S2 Chapter 13: Smells of Self-Control

AQUILO Season 2 Chapter 13

Smells of self-control. It doesn't have to be that way. It's not the first time I hear those words. I bet a lot of people hear them moments before they become victims. Victims of what? Well, I suppose that depends. The words are always the preamble to some offer that the listeners expected to find irresistible.

That way inevitably gets painted as a worst-case scenario, and the proposed alternative hints at an escape. It's a pocket of air at the bottom of a sinking ship. The sweet promise of a life-saving breath. but also the commitment to be dragged down farther and farther into the cold, dark depths. Right now, it's Peter, standing at the end of the tunnel, shining a light in my direction. She's suffering.

he explains, referring to his sister. She's trying to be strong, but you can only pull on an elastic so long before it snaps. When she loses control, and she will lose control, The results will be fatal. I see the tentacles reaching out from the deep, wrapping themselves around the ship, already eager to pull it down.

The threat of something terrible and deadly being drawn in front of me. That annoying girl who saved my life last night. Who somehow burrowed a place into my heart. through pity, if nothing else, will turn into a monster. Peter promises me that, but I see the tentacles. When I first found out Trevor was cheating on me, he said those exact words.

It doesn't have to be that way. I'd found out about him and Cindy. They're texting in the middle of the night when he thought I was sleeping, but the glow of his phone kept me awake. I told him it was over. Back then... I didn't see the tentacles. Don't throw what we have away. That was his threat and I fell for it. I took my heart and placed it in his hands a second time. Then...

He dragged me under. But this time, I see the tentacles. Worse than Helen Edna? I ask, my voice firm and challenging. He nods and looks away, but his smile doesn't waver. It's the knowing smile of someone who expected the question. Helen is a demanding woman, but she lacked the stamina for what she was asking.

If you think what happened to her is something intentional on my part, you should know that I'm the one who called the ambulance for her. What about Theodore? What did you do to him? He laughs. He dares to laugh at my question as if this was nothing but an amusing misunderstanding to him. What do you think I did, Miriam? Did Agnes explain the rules so badly to you?

She and I thrive on intimacy and affection, not just whatever sordid nightmare you have in mind. The boy lacks a father figure, and I provided that. I try to take a little here and a little there to avoid someone perishing to keep me fed. When Agnes snaps, she will not have such considerations in mind. I know what comes next.

When Trevor did it, it was at our favorite restaurant, a place that served delicious mussels and Belgian fries along with imported beers. The beers weren't my thing, but the mussels in garlic sauce and fresh crisp fries. I could eat my own weight in them, and I always tried. Give us another chance, Trevor had demanded. It was the us that got to me, I think.

pushing the responsibility away from himself and making it something we both had to contend with. If Agnes loses control, it won't be Peter's fault but mine. Except, except if I can do what comes next. You can help, Peter says, the tentacles tugging at the ship. If we can find an Aquilo tree, you and I can break this curse, mine and Agnes's. Helen, Michael, the boy.

All of them will have been unfortunate, but ultimately impermanent hurdles. If you help me. The ship goes under, taken to its doom. But I'm no longer on board. Not this time. As if rehearsed over the last ten months of living in this city, having heard the refrain a hundred times or more from over a dozen mouths, I say the words myself, There is no such thing as an aquilow tree.

The saying makes me smile, and I wonder, is it the same for everyone here? I have no idea what an Akewillow tree is supposed to be, or why there's such a mystery around it. Where does it come from? Who came up with the legend? Why? It doesn't matter in the moment. There's a hidden mirth to speaking this universal truth to an outsider, and it brings me joy. But what makes me laugh infuriates Peter.

There is. There has to be. Don't be stupid, Miriam. You've seen what this city has to offer. You know that there are things here that aren't found anywhere in the world. demons and angels ghosts and monsters why of all the things in akewillow would a magical tree be the only thing missing only a fool would believe such a thing Is this how Trevor would have reacted when I rejected his demand for a second chance? If so, I expect I would have also laughed at the outrage.

The more outraged Peter is, the more amusing I find it that the Aquilo is nothing but a myth. I'm sorry, Peter, I say, swallowing back giggles. But I've been here long enough. If there was such a thing as a miracle tree with miracle fruits, I'd know. Trevor and I only dated another two months before his affair with Cindy took up again, and he broke up with me. I was devastated. betrayed twice, tricked by someone I loved. In hindsight, I would have much rather it ended this way with him.

Me laughing at the absurdity of the demand and Trevor raging with white-knuckled anger, struggling to decide if it's me or his failure that he hates most. You don't understand, Peter says. If you don't help me, if you don't help Agnes, whatever happens will be on your shoulders. Do you think you can live with that?

You can't possibly grasp the restraint I've had to show so far, and yet, even then. He wears his mask of long-suffering self-pity well, but it doesn't matter. The cracks are already there. He's shown himself to be the monster that he is, and no amount of flailing limbs at the surface of the sea will sink me now. Peter has played his hand, and failed. You've shown restraint?

I say, standing as tall as my limited height will permit, but feeling every single inch. Agnes has shown restraint. You've been like a child walking around unsupervised at a buffet, sticking your hand in every dish you pass by. Compared to your sister, you're weak and frail. It's to her you should turn to for help, not me. An Aquilo tree won't fix your problem for you, Peter. But maybe Agnes can teach you how to control yourself.

If you ask nicely. A humble suggestion, but one that is met with anything but humble consideration. You little thing, he says, keeping the thread of his words barely in check. You have no concept of what she and I are. I show restraint, but I don't let it mask my majesty. I don't allow limitations to suffocate who I am. If you understood the potential Agnes represents, you wouldn't be so quick to encourage the shackles she puts on herself.

I thought you might have been the solution to end my torment, to end her torment. Now I see that you've got nothing to offer. There's no such thing as an aquilow tree, you say?

then there's no reason for me to show any restraint anymore. He stands, and after voicing such a naked threat, I expect him to turn violent. The image of his demonic self, a mirror version of Agnes, bubbles up in my mind again, making me step back to spite myself. I oddly suck in a breath out of fear, a detail Peter seems to enjoy. oh he says leaning over the counter is your courage leaving you so suddenly where are your big words of moral superiority now

I could do things to you that would keep me fed for a week, and I could have you begging me to do them to you. He's no bigger now than he was sitting down. His shape has not changed, nor has he manifested any kind of supernatural power. All he leverages over me now is his presence with me in my coffee shop, reminding me of how alone I am with him.

But I won't. He pulls away from me, standing and looking out the window. Satisfied he made his point, Peter straightens up and smooths the wrinkles from his shirt. He doesn't even deen to throw a glance my way. Instead, he flips Doris's book of recipes closed with one finger, an act full of disdain. I won't, he continues, for the same reason I haven't come after you yet.

Because maybe there's a little witch trick in there that can come in useful. Or maybe you'll wisen up and think a little bit harder about whether Aquilo trees are real or not. It's a struggle of wills, but I make a decision. Not an entirely foolhardy one. If Peter had wanted me dead, or whatever else his threat promised, he'd have gone through with it. By troubling the waters in hopes of scaring me, he showed me his position. Get out of my coffee shop. Please.

The please is added out of professional courtesy, and I'm thrilled with how well I managed to convey it in my tone. 24 hours ago, I had two demons going at each other's jugular while I stood between them. I thought I was dead and was not okay with that. It wasn't on my terms. Think about what I said, Miriam, he says, walking to the door. Think about everyone around you who's already suffered.

And how many more will suffer the same if you don't help me? Oh, I will. I put my hand over Doris's cookbook. He smiles like a man who thinks he's been made a promise. I also smile.

because I know it to be a threat. I thought I'd find you here. I speak the words to no one. The parking lot of the ice cream parlor called Chez de Sambre is small and dimly lit by a single lamppost. The light is warm and orange. It looks old and reminds me of the street lamps on the U.S. side of the border of Aquilo. Chez des Sommers also has the look and feel of something borrowed from another time.

The little bunker-shaped building with a flat roof and large front windows isn't equipped to welcome anyone inside. Patrons are expected to sit on one of the half-dozen robust plastic picnic tables in front, or eat in their cars. The brown paneling on the sides is washed out and looks almost purple in the sunlight. Though tonight, they look like dried blood. To their credit, Chez Desembre serves some good ice cream.

Most of it comes from Coaticook, but they regularly make their own artisanal gelatos and even sorbets. Stéphane Arsenault, the owner, is yet another of the culinarily inclined residents I've been meaning to befriend. But he spends his winters on a boat in the Bahamas, charging an exorbitant amount for tourists to join him, drink, eat barbecue, and snorkel. All told, I feel like Stefan has got his life figured out. How'd you figure it out?

Agnes's voice barely carries over the soft summer wind that blows through the lot. It's coming from the shadows under the umbrella at one of the tables. If I squint, I can see her tiny form sitting cross-legged on the bench. In front of her, there's a collection of empty bowls and cups, all victims of her ravenous hunger. Gulliver told me this was your favorite place, since you're not eating all my pastries at the cafe, and Peter went looking for you a minute ago.

I figured you wouldn't be home. Peter was looking for me. The alarm in her voice is difficult to ignore, but I do my best to stay calm and walk over to her. There's a swarm of moths crowding around the light of the lamppost, and I can see the thin strands of spiderwebs there, strung up to partake in this living buffet. Agnes's collection of empty cups is even more prodigious up close.

It looks like a little city with stubby skyscrapers crowded in front of her. I assume so. What he really wanted was to get my help and was using you as leverage. Had a little midnight craving there? I nod towards the cups as I sit down, putting on a reassuring smile that I'm not even sure she can see. In the dark, she's almost invisible to me, her features and expression hidden in shadows. All except for her gold eyes.

that seemed to reflect every ounce of ambient light. I assume it's the same for her, that I too am swallowed up and disappeared in the night, but who knows how well a succubus sees in the dark. Taste is a sensation. She explains. I guess I'm eating my emotions or something. But it's like drinking water when you're hungry, you know? It fills me up, but it's not the right thing.

I nod, as much to tell her I understand as to test her sight. I get that. I've slain a few pints of ice cream myself when I've been down. Though, it goes straight to my hips if I overdo it.

She huffs an aborted laugh, recognizing the joke but unable to muster up the amusement to really enjoy it. To be fair, it wasn't that good a joke. It's awkward. We stay quiet and I can hear the occasional mosquito hover around my naked legs, looking for an opportunity to bite. I don't know what to say next, so I'm grateful when it's Agnes who breaks the silence.

What did Peter think you could do to help, anyways? He... I hesitate. Befriending Agnes was a quick thing, a spur-of-the-moment decision born out of desperate gratitude and pity. It was a gamble that paid off. Betting that she had saved my life out of some shred of humanity would not bite my hand if I were to offer it. But how much of this goodwill we've built in such a short amount of time will survive the promise, no matter how misguided, of a permanent solution to her ravenous needs?

Surely, she would not pass up the opportunity to explore even a far-fetched hope that she could satisfy the unsatisfiable. He wanted to know about the Aquilo tree. He thinks I know where to find one. Ah, she says with some irritation. That old tale. I tried to tell him there's no such thing as an aquilow tree. She interrupts with a mocking version of the refrain. She's heard it before.

She knows how talking about that legend inevitably ends, and she's just as resentful as her brother of that fact. Where I come from, she explains, we know of the Aquilo tree. Where you come from? I thought you were born just a month ago. I don't understand. She takes a deep breath, one which, at first, I could have mistaken for exasperation. Instead, I recognize it as resignation.

Whatever she has to tell me isn't something she wants to say out loud, and the hesitation that follows is a clear sign of that. This? Her silhouetted hand moves around her body. Agnes, as you know her, is a month old. When Peter and I escaped the place where we were before and wound up here. What I was? That's a lot older. Older than I have words to explain. You mean, like your soul?

I'm not very religious, not in the sense of thinking of souls and gods and things of that nature. All sense of spirituality got washed out of me during my cynical early teens, along with any respect for organized religion. You could say that my particular worldview on that subject has been challenged by the inescapable supernatural layer of life in Aquilo, but it's hard to take the disbelief out of my tone. Ha! I should be so lucky.

I don't know what a soul is supposed to be, but I doubt that either Peter or I came equipped with one. Call it our essence. That, as far as I can tell, has always existed. When I was in the hospital, recuperating from the hunger demon's attack, I spent many a sleepless night wondering what kind of creature it was that fed on my magical cakes. Demon might have been accurate, but it lacked in details.

Now I suppose I know a bit more. Immortal raccoons and demons from the beginning of time. It's enough to make me feel puny in my own mortality. And where is it you came from? I expect her to say hell. Where else would demons come from? After all, if my theory is correct, she slipped in through the hell gate Mayor Byrne closed in spring. It's right there in the name. I don't know.

she answers flicking an empty cup over with her fingers a place that's just outside of this world i guess imagine a warehouse a place where all the needs and wants are kept all the cravings and desires get thrown in there in a swirling chaotic vortex of sour rancid emotions once in a while there's a poke in the wall of that place a little window that opens to this world of satisfaction a lot of us swarm there and try to make our way out anything to escape the pain of needing

But it's usually the angrier things that manage to flood through. She laughs. It's a bit of a nervous giggle, like what someone who just thought up the most inappropriate joke would do.

You'd be surprised how much hate and rage hold sway in a place of pure emotion. Okay, so Agnes didn't answer hell. She described it. and I can hear the words of her brother echoed in her calm explanation. Hell is desire without satisfaction. I think of the hunger demon, ever suffering. It's appetite without end. They say starving to death is one of the most terrible ways to go, except it can't. It just lingers in that state forever, and judging by what Agnes said, has always been that way.

That's terrible. My sympathy comes off as so far from adequate, I regret even speaking up. What frame of reference do I have that I can say anything? I've never gone hungry, let alone enough that I could be considered starving. And my heartbreaks already feel like the life experiences that are the mortar to the building blocks of my life.

not the very essence of my being prior to having physical form. I feel stupid for getting annoyed that you stole that kiss from me. Please don't, she says, reaching out to put a hand on my wrist. I'm trying so hard not to be that thing that I am. I look how Peter walks around this world, like everyone here is there only to satisfy him, and I hate it.

I detest what I am, but I would much rather suffer these cravings than be like him. Either way, this is better than how things were before. I take her hand in return, squeezing it hard. I don't know what she gets from this, what satisfaction such a small act of friendship offers, but I hope it's something. Peter says he's been restraining himself, I explain, trying to change the subject a little.

He hasn't, Agnes says. For a second, I want this to mean that Peter's threat was empty after all, that he can't do the damage he promises. Of course, that's not where Agnes was going. I've been holding him back, begging and bargaining to keep him from hurting people. I keep promising him that I'll change and embrace what he calls my true nature. If it were up to him...

We'd both be going through this town like a couple of kids in a candy store. Here I am, sitting in the dark, holding hands with a demon as we try to comfort one another. It's a new weird for me. And maybe the ghost of Doris is whispering in my ear, but I have no problem with this strange new paradigm. But there remains one lingering question. So why haven't you? Her hand pulls away.

It settles on her lap along with its counterpart. I can see by the outline of her skull that her head is hung. Her obscured features and the dark confinement of our covered table feels like a confessional. It's not who I want to be. Then, I say, standing up, it's not who you are. I must confess, I don't know how to treat Agnes. Now that I'm outside of Peter's aura and that I've broken free of my own prejudice, I can feel there's something electric in her presence.

I know she makes every effort to suppress whatever it is that she and her brother give off, but there's a residual buzz and my brain doesn't know what to make of it. It's like my heart is a kitchen. My emotions are all the ingredients in the world, and there's six-year-old me experimenting with everything on hand. At times, I find myself afraid, reliving the night in the alley.

Other moments, I feel the raw animal attraction she gives off, and I lose myself staring at her features, her fingers, her eyes, and her shape. Most of the time, I'm inhabited by a protective drive that borders on the motherly. This comes off most apparent in how I let her have Doris's bed and leave her to rest with a gentle kiss on the forehead. I don't need sleep.

she says. But you can if you choose? She nods. Who knows? Maybe she'll enjoy it. The important thing is that she's across the apartment from me. I can't afford the distraction. Judging from what I witnessed of Peter's actions, I should feel exhausted from my sharing any amount of closeness with a succubus. Gulliver, holding her hand, knocked him out for a day, and a kiss put me in a coma overnight. Right now...

My mind is racing, even as my muscles ache for a rest. Whatever toll there is, I'm deferring payment. There will be plenty of time for exhaustion once I'm done with this. I sit on the floor of the kitchen. It's still warm from a day of being blasted by the sun through the window. The only light now is from the fixture above the sink, but it's enough to make the pages of Doris's recipe book legible.

I've gone through them so many times that I can tell which section I'm on just by the texture of the paper. Rough and thick are Melody's recipes, while thin and silky ones are Elaine's. Doris's entries are smooth to the touch, and Amelia's feel raw and natural like watercolor paper. Filaments have rough edges and are both a little wider and a little shorter than any of the others, walking out of step with the format of the book.

The recipes themselves are so diverse as to challenge logic itself. I can get a sense of history through the dishes, the evolution of cooking stretched over six generations of women. There's a portrait of the world one wouldn't expect out of a village lost in the woods between Quebec and Vermont. Courses from as far as the Philippines are penned in Madeline's handwriting.

and there's a noodle recipe from Melody that could pass for a Pad Thai fusion dish with ease. What are you looking for? It's Agnes.

For a second, I assume she decided not to sleep after all, but when I look up, the sun is again beaming through the window. Either I nodded off, or I've been going through this tome all night. Again. She presses her back against the wall opposite me and slides down to sit on the floor. She's still wearing the clothes she borrowed. Something to satisfy. Satisfy me?

She licks her lower lip as she says the last word. It's an unconscious thing, a detail I wouldn't have noticed on anyone else in any other situation, but knowing what I'm dealing with has made me hyper-aware of every little gesture. In part to guard myself against her influence, and in part out of morbid curiosity. Yes, and Peter. I've done it before for the hunger demon. All I need is some sort of variant that will cool down your, um...

She finishes the sentence for me, stretching out the word, adding to its weight. A sweet, lazy smell manifests in the kitchen. I can't decide if it's from the sun warming whatever spilled honey or sugar might be lost between the ceramic tiles, or something less natural and wholesome. Those little pistachio things didn't exactly do the trick, but they were filling enough, she says, changing her tone and pulling her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She's losing control.

I laugh, trying to hide my nerves with a clumsy giggle. Yeah, those are what I feed the hunger demon. Keeps it calm for a few days, but it doesn't seem to affect other people. Then again. I'm not people. And it's not that effective anyways. Sorry. It's more of a distraction. Helps me ignore the problem instead of fixing it. The recipe book makes a thumping sound as I close it.

It should be satisfying, but instead it has the taste of giving up. I know, but what if I can come up with something that would work? Then neither of you would have to hurt anyone. You'd be able to live normal lives. She shakes her head and bites her lip. I can see the hunger in her eyes. It's in the way she avoids looking at me, afraid that seeing a meal right in front of her will be too much for her starving impulses.

Peter doesn't want a normal life. Maybe you find the perfect little eclair that I can eat once in a while and not have to live off stolen affections. But Peter? He can't wait to rip the lust out of every random stranger, leaving them as lifeless, dehydrated husks. It's his nature. It's my nature. Her fingers fidget, shifting from open hands to closed fists. They grasp at her dark hair, pulling strands with manic tugs before releasing them again. The smell of the kitchen becomes even sweeter.

with hints of a flowery aftertaste. As distraught as Agnes is, I want to crawl over to her and hold her in my arms. Instead, I dig in my heels and push my back against the wall behind me. It's not who you are, I repeat myself from earlier, hoping that the words find purchase. But it is what Peter is, and I can't think of a way to stop him. Can we...

Can we just send him back? To where you both came from? She shakes her head with such force, I worry her neck might snap in the process. The white in her eye forms a perfect circle around her golden irises. Agnes has described what it is she and her brother ran from, but that look, the violence of her reactions, speak louder than anything she could have said. No! I'd rather kill him than send him back.

You mortals think of hell as a place of fire and physical pain. You can't possibly understand what it actually is. There's nothing Peter could do to me or anyone that would make me hate him enough for that. the following silence stretches too long my legs are already numb from sitting on the floor for hours my lower back aches from pressing on the molding at the base of the wall

In the awkward minute while Agnes settles down and I absorb what she's saying, I can feel every little pain in my bones and the ants in my feet. I look up at the window above the sink. There's the sound of an ambulance in the distance. In Montreal, that would have barely registered, but in Aquilo? I gotta go. Agnes pulls herself to her feet. Wait! I try to get up, but my legs are like toffee under me, collapsing as I put weight on them.

I can't stay, she explains, fingers wrapped around the doorframe of the kitchen. I keep thinking of what Peter might be doing right now, who he might be hurting. And you, me, I don't want to hurt you. Pushing myself up against the wall, I stand up. But by the time I make it to the corridor, she's already out, the door slamming behind her. Powerless and heartbroken, I try to kick at the grimoire.

Missing it by a good six inches and damn near falling flat on my back in the process. If she's going after Peter, he'll rip her apart. And if she's on the verge of losing control... She might be the one to commit something horrible. I'm not sure which outcome I dread most. Aquilo is written by J.F. Dubot and narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost. If you enjoy the show, please leave us a review on Apple Podcasts. You have no idea how much it helps. Want to support the show? Buy us a coffee.

Visit ko-fi.com slash Akewillow to donate a cup. Questions, comments? Email us at akewillow at gmail.com. Follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram under the username Akewillow.