Stabenow, Dana - Powers Of Detection (Editor)

by Powers Of Detection (Editor)(lit)

  The counterfeit Audra whipped around to face me, her beautiful mouth stretched into a disdainful smile. “One of you or a thousand of you, it does not matter, Morben said in Audras voice. “I will slay you all.

  I had never gotten much pleasure out of bandying words with Morben, and I did not bother now. I merely extended my right hand and spoke a single word. “ Stone.

  The other wizard turned to a statue with its mouth half-open and its hands lifted as if to strike. He did not move again.

  I stood there a moment, smiling, then resumed my habitual reflecting spell. You could never tell where the next danger might come from, or when. It was not possible to be too careful.

  -

  To tell the truth, I had expected a more emotional reaction from the school board and my fellow wizards once it was discovered who the killer was and how I had vanquished him. Something along the lines of, “Oh, Camalyn, youre so wise, were so grateful, youve saved us all would have been entirely appropriate, I thought. Instead, the head of the school board merely said, “I suppose youll be wanting funds to hire some new instructors. My remaining staff quarreled amongst themselves over who had been most delinquent in overlooking the obvious clues that pointed to the notion that Morben was not really dead.

  I was not surprised when they ultimately decided I was most to blame. “Had Camalyn figured this out sooner, Xander said, “Borrin would not be dead.

  I could not be entirely sorry that my deductions had been so slow.

  The corollary event that probably made me happiest about the whole affair was how angry Audra was that the cautionary statuary on the promenade looked just like her, with a few enhancements. “You could have turned him back into Morben before you turned him into stone forever, she said a few days after the incident was concluded.

  “I could have, if I had wanted to risk dying for your vanity, I agreed. “I only had time for one spell. I chose to incapacitate him, not de-beautify him.

  “What if he breaks free of enchantment? Dernwerd asked in a fretful voice. “What if he comes back to life and kills us all?

  I shrugged. I wasnt too worried about it. A wizards spell generally will last for that wizards lifetime, so I, at least, should be dead before Morben had any reasonable chance of resurrection. “Get out the sledgehammer and shatter him to bits, I said. “Grind him into dust and let the wind blow him away. Its all the same to me.

  “But are we just to leave him like that forever? Xander asked. “It seems so indecent, somehow. What kind of lesson does that present for the students?

  “Not to try to kill the Headmistress, I said over my shoulder, for I was bored with the conversation and already walking away. “I dont know that they need to learn anything else while theyre here at Norwitch.

  And, come to think of it, Im not sure any of them did.

  The Boy Who Chased Seagulls

  MICHAEL ARMSTRONG

  The old man walked along the beach on his lifelong mission to collect trash and other cast-off stuff. In town the children called him the Beachcomber, or Old Man, or (not to his face) Creepazoid, but he had his own name, he thought, a name he would share if anyone asked. Hardly anyone did, and so only the beachcomber knew his true name.

  Uncle, he thought of himself. I am Uncle.

  Uncle walked the beach with steps firmer and longer than on the often icy streets of the town, an Alaska fishing town, hard on its luck and struggling to keep profit ahead of pride. On the beach he could walk as his true self, ancient and unbowed to time. Not whole, though. The beach had taken pieces of him and only rarely gave them back.

  He used an old bamboo staff, crushed smooth at the end and split in parts, for balance and defense. Like almost everything about him, he found it on the beachgiven to him by the beach, he liked to think. Uncle wore old tennis shoes with heavy socks, canvas duck pants cut off below the knees, red long johns, a wool shirt, a rumpled old dark green rain slicker, and a big floppy wool hat. His white beard hung to his chest, and his white hair poked out from under the hat.

  Uncle carried a battered old canvas back slung around one shoulder, a plastic grocery bag inside for wet or disgusting items he found on the beach. He saw it as his own special mission to collect trash. Secretly, he looked for treasure, but he found that if he had it as his stated purpose to collect trash he would find treasure that much more easily. And he had to collect everything.

  Yes, Uncle had his rules. He must pick up all plastic, anything of human manufacture, unless it was so heavy he couldnt carry it; and then he flung it above the high-tide line so that someday someone else could pick it up. Glass bottles he broke and ground into the rocky sand, to be turned into beach glass.

  Of beach glass he had some rules, too. Only worn beach glass could be picked up. No edge should be shiny, no surface unground. Pieces smaller than a fingernail should be left to return to sand. Intact glass floats, of which he had found only a dozen in all his life, he could take. Broken floats must be returned to the beach.

  Paper that would rot away he could leave if he had no room to carry it, unless he found the paper offensive, as with most fast-food wrappers. Uncle did not see it as his mission to clean up trash near parking lots or trash left by teenagers at beach parties. He picked up the faraway trash and left other trash for good citizens or bad boys on community service to haul away. He would not pick up gross diapers or tampons, used bandages, or anything similarly disgusting.

  Of natural treasures, old bones he could take, except whale bones, and seashells and interesting rocks. Sometimes he made little sculptures, like spirals of gray rock split with quartz. Uncle did not take feathers, not off the beach, except feathers of birds who stayed the winter. Certainly he did not take eagle feathers, not because that was against the lawhe did not give a shrews ass about the lawbut in respect for the eagle. He called the eagle “Uncle, like him, for that is what his name meant, and the raven “Grandfather. Even though ravens wintered, he never, ever touched their feathers. Eagle feathers he might move, binding them to the highest branch of a driftwood log, or sticking them point down into the beach.

  Of seagull feathers, he never saw them, and so didnt touch them, even though they were there. Uncle and seagulls did not get along, not since that time long ago.

  -

  On one of his walks he saw the boy chase seagulls. As an old man, an elder, Uncle saw it as his duty, right, privilege, and honor to correct the behavior of boys. Sometimes he hit them, although he hadnt done so in a long time, and sometimes he yelled at them. In his old age, though, he had come to berate them through jokes and stories.

  The boy ran ahead of Uncle on the low tideflats, out where the seagulls clustered in great flocks. The boy ran carefree in the fading summer, that month before the huge storm tides that would wipe the beach clean. Already big swells had rolled in, bringing in trash from far out to sea: soap bottles, plastic lids, broken buoys, and tangled nests of fishing line. Uncle had a bagful of trash and headed home to his driftwood beach shack up a ways on the Spit. The boy, no more than ten, ran on the flat sand, jumping over puddles and great rafts of kelp. He saw the seagulls and ran toward them. The seagulls held their ground until the last minute, then roared up in a great flight of cackling and rustling, settling down a hundred yards away. The boy did this again and again, each time making Uncle madder and madder. What had the seagulls done to the boy? Didnt they deserve their rest?

  Soon the boys path intercepted Uncles. Usually kids turned away from Uncle, but this boy who chased seagulls also dared to challenge the old man. He came up to Uncle with that nasty gleam in his eye, that puny little chest thrust forward and his chin high in the air. Oh, Uncle had seen hundreds of punks like him, and they did not scare him at all. He could sweep out with his bamboo staff and knock them off their feet so fast they wouldnt think it happened.

  Uncle thought of doing so right then. A boy who chased seagulls like that deserved a good beating. In his meaner days, he would have done just that, only there were laws agains
t old men beating up boys, and while Uncle didnt care for the laws, he did care for the inconvenience. So instead he told the boy a story.

  “Hullo, Beachcomber, the boy said.

  “Hullo, Boy Who Chases Seagulls, Uncle said.

  “Ha! The boy loved that, glad someone had noticed his mischief.

  “Why do you chase seagulls?

  “Because its fun.

  “You wouldnt think it fun if you knew what happens to boys who chase seagulls.

  “Oh, crap, the boy said.

  “What is your name? Uncle asked him.

  “Travis, he said.

  “Well, Travis, I knew a boy who chased seagulls once, and you know what happened to him? The seagulls ate him.

  “Crap, the boy said again.

  “No, no, this is true, Uncle said, smiling. “I bet you.

  “What?

  “If you dont believe my story, I will give you this, and he opened up his hand and showed him a rare blue piece of beach glass.

  Travis grinned. “OK, tell me your damn story.

  Uncle saw that grin and knew he had him hooked.

  -

  “This was long ago, Uncle said, “back when the sea ran thick with fish, and even though people fished with sailboats and oars, they caught ten times as many fish as today. A fisherman could work eight runs of salmon a summer, two weeks straight each run, and make enough to live on the whole yearand live in style, even though everything cost more then.

  “On one of those fishing boats, a beautiful strip-built boat named Mystery, a boy about your age fished with his father, older brothers, and uncles. A boy grew up fast then and could became a man in one summer, his thin shoulders and puny muscles turning broad and strong in one month. The boy had another name, one his parents had given him to honor a grandfather back in the days when men had silly names, so out of embarrassment the boy insisted everyone call him Buster.

  “When on land and walking upon beaches, Buster loved to chase seagulls. He thought them scummy birds, trash birds, because they ate fish scraps and chased each other. They shat on roofs and rocks and trucks and sometimes people, and they smelled. Buster hated seagulls and did not understand their importance to the sea, to fish, to how his family made their living. He did not understand their power.

  “So, when walking on the beach and letting himself be a boy and not a soon-to-be man, he chased seagulls. Oh, he loved the sport. He would creep up on huge flocks, for there were thousands more seagulls back then, as there were more fish (but not as many eagles), and he would scatter them. He would do this for hours, stalking them, never letting them rest, until the seagulls, disgusted, flew elsewhere, or the tide came in.

  “One day when the Mystery was out fishing, casting its nets close to a nearby island on a low tide, the boy went up to the bow to pee over the edge. No one saw him leave the men at the stern, hauling in nets, and because the boy had a reputation for being lazy, no one missed him when he didnt come back, for what happened was this. While on the bow peeing, his cock hanging out of his underpants and his green rain bibs undone and flopping down, the boy lost his balance and fell into the sea. He would say later that he didnt lose his balance, a seagull flew by and pushed him in, but what seagull could be so strong?

  “The men at the back didnt hear him splash in, didnt notice his disappearance, so busy were they hauling in nets and pulling out fish. If youve ever picked netsyou have, havent you, Travis?then youd know how only the fish matter, and how its easy to forget everything else.

  “Buster fell in headfirst, which saved him, for the cold so stunned him that it made him lose his breath, and he didnt suck in water. The cold northern ocean engulfed him, like a bear squeezing him, and he couldnt breathe, couldnt think. His rain pants caught a bubble of air that kept him afloat. He kicked off his rubber boots when they filled up with water. When he came up to the surface, he screamed and yelled and gasped for air.

  “No one heard him, of course, what with the seagulls screeching around the boat. Soon Buster lost his strength for yelling, but gained it for breathing. He sucked air, warmer than the water, and though he couldnt feel his legs or feet, his chest felt warm. If hed known anything about human physiology, he would have known that what happened was all his blood had been shunted from his limbs and to his body core, and thats what kept him alive.

  “Buster drifted away from the Mystery, toward that island. When he saw the island, he saw that he would have to make it there and out of the water. He didnt have to swim far or fast, for the tide as much as his own strength pushed him in. He fetched up on a sandy beach.

  “He gasped and coughed on that sand, out of the water and warming up quickly in the midsummer sun. Buster might have been cruel, but he wasnt stupid. He knew he would have to get to a higher beach, because the tide would eventually come inyes, you know that, dont you, Travis? See, the tide on this beach is already coming in, but Im not moving, and Im sure youre hoping this old man will finish the story before your feet get wet.

  “So, Buster crawled up that beach. It was all he could do, crawl, and it seemed to take him hours to make the journey, although it was but a few minutes. He kept passing out from the chill, but every time he felt like drifting to sleep, a seagull would swoop down and nip at him.

  “At first he thought they were saving him, as indeed they were, only they also nipped at his flesh and took little bites, once they had torn away his rain bibs and his sweatshirt. The seagulls harassed him and drove him higher up onto the beach, to his own safety, and their justice.

  “For up on the beach, by a long line of sea wrack from the last tide, a line of fresh kelp and dead crabs, a thousand seagulls waited for Buster. He crawled up to the high-tide line, hoping it would be high enough, and collapsed.

  “And the seagulls took him. They ripped at his flesh, at his back and legs, tearing out a thousand chunks of skin and muscle. They bit off the ends of his fingertips, ate his ears, ate the calluses on his feet and one of his eyes. They ate the tip of his nose and part of his lips. It was as if the seagulls knew how much to eat of him without actually killing him, so that he would suffer to the end of his days, half-blind, half-crippled, face ruined.

  “Only, the seagulls feast saved him. By then the tide had begun to come in, his father and brothers and uncles had hauled in their nets, and it happened that his father looked toward the shore of the island and saw this great cloud of seagulls. He thought they might have found a whale. Back in those days, fishermen also took whales, and even a beached whale could be worth something. Busters father took out his big mariner binoculars, looked to shore, and saw Busters flailed back, dripping red, and finally realized Buster had fallen overboard and washed up on the beach.

  “His father and uncles took a little dinghy up to the beach and rescued Buster. They wrapped him in a blanket, soon soaked with blood, and bathed him in fresh ocean water. The salt stung him so hard he couldnt cry, and it healed his wounds. Later, the town doctor stitched up the worst of the wounds as best he could. Without good fingers, though, Buster couldnt fish, and with so ugly a face and lips that could not even kiss, he never married. The only thing he could do was pick up trash and sell junk, and thats what he did until the end of his days.

  “Which is why, Travis, you shouldnt chase seagulls.

  The boy looked at him, stunned, and for a moment Uncle thought he might have reached him. Then the boy laughed, and Uncle knew his story hadnt worked. He shook his head.

  “So what happened to Buster? Travis asked. He might not have understood, but at least he appreciated a good story.

  “Buster decided he had to redeem himself to the seagulls. So mean had he treated them, though, it became a difficult task. He scrounged fish scraps and saved them for the seagulls, then saved them for the eagles to eat so they wouldnt eat the seagulls. Buster began walking the beaches for trash and junk, junk to sell or use or salvage. Sometimes when people lost things on the beach or in the sea, they would pay Buster to find them for him, and often he did
.

  “One day after Buster had become a young man, he found a bit of pink flesh on the beach, flesh that looked like no flesh he had ever seen. He put it up to what was left of his nose to smell it, and amazingly, it became his nose. The flesh just sort of oozed onto his face, and where he had not had a nose, he now did, although it stayed pink for a long time, and even when it tanned, always remained slightly lighter then the rest of his face.

  “Many months later, he found another bit of flesh, one of his fingertips. Over time, over many, many years, bit by bit he regained the parts of his body the seagulls had eaten. He realized that what happened was that the seagulls had shat him out. The seagull crap took time to gather together and become that which the seagulls had eaten. And then, of course, it took time for the flesh to wash up on the beach, and for Busterhe long ago quit using that name, thoughto find those small parts of his body. It took many bags of trash, junk, and some treasure for him to haul off, but there you go.

  Travis glared at him now, become again a surly boy. “Ah, thats just a story, he said. “Its not true. He held out his hand for the bit of blue beach glass.

  “Oh? You think not? Uncle pulled off his gloves, finger by finger, and showed Travis his wrinkled hands. “See these fingers? See how the tips look a different color? And see my lips, how what you think is scar is just that part of my lips the sea gave back? And see my nose? Uncle lifted up the corner of his hat, then, showing the boy his empty eye socket. “And see my lost eye, the eye I have searched for ever since that day long, long, ago when the boy who chased seagulls learned his lesson.

  “Creepazoid! the boy yelled, and ran away before Uncle could whack him with his bamboo staff.

  Uncle watched the boy run back up the beach, toward town. Along the way, Travis deliberately veered from his path to run through a flock of seagulls, only one or two of whom grudgingly flew up. They had grown tired of the boys game.