Changer (Athanor)

by Jane Lindskold

  “Then he must be sent for,” Arthur glances at a calendar. “As I count the days, he will be checking for messages tonight. It is already evening. Someone should leave right away.”

  “Let Anson and me go,” Eddie says. “I know the area, and he can post the message and drive.”

  “Done,” the King says. “Stay there until the Changer comes. He may agree to return with you immediately.”

  “Very well.” Eddie leans on his cane and pushes himself up.

  Anson removes the last bond and grins at Lovern. “There you are, magic man. Soon you’ll be back to power, fast as you can.”

  “I hope,” Lovern grumbles. “And thank you.”

  “The rest of us,” Arthur says, after Eddie and Anson depart, “will try to find ways to stall both Isidro and Duppy Jonah.”

  Jonathan Wong sighs. “I wish Vera were here. We could use her wisdom now.”

  “So do I,” Arthur says with a trace of bleak humor. “After all, if she were here, then we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  Swansdown>> We have a private plane. It’s very useful out here. We figured that the family would fly down to Albuquerque in that. The Moderator has said that he can arrange discreet refueling caches along the way.

  Rebecca>> Don’t you do everything with dogsleds out there?

  Swansdown>> :) You have a somewhat antiquated notion of Alaskan life. How long since you visited?

  Rebecca>> I guess it’s been a century or so.

  Swansdown>> Technology has changed our lives a great deal, my dear niece. My little daughter Dawn speaks seven languages fluently thanks to audiotapes and satellite dish programs—and that’s even though she’s never met anyone but a few Eskimos.

  Rebecca>> I wonder if Bronson would get us a plane?

  Swansdown>> Ask! He’s a bit conservative, however.

  Rebecca>> But wonderful! He’s a survivor.

  Swansdown>> As we all are, my dear, as we all are.

  Rebecca>> Are you excited?

  Swansdown>> About the trip or the proposed revolution?

  Rebecca>> Both.

  Swansdown>> The trip, definitely, a bit scared, too. I’d be happier if we were going in winter, not in autumn. I understand we’d never get the fauns and satyrs, then. As for the revolution? Arthur needs to face facts. Just like you, I think he overlooks the possibilities modern technology offers—he only sees the threats. Still, he has been a steady monarch.

  Rebecca>> Static.

  Swansdown>> However you choose to see it, my dear. I really must log off. I hear Snowbird and Dawn arriving. They’ll need help unloading.

  Rebecca>> This has been nice, Aunt.

  Swansdown>> Indeed it has. Do consider coming for a visit after the Albuquerque trip.

  Rebecca>> I will.

  Dear Aunt Swansdown, Rebecca thinks. It’s easy for her to be so content. She’s a shaman and one with not a few charms. Her curses are legendary. I bet she has the locals cowed.

  The young sasquatch considers checking her e-mail or looking in at the Moderator’s chatroom. Neither satisfies her completely. Instead she drifts out into the living room. The tables, beautiful things she made out of slices cut from giant forest trees and polished with beeswax, are covered with books and magazines on New Mexico.

  She picks one up and looks into the face of a Pueblo girl of about twelve. What would that girl think if she met Rebecca or Bronson? Would she feel that her horizons had just opened wider or would she be terrified at the knowledge that monsters far more solid than her people’s kachina gods walk the Earth?

  Rebecca cannot decide. Outside she can hear Bronson humming to himself as he stretches mink pelts on drying racks. He has been much encouraged to learn that even if the first world fur market is falling off, furs remain popular in other countries.

  The athanor eagle screeches and dives for a fish just a few feet outside of the concealed window. The spray catches a few rays of sunlight and sheds rainbows that gladden her heart.

  “Bronson,” she calls out, “can I bring you anything?”

  “Coffee,” his gruff voice answers, “and a look at your smile.”

  “Coffee?” Eddie asks Anson. “The pot in the kitchen was fresh, so I filled a thermos.”

  “Did you think to bring cream and sugar?”

  “Of course. I know you of old.”

  “Then definitely, and if you reach behind my seat, you will find a box of donuts,” Anson chortles. “I knew we might have a long vigil, so when I went to get petrol, I got supplies.”

  Eddie leans back and snags the box. They had arrived at the turnaround on the shoulder of the road a few minutes before. Anson had scouted and reported that he couldn’t tell whether or not the Changer had already been there.

  “How can you tell when the tracks of any wild thing or human-type person might be his?” he had said reasonably.

  He had cached their message beneath the rock that had been appointed for this purpose and returned to the van.

  “How long should we wait?” Anson asks, brushing powdered sugar off the front of his shirt.

  “Until dawn, I think,” Eddie answers. “Arthur can reach us by the car phone if there is a change in the situation.”

  “Hopefully, we will not need to wait so long,” Anson stretches, cracking his neck and popping his shoulders. “I had wanted to watch a talk show tonight.”

  “Did you set your recorder?”

  “I forgot.”

  “Let’s call and have Arthur do it. He’ll be horrified that we’re thinking such mundane thoughts in the midst of a crisis, but that will be good for him. He sometimes forgets that all the world does not prioritize as he does.”

  Anson places the call and, after he has hung up, he grins at Eddie, his white teeth the most visible part of his face in the gathering darkness.

  “He was horrified, as you said, but he promised. I wonder how you have worked with such a serious one for so long. You are not nearly so dry.”

  Eddie sighs. “I don’t know about that. There are times I think I am even more staid than Arthur. He leads. I serve. I’m not certain how much glory there is in such a life.”

  Anson reaches for another donut—his fourth. “Is there anything else you would rather do?”

  “I want a challenge,” Eddie says, “a new land to discover, a good fight to win.”

  “And you do not find the challenge that, say, the South Americans offer, one that stirs your blood?”

  “Not really.” Eddie rubs his hand along his jaw. Anson can hear the rasp of the whiskers. “I’d love to be an astronaut, but the physical exam is the one thing I cannot risk. I’d pass it—that’s certain—but there is too much chance they would find anomalies in my blood.”

  “Too true.”

  “Even mercenary work is no longer a place for anonymous service. I’ve thought about looking into the Foreign Legion, but fighting isn’t what I want. I want a challenge.”

  “No one to love?”

  “Not now.”

  “That Vera—she would be a challenge. Could you teach that virgin to love like a woman?”

  “That’s rude, Anson! She’s entitled to her choice.” Eddie chuckles. “In any case, she’s a tough lady.”

  The Spider smiles. “I was just looking for a challenge for you, my friend.”

  “How do you fill your time?”

  “Africa has many problems, many wars, much political maneuvering. It is an entire continent of puzzles to be solved.”

  “You don’t speak up for Africa as Isidro and Co. did for South America.”

  “The problems there are people problems, in large part. I enjoy those types of problems, but I do not think that they can be solved by outside intervention.”

  “Except by yours.”

  “I am not an outsider. I was born there. Many tribes still tell the stories of how Anansi the Spider brought the people gifts from the Creator. Other stories make Spider the creator of all. It is very heartening.”

  Eddie
reaches for a donut. “You’ve eaten most of these!”

  “My appetite is also legendary. Don’t worry. There’s another box.”

  “And my legend is almost forgotten except by scholars.” Eddie sighs. “Enkidu the Wildman is viewed as a prototype for Tarzan and Mowgli. Most modern treatments of Arthurian legend leave Bedivere out completely in favor of a love triangle that didn’t happen quite that way. Forget the rest. I have always been a shadow.”

  “You are sad, eh?”

  “Discouraged. More coffee?”

  “That would be very fine. I have decided, Eddie. However this all turns out, you are coming to Nigeria with me. Lovern will owe us favors immense. If he can give a mermaid legs, then he can work a charm so that you will be as dark as me.”

  “But Arthur…”

  “Arthur will manage. Think about it as much as you like. In the end, I will not give you a choice, huh?”

  Eddie laughs. “Tell me about modern Africa. Even for athanor there are only twenty-four hours in a day. I’ve been remiss regarding the Dark Continent.”

  “Ah, you will regret asking this, my friend,” Anson reaches behind his seat, his long arm bending at what seems impossible angles. He comes out with a box of chocolate-frosted cupcakes. “I have stories, and stories about stories.”

  “And we,” Eddie says, reaching for a cupcake, “have a long wait in front of us.”

  Two hours past midnight, Eddie and Anson are playing a lazy game of foreign-language hangman by flashlight when there is a thump on the roof of the van. A moment later, a large raven, something white in its beak, flaps onto the hood where it stares back at them like a distorted hood ornament.

  “Anomaly.” Eddie shakes his head. “Ravens don’t fly by night.”

  “This one does,” Anson says, getting out and opening the back door of the van. “Come in, Changer.”

  The raven flies in and lands on the floor. Dropping the folded sheet of paper, it croaks hoarsely. Then with a blur of motion, the strong, lean, dark-haired human form of the Changer is sitting cross-legged before them, clad only in his long hair.

  “Your note says that Arthur needs to speak with me.” His voice is gravelly, his speech hesitant, as if during his few days in the wild he has forgotten how to use his voice.

  “That’s right,” Eddie says. “We have big trouble.”

  Economically, he outlines the situation, helped by the fact that the Changer does not interrupt, only listens, his yellow eyes widening slightly in reaction to the enormity of what Isidro and his allies have dared.

  “And Arthur wishes me to speak with my brother, to beg forbearance.” The Changer frowns. “I must have full freedom to make whatever deals I wish.”

  “Arthur can tell you what is beyond his power to grant.”

  “Tell him what I have said.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us?”

  The Changer tilts his head, as a bird might when orienting on a sound. “My daughter is alone out there.”

  “I see.” Eddie chews his upper lip. “I had forgotten that she doesn’t fly. Can you leave her for a few days?”

  “No, she is too young to support herself, even if her education had not been retarded.”

  “Can one of us fetch her?”

  “I hope not. I have been trying to instill caution.”

  “How long will it take you to get her and return here?”

  “Until midmorning. I can get to her fairly swiftly, but the return will be slow.”

  “Is there any road closer?”

  “No.”

  “Then midmorning it will have to be.”

  Unlike Arthur, who might have argued, both Eddie and Anson have been fathers. They know the responsibility that the Changer has assumed and respect it.

  “Tell Arthur, my terms or none. Get me a plane ticket to Brazil, fastest route. Duppy Jonah will be in those waters.”

  “A private plane might be better,” Anson says. “There is an airfield here that might rent one.”

  The Changer scratches. “I cannot fly one, and I cannot promise patience with a pilot.”

  Anson grins. “I can pilot.”

  “And a copilot?” Eddie asks.

  “Work out those details without me,” the Changer says, getting out of the van, “and be here by nine o’clock. I will try to be here by then.”

  Without another word, he shifts shape, becoming something with broader wings than a raven’s. When his form is blocked out against the starlit sky, Eddie sighs.

  “Anomaly. Again.”

  Anson starts the engine. “At least he is working with us. He could have refused. This is none of his problem.”

  “No”—Eddie’s expression is thoughtful—“but he has not given up his vengeance on those who killed his mate and Shahrazad’s brothers and sisters. Even though he has the papers he needs to pass in human society, he knows he may still need us. He wants us to owe him a few favors.”

  “The favors that one would need,” Anson says with a shudder, “I do not like to think about.”

  “Neither do I,” Eddie replies. “Neither do I.”

  19

  There are bad people who would be less dangerous if they were quite devoid of goodness.

  —La Rochefoucauld

  Resolve is one thing, effecting that resolve is another. Therefore, it is a new dawn before Amphitrite and Vera can depart from where they were marooned.

  The craft that Amphitrite has designed cannot really be dignified with the word “boat,” but it is quite a fine raft. Using their machetes, the two athanor had chopped logs and lashed them together with vines.

  A prow has been trimmed to make steering easier. They could have managed a mast, but without a sail, it would have been a useless gesture. Even Vera cannot weave tight fabric from vines.

  Amphitrite’s hands are swollen from unaccustomed friction—calluses are not survival needs under water. Vera has done better. Her fondness for martial arts and domestic crafts has toughened her hands, but she favors a slightly sprained wrist.

  Both are scratched, sweaty, and filthy when they launch the craft. They have had their share of insect bites—although neither has experienced a severe allergic reaction. Despite, their aches and pains they are triumphant when the raft proves serviceable.

  “What shall we call her?” Amphitrite asks.

  “The Vengeance,” Vera suggests.

  Amphitrite purses her lips. “Too violent for such a little craft. How about the Pororoca? It means ‘the Big Roar’—that’s the local term for a specific type of tidal wave that occurs in the Amazon’s mouth.”

  “The Big Roar,” Vera says. “I like it. A big roar is exactly what I plan to make when we get out of here.”

  Amphitrite scoops out a handful of river water and sprinkles it over the bow. “Be named, then, Pororoca. Know yourself whole and essential.”

  Vera raises her head, which she had bowed during the makeshift christening. “Shall we load our earthly goods?”

  “That won’t take long.” Amphitrite grins.

  To the supplies that Isidro and Oswaldo had left, Vera has added four spears with fire-hardened tips. Coils of vines supplement their meager supply of rope, and a basket made from river reeds gives them a place to stow mangoes and other fruit.

  “It isn’t much,” Vera says, “and I would give a lot to know how far we are from the mouth of the river, but it is a start.”

  “Climb aboard, then.” Amphitrite picks up one of the steering poles, wincing at the pressure on her sore hands.

  “Do you want me to steer first?” Vera asks. “You can navigate and rest your hands.”

  “Let me get a feel for how the Pororoca handles,” Amphitrite says. “Then I will do just that.”

  As they push off into the river, monkeys scream mocking commentary. An anaconda raises its head, vaguely disappointed that what it had perceived as dinner is leaving. A caiman alligator slides off the bank, not so much hunting as hoping to be on hand if either of them fall
s in.

  “She handles well,” Amphitrite says, “for a raft.”

  “That’s all we can ask,” Vera replies calmly. “She is a raft—she must do a raft’s work. Where Isidro has made his mistake is in believing that we are like this raft—a tool to be turned to his purpose.”

  She hefts her spear, her grey eyes studying the riverbank, her body adjusting to the motion of the raft on the water.

  “But we are more than tools,” she continues.

  Amphitrite, still fashion-doll pretty beneath the grime, laughs, a sound holding the relentless murmur of the sea. “Oh, yes, my friend. We are far more than that.”

  The Changer and Shahrazad are waiting at the turnaround when Anson arrives in the van. Some indication of how fast they must have journeyed can be guessed from the pup’s evident exhaustion. She does not rise from where she is flopped beneath a shrub but waits for the Changer to lift her.

  He has shifted human-form once again and is clad in the same clothes in which he had departed Arthur’s hacienda three days before. His feet are bare.

  Inspecting the other’s wrinkled attire, Anson chuckles: “I brought clothing for you, old one.”

  “I cached these when we left,” the Changer answers. “They will do for now.”

  They spare each other idle chatter on the drive back. Only once does the Changer speak. “Did Eddie find me a way to Brazil?”

  “He has chartered a jet,” Anson says. “I will fly it. We can make do without a copilot if you want to leave quickly.”

  “I do.”

  “Then we will.”

  At the hacienda, the Changer carries Shahrazad into the courtyard, where she takes refuge under her lilac bush. Then, without knocking, the ancient walks into Arthur’s office.

  If the King had been inclined to protest this lack of courtesy, he is stopped by the cool expression in the Changer’s yellow eyes. Instead, Arthur rises and offers his hand.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “You need me to negotiate with Duppy Jonah.”

  “Yes.” Arthur gestures toward a seat and takes his own chair. He has not slept in close to twenty-four hours, and his blue eyes are unnaturally bright. “There has been a hurricane off the coast of Florida, flooding in the Netherlands, and all manner of smaller marine disasters. The meteorologists are coming up with excuses as wild as sunspot flares and a sudden acceleration in global warming.”