Taco Del and the Fabled Tree of Destiny

by Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn

  “1907, what?” asks Firescape.

  “This altar was put here in 1907.”

  He is rubbing a finger over something on the front of the bronze panel we have removed. I hold the foglite to it. The number 1907 leaps out.

  This is not the original altar. Duh.

  “The year after the Great Earthquake,” I note. “The first one, that is. “The first altar must have been damaged. And replaced.” More to the point.

  “So, where’s the magical stuff?” asks Firescape.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Does Master Chen?” asks Hector, effectively stopping my heart for a second.

  “He couldn’t. I mean, if he does, the ninjas wouldn’t still be here, would they?” It hits me right away that the fact that there are now ninjas in the crypt only means that they haven’t found all the stuff.

  I suddenly got this intense itch to know if Chen has picked up any more of the shamanly stuff in the time I been knocking around Whisperville. I have a wild woolly what-if: There’s a Doug sprig in Chen’s gallery and a Doug sprig here; what if I can just fly into Chen’s secret shrine on the wings of smell?

  “I gotta do something you’re probably gonna think is kind of creepy and weird,” I say.

  “Weirder than normal?” asks my wife.

  I ignore this. “I got sort of a channel to Chen’s gallery. I think I can use it to find out if he’s got any more of the shaman stuff. But I think I gotta go into a trance or something like that, so you’re gonna have to watch out for me.”

  Surprise: I do not hear a whispered chorus of “Are you loco?” And by foglite, I see only Very Serious Expressions.

  “What do we do?” asks Hector.

  I pull open my amulet bag and take out the Doug sprig.

  “Just keep an eye out for ninjas.”

  “He’s going to have a nose vision,” says Firescape solemnly. “We gotta not distract him.”

  I sit monk-like before the altar and close my eyes, holding the Doug sprig up in front of my nose. I dig a fingernail into a needle and inhale the perfume. I can still smell the musty stillness of the church and the chemical smell of the cleaning stuff the aliens have been using in here, but that fades. I break a second needle and try to make my mind as empty as this broken sanctuary. Well, as empty as it would be if you took out the pigeons and the people. I think about the Tin Hau — about Chen’s gallery. I think about the little coniferous spy I left there. I think of smoke and I think like smoke and I feel the place around me change.

  The cold of the sanctuary seeps away and I wrapped in scented warmth. I can see the wobbly light of flames and hear them lick the air. I break a third needle, squeezing more fir scent out of my talisman.

  Everything focuses.

  I am looking across Chen’s gallery from the big altar at the end of the room. I’m up in the air and my memory tells me I got the din’s-eye view of the place. I imagine myself turning my eyes to sweep the little stands where the artifacts are kept. There is the menorah, the Buddha in His lotus, the golden bowl, the cup of fire.

  The head-dress sits, alone, on its stand. I heave a huge sigh of relief and thank God aloud.

  “Ah, there you are,” says the Red Dragon Voice, and the light in the vision is overcome by shadow. “I see you peering at me from this tiny form. Clever. It would be a shame to waste such cleverness.”

  Just like that, I am airborne. My stomach does flip-flops and the room spins. When it stops spinning, I see all the riches of Chen’s shrine laid out before me. I am agog.

  The Red Dragon speaks again: “This room is filled with the magic of ages. Each object in it is a doorway to power. Combined, they form a gateway broad, terrible, and infinite. Would you not like to step through this gateway, little wizard? Aid me in putting an end to the reign of these petty tyrants who divide the Gam Saan and impose hardship upon its people — my people. Do this, and in return I will open the gate to you. Though you show some little promise, you are a puny wizard. An insect. I could teach you to be a shaman of the highest order. Among these monks I have found none who are worthy of my tutelage. Are you worthy, merlin?”

  The room spins again. I swear I’m gonna heave. Then I’m back on the grate on top of the din.

  “Should you wonder what will become of you if you do not accept my instruction, allow me to illustrate.”

  A ball of fire flies at me out of nowhere and poof! I’m a bar-b-que. I shriek, naturally, and an iron hand clamps over my mouth.

  “What the hell was that?” The voice is urgently dulcet. It is my own sweet Jade. “You want ninjas all over us?” she demands.

  “No,” I pant, sweating cold and hot and cold again. The flames are gone, along with the scented shrine and its nasty master.

  “What happened?”

  I decide I won’t tell her about Chen or the bar-b-que. Hell, I’m not even sure that was real, although I hate to think my imagination would come up with something like that all on its own.

  “He’s only got the head-dress,” I say. “We’re still in business.”

  “Okay,” says Hector. “We got half a chance.”

  “Better than half,” I say. “We got the Wiz.”

  oOo

  We remove ourselves to the Wiz with all the energy of the living dead as filmed in black and white by George Romero. All except for Creepy Lou and Hector, that is. They’ve had a reasonably easy time of it, after all; haven’t been on 24 hour duty like our noble knighties; haven’t done a whole lot of crawling or scrambling or having visions or anything. They tend to get ahead of us a lot, then have to wait for us to catch up, Hector just looking too cool for words and Lou bobbing around like he’s on a spring.

  It occurs to me as I am dragging my little red wagon down Mission Street that Lord E’s ersatz merlin sure knows his way around Embarcadero awfully well for a Potrero. Reason dictates this is probably because he rose from the ranks of Lubejob’s smeagols. Although, I ponder, perhaps old Hector is a defector, who is now undefecting. I already know he thinks squat about his Lord and Master.

  As we shamble up Columbus, I draw up within yakking distance of him.

  “Hey, merlin,” I say. “You don’t like Lord E much, do you?”

  “Oh,” he says, “I’m an amiable sort of dude. I like just about everybody.”

  I decide to come right out and ask the Big Q. “Are you defecting?”

  I guess the Big Q strikes him funny and upside-the-head all at once, ‘cause he uncorks this high-pitched whinny. Creepy Lou, walking to his other side, snorts and chortles for no particular reason, except that laughter is contagious.

  “From what?” Hector asks.

  “From Potrero-Taraval and its alcaldé.”

  “I told you, Taco Face, I’m from the Gam Saan. I don’t see the need to boundrify it. I kinda thought we were of a mind about that.”

  “We are,” I say. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, we aren’t kings or alcaldés.”

  “No, we’re merlins, which is better right? The power beside the throne.”

  “I thought it was the power behind the throne.”

  “Hell, no,” says Hector. “I ain’t standin' behind anything.”

  He’s in a rare mood. Makes me tired just watching him stride along beside me, his hiked-up monks robes flapping in the fog. I slow down again and let him get on up ahead.

  When we arrive at the Wiz, the acolytes and Keepers are none too pleased to see us (after hours is when they get to do their own research, ni dong). But seeing as how I’m their merlin, and in close company with a General, a Lieutenant and the Tree, there’s not much they can do but let us in.

  I lead us directly to the Fish. All except for Lou, who pops off to the video room to watch Dr. Who. I think he likes to imagine himself as a time traveler’s companion, or maybe even as the Time Traveler, himself. Considering what we been up to lately — 400 year old ghosts and all — he’s gotta be thinking truth is stranger than fiction, if he even makes the connection. />
  I glance at the Fabled Tree as we enter the Shrine. Tree as Tardis — an interesting idea. Trees live for centuries, after all, and it’s just possible, I s’pose, that one of Doug’s relatives was a native of Mount Diablo. In fact, Pedro more or less said that the Tree was a — how’d he put it? — a token of the sacred Mountain. I s’pose that makes him a time machine of sorts.

  Anyway, I am not at all certain the Venerable Fish has access to the kind of information I need, but you never know. I ask her about city records first. She has those, she informs me, and asks me to specify. If you hadn’t guessed, "specify" is Fish’s favorite word.

  “Mission Dolores’ records,” I specify.

  “Specify year or range of years.”

  “1907 to 1914.”

  Fish ponders this, then requests I specify a subject.

  My turn to ponder.

  ”Earthquake damage to the church,” suggests Hector.

  More pondering. “The church sustained some damage from the 1906 earthquake, most specifically to the roof, bell tower and altar.”

  “The altar!” I say quickly, lest Fish ramble off on one of her long expositions. “Details about the altar.”

  “The altar of the Mission church was replaced after it received damage in the earthquake of 1906 as the result of falling eaves.”

  Not her usual, chatty self, Fish seems to think this is sufficient.

  “What about the Indian stuff?” asks Firescape.

  “Specify Indian stuff.”

  “Artifacts,” says Hector over my shoulder. “Ohlone Indian artifacts related to shamanry or shamanism.”

  “Searching database for ‘Mission Dolores’ and ‘Indian artifacts,’ and ‘shamanry’ or ‘shamanism,’” says Fish, and proceeds to ponder briefly. “Two finds,” she says. “First find, dated 1829. A Tuibun Shaman named Paguin converted to Catholicism at the Mission Dolores in that year. His ritual implements were ceremonially removed at his baptism, whereon he received the Hispanic name Diego. These artifacts were interred in the altar of the church at that time as a symbolic surrender of the old ways to the new.”

  Fish displays a picture of an Ohlone man. He is wearing a loin cloth and a shirt that is really more of a vest. On his head is a feathered, beaded head-dress; in one hand is a rattle. There’s a bag of something hanging around his neck. Some sort of amulet bag, most likely, just like the one I keep stuff in.

  “Cite references?” Fish asks.

  “No,” I say. “Next find, please.”

  “Year: 1907. A casket containing Ohlone artifacts was found within the altar of the Mission Dolores when it was dismantled following earthquake damage. The artifacts were not replaced when the altar was renovated.”

  “Where did the artifacts go?” I ask, dry-mouth.

  “They were removed from the altar,” says Fish, as if this were not perfectly obvious.

  “Sheesh,” says Hector. “Removed to friggin' where?”

  “The artifacts in question were handed over to a local historical society called Friends of San Francisco.”

  The lady knights make rude noises and Hector sighs.

  “And then what?” he asks. “Did they end up in a museum or what?”

  The Fish is momentarily speechless. “I have no further records pertaining to the artifacts in question,” she says at last. “I do not have access to the records of the Friends of San Francisco. I can cite references to relevant books and periodicals, if you care to examine the written record.”

  Which would take forever.

  “Thanks,” I say and realize I am sitting down and do not recall having done so. It just seems to have happened. I feel Firescape’s hand on my shoulder.

  “Del,” she says, “I gotta sleep. You gotta sleep. Hell, I bet even Doug gotta sleep. Come on home.”

  She looks ready to drop. So does Lieutenant Cinderblock.

  “You go on,” I say. “I’ll come in a bit. I gotta think what’s next.”

  “Maybe,” she tells me, “maybe there is no what’s next.”

  I shake my head, knowing I can’t accept this and knowing that she can’t either, really, she’s just that worn down.

  “Pedro wouldn’t have brought me this far for nothing. Those things are somewhere in the Gam Saan and not presently in the hands of Chen. I gotta find them.”

  Her brows all knit up and I think she’s gonna unload on me bigtime, but she doesn’t. She squeezes my shoulder and smiles into my eyes in that way that makes them tear up and says, “Let me get about four hours and I’ll be ready to go again.”

  “Okay,” I say, and she kisses me, then hauls herself and Cinderblock out of there and back to the Palace.

  “Neon,” says Hector.

  I nod, knowing he means my Jade is absolutely hao, but I am looking at the Fish’s display which still shows the shaman and his artifacts (sans pipe) as they may or may not have looked in real life. I am drawing one big blank. Should I cast the runes, I wonder? Should I go back and try to talk to Pedro again? I glance at Doug. His boughs are waving thoughtfully up and down, back and forth. Where would an historical society put historical stuff?

  Beats me. The regular museums got cleaned out before the Getting Out, meaning they could not have been in a regular museum.

  “Well,” asks Hector. “What’re we waiting for?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, all glum.

  “Jeez, Chickpea Brain — what do you think? You heard the Fish — there’s a written record.”

  “Yeah, in books. You got any idea how many books there are here about Ohlone Indians and stuff?”

  “No,” he says, “but that thing does.”

  I turn to look at him. He is smiling through his face fur and pointing at the Fish. Light from the reading lamps gleam off a pair of shades he’s pulled on and I wonder why the hell he’s wearing the damn things indoors at night. Hector is muy bizarre.

  He’s right, of course. The Fish has an Index of all the books on every subject. In short order, we got all the seventy some odd books on local historical societies and the thirty some odd books on the local native groups and are checking them out for pertinent refs.

  We are down to our last ten books when Creepy Lou puts in an appearance. He doesn’t read, but he watches us do it for a while before he asks, “Watcha doin?”

  “Trying to find something,” I say.

  “Whathat?”

  “Some Ohlone stuff.”

  “Like as in Doloreth?”

  “Yeah. Like that. We gotta find it before Chen does.”

  “Bu hao,” says Creepy Lou. “Is thith like a quest?”

  “Yeah, that’s right — a quest,” says Hector.

  “What's the stuff?”

  “Shaman stuff,” I say, peering at a fuzzy black and white picture of a group of Ohlone in front of a house made of tree branches and mud. “Magical stuff.”

  “Ceremonial implements,” adds Hector, like this is gonna mean squiddle to Lou. “That’s — “

  Lou is nodding eagerly. “Like Taco’th rune can, right?”

  “Yeah, okay. Only in this case, it’s a rattle and a pipe and some other stuff.”

  Hector waves a hand at Fish’s display, never looking up from the National Geographic he’s squinting into. Doug, who is sitting next to him, waves a bough at Lou.

  “Oh, yeah. That stuff,” says Lou, returning Doug’s wave. “Why d’you want it?”

  “’Cause I think it can save the Dolores and us from Chen,” I say, “and John Makepeace. Well, that is, we can save the Dolores from both, and us from Chen. I don’t know if anything can save us from John.”

  “So, why all the bookth?”

  “I told you,” I say, kind of wishing my dear bud would go back to wherever it is he goes when he’s not dogging my tracks. “We’re trying to find references to the shaman stuff.”

  Hector shakes his head and Doug waves at Lou again — trying to get him to zhou off, most likely.

  “T'find out what it does?�
�

  “We know what it does,” says Hector. “We need to figure out where it is.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Lou says.

  My heart flutters. Hector and I both look at him at once. Then we look at each other. I see myself reflected in Hector’s shades.

  “Where?” I ask.

  “In that creepy place on the wharf with all the frozen people.”

  Hector’s mouth disappears into his beard. Oh boy.

  “The frozen people,” I repeat.

  Lou nods. “Creepy,” he says.

  I nod back and open another book.

  Lou is staring at me and twitching a little. “Well?” he says.

  “Huh?” says Hector.

  “Don’t you wanna go thee?”

  How to put this kindly? “I don’t think that stuff is this stuff.”

  “Yeah, it is.” Lou’s left arm does a wild salute and his head jerks back. “It iz,” he repeats and stomps his foot for emphasis.

  Doug’s boughs flutter and bounce.

  “Lou,” I say, “this is real serious. I don’t think these Ohlone artifacts are gonna turn up where there are...frozen people.” Whatever the hell that means.

  “But they’re frozen Doloreth, Del,” explains Lou plaintively.

  Weird as this is, he has my attention. I mean, Lou’s crazy and all, but he’s not usually delusional.

  “How — frozen?”

  “You know, like statueth — like Tin Hau or-or Thousand League Eyes.”

  “Gods?”

  “No, people. But they’re not made outta statue thtuff. They’re made outta somethin' softer. They’re real-like. They got real hair and eyeballth and....” He pauses to scratch around in his scraggy hair. “Their eyes kinda follow you all over... creepy. The Doloreth one looks a lot like that guy.” He jigs his head toward Fish’s display.

  I put down the book I’m holding and stand up. “And this Dolores one has the shaman stuff?”

  “No,” Lou says and my heart dips a little. “The padre has some of it.”

  Now, Hector is on his feet too. “Is this dude for real?” he asks me.

  I barely hear him. “Show us,” I tell Lou.

  oOo