The Night Marchers and Other Strange Tales (26 page)

“Like why Auntie Ruthie won’t move from Canarsie,” Kirk says. “And why Nathan doesn’t use his mask.” 

To Yael and the surfers it appears that the Sphinx of Cropsey Avenue is going to lumber into the water and disappear like a Saturday afternoon movie monster. She stops at the water’s edge. Diaphanous wings unfold from her back. The wings are so thin one can barely see them. In the sun they take on the sandy color of West End Two and the steel blue gray water. The Sphinx takes a step into the water then lifts into the air. 

“I didn’t know they had those,” Yael said. 

“You didn’t?” Kirk says. 

“You did?” Yael says. 

“Of course,” Kirk says. “You just have to know to look.” 

Yael lifts him into the air and holds him up to the surfers. 

“My son,” she says. “Six years old and already seeing the unseen.” 

The surfers let out a mock cheer. 

“Alright. Whatever,” one of the surfers says. “Glad he’s alright.” 

“You’re a mystic like your grandfather, Kirk,” she says, and kisses him. “And a gypsy just like me.” 

“Does this mean we don’t need to go to Morocco?” Kirk asks. 

“Maybe,” Yael says. “Maybe we are meant to go to Mexico. Or Miami? What do you think of Miami?” 

“Will you tell Nathan? In case he wants to come and see us?” 

“Why not,” she says. 

Yael carries her son to their car. The Sphinx of Cropsey Avenue flaps her wings. Her lion paws hang beneath her clawing the empty air as she flies over the cold Atlantic Ocean. 

**** 

Nathan drives to his mom’s house. 9109 East Eighty Fifth Street. He trusts you enough now to know the numbers. He hopes his mom will live forever but he knows she will not. Someday you might go looking. But she will not be there. 

Nathan checks on the night health care person. He checks on his mom. Yael and Kirk called earlier to say they are heading to Mexico. There are plenty of places to tell fortunes there. The money will go a long way. If they stay, Kirk will grow up a free spirit like Yael desires. Maybe someday he will see them again. He doubts it. 

He makes two phone calls. First he calls his boss and quits. Then he calls Yael’s husband. 

“Morocco?” Yael’s husband says. “I should have known. She’s still stuck on finding her crazy grandfather.” 

“She doesn’t have much of a head start. Maybe you’ll catch up with them in Fez. I’ve heard it’s a nice place. Everyone living side by side in peace.” 

Nathan goes upstairs. He lays down on the floor of his old bedroom. He wants to explore the spaces behind the walls he has seen in his dreams. He hasn’t brought his mask. When he closes his eyes the Sphinx won’t leave his mind. The scarred fur of the Sphinx of Cropsey Avenue and her expressionless alabaster face, melting snow streaking through Canarsie’s grime. He lays there trying to fall asleep. He hopes the dreams will come soon and that his dad will be there. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 

Daniel Braum spins a unique blend of speculative fiction that effortlessly blends fantasy, science fiction, horror and mysticism in every verse. Braum’s multi-dimensional characters are drawn into dark worlds of spiritualism where concepts of advanced science collide with magic realism to investigate the unexplainable at the edges of civilization. Defying conventional categorization, his work thrives in the gray area between many genres. 

Braum is a graduate of the Clarion and Clarion South writing workshops. He is the host of the Night Time Logic reading series. His chapbook
Yeti. Tiger. Dragon
is coming from Dim Shores Press in October 2016. 

Please watch for stories both long and short coming in future projects from Cemetery Dance.  

At the time of this writing Braum is at work on new short stories, novellas, and novels. 

His websites are
www.danielbraum.com
and
http://bloodandstardust.wordpress.com
. 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

I would like to first thank Norman Prentiss for believing in my writing and for making this project happen. Thank you to Richard Chizmar, Brian Freeman and the entire Cemetery Dance team. Thank you to Nicholas Kaufmann. 

Thanks also to Lee Thomas, Ben Francisco, M.M. Devoe, Chandler Klang Smith, David Wellington, Sarah Langan, Stefan Petrucha, Rhodi Hawk, Victor La Valle, Mongo Bettina, Peter Ball, J.J. Irwin, Chris Lynch, Kelly Link, Lee Battersby, Mark Rudolph, Darin Bradley, John Klima, Bailey Hunter, Robert Morrish, Leslie What, Tim Powers, Karen Joy Fowler, Simon Brown, Alice Turner, Jim Fruend, Ellen Datlow, Gavin J. Grant, Terry Bisson, Trent Walters, Rudi Dornemann, Sharon Woods, Catherine Dybeic Holm, Brendan Day, KGB Bar, Pseudopod, Clarion Writers Workshop and Clarion South and to all my teachers, editors, friends, and colleagues who have supported me and these stories. Thank you to the readers for reading, for your kind words, and for taking these travels. 

Thank you to my family, especially my mother, father, and brother for everything. Without them, their support, and love this book would not be possible.  

Cemetery Dance Publications

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