The Fissure King

by Rachel Pollack

  "Going home. It's all here. I just have to find the right order."

  "Yes, of course," Jack said. "But you know, you'll probably find it quicker if you go inside."

  She looked at him, eyes suddenly open wide, so that the sun bounced off the gold and made Jack squint. "You think so?" she said.

  "I'm sure of it." She nodded and let Jack put his arms around her and lift her gently to her feet.

  Inside, a large man in jeans and an old-fashioned blue workshirt with rolled-up sleeves put his arm around "Aggie," as he called the Lost Lady, and led her to a cot where he told her to sit quietly and he would bring her crackers and her "maps," which Jack suspected were just old circulars, take-out menus, and any other loose papers lying around.

  "Thanks for bringing her in," the worker said as he moved past Jack to his next task. This one could pass for human even better than Aggie, Jack thought, with his pleasant but not overly handsome face, his muscular six-foot-five frame, and his large, graceful hands. He struck Jack as the kind of man women looked at it in the street and he didn't even realize. If they noticed his orangey skin they could think it a bad tan. And the overly long fingers? Well, that was part of the attraction. Of course, he wasn't a man at all but a service golem, part of a set created by AADE to help the shelter's manager. The original golem, centuries ago, was made of good Prague dirt by a Traveler rabbi named Judah Loew. These days golem makers tended to use trash, because why not, there was just so much of it. Food thrown out by restaurants and medical waste were the favorites. Modern golems didn't last as long but they looked better.

  Jack glanced around for the Know-It-All, or at least Andy, whom he knew slightly. The shelter was mostly one big room with a gray cement floor (easily washable), overhead fluorescent lights that probably stayed on night and day, and high air vents covered with dense copper mesh to prevent sylphs clogging the openings. Similar shields kept the salamanders out of the heating system, but what of undines and other water spirits in the toilets? And those were just the classics. Jack had heard of a shelter in Cincinnati where they had to go into full lockdown every garbage day to stop a trash elemental from eating everything.

  Jack was wondering where Andy might be when a cold wind whipped around the room and all the lights dimmed. "Jeremy!" a voice called out. "Wings folded. You know the rules." Shivering, Jack turned to see three golems, two men and a woman, grabbing at an ice demon whose leathery wings banged against the ceiling. "Jeremy!" the voice said more sharply, and Jack turned to see Andy Martin, furious, his right arm straight out and holding what looked like an iPhone. "House rules! Right now, or I'm calling your principals. You want them to come get you?" The demon thrashed towards Andy, but Jack could see the fight had gone out of him. The wings became almost transparent as they slowly dropped down and folded into his body. A moment later he looked like a tired, white-haired old man who'd been on the street for too long. He let the golems lead him to a cot.

  Andrew Martin, five-foot-eight, 175 pounds, mid-forties, wearing jeans, black high-top sneakers, and a cream-colored shirt that might have been left from his corporate days, walked over with a smile. "Jack," he said. "Good to see a human in here. Come to volunteer?" He spoke in a bland Midwestern accent that Jack could never pin down to a particular state. For some reason, this annoyed him.

  Jack smiled and shook Andy's outstretched hand. "Not today," he said.

  "Hey, can't blame a guy for trying. Want some coffee? I've finally trained the golems to brew a fresh pot every two hours." He led Jack to where a glass carafe of coffee rested on a hot plate behind a trio of white mugs. "Milk? Sugar?"

  "Black is fine," Jack said. He took the cup and, as always these days, psychically scanned it for potions, mind formations, or other traps. It was clear, as he'd known it would be. Didn't taste too bad, he thought when he sipped it. He followed Andy to a bare metal table and a couple of folding chairs. He nodded toward the ice demon on his cot. "Jeremy his real name?" he asked.

  Andy laughed. "Course not. That's just what it sounds like to my dumb human ears. You think I have time to learn all their languages? Even if I could."

  Jack nodded. "Human mouths are not built for some of those sounds. Maybe some day I'll tell you what it's like to play cards in the Ibis Casino. Understanding the dealer's the hardest part."

  Andy said, "You know, back in the old days, learning odd languages was something I'd have my ‘people' do. Funny, isn't it? I used to have all these men and women serving me and I never learned their names. Now I'm the one serving, and it's definitely not humans. But it is service. You know?"

  "Yeah," Jack said. He thought of the days when he was young, and people called him Jack Easy. And then the geist took his family and everything changed. Maybe he and Andrew Martin were not so far apart. He said, "Do you miss it? The old days?"

  Andy grinned. "Look around, Jack. I'd be a fucking liar if I said this was how I wanted to live out my life. Do you know we had an honest-to-God shit elemental here last week? Thank God her principal came and collected her. That was not fun, let me tell you. But you know, there's something about doing this. Being of use. It's hard to describe."

  "So how did it happen? Leaving your life like that." Immediately, he added, "Shit. Probably you get asked that all the time."

  "Oddly enough, no. There's usually too much going on." He gave Jack a sharp look, as if to say, And I know you're not here just to find out about my history. But all he said was, "There wasn't any great crisis. I didn't just wake up in the morning and decide to throw everything over."

  Jack frowned. There was something odd about what Andy had just said, but he couldn't seem to place it, so he let it go.

  Andy went on, "It wasn't like we were doing horrible things. Sure, sometimes people suffered when we took over a company. Sometimes they did great. We weren't cold-hearted bastards out to destroy people. We weren't anything.

  "At first it was to get rich. Then it became a way to keep score. And then—it was nothing. Just what we did every day. So finally I decided I wanted out. Do something useful for once."

  Jack heard a moan somewhere to the left, and then it rose to a howl before it plummeted to a series of grunts. "Oh, hell" Andy said, and rolled his eyes.

  Jack turned to see some kind of ape in a long red wool dress that hid all but the brown chittering head. As Jack watched, the head changed to a deer's, and hooves stuck out from the sleeves.

  Andy didn't get up or even set down his coffee, just called out "Maribeth, we've talked about this." He sounded like Mr. Sylvio, the assistant principal from Jack's high school.

  The deer stared at Andy a moment, then seemed to collapse in on itself, and a second later became a middle-aged Korean woman with silver hair. She looked down at the floor, and said "I'm sorry, Mr. Martin." She had some kind of accent so that his name came out "Mahtin."

  Andy's eyes narrowed, then he turned back to Jack. "It's hard for them," he said. "They're used to such freedom, and then the world changes and they get stuck."

  "How'd you get started?" Jack said.

  Andy poured himself more coffee. "No big drama. The Powers keep track of people, you know that, right?"

  "Sure. I think these days they have an app for it."

  Andy laughed. "Apparently my attempts to find a worthwhile cause caught someone's attention. I was walking to my apartment one night when this thing appeared in front of me. I found out later he was an emissary."

  "Which one?"

  Andy grinned. "Well, he was twelve feet tall and green."

  Jack laughed. "Oh God, the Ur-Leprechaun!"

  "They wanted to impress me and they sure as hell did. Do you remember back before the financial crash people like me called ourselves ‘masters of the universe?'" Jack shrugged. "Now I actually met one, and the difference was pretty amazing. He offered me a choice. Take this job and be of service or have my memory wiped and spend the rest of
my life drifting from cause to cause. Pretty simple decision, don't you think?"

  "Guess so," Jack said.

  "Good." He set down his coffee. "You've paid the price, Jack, let the Ancient Mariner tell his tale. Now the reward. What can I do for you?"

  "I'm looking for the Know-It-All. Is she staying here?"

  "She? Have you decided the Knower's a woman?"

  "Who knows?"

  "Presumably she does. Sorry, Jack. You listened to me for nothing. The Know-It-All hasn't been in here for a few weeks." Jack sighed and stood up. "But I did hear that someone had seen him—her—up by the Museum of Natural History. Sleeps in the park, I guess."

  Jack nodded. Better than nothing. "Thanks, Andy." He looked around, at the bare, antiseptic walls, the stained floor, the golems who stood together like robots at rest, at Jeremy, Maribeth, and the handful of others sitting quietly or standing around, staring at nothing or leafing through magazines, all of them strangely silent. "Good luck," he said.

  "Thanks, Jack. Same to you."

  It took Jack three days to find the Nude Owl, and in the end she was just where Andy had said, in Central Park, outside the Museum of Natural History. During those seventy-two hours of looking, Sarah Strand called Jack's cell four times. He answered the first two with platitudes and promises, and after that let voicemail take it. As he searched the park, he wondered why he'd been so sure the Owl was a woman, or at least female. It was because of the Queen, he decided. They were so much alike. The Queen saw, the Owl knew. And Jack Shade stumbled around searching.

  He spotted the Owl on a raw, drizzly day, with gusts of wind that bit your face. Just over five feet tall, she was wearing so many layers—sweaters, jackets, coats, at least two pairs of pants tucked into over large brown rubber boots, scarves, and an old-fashioned Russian hat with ear-flaps—that she was nearly as wide. A round, red-cheeked face, with small hazel eyes, wide nose, and a prim pink mouth peeked out from beneath the heavy hat. Jack glanced down at his own long double-breasted black coat, his worn black riding boots, and felt under dressed, exposed.

  For a few minutes, he stood some fifteen feet away, hands in pockets, and watched the Owl, who appeared to take no notice of him. She stood very still, arms straight but held a little away from the body, head tilted back, and hummed. There was no actual tune, rather a hint of melody in the slow moans punctuated by occasional grunts or high-pitched monotones.

  People walked by, eyes averted in that relaxed New York way. A little girl tried to stop and listen until her mother pulled her away. Half a minute later the girl ran back and her mother had to come get her, this time with stern whispers of, "Not nice," and murmurs of, "people who can't help themselves," even as the girl continued to look over her shoulder. Natural, Jack thought. He half-considered taking one of his cards, writing, "Call me when you're ready," and following them to slide the card into the girl's backpack. But just then a soft voice behind him said, "Hello, Jack. It's good to see you."

  He sighed and walked over to the Nude Owl.

  "It's all right," she said. "When the time comes, she'll find her way without your card to guide her."

  Well, this should be fun, Jack thought. Could she read his mind? He hoped she only knew about events and not the thoughts that triggered them. He said, "Were you singing?"

  "Not exactly." She turned her head to look up at the Planetarium, a large globe in a glass cage. "The children are playing recordings of the Andromeda Galaxy. That name is so sweet, don't you think? If they knew its real name . . . The sad thing, you see, is that their poor little radio telescopes distort the sound. I just thought it deserved something a bit more faithful. You understand, don't you, Jack?"

  Oddly enough, Jack thought he did. He discovered he liked the Owl. People who knew about the Travelers often assumed their power lay in "magic." Spells, conjuring demons, turning lead into gold. But all that was secondary. What mattered was knowledge. Knowledge and sight. Travelers knew things about the world, why and how things exist, and this enabled them to see.

  Jack walked to a bench facing Central Park West. "Shall we sit down? You can still watch the globe."

  "That's not a problem," the Owl said as she stood with her back to the bench, placed both hands on the slightly mossy wood, and hoisted herself onto it. "It won't vanish if I don't look at it. Thank goodness, seeing is not my responsibility."

  "Ah," Jack said, "so you know she's missing."

  "The Queen. Yes."

  A trio of Asian girls about Julie's age walked by. They stared a moment at Jack and the Owl, followed by whispers and loud laughter, the kind meant to cast a net of shame over its objects. Jack realized what an odd couple they made, a tall man all in black, with rough-cut hair and a deep scar on the right side of his jaw, and a short person of indeterminate gender, wearing half a thrift shop's worth of clothes.

  Jack said "Does it bother you? People like that?"

  The Owl shrugged. "Like everyone, they do their best with what they know." Now she looked at him and there was no doubt she was smiling. "I like that name. Nude Owl. So much nicer than Know-It-All. Perhaps I shall perch in a tree tonight."

  Jack said, "I need to find her."

  "Yes, I suppose you do." As if there'd been a lull in the conversation, she said, "Have you wondered about the name?"

  "I don't understand."

  "Margaret Strand. It's so close, don't you think? Magarita Hand, Margaret Strand. She might have called herself anything. Alice, Jessica, Elaynora."

  Despite his frustration, Jack thought a moment. "Maybe it's continuity. Sarah said her mother's life as Margaret was real, not a disguise."

  "Ah, so people who must change their name prefer to hover close to the original. You might want to remember that, Johnny Non." Jack couldn't think of what to say, so he just sat there and hoped she would get onto something useful. Instead, the Owl said "Do you know what day it is?"

  "What, you mean some holiday?"

  "No, no, the day of the week."

  "Jesus," Jack said, "you know the real name of the Andromeda Galaxy but not the day of the week? It's Tuesday. A dreary November Tuesday, and I'm searching for the Queen of Eyes. Can you help me?"

  The Owl stared down at the ground as she whispered, "It's always good to know what day it is. You never know, it could be important."

  "Hey, I'm sorry," Jack said.

  Suddenly bright again, she lifted her head and said, "Do you like toys, Jack?"

  Jack thought of the happy afternoons in toy stores when Genie was a child. "Sure," he said.

  The Owl said, "Toys can form their own world, you know. For the right child. Or maybe it's a doorway. I wouldn't know, I've never had children."

  Jack stared at her. "Really?" he said. "The Toy Store? It's that simple?"

  Just above a whisper, she said, "Only a little knowledge is ever simple, Johnny."

  "Yeah, but—" Impulsively, he leaned over to hug her but she reared back and held up her arms in an X in front of her body. "No!" she said.

  "Sorry," Jack said, and stood up. "I didn't mean—thank you. Thank you so much." He walked to the curb and hailed a cab.

  "Jack!" she called as he was opening the taxi door. He turned to see her standing as still as some figurine from the Secret Beach. She said, "Why do hurricanes bear women's names?" When he didn't respond, she said, "Because they have eyes."

  As the car pulled away from the curb, the driver looked in the rearview mirror and said "Ain't he hot in all that crap?"

  "She," Jack said.

  "Huh?"

  "She's a she."

  The cabbie squinted again in the mirror at the now small form, like a soft fireplug with arms. "Jesus," he said, "how can you tell?"

  "You just have to know," Jack said.

  The Toy Store had an official name, of course, that of its famous founder, and most Normals called it
that, but Travelers only cared about his son-in-law, known as Emil S. Emil had had the bad fortune to bring the legendary store to the brink of being swallowed by some corporate serpent. Luckily, one of the ways he'd avoided business school was to dabble as a mage, enough that he knew of the existence of the New York Travelers Aid Society. "Please," he'd said to the Chief back then, a man named Sebastian Elkiado, "I'll give you anything." Then, as if he'd realized what he'd said, he'd added, "Except, I didn't mean my soul."

  Elkiado had laughed. "Whatever would we want with that?" he'd said. "All we ask, really, is that you take on a certain new attraction. It will be quite nice, I promise you. The children will love it."

  Jack wasn't sure why later owners had never dismantled the exhibit, which had stood now for half a century. Part of the contract? Or maybe it was gratitude for saving the family business. Maybe if Jack spent more time at NYTAS he would know such things.

  It was a Tuesday afternoon, and well before the Christmas shopping season, yet children and adults, not necessarily together, filled the store. At least there was no line outside the door, as there would be in a couple of weeks. He made his way past video games, and home robots, and life-sized stuffed animals, and animatronic ring-bearers with furry feet until he reached the escalator to the second floor. And when he got to the top, there it was. The Witch's Cottage, a dollhouse big enough to walk inside, and made to look like a mix of cobwebs and gingerbread.

  A short line, mostly of young kids with their parents, waited patiently behind a red rope that kept people ten feet from the door until their turn came. As Jack took his place at the end he felt a movement against his leg, and when he looked down, Ray stood beside him. Thanks, he said without words. Too bad you can't show yourself to the kids, but the store probably has an anti-fox policy. A guard dressed as some costumer's idea of a fairy-tale prince—gold velvet tunic and trousers, shiny boots, and a red cape—stood at the rope to let people in. Jack wondered if he should have borrowed a child, make it look good. Miss Yao had a grandson. He thought of the times he'd taken Genie to Macy's to sit on Santa's lap, and how odd it had felt, since unlike all the other grown-ups, Jack had known the origin of that strange practice.