40. Mean Ole Lion
Chapter forty
Mean Ole Lion
Kazimir
The little girl led us up a haunting gray staircase—a child guiding two grown men through the labyrinthine of her shattered mind.
Her small arm clutched firmly around the stuffed lion’s neck.
I really need to make that bigger. It is too small.
Each step creaked under our weight.
Pavel got to my side, drew a cross on his forehead, and whispered in Russian, “In the shadows, we seek the light, guide our hearts, spirits of night.”
I gritted my teeth, remembering those lines.
Pavel drew a cross on his left cheek. “Through the silence, hear our plea, bond unbroken, let it be.”
A tremor waved through my body.
The words tasted bitter with memories of my father and mother.
Pavel traced a cross on his other cheek. “From the depths to the stars above, carry our prayers, woven with love.”
Then, he kissed his fingertips.
Continuing to climb the stairs, the little girl glanced over her shoulder. “What is he doing?”
“It is something my mother would say. She called it a prayer to the dead.” I stiffened. “She would perform this ritual whenever my father went out to kill or seek vengeance. She believed it would protect and bring him back to us.”
“So, it’s magic,” she said simply, as if that one word explained everything, as if it bridged the gap between faith and reality.
I couldn’t help but smile. “In many ways, God is magic.”
The statement felt strange yet fitting here.
The little girl nodded and put her view back in front of her.
Pavel’s gaze met mine, right as we headed to the top of the stairs. “I will help you, cousin.”
“Damn right you will. That is clearly why you are with me.”
“You are also right about Paolo. He needs the best Emily he can get.” Pavel raised one finger. “However, I help you find a clue or two, and then we go.”
I nodded.
At the top of the stairs, the little girl waited for us.
My eyes narrowed as I spotted another set of stairs winding upwards. The steps—coated with dust and rust—spiraled into darkness above us.
I pointed that way. “Who lives up there?”
The little girl paused and looked in that direction. “There is no up there .”
“What do you mean?”
She appeared confused.
I gestured at the dusty steps. “Those stairs must lead to something.”
“But, there are no stairs.” She backed away from me like I was a crazy person, turned around, and headed off.
Where do those stairs go?
Pavel got to my side. “This place. . .it is beyond our understanding. If she says there is nothing up there, perhaps it is best we listen.”
My eyes lingered on the staircase, and I swore the call of the unknown whispered to me.
Tempting me to explore.
But, the little girl continued away and rounded the corner.
I gave up on that staircase and headed after her.
We walked down a dark, narrow hallway.
Here, the air carried a chill.
The little girl kept her voice low. “To get to the roof, we have to go through my apartment.”
“That is the only way to the roof?”
“Yes.” The stuffed lion bumped rhythmically against her hip with each measured step.
I assessed what she said. “So, M’s apartment has no way to the roof?”
“No way.”
“Interesting.”
She glanced over her shoulder and eyed me. “You are funny.”
I smiled at her.
Pavel shrugged. “I think that is a clue right there. Now we only need one more.”
“That was not a clue—”
“The apartment is the only way to the roof therefore something happened in that apartment—”
“My mouse already knows that. It is not a clue.”
Pavel groaned in annoyance.
On either side of us were doors, closed and forbidding. I noticed Pavel’s gaze sweeping over each one, his experienced eyes taking note of the smallest details.
I pointed at one door. “Can we enter these apartments?”
The little girl gazed at them. “They are all empty.”
“You all have looked in each of these?”
“Yes.”
Turning a corner, we came to a stop in front of a door different from the rest.
This one was marked with a brass number 2, worn but still gleaming faintly in the dim light of the hallway.
The little girl turned towards us, her wide eyes reflecting the dim light.
I stared at the number and then looked down at her. “In. . .real life, was your door number 2?”
She shook her head. “It was 4A.”
“Hmmm.” I put my gaze back on the number. “Amber was the first alter. You were the second. Could that be why there is a number 2 on the door?”
She chuckled. “You sound like M.”
“I very much want to meet M too—”
“No. No.” Pavel wagged his finger. “We said a clue or two and then—”
“I must also meet Emily’s alters to—”
“To what, Kazimir? To lose your mind? Or to further have your mouse lose her mind?”
“I will meet her alters, before leaving.”
The little girl shook her head. “Amber will never let you see her.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a man. She barely let’s M talk to her. Once, he walked inside the sewer and she urinated on herself.”
This odd sadness washed over me. “Then, I will not bother Amber.”
Granted, I wanted to meet all of them, but not if it would harm any of their minds.
“Smart.” The little girl turned around, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
Pavel and I followed.
The space was dimly lit by the glow of the city seeping through the worn, half-drawn curtains.
A faint aroma of frying chicken lingered in the air.
The little girl flipped on the light switch.
Dark green paint coated the walls and peeled in some places. The wooden floorboards were weathered and worn, covered with books, shoes, toy soldiers, and knickknacks.
The little girl moved with familiarity through the mess, stepping over items without a second glance, her stuffed lion now held close to her chest.
Further off, an old television set was perched on a battered stand. It was clearly turned on due to the flickering lights casting across the space.
An odd song sounded from it.
In front of the TV, stood a green couch with faded brown cushions.
If only this couch could talk to us.
It was more than just a piece of furniture; it had been a witness to the history of this place, to the laughter and tears that had once filled the room.
Next to the couch, a small, scratched wooden coffee table bore the marks of everyday life, rings from coffee cups mingling with scratches and stains.
The whole place held an eerie stillness like it was suspended in time—a snapshot of a moment long passed.
In a far corner, toys and doll clothes covered the dusty floor. A lone chair sat in the corner as if it were a throne for the little girl’s imaginary kingdom.
Perhaps.
Pavel got in front of the television and watched whatever was on it. “Funny.”
What’s funny?
I headed over there.
Meanwhile, the little girl went over to the window and pushed it up. “The roof is this way.”
“Hold on.” I held my hand up and got to Pavel’s side to see what could be playing on the television. “Uh. . .”
It was some scene from a musical that I’d never heard of. A black man wore this. . .lion costume complete with a shaggy mane and odd tail.
I quirked my brows. “What is this?”
The little girl stared at me as if I were crazy. “It’s The Wiz.”
“Is it good?”
She flashed a huge smile. “It is the best movie ever in the world.”
This man in the lion costume stomped around on the steps of a building while these other people appeared scared on a yellow tiled road.
I caught some of his words as he sang and pranced around. “Did he just say that he is a mean old lion ?”
Pavel snickered. “He did.”
The little girl remained by the window. “But, he really is not mean at all. He is nice.”
I pursed my lips and watched this some more.
His movements were a caricature of pride and confidence, a dance that seemed to mock the very nature of a lion.
Pavel laughed.
I frowned. “This is not funny.”
The lion pranced around with his paws—clumsy fabric-covered shoes—stomping the ground with deliberate heaviness.
Even more, his voice carried a mix of defiance and insecurity, a bravado that seemed to mask a deeper vulnerability. He flexed his muscles and bared his teeth, but the slight quiver in his voice betrayed him.
He seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as his audience of how fierce he was.
I thought of Lunita and her nickname for me.
Mean ole lion. No. This could not be the source.
A surge of annoyance surged in my chest.
Was this how she saw me?
As some caricature of a lion man, prancing around in a costume, more laughable than fearsome?
The thought was unsettling, demeaning even. I prided myself on my strength, my ability to instill fear, respect, or at least recognition of my authority.
But this. . .this was a mockery.
I looked back at the little girl. “Lunita calls me a mean ole lion.”
The little girl giggled.
I frowned. “You think that is funny?”
She bobbed her head.
“And do you think I am a mean ole lion too?”
“No.” She widened her eyes with this sweet innocence. “You are a nice, strong lion.”
“Good.” The frown left me. “Thank you.”
At least one alter understands me.
I gazed back at the TV and now the idiot man in the lion costume ran away from a tiny dog.
Hmmm.
The irony was not lost on me. Here I was, a man feared and respected in the real world, yet in Lunita’s mind, I had been reduced to a figure of ridicule.
The parallels between the lion’s false bravado and my own facade of invulnerability were uncomfortably clear.
Was I, too, just prancing around in a costume, hiding my true fears and insecurities behind a mask of toughness?
If yes, I would never admit it out loud. Not to anyone. Not even my mouse.
I tensed.
The realization that Lunita, in her childlike wisdom, might have understood me better than I understood myself was humbling.
I felt a sudden, irrational urge to switch off the television, to erase the mocking image before me, but I resisted. This was a piece of Emily’s world, a clue, perhaps, to understanding her—and, by extension. . .maybe. . .myself.
The little girl spoke, “Lunita only calls you mean ole lion so she won’t be scared of you.”
“Hmmm.”
“Oh no. It is over.” Pavel grinned. “I actually enjoyed this performance. Bravo.”
I scowled and headed off. “Come on.”
“It’s this way.” The little girl’s hand tightened around her lion’s neck as she climbed through the window.
Mean ole lion? I will show Lunita who is the mean ole lion.
We clambered out of the window, one by one, onto the rusted rungs of a fire escape.
Cold metal bit into my hands.
The little girl led the way, agile as a cat.
Pavel followed like a silent shadow in the twilight, and I brought up the rear, my heart thumping in my chest not from the climb but from the anticipation of what lay ahead.
What will Lunita say and do when she sees me here?
I gazed around at the world outside of this building.
In Emily’s painting, she had created a surreal deserted landscape around the building.
But as I climbed the fire escape, Harlem unfolded below us like a living movie. Distant sounds of upbeat music spilled from a bar, mixing with the occasional shout, the laughter of children playing in the fading light, and the relentless rhythm of life that pulsed through the city’s veins.
The scents of frying fish, sweet pastries, and the indefinable smell of densely packed humanity wafted up to us.
Why didn’t she capture this too? This is amazing.
And the more we climbed, the more I could see above the jumble of other fire escapes and back alleys.
Soon, a surreal panorama caught my breath.
Wow. Now this is. . .breathtaking.
Beyond the Harlem skyline, I spotted the unmistakable silhouettes of buildings from my homeland—buildings topped with gleaming golden cupolas that shimmered like mirages against the dusky sky.
My mouse has Russia in her mind too.
I beamed.
It was as if a chunk of Russia had been carved out and dropped into this alien yet vibrant landscape.
Oh.
To my left, the Eiffel Tower pierced the sky, an iron lattice standing oddly among the New York skyscrapers. Its presence was as bewildering as it was majestic.
I stopped and leaned forward.
There, melding into the cityscape as if it had always belonged, was the steam clock from Prague. The gentle puffing sound of steam and the soft chimes carried faintly on the breeze.
The realization hit me then; these visions, these fragments of other places, were not random—they were tied to Emily, to her mind, her memories, her fears.
They’re pieces of her past and present.
I wondered if I went out into those places if I would see memories of us within the buildings.
Is this how my mind is too?
The little girl gazed down at us. “What are you doing?”
“This looks amazing.”
She stared off in the direction of buildings. “What looks amazing?”
“All of the cities cut up and merged together.”
She placed her view back on me. “What cities?”
I blinked. “Prague and Paris. Moscow.”
She shook her head. “It’s only darkness and demons.”
“You do not see the buildings and alleys? The towers?”
She shook her head again.
“Can you hear the music or—?”
“No. It’s always quiet out here.”
A knot formed in my stomach.
I turned to Pavel. “Do you see it? The cities? The other places?”
“I see Moscow among Harlem.” Pavel’s gaze fixed on a point in the distance. He extended his hand, and his finger pointed toward St. Basil’s Cathedral.
The iconic red-brick structure, with its swirling, multicolored domes and golden spires, stood out like a beacon in the chaotic fusion of worlds. It was a surreal slice of Moscow sitting incongruously amidst the New York skyline.
“That’s one of Emily’s favorite Russian buildings,” I remarked, more to myself than to Pavel.
The little girl shook her head again. “But. . .it’s only darkness. . .”
Her response clarified something vital for me. These visions, these glimpses into other worlds, were something the alters—Emily’s fragmented selves—couldn’t perceive.
While I might not have possessed the power to heal her, to fuse back together the shattered pieces of her psyche, I held a unique advantage. I could see beyond the darkness that enveloped her, see the landscapes and memories that perhaps held the key to understanding her pain, her fears.
I couldn’t mend her mind, but maybe, just maybe, I could guide her through the darkness that her alters were trapped in.
If these places, these snapshots from around the world, were pieces of Emily’s past or her inner world, then understanding them, acknowledging them, might be the first step in helping her confront and perhaps integrate her fragmented selves.
Okay. This is good.
The realization settled in, and a weight lifted from my shoulders.
I didn’t have all the answers, but I had a direction.
A purpose.
And in that moment, that was enough.
I turned away from the mosaic cityscape and looked back at the little girl. “One day you will see all of this.”
The look she gave me, said that I was possibly the craziest person she had ever met.
Silent, she returned to climbing up to the roof.
Pavel and I followed.
Once on top, the panorama before us was a breathtaking urban patchwork—Parisian rooftops snuggled against Moscow’s industrial skyline, and sprinkled amidst them were the towering skyscrapers of New York.
Fucking awesome.
I turned my view to the rooftop.
Beautiful.
An overflowing garden of vibrant flowers filled the space. Every shade imaginable was represented, from the velvety richness of deep purple dahlias to the brilliant hue of bright pink roses. The sprawling branches of luscious trees swayed gently in the breeze. Blooming vines climbed up trellises and cascaded down the sides of the building.
It was as if Mother Nature herself had painted this masterpiece for all to admire.
And where is Lunita?
I scanned the place as the scent of fresh earth and blooming flowers struck me first.
There she is.
With her back to us, Lunita lay among a bed of lilies, wearing a white sundress. Black roses decorated her head. Her pose mirrored Emily’s down in the basement—body tucked into a small ball, arms wrapped around her knees.
Despite the distance between us, I could hear the sound of her crying. It was a soft, mournful melody that danced on the wind, twining its way through the flowers and trees until it reached me.
My heart seized in my chest.
I took a step forward.
“She is dangerous.” Pavel extended a hand to stop me, but I gently shook him off.
This was something I had to do alone.
Meanwhile, the little girl skipped towards a patch of bright daisies. Once she got there, she carefully set the lion down and then lowered next to it, giving herself a perfect view to Lunita.
Here we go.
Slowly, cautiously, I threaded my way through the garden.
Fallen petals carpeted the path.
I checked over my shoulder.
Pavel remained by the edge of the roof, unwilling to get close to Lunita.
You are already dead. How can you still be scared of her?
I came to a halt a few feet from Lunita. Her form shook slightly as if each hitched breath caused tremors in her frame. My voice was barely above a whisper. “Lunita.”
It caught in the air, suspended for a moment before it disintegrated into the silence.
She didn’t give any indication that she heard me.
Getting closer, I kneeled down to the ground, stretched out a hand, and placed it on her shoulder. “Lunita.”
She let out a startled gasp and her body froze under my touch.
And the same thing that occurred in the basement, happened on the roof. Lunita’s warm brown skin vibrated into a glowing golden hue.
I parted my lips.
Her black hair went white, making the black roses woven into her locks stand out even more starkly.
Nervous, I pulled my hand back.
Why does that happen?
For a moment, time seemed to suspend itself.
And then Lunita slowly uncurled from her protective ball and turned to face me. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and streaks of tears glistened on her cheeks.
But there was something else on her face too.
Absolute horror.
“No.” She shook her head over and over and crawled backward until over ten feet of space ran between us. “No. No. What did the witch do?”