"Then follow. Stay as close to the water as you can. I will go to Tarrytown and check in to the motel. Maybe you find something tonight. If not, tomorrow we continue together. Okay?"
"All right," Jack said. He hung up. For a moment he stared at the Hudson, hoping for some clue. But just standing there was not following. He left the Walkway and headed for his car. He was almost there when he turned back.
There was a small park at the base of the Walkway, a few trees and a couple of picnic tables at the edge of the river. He went there now, and crouched by some rocks, as close as he could get to the water. For several minutes he scanned the flow, the ice, the choppiness from the slight wind. He was about to leave when he spotted several white objects just a couple feet away from the damp stones.
Jack couldn't tell what they were until he managed to snatch them from the river. When he held them in his hand they turned out to be bones and feathers, three of each. The bones were shorter, only about five inches, with the feathers about seven. All Jack knew about anatomy he got from watching crime shows on television, but he somehow knew the bones were human. And the feathers—he got out the black feather he'd found at Peter Midnight's grave, held the two of them up together. Identical. Was there a bird that had both black and white feathers? Or came in two versions?
He put away the black one and stared at the white. It reminded him of something . . . Xoltan! His Juggler's table at the carnival had three white feathers, and Jack was pretty sure they were cousins to this one. As far as Jack could remember, no one, not even Mr. Green, had any idea what they were, or why they were there. "Tradition," was the best Green could offer. Jack had tried waving them over the cards for show but quickly decided it was too corny.
And the bones? The dice, he realized. The dice on the table, that he never used in his act, they were really old and carved from actual bones. What were they doing there? And why had the river given him these gifts? He looked at them some more, then put them in his coat pockets, the bones in the left, the feathers in the right, and headed for his car. Follow the waters.
The Metro-North commuter railroad ran along the Hudson, which meant that every ten or fifteen miles there'd be a small station with a parking lot near the water. Jack developed a kind of rhythm, finding the station, making his way down to the river and getting as close to the water as he could, squat down and stare at the choppy water, the chunks of ice (smaller as he went downriver towards the city), the trees and weeds and rocks, any birds that flew overhead. There were none with white feathers, but at three places, Garrison and Cold Spring and Peekskill, he found that same combination, in twos this time, a pair of bones and a pair of feathers. The feathers were all identical, the bones varied slightly in length, but he still had no idea what they meant.
He found himself angry at the Nude Owl. For a Knowledge Elemental, she sure held things back. More like a Riddle Elemental, he thought. Someone for whom every wall is a crack. He studied the bones and feathers for cracks but didn't find any. Ice was filled with cracks, and a river was like a giant crack in the land. And if feathers were torn from a bird, or bones from a body, were those cracks?
There was a word that seemed just beyond him—another term for a crack—and he could feel it had something to do with the bones, but couldn't seem to get it. At Ossining he saw a pair of fish, sturgeons, he thought, leaping in the water. In the 19th century, he knew, sturgeon fishing was a major industry along the Hudson—King Sturgeon, they were called, but he'd thought they'd all died out. A fish leaping made cracks in the water. Bones and feathers had to be taken out through cracks in the body. Damn. He just couldn't get it.
He arrived at the Sleepy Hollow Motel outside Tarrytown a little after midnight. Jack and Carolien had stayed there once over a weekend, when Carolien had gone to meet the Council of Frogs. He spotted Carolien's Altima outside room thirty-two, but did not find a spot alongside her, so parked by the office. He was about to walk to the room when a tenor voice behind him said, "Excuse me, sir, have you checked in?"
Jack turned and saw a white man no older than twenty, dressed in black pants and a white shirt buttoned to the neck. Jack said, "I'm meeting Ms. Hounstra in thirty-two."
"Oh, sorry, Mr. Hounstra," the young man said, then "Your wife registered but I'm afraid you still need to sign in."
Jack considered glamming the kid to get rid of him, but remembered how Anatolie would tell him "Save your special skills for when ordinary wit will not suffice." So he just said, "Ja, natuurlyk," then, "Sorry, I mean yes, of course." In the office he signed the register as "Johannes Hounstra" and said "Dank je wel. I mean, thank you." The clerk nodded and said "Your wife has the keys."
When Jack let himself in the room Carolien was lying on the bed, wearing only her painter's smock, and reading a book. Jack said, "Married? Really?"
She smiled that dazzling smile, so vast and soft all at once. "I thought a little amusement might help."
He sat down beside her and said, "Come here, Wifey," and kissed her. What are you reading?"
She held up the obviously ancient volume, probably "borrowed" from the NYTAS library. Chief Arthur did not like anyone taking NYTAS property off the premises, especially when that property originated in the "extensions," that is, rooms, or vaults, or even woods that existed "outside," as the Travelers said. The NYTAS Library was housed in a building at least three times the size of headquarters, even though you entered it through a door down the hallway from Arthur's office. Not even Carolien knew its full size.
Jack looked at the gold letters of the title. "The Emptiness of the Waters." He made a noise. Anatolie had mentioned the book to him once, told him not to read it, it would just confuse him. He felt a sudden regret that he'd never introduced Carolien to his teacher. He said, "Anything?"
"Only if you find this of deep meaning. 'At the back of the head the Sky is Blue. Fill your face with Fire and your mouth with dust.'"
"Yeah, that helps a lot," Jack said. "I want to show you something." He slid back to make room on the bed, then set out the bones and feathers and told her how he'd found them.
She ignored the bones for a moment and held up the nine feathers before her. Softly she said "These are raven feathers."
"What?" Jack said. He took out the Peter Midnight feather and said, "Ravens aren't white. They're—" He stopped, then said "Jesus. The White Ravens. These feathers are not from this world. They've crossed over."
Carolien said "Find a man for whom every wall is a crack." She picked up the bones in her hand, studied them. "These are human," she said.
"Yes. I thought that, too."
"I think—I think they are from the one you seek."
"Please don't tell me he's dead!"
"No, no. He's—Verdamme! I know who—what—this is, but I cannot—"
He stood up. "Then we just have to keep looking. Follow the waters."
"Schatje, you are too tired. You would miss any signs or messages. You need to rest, at least until dawn."
Reluctantly, Jack let the sense of what she was saying overcome his guilt. And there was another layer to the question of time. Genie was only in such danger now because Jack had let her linger there for so damn long. Or so it seemed, so it felt emotionally. But in the Non-Linear world of the Travelers things very often happened in their own time. He had tried to rescue his daughter. For the first three years or so he'd driven the people and other beings in his life crazy by begging, demanding, and scheming to try and do this thing that couldn't be done.
And other times, too. This wasn't the first time he'd pressured Barney, with no greater luck than now. He'd asked Margaret what to do, tried to insinuate that she owed him for dragging him into her crazy arrangement of her own death. She didn't actually refuse him, only said she could only discover information that was hidden, not something that didn't exist.
So what had changed? The Nude Owl indicated that there was a way
to get Genie out. Had the Forest actually shifted in some way, due to the Culling? Was that why this mysterious figure, for whom every wall was a crack, was suddenly a possibility? As Jack slid towards sleep he thought how this crack person wanted Jack to find him. But he couldn't just reveal himself, he needed Jack to search for him, to become truly desperate. But why? There was only one answer to that one—there was a price. If the situation was dire enough, and Jack had looked hard enough to find whoever it was, then Jack would be willing to pay. Fuck, Jack thought. He should tell Carolien. But as he turned towards her she put a finger over his mouth, and a moment later he'd closed his eyes, and was gone.
He woke a little after five to find Carolien dressed and packed. Before Jack could demand instant action, she used her firmest Dutch voice to say, "First we have breakfast. Then the sky will be bright enough so we do not miss clues, or make mistakes." Jack looked out the window, saw it was still mostly dark, and nodded. Had he missed anything last night? He didn't think so. He was pretty sure he was meant to find the bones and feathers, and had gotten them all so far. Still, he knew he needed to eat, and as he got dressed a sudden urge for coffee shot through his body.
They went to a twenty-four hour diner they remembered from their previous visit. At this hour, it was empty, except for a straight couple in their thirties, apparently getting an early start on some family journey, and a couple of men, one black, one white, in camouflage outfits, sitting at the counter hunched over coffee. To Carolien, Jack said, "Hunting season's over, right?"
"Ja," she said, "and they are not military."
"Powers? The unfriendly sort?" Jack imagined a boulder blocking the doorway, or a sudden copse of trees grown up around their car.
"Neen," she said, the Dutch word for "No," pronounced nay. "I think maybe they are messengers but do not know it."
"Then what's the message?"
The middle-aged waitress, a blond woman with an old-fashioned punk haircut, came and took their orders. She looked already tired, with a long day ahead of her. When she'd gone, Carolien said, "What does camouflage do?"
"It hides you. Lets you blend in with your surroundings."
"Exactly. So you do not belong firmly in one world or another."
Jack said, "Huh. Like someone for whom every wall is a crack." Carolien smiled. Jack stared at the men's backs. He said "Do you think one of them is the person I'm looking for?" He half rose from his seat.
Carolien held his right hand in both of hers. "No, Jack. I am sorry. We would feel it."
He sank back. "Then what are they doing here? Are they Travelers."
"Neen. I think—I think they are puppets." Puppets were non-Travelers who did something for no apparent reason, at least not apparent to themselves, like wear camouflage outfits to a diner early in the morning. Carolien said "They are sending you a message. Or they are the message."
"Message of what? To keep away?"
"The opposite, I think. That you are getting closer. Jack—I think he or she wants to be found."
"Then why not send a real message, like where to find them? I don't have time for fucking hide and seek."
She shrugged her beautiful soft shoulders. "Maybe they can't. if you do not live in a fixed world but only in borders you cannot take action. You cannot seek but only be found."
Jack closed his eyes a moment. I know this, he thought. I know who it is. He just couldn't seem to bring it forward. Every wall is a crack—not in one world or another . . . His hands tightened into fists. Goddamnit, he ordered himself. Figure it out. Something from years ago, something he'd seen. "Damnit" he said.
"Schatje, what is it?"
Jack threw a twenty on the table. "Come on," he said, "we've got train stations to visit."
They used Jack's car, leaving Carolien's at the motel. The evening before, Carolien had downloaded a Metro-North Hudson Line timetable that listed the stations. From Tarrytown there were four express stops, Ossining, Yonkers, 125th Street, and Grand Central. But there were quite a few local ones, most of them just a platform and a ticket machine. The next was called Phillipse Manor, even though it served the village of Sleepy Hollow.
Phillipse Manor station was actually more elaborate than some others, a small but classic nineteenth century two story building of brownstone and oak timbers to hold up the slate roof. From the station you crossed a bridge over the tracks to the river side. Jack and Carolien walked to the end of the platform and climbed over a short fence to get to the water. As with most of the other stations, the river bank here was rocks and weeds. They separated by ten feet or so and squatted down to scan the water.
"Jack!" Caroline called, "To your left." Jack squinted, then jumped up to wade into the shallow water and snatch up the three feathers that were rising and falling on what Jack realized was the tidal current. The Hudson River flows from its source in Canada down to New York harbor, but several times a day the saltwater tides from the Atlantic push back upstream. The people who lived there before the Europeans, mostly Munsee to the south and Mohican to the north, called it Mohicanichtur, "river that flows two ways."
Jack scanned the water for bones or more feathers. When he didn't see any, he brought the three to Carolien. "Notice how dry they are," he said, as he held them out. Jack's hand was wet but the feathers looked like they'd been drying in a warm sun.
"May I?" Carolien asked and put out her hand.
Jack smiled at the formality. "Of course," he said as he handed them over.
She lifted them up to eye level, two in her left hand, one in her right. She said, "They are warm because they do not come from this world. Perhaps in the world of the White Ravens it is Summer now." She gave them back to him. "So. You said last night that you found three feathers the first time, and after that only two. Yes?" He nodded. "And now three again. This place is special."
"But no bones."
"No. Perhaps the specialness belongs to the Ravens. It is they who want you to take notice."
"Notice of what?" When she didn't answer, he began to walk back to the fence. Suddenly he stopped and turned to her. "Why is it called Phillipse Manor? Shouldn't it be Sleepy Hollow? All the other stations are named for the towns they serve."
She frowned a moment, then smiled. "Ah, of course. Eigenlijk—sorry, actually—it's named for a Dutchman. Frederick Phillipse." She pronounced it in the Dutch way, with rolled r's.
"Who was he?" Jack asked. He could feel excitement creep up his spine.
"He was a patroon." She pronounced it "patrone,' which made Jack think of some mafia boss. "In Nieuw Amsterdam, the original colony. When the British took over and made it New York, Heer Phillipse behaved like a good capitalist and switched sides. His new masters rewarded him with large parcels of land. So I suppose this area was indeed Phillipse manor before it became a setting for a silly story." She paused, then said, "So. Do you think he is the one? Not one side or the other? Like the camouflage men?"
Jack frowned. "No. He's not between, he just switched sides. Is there anything else about him?"
She frowned, concentrating. Carolien could travel in a way no one else could, not even Anatolie. Her mind could travel, leave her body and enter vast libraries. Now she went blank for a moment, and Jack reached out to catch her in case she fell. But it wasn't necessary, for a moment later she was back. She blinked, then stared at him with a kind of amazement. "Spuyten Duyvil!" she said. "Frederick Phillipse built the first canal at Spuyten Duyvil. Follow the waters!"
Spuyten Duyvil, Dutch for Devil's Spit, was the northern tip of Manhattan Island, where the Hudson River on the west met the Harlem River on the east. Add the tidal estuary and originally the short turn around the island's end was wild and dangerous. Though the canal tamed it, the place retained its original—Dutch—name.
The waters may have calmed, but Spuyten Duyvil was still a borderland, not exactly one thing or another. And there was som
ething else about this place. The shape of the land, the path the Metro-North train followed, because the Spit gave it no other option, formed a snake curve, an undulating S. On December 1st, 2013, an accident happened at Spuyten Duyvil. The train's engineer was supposed to brake the train to take it through the turns. Instead, he kept it at full throttle. The train derailed, killing four commuters on their way to the office. When the investigators interviewed him the engineer insisted he could not remember anything, and he had no idea why he didn't slow the train. He'd gone into a "daze," he'd said. When they tested him for alcohol and drugs he came out clean, and people assumed he'd fallen asleep.
The Travelers knew different. La Societé du Matin had taken over the engineer's body and made it impossible for him to slow the train. Spuyten Duyvil was a place of natural power, and every time a train formed that undulating serpent it raised energy. Once the train straightened again the energy dissipated, and all but a handful of passengers—the people the Travelers call "Naturals"—never even noticed it. The accident changed that. Power surged from the broken train, and especially the dead. That surge was La Societé's goal. Just why they wanted the energy no one knew, but for awhile it looked like they had gone too far. COLE seemed ready at long last to take them on, to call on the Powers to help them bring down The Old Man Of The Woods. In the end, COLE did what it always does, cover it up. They made sure the police and the insurance companies accepted the engineer's claim of innocence. The families buried their dead, helped by pay-offs from the Metropolitan Transit Authority which then installed automatic braking systems, and everyone went back to their daily commute.
Jack stared at the river. The water that flows both ways. The Devil's Spit. The snake curve where the land itself raises power. He looked at the ice floes, cracked, with thin lines, like—like fissures. A man for whom every wall is a crack, every barrier a door. Follow the waters. That feeling of having seen something. He turned toward Carolien. "Jesus," he said, his voice strange in his own head. "I know who he is." He stopped, and Carolien didn't prod him.
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