The Sheri S. Tepper eBook Collection

by Sheri S. Tepper

  From that time on, whenever books were mentioned, Marianne would say, ‘You said the New Storage Area, didn’t you, Librarian?’ Whenever she was within hearing range of any figure, she would say, ‘Those books should be taken to the New Storage Area.’ So it went, day by day by day. She had become so accustomed to failure that success almost eluded her. Almost she missed the assistant librarian’s gesture toward the pile of books on her desk. Almost she missed the figure’s quiet voice saying in the usual indirect manner, ‘These books belong in the New Storage Area.’

  Marianne gathered them up. There were six or seven, not a heavy load. She had kept the two books Mr Grassi had asked for on her desk for days, for it was her intention to take these as well. If they were useful inside the library, they would be doubly useful outside, or so she reasoned. She added them to the pile and started for the door, sure someone would stop her. The doorman ignored her. She leaned against the glassy slab, feeling it move reluctantly before her slight weight, stepped through onto the portico. She trembled as she went down the steps and around the corner to the garden, to the sign. The shrubbery was full of shadows and eyes. Those who had danced, cheered, whispered through high windows were there, just out of sight, watching her through the foliage with greedy intensity. She dropped all the books but her two and fled back to the sidewalk, hearing them scrambling behind her. One of them came after her, not threatening, merely following; she could hear the scrape of shoes.

  Against her skin was the card Mr Grassi had given her. Behind her in the library was only an enormous quiet. Behind her on the sidewalk the muffled steps came on, hesitant but determined, giving notice they would go wherever she chose to go.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  She had been so intent upon leaving the library that she had spent little time planning what to do once she had escaped. She would, of course, find her way to Number Eight Manticore Street. She assumed that she would be able to ask directions, that conditions outside the library would be somehow different from conditions inside it. However, there was no one to ask. The footsteps behind her, persistent though they were, did not indicate a visible person to whom a question could be directed. She found herself walking through a neighborhood of narrow-fronted houses which stared nearsightedly at her over high stoops and scraps of entryway relieved only by tattered yews and spectral cypresses. An iron-fenced square centered this area, a stretch of weedy grass around a dilapidated bandstand where shreds of paint flickered like pennants in the light wind. She went on walking. The houses gave way to massive, windowless warehouses, every wall plastered with colored posters, layer on layer, variously tattered, all showing human figures, the irregular tearing and layering offering odd, sometimes obscene juxtapositions of hands, breasts, groins, and mouths. Occasionally a figure was untorn, almost whole, and all of these seemed to be fleeing from her as though she saw them from the back, though faces were sometimes turned over shoulders in expressions of terror. Soon the warehouses gave way to smaller buildings, dirt-fronted and surrounded by bits of rusty machinery, and then came open country stretching in a featureless plain to a distant wall which ran endlessly upon the horizon.

  In all this way there had been no person, no living thing, no sound except for the hesitant steps far behind her. Sighing, she turned to her left for a few blocks before returning on a course parallel to her original one. She began to see shops on the side streets, some of them overhanging the street in the archaic manner of fairy tale illustrations. The buildings here were plastered with the same type of paper posters she had seen on the warehouses. A little farther on the shops invaded the street she walked upon; a news kiosk, papers arrayed on the counter, caught her eye. The headline displayed on the paper said LIBRARY BOARD DISCUSSES THEFT, VANDALISM. The story beneath told of a minor clerical employee who had taken and wantonly destroyed some books. Desecration, said the paper. Citizens were alerted to apprehend, observe, notify.

  Her panic could have been observable a block away, she knew. How had there been time to print anything about her escape? It had only just happened. They must have known her plans before she herself was aware of their fruition. Or – it was someone else, not herself that they sought. And how could they seek her? They had never seen her. The story named the person: Mildred Cobb.

  Nonsense, thought Marianne. I am not Mildred Cobb. I am Marianne … Marianne … someone. Fear spoke within, self speaking to self. ‘How do you know? Could you prove this? Would they believe you? You are carrying stolen books. You are wearing the library uniform.’

  There was no one around her, no one to see her, and yet she felt eyes running upon her skin like insect feet. A bookstore stood behind the kiosk, its interior a well of dusky emptiness. When she entered it the bell gave a strangled jingle rapidly drowned in the oing, oing, oing of the spring on which it hung, a tinny whine. She crept to the rear of the store, pulled ancient books from shelves undisturbed for years, sneezing in the miasmic cloud which rose as she thrust the books and her collar into hiding. There. She could find them again, but no one else would. She started to leave, freezing in place as heavy footsteps crossed the floor above her and a deep voice called.

  ‘Somebody? You want something?’

  She gasped, managed to choke out, ‘A map of the city? You have a city map?’

  ‘Behind the counter. You want it, leave the money.’ The footsteps crossed over her once more; the creak of springs capitalized the silence which followed, a statement of condition.

  There was no Manticore Street on the map. When she returned to the street, she went on as she had been, noting the signpost at the corner so that she could find the place again, chanting it to herself as she went, ‘Billings and Twelfth. Billings and Twelfth.’ She had gone a dozen blocks more before she saw the first person. Then there were several, a woman with a dog, two men talking, then tens of them.

  There was a grocery store, cartons of fruit and vegetables on the sidewalk, jicama and artichokes, thrilps and fresh fennel. Here a pharmacy, an alchemist’s, a coffee shop with a sign in the window, ‘Dishwasher wanted.’ Here a church from which solemn music oozed like rendered fat. Here an augurer’s post, a dealer in leather goods, a feticheur. She moved among these places as though dreaming, surrounded by life and smells and sound, acutely aware of weariness and hunger. When this busy center ended in vacant streets once more, she turned to walk through it again, stopping at the coffee shop. She had no money. She needed food.

  ‘Dishwasher?’ she asked the stout woman with her sleeves rolled to her shoulders. ‘The job as dishwasher?’

  ‘Last dishwasher I had the Inquisitors took two days ago. The one before that drank. You drink?’

  Marianne shook her head, confused. ‘Not – not what you mean, no. I’d drink something now, though. I haven’t had anything all day.’

  ‘Ah. On Manticore Street, are you? Well, I’ve been there more than once. You got a place to stay? No. Well, bunk on the cot in the storeroom until you find a place. Get yourself some food in the kitchen, then you can start in on those pans.’

  The bowl of soup was half gone before the woman’s words made sense to Marianne. ‘Manticore Street, are you?’ Well, then, it was a known place. She thought of it as she ate, as she scrubbed pots, smelling the fatty soap smell of the sink, the good meat smell of the kitchen. When darkness came, the woman, Helen, shut the door and got ready to leave. Marianne asked, ‘Why do you say, “on Manticore Street”? Is it a real street?’

  ‘When you haven’t got any money, that’s being on Manticore Street,’ Helen said. ‘Because that’s where the poorhouse and the debtor’s prison are, on Twelfth Street, where the Manticore is. You’re a stranger here, aren’t you? No, don’t tell me anything. I don’t want to know. Just remember, don’t ask questions of strangers, and don’t stay on the streets any time on shut-down day. Do that, and you might last. God knows there’s enough time to last in.’ She left the place with a bitter little laugh which sounded spare and edgy from so large a woman.

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nbsp; ‘On Twelfth Street, where the Manticore is,’ said Marianne to herself. She would find it soon, perhaps tomorrow. Her hands were sore from the hot water, her feet and back ached from bending over the sink. Still, she felt closer to freedom than she had ever felt in the library. There was even a blanket on the cot to hug her with the same scratchy protection the blue one had provided.

  It was several days before she could look for Manticore Street. She did not want to go out in the library uniform, and it took a little time to earn the coins necessary to buy a bright scarf from the pushcart man, an old, warm cape from the used clothes woman, a pair of stockings to replace the ragged ones she had worn in the library. She watched the women in the place as they walked past. They were dressed as though in motley, bits and pieces of this and that, some carelessly, others with a touch of defiant flair. Still, it was apparent that any old thing would do well enough.

  She returned from her foray for stockings to find Helen reading the paper. Everyone in the city read the paper – copies of it littered the gutters and blew along the building fronts.

  ‘Tomorrow’s shut-down day,’ said Helen, folding the paper into a club with which she beat the countertop in a steady thud, thud, thud. ‘Shut-down day. I won’t be in.’

  ‘Shut-down day?’

  ‘Don’t be on the street after noon, girl. I mean it. There’s plenty to eat back here in the kitchen, plenty of cleaning to do to keep you busy. Stay in. That’s all. No – don’t ask me. I told you. Don’t ask questions.’

  ‘You said not to ask strangers.’

  ‘We’re all strangers, girl. Just do what I tell you.’

  That evening there was a tap on the window, and she looked out half fearfully to see a black, hunched form against the glass and knew it for that persistent follower who had come after her from the library. The watcher tapped on the window, refused to give up when she attempted to ignore him, but went on with the slow tap, tap, tap, not threatening, merely continuous until she could bear the sound no longer. Almost fearfully she went to the window to see a message thrust against the glass. ‘Not all who are here are Manticore meat! Will you join us?’ She did not know what this meant and did not want to encourage the watcher, but neither did it seem wise to anger him. She wrote upon a napkin the word ‘perhaps’ and held it to the pane. This seemed to satisfy him, for he scribbled, ‘I’ll come back another time,’ showed it to her briefly, then disappeared into the wind-scattered shadows of the street. Though Marianne sat in the dark, watching the window for some time, he did not return.

  Marianne told herself she would retrieve her books and look for Number Eight Manticore Street very early in the morning, only for an hour or two, returning to the shop well before noon. She left just at first light, wearing her cape, scarf tied over her head. The markets were closed. There were only a few people on the streets. Those who moved about did so furtively, scurrying short distances from this place to that like mice in a strange place. The odd looks directed at her made Marianne walk close to the buildings, staring behind her at odd moments, hurrying her steps. She went south on Billings, counting the blocks: First, Second, Third… By the time she had come to Seventh the walks were completely empty. Tattered posters glared at her from the walls, full of reaching arms and frightened eyes. A hand showed briefly at a window, flicking a curtain into place.

  When she crossed Twelfth, she was almost running. The blinds were drawn in the bookstore, but the door was not locked. She eased it open, tiptoed to the back of the store to fumble out the books she had hidden there, then hurried back to the street, the door swinging closed behind her with its insistent oing, oing, oing. She turned back to Twelfth, turned right at the corner, searching for the numbers. Eleven. Thirteen. Odd numbers. The light around her was beginning to dim, to pulse, to waver before her eyes. She ran across the street. Number Six. Number Ten. No Number Eight. Panicky, she huddled in a doorway, seeing the street crawl before her as though seen through moving air or flawed glass. It couldn’t be noon yet. Helen had said stay off the streets after noon.

  No, she cried to herself. Helen had said stay in! Her feeling of panic was growing. Number Six. Number Ten. East. East! She scurried from the doorway, turned right, pattering down the sidewalk with the heavy books clutched to her chest, gasping as though she had run miles, across Billings Street where the numbers began again, only to stop, transfixed.

  The corner shop was Number Four, a taxidermy shop, so labeled in golden script which slanted across the window in which the Manticore poised, rampant, claws extended and teeth bared in glass-eyed fury, huge and horrible. The beard of the Manticore seemed to rustle with evil life; the eyes seemed to see her. The eyes were dark and familiar, glaring at her, staring into her, transfixing her until she trembled against the glass, hypnotized as a bird is said to be by a snake, poised between surrender and fear.

  Fear won, barely. She broke away from the window, ran past a vacant store to a narrow door numbered eight at the foot of equally narrow stairs. Behind her, as she fled up this flight, came a crash of breaking glass, a hideous scream of rage, a palpable wave of fury which thrust her before it up the last few steps and through the opened door where Mr Grassi caught her, pushed her aside and leaned his whole weight against the door. It gave slowly, slowly to close against the sounds below.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, panting, ‘you cut it close, very close. Another moment would have been too late.’

  She staggered after him as he went to the window where he pulled the curtains together to peek through them at the street below. It was hard to see the street. It boiled with shadows, ran with flickering. Thicknesses of air transgressed upon sight. Things shifted, were there, were not there. Clouds of tiny beings came and went, a slightly darker surge in the general flow. Striding through it all, pace on pace of its lion feet, tail arched high above its giant man-head, came the Manticore, scorpion tail lashing as the beast followed its own manic howl along the dream-wrapped street.

  ‘There will be others,’ whispered Cani Grassi. ‘Troops of mandrakes, legions of Greasy Girls. The Manticore will lead them, and woe to those abroad upon the streets.’

  ‘She said noon!’ complained Marianne. ‘Noon! It was hours yet to noon.’

  ‘One of the conditions of this city is that time changes, speeds, slows, does what they want it to do. In this case, they speeded it. A trap for the unwary.’

  ‘They? They who? Why do they care? Why do they care about me? Who am I that they should care?’

  ‘Oh, Lords of Light,’ he fretted. ‘I hoped you knew. Truly? Oh, that makes it so much more difficult. I know you are someone very important, but I have forgotten just who. Just now it seems you are something less than that.’ He took her chapped hands tenderly in his own. ‘Cleaning lady, is it?’

  ‘Dishwasher,’ she replied absently. ‘What am I doing here?’

  ‘Ah. Why, you are suffering a malign enchantment. That much I am sure of. I thought you might have guessed.’

  She collapsed into one of the chairs beside the window, staring out blindly at the raging street below. ‘I hadn’t guessed anything. Except that it was odd I couldn’t remember anything before the library.’

  ‘Many people here are like that,’ he said. ‘They have forgotten, or been forced to forget. Even I, even I have forgotten some things I am sure are very important. Some people can remember nothing. Particularly those in the library.’

  ‘So many? And all enchanted?’

  ‘An accumulation, I believe. Some have been here for a very long time. Not only those enchanted by her!’

  ‘Why? Who is she?’

  Cani Grassi shook his head, tilted it, thrust his tongue out at the corner of his mouth. ‘I kept only a little information when I came after you, only the tiniest bit, to be sneaked through, so as not to attract attention, you understand. Too much would have alerted them, her. But a little bit, well, Macravail thought it would be safe enough. When he sent me, that is. To rescue you, whoever you are.’

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bsp; She scarcely heard this, for her eyes had been caught by a fleeing figure in the street below. ‘Helen,’ she cried. ‘It’s Helen. I must go let her in…’ And she ran toward the door, only to be caught in Grassi’s arms and held fast, struggling.

  ‘Not anyone real,’ he shook her. ‘Not real. Don’t be so quick, Marianne. Look out the window. Look!’

  The woman fled toward them; behind her the Manticore pursued with a roaring howl of madness, tail flicking steaming drops of venom onto the pavement where she ran, her hair streaming behind her and her face distorted in fear. As she ran past, she dwindled, became two-dimensional as though made of paper, a fluttering tissue which then appeared whole once more as it ran away from them down the endless street.

  Then the papery figure turned its head, stared over its own shoulder, neck folding oddly, pleating upon itself. The figure swerved close to the wall across the street, opened its mouth to scream once more and collided with the wall to hang there, a pasted-up poster figure, mouth forever open, arms forever outstretched, dress forever twisted and hiked up by the act of running. Marianne heard her own voice crying and found herself held tight against Grassi’s shoulder as he patted her back, murmuring, ‘My dear, my dear. Shh. Shhh. They aren’t real. Not in the way you suppose they are. Shh, now. Shh.’

  ‘It was Helen. Truly Helen.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ he said. ‘But you must not give way like this. You must watch and learn and understand. Otherwise, how are we to rescue you from anything? How are we to send word to Macravail? Come now.’

  ‘How are we to rescue me? Gods, Mr Grassi, how would I know? And you don’t seem to know any more than I! What is this hopeless place we have come to? Why are we here?’

  ‘My dear pretty lady, do think, do. This is no minor enchantment, no trifling play of an apprentice witch. This is an ensorcelment majeur, a chief work! Oh, these false worlds cluster about limbo thick as grapes upon a vine, great pendulous masses of them upon the dry stick of the place we came from. Oh, I grow eloquent! Each world a grape, each grape with a juice and flavor of its own, individual, unique. Each world with its own laws, its own systems. Each a prison with its own gate. Each a door with its own lock. So, so, what do we do until we know where the gate is? Where the lock is? Ha? We sneak, we sly, we peer, we pry – think child, do! We appear as nothing, negligible, not worth the notice of the powers of this place. So, who comes to help you? Ha? The tiniest spy, the weakest servant, the least noticeable familiar. Me. Cani Grassi.’ He turned himself about for her inspection, making a pouting face and wiggling his hips. ‘I brought no baggage, carried no sacks full of spells of protection, no witch bags, not an amulet even! No, no, in this place we are stronger the weaker they think we are.’