by Holly Lisle
“Dr. Folchek, you’ll pardon me for saying so, but you are full of shit.” Darryl crossed his arms over his chest. “There is no ‘appropriate’ thing to do on the day of your wife’s funeral. Now, I have to go take a leak. You mind?”
“Denial and hostility...” He shook his head sadly. “Of course you may use the restroom, Darryl. Please, be my guest. The door is right behind you.”
Darryl wished the door were down the hall somewhere, but he could hardly ask for a restroom further from the office. Maybe the doctor would have a nice, noisy ventilation fan. Darryl snagged a pencil from the top of a file cabinet on his way in, but Dr. Folchek caught him.
“Please leave the pencils out here, Darryl.” The man’s voice chased after him. “If you wish to write something, you are welcome to write it out here.”
Darryl put the pencil back on the cabinet and swore vehemently under his breath. He went into the bathroom, flipped on the light, and looked for the doorlock. There wasn’t one. There wasn’t a ventilation fan, either. He’d have to keep it quiet. Of course, without a pencil, his plan to write down the things Minerva needed to happen and flush the evidence once he’d written it was, well, down the toilet.
Darryl sat on the commode and looked around the bathroom. There was nothing — nothing — in there he could use to write... or scratch in wood... or smear on the floor.
There was a mirror, placed by someone who apparently enjoyed watching himself crap. Darryl wondered if the shrink himself couldn’t have stood a bit of therapy. Still, it was the first one he’d seen since the day before, when the EMTs brought him to the hospital, and his parents and the ER doctor insisted he stay at least until the shrink could do his evaluation. He’d shared a ward with a real wacko, and the room had not contained anything potentially dangerous.
Darryl looked through Minerva’s eyes at the grim terrain she faced, and at that boiling wall of cloud. “Minerva,” he whispered, as softly as he could, “sweetheart — I’m here. Give me a minute to figure out how to do this, and I’ll have you ready to go.”
He could tell she started at the sound of his voice — his view of the world in front of her jumped, then steadied again. And her voice reached him, calm and practical. “I’ll be right here.”
Darryl scrutinized the bathroom. A sink in a cheap wood cabinet, recessed fluorescent ceiling lighting with a bolted-down wire mesh over it, the toilet, a standard medical-facility hand-soap dispenser, an industrial toilet paper dispenser. The ugly mirror.
He needed to think fast. He could fake constipation if necessary, but even that would only buy him a short time.
He looked at the soap dispenser again. He could hear Folchek rummaging around in the other room. Good — keep the little bastard busy, he thought. He stood and got a good glop of soap on his finger, and with it, began to write on the mirror the things Minerva said she needed.
Minerva, her belongings and the cat became invisible — except to her husband — at the exact instant a double of each of these appeared. The double took the armed buggy, turned around, and retreated back the way Minerva had come. Meanwhile, Minerva, with her cat, her supplies, and a flying carpet that appeared in front of her, and which was also invisible, continued toward the children.
He waited a moment and watched the mirror. A tacky Persian rug with seatbelts appeared in his field of vision. “You got everything you need, Min?” he asked finally.
The scene in the mirror bounced wildly. He caught glimpses of Minerva in the weird peasant clothes he’d seen earlier, sitting in the hell-buggy she’d made, while her hands attached to a different body picked up the duffel, petted the cat, and strapped everything onto the rug. The sensation of viewing two of her was too uncomfortable to be believed. But when she glanced at herself, he looked wistfully. Even burned and filthy and ragged she was beautiful and wonderful, and he missed the hell out of her.
“Okay,” she told him. “The kids’ voices are staying around the buggy. I suppose that means the Unweaver can’t see me. I wish I knew that for sure. It’s the sort of thing I would rather be very sure of.” Her voice wobbled slightly, and she said, “Can’t you come with me? I wish you were here. I’m so scared.”
“I’m scared too,” he told her. “The dragon said the only gate is the one you came through, and I could go through it, but I’d end up the same place you started out.”
“The Stonehenge place?”
“Yes.”
He heard her sigh across worlds. “No good then. You can probably help me more where you are.”
“I know,” he said. “At least, I can if I can get back home.”
She paused as if thinking over the implications of that. “What do you mean, if you can get home?”
“I’m in a bit of trouble over here. But I think I can convince the twit who’s trying to lock me up that I’m sane.”
The bathroom door opened. “I’d say your chances of that were fairly slim, actually, Darryl.”
Darryl jerked around, and met Dr. Folchek’s eyes. “This isn’t what it looks like...” he started.
Dr. Folchek smiled a benign smile and nodded politely. “It never is. The mirror is two-way, you see. I apologize for the invasion of privacy, but I once had a lad kill himself in my bathroom. I’ve taken special precautions to make sure it never happened again.”
Dr. Folchek shook his head sadly. “I confess you came very close to convincing me you were sane. Stressed, but sane. Your sort of psychotic break is frightening, though, Darryl. To be able to keep your personal demons under such control in public, and to give in to them so totally in private—”
“You don’t understand. I’m just as sane as you are.”
“Oh, I’m certain to you everything seems that way. Neurotics worry constantly about how crazy they are; psychotics don’t. They are always certain they’re sane. But Darryl, you must understand that talking to your dead wife and attempting this sort of — er, magical — yes, magical communication with her through writing proves you have suffered a break with the real world. Please understand that a high percentage of people who suffer traumatically induced psychotic breaks recover eventually. And, God knows, the trauma you’ve suffered is enough to induce ...”
Darryl tuned him out. Behind him stood Birkwelch. “So much for making ‘em believe you were normal, eh?”
“Yep,” Darryl said.
“Yep?” Dr. Folchek stopped in mid-harangue and stared at Darryl. “Yep, what?”
“Let’s have some fun. Wiggle your fingers at him,” Birkwelch suggested. “Something magical-looking.”
Darryl grinned, and made a few mystic passes with his hands, and uttered a couple of nonsense syllables. “Hod ka-hooda, nokooda noo,” he intoned — and just for fun, crossed his eyes.
The dragon slowly lifted the doctor off the floor. The doctor began to shout, and then to scream. “Do a circle,” Birkwelch said next.
Darryl slowly traced a circle in the air with his finger, and Birkwelch turned the doctor upside down.
Darryl made shooing motions with his hands, and Birkwelch backed the inverted doctor out into the main office. “They have this all on tape, you know,” Birkwelch said.
“No shit?” Darryl grinned. “That ought to be good for another psychotic break or two.”
“Darryl,” the doctor said, “you must realize that these paranormal abilities are an outgrowth of your psychotic break from reality, and terribly dangerous. Please let me help you.”
Darryl ignored him. He glared at the dragon, who had deposited the screaming doctor, still upside down, into his office chair. “Where the hell were you?”
“Waiting back at the house for you. I did think you would be able to convince these yo-yos you were sane without help from me — probably a lot better than you could with my help.” The dragon snorted a thin puff of smoke into the doctor’s face, and the man began to cough. “Obviously I had too much faith in you.”
“Fuck off,” Darryl said, then grinned. “You can only convince
them you’re sane if they want to believe it. This turkey didn’t.” He looked toward the office door. “I imagine all hell is breaking loose out there. How do you propose we get out of here?”
“In the time-honored manner.” The dragon pointed to the doctor’s closet, and Darryl walked over and pulled out a set of scrubs.
“Wear those,” the dragon suggested.
Darryl laughed. “Sure. Why not?” He quickly stripped off his patient gown and put on the scrubs. Birkwelch held the doctor’s feet; Darryl removed his sneakers while the man struggled and screamed. Darryl put them on. “Shit,” he said. “Minerva has feet this size.” He let his heels hang out the back. “Car?”
“I brought mine.”
“That mean you’re driving?”
“I don’t intend to let you drive my car.”
The office door flew open, and several men dressed like Darryl ran in. They stopped when they saw the doctor upside down in his chair.
“I found him like that,” Darryl said. “Babbling about flying. You got him?”
The doctor was screaming, “Stop him! Stop him!”
One of the orderlies nodded and started over to help Folchek, but the other stared at him suspiciously. “And who the hell are you?”
Darryl, primed by years of Minerva’s hospital stories, sighed. “New radiologist. Willy Hill. I need to get back to work.” He nodded to both men, and eased out the door.
“He’s a patient,” Folchek screeched.
Darryl and the dragon darted into the fire escape, and once hidden in the closed stairway, ran like hell.
“Be glad,” the dragon said, “they didn’t stick you on the locked ward. I would have had to take out a wall, and that would have been very hard to explain.”
Darryl concentrated on running. He didn’t bother answering.
They’d made it from the fifth floor down to the second when Darryl heard sirens.
“Ambulance?” he asked Birkwelch.
“Police.” The dragon sounded certain.
Darryl wished there were some sort of window in the stairwell. He wanted to look out into the parking lot and see where the police cars were stopping. “Maybe they’re going to the Emergency Room,” he suggested. “Minerva says the police end up in the ER a lot.”
“That’s on the other side of the building from here.”
“Don’t suppose they’re after us, do you?” Darryl said, though he figured they probably were.
“Nope.” The dragon’s voice was cheerful, and he glanced back at Darryl and grinned. “Not after us at all.”
“Well, good.”
“After you. They can’t see me.”
“I hate dragons,” Darryl muttered.
They hit the bottom landing and charged into the hall. Two police officers stood there, waiting. As Darryl careened into view, they both pulled weapons and aimed them at him.
“He went that way!” Darryl yelled and pointed down the hall.
“Don’t even try it,” the police officer said. “You’re going to have to go back upstairs with us. If you go without any trouble, we won’t have to put handcuffs on you.”
“Birkwelch!” Darryl looked past the police officers to the dragon, who shrugged his wings.
“I can’t stop bullets for you, pal. You’d better go with them for now.” His face rilles flicked up and down. “I’ll see if I can’t figure out a way to spring you.”
Darryl felt bitterness in his heart. “Oh, thanks,” he snarled back at the dragon, as the policemen led him to the elevator. “Thanks just tons.”
* * *
Barney, Jamie, and Carol sat around the crystal ball and watched Mommy coming to rescue them.
“She looks like Sigourney Weaver in Alien,” Jamie said.
“She looks like Rambo,” Barney added. Then he thought about that a second. “Except pretty,” he added.
They cheered her on. Barney yelled and screamed as she’d passed the worm-monsters — who were looking pretty good, he thought. Jamie raised his fists in the air — his victory sign. Carol hugged herself and laughed and shouted.
Mommy was coming. This time, she was going to get them.
In the middle of the picture, a shadow suddenly twisted like smoke. It crowded out the picture of Mommy — and it looked at them with glowing red eyes.
It started to laugh.
“She won’t be coming, children. She isn’t strong enough — and she isn’t brave enough.” The Unweaver kept laughing. “And besides, you’re going to tell her to go back.”
“No, we aren’t,” Jamie said.
“Yes, you are. Would you like to hear?”
The children froze. Suddenly, they heard Carol’s voice.
“Mommy, the crazy man says he’ll hurt us if you come here.”
“That wasn’t me, Mommy,” Carol yelled, but Barney knew it didn’t matter. The Unweebil wouldn’t let her hear the real kid voices. Unless...
Barney did a magic, and yelled, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! I’m so scared! Come get me!” but the Unweebil shot fire out of the crystal and burned him, and he screamed.
“No more of that,” the Unweebil said. “I’ll say what I want said, thank you very much.”
Then Jamie’s voice started without him.
“Mom, this guy says you gave us to him because you didn’t want us anymore. He’s lying, isn’t he?”
“I never said that!” Jamie shrieked.
“Mommy,” Barney’s voice begged, “go back. Or he’s gonna kill us. You gotta go back.”
“No, Mommy. Don’t listen to the Unweebil,” Barney begged. “Please, please, please don’t listen.”
Their voices went on and on without them, saying things they would never have said.
Barney, Carol, and Jamie sat and watched in silence. Their mother parked her buggy on the road and waited. She listened, and from time to time, her mouth moved, but she didn’t really say anything out loud — except to Murp.
And then, as all three of them looked on, she turned around and drove back the way she’d come.
They screamed and pleaded and begged and made every promise they could think of — but finally Carol couldn’t stand it anymore. She stared at the crystal ball and screamed, “Break! Break!”
Barney joined in the chant with her. Then Jamie did, too.
“Break!” they all screamed at the crystal ball. “Break! Break! Break!”
The glass shattered, and the picture of their mother’s retreating back vanished in the shards of broken glass.
“I hate you, Mommy,” Barney whispered.
Carol bit her lip. “I hate you, too.”
“I will never forgive you, and I will never love you again,” Jamie said.
All around him, Barney could hear the Unweebil’s soft, snakey laugh. It didn’t matter anymore, he thought. Nothing mattered.
He started to cry, and threw himself down on the mattress. Jamie and Carol did the same.
“We’re never gonna get out of here now,” Jamie said between sobs. “Never. Never, ever, ever. We’re gonna die here.”
“I know,” Barney said.
CHAPTER 13
The flying carpet had lifted off the ground the instant Minerva uttered the word “go” and tore off toward the Unweaver’s domain. The carpet had seemed simple enough — in fact, nothing she’d thought of could have seemed simpler. Sit on a flying rug and go where you want to go.
In practice, flying a carpet turned out to be rife with unexpected problems.
The carpet wriggled and swayed beneath her. Minerva hadn’t felt so green since the time she went sailing with friends and found out she was, in fact, the type of person who got sick while sailing in small vessels — even in very, very calm seas. She hadn’t thought she would be; she had always believed people who got seasick were sissies or hysterics. She’d assumed that she, who had been a tomboy as a child and who still wasn’t afraid of much of anything, would take to the sea like a fish.
Camels, ships of the desert, had more
business in the ocean than she.
Sailing the high seas, though, was a pleasure jaunt compared to this ordeal. Minerva fought to keep the carpet level. She leaned forward, trying to hold the front straight to keep it from shimmying in the wind; but she overbalanced, and she and the carpet and everything on it went into a forward roll that left her flying while hanging upside down. She was strapped on — thank heavens for safety belts and the common sense to wear them. She gripped her glasses with one hand and watched the ground rushing under her, very far away. Even in her nightmares, she’d never experienced anything like this.
Help! she thought. She would have welcomed rescue from the Unweaver. Barring that, she would have welcomed a single glimmering of inspiration.
Kayaks, she suddenly thought. People who ride in kayaks go upside down.
Minerva swung her upper body from side to side in a move she hoped approximated a kayak roll. She wanted with all her heart and soul to be upright again. After dangling far too long swinging back and forth like the clapper of a bell, she built up enough speed to flip upright — and enough speed, unfortunately, to go right on over and down the other side. She managed to stay calm, kept rolling, and swung up again.
She flung out her arms and stopped her roll while she was still upright that time, but the left edge of the rug curled under when she did. The carpet side-slipped in a maneuver guaranteed to thrill a fighter pilot.
“A-a-a-yyyygh!” Minerva swore, yanked frantically at the carpet side, and nearly flung her hands over her lace as the flying rug skimmed the top of the mud flats before gaining altitude again. Slowly it came back under control. When she was fairly certain she wasn’t going to die in the next instant, she cautiously inched her hands forward along the edges of the rug until she held the corners, then spread them as straight and tight as she could. The carpet wallowed like a pig, but did not roll or dive or flip over again.
