8: “… for I can see a thousand things that men can't see at all …”

The pale-skinned, blonde-haired little girl no longer looked confused and horrified. She looked to be the same age she’d always been, she still stood on the thin but muscular legs of a fawn, but now her arms were missing from the elbows down; extra-long aluminum crutches were fused to the stumps where her forearms once existed, and as she moved she lurched from one side to the next, always looking on the verge of toppling over completely.

She smiled when she saw Timmy waiting outside the gates, and increased her pace. Oddly enough, the faster she walked, the more graceful her movements became.

“Hello,” she said when at last she reached him. “My name is Daphne. What’s yours?”

“Timmy.”

“It’s very nice to finally meet you, Timmy.”

He nodded, trying to smile. “Does it hurt much?”

Daphne blushed, looking down at the concrete beneath her hooves and crutches. “Yes, it does. A lot. But not all the time. I mind it less and less the more it happens.” Her eyes began to water, and as one tear threatened to spill out and slide down her face, she leaned back her head and shook it away, because she had no hands with which to dry her eyes. “I really am glad we’ve finally met, Timmy. I always wanted to thank you for trying to help me.” She might have looked the same age she’d always been, but she spoke with the weary wisdom of someone three times Timmy’s age.

Now it was Timmy’s turn to blush. “I didn’t really do anything.”

“You cared,” said Daphne. “And that was more than I ever got from my family.”

“Did … did they kill you? Were you dead when I saw you in the trash?”

“Almost. I was almost dead. Don’t look like that – even if you had pulled me out and screamed for help at the top of your lungs, it would have been too late. It’s only because Trismegistus pulled me through one of the gaps the second before my death that I’m still able to be anywhere at all.”

From behind the gates, someone or something coughed loudly, painfully, a scraped-raw sound that ended in a wet splutter and then the unmistakable sound of vomiting.

“How sick is everyone?” asked Timmy.

Daphne looked straight into his eyes. “We’re … we’re dying, Timmy. Trismegistus and Pthahil tried to fix us, to make us right, they really did – I so wanted to be a fawn or a raven, but I turned out to be … like you said, we’re mistakes. No one knows exactly why some bodies and souls make the transition with no effort at all, while others claw and bleed and fight and struggle, only to end up … a mistake, an incomplete sentence, a sideshow attraction at a carnival even God Himself wouldn’t want to attend.” She again leaned back her head to shake away another threatening tear, but Timmy was faster; cupping the side of her face in one of his hands, he brushed his thumb beneath her eye, catching the tear before it had a chance to move and farther down her cheek. When he pulled back his hand, Daphne lowered her head and smiled at him. “Thank you, but it doesn’t change anything. We’re still mistakes.”

Timmy returned her gaze, unblinking. “And all of you are dying.”

“Yes. But, the thing is …” She looked past Timmy’s shoulder as if seeking council. For his part, Timmy had no idea who or what she was looking toward, because Trismegistus and Pthahil were behind her, not him. So who –?

Oh, yes, right; there was only one person it could have been.

“Hi, Reverend,” said Timmy, not turning to look.

“You’ve been gone for the better part of thirty seconds – and to be honest, Bob was wearing on my last nerve – and you have no idea how much it takes to get on my last nerve, trust me – so I told Ethel to make sure he got an extra helping of meatloaf.” He came up to Daphne’s side and put a hand on her shoulder. “But he’ll probably manage to find a way to gripe about that. Ever know anyone like that? Show them a silver lining and they’ll find the dark cloud hidden there. I’m convinced that would have been Bob’s name, had he been born an American Indian, ‘Dark Cloud.’”

Both Daphne and Timmy laughed.

“Hello to you, as well,” said Trismegistus. “I’m so pleased you got the invitation. One might even say thrilled. Tickled pink, as it were. Would it have killed you to RSVP?”

Not looking back at the Agathosdaimon, the Reverend called out, “You didn’t exactly choose the most expedited method of delivery. And I’d mind that tone of voice if I were you, Herpes.”

Trismegistus glared at him. “It would be to the benefit of all if you and I could at least affect the outward characteristics of civility.”

The Reverend winked at Timmy, and then spun around. “Why can’t you just say, ‘pretended to like each other’? Oh, wait – we’re talking about you, after all. Never use four words when you can use forty.”

Trismegistus made no response.

The Reverend pointed at him. “Good answer.” Then he pointed toward Pthahil. “I’d really appreciate it if you’d stay right where you are.”

Pthahil grunted, then gave a nod of its head.

Timmy stared at the Reverend. “Do you know them?”

“Long story. Later, I promise. Right now …” He looked at Daphne, who smiled at him and then mouthed the word, please? “… right now, Timmy, you need to know what this has all been about. First thing – I didn’t know it was you until today. I knew that one day someone would come along, and that the trail had been laid out for this person to follow, even though they wouldn’t know they were following a trail … am I mucking this up or are you actually following?”

Timmy nodded. “I understand. You were expecting somebody. You just didn’t know it would be me.”

“Yes.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

Daphne moved forward and leaned her head against Timmy’s shoulder. “Deliver us. You were sent to deliver us.”

“That’s about it,” said the Reverend. He opened his hand to reveal Timmy’s lost eye patch. “I believe this is yours.”

Timmy reached for it but did not move his gaze from the Reverend’s face. Something still wasn’t right. He could sense it. He looked down at his own hand. The eye patch had become a very bright, very sharp knife, the blade about five inches long, slightly curved. The handle was some kind of highly-polished bone, and carved along its length were the words:

“Not From Evil, But From Pain,” said Timmy, reading the words aloud. He looked up at the Reverend, and then at Daphne. “Deliver them. Deliver them not from evil, but from pain.”

The Reverend gave a slow, sad nod of his head, saying nothing.

Timmy looked over at Trismegistus and Pthahil. They only sat there, staring. Just like the Onlookers atop the black gates. Just like he’d stood there all those years ago and did nothing about the little girl in the garbage can.

And for the first time in his life, Timmy Oberfield became angry.

“No,” he whispered, his body trembling with rage. “This is all your fault,” he shouted at Trismegistus and Pthahil as he stormed toward them, slicing through the air with the knife. “If you hadn’t taken all of these people and done all those terrible things to them, you wouldn’t have to worry about how to get rid of them now!”

“Be careful with that blade,” said the Reverend.

Timmy heard the words but ignored them. Whirling to the side, he marched toward the black gates, pointing the tip of the blade at the Onlookers perched there. “And how can you just … just watch? Don’t you feel anything? At all?”

The Onlookers turned their camera-heads in his direction, but otherwise gave no response.

“I don’t like you,” Timmy shouted at them. “I think you should leave.”

Both Onlookers stood up, flexed their wings, took one step to the side, and vanished into the ripples there.

Trismegistus and Pthahil both began to move back, albeit slowly. “He should not have been able to do that,” said Trismegistus.

The Reverend’s face went pale. “Even I can’t banish an Onlooker.”

“Have you ever tried?” asked Timmy.

“Well, no, but it’s always been understood that—”

“You want me to kill all of them, don’t you?” He pointed to the people and things behind the gates. “They’re all sick, they’re all dying, but they can’t die! None of you know how to … to make it so that they can stop being alive, and you can’t kill them, so you … you fixed it so I’d be the one who’d do it for you.”

The Reverend took a step forward, his hands parted in front of him. “Timmy, listen. No one expects you to kill – to deliver all of them like that.” He gestured at the knife. “But some of them are far too sick and in far too much pain, and they have to be … released from it. And it has to be by your hand.”

Timmy bit down on his lower lip until he tasted a trickling backwash of blood. Pulling in a deep, hard breath that was equal parts snot and tears, he shouted, “Why? Why does it have to be me?”

“Because you can point the way to the worlds-within-worlds-within-worlds,” replied Trismegistus. “Only a Palimpsest Seer can deliver them.”

Daphne moved closer to Timmy. “Somewhere, in one of those countless ghost-worlds you see beneath the surface of everyday life, there is a place where one of us belongs, where we will no longer be sick, or lonely, or in pain. We won’t be mistakes in this place, we won’t be freaks so ugly that even God can’t look at us.”

“Think of it like throwing a fish back into the river,” said the Reverend. “Only in this case, there are thousands upon thousands of different fish, and thousands upon thousands of different rivers. Each individual fish matches a specific river. You’re the only person who can see the way there. And I’m the only person who can help you to move between the gaps.”

Timmy wiped his eyes, and then dragged his coat sleeve across his face, wiping his nose. “So I don’t have to kill anyone?”

“I never said that,” replied the Reverend.

“Start with me,” whispered Daphne, coming around to face Timmy. “I’m one of the dying who’s too sick to make the journey. I’m tired of being sick, Timmy. I’m tired of the pain, of falling down half the time, of not being able to hold someone’s hand … all of it. So please, please,” she hobbled forward. “Deliver me.”

Timmy looked at her face, at her hooves, her aluminum crutches, and knew he couldn’t walk away. It just wasn’t in him. He reached out with his free hand and touched her cheek. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. And with a quick upward arc of the blade, he cut her throat. Because it wasn’t in him to turn his back on someone or something else’s suffering, knowing that he could have done something, if only he’d been braver and not some retard with a dumb old brain.

Daphne fell forward into him, her arterial blood soaking through Timmy’s coat to his shirt. Timmy put a hand under her chin and lifted her head. He needed to watch this. He needed to know he had made the right choice.

In her eyes there was no sorrow, no more pain. He pulled back his hand and what remained of Daphne’s body collapsed to the ground. Her eyes fell into their sockets, disappearing into the darkness within her skull, and then in a series of soft, dry sounds, her entire head began collapsing inward, her flesh crumbling and flaking away, becoming dust as her face sank back, split in half, and dissolved, vanished in a puff of winter mist. All that remained of her were the two aluminum crutches.

“Terrible, just terrible,” Timmy whispered, the switch in his head once again tripping itself. He dropped onto his ass, pulled his knees up against his chest, and began rocking back and forth, never taking his gaze away from the bloodied blade of the knife. “Terrible, just terrible.” He closed his eyes and repeated the words aloud. Then repeated them within his soul.

He was vaguely aware of the Reverend’s and Trismegistus’s voices, but they were more the ghosts of echoes than actual sounds.

I’ll close as many of the gaps as I can, but you’ve got to keep all of your mistakes – all of these people – close by. We can’t become your own personal retrieval service …

… I understand, and for whatever it is worth to you, I give my word …

… I’ll settle for you and the Magritte Mob just behaving yourselves. Every time you pop in for a visit, you leave the biggest fucking mess behind …

… I make no promises, but I’ll do as much as I can …

… Famous last words, Trismegistus … famous last words ….

Timmy kept rocking, his eyes pressed tightly closed. The dark closets wouldn’t scare him any more. The rancid dishrags would not make him choke. His dumb old brain would never again play tricks on him. He owed it to Daphne to be brave, to do his duty, to keep his word. “ … for I can see a thousand things that men can't see at all …” This is the song that never ends. It goes on and on, my friends. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the Reverend’s office. The Reverend was holding him, rocking back and forth. Daphne’s blood was all over both of them.

“You listen to me, Timmy,” said the Reverend. “You won’t be alone any more. I’ll be with you. We’ll deliver them together, you and I. And as long as you remain inside this building, the ghost worlds will remain hidden from your sight unless you choose to see them. Always remember – ‘Not From Evil, But From Pain … Not From Evil, But From Pain.’ This is your home now. This is your home now. This is your home ….”

#

Timmy is something of a giant question mark to everyone at the Open Shelter. Sam and Ethel often have fun speculating the exact nature of the brief “errands” that he and the Reverend are always rushing out to do, only to return within a minute or two. Timmy doesn’t say much, usually only, “Terrible, just terrible,” but you can tell a lot from the way he says those three words. The Reverend is the only person with whom he talks at length. The Reverend is the only person who knows Timmy’s last name, his story, and whether or not he’s even from Cedar Hill. But Timmy is quiet, and courteous, and extremely kind to everyone.

Timmy sometimes sees things. The Reverend says it’s because Timmy suffers from gradual and irreversible macular degeneration, so nobody makes a big deal at those times when Timmy acts strange or starts crying because he sees things that no one else can see.

Timmy is a tremendous help to everyone. He’s always willing to gather dishes, to mop the floor, to put fresh sheets and blankets on the cots, anything at all that needs doing, he’ll do.

Except take out the trash. Timmy never takes out the trash, and no one ever asks him to.

~ End ~