“I’ll do it, Sven,” Tommy promises, his fingers already drumming on his leg. “Can I get Lil to help? She’s got magic that I don’t.”
Sven considers, decides that Lilith’s predatory nature might well provide the final ingredients needed for the mix.
“If you must,” he says, as if reluctantly. “She is a powerful woman, but she is not always gentle with those weaker than herself.”
“Yeah.” Tommy lifts off the guitar strap and picks up a syrinx. Holding it beneath his sensual lips he blows a few notes. “Still, if I need advice, she’s close by.”
“I trust your judgment, my friend,” Sven says. He glances at the clock. “Can I borrow your phone? I need to call to confirm a dinner date.”
“Sure,” Tommy says.
Sven can tell that Tommy has already half forgotten him under the pull of his new composition. He walks into the kitchen and dials the Prima! gallery. If he’s at all lucky, it’ll be a hot time on the old town tonight. If not, well, condoms are cheap.
17
Dulce bellum inexpertis.
(War is sweet to those who have not experienced it.)
—Erasmus
Shahrazad crouches low in the shelter of a long-needled ponderosa pine, her gaze fixed on a ground squirrel chewing on the end of a peeled twig. Something in her remembers lessons about stalking, patience, staying upwind of prey. Despite those memories, she grows impatient and springs forward.
The ground squirrel doesn’t even need to drop its twig in order to retreat into its nearby burrow. Shahrazad digs after it, but the little rodent is safe.
Disappointed, her paws still sore from following her father long miles the day before, she trots over to where the Changer dozes beneath a scrub oak. He smells tantalizingly of mice and rabbit. When she nudges under his jaw in an appeal for him to regurgitate a share for her, he growls.
An aching shoulder where he had struck her and thrown her to the ground the day before reminds her that she must not defy him. Unhappily, she tries a few berries from a nearby juniper, but, although they are sweet in a resinous fashion, they do not satisfy her hunger.
Somewhere, she knows, there is a place with plenty of food. Even the puppy chow she had disdained in favor of ham or bread or scraps stolen from the trash would be welcome now. Mournfully, she whines, wishing that wild things were not so unwilling to let her eat them.
The Changer rises and shakes himself. He is not indifferent to his daughter’s plight. Indeed, at three months she is young to be expected to feed herself without his help. Still, hunger will add immediacy to her lessons.
After Arthur had dropped them by the roadside, the Changer had led Shahrazad deeper into the woods. The rise of a few thousand feet in altitude had not troubled either of them greatly, but he did not care to add to Shahrazad’s troubles by taking her to the crest. Instead, he had kept them within about seven thousand feet, good hunting grounds this time of year when the lower lands are feeling the summer’s heat and dryness.
However, the pup has forgotten more than he realized of her early lessons. The month spent living easy at Pendragon Estates had whetted her talent for scrounging rather than hunting. Therefore, he takes her away from the roads, hiking trails, and ski areas, away from anywhere she might be tempted to supplement her poor hunting skills with carrion and trash.
Sadly, although carrion is a coyote’s due, even as it is a raven’s, he does not wish her to depend on it. Ranchers often poison any carcass they come across, preferring to risk the spread of disease by its slow rotting than to tolerate that any coyote might live. Roadkill does not carry the same penalty, but he does not wish Shahrazad to acquire the habit of relying on carrion. She may not always live on Forest Service land.
As he sees his duty, he must teach her two lessons. One, to hunt and forage, the other to beware of humans. Both of these have been greatly undermined by the kindness of Arthur’s household. Somehow, he must tap the fear she had felt after her mother and siblings were killed.
Shahrazad watches the Changer with hope. Now that he is on his feet, perhaps he will take her to where food can be had. Vaguely she remembers a field’s edge where mice were easily taken. Wagging her brush and dragging her belly to the ground, she comes close enough to nudge him.
This time he doesn’t growl, but nudges her in return. Dawn is coming, the moon setting. Unlike many predators, coyotes are not nocturnal. Favoring neither night nor day, they can hunt whenever is most favorable. Since the pup is hungry, he will give her a lesson now.
The day before, after they had arrived in this area, he had briefly shapeshifted into a raven in order to scout. He had marked a dense thicket of brush as offering good hunting.
Leading Shahrazad into the thicket, he tells her to wait at the edge. Already she has learned to stay without protest. Swiftly, he finds mice. Positioning Shahrazad by a den with hot scent, he begins to flush prey. This time she waits until a mouse runs toward her and snaps when it comes into range.
She is surprised to find the warm body squirming in her jaws, but not surprised enough to let it go. A crunch and a swallow and it is gone.
The mice become wary quickly, but not before Shahrazad has caught another. As the sun warms the mountain slopes, the Changer takes her to a small meadow where grasshoppers are beginning to appear. Later in the summer they will be plentiful enough to provide a substantial portion of her diet, so he teaches her to hunt them now.
By midday, even her growing belly is full. They shelter in a manzanita copse and curl close together, each watching where the other cannot, each with an alert nose to the wind.
The telephone rings. Arthur reaches for it with trepidation. Were it not business hours a few days after the Lustrum Review, he would let the answering machine take it. As he had feared, a cackling laugh assails him even before he can politely say, “Pendragon Productions.”
“Arthur King! Arthur King! Oh, he’s the Thing, that Arthur King.”
“Who is this?” he asks sternly. Efforts to trace the calls have been useless.
“A friend. Your Jiminy Cricket. Voice of your conscience. You pompous ass, you!”
More laughter. Then several voices begin in chorus: “Arthur King, Arthur King! He’s the Thing, that Arthur King! He doesn’t use his ding-a-ling, but bears a scepter and a ring. He’s the king of everything. That’s his Thing, that Arthur King.”
Arthur slams down the receiver, ignores when it rings again.
“Damn!”
He storms from his office into Eddie’s, not bothering to knock. Eddie looks up from his computer terminal.
“Arthur?”
“I’m not answering my phone anymore.”
“More of those calls?”
“Yes.”
“Still no source?”
“None.”
“Did you call the cellular carrier?”
“Yes. They wouldn’t tell me much. The account was taken out just a few days ago by a business called Tabula Rasa.”
“Did the owner give a name?”
Arthur bares his teeth. “Nemo Nada.”
“No-one Nothing, owner of Blank Slate.” Eddie shakes his head. “Didn’t the phone company think that at all strange?”
“I didn’t even ask. This is New Mexico, Land of Enchantment and People with Weird Names.”
“That’s true.”
“I’m going to set my answering machine to take all calls, but I’m afraid that my prankish friends will just fill the memory with their prating.”
“Are they getting any better?”
“No. Now they’ve come up with a nonsense rhyme.”
“Did you write it down?”
“No.”
“Pity. We might be able to analyze it and make some educated guesses as to who is making the calls.”
“Someone who can make rhymes with ‘king’ and possesses a juvenile sense of humor.”
“Still, we might be able to deduce whether it is one of ours or merely a human who has gotten
hold of your name and number.”
“True,” Arthur agrees reluctantly. “Well, I still won’t answer it.”
Anson knocks and, at their joint invitation, comes in.
“You know, I’ve been helping Eddie with his work, Arthur, looking over the mail from the Review, taking over some of Vera’s jobs since she’s out on vacation.”
“Thank you.” Reluctantly, Arthur is coming to appreciate that the Spider has more to offer than a sense of mischief.
“I don’t think you’ll like what I just downloaded.”
He sets a printout on the desk where they can both read it: “Arthur King, oh, Arthur King! He’s the Thing, that Arthur King. He doesn’t use his ding-a-ling, but rules by scepter and signet ring. His chamber pot is first-class Ming. He’s our main man, that Arthur King. Sing it now! Let’s all sing the hymn to glorify Arthur King. Ring the bells. Let the song take wing. Let everyone praise Arthur King.”
Arthur swallows and speaks in a voice that is preternaturally calm: “Goodness, they’ve expanded what I heard on the phone. How creative of them.”
“Not much to indicate who wrote it,” Eddie admits. “Anson, was this sent just to Arthur or mailed out in general?”
“I checked my e-mail and it isn’t there—not yet at least.”
Eddie checks his account. “Nothing here. We’d need to do a wider sample, but maybe, just maybe, they are limiting themselves to taunting Arthur.”
“I never thought that would be a relief,” Arthur admits, “but it is. Can we find out if anyone else has received it?”
“Not without telling them what to look for,” Eddie says, “and I don’t think you want that.”
“No!”
“Use my computer to check your private account,” Eddie suggests. “See if they have that address, too…”
Arthur does so, scanning the messages with trepidation. “Nothing here. Yet.”
“Then it may be someone who has learned of Pendragon Productions.” Eddie frowns. “That doesn’t narrow the field.”
“True.”
“I don’t suppose you would talk with them?”
“I’ve tried. All they do is make rude statements.”
“Then maybe staying off your phone is the best course. They may get bored.”
“That’s what I’ll do. I hope I won’t miss any important business.”
“What is there that can’t wait?” Eddie says, “for a few days? If nothing else, athanor possess time and to spare.”
“True,” Arthur says, “and if you and Anson would continue to review the e-mail and tell me what I must deal with, we will rob these pranksters of their pleasure.”
“Done,” Eddie says.
Anson nods. “Catchy bit, though. Better hope it doesn’t get out. It could become a national anthem.”
“Spider…” Arthur begins, indignantly, then, realizing he is being teased, forces himself to relax. “Let’s not try it just yet, okay?”
“Okay, boss,” Anson laughs a deep round belly laugh. “That’s okay with me.”
The mansion in Belém is a fine, elegant building that recalls Portuguese tastes in architecture. Stuccoed white with arched windows and doorways, with flowering vines climbing up pillars to second-story terraces, it might have been from another century if not for discreetly concealed modern improvements.
A manservant, less stocky than the Incas who had attended them aboard the jet but still obviously Indian in his heritage, answers the door and bows deeply as he ushers their group into the entry hall.
“How wonderfully cool!” Vera exclaims.
“Air-conditioning,” Cleonice says, almost apologetically. “Without some way to reduce the humidity we could not hope to preserve our papers and more delicate equipment.”
Isidro deftly guides them from the hall into a parlor whose long, glass windows look out over a garden that is such a riot of color that it takes a careful look to sort the individual flowers and birds from the general mass.
“We maintain a botanical garden of sorts. Take care that you don’t go out into it unattended. Many of the plants have spines or toxic chemicals in their leaves.”
“What if we don’t touch anything?” Amphitrite asks.
“I suppose if you watch out for ants you should be fine. We try to keep the population down, but ants… Out in the rain forest they outmass every other animal.”
“Don’t you mean outnumber?” Amphitrite says curiously.
“No,” Isidro smiles like a benevolent teacher trying to discourage an eager student. “I mean outmass. There are lots of ants: the tucandera whose sting can kill a child or leave a grown man in agony, the suava or leaf-cutting ant who can strip a tree or a field or crops, the red fire ant that…”
“Stop!” Amphitrite pleads. “You’re making my skin crawl. I don’t think I’ll go out at all.”
With a glance at Isidro that seems to chide him for his excesses, Cleonice turns to their guests.
“We thought that you might be tired after the long flight. Our thought was that we would let you rest, perhaps take you around Belém if you had the desire, then tomorrow we would take a small plane out to show you the rain forest.”
“We’re surrounded by it now, aren’t we?” Lovern says.
“That’s right. The mouth of the Amazon River isn’t far.”
Vera yawns. “Your plan sounds good to me. After a year in New Mexico, I’ve lost my liking for humidity.”
“I rather like the dampness,” Amphitrite says, “but I could use a rest. I’m still unaccustomed to moving about without the water’s support.”
“And I will follow the ladies’ preference,” Lovern says gallantly, “although I may take a wander in your gardens. I’ll keep your warnings in mind.”
“Don’t be startled,” Oswaldo says, looking up from his book for the first time since he arrived in the parlor, “if you hear something large moving around. We have a few tame anteaters and several monkeys and macaws. The anteaters will most probably avoid you, but the rest may come begging.”
“That’s good,” Lovern says. “Do you have any treats?”
“I can get you some,” Oswaldo says, levering himself out of his chair reluctantly. “Come along to the kitchen.”
Early the next morning when dawn’s comparative coolness still touches the air, they drive out to the private airfield. The visitors are still somewhat overwhelmed by the whirlwind tour of Belém the night before. Quietly they board the small plane to which their hosts proudly conduct them.
The amphibious craft’s silver hull is touched up with decorations in green. Its name, Caiman, is written in a curling script alongside the nose. The interior, while not roomy, is comfortable, with one seat on either side of a narrow aisle.
“We’ll take the pilot and copilot’s seats,” Cleonice explains, “and leave Oswaldo with you in the cabin. I’m afraid we aren’t well equipped for steward services, but I’ve had the staff pack us a basket with drinks and snacks.”
“Sealed against the ants, I hope,” Amphitrite says, her playfulness not quite hiding her apprehension.
“Always,” Oswaldo assures her.
Takeoff is handled with smooth professionalism. Rapidly the airfield and Belém itself are swallowed by the spreading green jungle.
“If we had left earlier,” Cleonice says, via the cabin radio, “we could have taken you to where howler monkeys greet the sunrise. Still, I believe we have wonders enough on today’s agenda.”
“Are we going to the Xingú National Park?” Lovern asks, betraying that he has done some research.
“Not today,” Oswaldo answers. “Today we are going to areas where just about no one lives. The Xingú National Park was created as a refuge for the native peoples. We are taking you to places where no people live and which are, oddly enough, in greater danger because of that.”
Vera, not looking away from the verdant panorama spreading out beneath them, offers, “Because no one lives there, there is no one to protest if th
e lands are abused.”
“And no one,” Oswaldo agrees, “to act. The lands are often sold for a few thousand dollars to speculators who often fail in their ventures, at the cost of a great deal of ecological devastation. At least when the Indians lived in the lands, they made war on invaders.”
There must be a listening device of some sort in the plane’s cabin, for Isidro adds, “To be fair, the depths of the rain forest may not be in as much danger as some ecologists say. The lands are too wet, too persistently humid, to be inviting. Much of the clear-cutting is occurring further inland, near Rondônia, for example.”
“And other places,” Cleonice adds. “The damage may be overestimated, but it exists nonetheless.”
After two hours flight time, Isidro announces. “We’re going to come down on that broad spot in the river. Don’t worry—the area isn’t as small as it looks.”
After the Caiman has splashed to a landing, Oswaldo produces an inflatable boat large enough to carry them all ashore.
Cleonice looks wistful. “I’d like to come along, but someone should stay with the plane.”
“I thought you said it was deserted here,” Lovern says, looking at the tangled jungle with suspicion. Ever since his time in India, he hasn’t particularly cared for places where plants dominate.
“Unpopulated,” Isidro corrects, “but not deserted. There could be a few stray Indians or some ambitious garimperios searching for the next big strike. Whenever possible we leave someone with the plane and maintain radio contact.”
“Wise,” Vera says, and that rather ends the matter.
With Oswaldo in the bow and Isidro in the stern, the boat is paddled ashore. Lovern leaps out to help Oswaldo pull it ashore.
“The rain forest,” Isidro says, lecturing even before his feet hit the shore, “is home to countless variety of plants, including many types of orchids. Some of these are rather disappointing to any but the aficionado, but others are lovely enough to make a poet’s heart sing.”
Changer (Athanor) Page 30
