They horrified, and yet, something about what the voice whispered seemed
right
.

“…do you say?”

“I’m sorry, Father. My mind was an ocean away.”

“That’s all right, my dear. You are the best daughter a father could have, and wherever else it wanders, I know your mind is also on the shop.”

He headed off into the gathering night, and even though Wah was still on the floor, he paused to lock the door behind him. He always locked up now, ever since the night of the fever. She went to make tea in the back room, setting out two cups as the water boiled. Within the folds of her dress, Dr. Yam’s prescription dangled pregnantly, the pull of its weight concealed by her skirts’ flaps and folds.

What will it take to keep him safe?
she thought.

Two days ago, when she’d returned from Dr. Yam’s to find the delivery wagon at their shop, she had expected Mr. Kernochan to materialize by closing time. He never arrived. She could not find sleep until the wee hours, and when she did, she dreamed of dragging a slippery horse hide up Beacon Hill and scaling a red cedar, building herself a cocoon from skin and sap…

When she had awoken, the rash on her arm no longer itched, but it had spread overnight to cover most of her body. She’d stood in her room, naked, tracing the red, squirmy lines everywhere they ran, from the crook of her elbow to the folds of her eyelids.

And then, as she watched, they had visibly paled—weakened—fled. They’d sunk into her without a trace.

Could there ever be a cure?
she’d asked herself, staring into the mirror.

The end of the world
, the cold voice said, echoing in her skull. In that moment, she understood everything.

Now, listening to the tick and ping of metal expanding under heat as the water warmed, she gave thanks that her father was gone. Whatever was to come, it wasn’t for his eyes.

Even as steam began to leak from the pot, Wah heard a soft, slidey thump from below. She looked at the pot with mild regret, set it aside. She toweled her hands dry and lifted a small crate from among those piled nearby.

She navigated the back room easily in the dim light, familiar with the layout from years of stocking. The scarred, unpainted door to the basement stood open just a crack, conjuring a smile on her lips—she was sure it had been latched.

Wah lifted and lit the lantern next to it, then threw the door wide and began to descend. Something inside of her spoke slyly, urging her to douse the lantern and experience the dark in its full glory, but she tamped it down.

The basement looked ancient by lamplight, though it was barely half a century old. Cobwebs festooned the pillars that supported the shop, and the dank lay like a heavy film on her skin. There were a few window frames left intact, from back before the Great Fire had lifted the city up and turned ground floors into basements, but for all the shadows and spiders, it might never have seen daylight. After a break-in several years before, her father had barred the doors that led to what had once been the sidewalk. Now both stood open, leading… she knew not where, save that it was dark.

“So good to see you again, Miss Sung,” Mr. Kernochan said, stepping out of the shadows.

“And you, Mr. Kernochan.” His face looked more waxen than ever in the lamplight. He came for her, then, but before he took two steps she tossed him the box. He caught it almost as an afterthought, his black eyes never looking away from Wah’s, and she set the lantern on the stair—she needed both hands free. “It’s not a scroll, and it’s damn sure not a genealogy, so what is it?”

“You peeked?” Mr. Kernochan’s eyebrows beetled together as he inspected the box, as though noticing it for the first time. Digging fingernails into wood, he tore it open. A splinter drew dark liquid from his thumb that dripped and trickled into the shadows. Unwrapping the small black book from its padding, he sighed with satisfaction. “Well, I may have fudged some details, but I spoke true when I said it was a family record. Of sorts. I’m surprised you’re giving it back, having stolen a taste for yourself.”