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Fantasy Stories

Baby Girl

Written by Jon Skovron

Illustrated by Liz Clarke

There was a knock on the door and it wasn't good. It couldn't be good. What knock at 2 am when you were taking a bath ever was?

Cobalt hooked an arm over the edge of the bathtub, pulled himself up a little and listened to the knock. Insistent yet reserved—a hard knuckle knock. Water dripped from his fingertips and fell on the bath-mat with a rhythm that counterpointed the knock perfectly. Cobalt curled his hand up to stop the drip. He hated when different natural rhythms started to sync up. It always meant something unnatural was about to happen.

The knock came again, no more hurried, but hard enough to make the hinges wince.

"Goddamn," said Cobalt and launched himself from the tub, water streaming down his lean, scarred, and naked body. He was tired. It had been a long and unpleasant day and all he'd wanted was a nice quiet bath. He snatched his pants from off the floor and stepped in them and out into the hallway. Beads of water gleamed on the dark brown of his bare chest and shoulders. His wet bare feet squeaked slightly on the hardwood floors.

The knock came again, steady and measured but with a little more clip.

His eyes roved around the studio apartment, looking for anything that might serve as a weapon.

The knock came again, and this time plaster trickled from the door frame in spurts.

"Who is it?" he yelled as he slipped into the kitchen.

"Opportunity," came a high-pitched voice.

"Ha ha," said Cobalt as he rummaged around in a drawer near the stove. He pulled out a twelve inch chef's knife. It would have to do, since he'd left his machete in the car.

The door shuddered looser with each knock.

"Okay, okay," said Cobalt. "I'm coming."

Without further hesitation, he walked smoothly to the front, raised the knife, released the deadbolt, and opened the door.

Out in the building hallway stood the neighbor's kid, Eric. But no, it wasn't the neighbor's kid at the moment. Those chocolate brown eyes looked up at him wide and feral with ancient and hardened wisdom. They were not the eyes of a child.

"Oh," said Cobalt. "Shi—"

In one swift motion the boy backhanded the knife from Cobalt's grip and shoved him stumbling backward. Cobalt's wet feet slipped out from under him and he landed flat on his back. The boy jumped into the air and landed hard with both knees on his chest, then pinned Cobalt's head flat against the ground.

"Get off me!" said Cobalt, his face mashed against the floor, knowing there was no point in struggling.

"Cobalt Jackson!" said the boy. "Is you the Hoodoo man?"

"Shit, I hate that name."

"You prefer Root doctor?"

"What I would prefer," said Cobalt as he rolled his eyes up at his captor, "is that you tell me what the fuck you want and then get out of that poor kid's body before you damage it."

"Will ya listen ta me?"

"I promise," said Cobalt. "I always listen. That's my fucking problem."

"A'rit, then." The boy jumped backwards gracefully into a crouch.

Cobalt sat up and rubbed the side of his face. Then he looked at the crouched figure that was usually a very shy and well behaved little boy.

"Well?" he said at last. "Got a name?"

"John."

Cobalt laughed. "Sure it is."

"Waz that mean?"

"It means you don't remember your real name. Your African name. It means that ole Massa couldn't be bothered to tell one slave from the other so he just named them all John. How long ago did you die?"

"I don't know. I guess a while. Things look lots different."

"Yeah, I'll bet they do," said Cobalt. "So, did you ever get free as a mortal?"

"Yessa," said John. "'Scaped up nawth to Ohio wit a few othern. Found me a job an' everythin'."

"So before Emancipation, then," said Cobalt as he pulled himself to his feet. "So what'd you want, John? Revenge on ole Massa? Sorry, man. He's probably been dead as long as you have."

"I don't care 'bout other dead folks," said John, his little boy head shaking with adult weariness. "I gots a wrong to rit afore I can go on. And I need yer help t' do 'um, Conjour Man."

"Yeah?" Cobalt leaned back, one hip on the edge of the small mail desk in the hallway. "What wrong you need righted?"

"The Devil done stole my woman."

"Huh," said Cobalt. His face was a mask of cool nonchalance, but his hand opened the junk drawer of his mail desk and rummaged around until he found the emergency pack of smokes shoved in the back. His eyes still on John, he lit one and inhaled deeply. They were a little stale, but the roughness felt good. Felt right. Finally, on the exhale, "The Devil, huh?"

"Tha's rit."

"Took your girl."

"Yessa."

"Is she dead?"

"Nossa."

"You sure?"

"Sure as I am dead."

"Fair enough." Cobalt took another hard drag. "So you want me to save your girl from the Devil?"

"Yessa."

"I've never met the Devil."

"I can tell," said John.

"How's that?"

"Ya gots the wrong idea 'bout 'em completely."

"Which part am I wrong about? That he's stronger than me?"

"No, he's defn'ly stronger."

"That he's smarter than me?

"No, he's smarter than ya fer shore."

"That he's a tricky sonofabitch who can't be trusted any further than I can throw him?"

"Oh, no, tha's all true too."

"Well, which part am I wrong about, then?"

"That he cain'ts be beat."

"And how do you know that?"

"'Cause I done beat 'em."

"No shit," said Cobalt.

"Tha's rit. See, when I was alive, I was a gambolin' man. One night I was playin' cards with a stranger and when he won all my moneys, he said we could gamble with life isself. Now, I thought fer sure my luck was about to turn."

"Of course you did," said Cobalt.

"And anyways, I was a pretty tough fella so I figured worse come ta worse, I could lick 'em in a fight. So I said shore, double or nothin' on my life. It wasn't until after he'd won that hand that he told me he was the Devil."

"Cause the horns and tail didn't give it away?"

"He was in disguise."

"Uh huh."

"And I might of had some low wine too."

Cobalt shook his head. "Too drunk to recognize the Devil." He took another drag.

"Can I get some of that tobacah?" asked John.

"Those aren't your lungs," said Cobalt. "So, no, you can't." But he put the cigarette out so as not to torture him. Then he said, "So he killed you and took your girl?"

"No, I 'scaped alrit, 'cause of my woman. It was our love that saved me. It was our love that gave me the ability to beat that ole Devil."

"So what happened?"

"Well, we got away. But 'ventually, I gots careless. Didn't stay on my toes. The Devil shore does hold a grudge and he was a waitin' to catch me sleepin'. And shore enough, he did. Comin' back from work on the side of the road. Horse and buggy lost control and done squarsh me flat."

"And when you died, since he couldn't take your soul, he took your girl?"

"Yeah," nodded John. "Somethin' like that."

"So why are you coming to me now? Sounds like you've waited a long time before making your move to get her back."

"I hadda find out how to git to 'em."

"You mean, how to get to Hell?"

John looked at him with a steadiness and clarity that was common among spirits but which Cobalt never quite got used to seeing. "Conjure Man, we alls in Hell rit now."

"Bullshit," said Cobalt. "But you sure ain't helping by running around possessing innocent kids."

"You know hows it is," said John. "Hard to find a mind open and flexible 'nough to let ya in, even for a little while."

"I hear that a lot," said Cobalt. "So you will let this kid go if I help you?"

"A'course." John nodded vehemently. "I'm just borrowin' his mouth sos we could talk. I don't mean no harm to nobody but that Devil."

"Alright, then," nodded Cobalt. "I'll do it."

John beamed at him and it was so open and excited that for a moment Cobalt thought the spirit had already left. But then the boy's face grew serious once again and said, " 'Twon't be easy. Ya gots to light nine candles and pray fer twelve hours so as to prepare yerself, then ya gots to travel upriver blindfolded holdin' a mixture of salt, white mustard seed, and cayenne pepper in yer mouth."

"Uh," Cobalt winced.

"An' don't fergets ta bring a baby coal-black heifer for when that ole Eagle gets hungry."

"Wait, what eagle?"

"An' when ya gets there, whatever ya do, don' mention me."

"I'm still on the eagle part," said Cobalt.

"Oh, an' ya prob'ly want ta bring a broom."

"What? A broom?"

"If ya do all that, I think ya'll be jus' fine." Cobalt could see John letting go of his grip of the boy all of a sudden. "Now hold on a minute!" he said. "I need some more details!"

"And don't fergit," said John as he began to slump against the wall, "the name a my woman," his head began nodding and his voice warbling, "Salome."

"Aw hell," said Cobalt as he caught the boy's body from falling to the floor. A moment later, the boy's eyes fluttered and looked up at Cobalt in bewilderment."Mister Jackson?" said Eric.

"You're alright," said Cobalt.

"What happen?"

"You were sleepwalking," said Cobalt. "About scared the life out of me. Com'on. Let's get you back home."

Eric blinked and struggled to his feet. He looked exhausted, which was typical for someone who'd just been mounted by a spirit. "I had a really weird dream."

"Oh yeah?" said Cobalt, gently guiding him towards the front door. "What about?"

"This really pretty woman who lived inside a big pit of fire."

"Scary, huh?"

"No," Eric shook his head. "It should have been scary, but it wasn't at all. It was kinda nice." Then he sniffed the air and said, "Are you smoking again, Mister Jackson?"

"Now and then," admitted Cobalt.

"My momma says those things are going to be the death of you."

"If I'm lucky," said Cobalt. "Only if I'm lucky."

****

The next morning Cobalt went to pay Angelface a visit. While Cobalt didn't exactly think John had been lying, he got the distinct impression that things had been left out. Most obviously, the details of how John actually managed to defeat the Devil. Also suspicious was the fact that John had been heavily addicted to gambling and drinking, which was unusual for someone as happily in love as he claimed to have been with Salome. Then, of course, there was the name itself. Salome? What parent named their kid after a Biblical erotic dancer? But if anyone could confirm John's story, it was Angelface.

He ran a guitar shop down on Carson Street in the South Side. He was kind of a local celebrity, much like Cobalt was in Oakland and Squirrel Hill. He was the guy that people went to when they ran out of other options. Liked by a few, feared by many. And usually treated with disdain until needed. Especially Angelface.

There are many truths that are hidden, about love, innocence, hope, mortality, God, and magic. And the thing was that the majority of these truths were hidden by a person from themselves because they either didn't want to know the answer or they didn't like the answer. Everyone lies to themselves. In fact, lying is such a natural part of human nature that it was said that no matter who they were, anyone whose mouth was cut sideways would tell a lie. The thing was, Angelface's mouth was cut vertically. He was a Truthsayer, incapable of lying, even about the secrets of the Universe itself. If anyone could parse out the real truth behind John's story, it was him. Besides, Angelface owed him a few favors.

Cobalt parked his crappy old blue Buick across the street from the store, turned up the collar on his jacket and hustled through a chill spring rain. The shop door beeped cheerfully as he entered the humid warmth and saw Angelface behind the counter strumming absently on a vintage Stromberg archtop guitar. A tall, gaunt white guy with solemn gray eyes, his shoulder-length blond hair wasn't looking so good anymore since his receding hairline. When he saw Cobalt, the ends of his mouth curved to the right, which Cobalt knew was a smile.

"Hey, CB," he said in a deep baritone.

"Yo, Angel," said Cobalt. "How you doing?"

They clasped hands tightly for a moment, then Cobalt said, "No time to chit chat. Gotta call in a favor."

"Okay," said Angelface. "What do you want to know?"

"Got a new client last night. A spirit named John."

"Bad idea," said Angelface. "Deads never pay well."

"I know," said Cobalt. "I'm a softy for the souls of slaves."

"But not soft enough to trust 'em completely," said Angelface. "Which is why you're here."

Cobalt smiled. "As always, you know me."

"I pity you, CB, 'cause most times I feel like I'm the only one who does."

Cobalt shrugged. "Man of mystery. That's me."

"Well, what's your question?"

"It's about the Devil."

"Oh," said Angelface. The corners of his mouth curved to the left. "It'll be tricky to weed out the truth then, cause that Devil likes to blend the two together till they're almost indistinguishable. In fact, I might even be inclined to say that where the Devil's concerned, there's no such thing as truth and lies, just things said and things done."

"Yeah, great," said Cobalt. He tapped impatiently on the glass counter top. "Can you tell me how this client, John, beat the Devil?"

"Love," said Angelface.

"Yeah, I got that. But I want some details."

"Something about a contest," said Angelface.

"Yeah, yeah, a card game."

"No," said Angel. "That was earlier. This was some kind of impossible task that John had to do...if he did it, the Devil said he'd spare his life."

"But if it was impossible, how'd he do it?"

Angelface shook his head and shrugged. "Love. Or something a lot like it. That's all I know for sure."

"Well, can you at least confirm how I can get to Hell?"

Angelface grinned. "Try shooting yourself in the head."

"Ha, ha," said Cobalt. "I meant a way where I can come back."

"There are many ways," said Angelface. "Too many to list off."

"Okay, well, how about upriver blindfolded with a handful of salt and pepper in my mouth?"

"That would work," said Angelface. "How you gonna do it?"

"Take a motorboat up the Allegheny."

"How you gonna keep from crashing into stuff?"

"You tell me."

"I'll follow you out and guide you on the radio."

"Sounds good to me." Cobalt nodded.

"Just watch out for the Eagle."

"Yeah, John mentioned something about an eagle. Is it that dangerous?"

"Every entrance to Hell has a guardian," said Angelface. "They're all dangerous."

"But if I bring a live black calf to feed it, will that be enough?"

"If the Eagle gets the calf, you'll get by."

"That was a careful answer," said Cobalt, his eyes narrowing.

"Yeah," said Angelface. "So be careful."

****

They met back up that night at a small, private pier on the riverbank near the Strip District. Rain was coming down hard and dirty. Angelface stood on the dock wearing a yellow rain slicker with the hood pulled up, partially to keep his precious golden locks dry, partially to shield casual observers from the shock of seeing his face. He watched with amusement as Cobalt struggled down the steps from street level with a thrashing calf in his arms, his face grim and pinched.

"Have fun getting that?" Angelface asked when Cobalt drew near.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a live completely black calf in this town?"

"Yeah, actually. I do." said Angelface.

"Yeah, yeah," said Cobalt. "Help me get this poor little critter in the boat so I can slap you silly."

They took a line and roped the calf's legs together, then left it laying on its side in the bow of the small motorboat that Cobalt had borrowed from an old client.

"You ready?" asked Angelface.

"Why you think I'm so cranky?" snapped Cobalt. "I been fasting and praying, lighting candles and drinking every shit-tasting charm potion I know. I could run a goddamn marathon while smoking a carton of cigarettes right now."

"Okay," said Angelface. "I'll keep with you by radio for as long as I can."

They both eased their boats clear of the dock and out into the river. Then Cobalt took a white strip of cloth that he had treated with holy water and blessed earlier that day. He tied it carefully across his eyes so that nothing but the merest hints of light and dark were visible. The effect of helpless disorientation was immediate: the boat rocking, the calf thrashing and mewling, the rain hissing, his blood pounding in his temples.

"How you doing, CB?" crackled over the radio.

Cobalt fumbled until he found the receiver. "Why am I doing this again?" His voice sounded hoarse.

"Cause you're a crazy motherfucker."

"Right," said Cobalt. "I guess that's good enough." Then he let out on the throttle and the boat began to pick up speed as it cut upstream.

The outboard motor grated against his ears and tickled the back of his throat. He could almost taste the engine fuel on his tongue. The boat seemed to pitch in every direction, buffeted by wind and rain and current.

"How'm I doing, Angel?"

"Just fine, CB. Nothing in your way."

"But am I going straight?"

"Of course. You haven't turned the wheel, have you?"

"No, but this wind feels like it's knockin' me all over the place."

"You're fine," said Angelface.

"Alright." Cobalt reached into a pouch in his pocket and grabbed a fistful of the salt, mustard seed, and cayenne pepper mixture he'd made earlier that day. Before he could give it any thought, he quickly dumped it into his mouth. When the powder hit his tongue, his throat constricted then expanded, unsure whether to swallow or vomit. He took a deep breath through his nose to calm himself. He willed himself to disregard the taste and the burn, to concentrate on something else. Anything else.

The rain was coming down harder now, leaking into his blindfold, stinging his eyes, and chilling him to the core. Water slapped against the metal siding, sending laser-zap vibrations up and down the length of the boat. The calf's breathing came in ragged gasps and its hooves clanged against the nearby bucket seat. And there was something else...a smell that cut like a dart through the scent of rain and river muck and grass and spring pollen and even the burn of the salt and pepper to his nose. It smelled like someone had lit a match in front of his face. Then it was gone. He gripped the wheel tighter. The hiss of the rain on the surface of the water came in waves now, like an ocean, back and forth, in and out, crescendo and decrescendo. The boat dipped side to side, slapped its edge on the water like clapping wet hands. The calf kicked and flailed, its hooves clanging against the metal rail like a bell and its fearful wails shimmering like a chime. The motor chugged along with a constant drone, a bass line, but popping on every second and fourth beat and the calf hit the seat on the fourth and the rain filled the down stroke on the one and three and it all started coming together like fingers in folded hands . . . duba-DAT-bing-doo duba-duba-DAT-bing duba-DAT-bing-doo duba-duba-DAT-bing...

"Oh, fhi . . ." said Cobalt.

"Uh, CB," came Angelface's voice over the radio. "I think—"

The blast of sulfur hit Cobalt square in the face. His nose hairs dissolved as he let go of the wheel and stumbled back. The boat pitched wildly, banging, pounding. He heard the calf on its feet now, clambering around, somehow loose, mooing pitifully and the rain came down with tropical storm strength, pounding on his head and shoulders like pebbles. Loud cracks and he didn't know . . . were they lightning? Was the boat coming apart? He almost tore off the blindfold but then the boat pitched forward and he fell backward. He flailed about on the floor of the boat, trying to regain his footing in the collecting puddles. Then something slammed into his chest, nailed him to the side of the boat. The calf. It pressed its hooves into his chest, and pain flashed but he didn't scream because the powder mixture was his protection and so he clenched his teeth and his tears blended with the raking rain that seemed to be getting hotter. When had the calf gotten so heavy? Its voice was much deeper too, and no longer afraid but now enraged, hot breath blowing on his face. In the background, the rain sound dipped, staggered, became uneven, raindrops hitting raindrops like a civil war of heavenly water until it was a different sound entirely—a trembling, screaming, vengeful sound of madness that built up and made Cobalt want to scream with it in terror, and all the while the cow pressed down harder and harder.

Then a slap.

A screech.

Silence.

And Cobalt was free.

He ripped the blindfold off and saw an eagle the size of a prop plane carry off the cow. It flew into clear skies streaked with the red of a setting sun. His little boat was no longer in the Allegheny River, but instead in a vast ocean, calm and crystal. The air was humid and the setting sun raked his skin with heat. Nothing else was in sight except a single beach island dotted with one palm tree and a crumbling shack of a house.

He spat out the powder and rinsed his mouth with water. It wasn't salty but he didn't swallow any of it. If he had reached the correct destination, then it seemed best not to take a chance on drinking the waters of Hell.

The motor had stopped at some point. He gave it a few tries, but it wouldn't start so he gave up, took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, unhooked the emergency oar from the side of the boat and began to row. He stood at the bow and worked the wooden oar for hours with deep, smooth strokes, inching his way towards the island. During all that time, the sun never quite set, but lingered fat and red on the horizon, laying its heat on him like dead weight. Sweat trickled down his brow and he was thirsty. He looked at the crystal clear water beneath . . . but, no, he didn't drink it. He pushed himself on and on, his head down, his face pinched with fatigue, and his mouth tasting like a dust pit.

Then there was a quiet scrape on the bottom and the boat jerked to a halt. But Cobalt didn't. He pitched forward over the bow, somersaulted with all the grace of a rag doll, and landed flat on his back in the sand. The landing knocked the wind out of him so he just lay there gasping for air and staring at the blood red sun through teary eyes. So much for the element of surprise. So much for an impressive entrance. He expected the minions of Hell to leap on him immediately. But nothing happened. Once he'd caught his breath he stood up and looked around. Nothing on the island but the palm tree and the wooden shack. No animals, no plants, and no demon spawn.

Not quite sure what else to do, he dusted the sand from his pants and shirt, then walked to the shack. He stood staring at the knotted driftwood door for a full minute before he made up his mind and knocked.

"Who's there?" boomed a voice like molten lava."Uh . . . it's Cobalt Jackson."

There was a long pause. Cobalt shifted his weight uneasily.

"No shit," the voice said at last with something leaning towards a mild amusement that could none the less melt steel. "Hoodoo PI is here?" There was a creaking sound, like someone leaning back in a chair. Then, "It's the fuzz, woman. You better open the door."

The door creaked open.

Cobalt nearly went insane.

The creature that stood before him defied reality. Its limbs twisted and knotted back in on themselves in infinite coils and loops that went nowhere yet stretched from horizon to horizon. Worms and maggots writhed from every orifice, swallowing each other as they were swallowed themselves. The eyes were bottomless pools of diseased and putrid coagulated blood and what might have been a mouth sucked in hope and happiness like a psychic vacuum.

"Oh . . . shit," stammered Cobalt like an idiot. "The Devil!"

"Naw," said a voice from behind the creature. "That's just my wife. Hey, Molderina! Move over and let the man come inside."

The creature shuffled placidly aside to reveal a small, cramped but cozy cabin, complete with potbelly stove, kitchen/dinette, and wrought iron framed bed. Lounging in the corner in a rocking chair next to the stove was the Devil. Extremely tall and incredibly thin, his entire body was shaggy and pitch black except for flickering red eyes and a grin so wide it