Someplace to Be Flying

by Charles de Lint

  "I can't," Rory said. "But that doesn't mean it can't be explained."

  Kerry licked two fingers and pressed them against the air in front of her.

  "And Maida's miracle cure?" she asked.

  Rory laughed, then caught himself. "Sorry. It's just that nothing the crow girls do ever makes much sense to me."

  "That's because you only see things from outside of their point of reference."

  He nodded slowly. "Fair enough."

  "While I prefer to believe that they're magic."

  "But that's only because …" His voice trailed off.

  "It allows me the option that I'm not crazy," she finished for him.

  "I wouldn't have put it quite like that."

  She shrugged. "You don't have to be delicate. We all knew we were lunatics in Baumert."

  "Just because you were undergoing—"

  "You can't have it both ways," she said, cutting him off. "Either I'm crazy, or I'm not. And if I'm not, then Katy's real and the crow girls are magic. I have old blood, you have old blood, and we live in a house full of corbae."

  Rory shook his head. "I've lived there for nine years. Don't you think I would have seen something in all that time?"

  "Depends. A lot of people live in a place and never really see it. Never pay attention at all. They're not completely disassociative, but you can't say they're completely aware, either."

  She could see he didn't like that, but too bad. Let somebody else be in the hot seat for once. Let somebody else have to wonder what was real and what wasn't.

  "And besides," she added. "Didn't you tell me that the crow girls have looked around fourteen in all the years you've known them?"

  "There's that," he agreed. "But that doesn't mean they're magic."

  "No," she said. "I don't suppose it means anything at all, does it?"

  And suddenly she felt very tired. Not "I have to lie down until the world stops spinning" tired, but drained all the same. She couldn't remember the last time she'd talked this much—and never with so much emotional baggage in tow.

  She stood up. "We should go back. I've got a big day ahead of me tomorrow and I haven't done anything to prepare for it yet."

  He quickly rose to join her. "Look, I didn't mean to seem unsympathetic. It's just …"

  "I understand," she said. "Really I do. I wish I could be as sure of things as you are. It must be so much easier to go through life knowing that this is the way things are, this is real, this isn't, and anything that deviates from that concrete reality is simply an anomaly that you haven't found an explanation for yet."

  "You make it sound so calculated and cold."

  Kerry gave him a sad smile. "But the world is cold. For me the warm places are few and far between. That's why I treasure something like the crow girls so much." She raised a hand to her brow. "They warm the lonely cold in me."

  She started to walk back toward Stanton Street and he fell in step with her.

  "I really don't blame you for not believing," she went on. "And you've listened to me with more patience than anyone else ever has."

  Rory didn't say anything for at least half a block. Kerry listened to the sound of their footsteps on the pavement. It was so hot and still that everything seemed to be hushed, the whole city on hold. It was all slow motion and lazy, the passing cars, the other pedestrians, people sitting on their front stoops. She knew how they felt. She was used to the drier heat of California. Her shirt was damp, sticking to her back, and she wished she were wearing shorts instead of jeans, but she didn't have a pair in her minuscule wardrobe.

  "Have you ever told anybody everything you've told me?" Rory asked suddenly.

  She shook her head. "No. The doctors usually stopped listening the moment I brought up Katy."

  "I was afraid you were going to say that."

  "Don't feel guilty," she told him.

  "Right."

  "No, honest. You've been very kind and I really appreciate it. You and Annie both. I was sort of surprised at how brusque Chloë was this morning. She was so nice to me on the phone."

  "Oh, that's just Chloë," Rory said. "She's never been one to hang out and gab. I mean, I don't know about magic, but everybody in the Rookery is seriously eccentric. I won't say Chloë's the strangest of the lot, but when you think of how she'll sit out on the roof the way she does …"

  Kerry let him talk, happy that she'd been able to get them onto a different topic of conversation. But later, when she was alone again in her own apartment, it was hard not to feel lonely, to know that no one understood.

  She made herself concentrate on her preparations for school tomorrow, stood in front of her closet and tried to decide what to wear, had a supper of cheese on toast, but the loneliness wouldn't go away. At one point she almost went downstairs to knock on Rory's door, but she thought she'd bothered him enough for one day. The crow girls were noticeable for their absence and she felt everybody else had been a little too distant the last time she'd seen them for her to be able to approach them now.

  Finally she sat in her chair and looked out at the big elm tree. She had her window wide open to let in the cooler air that had come with the fall of night. Magic was on her mind. The touch of Maida's fingers. The mystery of a house full of corbae. She only half-understood what that meant, but it reminded her of her grandmother, so instead of worrying over meanings, she simply held on to the hope that there really was magic in the world and she wasn't crazy. Rather, she was lucky that pieces of it had come her way.

  After a while, she picked up Dog and Cowslip and cuddled the two stuffed animals against her chest.

  "Katy," she found herself saying. "If you're out there, come see me." But there was no response.

  9.

  Rory sat at his kitchen table, doodling intricate fur-and-feathers details onto the various jewelry designs he'd sketched earlier in the day, his mind a thousand miles away from what the pencil in his hand was doing.

  First Lily, he thought, and now Kerry. What was happening to the world? Maybe all those years of watching shows like The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, and now The X-Files were finally taking their toll. People weren't only accepting that the impossible was possible—if not in their hometown, then somewhere. They were now convincing themselves that they'd experienced these kinds of things as well, complete with special effects and all. Alien abductions, Bigfoot in the piney wood hills, faeries skipping through downtown streets, goblins in the sewers. No wonder Christy's books did so well—though, of course, he was a believer, too.

  It wasn't hard to tell that the millennium was approaching. What was hard was maintaining one's own equilibrium when everything else seemed unbalanced, or was leaning that way.

  He found himself writing words along the bottom of one his sketches: "There's no such thing as fiction. If you can imagine something, then it's happened."

  It took him a moment to remember who'd told him that. Annie. Annie, who'd been in fine mysterious form this morning with her cryptic comments about mirrors and Jack's stories.

  And then there was the business with the crow girls.

  The worst thing about all of this was that there were pieces of Kerry's story that seemed to fit into the jigsaw puzzle of what Lily had been talking about before she'd left for Tucson last week. Especially when he added in the odd behavior of the crow girls this morning. They'd seemed genuinely menacing—Zia with that switchblade in her hand—until the red-haired stranger finally drove away. So why had he been so quick to dismiss Kerry? Worse still, why did he dismiss Lily's story when he knew she'd never lie to him?

  Because it made no sense, he told himself. No sense at all. The world didn't have room for imaginary twins being real, or for secret races of animal people.

  But still …

  He wondered now: On the walk home from the park, when he'd been talking to Kerry about the eccentricities of the Rookery's residents, who had he been trying to convince that their behavior was merely odd, not proof that magic existed? Kerry? Or
himself?

  10.

  When they were finished cleaning up the kitchen, Hank began taking garbage bags down to the bin beside the house, leaving Lily upstairs to set up her computer and check her camera equipment to make sure it was all still in working order. The gear was too specialized for him and he knew he'd only get in her way if he tried to help.

  He was on his second trip to the bin when he saw a beat-up black VW bug pull in behind his cab. Shoulder muscles tightening, he stepped quickly into the shadows alongside the house. Then he had to smile and the tension left his shoulders. It was only Moth, driving one of Anita's junkers.

  "Hey, kid," Moth said as Hank approached the VW. "You not answering your phone anymore?"

  "Left it in the car. What's up? You find Katy?"

  Moth shook his head. "Can you believe Anita actually likes these cars?" he said as he struggled to get out.

  "That's because she's half your size."

  "So's Terry and you don't see him driving one."

  Hank laughed. He liked VWs himself. First car he'd actually owned, as opposed to boosted, had been a bug.

  Moth gave the porch light a pointed look. "Think we can kill the light?" he asked. "Makes me feel too much like a target."

  Hank went into the hallway to turn it off, then joined Moth on the porch steps. Moth pulled an ever-present pack of cigarettes out from where it was tucked in between his biceps and the sleeve of his T-shirt, shook a cigarette out, lit up.

  "Still can't find Jack either," he said.

  "Maybe they took a road trip together."

  "Yeah, that's what I'm hoping, too."

  But neither of them believed it.

  "How'd you know I was here?" Hank asked.

  Moth blew out a stream of blue-gray smoke. "Lucky guess."

  "Too bad you can't use a bit of that luck to find Katy and Jack."

  "That's what's got me worried," Moth told him. " 'Course the pair of 'em have always had a kind of elusive quality."

  "That what you were calling me about?"

  "Nah. Paris's been trying to get hold of you. Said to tell you she found your dick." Moth grinned. "And I didn't even know you'd lost it."

  "Marty's going to owe me big time for all the crap I've been taking on this."

  "And to think I never thought he had much of a sense of humor."

  "You've just never liked lawyers."

  Moth shrugged. "What can I say? Whenever I see one, the next thing I know some judge is handing me a few years in the state pen."

  "Must be tough, you always being innocent and all."

  "You know the drill, kid. Inside, everybody's innocent."

  "Except for the short-eyes," Hank said.

  Moth's eyes went hard. "Any guy can't keep his hands off a kid deserves what he gets. We know it and they know it. Why the hell do you think they're always whining about rehab? Like therapy's going to help when the wires are that crossed. But the lawyers push for it and the judges buy into it, and next thing you know the freak's out on the street stalking kids again."

  "Marty doesn't defend pedophiles."

  "Never said that he did." Moth flicked his butt toward the sidewalk where it landed in a shower of sparks. "So are you doing the run with Eddie tonight?"

  Hank shook his head. "There was a little problem here," he said and explained what had happened to Lily in Arizona and how her apartment had been torn apart.

  "What're they looking for?" Moth asked.

  "Damned if we know."

  Moth nodded, lit up another cigarette. "You like this one, don't you?"

  "You're beginning to sound like Paris."

  "I thought you did," Moth said. "You should bring her by the yard sometime, give us all a chance to meet her."

  Hank smiled. And let her see what she was getting into. Because one thing would never change. The family was always part of the package.

  "I'll do that," he said. "When all of this blows over."

  "That can't come too soon for me."

  "Tell me about it."

  Moth took a long drag, slowly let it out. "This woman you were saying Lily met in Tucson—you think she could be the same Margaret in Jack's stories?"

  As soon as Moth said it, Hank knew he had to be right. Jack's Margaret was also dark-haired with those white stripes of hair at her temples. Feisty, knew her way around.

  "How'd you make the connection?" he asked.

  "I'm not saying she is or she isn't," Moth said, "but it'd make sense."

  "You ever meet her?"

  "Nah. She'd run more with Paris's crowd. Ask her when you call her about your dick."

  Hank sighed. He refused to look at Moth, but he couldn't ignore the snicker.

  "Let me know when you get tired of this one," he said.

  That woke a deep belly laugh from Moth.

  "Oh, kid," he managed when he finally caught his breath. "If you could see your face you'd know that might never happen."

  Great, Hank thought. Like he was ever going to hear the end of this now. Marty was really going to owe him for this.

  "Can you pick up Eddie tonight?" he asked.

  "Sure. I'll just do some mix and matching with Terry, but we can work it out."

  "I was thinking," Hank added. "Maybe you could ask Eddie to do me a favor."

  Moth's voice was cautious. "What kind of favor?"

  "Set up a meet for me with the Couteaus."

  Moth shook his head. "I don't know if that's such a good idea, kid. Eddie already told us how he feels about getting involved with them."

  "I'm just asking him to set it up."

  "I've got a bad feeling about this."

  "You two go back a long way," Hank said. "He'll do it for you, where he'd just put me off."

  Moth gave him a long steady look.

  "What've you got planned?" he asked.

  "Nothing. I just want to talk to them, get them off our backs. Find out what they're looking for."

  "And if it's something you can't give?"

  "I have to know what's going on," Hank said. "We're getting nowhere stumbling around in the dark, and if we don't do something, somebody's going to get hurt."

  "Somebody's already gotten hurt—or are you forgetting that one of them's dead?"

  "They aren't going to know we had anything to do with that."

  "You hope."

  Hank sighed. "Okay. So feed me some ideas. We've already tried to stay out of it, but that didn't work. They trashed Lily's apartment and came looking for her in Tucson. Do I wait until she's dead before doing something?"

  Moth didn't reply immediately. He lit up another smoke and stared at the dark houses across the street, then finally stood up. "Okay," he said. "I'll talk to Eddie."

  11.

  Sender: dgavin@tama.com

  Date: Sun, 1 Sep 1996 15:40:22 ?0500

  From: 'Donna Gavin'

  Organization: Tamarack Publishing

  To: Lcarson2@cybercare.com

  Subject: Check this out

  Okay, now before you say anything, I didn't tell anybody what you told me. But I have been doing some research into this whole 'bird people' business. (Hello? Do you feel as weird as I do taking this seriously?)

  Anyways, you know that guy Andy Parks in Sales that I told you about: the one who acts like he knows *everything* and, unfortunately, is really bright and not in your face about it so that you can't hate him for being so damn smart?

  I called him up earlier today and pretended I'd been talking to a writer who's trying to research legends and folktales and stuff about crows that can also be people, but she couldn't find any reference material on it, so did he have any suggestions. What, like werewolves, except they're crows? he says. So I go, I guess, except then he says, wait a minute, isn't there some kind of Indian thing about (I hope I get this word right) shapeshifters. Or was it shapechangers?

  Well, the upshot is, he says he'll look into it and I figure, that's that, he's blowing me off, only he calls me back a coup
le of hours later and says the only thing he can find on our bird people, crows in particular, is this book called Kickaha Wings, which was written by a retired Butler U. prof (!) who still lives in Newford (!!). His name is Bramley Dapple. I think I actually remember him. Didn't he teach art history and actually look a little bit like a bird himself?

  Andy doesn't have a copy of the book himself, but he knows someone who does. He says it's a fairly slim volume collecting a handful of Kickaha myths dealing with shapeshifting bird entities, published by East Side Press in Newford (that's still Alan Grant's imprint, isn't it?) and illustrated in what Andy's friend calls a Rorschach inkblot style by a Barbara Nichols.

  If they don't have a copy at the library, though they really should, considering the author's local and all, Andy's offered to photocopy his friend's copy for you.

  >won't be back until late Monday night

  Well, I hope you had a good time in Tucson and I expect a full report.

  You are being very careful, aren't you?

  Love

  D.

  A soft tap on the door of her office made Lily look up from Donna's latest email. She smiled when she saw Hank standing there.

  "Everything working all right?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "The computer and modem seem to be okay, but my printer won't work. All the parts look the way they're supposed to—at least I'm pretty sure they do—so it must be something internal."

  The screen on her monitor had been smashed as well, but she'd hung on to her old monochrome dinosaur, storing it in the closet. They'd only knocked it over onto its side and it still worked.