“I know you’re not crazy. You don’t look crazy,” I lied. “But…”
But normal people don’t try to cut off their dicks with a Swiss Army knife.
“I don’t look crazy because I’m not crazy.”
I said nothing. After a moment I raised my head to look at him: the dark stubble covering his skull, the crimson web where he’d cut himself with the razor; his cheeks and chin still smooth as a boy’s though I was certain he hadn’t shaved in days.
It was like gazing at someone who had been consumed by fire, a lovely porcelain figurine left too long in the kiln; and now all that remained was this human ash, frail and white and cold. Except for his eyes, those madly burning blue eyes that still might without warning burst into flame.
He covered my hand with his—so cold, surely he shouldn’t be this cold?
“I’m not crazy, Sweeney. I’m just not what they wanted,” he said softly. “Angelica and my father, Warnick and all the rest of them—they all wanted different things, they all wanted something from me I can’t give. They wanted me to be strong, they wanted me to give them a champion. But I can’t, Sweeney. They don’t understand. I’m not like that.
“I wanted to—”
He stopped, stared at his hands with their bitten-down nails.
“I wanted to mend things,” he said at last. He looked at me and sighed. “I know it sounds stupid, but I thought—all this bullshit about darkness, and light, and different powers for men and women—all this fighting, all this, this hatred the Benandanti and the rest of them have—I thought I could make it different, somehow. At least I thought I could escape it,” he added with a grim smile. “But I was wrong, Sweeney. I can’t. No one can. We’ll never understand each other, any of us. Not ever.”
I nodded like I understood, although of course I didn’t. After a moment I asked, “But—if you’re not what the Benandanti want you to be, or Angelica—what are you?”
He tipped his head and smiled.
“I’m lovely,” he sang in his sweet quavering voice. “All I am is lovely…”
I laughed even as my eyes filled with tears, and touched his poor ugly scalp. “Well, you’ll be lovely again, Oliver. It’ll grow back.”
With sudden vehemence he shook his head. “No. Does the reed once cut return? Will the trees now barren turn again to greet the spring? What name did Achilles take among the women? Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?”
His hand shot out to grab my wrist, tightening like a wire as he pulled me to him. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”
“O-Oliver,” I stammered. His face had twisted into a bitter mask, still smiling, but it was a contorted smile now, and his eyes were no longer laughing.
“Sweeney? Surely you remember? It was the first thing we ever talked about. Why is a raven like a writing desk? Tell me the next line—”
He gripped me so hard that pins and needles darted from my wrist into my arm. “Tell me!” he hissed.
“I—I don’t—”
“Say it!”
“Your—your hair wants cutting.”
“There!” He cried out triumphantly and let go of my hand. I rubbed it gingerly, and moved a fraction of an inch away from him. “See, Sweeney? You remembered.”
With some effort he stood, moving slowly. He grabbed the hem of his robe and tossed it flamboyantly behind him, as though it were a flowing train. “I knew you would. Sweeney.”
He stopped and stared at me. The front of his robe gaped open and I had a glimpse of white bandages beneath, although maybe it was just his underclothes. “I know about you,” he said very softly. Once more his voice was gentle. He was gazing at me with pity, but also with great tenderness. “You’re in this by mistake—”
I shook my head desperately, but he went on. “It’s okay, Sweeney. Because even after I figured it all out, that you weren’t in on any of this—I mean, you’re not a Molyneux scholar, and obviously you’re not a Benandanti, and you’re not with Angelica, wherever the fuck she is—but, well, you’re still great, Sweeney. Anybody else would have run away screaming from all this, but you stayed, you were my friend and you stuck with me. And you’re great; you’re just so great to have done that. You know that, right?”
I bowed my head, mumbling something about No, well, maybe…
He knelt in front of me. It must have hurt, because he grimaced as he took my hands. He held them very tenderly, his fingertips barely grazing mine.
“Sweeney.” His blue eyes were clear as water. “I’ll love you next time. I promise.”
I bit my lip. Tears stung my eyes, and I shook my head furiously. “Why not this time? Why her and not me? I mean, I know you better, Oliver, I know you—”
He smiled and leaned forward to kiss my cheek.
“—and I love you. Even if I’m not one of them! I could be better, I could be good for you, I could help you out of this—”
I gestured at the pale green walls, that humble little wooden cross, the crooked chair near the door.
“Oh, my stars! Goodness had nothing to do with it, kiddo. Listen—”
He dropped my hands and got to his feet again, pulling his robe tight. “This isn’t new for my family. It isn’t new to me, not really. The Benandanti waited a long time for me, but in the meantime they used my brothers for target practice. Firing off a few rounds of firecrackers while they’re waiting for the Bearna Beill. I saw what happened to Osgood and Vance and Waldo, just like you saw what happened to Magda Kurtz. These guys take no prisoners, Sweeney, especially now. They’ve been expecting me for a long time—but they’ve been expecting Angelica even longer. Waiting for Electra, or someone like her.”
I laughed uneasily, but Oliver shook his head. “I mean it! You read all this stuff about the Second Coming, but no one really expects it to happen, maybe not even the Benandanti. Especially when you consider that when the Second Coming actually Comes, it’s not a He but a She, and she’s taking even fewer prisoners than they are.”
He went on bitterly. “They had me all picked out, you know, they bred me for this. And I was supposed to just kind of go along with them, be the sacred cow, be this sort of lure for Her when She arrived. Like this crazy arranged marriage or something, like once She got hold of me She might just roll over for them and play dead.”
His voice rose to a desperate pitch. “But I’m not going for it, Sweeney. Maybe Angelica doesn’t understand what’s going on, but I do. I’m not the right guy for the job. And if you’re not the right kind of person, if you’re not what they expect, if you don’t do exactly what they want, they throw you away, they use you up and throw you out and that’s it. And I’m not going to let them do it to me.”
“Oliver, this really is crazy, it doesn’t make any sense—”
He slashed at the air in a rage. “No! You saw what happened to Magda Kurtz; Angelica told me. You know what I’m taking about—”
“But, Oliver—you can’t hurt yourself! I mean, you’re playing right into their hands—”
“No, I’m not, I’m not, I’m not.” His voice cracked as he paced to the bathroom. His hands kept fluttering around his forehead, making quick nervous motions as though to keep phantom hair from falling into his eyes. At the bathroom door he stopped, and asked suddenly, “Have you seen Angelica?”