Briar Stone

Briar Stone
By David Longobucco

         Granny sprang from her seat and onto the table.  The table-cloth slid under her weight and her grandson’s chicken fried steak with white gravy slid into his lap.  His grandmother’s sudden change in behavior brought the boy’s parents to their feet.  Dad’s chair fell backwards, his jacket hung on one corner went with it.
  “Granny?” the ten-year-old boy asked with a tremor of apprehension.
  Her red hat, the signature mark of her brigade, sat slightly askew on her head.  A thick gray lock of hair had tumbled free, bisecting the feral expression on her face.  She turned cold, solid black eyes on her grandson and saw him as a nuisance.  In turn, the poor boy saw that Granny was no longer at the wheel.  Kindness, love and nurture, the defining elements of a grandmother had been replaced with scorn and malice.  It showed in the set of her mouth and the way her eyes darted across the features of her grandson’s face.  The way her small frame was crouched low on the table, her weight supported on both her feet and her hands.
  She sneered at him, then at the speakers piping out Karen Carpenter’s Ave Maria from above the chandeliers.
  With her attention drawn elsewhere, Dad jerked his son out of his seat.  What was left of the boy’s overpriced meal splattered to the floor.
  A murmur broke out in the restaurant.  Heads turned to the table in the corner.  The patrons were unsure of what to make of Granny in her purple britches and matching heels, blouse and jacket.  Granted the sight of a woman over sixty poised like a panther ready to pounce was a sight most were unaccustomed to seeing.  Especially at Christmas time.
  She was surrounded by finely dressed families and couples.  The rich greens and reds of garland and potted poinsettias hanging over each table were endlessly reflected by the glass interior.  She curled her lip at the holiday tableau, then turned to the night darkened window and leaned against it with both hands holding her just inches from the glass.
  A reflection glared back, but it was not her own.  It drew gasps and caused women to turn their eyes and cover the eyes of their children.  It was a kaleidoscopic image of six different people.  Each part of the body; arms, legs, torso and feet, the clothing on each, the face and hair, cycled through the appearances of the different people at a dizzying speed. 
  A 15th Century peasant dressed in rags with ratty, brown hair and a short, splotchy beard.  A little girl with a bow in her hair and a white dress with multicolored butterflies.  A prostitute from the Old West with sagging breasts and stained and tattered petticoats.  A member of the imperial guard during the Ming Dynasty, his black hair pulled up into a top-knot.  A young man who had left to mine for gold in Montana.  And a General in the Civil War.
  Yet it was not the amalgamated reflection of the six staring back that caused people to turn away.  It was the thing seen superimposed beneath the six.  A damned soul.  Shriveled and blackened with filmy, yellow eyes, a lipless mouth and gnarly, uneven teeth.  Sallow cheeks, holes on either side of its head where its ears had been had burned them away by hate and disgust in itself .
  Corruption in a soul runs deep.  The distaste for life flickering in its cold eyes was mirrored on the faces that cycled over it.  They were the lives it had lived.  The things it had done, the misery it had wrought over each life it had led had tainted it.  Wasted life after wasted life had turned what was once a shimmering, radiant being into a corrupted, withered shadow of what it had once been.
  Recoiling, Granny hissed at her reflection with such disgust the window shattered.  A chill draft swept through the sudden void.  It blew in freshly fallen snowflakes and the bitter cold of mid-winter.  The cuffs of her britches, the tail of her jacket and that one unruly lock of hair stirred in the flow of wind.
  Her passage to freedom now unimpeded, she smiled so wide her top row of dentures fell out.  She made no sign that it bothered her and sprang through the abscess.  Past the shards of glass still in the sill and out into the cold.  But no sooner was she out of sight, then she came hurtling back into the restaurant.  Engulfed in crackling green fire, she crushed the table she had sprang from into splinters.
  And she was not alone.
  If a six foot two section of starless night-sky had donned clothes and come sauntering in, its name would have been Briar Stone.  He wore a weathered brown sued jacket and black Dockers.  A forest-green tie was slung loosely around the neck of his white, collared shirt.  A trickle of smoke rose ominously from one tightly curled fist.
  He stalked forward, towering over Granny.
  A matching stream of smoke rose from her unblemished chest.  She shook her head to clear her vision, then turned surprised eyes on Stone.
  The set of his mouth said that he had been indulgent up to this point.  Out loud, he said, “It’s time to go Home, Ulysses.”
  The statement drew an inhuman growl from Granny’s throat.  But she pulled away from him all the same.
  Wrenching free from his father’s grip, the grandson cried, “Don’t hurt my granny!”
  The protest drew Granny’s attention.  Stone ignored the plea.  His fist started to glow.  Dad yelled, “Nick, no!”  Granny threw out her arms, beseeching to the child.  Nick rushed to her.  The air around Stone filled with crackling starbursts so fleeting that people who saw them were not entirely certain they had seen anything at all.  He reared his glowing fist back to pitch.  Granny collected little Nick in a tight embrace, then turned and threw him before Stone could fire.  The boy flailed as he cart-wheeled through the air.  The crackling around Stone died instantly, his fist reverted to its normal dark hue and the smell of burnt ozone seeped into the restaurant.  He caught the boy like a football, feet first, and with the same motion he set him down.
  When he looked back to Granny, she was already in the air.  Her lips were peeled back in a snarl and her acrylic-tipped fingers curled into claws.  Stone had just enough time to throw out his hand and strong-arm her.  The contact made a brilliant flash of light that chased all the shadows from the room.  The diners covered their eyes and even Stone turned his head.  With a crack of thunder, Stone’s arm recoiled and Granny was thrown clear.  Her trajectory took her sailing over the bar and colliding into racked shelves of malt-glasses.
  People screamed and cringed at the impact.  Some drew their cell-phones and dialed 911 only to find dead air.  A few fled the establishment, one among them swearing never to cheat on his wife again.  Most stayed and watched in mute astonishment.
  Feedback from his blast had left a bone-numbing ache running the length of his arm.  Favoring it to his side, Stone said, “Don’t fight me on this, Ulysses.”
  Granny rose from behind the bar slinging malt-glasses.
  “Stop calling me that!” she yelled with her own voice.
  One corner of Stone’s mouth quirked up in a smile as he ducked the first two projectiles.
  “Do you remember killing slaves on their way to the Underground Railroad?”  The question was said softly and with the lightest touch of scorn.  “Do you remember killing the ranch hands and prospectors when you were Todd?  Or killing men after they had paid you for sex when you were Kathleen?  Or should I call you Abbey?
  A wordless cry tore free from Granny’s lips.  She turned and ran the length of the bar.  Stone matched her course and kicked a table into her path.  The table slammed into the mirrored wall and its contents splattered against their reflection.  Granny came to an abrupt halt with Stone only feet from her, but still separated by the bar.
  “Do you remember creeping from room to room, killing your two older brothers and both your parents?
  She howled at the question through clenched teeth and beat her fists against her temples.
  “It wasn’t like that!”
  “Slitting their throats from ear to ear?  What was that like?”
  “No!”
  Bringing the atrocities the soul had committed in its six past lives to conscious memory inflicted pain in itself.  Her hands knocked the hat off her head and she raked her nails along her scalp.  Clumps of skin and hair gathered under her acrylic nails.
  Stone used the moment against her.  He vaulted the bar and drove both feet into Granny‘s chest.  The impact staggered her back against a sink filled with suds and soaking glasses.  Her hand splashed into the basin as she caught herself from falling further.
  “Your parents are waiting for you on the other side, Abbey.”
  The words gave Granny pause.  Her reflection on the mirrored wall, on the dishes, broken glasses, the counter top, the image of eight-year-old Abbey became the most prominent.  And she blinked at the thought of seeing her parents again.  Silent tears began to roll down the little girl’s cheeks.  Down Granny’s, too.
  “They forgave you a long time ago, Abbey,” Stone continued.  “It’s never too late to go Home.”
  Her breathing became ragged, as if she were struggling to keep sobs caged behind her teeth.  His words were getting through to at least the little girl.  Through her, they filtered out to the others.  It’s never too late to go Home.  Isn’t that where she was supposed to be?  Where she no longer had to run or kill?  Where she would no longer feel afraid?
  “You will see a bright light.  That’s your road home, Abbey.  That’s where your parents are waiting for you.”
  As he spoke, the reflection of the little girl twisted and contorted into the haggard Civil War general and went unnoticed by Stone.  Out of sight beneath the suds in the sink, Granny’s fingers curled around the edge of a large salad plate.  With Ulysses in control once more, she whipped the plate out of the sink, trailing a stream of water with the motion.  The plate shattered against the side of Stone’s face.  He cried out in surprise and pain while Granny hissed, “Filthy slave!”
  Stone brought up his hands to shield his face, but Granny did not attack further.  She tried to run.  Quick to react, Stone’s hand shot out and took a solid grip on the waist line of Granny’s pants before she was out of reach.
  The old woman made a futile sound when he jerked her back to him.  Her Gucci heels slipped on the tiled floor as she tried to wrestle free from his grip.  With his other hand, Stone grabbed the neck of her jacket, then dunked her head first into the sink.
  “Go to the light, Abbey!” he commanded through clenched teeth.
  While Granny thrashed, dishes and glasses sloshed to the floor.  Her hands found the bottom of the sink and she shoved with an obscene strength.  Stone strained against her resistance.  Her thrashing pushed the pair of them away from the basin.  Granny caught herself, but Stone slipped in the growing pool of water and his temple cracked painfully against the sink as he went down.
  Granny kicked off her Gucci heels and whipped her hair back out of her face.  With one stocking clad heel she kicked him in the head.  The blow jarred free another stream of blood from an already bleeding wound at his temple.
  “You’re a filthy slave!”
  She doubled her fists together and brought them down on his chest.  Twice more she struck, grunting with each blow.  Stone coughed up blood and Granny smiled with her one row of teeth.  Satisfied with the damage she had inflicted, she turned away to hop across the bar and make her escape through the broken window. 
  Grab her now!  Before she gets away, flashed in Stone’s mind.  Reaching past the throbbing in his head, he snagged Granny’s ankle.  With a solid tug he jerked her out of the air in mid-hop.  She cried out when she hit the floor and her bottom row of dentures jumped out of her mouth.  Now toothless, Granny gnashed her gums together in frustration.
  Stone climbed over her before she could right herself and applied his weight with a hand between her shoulder blades.  Then he palmed her head like a basketball and bounced it off the floor once and a second time for good measure.
  Struggling against the puddle of water they had fallen in, Stone climbed to his feet dragging Granny up with him.  The throbbing in his head had grown to a roar and he fleetingly thought he might have a concussion.  Dismissing the idea as something to worry about later, he dunked Granny head first into the sink once more.
  The water and soap cleared the fog from her mind and Granny started to thrash anew.  This time Stone had anticipated.  He held her as far into the sink as it was deep, preventing her from getting leverage to shove herself back out.
  The remaining patrons began to murmur about whether or not someone should intervene.  Some simply moaned at the sight.  Little Nick cried out for his grandmother.  Granny burbled and splashed more glasses from the sink.
  Stone ignored it all.  His eyes had closed in concentration and his fists where he had hold of Granny began to glow.  The water faceted the green radiance and a thick milky-white fog crept out of the sink.
  Stone spoke.  “Look for your parents, Abby.”  Outside, thunder rumbled in the pregnant snow-clouds with each word.  The sound rolled in through the broken window and quieted everyone in the room.  “Can you hear them calling you?”
  The water frothed as Granny objected under its surface.  She projected her disgust at the turn of events in waves of hate that pulsed through the air like heat.  Every glass surface in the establishment shattered.  The mirrored walls blew outward in a deadly shower of glass shards.  Glasses that still contained wine or soda and plates with food still on them shattered  Panic and screaming began once again and what was left of the audience fled.
  “Go to the light, Abbey!  Leave this world behind!”
  The thunder outside grew louder.
  As her thrashing slowly died, so too did Granny.  Her bucking slowly ceased and her body went lax.  After a few more bubbles had risen to the surface, her body went limp.  An uneasy hush fell across the establishment.  But Stone’s grip did not loosen.  Instead he held on tighter and turned away with his face screwed up.
  With his eyes squeezed shut, he repeated under his breath, “Go to the light.  Go to the light.”
  An unseen force exploded out of Granny’s body and whipped Stone‘s clothes around him like a torrential wind.  It swept the floor and counter clean of shattered glass in a five foot radius around them.  The damned soul transcended in a flash of light that evaporated the water and left a sheen of frost on the sink.  The frozen dew glittered under the flickering overhead lighting.
  A loud sigh of exhaustion escaped Stone’s mouth.  He slumped onto an elbow and took several deep breaths.  Then his eyes focused on Granny’s corpse, her rear-end pointing into the sky where she lay slumped half in, half out of the sink.  He discovered her clothes had frosted to the sink when he gingerly pulled her free and he laid her still warm body on the wet floor.
  As Stone worked a cold-induced stiffness from his fingers, he watched the bruises and swelling he had caused begin to fade from the dead woman‘s face.  The deep shadowing around her eyes lightened and her nose that had broke when Stone had bounced her face off the floor like a softball, straightened.  The damned soul took most of the damage inflicted during its occupancy with it.
  “That’ll have to be close enough,“ he muttered before leaning over Granny’s body.  He tilted her head back and said softly, “Come back, Grandmother.”
  One breath and five depressions into CPR, he heard the sound of broken glass underfoot.  It startled him and he turned with an ignited fist.  Nick and his parents recoiled, but refused to be deterred.
  Stone extinguished his green fire and turned back to Granny, resuming CPR.  In between breaths he would say, “Come back to us.  You have a grandson to watch grow in this life.”
  After several agonizingly long seconds, Granny coughed up a lungful of water.  Stone clapped her on the back to clear her air-way, then helped her into a sitting position and waved her family closer.  They put consoling arms around her and murmured reassurances.  Granny looked around at all of them with confused eyes and asked, “What happened?”
  Her family did not have an answer.  They in turn looked to Stone.  He looked at each of them and gave them a tired smile.  The interference field he had conjured around the restaurant, the reason no one could dial out on their cell-phones, was taking its toll on him.  Coupled with the energy he had exerted fighting Granny, he was not long for consciousness.  A shower and a bed had never sounded more inviting.  But the family was still waiting for an answer.
  With a dislike for being the center of attention, he fumbled for words.  When he spoke, he no longer carried the commanding tone he had used when addressing the damned soul.  Instead there was an awkwardness, a self-consciousness at addressing these strangers he had gone out of his way to help.
  “There are two constants in our lives whether they be past, present or future.  A basic principle of right and wrong,” he said, counting them off on his fingers.  “And God’s love is unconditional.  When you turn away from God, you put yourself in your very own Hell.”
  With confusion still on their faces, the family continued to blink confused eyes at him.  Grudgingly, Stone continued.
  “The soul that hopped into your granny had turned away from God, damning itself here with us.  I’m a kind of…”  He hunted for the right words.  “I guess you could call me a park ranger.  I try to find the souls that are stuck here, the ones that can’t get past what they’ve done in this life and sometimes the lives before, and help them get Home.”
  “Lives?” Dad asked, shaking his head.  “I don’t believe in reincarnation.”
  Stone did not answer.  Granny did.  She turned to her daughter and placed a hand on her face.
  “Beth, honey.”  She took a deep shuddering breath, unshed tears glittering in her eyes.  “Your father sends his love.”
  A small sound escaped Beth’s mouth and she turned to Stone with astonishment on her face.
  “You’re telling the truth.”
  Again Stone did not answer.
  Wincing slightly, he rose.  The broken glass crunched under his black dress shoes as he turned away.  He looked dejectedly at the shattered mirrors, toppled tables and demolished decorations strewn throughout the restaurant.  No matter how hard he tried not to make a mess, invariably a mess got made.  Amidst the tattered garland and clods of dirt dangling from the roots of shattered poinsettias, he saw a single red-wrapped pot laying on its side still intact.  The poinsettia within had only a few broken leaves, but was otherwise whole. 
  Stone picked it up and cradled it with more gentility than he had shown when pulling Granny’s dead body from the sink.  With out sparring a glance back, he made for the window he had entered through.  When he came to within a single step of leaving the building, Nick called out to him.
  “Hey, Ranger.  What’s your name?”
  Stone paused at the question and looked back over his shoulder.  There was the slightest quirk to one corner of his mouth.  Framed by the window with snow flakes blowing in to land lazily on the floor of the restaurant, he answered.
  “My name is Briar Stone.”
  Then he turned away and vanished into the night as mysteriously as he arrived.