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The Demon’s Cantos

Part 20


After the sun went down Korbius dove into the sea for his nightly hunt, leaving Byron to rest lazily on the plain looking gray couch in the living room. Faustus’s bulbous head rested comfortably on Byron’s thigh like the world’s strangest lap dog. Either Byron was getting more comfortable around the giant spider, or he was too exhausted to be afraid, he wasn’t sure which.

A sweet, rich aroma wafted out from the kitchen where Tilda stood over the stove-top, humming happily to herself. She stirred the contents of a small saucepan, carefully scraping the bottom with a rubber spatula.

With his stomach full of Tilda’s delicious dinner, Byron found himself weary of mind and body in that fulfilling way that only comes after a day of hard work. Looking at Tilda’s back, he could almost pretend Tilda hadn’t nearly suffocated him in a tomb of sand less than two hours ago.

Almost.

Tilda leaned down until her nose was an inch above the lip of the small pot and took a whiff. “Hmm,” she hummed, standing up and lifting the pan off the burner, “hot cocoa is ready!” She poured the mixture of melted dark chocolate and half-and-half into one white mug and then another, set the pot back on the burner, turned off the gas flame, and walked over toward the couch. As she approached, Byron found himself wondering where the gas for the stove came from – or the house’s electricity for that matter.

Tilda handed one of the mugs to Byron, who took it carefully in two hands, surprising himself with his own regard for Faustus’s sleep. The spider’s mandibles stirred gently, the thin hairs there quivering for a moment before going still again.

“The only thing better than a cup of hot chocolate,” Tilda began, sitting on the love-seat across from the couch and taking a small sip, “is a cup of hot chocolate you’ve really earned.” She pulled a lever on the side of the love-seat which caused her seat-back to recline and a foot rest to pop up. Tilda took a deep breath so calming that Byron felt its effects vicariously and slurped at her hot cocoa.

Byron tested the temperature of the liquid, expecting it to be over-hot, fresh off the stove. Tilda saw his hesitation and smiled over her mug through a small plume of steam.

“Don’t worry, temperature’s perfect.” She lifted her mug, displaying it, “it’s the mugs. Go ahead, take a sip.”

Byron shot her a skeptical look but took a test sip. He was surprised to find the cocoa was, in fact, the perfect temperature. Still hot enough to be pleasant, but not hot enough to scald his tongue – and delicious to boot. He took a large mouthful and closed his eyes, reminiscing over the familiar taste. An image of Nan came to mind, sitting across from him in her not yet destroyed kitchen.

“That’s perfect,” Byron said, relishing another sip, “reminds me of my Nan’s hot cocoa.”

Tilda nodded, “no surprise there, it’s her recipe.”

“What?” Byron’s eyebrows raised in surprise, “how did you . . .?”

Tilda interjected, “Mary and your Nan were good friends for a long time, years before I ever met Mary.” Tilda sipped and her eyes grew sad, “Mary said she used to make exclusively Swiss Miss before she met your Nan,” Tilda smiled a quiet, remembering smile, “‘It was Swiss Miss or bust,’ Mary used to say. But then your Nan made her the real thing and, you know, once you taste it,” she raised her mug and gave it a warm sniff, “there’s no going back.”

“I guess not,” Byron looked contemplatively into his hot cocoa, “how did you end up here, Tilda?”

Tilda looked up quizzically. “Here? Well, you see I walked through this portal inside an outhouse. . .”

Byron chuckled, “Right, I mean, I how did you get involved in all this? Were you and Mary related?” He felt uncomfortable broaching the topic, knowing it made Tilda uncomfortable to talk about it, but Byron allowed his curiosity to get the best of him. He felt it wasn’t too much to ask, seeing as he was entrusting Tilda with his life and all.

Unlike a normal home, out in the real world, there were no light-bulbs in this house. Instead the strange material that made up the walls and floors emanated a kind of subtle, uniform fire-glow. As far as Byron could tell there were no light switches – it was as if the house itself turned on the lights of its own accord as it felt was appropriate.

Sitting in the love-seat, mug held tightly in her lap, short legs hardly making it the length of the foot rest, illuminated by the even, firelight glow of the house itself, Tilda looked tiny and innocent once again. Every hint of the powerful, dangerous force of nature Byron had been overpowered by earlier receded into the background.

“Mary wasn’t related to me by blood,” Tilda started, her voice small, “she adopted me. On my 35th birthday.” Tilda took a small sip of her hot cocoa and the promise of a tear formed at the corner of her eyes.

Byron pursed his lips, discomfited by the revealed vein of emotion. Still, he persisted, speaking quietly.

“That’s really nice.”

Tilda gently swiped at her right eye, “Yeah, that was Mary in a nutshell. Really nice. Before I met her,” Tilda paused, face aimed at her mug, eyes shifting left to right, careful not to make eye contact, “life was hard.”

Unsure whether to continue on this topic, Byron bit his lower lip. “I’m sorry, we don’t need to talk about this if you don’t . . .”

But Tilda interrupted, speaking with resolve, as if she were forcing the words to come out from wherever they’d been hiding inside of her. “I was put up for adoption the day I was born. Never knew my parents. I grew up going from foster family to foster family. I got close to adoption once, I think, maybe – but then I accidentally sent my bed falling into the ceiling one night and next day I was back at the agency.”

Tilda paused to take a fortifying chug of hot cocoa. Her foot began tapping in the air in a nervous tick. Still, she lowered the mug and continued, never making eye contact with Byron.

“I aged out and they transferred me to an adult care facility. That was hard. Most people in those places really can’t care for themselves at all. I think the state didn’t know what to do with me, so they stuck me there.”

Byron could only look at her with his mouth slightly open in awful surprise, “Tilda . . .”

But Tilda kept talking, her voice growing more certain with each word that passed her lips, “I was there for years. It’s easy to forget yourself in a place like that, to become what they think you are – an invalid, useless, incompetent.” A quiet anger washed over Tilda’s face. “It didn’t help that they were giving me a bunch of drugs. They said it was to keep me calm, but really it stopped my abilities, which I still couldn’t control. No one would ever actually admit they existed, of course – much simpler to just drug me into a zombie.”

Tilda took a settling sip and a deep breath. Byron sat and waited for her to continue.

“We took trips, once a month during the summer. They would load us all into an old school bus and drive us out to Ocracoke for the day. The facility was right on the shore, so it was only a couple of hours drive, two and half hours with the ferry. We would head to the beach and they’d lay us all out on white towels under cheap white umbrellas. We couldn’t go in the water, of course, too dangerous, but at least I got to smell the air, and feel the sun and the wind.” Tilda managed to smile, “that’s how I met Mary – the same way everyone met Mary I guess. Middle of the day the bus would stop at the Variety Store and a bunch of us would get off the bus and shuffle in. It was total chaos whenever we arrived, and we bought almost nothing, but Mary never lost her temper, never failed to smile.”

Tilda looked up at Byron for the first time since she started on this topic, “That was Mary, you know? She treated everyone like an equal.” Tilda nodded to herself and looked back down at her mug. “She was a good person.”

A moment of silence passed over the room and Byron, suddenly rapt with interest, couldn’t help but interject. “Wh. . . What happened? How did you get out?”

Tilda looked up quickly, as if she’d been lost in thought. “It went on like that for years, me visiting Mary a few times every summer and then heading back to the facility. Then, one August,” Tilda chuckled very softly to herself, “I was buying a Snickers bar and Mary looks me in the eye and she offers me a job.” Tilda shrugged as she said it, as though she were still amazed, all these years later. “I barely remember what I said, I was on a whole cocktail of drugs at that point, but Mary was insistent. She said she needed help around the store. Either I or one of my handlers told her I would need a place to stay, and Mary offered her own house. I said yes, thinking the whole thing was some kind of dream or a mean joke,” Tilda laughed, “a week later, Mary shows up at the facility and signs me out, into her care. I was 33, so that was almost ten years ago.”

“What made her do that?” Byron asked, “I mean, it’s amazing, but, like, who does that for a total stranger?”

Tilda looked up and raised a hand, palm up, “I know, right? Who does that? I didn’t ask her why for a long time, years after the adoption even.”

“What did she say?”

“She . . .” Tilda held back a sob and it came out as a gentle whimper. Her forehead curled sadly at the rush of emotion, and Byron felt the pang of impending tears in his own chest at the very sight of her. “ . . . she apologized.

Tilda covered her eyes with a small hand and cried quietly into her palm. Although she hardly made a noise, Faustus woke up immediately and hopped off the couch, click-clacking over to Tilda and resting his multi-eyed head on her lap. She gave the spider a sad smile and rested a hand on the soft down of his forehead.

“She apologized,” Tilda said again after a moment, her voice still shaking, “for not doing it sooner. I don’t know how she knew, about me or my affinity, who I was underneath all the drugs, but she did. She said she saw it all the first time I came into the store.”

Byron shed a couple of tears himself and he wiped them from his cheek. “Why did she wait?”

Tilda’s features hardened, “They said the mission was too important to risk my involvement.”

Byron’s eyes thinned, “who said?”

Tilda fixed her red-rimmed eyes on Byron, “the other Cantor. They believed it was too risky to involve me.” She looked away, focusing on Faustus. “They were right.”

Byron remembered their previous conversation – how Tilda had been fooled and led an agent of the Unmaker back to Mary’s home. He felt compelled to give Tilda a hug.

She did not give him the opportunity. Wiping her eyes again, Tilda pushed down on the foot rest with her socked feet and stood up, Faustus standing to the side. “I’m sorry, you must be exhausted.” Tilda finished her hot cocoa with a final swig, placed the mug on the small coffee table between them, briefly looked around the room as though she’d lost something, and then gave Byron a curt nod. Her voice was firm again, almost put on, like a vocal mask.

“You did well today. Now get some rest,” she turned, and walked off toward the hallway that led to her bedroom, Faustus following close after her, “it’ll be an early start tomorrow.”

Surprised by the suddenness of her departure, Byron just nodded quietly as she passed by, leaving him alone in the warm light of the seemingly literal living room. Byron leaned back in the soft couch cushion and took a deep breath, letting Tilda’s tragic story wash over him, thankful to have her hot cocoa to artificially bolster his spirits. He took a small, sad sip and it was still improbably, perfectly, hot.



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