Page 26

25.

Sentinels

“Disco Witches must stay open to the wisdom of the Great Goddess Mother from wherever and whomever it comes.”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #56

The line forming outside the Promethean vibrated with a primordial energy. The staid and sober had gone to bed hours before. At one AM the hard-core partiers had only just awakened from their disco naps. Howie Fishbein sat on a nearby bench, his eyes fixed so intently on the club that it appeared as if he were waiting for it to lift off its foundation and fly across the bay.

His mind, however, drifted back to thoughts of poor Lucho and the tragedy that had befallen him. Despite Max’s assurance to Lenny that what had happened wasn’t his fault, he’d never fully forgiven himself. Howie knew Lucho’s death had contributed to Lenny’s periodic agnosticism. Couldn’t he remember how they’d had far more successes than failures over the years? How they had guided so many innocent lives—both the chosen and unchosen—to safety through danger-filled summers?

There was that beautiful young Spaniard, Alberto, whom they had saved just in time before his motorbike drove off the end of the Provincetown pier. It was in the middle of the night, and Alberto, drugged-out on horse tranquilizer, had been told by a devastatingly handsome egregore that it was a special motorbike that could ride across the waves. “We shall escape together, and you no longer will be in pain,” the egregore had whispered. “If you love me, you’ll trust me.”

If it hadn’t been for the Disco Witches’ sacred boogie, they never would have been able to control the tides that evening, causing them to ebb nearly thirty minutes early, and fast enough that Alberto’s motorbike landed safely in the wet sand, and at the perfect spot for the Disco Witches to find him and guide him through the rest of his summer. How strange were their Goddess-given powers. The Disco Witches didn’t always know how or why their dances worked to save these young men’s lives, but Max always said when faced with a new challenge, “Just direct your mind toward the heart of the holy lover as you dance, and the Great Goddess Mother will take care of the way.” When things worked, he’d write it down in the spell book. When it didn’t, they’d try something else.

Alberto went on to great success as a fine artist, as well as founding a wonderful pet adoption service for animals left behind by those who had died from AIDS. And what about all the others they had helped in big and small ways? Had Lenny forgotten them? Of course, when the plague years began, it had made their work harder in identifying those under mortal threat. So many young people with hearts full of sadness, living on the brink.

But what of Joe? Was he in some other kind of mortal danger? Howie couldn’t stop thinking of how Joe first described seeing the Gladiator Man. Was there any way, despite the rubric, that they could be missing something? Would they fail Joe like they’d failed Lucho? Or was there another chosen one they had totally overlooked? And if there was, what power would the witches have to help anyway? With barely a quorum of their kind left alive, what would the remaining Disco Witches become? Simply a useless handful of nostalgic costume queens weighed down by mourning and false magic?

“Oh, please, Great Goddess Mother,” Howie whispered to the stars, “please, give us some clarity—”

“Hey, Howie!” a voice called out.

Howie turned toward the voice from the shadows and squinted. “Fergal? Is that you? What are you doing on the island so late? Don’t you have to work the first ferry?”

“I usually do,” Fergal said. “But I took the morning off. Thought I’d go out and have some fun.”

Howie saw the young ferryman’s face twitch. His aura’s murky indigo spoke of deep intuition and feeling, but it gave way to an underlying violet, which meant that he too might have at least an inkling of psychic power. Though whether Fergal knew this or not, Howie couldn’t tell. Very few magic folk are aware of their powers.

He squinted; there was some other dark force weighing on the young man. Flecks of dirty gray … getting over a cold perhaps? But again that prescient violet kept bursting through, so hungry to be seen. He wrestles something inside his heart. But what? Having known the young ferryman since he was a child, Howie had always suspected the boy might turn out to be one of those tormented, beautiful half-humans fathered by some profligate deity but completely clueless as to their origins. He had the haunting gaze, those otherworldly blue eyes, the underlying sadness that came with being only half of this world. Not to mention the hard drinking, his being prone to risk taking and extremes, his uncanny and precocious swimming abilities and those toes—ever so slightly webbed.

Yes, yes, Howie thought. Fergal might very well be a demigod, a bastard child of Poseidon perhaps, lost and longing to be set free or to find some purpose that would fill the god-shaped hole that sat in the middle of his heart. Of course, Howie also knew it could be his own wishful thinking again. Oh, how the queer and magical, so lonely in their journey to maturity, all long for everyone they love to be queer and magical too!

“Is that new asshole roommate of yours giving you more trouble?” Fergal asked.

“Are you worried about Joe?” Howie again squinted his eyes.

“Fuck no,” Fergal said bitterly, though his lie was as transparent as Chrissy Bluebird’s mesh bikini top. “I don’t give two fucks about that stuck-up little asshole. You shoulda heard how he acted the other day before he fainted, or when I saw him on the beach. He thinks he’s God’s gift.”

“I see,” Howie said calmly. “But remember, he’s brand new to the island. And I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but he’s carrying sadness inside him, which sometimes expresses itself as attitude or irritability. Too much sadness can be dangerous when confronted with Fire Island’s high-pressure homosexuality. Certainly, you’ve seen what can happen?”

Fergal looked to the Promethean and then out over the harbor. It was so apparent to Howie that the anger the ferryman wanted to hold onto was confused by a salmagundi of conflicting emotions, primarily hurt pride and … desire? Brilliant fireflies of realization swarmed Howie’s brain. That was it! Fergal was attracted to Joe. That was why he felt like he hated him so. Ugh, how complex and layered affection could be. But Fergal needed to protect himself. Young men like him—if he was, indeed, of mixed heritage as Howie suspected—were prone to falling in love too quickly and too passionately. No one suffered a broken heart worse than someone who was half god.

“Look, if you want my advice,” Fergal said, clearly changing the subject, “you and Lenny have been through a lot lately and are always worrying about someone else. The old-timers are always blabbing about how great it was when you guys used to get all dressed up and go out dancing. Maybe this summer, try to get out there and have some fun.”

“You’re a very wise young man,” Howie said. “One can’t stay in mourning forever, I suppose. You never know; perhaps we’ll test out our dancing shoes one night.”

“Good. Now, I’m gonna go take a walk around the club myself and then probably crash at my buddy’s house or catch a water taxi back home.”

“Wonderful. Do a twirl for me as well. And, if you wouldn’t mind, if you see Joe get into any trouble, do let me know. He’s not as selfish and rude as you may think.”

“Sure, Howie. ’Night.”

Howie watched Fergal walk toward the club. Trailing after him was the glow of that fearless violet, as well as gold, silver, that dirty gray, and finally one of the most passionate shades of red Howie had ever seen.