Magic Time: Ghostlands

by Marc Scott Zicree

  His boots crunching on the parking lot gravel and the call of larks filling the daybreak air, Larry Shango found Mama Diamond on a bench outside the SuAnne Big Crow Boys and Girls Club. Now that folks were reclaiming the land, Chick Big Crow had been able to open the center again; this facility that federal money had built and that she’d dedicated to the memory of her daughter, a high school basketball star who’d spoken out against drugs and alcohol, who’d inspired hope in her people; the daughter lost to a traffic fatality before everyone in the world had shared in one great disaster.

  “Guess not everything funded by the government was all bad,” Larry Shango said as he approached Mama Diamond. She was bundled up sitting in the brisk sun, watching Indian kids surge onto the playground; kids exuberant with the joy of being in the open again, of being alive.

  “How old are you, Mr. Shango?” Mama Diamond asked as he settled beside her.

  “Let’s just say thirties and leave it at that.”

  “I’m old enough to be your mother…or grandmother, if I’d gotten an early enough jump on things.”

  Shango smiled. “You applying for the job?”

  “We’ve been looking after each other for some time now. No need to start sticking labels on everything.”

  They were still for a time, with the stillness each had cultivated over the years to shield themselves from people, to keep invisible and apart, but which now had evolved into easy companionability.

  Finally, Mama Diamond said, “I’ve been ruminating a tad…thinking over what we’re living for.”

  “That’s a big subject for so early in the day.”

  Mama Diamond looked off to the mountains in the distance, the eroded cliffs that ringed the Badlands. All those fossil bones in the rocks, all those creatures that were born and raised their young and died…

  In times past, Mama Diamond had scraped those bones out of their resting places, had wrenched her shining gems from the living earth, and thought them her fortune.

  Her cache of gems was slag now, turned to slurry when Atherton went into meltdown. But she didn’t mind. Looking back, she realized that what she’d considered her living for so many years had hardly been living at all.

  The mountains talked to you, if you were quiet enough to listen; she’d known that even back in Manzanar. But there was a new thing they were telling her now, a deeper truth.

  All those generations down the ages, young and old, looking out for each other, surviving and making a life…

  She mulled it over, watching tawny boys and girls clamber over slides and jungle gyms, arc high on swings. “May Catches the Enemy found her boy Inigo…. Papa Sky’s hooked up with Enid now…. That young Cal Griffin’s got his sister Christina back, who I guess was pretty much a daughter to him all along….”

  As autumn waned and winter arrived, their whole wayward adventure through Wyoming and Iowa and South Dakota had revolved around reunion between parent and child, whether actual or surrogate, old or new. In this transcendent, shifting world, the only choice for them all was to be caretakers of one sort or another, good mothers and fathers, good stewards; to love each other and not falter, to be uplifted by their mutual need and regard, to be better than any of them had ever seen reason or need before to be.

  Larry Shango raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying we better get busy raising a family?” he asked Mama Diamond.

  Mama Diamond turned her dragon-young eyes to him, and the wetness in them caught the morning sun. “I’m saying we found one, Mr. Shango.”

  In the late morning, they all gathered once more, outside what had been the Visitor Center, to compare notes and make their plans.

  “I’ve heard some mighty fine things about that Preserve Mary McCrae’s got running,” Papa Sky told Cal. “Figgered I’d mosey on down, have me a look-see. ’Sides, me and Enid can give ’em a concert they’ll never forget.”

  Enid nodded, saying nothing, affectionately eyeing the old blind man—who, Cal could see now that he knew the score, bore Enid more than a passing resemblance, once you got past the affectations of clothes and hair.

  “Yeah, me too,” rasped Howard Russo, who now sported Hugo Boss sunglasses between a porkpie hat and a striped suit that would give a drunk-tank lush the white shivers.

  Larry Shango opined that it was getting on time for him to pay a call back home, to see how the President’s son was getting on, in the care of Shango’s first and second and third cousins—not to mention the great-aunts and other assorted relations, who he felt sure remained every bit as rooted to the sultry bayou swamplands as their fathers and their fathers’ fathers had been.

  As for Mama Diamond, Burnt Stick held no further allure. If anyone chose to lay claim to her store and the dead bones sleeping within, more power to them. Her attention now lay on returning to reclaim Marsh and Cope from where they were stabled, then continuing on with Larry Shango to meet his clan, who—if Shango’s twenty-year avoidance of them were any indication—would be noisy and contentious, boisterous and cantankerous…and joyously alive.

  “I hear the ground’s so wet there, you can’t bury a soul,” Mama Diamond observed.

  Shango nodded. “Even in the tombs, you put someone in, they rot away to nothing. Then you just jam more folks in.”

  Mama Diamond smiled inwardly. A land that dissolved its dead like an Alka-Seltzer in water, that took them into the bosom of the earth and left nothing behind, not a scrap to pry out and shine and hoard.

  That suited her just fine.

  “If it’s just the same to you, Calvin,” Doc Lysenko chimed in, “Colleen and I have gotten rather used to your company. We thought perhaps we might continue sharing your road, for a time.”

  “Assuming,” Colleen added, “you ever get around to telling us what that road happens to be.”

  Cal shot his sister a glance. “Well, seeing as we’ve come this far from New York…”

  He let Christina finish it. “It seems kind of a waste not to keep right on going.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Goldie piped up. “You’re goin’ to Disneyland!”

  “Been there, done that.” Cal said, deadpan. “But the Pacific has its appeal…depending on what we find.”

  “Hmm…” Herman Goldman considered, glowering. “In the words of Yogi Berra—or was it Samuel Goldwyn?—I could say, ‘Include me out.’” He grinned, extending Cal a hand. “But what would I do for laughs?”

  True enough, Cal reflected. Since their time inside the mountain, Goldie had been laughing a good deal, as though a weight had been lifted, as though he’d come back to himself…or more than himself.

  “I could open up a portal à la Goldman,” Goldie offered. “We could be there in a jiff.”

  “That’d kinda take the fun out of it,” Cal responded. “I mean, it’s like flying instead of taking the train.”

  “Neither of which is an available option at this particular moment,” Goldie observed. “Although, given the progress of the assorted boffins from Atherton, I’d say both will almost certainly make a comeback in the very near future.”

  No rush, Cal thought, at least as far as he was concerned. Time to go slow awhile, to have a little respite from the cell phones and boomboxes, the voicemail and internal combustion. Bring back health care, sure, running water and all the blessings of the modern age, but let’s take a holiday.

  A holiday…what a concept.

  It had been a never-ending battle across the U.S., from the five boroughs to the Windy City to the Great Plains and this sun-beaten land. Cal felt like a heavyweight near the end of his days, still battling but having lost all his agility and spring, with nothing left but scar tissue and a growing inability to talk.

  Could he really let all that go?

  Marcus Sanrio might not be dead, after all, might still be roaming the back roads somewhere, weakened and lieutenant-less but at large. And either way, there might be other Bad Things out there, almost certainly would be.

  In time, they might have to agai
n put on their armor, buckle on their blades.

  But Cal also knew it was high time to get a life.

  He caught himself looking at May Catches the Enemy, who stood nearby in the shadows with her son. She brought her emerald eyes to meet his, and held his gaze there.

  At last, Cal managed to say, “I suppose you’ll be staying.”

  She looked questioningly to her son. Like Howard Russo, he wore shades and layers of protective clothing, but with considerably more restraint and style. He rubbed his chin contemplatively.

  “I’ve never seen the ocean, Mom,” he said finally, sneaking glances Christina’s way. “I’d sure like to.”

  May Catches the Enemy, who was also Lady Blade and the Widow Devine, smiled knowingly.

  On the ancient plains, under the sky that went on forever, Christina danced, and Enid Blindman and Papa Sky and Goldie played. Not to ward off anything or to forget anything, just for the sheer damn joy of it.

  High above within the clouds, cruising in thermoclines exhaled by the sun-heated earth, the dragon peered down with raptor-keen eyes that could readily observe without any of them having the least knowledge of his gaze.

  He felt a warmth that came, not from the fiery furnace kindled within him, but from another source entirely.

  “Love” was not a word that Ely Stern ever used, and he did not use it here.

  But even so, looking down on them, on the ones he had brought to this unforgiving land, the ones he had safeguarded and endangered, confounded and inspired…he smiled.

  Then he banked in a great wide arc until he caught the wind and was uplifted by it.

  Soon, he was far away, heading east.

  Acknowledgments

  Books are big, ungainly beasts, and it’s a miracle they ever get written—and certainly they never do without the help of many.

  First of all, as always, to my wife, Elaine, without whom none of this would have been possible. Then to Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff, invaluable partner in crime.

  Steven-Elliot Altman kept me writing when the darkness closed in, day by day, week by week. He made this book happen.

  Harper Lee, Harlan Ellison, Ray Bradbury, George Clayton Johnson, Norman Corwin, Theodore Sturgeon, Richard Matheson, Barbara Kingsolver, Rod Serling and Ray Harry-hausen all provided inspiration and guidance in a multitude of ways.

  Thanks to Armin Shimerman, Mau Barklay and Richard Tanner for lending their prodigious talents and giving voice to the rogue’s gallery of Magic Time and Magic Time: Angelfire. Diane Baker, Ken Mader, Jonathan Kaplan, David Simkins, Jim Cunningham, Dan Comins, Reece Michaelson, Merlin Stone, Allison Bingeman, Michael Reaves, Neal Romanek, Tony Tsou, Kelly Sumner, Angelina Swords, John Douglas, Jeff Larsen, Robert Cantrell, Dax Bauser, Robert Vaughan, Lamont Dixon, David Jansen, Henry Nagel, John Prendergast, the staff at Wolfgang Puck’s on Sunset and Insomnia Café all lent help and support that were invaluable. Special thanks also to Mr. Kuriyama, my junior high school history teacher, who brought alive the travesty of the internment camps through his own first-person accounts.

  A belated thanks to Marcy Ross, Ellie Hannibal and Sarah Timberman, who had enthusiasm for this project in the early days, and to Iain McCaig, as always, for lending his genius (and to his son Inigo, for lending his name).

  Diana Gill has been my terrific editor throughout all three books, and Lisa Gallagher and Jack Womack have supplied wonderful assistance and encouragement along the way. Deb Dwyer did a splendid job of copyediting, and her kind words were much appreciated. I also wanted to personally thank Michael Morrison, publisher of HarperCollins, and also the many others in editing, publicity and sales at HarperCollins who have done so much to help this book, among them George D. Bick, Jennifer Brehl, Brian Grogan, Olga Nolan, Kerry Morris, May Chen, Will Hinton, Jerry Marasak, Jeanette Zwart, Ian Doherty, Kate McCune, Michael Morris, Karen Gudmundson, Eric Svenson, Elizabeth Kaplan, Kristin Bowers, Cathy Schornstein, Robin Smith, Gabriel R. Barillas, Jim Hankey, Seira Wilson, Cheri Hickman, John Zeck, Diane Jackson, Becky Keiper, Denise DePalma, Kerri Sikorski, Debra Evans, Pat Stanley, Eleanore Gaffney, Brian McSharry, Mike Spradlin, Seth Fleischman, David Youngstrom, Judy Madonia, Kristine Macrides, Rhonda Rose, Pete Soper, Dale Schmidt, Chadd Reese, Stefanie Friedman, Bruce Unck, Donna Waitkus, Nanci Andersen, Ralph D'Arienzo and Angela Leigh. Without these remarkable, hardworking souls, not to mention all the bookstore managers and employees across the country, this book would not be in your hands now.

  My ever-valiant agent, Chris Lotts, provided heroic efforts often on my behalf. Dana Wellborn, my trusty Indian guide, provided invaluable assistance to me during my researches in South Dakota. My heartfelt gratitude as well to my other Badland “angels”—Patti Etem, Milt and Jamie Lee, Leatrice “Chick” Big Crow, Ann Cedarface, Ida-Rae Estes, Cameron Ducheneaux, Patricia Catches and Nellie Cuny.

  Michael Tennesen and Timothy Gogan kept my head on straight and my feet on the ground, while Mel Raab and the rest of the staff at Automagic kept my Toshiba 4090 processing words in reasonably coherent fashion. Also providing vital information and encouragement were Jeff and Karin West, Lita Weissman, Deb Yearout, Alison Kempf, Craig Black, Paul Coughlin, Josh Stanton, Haila Williams, Chris Wyatt, Alene Dawson, Krystee Cott, Raf Dahlquist, Todd Koerner, Frank Staniszewski, the ever-erstwhile Theo Siegel, Rob Weaver, Lynne Weaver, Dennis Weaver, Floyd Red Crow Westerman, and Professor Walter Gekelman of the UCLA Department of Physics and Astronomy.

  Thanks also to Jesse Larner, whose fine book Mount Rushmore—An Icon Reconsidered provided marvelous historical and cultural perspective.

  If I’ve left anyone out, e-mail me at marc@zicree.com and we’ll rectify the situation.

  Sincere gratitude to all for their patience, their example, their courage and their wisdom. I once said that I thought our purpose in this life was to be happy, to be kind and to be brave. I’m lucky to be surrounded by a bouquet of people who do just that.

  —Marc Scott Zicree

  About the Authors

  MARC SCOTT ZICREE has created classic episodes of “Star Trek—The Next Generation,” “Deep Space Nine,” “Babylon Five,” “Sliders,” and many more. His work has been nominated for the American Book Award, the Diane Thomas Award, and the Humanitas Prize. He has appeared as a media consultant on hundreds of radio and TV shows and is the author of the bestselling Twilight Zone Companion. He lives in West Hollywood with his wonderful wife and vile little dog. You can visit his website at www.zicree.com.

  ROBERT CHARLES WILSON is the New York Times Notable author of The Chronoliths and the winner of the Philip K. Dick and Aurora awards. A finalist for the Hugo, Nebula, and World Fantasy awards, he lives in Toronto, Canada.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Praise for MAGIC TIME

  “A fantastic new epic series. Vivid, imaginative, emotional—MAGIC TIME is a blockbuster summer movie pressed between book covers. I’d urge you to prepare yourself, but I fear there’s no way you can.”

  Rockne S. O’Bannon, creator of “Farscape” and “Alien Nation”

  “Marc Zicree is a superb writer.”

  Ray Bradbury

  “Taut writing, interesting characters, fascinating situations…Magic Time takes up where

  The Stand leaves off.”

  Harry Turtledove

  “Exceptionally well written and the ‘veracity’ is terrific.”

  New York Times bestselling author Kevin J. Anderson

  “Even non-science fiction fans will find themselves caught up…This is fantasy with heart and soul. I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

  Leonard Maltin

  Magic Time is everything its name promises and more…It finds new and inventive ways to examine the human condition…All this and a crackling good adventure as well.”

  New York Times bestselling author Michael Reaves

  Other Magic Time Titles:

  MAGIC TIME: GHOSTLANDS

  by Marc Scott Zicre
e and Robert Charles Wilson

  MAGIC TIME: ANGEL FIRE

  by Marc Scott Zicree and Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  MAGIC TIME

  by Marc Scott Zicree and Barbara Hambly

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  MAGIC TIME: Ghostlands. Copyright © 2004 by Paper Route, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition © JANUARY 2006 ISBN: 9780061806728

  06 07 08 09 10

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