My few memories of the place are a jumble of corridors and things that sometimes spoke and erratic sessions with intense people whose words said less than did their actions, whose favorite pen or lucky coin might warn me to never ever speak with them or they would drive me as mad as they had Dylan.
Dylan. I had not even realized that I knew his name, but now I recalled him. Skinny, eyes full of fear. Ears full of voices that he could answer in a way I could not.
I bite on the knuckle of one balled fist, fighting a certain urge to scream. For in that moment, everything in the room is talking to me—Abalone’s tappety-tap, the hammock beneath me, the walls, the painted tent from which Head Wolf is emerging, Edelweiss’s pillow.
Clamping my hands over my ears, I scream, “Much learning doth make thee mad!”
Abalone comes awake so suddenly that only habit keeps her from falling. Those of the Free People who have not gone hunting grow silent and then their eyes turn to me, the buzz of their voices rising.
Head Wolf grabs a ladder and swarms upward. He lands beside me, gesturing the eyes away, but it is Abalone’s shoulder on which I weep, burying my eyes and aching senses in her sweet-smelling skin as if it will smother this sudden awareness.
As she pats me, muttering soothing nonsense, the voices fade until all I hear are hers and Head Wolf’s. Concerned, Betwixt and Between whisper softly to each other and Conejito Moreno.
Grabbing a guide rope for stability in a way I have not since I graduated from the cubwalks, I finally sit up, wiping my eyes on my shirt. Neither Head Wolf nor Abalone ask me to explain what happened. Perhaps they know I could not find the words.
“She was stressed out when I came in this morning,” Abalone offers, searching for an explanation. “Did something happen to her while I was gone?”
“Bumblebee made a move on her, but she handled it well.” Head Wolf considers, swinging back and forth, his feet anchored on a cable. “You have been working her hard. Give her a rest—I’ll absorb the fee.”
“Thanks.” Abalone’s tone is threaded with emotions I am too drained to reach after. “Beer and pizza.”
That dawn, we are heading back to the Jungle after spending the night with Professor Isabella when Peep intercepts us. He draws us away into the trash-filled alcove between two rusting tanks with a conspiratorial jerk of his head.
Something in me hurts as I look at the transformation the Tail Wolves have wrought in him. He has been poured into a skintight yellow tank top and a pair of matching pants that hug his little boy’s ass. His sun-bleached brown hair has been styled so that his bangs drop coquettishly over his left eye and his M&M eyes have been ringed with eyeliner. The pupils are wider than they should be, even in the dim light.
“Edelweiss said keep quiet and the Tail Wolves, they say so, too. The Four, they not so sure, but I make up my own mind.”
He smiles at us, an innocent boy’s smile from which the streetwise cynicism vanishes for a moment. Then he draws us closer.
“I decide for me”—he pokes himself in the chest—“I hear you saved my conejito for me, when I left it this nighttime.”
I nod, quivering at the memory of what Betwixt and Between’s talk with Conejito Moreno had released. Abalone steadies me.
“She did,” she confirms. “You thanking her?”
“Yes, I pay my dues.” Peep hesitates, then, “The Home is hunting Sarah—they want to take her back.”
Inadvertently, I tense, but Abalone is still holding my hand.
“How do you know this, Peep?”
“The word’s out.” He shrugs. “The Home has room and wants back those that they let loose—like her. Some might be real happy, but I don’t think she’d be—she’s one of the Free People, like you an’ me.”
He touches the running wolf that fastens his belt and Abalone raises a finger to her tattoo.
“Yes, Sarah’s one of us,” she agrees. “Thanks, Peep, I’ll check this out.”
“We be of one blood ye and I,” he confirms, and with a brotherly grin for me, moves out into the street.
Abalone and I wait to let him get clear before following.
“The Tail Wolves never have liked that you didn’t join them—but don’t take that personally,” Abalone says. “They’re still your Pack. We’ll sleep on this—no one’ll find you here. In the evening, we’ll go and see if Professor Isabella has heard more. We can also speak with Jerome or Balika and ask how hard the Home is looking or if this is just a gesture to make peace with the public for throwing nutcases out into the streets.”
We duck into the halogen-lit tangle of the Jungle, alive with the Pack returning from the night’s hunting. Music dins from a dozen sources; lithe bodies with hair and skin in every color planned by God, and many never anticipated, hang from the Web. Laughter and joking compete with the music.
Peep, Conejito Moreno snuggled under his arm, sucks his thumb in his hammock while Bumblebee rocks him. Deep in conversation with Midline of the Four, Head Wolf pauses from painting a denim jacket. Edelweiss and Chocolate arm wrestle near a camp stove.
An ordinary dawn before sleep stills the Free People. I climb to my place, loving the colorful chaos with my eyes as I cannot with words.
Abalone tucks me in with a tenderness she has rarely shown since her earliest days as my Baloo. She makes certain that Betwixt and Between are near at hand.
Despite her tenderness, fear that I will lose all of this makes me shudder.
“You okay, Sarah?” she asks.
“There’s no place like Home,” I say, struggling for her to understand.
“Don’t worry, Sarah. I won’t send you back unless you want to go.”
Reassured, I drift off to sleep, hearing the Jungle settle in around me. My dreams are peaceful.
When night comes, with amazement Betwixt and Between tell me that Head Wolf had spent the day perched in the Reaches near my head, unmoving, but ready to battle my demons should they trouble my sleep.
That evening we go out into a night already dark, crisp, and cold. Christmas lights shine from windows and reflect off the ice and dirty snow that clumps in corners and potholes in the streets and walkways.
Professor Isabella is late to meet us and when she does, she is uncommonly quiet. Finally, Abalone coaxes from her that she had been at the funeral of another street person, an older man who had frozen to death when the damp from the grate on which he typically slept so saturated his clothing that the faint heat was not enough to keep him from catching pneumonia.
“They buried him in a pauper’s grave—unmarked except for a code number in case anyone ever traces him and matches whoever he was to his file. Only a few of us came and…”
She trails off.
I reach and touch her arm. “Now with his love, so his colde grave, alone withouten any compaignye.”
“Yes, Sarah,” she says. “You do understand, don’t you?”
As we hurry to When I Was Hungry, Abalone tells Professor Isabella about Peep’s rumor.
“Odd,” she says when the report is finished. “I’ve heard nothing about this, yet I’m certain that at least two of the Tabaqui who are usually by the Station are from the Home. No one has come looking for them.”
Troubled, Abalone starts to slow, but a cold gust of wind pushes her along. We talk little more until we are at the table in the steamy soup kitchen, seated a bit apart from the rest. Jerome has noticed our arrival, but it will be sometime before he can join us.
I am wiping the extra cream sauce from Between’s jaw when Jerome comes over. He carries a coffeepot and seems relaxed.
“Evening, folks,” he says. “Getting too cold these nights for man or beast, so we’re going to be staying open with hot coffee and tea and a space for those who’ll doss on the floor or tabletop. Pass the word to those who might need it.”
Delicately, he does not speak as if we need this help. I wonder if he will ever learn that Abalone has been anonymously dropping the kitchen supplies—a case of co
ffee last time. Suddenly, it occurs to me that her generosity may be the reason that the place is staying open later and I feel good.
“Speaking of getting the word,” Abalone says, “we hear that the Home is taking back some of the nutcases they pitched out.”
Jerome’s dark face creases. “I haven’t heard any of that, Abalone. Rumor runs the other way—that we may lose more bed space. Your source good?”
“Thought so, spoke as if worried for Sarah, like they’d make her go back.”
Jerome pats my hand. “No, you’re safe, Sarah. Odd company you keep, but you do seem to be doing just fine. Not like some. I saw two of your old pals. Remember Francis and Ali?”
I nod, wrinkling my nose in distaste.
He laughs, but memory stills the laughter in his throat.
“They looked terrible. Ragged and filthy, hungry, sick. It tore me to send them on with just a meal.”
“Were they here?” Abalone asks and I know she means to find them.
“Yes…No, wait!” Jerome looks puzzled. “It was at the Home—a week or so ago. I remember because I slid them both double portions of pancakes and we never do anything that fancy here. Sorry, one chow line runs into another after a while.”
“Strange,” Professor Isabella says. “Very strange. There may be something to your rumor, Abalone.”
Abalone nods slowly. “Yeah, Jerome, could you ask, quiet-like, about why those guys were brought back in and maybe about this rumor? Please.”
She bats her eyelashes at him and with her fiery buzz and blue lips is such a ludicrous parody of the little girl that we all burst out laughing.
“I’ll do what I can,” Jerome promises, “but I’m not exactly in Admin Center.”
Professor Isabella smiles, almost wickedly. “Do what you can, Jerome, but don’t get yourself in trouble. I may know someone in the Admin Center.”
We finish our coffee and step into the cold. As we hustle along toward one of our safe spots, I search and find almost the question I want to ask. When we pause at a crosswalk, I ask Professor Isabella.
“Who are you? Are you nobody, too?”
She looks at me, deciphering. “Who am I? Am I nobody, too? Ah! Clever, Sarah.”
We cross and she continues, “Yes, I am nobody, Sarah, but I still know someone in the Admin Center. So do you.”
Puzzled, I review the sea of faces, most without names, from my years at the Home. Most of those I knew well enough to beg a favor of—if I could make them understand me—were like Jerome or Nani, my sewing teacher, staff, not administration. I shrug.
“I’m nobody,” I admit. “Who are you? Are you nobody, too?”
“Yes”—she nudges Abalone who has been listening with lively interest—“but I know someone who can get us into Admin Center’s very heart. Abalone here, with her skillful tappety-tap.”
“Hmm.” The blue lips curl. “Yes, let’s rent a room.” We check into an automated facility, Abalone resisting the urge to reprogram the computer to give us our room for free. Once in, Professor Isabella goes to shower and I sit and whisper with Betwixt and Between so that I will not disturb Abalone.
She mutters to herself as she secures us from tracing and then starts into the Home’s systems. If I try, I can hear her tappety-tap answering her—cursing back when she swears, cheering along with her as they break a security code, sniffling indignantly at the slovenly programming.
When Abalone was teaching me to drive, I learned that she heard nothing but the flat synthetic voice used by some programs. Now, I try not to hear because it seems like eavesdropping on lovers, but sadder because the beloved is deaf to the whispered endearments, encouragement, and support.
My dragons have been unusually quiet since the previous evening’s conversation with Conejito Moreno and the events following. I wonder if they are still worrying that I will freak out. Surely that would be terrible for them, because they have already lost Dylan. I scratch Betwixt’s eye ridge, rubbing in front of Between’s nose horn at the same time.
Both seem to stretch and lean into my fingers.
“In much wisdom is much grief,” I say softly, breathing mute thanksgiving to those mad-folk who raved in passages from the Bible, “and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.”
“Think we’re sad, Sarah?” Betwixt asks.
I nod.
“Yeah, we are but—Hey! Don’t stop scratching!—You scared us. We thought we’d hurt you.”
“I am a brother to dragons, a companion to owls,” I repeat.
The red eyes sparkle gratefully.
Between says, “We do know stuff from when you were little, back in the Institute. You’re a success, Sarah. The only one who ended up crazy and out of there. We lost Dylan; we don’t want to lose you.”
Questions for which I lack words flutter into my throat and get trapped there. My hands rise to shake them free.
“Easy, Sarah.” Professor Isabella has reemerged, wrapped in a towel. “Calm down.”
I let my hands fall and the dragons look at each other, sighing simultaneously so that they blow up each other’s noses. Unable to help myself, I giggle. Professor Isabella shakes her head with concern and retreats to dress. I realize that she too, is worried that I am losing control.
Between nods thoughtfully. “We can’t explain it, Sarah. We’re just us and the Institute people weren’t exactly chatty.”
Betwixt interrupts. “You know the Bible quote? ‘Eyes have they, but they see not. They have ears, but they hear not’? Someone wanted people who could hear and see what most people can’t and that’s you and that’s Dylan and that’s too much for any human.”
I nod and hold up my hand, signaling “enough.” I need to think, to reflect. Memories without words are rising up and I know if I do not carefully handle them, I will be drowned.
When Professor Isabella returns, coifed and wearing only one skirt and sweater, Abalone ignores her questions and keeps working. She does nod thanks when the professor supplies her with cocoa from a vending machine. Then the two of us withdraw to a corner and Professor begins to read to me from the collected works of Mark Twain.
We are both so immersed in the essay she is reading that when Abalone lets out a long whistle of amazement, we both jump.
“Found something?” Professor Isabella asks, flipping off the portable library screen that Abalone had bought soon after our first meeting.
“And something,” Abalone confirms, rumpling her unrumpleable hair. “The outer programs were a breeze. I could have gotten through them when I…I got through them easily. When I started on the records for this latest ‘purge’ and some Dr. Haas who was in charge of Sarah’s case, well…”
She shakes her head in amazement.
“So you didn’t learn anything?” Professor Isabella asks.
Abalone raises her eyebrows indignantly, “I didn’t say that. I just said it wasn’t easy. C’mere.
“I didn’t want to be too direct about this,” Abalone begins once we have positioned ourselves so that we can see her screen. “If someone is really looking for Sarah, her files might be flagged so that unauthorized entry would be noticed. So I went on a less obvious tangent.”
She pauses to sip her cocoa, grimacing when she finds it has grown cold.
“I knew about when Sarah appeared on the street, so I worked backward through the files, looking for when the orders came down. When I found them, I cross-checked by matching not only Sarah’s name, but Ali and Francis, those two fellows Jerome mentioned. Then, when I was sure I had the right group I checked who the controlling authorities were. There were three physicians or psychiatrists, Doctors Davidoff, N’goya, and Haas, who came in from outside. I found next that Haas had been the one who selected Sarah as one of those to be pitched into the cold cruel.”
This time she looks at the cold cocoa before sipping.
“Let me go pee. Will you get refills, Sarah? Maybe some chips or other junk?”
She tosses me a credit sl
ip and I head out, proud that I can do this without panicking. Behind me, Betwixt and Between call for me to remember a treat for them.
When I return, Abalone is back in her perch on the bed. I am pleased that the story has waited for me. Once we are settled with cocoa and cake and chips and the rest of my loot from the vending machines, Abalone continues her report.
“Well, the next jump was a leap of faith. I still didn’t want to try Sarah’s file or code a search with her specs, not until I knew more. Then it occurred to me. Someone may want Sarah back—it may be a private individual even, but whoever it is is using the Home. This is where the faith came in—what if someone screwed up letting Sarah out? I decided that made sense, since that would clear up why someone was trying to get her back. Well, the candidate for prime screwup was this Dr. Haas, who cleared Sarah to go.”
Abalone pauses, swigs, and hits an icon on her screen. The screen shifts, but the pattern of numbers and letters remains unintelligible to me. Professor Isabella leans forward, though, scans and grunts.
“Bingo, Abalone. Bingo!”
Beaming, Abalone continues, “With the Haas name as a tracer, I did some more snooping. Not only does she have permission to readmit Sarah if she’s found, but she was the one who had Ali and Francis dragged in. I bet they were questioned and then junked when they couldn’t say where our friend here was.”
“Did you ever go after Sarah’s files?” Professor Isabella asks, her hand clasped tight around her drink.
“Yep, I couldn’t give up, not when things were going so well. Something might have made it tougher for me later.”
“Pshaw,” Professor Isabella chuckles.
I giggle.
“All right, I’m curious. This gets weirder the more I look. I expected to find either that Peep was exaggerating or that a simple recall had been issued. I find neither one nor the other, a mixture of both.”
She touches a few icons and this time I recognize my face up in one corner of the screen. The words mean nothing, but I remember the computer in the outpatient processing center reciting: “Sarah. No surname. No precise date of birth. Admitted from Ivy Green Institute, a private sanatorium.”
Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls Page 6
