The Deavys

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  It was left to N/Ice to notice the earrings. At first glance they appeared to be little more than chunks of cheap rose quartz. Mineralogy being one of N/Ice’s special interests, it was not surprising that she was the one to identify them as pink diamonds of approximately two carats each. Hot pink being among the scarcest of all diamond colors, and anything over a carat in that color being exceptionally rare, they were as out of place on this plain, hatchet-faced oldster as gold-plated toilet seats in a national park outhouse. In short, they did not jibe: a fact that N/Ice pointed out to her sisters in whispers.

  While the girls were discussing the matter of the old woman’s unlikely jewelry and without waiting to be invited, Pithfwid jumped up onto the small shelf that fronted the serving window. Instead of being startled, or objecting, the woman smiled and reached out a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand to stroke the cat’s head and back. Pithfwid obligingly paced back and forth, purring like the compact dynamo that he was. Sparks jumped from his tail and the fur on his back, crackling like miniature fireworks in the cold air.

  “Hello, little kitty-witty. Your wit is part of your kit, I wager.” Raising her gaze, she peered over the tops of the thick reading glasses, adjusting their position with her free hand. Her eyes, Simwan noted with a start, were perfectly clear and cataract-free, the color of a glacial tarn, and so pale blue that they were almost white. “What have we here?”

  As Pithfwid seemed fully occupied and for the moment disinclined to speak, Simwan looked at his sisters, who looked back at him, which left him with the task of replying.

  “My name is Simwan Deavy. These are my sisters: Amber, Rose, and N/Ice—and our cat, Pithfwid.”

  “Always confusing the possessive,” Pithfwid interjected, without adding anything useful.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Shrewd old eyes flicked from the first youngster to the last. “Given what I perceive about the four of you, not to mention this chatty conniver of a cat that’s currently sucking up energy from my fingers, I expect it’s only fair and appropriate to give my name.” She did not extend a hand through the open window or across the narrow shelf. “I am Trishramenu Syranna sic Glorioso Santarem.” As a clap (an applauding clap, Simwan was sure) of very distant thunder rolled and the pedestrians on Fifth Avenue curiously checked the increasingly cloudy sky for signs of rain, she smiled, showing oddly perfect teeth. “You charming dearies may call me the Witch Trish.”

  The girls were unreservedly—if not literally—captivated. “A real witch!” Rose exclaimed excitedly.

  “Here, in New York!” added an elated Amber.

  “On the edge of Central Park.” N/Ice politely indicated the pink diamond earrings. “I rather think you must be a very rich witch named Trish.”

  Reaching up with the hand that was not stroking Pithfwid, the old woman jiggled one of the earrings. It caught the muted, cloud-filtered morning light. From the darker depths of the kiosk, pink fire flashed. As it did so, Simwan noticed that the vicuñas and alpacas on the front of the sweater had all wandered over onto the left side of the garment. The finely sewn herd was standing there, staring back at him uncertainly.

  “A girl’s got to wear something pretty when she goes to work, doesn’t she?” The Witch Trish’s smile changed to a look of mild exasperation. “Where else would you expect to find a witch, if not New York?”

  “If you’re a witch real and true, why are you working out of this tiny booth, selling maps and bottled water and chocolate bars? You must not be a very good witch.”

  “N/Ice!” For once both Amber and Rose were shocked by their sister’s directness.

  “It’s all right, dearies.” Trish smiled. “I sell other things, too. Lotions and potions and devious notions. But it’s true: I’m largely retired from sorcery. Thaumaturgy’s too traumatic. Selling candy and magazines is a lot less stressful.” Extending a wrinkled but still soft hand outward, she indicated the traffic on frenetic, frantic Fifth Avenue. “Working here, I get to meet people from all over the world. They come to me and I don’t have to go to them.” She paused to check her witchwatch. The big broomstick was approaching the twelve and the little one was on the eleven. A small window at the bottom of the watch face kept track of the phrases of the talkative moon.

  “We’re looking for something,” Simwan explained. “Mr. Everywhere told us it might be found in or around Central Park, but he didn’t know more than that. He told us we should ask for more detailed information when we got here.” Raising a hand, he indicated the sign fastened to the top and front of the kiosk. In addition to cigarettes and coffee and assorted other promised offerings, it included the word information.

  “I’ll certainly help if I can, dearie.” As Trish leaned slightly forward, crossing her wrists in front of her and leaning lightly on the inside edge of the shelf, a broom behind her began to sweep the small floor space. It was only a whisk broom, which doubtless explained why only a mouse was riding it.

  Simwan continued with the now usual explanation, finishing with, “We’re pretty certain it was the Crub.”

  Unlike the ever wary Mr. Everywhere, the old woman didn’t blink, didn’t cower. Just replied knowingly, and somberly. “That’s bad. That’s very bad. Sweet dearies such as yourselves shouldn’t be looking for such as the Crub. It’s rumored that it likes children. Preferably with tabasco, and maybe a little salt.”

  “We’re not so easily put on anybody’s menu.” Amber’s reply was short, sharp, and defiant.

  Trish chackled amusedly (a chackle being a sound peculiar to a witch that is, of course, half chuckle and half cackle). “My, but you’re a tetchy bunch.”

  “We’re Deavys,” N/Ice explained proudly.

  “I can see that nothing I can say is going to discourage you.” That said, the witch pivoted around to fumble among her stock before finally turning back to the youngsters. As she did so, she placed a large chocolate bar on the shelf between them.

  Carefully, she adjusted the position of the bar on the shelf. From somewhere below it and out of range of their sight, she removed a hammer. “Not exactly a wand of power,” she muttered to herself, “but in retirement, one makes do. Step back, please.”

  With that she brought the hammer down on the perfectly positioned bar, smashing it to pieces with several swift and surprisingly authoritative blows.

  “Causus comida Criollo couverture!” she intoned. “Trinitario forestero latudinus, ee conch sanctus, ee localentus Crub!”

  The Deavys crowded closer. The dense aroma arising from the broken bar was almost overpowering. It would have drawn passersby closer to the kiosk had not the children completely blocked the single opening. As carefully as if she was undressing an infant, Trish removed the bar’s paper outer wrapping. Peeling away one end of the gold foil that was its underwear, she picked the whole thing up and dumped the smashed contents out onto the shelf. Simwan expected the shattered fragments to go all over the place. They did not. Instead, they lined up neatly, forming letters and numbers.

  “Wow.” N/Ice was visibly impressed. “Pretty neat trick.”

  The old woman smiled at her. “It’s an ignorant and impecunious fool indeed who doesn’t know how much magic lies in a bar of chocolate, dearie.” One gnarly finger nudged several neatly broken pieces. “Hmm. East 67½ Street. That’s Inner Upper East Side. Not too far from here.” She squinted harder at some of the smaller brown fragments. “No specific address, which doesn’t surprise me, but there is a name.”

  Amber read it aloud. “Tybolt the Butcher.” She glanced over at her sisters. “That could be taken a number of different ways.”

  Trish was rubbing her prominent chin with one finger. “Tybolt, Tybolt—I know that name. Does a big business, does this Tybolt. I’ve never used his services myself, but it’s said he can supply product to meet everyone’s taste, from the ordinary human to the extraordinary Humungous. Somewhere in between, he might very well d
o business with the Crub. Or at least with the Crub’s minions.” She let her gaze rest on each one of them individually.

  “If you’re still bound and determined to do this, then pay a visit to this establishment. Poke around, make careful with your inquiries, and above all else, be certain you remain at all times on the customer’s side of the counter.” Her attitude was dead serious now.

  “Just cross over Fifth Avenue and head north. You’ll have to look sharp to find 67½ Street. It’s one of those unexpected, narrow lanes, almost an alley. There are a number of them in the city, and each one is harder to find than the next.” Reaching into an inside shelf, she withdrew a folding map of Manhattan and slid it across the counter. It glowed slightly. Simwan decided it was most definitely not an official publication of the NYC Transit Department. “Here, take this. Just in case.”

  With that mildly ominous observation in mind, and a cheery farewell wave, they took their leave of the helpful witch and the information booth and crossed to the east side of Fifth Avenue before resuming their walk resolutely northward.

  None of them, not even Pithfwid, noticed the gust of black stuff that spurted outward and up from an unprepossessing sidewalk vent. Smoke would have dissipated quickly. Soot would have been wafted away on the first substantial breeze. But this was something very different; the first inkling of a different kind of darkness. It had consistency, it had form, it had direction.

  Most chillingly of all, it had curiosity.

  It followed the Deavys, tracking them and keeping out of sight—an easy enough task in New York, where smoke and soot and all manner of darkness were everywhere to be found.

  XII

  Like a seventeen-year old boy who’s just learned that his girlfriend has dumped him for another guy, the sky was trying to weep but could not. Clouds hung heavy over the great city, gravid with moisture but not yet delivering on the threat of rain. It left all the millions and millions of inhabitants, human and plant and animal, a bit nervous and on edge. Whenever a slight drizzle began, the eternal question formed in the minds of the bipedal citizens: to umbrella, or not to umbrella.

  Examining the east side of the block slowly and methodically as they paced off its length from 67th to 68th Street, the Deavy clan failed to discover anything resembling a street, or even a service alley. There were numerous entrances to buildings, but no street. Stumped, they paused before the roll-up metal delivery door to an exclusive apartment building.

  “C’mon, Pithfwid,” Rose urged their cat. “Can’t you see a sign, or anything?”

  “Yeah,” Amber added. “I thought cats could go anywhere.”

  “Most of us can,” Pithfwid retorted. “But first we have to have a defined anywhere to go to. And the kind of sign we need is not the sort that is mounted on a pole.” Lowering his nose, he began sniffing along the line where the foundation of the apartment building met the concrete of the sidewalk, looking, for all the world, like a miniature and very oddly proportioned bloodhound as he did so.

  Pithfwid halted so abruptly that a momentarily distracted Simwan, on the other end of the leash, was nearly yanked off his feet. How such a normal-size feline could destabilize a far heavier human was something no onlooker could have understood. The Deavys knew the reason, however. Pithfwid was considerably bigger than he looked.

  “Got it,” the cat murmured with satisfaction. “In any big city, it can be hard to find these little side streets. Half streets are more difficult still. Then there are quarter streets, and eighth streets, of which this city in particular has more than its share.”

  Simwan and his sisters stared. Pithfwid had stopped and was gazing down a crack between two tall buildings. There was maybe enough space between the massive, towering walls of stone for an agile grasshopper to squeeze through.

  “That’s 67½ Street?” Rose looked dubious.

  “That’s not even wide enough to be just the ½ part,” Amber commented.

  The cat looked up at them and grinned. It is a rare and wonderful thing to see a cat grin. “Come now, girls. Surely you haven’t put on that much weight?” He eyed Amber’s thighs meaningfully. “Although, all that holiday chocolate you’ve all been eating your way through lately …”

  “Why you spiteful little katze!” An angry Amber reached for the fluffy tail. Pithfwid skipped effortlessly back out of reach, she followed—and both of them disappeared. No, a startled Simwan realized. They hadn’t disappeared. They’d just gone down 67½ Street. N/Ice was right on their tail—well, Pithfwid’s, anyway. He glanced at Rose, then back at the river of pedestrians. Absorbed in themselves, they took no notice of the remaining Deavys. Taking each other’s hand, and deep breaths, Simwan and Rose took a step toward the barely visible crack between the two buildings.

  Half expecting to smack his nose against unyielding granite, Simwan was pleasantly surprised to find that he had merely stepped onto another sidewalk laid perpendicular to the one he had just left. Letting go of his sister’s hand as hastily as if he had been holding onto a burning stovetop, he turned to look back behind him. What he saw was a crack between two buildings. Except that instead of being built of stone, one was made of used brick and the other of green glass. Fish swam to and fro within the glass wall, through which he could see several mermaids busy at ballet rehearsal.

  The stories one heard were right on, he mused. You could find everything in New York.

  East 67½ Street was narrow, but on balance not all that much different from East 67th Street or East 68th Street. Like all good Manhattan streets, it ran straight and true. Traffic flowed in the direction of the East River. Tall buildings lined both sides. The street itself was frantic with taxis, delivery vans, flying carpets of varying size piled high with goods, messenger pixies, elves on smoke break, mounted police on unicorns: all the usual occupants of an active Upper East Side block.

  Well, Simwan decided as he took in the scene, maybe a little more than usual.

  “We’re looking for Tybolt the Butcher,” N/Ice reminded them as she drifted alongside, and sometimes through, her sisters. She was already checking out the storefronts that lined both sides of the street. “No wonder the Witch Trish couldn’t give us a number.”

  It was true, Simwan saw as they advanced down the sidewalk. None of the storefronts had any numbers on them, just names. The Deavys walked carefully around the sawhorses and yellow tape that delineated the borders of an excavation in progress. A team of grumbling, grunting trolls was repairing a broken water line. Each wore a yellow hard hat, dirty jeans, and shirts that proclaimed “City of New York—Dept. of Water and Powers.” One of the smaller, younger workers leaning on his shovel noticed the Deavy clan approaching and started to whistle through his tusks. Somewhat to the girls’ disappointment, he caught himself hastily when he saw that they were way underage, and quickly turned back to his work.

  Well behind them now, and unremarked upon, a puff of black smoke oozed out of the crack that led to Fifth Avenue.

  The notion that one could buy anything, absolutely anything, in New York was never more apparent than on 67½ Street. Shops sold unusual cooking ware, unique clothing, remarkable furniture, gourmet imported food, and a great deal more. A rambling used bookstore offered not only publications of recent vintage but incunabula, scrolls, delicately painted papyrus, inscribed cuneiform tablets (including the rare paperback editions), and petroglyphs of particular significance. In the window, held in place by a spell that served the same purpose as a paper book jacket did for more mundane publications, was a supposedly lost poem by the famed Sufi master Ismandar. It floated in the air like colored smoke.

  Resuming their walk, the Deavys passed more shops. Reaching the intersection of 67½ and Stark Avenue, they paused before the flow of thundering cross traffic, watching the streetlight. Only when it put out a double field of force, holding back the ferocious, snarling traffic on Stark, did they and their fellow pedestrians cross
in response to the backlit sign that instead of Go or Walk declaimed clearly Hurry or Die.

  And then, there it was, halfway down the next block, nestled snugly in between a hardwhere store—a travel agency for the metaphysically challenged—on one side and a bakery—“No matter who or what it is, we can make flour out of it.”—on the other.

  “‘Tybolt the Butcher.’” Rose read the sign aloud. Her gaze dropped to the leaded glass front window. The display behind it featured a tasteful, even elegantly arranged selection of choice chops, steaks, sausage both cased and ground, bacon, poultry, and seafood. One sign shouted a cut-price sale on fresh calamari, which should have rung a bell in Simwan’s memory, but did not. There was also a Grade-A sticker from the City of New York Health Department, a couple of framed reviews (one from the Alternate Times, the other from Rampant Carnivore magazine), and a small map of the world known and unknown with tiny hovering stars marking the sources of the shop’s more exotic cuts.

  “I’m getting hungry,” Amber announced after studying the offerings in the window. “Maybe they serve sandwiches, or something.”

  “I’m hungry, too,” Simwan admitted. Ordering lunch would give them more time to study their surroundings and decide how best to proceed, as well as providing an excuse for lingering inside.

  The interior of the butcher shop was a mix of the ultramodern and the ancient. The slats that made up the wooden floor were thick as ceiling beams and covered with a coating of fine sawdust. “To soak up any errant liquids,” the ever-knowledgeable Pithfwid tactfully pointed out. On the other hand, the glass-fronted refrigerated compartments were made of spotless stainless steel, as were the several towering, jammed-together, front-opening freezers that formed a wall near the back of the shop.