The Deavys

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  “MY DEAR MISS DALAPILLY! HAVE YOU SNUCKERED DOWN THAT BLASTED TUNE YET?” The entire building seemed to tremble.

  “Yes, sir, yes I have, sir,” Miss Dalapilly piped up nervously. Tightly clutching the net holding her recaptured music, she proceeded to abandon the young visitors to the stairs and to their fate as she vanished into the apartment marked 3F.

  Taking her comments to heart, the Deavys resumed their climb, making sure to keep their voices down and to step lightly on the carpeted stairs. Thankfully, no further tectonic rumblings were forthcoming from the mysterious depths of apartment 3C.

  The top floor proved to be smaller than the four they had already passed. Saddled with the task of hauling the cat carrier, Simwan reached the landing a little out of breath. Burdened only by their backpacks, the girls were in fine fettle. Though they took care to kick the blue-blossomed fettle out of their way, other weeds and wildflowers growing out of the floor threatened to impede their progress toward the floor’s only door. Unlike those fronting the apartments on the three levels below, it had only the number 5 attached to it, with no appended letter.

  “Uncle Herkimer lives in a penthouse. Cool,” declared N/Ice. Standing next to her, Rose observed that there was no doorbell. In its absence, she reached out and grabbed the heavy ring of the brass lion’s-head doorknocker.

  Snarling, the golden-hued lion head bared its brass teeth.

  Simultaneously startled and miffed, Rose yanked her fingers back sharply. “Hey, quit that! No biting. We’re relatives.”

  “Oh, sorry,” growled the doorknocker. “I thought you were selling cookies. Those Girl Scouts somehow sneak through all obstacles in their quest to make a sale. Please come in.” Emitting an appropriate grinding groan, the door swung inward.

  The front room of the penthouse was larger than they expected, with a high, vaulted ceiling. The far side of the room was dominated by a quintet of tall, narrow windows that were presently blocked by heavy, dark curtains bound together with thick gold cords. Enough sunshine leaked in around the sides of the curtains to illuminate the room with diminished but adequate light. There were a couple of overstuffed eighteenth-century couches upholstered in azure blue damask, together with matching chairs, a slim-legged writing desk, and a pair of massive walnut armoires. The floor was covered with a huge carpet that might have been Persian, Berber, or Lemurian. Woven into it were fanciful images of plants and animals that no longer existed, might never have existed, or existed only in the minds of whoever had labored over the weaving. The ceiling was frescoed with stars, clouds, and a full moon that seemed to shine with a silvery internal light of its own.

  Simwan’s attention was drawn to a full suit of standing French armor mounted on a wooden base. The girls cooed delightedly over an oil painting in a heavy frame that depicted a young woman on a swing. A second glance was not necessary to note that the ropes of the swing were not attached to the tree in the painting. To right and left, open doorways led to other darkened rooms. Silence weighed on them like a goose down comforter on a cold winter’s night. It was broken by the squeak of the door closing behind them. Sticking out of it and corresponding precisely and in proportion to the lion’s-head doorknocker on the other side was the body and rear end of a male lion, rendered in brass. The tail continued to twitch back and forth and one foot to scratch the other until the door was completely shut.

  A familiar feline voice came from within the plastic cat carrier, which a relieved Simwan had set down on the carpeted floor. “Someone’s coming.”

  Footsteps that were hushed yet distinct drew the Deavys’ attention to the open portal on their right. As the sounds came nearer, Simwan could hear them, too. Slow, steady footpads whose noise was muffled by thick carpet. Next to him, the coubet ceased their chattering. A figure appeared in the doorway.

  It was less than a foot tall. No wonder its footfalls had made so little noise.

  It had four legs and no arms, oversize pointy ears, no hair, and a short, naked tail that wagged back and forth like a runaway ballpoint pen. Like the rest of the figure, the tail was a mottled, sickly green color.

  A disbelieving Amber gaped at the apparition. “Uncle Herkimer—you’ve become a dog?”

  The primordial Chihuahua trotted into the room. “I beg your pardon. I am Señor Nutt. A friend of your uncle’s. A very old friend, in every sense of the word.” The small black nose tested the air, wrinkling distastefully. “Ugh. I smell cat.”

  From within the depths of the pet carrier an appropriate response was swiftly forthcoming. “Drop the last word and the accuracy of your observation becomes indisputable.”

  “Cut it out, Pithfwid.” Crouching next to the carrier, Simwan unfastened the latch. “If we’re going to be guests, you’re going to have to get along with everyone who lives here.”

  “Hmph. Oh well. It can’t be any worse than that time I was trapped for two days in the Sworl of Solemn Stinks just outside the Golden Gates of Azgremal.” Stepping delicately, Pithfwid emerged from the cat carrier and glanced perfunctorily at his surroundings before his gaze settled on the diminutive canine standing before him.

  “Not only dead,” the cat sniffed disdainfully, “but bald as well.”

  “Unburdened by an unnecessary coat,” the Chihuahua responded brusquely. Advancing, it cautiously and with obvious reluctance touched its nose to that of its feline visitor. Sparks flared from Pithfwid’s tail, but that perpetual-motion appendage bottled up only slightly. From the greenish dog came the faint odor of essential preservation.

  “You’re cute.” Crouching, Rose patted the animal on its head. “You’re dead too.”

  “Naturally,” admitted the dog. “Quite ironic, in a way. Instead of digging up bones, another dog dug up me. Your uncle took me in, and we’ve been together ever since. I’ve actually been dead considerably longer than Herkimer. I have Aztec ancestors, you see. I come from a noble line of canines that stretches all the way back to the dire wolf.”

  “How the mighty hath shrunketh.” Pithfwid had wandered off and was sniffing the furniture. Encountering a spot that Señor Nutt had sprayed, he drew back sharply, his nose offended. “Or stunketh, depending on the particular sense in use at the moment of revelation.”

  “Nephew Simwan!” a slightly louder voice suddenly exclaimed, “and the whole Deavy coubet! How wonderful to see you, and all grown up, too!”

  All eyes turned to the doorway that had brought forth the dead dog. Standing framed in the portal was an old man. Taller and skinnier than their father, he had tufts of white hair growing from the sides of his head. Also from his nostrils and ears, the sight of which the four visitors determined to ignore. Clad in a tattered but still serviceable shirt of maroon silk, matching dark pants, and hand-made Spanish loafers, he sported a gold skull earring in his left ear and heavy rings on several fingers. Spreading his arms wide, he welcomed them warmly—until his right arm fell off at the shoulder.

  “Drat.” Reaching down, he picked up the disarticulated limb and forcefully jammed it back into its momentarily vacant socket. “That’s the trouble with being dead. Maintenance.”

  “Uncle Herkimer!” Delighted, the girls rushed into his welcoming arms, careful not to press the less securely attached right one. He managed a hug without losing any other body parts, then released them and stepped forward.

  “And Simwan.” Unexpectedly alert eyes, though blotchy with age and migrating cataracts, brightened at the sight of the young man standing next to the cat carrier. Slipping off his backpack and letting it slide to the floor, Simwan extended a hand.

  Herkimer took it firmly. The grip came down, as expected, on the side of clammy and cold. Yet Simwan did not feel distanced. This was his uncle, after all. A close relative, not simply some strange zombie. When Herkimer withdrew his fingers, Simwan waited politely until his uncle was looking the other way before wiping the slime from his hand.

&nb
sp; “It’s so good to have company.” Glancing down, Herkimer added, “Isn’t it, Señor Nutt?”

  “Aye and arf. It is good to have company.” The dog was keeping a wary eye on Pithfwid as the presently indigo and white-spotted cat continued his methodical inspection of the furniture. “Though only time will tell if the company is good.”

  “Now, now, Señor N,” Herkimer admonished him, wagging a cautionary finger at the dog. “You two need to be friends. I’m the only one allowed to do any mournful howling around here.” Raising his gaze, he smiled at Simwan and the girls, displaying an astonishing array of ragged, broken, stained, and inlaid teeth the mere sight of which would have been sufficient to send even the most stalwart orthodontist fleeing in terror from the sight.

  “Come this way, children, and I’ll show you to your room. Only one for the five of you, I’m afraid. I don’t get much company, so I only ever have one room ready for guests.”

  Simwan’s concern vanished as soon as he saw where they were expected to stay. Like the rest of the apartment, it was much larger than he expected. There were three beds. This suggested that two of the girls would have to double up, but N/Ice volunteered to sleep in the air above one of the beds, thus allowing Rose and Amber to each have their own. A padded window seat promised Pithfwid plenty of comfort as well as a view of the street below from beneath the bottom edge of the gold-fringed curtain. Many of the blood-red tiles that walled the attached bathroom were broken or chipped, as was the matching red bathtub-shower, but Herkimer assured them that the water that emerged from the penthouse’s pipes was clear and clean, and that if it was not hot enough, he would have a word with the building’s devil of a custodian.

  “We’ll be fine,” Rose assured him as she tossed her backpack onto one metal-framed bed.

  Herkimer mustered an affectionate smile. “I’m just happy to see you, my nephew and nieces, and to have some company for a little while.” A ghostly green, partially decomposed hand fluttered in the direction of a distant cabinet. “See? I even have television. No cable or satellite, I’m afraid. Just what the building’s roof antenna can bring in. But this is New York. There’s plenty to watch.”

  “You watch TV?” Simwan asked as he looked around for Pithfwid. Where had the cat gotten himself to? He hoped their pet was not eating Uncle Herkimer’s canine companion, though he didn’t think dead dog was much to Pithfwid’s taste.

  “Not much else to do when you’re deceased,” Herkimer told him, “though I think I’m more alive than some of the stuff that’s on these days.” He took a step backward. “I’ll let you kids unpack. When you’re through, come into the kitchen and we’ll discuss how you’re going to spend your vacation.”

  As soon as he was gone and N/Ice had sealed the door, the Deavys gathered around Rose’s bed. She was already talking on her cell phone, which, surprisingly, still functioned on the out-of-the-way street.

  “Hi, Dad. Yes, it’s me, Rose. We’re here at Uncle Herkimer’s and just settling in.” A pause, then, “Yes, the train ride was very—entertaining.” Nearby, N/Ice and Amber had to stifle their reactions. Simwan just stood and shook his head silently.

  His sister’s expression fell and he was immediately concerned.

  “Oh. Oh, Dad.” The look on Rose’s face as she glanced up at her siblings told them more than they needed to know. “Well, tell her we all love her, and that we’ll be home soon. Bye.” She terminated the call and sat quietly.

  Amber took a step forward. “What is it, Rose? What’s wrong?”

  The other girl swallowed. “Mom’s in the hospital. But she says not to come home just yet. There’s nothing we can do. The stupid Ord doctors don’t know what’s wrong with her, of course. Dad said he’s going to insist that somebody come down from Boston to treat her.”

  “It won’t matter.” N/Ice’s expression, like her tone, was grim. “Mom needs to have the Truth close to her.” She looked at her brother. “We have to get started looking for it right away.”

  “In the morning.” Despite being as worried as his sisters, Simwan knew it was incumbent on him to provide rational, sensible instructions. “We’re all tired from the trip, we just got here, and we’re liable to do more bad than good if we try to go stumbling around the city while we’re exhausted. Agreed?”

  Troubled but understanding, the two-and-a-half of them nodded.

  “Are we going to tell Uncle Herkimer why we’re really here?” Rose wondered aloud as she put her phone back in her pack.

  “We can’t,” Simwan declared firmly. “He’s a really sweet dead guy, but he’s liable to tell Mom and Dad. If we’re going to get back the Truth, we have to be able to operate without parental controls.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Amber. “You know Mom.” She proceeded to perfectly mimic Melinda Mae’s voice. “‘No invocations, no summoning in front of Ords.’”

  “‘No levitating,’” added Rose with mock solemnity.

  “‘No slip-sliding between dimensions,’” finished N/Ice, with a certainty that only the sole twelve-year-old girl in Washow County, Pennsylvania, who thought Stephen Hawking’s books were travel guides would have.

  Simwan nodded. “As far as Uncle Herkimer and Señor Nutt are concerned, we’re all here on break, to enjoy the city, have a good time, and help him get ready for All Hallow’s. Not that we can’t do all that, too,” he added, “but our principal task is to return the Truth to Mr. Gemimmel’s store.”

  “Well, the Truth isn’t worth anything on an empty stomach.” Slipping off the overstuffed bed (without pausing to contemplate what it might be stuffed with, and ignoring the slight, disturbed moan that came from deep, deep within the depths of the mattress as she took her leave), Rose headed for the door. “I’m starving! Let’s see what Uncle Herkimer has to eat.”

  “For sure,” agreed Amber eagerly. “We haven’t had anything to eat except snacks since we left home this morning.”

  It was only by coincidence that the yapping and yowling they heard happened to be coming from the kitchen. Both cries were oddly distorted, though at first Simwan could not identify the origin. As he and the coubet entered the cooking area, the source quickly revealed itself.

  Initially, it was impossible to tell whether Señor Nutt was chasing Pithfwid, or the other way around. Both were moving so fast that they were little more than a couple of blurs: one pale green and black, the other ebony tipped with crimson. They criss-crossed the limited dimensions of the curtain-darkened kitchen like a pair of runaway electrons, streaking across not only the floor but the table, chairs, appliances, walls, and even the ceiling.

  “Stop it, you two!” Simwan shouted. “Pithfwid—Señor Nutt; quit fighting!”

  The pair of streaks halted abruptly—on the ceiling. Rose had to step aside as drool from the tongue-lolling, heavily panting, upside-down Chihuahua dripped to spatter on the floor. A few feet in front of the dog, Pithfwid hung downward, his claws dug into the plaster. An indication of the speed at which the cat had been traveling, tiny wisps of smoke rose from the vicinity of his paws.

  “We’re not fighting,” the cat announced.

  “Indeed.” Señor Nutt’s oversize, pointed ears cocked downward in the direction of the upward-staring visitors. “We are merely engaging in a little friendly inter-species exercise.” Turning his attention to Pithfwid, he added, “I thank you for the workout. Most of the time I am reduced to chasing my own tail for exercise. Not only is that particular activity inadequate for the purpose to which it is put, but the resultant tornadic vortex, albeit on a small scale, tends to play havoc with the furniture.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Grudgingly, Pithfwid added, “For a dead dog, you move pretty well.”

  “Compliment noted. May I say that your skill at running through objects as well as around them is unprecedented in my long experience?”

  “Look,” an exasperated Simwan told them, “I don
’t care if you two are going to argue, fight, or work out a formal dance routine, but do it on the floor, will you? You’re liable to mess up Uncle Herkimer’s ceiling.”

  Señor Nutt let out a small yip of disdain. Nevertheless, he promptly relinquished his foothold on the ceiling and dropped. At the last possible instant he twisted himself completely around, to land gently and right-side up on all four feet. Completing a successful four-point landing of his own, Pithfwid went entirely pink, sat down, and began licking one overheated paw.

  Meanwhile, N/Ice had moved to the refrigerator. It was a surprisingly massive affair, its stainless-steel, double-doored front suggesting a commercial rather than a home model. The hum from its powerful compressor was deep and steady. The oversize unit was obviously maintained in markedly better condition than the ancient, dirty white electric stove and mold-encrusted sink that comprised the remainder of the major kitchen appliances.

  “I’ll have tuna, if you please,” Pithfwid volunteered helpfully as Simwan tugged open the left-side door.

  A hard young man to shock, the senior Deavy present nonetheless stumbled backward in astonishment and let out a small yelp of surprise.

  Though the bulb inside the refrigerator had long since burned out, there was ample light in the room to show that there were no shelves. Occupying the entire compartment was a single solitary figure. As the girls came closer for a better look and Simwan held his ground, the figure’s eyes snapped open to regard them.

  “Just taking a little nap.” Uncle Herkimer lowered the arms that had been crossed over his chest. Stepping out, he closed the door behind him and stretched slightly.

  “You sleep in the refrigerator?” Amber asked him, slightly wide-eyed.

  “Well, of course.” Herkimer smiled. “How else do you think I keep this long-demised body in shape? I tell you, in July, there are those in this city among the living who would dearly love to do likewise, if only they could get around the awkward business of needing to breathe. As you know, I don’t have that problem.”