Chapter 17
17.
The Great Darkness
“The Great Darkness is everywhere. It is the doubt within love, the oil that turns rancid. It is that moment in a perfect night of dancing when the electricity goes out, the amplifiers die, your ecstasy stops working, and your beloved looks at you with disgust in his eyes. At its most triumphant, it is AIDS and the hatred toward those who are infected.”
—Disco Witch Manifesto #149
“So, that’s it?” Dory said. “You think these omens you’ve been seeing have been indicating that our Joe might be one of the chosen ones?”
Dory and Howie had been sitting on the large white sofa in Dory’s huge living room, sipping cups of wormwood tea. Her walls were painted a very pale lavender, matching the color of her short afro, while three huge oil paintings splashed bloodred hibiscus flowers across them like a floral crime scene.
Howie nodded ominously. “I do. I’ve been getting this strange feeling ever since I first saw him in the harbor.”
“Hmm,” Dory hummed, closing her eyes and picturing the young bartender. “He does have something about him—a sensitivity that clearly comes from having experienced something difficult.”
Her mind flashed to all those vulnerable young people sent to them in years past. Beautiful lost souls with such promise, hunted by the Great Darkness but (mostly) protected and instructed by Max and his disco witch coven. This was the Disco Witches’ most sacred purpose, to ensure these chosen ones made it through their darkest nights of the soul and did not die in the process. How many sacred dances had the Disco Witches performed, hoping to save some bewildered, holy innocent from the claws of a dire fate brought upon them by their destructive predilections? How many of these chosen ones had they taken under their wings, teaching them to honor the gifts that the Great Goddess Mother had bestowed on them? Convincing them to wait for her miracle? Dory glanced at the cold gray Atlantic looming outside her massive picture window as if it were waiting to crash through at any minute. “But without Max or his rubric, there’s no way for us to know for sure?”
“Exactly,” Howie said. “Though without a quorum, I’m not sure how much use we’d be anyway if Joe did end up being in danger.”
“What else makes you think it might be Joe?” Dory asked. “I vaguely remember Max saying something about a similar aura.”
Howie took a deep breath. “Well, that was one of the first things I noticed, of course. Joe’s aura fluctuates with a predominance of violet, purple, gold, and silver, all streaked with tormented bands of black and green—just like the others. Also, like you said, he wears that look of someone who has suffered a deep and recent wound, though that hasn’t been confirmed.”
Dory raised her one eyebrow. “I’d bet a thousand dollars on that one. What about his gift?”
“Oh, that definitely could be another indicator.” Howie lowered his voice again, but this time there was a smidge of excitement in his tone. “Don’t say anything, but we found out Joe is toying with the idea of going into medicine.”
For a brief second Dory’s heart swelled with hope. “Are you saying Joe could be instrumental in finding the—?”
“Shh!” Howie cut off Dory from saying the word cure . Then he made spitting sounds three times, a protection against tempting fate. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I will say, I’ve been getting these auric flares and gastric nudges that he very well could play a role, or at least accomplish something important.” Howie’s expression grew grim. “If he survives, that is.”
A wildfire of gooseflesh rushed up and down Dory’s arms. “What haven’t you told me?”
Howie closed his eyes and shook his head. “I didn’t want to say anything, but just this morning, Joe told us he saw a mysterious, beautiful man—once in the harbor upon arrival and once on the beach early this morning. A man who, he says, was the most handsome man he’d ever seen, resembling a gladiator. He said he looked at Joe in a way that was both desirous and disdainful. Those are my words, but that’s what he meant.”
“Please tell me you don’t mean—” Dory quickly covered her mouth, fearful she might summon evil by saying the full name in its original tongue. (Of course, to pronounce the name properly, complete with audible and inaudible inflections, one needed to be intoxicated on ayahuasca and sucking on the skull of lizard.) “The egregore?” she finished with a whisper.
She recalled how Max first explained it to her. These “men” were not men at all, but rather nefarious presences born of the holy lovers’ self-hatred. These dark spirits walked the shadows of Fire Island, periodically taking over the bodies of lonely, shame-filled outcasts, transforming them into the young men’s darkest and most desirable fantasies. Max called them irresistible, false prophets of passion who would lure the most blessed youths toward self-destruction and—if the Disco Witches did not intervene—death. Max had told her, “The egregore is one of the Great Darkness’s most potent weapons in prolonging its reign—kill the brightest lights before they reach their full potential and destroy all hope of restoring the Great Balance.”
Howie nodded fearfully. “Of course, Lenny thinks I’m way off base. None of us have seen anyone gorgeously suspicious. But then, with all the losses to our powers, would we even have the ability to register a nefarious and deadly presence sent by the Great Darkness? Lenny thinks Joe just saw the first really hot man of his life. I didn’t mention it before, but Joe’s from the suburbs of Philadelphia.”
“Ah, I see,” she said. “So, Lenny doesn’t believe Joe is in danger?”
Howie sighed. “Lenny doesn’t know what he believes.”
“Is he doing his denial thing again?”
“Lately, he’s even been questioning our past accomplishments. Implying that a lot of the magic might have been our imagination. Max told me last autumn that he thinks Lenny’s suffering the results of trauma from having lost so many of our friends.”
“Aren’t we all?” Dory cast her eyes to the ocean, thinking of all the dying men and women who had gazed out on the same ocean for the last time.
“Yes, but he knows damn well what happened on those dance floors and what didn’t happen.” Howie bristled before his shoulders surrendered. “To be honest, sometimes I wonder if Lenny’s right. Could we have imagined it, Dor? Was it the drugs? Could it all have been one giant mass delusion, like Our Lady of F á tima or trickle-down economics?”
“You’re being silly,” Dory said. “When Max gets out here, he’ll be able to clarify what is what. And then we’ll have our quorum and the sacred documents, and we’ll sort all this out.” She took Howie’s hand. “Meanwhile, we need to keep our heads on and our eyes open. We haven’t lost that power yet.”