Waking the Moon

“Dilaudid. You know what that is? No? Well, it sure isn’t sleeping pills—

“Dilaudid is like, synthetic heroin. Now you tell me how an altar girl in Nebraska gets her hands on that. The local police had never even seen it before—they had to bring in someone from the hospital in Lincoln to identify it. And Lisa was doing this stuff?” Her voice rose incredulously. “No way.”

“But then—”

But then why are you telling me this? I thought. Instead I leaned back on her pillow and asked, “But then how did it happen? How did she die?”

“They killed her. Them. Professor Warnick and his pals.”

I groaned. “Oh, come on—”

“They did. They planted it there. In the house, in her room. I don’t know how they got that shit into her, but they did.” Her brown eyes had gone quite wild. “Look, I know this sounds crazy, Sweeney, but it’s true. With Lisa it was just like with you. She made these friends, Molyneux scholars, they’d been chosen for that secret society of theirs. Then she and Frank started sleeping together and I guess he must have violated some vow of silence or something, because somebody decided she got too close. She told me about it when she was home at Christmas. All this weird shit…”

“What kind of weird shit?”

“Oh, man, things you wouldn’t believe! Visions and witchcraft, all this stuff about the Second Coming —”

“The Second Coming?”

“You know,” Annie said impatiently. “Like that poem. Weird things being reborn —”

“I know what it is! But—you really think Professor Warnick—”

“They got rid of Magda Kurtz, didn’t they? And Warnick didn’t do it alone. He had the Benandanti.” When I said nothing, she added disdainfully, “The Good Walkers. Those Who Do Well.”

I thought of Angelica’s casual mention of them upstairs at Garvey House, and Baby Joe— “Benandanti. Brujos. The Golden Ones…”

What are the Molyneux scholars?

They’re magicians.

I took in Annie’s grim look, and decided that this was not one of those times when pretending I knew about something would do me any good. “Okay. Benandanti. So what’s that?”

“I’m not sure. But I bet Oliver would be able to tell you.”

“Oliver?”

“Listen, Sweeney, I know what all this sounds like. But you saw yourself—well, whatever it was that you and Angelica saw last night. It was real, right?”

I nodded reluctantly.

“Well, you should have seen what I had to go through to get accepted here. It was like I was applying to the CIA or something. They know I’m related to Lisa, it wasn’t like it would be hard to find that out. And they didn’t want me here. For all I know they’ve got some kind of file on me or something…”

“But then why’d you come here? I mean, isn’t it dangerous? And why’d they let you in?”

She knotted her hands in her lap. “I don’t know why they let me in. Probably they need a few normal people to round out the campus profile. You know, so it’s not all people like Angie and Oliver. But Lisa was my cousin; she was my best friend. And they murdered her and got away with it. And I don’t want that to happen to Angelica. Or you.”

I swallowed nervously. “So what do we do?”

“I don’t know.” Elbows on her knees, chin in hand, she looked more like a bemused kid than ever. “I guess we stay in touch.” She glanced at me sideways and, for the first time, gave me a crooked grin. “I guess we’re all kinda stuck together now, huh?”

I stood and walked to the window. For a last long moment I stared down at the Strand, trying to find Oliver among the tiny figures wandering across the darkening lawns. Finally, “I guess we are,” I said, and left.

I went back to my room and locked myself inside, pushed a chair against the door, and bolted the window shut. Then I prised the wooden curtain rod from the closet and leaned it against my bed, beside every hardcover textbook I could find and my electric typewriter in its heavy melamite case. It crossed my mind that people who slipped Dilaudid to nosy college students and fed archaeologists to gigantic insects might not be too put off by someone beaning them with the third edition of the Prolegomena to the Study of Greek Religion, but I didn’t care. I fell asleep with all the lights on, and slept for thirteen hours.

Next morning I found Angelica at the dining hall. I sat beside her and she said nothing, absolutely nothing, about what had happened. I might have dreamed it all—everything except for sleeping with her. Angelica’s knowing smile told me that, at least, had been real. Her smile and the way she said good-bye, kissing me on the cheek and letting her hand surreptitiously brush against my breast for just a moment. Her fingers stroked my nipple until it hardened beneath my shirt, and then she drew away.

“Ciao, Sweeney. See you at dinner?”

I stammered some reply and nodded. As I watched her leave I noted that she still wore the moon-shaped necklace Magda Kurtz had given her, and like a talisman beneath her arm carried a copy of Magda Kurtz’s book.

And so began my new life. My real life, I thought then. Meeting Angelica and Oliver for breakfast at seven-thirty, Annie following her roommate like a grim conscience in cutoff fatigues and worn flannel shirts. Me drinking too much coffee in a feeble effort to kill what had become a near-constant hangover. Angelica picking fastidiously at slices of cantaloupe and grapefruit. Annie wolfing down petrified scrambled eggs with ketchup and ersatz home fries, while Oliver sat across from the three of us, kicking at the table legs, his hands never still as he swept back his hair and scribbled his odd ballpoint sketches on paper napkins.

“Very nice,” Annie would remark thoughtfully, peering at the pile of napkins fluttering in front of him. “That looks just like me. Except for the antennae, of course.”

Then she’d gather her books, give Angelica a soulful look, and leave. Annie never hung around after breakfast. She had an eight o’clock Music Composition class, and I sometimes thought the only reason she joined us was to keep an eye on Angelica.

Though Angelica seemed infinitely able to take care of herself. I knew she wore that crescent-shaped necklace everywhere, although she was careful to keep it hidden. A few days after the reception at Garvey House, I dropped by her room and found her reading by the light of a small banker’s lamp with a green glass shade. On one knee she balanced a steaming mug of tea. The air smelled warmly of vanilla and chamomile.

“Sweeney!” Angelica looked up, smiling. “We missed you at lunch today.”

At her throat nestled the lunula, its bright lines softened to grey in the dim light. Sans makeup, with her robe and glasses and white china mug, she looked solemn and a little silly, like a diva costumed to play the student in an operetta. Silly, but still beautiful enough to make my heart start raiding around my chest like a stone.

“Where’s Annie?”

“Library,” replied Angelica without glancing up again. She was painstakingly copying something into a notebook.

“What’re you doing?”

“Stuff.”

I made a face. As usual, she was poring over stacks of old books and anthropological journals from the Colum Library. She flashed me an earnest look. “This is fascinating, Sweeney. Really—you should check it out.”

I leaned over to pick up a volume slightly smaller than my hand, bound in calfskin faded to the color of old ivory.