Sub Nocte

Part 1

Part I





INTER VENTOS, SUB NOCTE


NATA SUM.


TERRAM INTACTAM


ET HALITUS EFFEROS


REPSEXI.





Psyche:





    Hello, little mosquito on my arm, have you come for your midnight snack? Have a drink, but not too much. No, leave some for me and for my family. Tell me, what’s it like to fly, to dance on the wind? What’s it like to fly?


   


I tried to count the stars once. I thought that the number would hold some secret meaning, so that if I knew it, I would know everything. I knew that somewhere in that number, God had built heaven. That number holds the music to every song the angels sing.


   


I’ve heard that both three and seven are sacred numbers, five is the number of Jesus, and four is the number of humanity. No, I can’t forget six, Satan’s number - he’s dating my sister. So, maybe the magic number is (((((7^3)^4)^5)^6)^7) or something like that or something completely different like Fibonacci’s numbers that make music. Maybe he was the first to see the face of God through numbers instead of just through being holy like Enoch.





    I must have been ten or so, that night I set up a blanket on the balcony. I made everyone turn out all the lights in the apartment, but the rest of the city wouldn’t listen. Even with the clouds washing over them, I still tried to count the stars. I watched them move across the sky slowly and methodically. I knew them in their pictures of heroes and animals. I knew their stories too, those ancient tales of adventure and virtue.





    I didn’t count the stars that night: I fell asleep a few hours before morning-I didn’t get to see Venus and her entourage that twinkle while her light glows warmly. No, something else happened-or maybe it was just Proserpine’s marijuana smoke wafting from her open bedroom window. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought I heard the heartbeat of the universe. I could feel throbbing too, not with my nerves but with my heart, because this pounding, this throbbing, this beating pulse was my own as well.





    OK mosquito, that’s enough. OK, fine, just a little more.





    One lady yelled at me at work today. It wasn’t my fault her coupon had expired. I stood there and stared with raised eyebrows until my manager came to my rescue. I’m surprised that woman’s hot temper didn’t spoil her milk.





    I like this pen; the ink just glides onto the page as I move the pen in smooth strokes. Maybe people are like that: they cooperate best with the slightest possible stress. This is the blackest ink I have ever seen. I could lose myself in it forever, just me and the velvet darkness, too dark to be nothing. Anything this dark has to be something. 





    I hear Medea fighting with her boyfriend inside. I hope nothing gets broken this time. Tonight’s the first he’s been back since our neighbors called the cops on them. That was when Jason found out that she’d had an abortion without consulting him first. He never hit her, which was the only reason why he wasn’t locked up, but he turned over the kitchen table, breaking one of its legs. Medea picked up the leg and held it in front of her just in case he wanted to through her too. Now it’s duct taped back together.





    While they fought, I sat with Proserpina in her room while we waited for Papi to get home. When she heard the word baby, she started singing some pop song at the top of her lungs, adding to the noise. She kicked her feet and clapped her hands as she giggled. I just closed my eyes, covered my ears, and tried to block everything out, Armageddon raging in the kitchen. That’s when I remembered the heartbeat of the universe.





    When Papi came home, he said to me, “My Psyche, my soul, all my hopes, all our hopes are pinned on you. A smart and pretty girl like you can do anything. You’re the first in the family to go to college. Don’t squander your opportunities.”





    I promised him that I wouldn’t. What else could I say? I’ll do what I can, but how can I guarantee my success? How high does he want me to climb? I can’t even keep a major for more than a semester.”





    There goes another superhero; they seem to be everywhere these days. Sure, they stop a mugging every once-in-a-while, but how do they really make life any different? I won’t whine or lay blame about my life, but I just don’t see how a bunch of people in capes and tights solve anything. On clear, summer nights like this one, the skies and shadows are filled with them. Maybe there’s one for me who can break Proserpina’s drug addiction or Medea’s Jason addiction. Maybe one can give Papi a decent job or show me where I want to go. Maybe superheroes go out at night, or even in the day, just so the world doesn’t get any worse. Only after stability, can anything get better with any finality.








    Psyche watched the sky for superheroes, especially for the flying kind. Those were the ones who fascinated her the most. They captured her imagination and commanded her fantasies as they darted among clouds and impossibilities. She saw one move through the night fog; she saw a man, an even darker shape among the gauzy layers of night, with wings. With elegance majesty, he glided on a gust of wind.





    It tousled her hair as she lifted her chin in silent, tentative defiance. She gripped the railing as she leaned over it, the night wrapping its self around her. The strips of fabric pulled at her limbs and tugged at her hair, but she stood firmly, watching the phantom in flight. The shouts between her sister Medea and Jason, the boyfriend, clasped her neck and yanked her shirt collar, but she stood firmly, watching a distant shadow in the night.





    When the black-clad figure moved closer, his shape became more defined. No spot of skin showed through, no feature could be distinguished. Not even the whites of his eyes escaped the blackness of his face and form. No color broke through except for a dark blue of light that reflected off his wings. The feathers shone like polished ebony as they moved in the fog, the darkness, and the skyline. Psyche found that his legs drew her attention; they were masculine and well formed. Besides them, only the width of his shoulders and the length of his form could be distinguished through the tight, black garment he wore and the gauzy layers of night.





    He shot an arrow towards her. It stuck firmly beside her window, the wall pierced just enough by the tip. Psyche examined it, and around the shaft, she found a bit of paper wrapped. "I see you. I’ve heard your name spoken in the streets. You are Psyche, the girl who will escape. I watch you in the night."





Dark Archer:





    I saw her through the fabric of my mask. I thought, “How proudly, how defiantly she faces the wind.” I saw the girl Mother had told me about, Psyche. I had not yet seen evidence of her fabled intelligence, but as for her beauty, those rumors were mere shadows of the truth.





    Simply stated, her hair was blacker than black. There in that moonless night, her hair gleamed, too dark to be nothing. I remember the shape of her arms, how they seemed to flow from beneath the sleeves of her T-shirt. Yes, the depth of her mane, the curves of her arms, they caught my attention as I maneuvered among the night clouds.





    I chose a naked arrow to deliver my message. I could have used any kind of arrow, poisoned for death or sleep, sharpened for maximum damage, blunted for maximum pain, or weakened for difficulty in removal. I didn’t have the strengthening formula completed yet; so, a naked arrow was the best choice.





    The shot was perfect: it slid through the air. Psyche probably heard it whizzing by her ear, but she only turned around after it hit the wall. I watched her read the note I sent. Her expression was not so much puzzled as it was incredulous. She drew her eyebrows together and bit her lower lip thoughtfully.





    As she scrawled a reply, I wondered, “What does Mother want with her? Why should she care?” I still haven’t figured that one out.








    "Strange that you should know me, but I know nothing of you. I watch you too. I don’t know your name, but I see you. Are you villain or hero? If only such distinctions could be clear. If you return tomorrow night, I will be here."








Psyche:





    Medea and I were clipping coupons once when she asked me, “How does it feel to be born to a privileged life?”





    “What do you mean?” I set down the scissors.





    “Your beauty, your intelligence- I mean, you’re going to college on scholarship and…”





    “I worked for that for years.”





    “That doesn’t matter. If you weren’t born with all those good genes, it wouldn’t have mattered how hard you worked. God just decided that you’re more deserving of good genes than the rest of us.”





    I looked down, “I never asked to be born with ‘good genes’ as you call them.”





    “Just like Cleopatra never asked to be born queen of Egypt. So, I’m asking you what it’s like to be born privileged. Well?”





    “What do you want me to do, apologize? Anyway, Cleopatra wasn’t born queen of Egypt. She was born a princess. She had to fight off her siblings for the throne.”





    Medea glared at me. “Are you that proud? Who do you think you are? What makes you think that your apology can fix anything?”





    Another moonless night... whoever that guy was, I hope he comes back- just for a change, just for some adventure. Shouldn’t he have been off saving someone? Well, maybe it was a quiet night. Maybe I was the one he was saving; maybe he heard Jason and Medea and came to see what was happening. Anyway, he took my note.





    I remember when I first found out about Proserpina’s habits. I went and told Papi after I found her smoking a joint in her room. I was so nervous that he would yell at me for being a snoop and a snitch or that he would punish Proserpina, and she would come after me later.





    He looked up slowly and whispered, “I know.”





    Medea and I both sleep in Proserpina’s room. Although it’s always been that way, I still can’t think of my part of that room as being my own. This balcony is mine: everyone accepts it as such. I’ve heard Medea call it, “Princess Psyche’s palace,” but to me it is not so much a palace as it is a thinking spot, an escape. When I’m out here, I’m not inside the apartment. I’m not outside in the world. I’m somewhere else entirely, between but just a little bit more than that.





    There he is! He actually came! Will he talk to me this time? Wow, is this really happening? Those wings are absolutely amazing, how they move, how they catch the light. He’s here, on my balcony; I can’t believe it! He stands where I have often stood, his wings folded against his back. There’s substance within that shadow; at least it looks like there is, but I can’t be quite sure.





    “Who are you?” I ask, holding only a pen in case I should need to defend myself. “Who are you?” I repeat with impatience in my voice.





    “The Dark Archer,” he answers calmly.





    I wrinkle my nose. “I can't very well call you that. Why did you come to see me last night? What am I to you?”





    His voice is smooth and gentle. “I was sent.”





    Who sent him, this laconic stranger? I’d like to hear his voice more with its soothing sounds. He’s the perfect height to, as much as I can tell.


I ask possibly the most important of my questions, “Are you superhero or villain?”





    I hear a smile in his voice. “That depends; I think I’m a superhero, but those I oppose probably think otherwise.”





    He’s smart: that last statement proves it. I wonder how he’ll answer this one. “So, why aren’t you fighting crime and saving people instead of being here with me?”








    “I’m on vacation,” he pauses then ads, “but seriously, I was sent here. Don’t worry; there are more than enough superheroes to go around.” He pauses again. “Aren’t you worried someone will see us?”





    I laugh, “You must not know as much about me as you think you do. Papi works nights. My sister Proserpina is probably getting high or drunk or both. My other sister Medea is getting laid on her boyfriend’s couch.” God, why did I just tell him that? Now he knows that he can rape or murder me with no witnesses.





    “Well, I was just wondering if you wanted to go somewhere else; I know a place- I think you would like it.”





    “What do you know about my tastes?”





    “I know that anyone who doesn’t like this place has none. Let me fly you there - trust me.”





    Why should I trust him? He came out of nowhere with his shiny, black wings. What has he ever done to earn my trust? He could be some crazed maniac with his own personal Q. “OK.”





    “Climb on my back and hold on tight.”





    “You have got to be kidding.”





    “Nope.”





    OK, this has got to be one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done. Of all the dumb things a person can do, this has got to be the most moronic, idiotic…but wow… wow… I’ll never get a chance like this again. If I die-when I die- at least I’ll win a Darwin Award. Oh God, I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this.





    As I climb on I warn him, “I have a very good lawyer.”





    “Tisk, tisk.” He leaps from the balcony. As I scream he shouts, “Oh Psyche, you’re a terrible liar.”








Mouth full of night air,


With a gulp, swallow life whole.


Freedom in peril.





Clouds blow in my face.


Oh, starlight, elucidate.


What peace in peril! 





Oh, apparition,


Shadowy companion in fog,


Now I phantom too.





Your shoulders, my palms,


How can I capture a star?


We make a strange bird.





My heartbeat, your wings,


The pulse of the universe,


Oneness in peril.








    They landed in a garden on a rooftop high above the streets. Around the outer edge of the garden were a fence and a gate, both covered by the twisted weavings of lady ivy. Next were three arches made of polished wood and arranged in a circle. On each arch grew wild, domesticated roses, one arch all in red, another yellow, and the last in white. In the center of the garden a raised metal circle had been placed, adorned with a dazzling array of scarves and wind chimes. The hanging bits of crystal and polished metal caught the lights shinning from the streets and windows of the world below.





    “What is this place?” asked Psyche with wonder.





    “My paradise. I built it here,” the Dark Archer declared with pride.





    “Oh, this is your little trick to get girls, eh?”


    “No, I built it for me. That’s just what I do; I build, arrange, and make things with me hands, like I did these wings. What do you do?”


“I don’t know, but this place must have cost a fortune to build.”


   


She could hear a smile in his voice when he replied, “Didn’t cost me a thing. I built it for the man who owns this building with the condition that I could come up her whenever I wanted.”


She stroked his glossy feather. “And the wings, how do they work?”





    “They’re animatronic - I move them with my nerve impulses.”





    “They look so real! They must have been so expensive to build.”





    “Yeah, Mother and I spent our savings on the materials for them. She could have escaped to a suburban apartment, but she thought that the wings would be a better use of the money.”





    "You could make millions of dollars by selling these: just think about it!”





    “What makes you think I care about that?”





    “I have no idea what you care about.”





    “Think about what you’re saying; it just sounds so selfish.”





    Psyche looked away. “What’s so selfish about wanting a better life for yourself and your family?”





    “Nothing, just try thinking of you family with a larger perspective.”





    “You think you know me, don’t you? Everything I do, everything…” She paused to collect her thoughts. “I’ve been raised to believe that my duty in life is to break the cycle of poverty for my family. I was told to get good grades so I could get a scholarship so I could go to college so I could get a well paying job so I could build a better life for my self and take care of my father and sisters. How is that selfish?” She paused and smiled. “But this is stupid; I just met you…you don’t want to know my life story.”





    “I don’t mind, I just want you to enjoy my garden.”





    Psyche reached up and brushed her fingertips on the cool metal of a wind chime. “Well, I’d like to know more about you.”





He echoed her action, setting off another chorus of tinkles and twinkles. “I’m in college on scholarship, like you.” Psyche resisted commenting. “I have a day job, like you. I live with my mother. Um…I’m an only child.” He only gave vague facts about himself that couldn’t be used against him later. He didn’t tell where he went to school or even what his major was. He didn’t even hint at where he lived or how old he was other than that he had not yet finished college. To Psyche, he was only The Dark Archer.”


         


Despite his vague and limited contribution to the conversation, Psyche felt close to him. They spent hours talking in the center of the circles of scarves and wind chimes until Psyche fell asleep beneath the stars. Then, The Dark Archer flew her home to her balcony. Finding the apartment dark and quiet, he sneaked in and gently placed her on a bed. He flew away into the starry blackness.








Medea:


You dream too big


-There’s no room for


The rest of us.





Psyche:


I don’t even remember dreaming.





The Dark Archer:


You dream too small


-There’s no room for


Yourself.





Pyche:





    It must have been a dream. I can’t expect that he will come back, but he does; he returns every night for moths. Even though I don’t even know his real name, I’ve known him all my life. Medea says I’m in love- don’t know what she knows about love; the only times she and Jason aren’t fighting are when they’re asleep or having sex. The relationship is mutually abusive. If that’s what love is, I never want anything to do with it.


   


Instead, I’d like to think love is more like the relationship between my father and mother. Even though she left when I was four- it will be sixteen years ago in September- he still mourns her. He tells strangers that she is dead. He explained that to me once by saying that she’s dead to him. Which is worse, to have a loved one dead or lost forever? To be loved by someone who’s dead or hated by someone who’s alive?


   


I can also define love through my Uncle Orpheus. He spent hours giving Aunt Eurydice CPR after she was struck by lightning. He got her heartbeat back, but she still died later at the hospital. That’s love: faith and fighting, not against each other but for each other. Can fighting ever be both?








    She stood among the scarves and wind chimes, the wind in her hair and stars in her smile. She stood among the roses and the ivy, no worries, no fears. She stood among the gauzy layers of night, her lungs breathing in and out, in and out.


   


He bound her eyes shut with a strip of thick fabric, the full moon shining in the night sky.


He pulled off one glove and then the other. He ran his fingertips down the back of her neck and the space between her shoulder blades to sensitize her skin. He increased the pressure of his touch. Psyche lifted her chin and inhaled sharply. He pulled away his mask and kissed her full on the mouth. He took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. With his entire capacity, he kissed her and received her passionate contribution.





The Dark Archer:





    I’d been planning it for days. I had to be sure she wanted it. I’m daring about a lot of things, but not about girls. I don’t make assumptions based on what I fear or wish to be true. I’d wanted to kiss her for the longest time: I didn’t need to make sure about that one. Once I was certain that her feelings for me echoed mine for her, I didn’t hesitate.


   


Her skin, her lips felt so soft against mine. The sweetness of her mouth remained on my lips and tongue for hours afterwards. Her pulse quickened beneath my touch. She leaned into me as if I were the sky beyond a ledge.


   


I don’t know, how do you describe a kiss? Countless writers have tried for millennia, but reading or talking about a kiss isn’t the same as actually receiving one. It’s just too personal to be adequately shared with someone outside the kiss. No matter how much I ramble about the kiss between Psyche and me, the reader will only understand it through the experience of a kiss. And what of those whose lips have never dance upon the mouth of another? Well, no matter how thorough my description, they will never be able to comprehend a kiss until they have been kissed.


I am sensitive about love but little else.





Psyche:





I love him. He loves me: he told me so in his usual strong voice, full of a certainty that I can only wish for. Oh, I’m certain I love him: that’s one of the few things I know for sure. What does that mean anyway?








Come live with me


In the bowers on the rooftops.


We’ll swing on the vines


Of wire and steel.


I’ll build you a garden


In your window box,


And we’ll leave the Tree


Of Knowledge of Good and Evil alone.


Your love letter gave me a paper cut.


While I was sleepwalking


On a tightrope,


I saw my breath in the cold air;


I saw how I spoke your name.


Don’t weave me a dress


From the moss on the hillside.


You don’t need to catch me a star.


We’ll just live with the pigeons,


Among the church bells,


And when the rains fall down,


We’ll go dancing,


Until I can taste your skin on the air.


Then we’ll lie down


In the bowers on the rooftops


And be children.








Strange that he should trust me enough to sleep besides me, to give me every opportunity to kill him while he slumbers but not enough to let me see his face…