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The Demon’s Cantos

Part 10


Tilda’s key stuck out of the lock to her front door as the rain fell in relentless waves.

Byron stood close behind her on the raised porch of her small bungalow. He was soaked to the bone and shivering. The walk had taken less than ten minutes, but in the storm, it felt like an eternity.

As they walked Byron could not dispel the irrational thought that somehow the wind and rain hounded after him specifically. Even Tilda’s unnatural exuberance could not keep Byron’s mood from sinking and he’d began to move with harried, trudging steps.

Now, teeth clenched, arms wrapped around his upper body, Byron watched with some frustration as Tilda jiggled her key in the lock, to no effect.

“It always does this,” Tilda said, her voice still obliviously matter of fact, “I really need to get this lock replaced, but it never occurs to me until I actually need to get insi—”

With a click, the key took and turned to the right. Tilda looked back at Byron, “there we go,” she said with a smile.

Byron’s deadpan glare spoke volumes, the mop of his hair flat against his face, dripping water in spades. He looked like a pathetic statue in the midst of a grand fountain with a spigot gushing water straight out the top of his head.

Tilda gave him an empathetic pout. “Let’s get you inside.” Then she swung open the door and raced in out of the storm. Byron followed fast behind, stepping into an unlit room.

The sudden cessation of pummeling rain felt similar to the odd stillness of the ground after a long trip at sea. Only once it had stopped assailing him did Byron realize just how loud the storm had been. His ears rang.

Tilda flicked a light switch somewhere and the room filled with bright light. For a moment Byron struggled, thinning his eyes. He had a pounding headache, he realized in the stillness, a fact the light really drove home. Slowly, his eyes adjusted and he looked around.

They were in a kind of mud room – with a big plastic sink, and a washer and dryer lining a white interior wall, all on top of white tile. The exterior wall was almost entirely tall glass windows, against which the dark chaos of the storm pounded loudly, threatening to shatter the panes.

Byron found himself staring at those windows with a growing anxiety. It felt as though the storm were a raging ocean and those glass windows the only meager barrier between him and inundation.

Tilda shuffled about, hanging her raincoat up, first emptying the pockets and placing a wad of singles, caramels and their empty wrappers on top of the dryer. She began to bend over to remove her boots when she saw Byron, still standing just inside the open door, staring like a zombie at the windows.

Tilda followed Byron’s gaze back and forth a couple of times, before clearing her throat.

Byron shook back to the present, his eyes blinking into focus, uncertain what he was supposed to be doing.

Tilda gestured at the door, and the large puddle of storm water building in front of it. “You could close the door,” she said with gentle sarcasm, “but I’ll leave it up to you.”

“Oh,” Byron said, “right.” He turned to shut the door on the storm.

As the door swung shut time seemed to slow and Byron caught a final glimpse into the darkness. In his delirium he could have sworn he saw faces out there in the squall, shadowy eyes dispersed in the rain, conspiring voices upon the wind.

A blast of lightning ruptured the sky and with it came a deep peel of thunder. It rumbled in Byron’s chest and within its sonic folds, more of a physical touch than a sound, Byron swore he recognized his own name.

With sudden urgency Byron slammed the door shut against the phantoms. He leaned hard against the wood, breathing heavily,

Tilda peered at him quizically for a moment. Finally she shrugged and clapped her hands together. “OK, we made it.”

Byron looked up at her and then down at himself. McNally’s old clothes hung off him, sopping wet and heavy. A pool of water a couple of feet wide was forming at his feet. His hands were shaking. With a pathetic glance, he looked back at Tilda. “Could I borrow some clothes?”

Tilda’s features softened and her smile grew warm and earnest. “Of course,” she said, reaching up and opening a cabinet. Inside was a pile of clean white towels. She reached in, picked up three of them, and placed them on the washing machine. Then she reached for a string in the corner and began pulling on one end of it. As she did so a row of window shades began to come down. Byron watched as the storm disappeared behind the barriers and his heart began to beat with less ferocity.

Once the shades were lowered, Tilda started taking off her boots. “You get undressed, dry off. I’ll leave some clothes right outside in the hallway. Bathroom’s first left down the hall. When you’re good and ready you come inside.”

Byron watched as Tilda placed the happy pair of bright green boots together by the far wall. Then she walked toward the interior door behind him, careful to step over Byron’s expanding puddle.

As she passed, she stopped. “How about I make some hot chocolate,” she asked, “do you like hot chocolate, Byron?”

Byron felt like he was in a dream. He touched one of the white towels and it was warm and very soft beneath his frozen fingers. “I love hot chocolate,” he said, his voice adrift in a sea of formless concern and exhaustion.

Tilda patted him on the shoulder and Byron realized she was holding the Cantos. Did she see it for what it was? When had he given it to her? Or had she taken it? He couldn’t remember.

But it didn’t matter. Byron felt himself become more at ease under Tilda’s gentle touch.

“Of course you do,” she said, “who doesn’t?”

With one last smile, Tilda walked into the house, gently shutting the door behind her.

For what felt like a long time Byron just stood there, alone in the mud room, still soaking wet and staring at the front door. The storm scratched and beat against the wood, like an animal trying to gain entry. A pang of fear shot through him as Byron saw that the lock was still undone.

With a speed born of irrational fear, Byron reached out and twisted the lock shut, barring the evils of the storm as a child pulls a blanket over their head to ward off the evils of the night.



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