Waking the Moon

“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:
Haiyo! Othiym Lunarsa.