Waking the Moon (69 page)

“Hop in!” Angelica said cheerfully pulling open the back door of the car. Cool air like water flowed into the street. “Your chariot has arrived.”

Dylan looked at the town car and made a face. “Gee, Mom, is someone paying you to ride around in that?”

Angelica laughed. “Not yet. Come on, go easy on me—it’s the only thing Elspeth could find that had air-conditioning.”

Dylan slung his long legs into the car and slid inside. “Is Elspeth here?”

“No. I just implored her to take care of a few things for me—I’ve been
so
busy, and I didn’t want to have to worry about anything on your birthday.”

“Right.” Dylan nodded, stared back out the window at the museum, its dome faded to grey in the glaucous light. He bit his lip, then said, “I know you came all this way to see me, but I have to be back here by four. I—I made plans for tonight. With a friend.”

Angelica slipped onto the velvet-covered seat beside him, motioning to the driver. Without a sound the car eased onto Constitution Avenue and headed toward the Tidal Basin. “Plans? What kind of plans? Anyone I know?”

Dylan opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it. He shook his head. “Just some friends.”

Angelica turned and stared at him. She plucked a stray tendril of hair from her forehead and pushed it aside. “I see,” she said softly. Her voice was even, her emerald eyes unreadable. “Well, that still leaves us time for lunch, doesn’t it?”

“Sure.”

She leaned forward. “Don’t you have something for me?” she asked playfully.

Dylan frowned. “Oh … yeah. Here—”

He handed her the fragment of the lunula he’d found in the museum. She took it and Dylan held his breath, waiting for her to say something else, but his mother seemed distracted. She looked out the window as the Mall slipped by, her mouth pursed, brow furrowed. He’d spoken to her a few times over the summer, usually calling her from the museum, but he hadn’t told her about Sweeney. He hadn’t told her about anything; he hadn’t actually wanted to speak to her at all. But she
was
his mother, and this
was
his birthday. She’d come all the way here from Huitaca, though past experience had made it clear to Dylan that his mother usually visited him when there was some other business she could take care of at the same time—dress fittings in Milan, academic cronies in Princeton. This time it was probably some old friends in Congress and the diplomatic corps.

But here she was, cool and beautiful as always, sinking back and sighing luxuriously. “Isn’t this air-conditoning
wonderful?
The flight here was a nightmare! Maybe we should just drive around for a few minutes and enjoy all this nice cold expensive air.”

She smiled at Dylan, but her son noticed that she hadn’t given any command to the driver: he was already headed for the Lincoln Memorial. Whatever she had planned, and wherever they were going, had all been decided long before Dylan came onto the scene.

“Sure. Just remember—four o’clock.”

“Of course: Four o’clock!” Angelica repeated brightly. “Always time for tea!”

I raced downstairs to the guard’s desk.

“Did someone come here looking for Dylan Furiano?” I asked breathlessly.

Captain Wyatt, the security chief, smiled. “You mean some sweet young thing pretending to be his mother?”

I gritted my teeth. “That would be her.”

“Well, she came by, Katherine, but she didn’t sign in. He came on down here and went on out with her—” He gestured over his shoulder at the Constitution Avenue exit, then looked at me with raised eyebrows. “What, they leave without you?”

“No—yes, I don’t know,” I cried, and turned away. “If you see Dylan, tell him I’m looking for him. Tell him I want to know
as soon
as he gets back.”

Captain Wyatt nodded. As I left I could hear him saying, “I
knew
that wasn’t his momma.”

Once back in my office I called the carriage house. The line was busy. It stayed busy for nearly forty minutes, during which I thought alternately of jumping out the window or running home. But at last I got through, only to hear the answering machine kick in.

“Goddammit, somebody pick up!” I shouted when the recorded tape ended.

“Hey.” Annie’s voice came on, sounding a little sheepish. “I’m sorry, were you trying to call? I was talking to Helen—”

“Is Dylan there?”

“Dylan? No. Why?”

“You’re sure?”

“I think I’m sure. Dylan?” I heard her calling his name as she carried the cordless phone outside. “Dylan? Nope. Sorry, Sweeney. Why? You guys have a fight or something?”

“A fight? No, we didn’t have a
fight
—” I choked. Then I couldn’t help it: I broke down. “He’s—he’s
gone,
Annie! She came and he’s
gone
—”

“What do you
mean,
gone?”

I told her about the note, and in between sobs gasped out what I could remember of Fritz Kincaid’s impromptu history lesson. When I finished I sat with the phone pressed up so hard against my ear, I felt as though I’d been punched.

“Oh, man. Sweeney, this is bad.” I could only nod, my entire body trembling. “But let’s think, let’s think—”

I heard her crashing through the dried stalks of lilies by the front door. Then. “Okay. You’re still at the museum, and he said he’d be back there by four, right?”

“Th-that’s what his note said.”

“So maybe he’ll be back by four.”

I drew a shuddering breath. “You really think so?”

“No. But I think we better wait at least until then. You can’t file a missing persons report on someone who’s gone to lunch with his mother.”

“Okay.” Hearing Annie’s voice calmed me somewhat. “Okay—so, four o’clock. You’ll call me if he comes in? If he calls or—”

“Of course, Sweeney,” Annie said gently. “Of course.”

I could hear her moving back across the little patio, clonking into deck chairs. “It’s going to be all right, Sweeney. He’ll be okay, don’t worry. He’ll be fine—”

Just like your cousin and Oliver and Hasel and Baby Joe,
I thought, and clenched my hands. “Okay. Four o’clock—” I whispered.

And waited.

Inside her hired car, Angelica Furiano looked down upon the sleeping figure of her son, sprawled across the pristine seat with one hand against his cheek and the other drooping to touch the floor. His chest rose and fell easily, his mouth was slightly parted where his fist was pressed against it. The same way he had slept as a child, his knuckles digging into the soft hollow of his cheek, his lovely face calm and dreaming as the moon’s.

Angelica sat—crouched, almost—in the corner of the seat farthest from her son. In front, the radio played softly as the driver hummed to himself. They were driving up Pennsylvania Avenue for the third time that afternoon, the car moving smoothly in and out of light traffic. But this time, when they reached Seventh Street, Angelica leaned forward and murmured, “Thank you, Bryant. I’d like you to take us to the University of Archangels now. It’s quickest if you go by Edgewood—”

The driver nodded, and without a word steered the car onto the narrow cross street. Angelica turned her gaze back to Dylan. The seat beside him was littered with small crushed pods—the dried seed heads of
papaver somniferum,
opium poppies. On some you could still see where, days before, she had used the lunula to make the neat incisions that allowed the flower’s blood to seep through and dry to a pale crust. Afterward she had carefully scraped off the opium paste, and with her hands formed it into a tiny cake. Kneading it carefully between her fingers, she added dittany of Crete and crushed roasted barley; then, in lieu of the sacred
mentha pulegium,
an aromatic mint that brings delirium, she added
salvia divinorum,
the diviner’s sage that she herself had smuggled from the Sierra Mazateca to grow at Huitaca. At the last she flavored it with honey and dried orange peel, cardamom and coriander seed. Then she had wrapped the little square with gold tissue paper and a tiny white raffia ribbon, as a present.

“Here, sweetheart.”

Dylan had gazed suspiciously at the gold-wrapped lozenge sitting in her palm.

“This isn’t more jewelry, is it?” His mother was prone to giving him extravagant and unwearable gifts, ruby and emerald earring studs, a Rolex watch eminently unsuited for a college freshman.

“No, silly. Open it,” she urged, leaning back in the seat. He peeled the tissue off with some difficulty, the paper catching on the sticky cake inside.

“Gee, Mom.” Dylan stared at the gritty little cube. It looked like a caramel that had been dropped in the dirt. “You shouldn’t have.”

Angelica gave her rich throaty laugh. “Silly! It’s a special herbal thingie I had the apothecary make up for you at the Body Shop. It’s supposed to bring—well, you know, strength and long life and all that good stuff. For your birthday.” She kissed him, tousling his hair. “And you better eat it, Dylan—it cost a
fortune.”

Dylan rolled his eyes. “I bet.” He grimaced, then popped the cube into his mouth.
“Bleagh
—”

“Oh, come on, it can’t be
that
bad. It has honey and stuff in it.”

“It tastes like
dirt,”
Dylan said thickly, chewing. “Ugh. Dirt and perfume.” After a minute he swallowed, then reached for Angelica and gave her a kiss. “Well, thanks. I hope it works. But listen, Mom—next time, just give me a new car, okay?”

That had been over an hour ago. It hadn’t taken long for the opium to have its effect. Just a few minutes, its power enhanced by the roasted barley and
salvia divinorum.

“I think I’m getting carsick.” Dylan had turned from the window to stare blearily at her, his face pale. He looked distinctly queasy; his eyes were glassy, his voice thick, childlike. “Mom … ?”

“Shhh. Lie back, darling. Put your head down and rest, you’re just sleepy …”

Her voice soothed him; he lay across the seat and within minutes was snoring. Since then his breathing had grown softer as he plunged more deeply under the poppies’ spell, though his face remained pale as new milk. Beside him Angelica sat and with one hand stroked his hair. Her other hand absently traced the silver curve upon her breast as she whispered,

My days are run. No servant I

Nor initiate; where Iakos lies

Upon the threshold I shall greet

You, having completed his red and bleeding feast.

I have held the Great Mother’s mountain flame.

 I am set free. I have given thee

Robes of pure white, libation of honey-cake, in anticipation

of the joy of the bright red fountains, Hye kye! Beloved!

I come now unto the place allowed.

Dylan moaned. Angelica’s hand lingered on his brow; then she leaned down to kiss him, very gently, on the lips.

You are the word unspoken:

Haïyo! Othiym Lunarsa.

She lifted her head to gaze outside. Overhead, the storm clouds hung so low that she could see threads of lightning racing across their undersides, like flames seeking purchase on damp wood. She could feel a faint throbbing at her temples; but Angelica felt no pain. She herself had eaten a cake similar to Dylan’s, with
mentha pulegium
added to it. But for several weeks now she had been readying herself for this: each night swallowing a tiny spoonful of the aromatic paste, until now, while she could feel it flowing through her, the opium did not cloud her thoughts so much as color them, an antique palette of blues and soft golds and reds, like a crumbling
skyphos
…

The car made a quick turn. Angelica steadied herself, her fingers clutching at a brass handrail.

“Not many people here this time of year,” the driver called back to her as the car shot onto North Capitol Street. Behind them the Capitol grew smaller and smaller, until it disappeared into the haze.

“We’re almost there.” Angelica rested one hand protectively upon Dylan’s breast. “Dylan—”

And then in front of them, rising from the city’s smoke and filth, the domes and minarets of the Shrine of the Archangels and Saint John the Divine came into view. Slowly, like varicolored dyes bleeding into a piece of linen, cobalt blue and saffron yellow, ruddy ocher and that pale silvery gold that she had only ever seen here, where the gilded stars marked out their own strange constellations on the lapis dome: slowly as in a dream, as though called from the thick haze by the sound of Angelica’s voice, it all came back to her. Drooping oaks and elms, dun-colored grass that even the Divine’s corps of gardeners had not been able to save from the terrible heat; the cornices and towers of all the gaunt Gothic buildings faded to bluish grey and bluish green in the suffering late afternoon light.

And above them all the Shrine, with its stained glass windows like sheets of hot copper, its triad of defiant angels with hands raised above the great oaken doors. Upon every turret and spire and building, angels; angels everywhere.

“Hah!”
Angelica said triumphantly, her son forgotten. Her face grew taut as she stared out at the monstrous building, the few small figures walking slowly down the steps to the waiting tour buses. “At last.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am?” the driver called.

Angelica started, looked at him and smiled. “Nothing, Bryant. I think if you pull up over there—”

She cocked her head to where a door stood open at the side of the Shrine.

“—right there, and if you don’t mind waiting here a few minutes.”

The driver brought the car up to where she had directed. “Man, I never knew a place for the kind of trouble we’ve had this summer. Guns and weather and everything else,” he sighed, running his hand across his forehead. “And the thing is, it just keeps getting worse and worse, and nobody ever does anything about it.”

Angelica nodded.
“Quis iniquæ tam patiens urbis, ut teneat se?”

Bryant shook his head. “What’s that?”

Angelica smiled. “Just something someone said a long time ago—

“Who can have the patience, in this wicked city, to restrain his indignation?”

“You can say that again,” the driver agreed, and he reached to turn up the air-conditioning.