Vertigo, which had threatened to upset him for the past hour, now affected his flight. He came to within a wing beat of striking a chimney pot. Veering from the rooftop he aimed for a canal, looking for a safe place to alight. He spotted the ruins of a bridge. The road had collapsed on either side, leaving three arches in the middle of the canal to support a flat, weed-covered expanse. It was inaccessible to all but the most ambitious of predators and the weeds would provide some cover. Once the promise of landing took hold, all ambition fled. Fatigue enveloped him and he stopped flapping his wings. Gliding over the black water of the canal, he thought about dropping the pupa. He had the unsettling thought that if he did it would continue the trajectory to safety while he fluttered to his death. He swallowed it. He did not know how or why, it just happened. The pupa slid into his gullet, a fat prey.
He aimed for the middle of the approaching bridge, where a sapling had rooted in a crack. The ground was covered in leaves and clumps of grass. It would provide a cushion of sorts, a place to rest and think through the consequences of what he had done. He swooped toward it, too fast, too aggressively and misjudged the distance, hitting the sapling with his left wing. Centrifugal force whipped him around the trunk and he struck the road with one leg outstretched and his head back, beak pointed skyward. A sideways tumble snapped the bones in his left wing, as if they were no more substantial than the reeds that grew in profusion beneath the bridge.
Evening came early. He was aware of the cooing pigeons around him as he rested, feathers fluffed and his beak buried in his breast. His left wing stretched to the side at an angle that told him he would never fly again. The pupa was inside him, emanating warmth as though the heat of its creation had not dissipated. When the light dwindled to a streak in the west, the frogs in the canal began their courtships. Overhead, bats feasted on moths. Something large splashed near the rotten pilings of a nearby dock. As the crow absorbed these impressions, the nictating membrane of his eyes moved over his irises and remained. His heart slowed, and the lapping of the water against the bridge's footings soothed him. There were worse ways to die, worse places, but the thief felt that he had swindled himself nonetheless.
The moon appeared between the clouds. The crow lifted his head, surprised to hear the beginning of the dawn chorus. Already? Could he have slept? The thread of his wandering thoughts seemed unbroken, but the light was rising in the east. For the first time since the theft of the pupa, the whispering voice was no longer in his ear. It had been replaced with something else, a creak from within his body, felt as much as heard.
His drowsiness disappeared. Alarmed, he tried to fold his outstretched wings, but they would not cooperate. Instead, his pinions vibrated in the dirt as though no longer under his control. The sound that followed was the dry splintering of feather shafts and the strain of bones twisting within the constraints of his flesh. Pain and pressure grew in his wingtips, until there was a paper-like tear and slender digits emerged from beneath the skin. They flexed in the cool dawn air, pushing feathers back like a coat sleeve. The crow tried to stand but his legs had grown inadequate for the weight of his head, which had become enlarged and bulbous. He tried to caw, but it came out as a stutter of strange vocalizations. Words.
Sharp teeth bit into a tongue that fluttered in the unfamiliar cavity that was now a mouth, no longer a beak. There was a pause. He shivered against the ground, snorting dust into his nostrils. Then came the greatest pain of all as the keel in the center of his body throbbed. The bones and flesh within pushed the skin outward as if he was now an expanding bubble. Ribs twisted and stretched, riding folds of swelling muscle and ligament into new positions. The pain became too much and he succumbed to a greying of consciousness. He was no longer a crow as he watched a shower of rain wash the ashen residue of his black and white feathers into the soil. He had become something bound to the earth, something that had fingers, toes and teeth. Words? The Monster had long ago given him the ability to understand them; now it seemed the witch's magic had finished the job. She had given him the anatomy to shape them.
The crow awoke beneath the mid-morning sun to find himself carried like a human child. The man holding him waded across the canal through waist-deep water. It was warm and pleasant on the crow's dangling feet. Lily pads and seething masses of tadpoles slid over his toes. The man chose his route with care, looking for safe footing amid the submerged rubbish. When he mounted a staircase leading out of the canal, leopard frogs darted past. The man stopped and looked down at the crow's feet. There were lines around his eyes and touches of grey threaded through his red beard. His exposed skin was wind-burned.
"You seem to be short a toe." At the top of the steps the man laid the crow in the grass. It was earthy and buzzed with insects. The crow lay on his side with his new hands curled toward his chest. The rough hands of his benefactor massaged his legs and arms. As he worked, the man whistled. After a while, the crow's muscles loosened, and he sobbed into the grass.
When he awoke for the second time, sensation had returned to his hands. The pupa was on his mind, the residue of a dream. He imagined it as transparent green, like the water of the canal. He felt it turn within him, a compass needle oriented to the direction he had flown from, to Little Eye. One by one, he opened his fingers and the image of the pupa receded. He became distracted by the details of his new digits, knuckles, fingerprints and nails. He opened the last finger and panicked. The crow scrambled to his feet, his eyes screwed shut. He stood thus for a few seconds and then opened one eye, and then the other. He lifted an arm and wiggled his fingers.
He was clothed. The outstretched arm was enclosed in a green jacket sleeve, with an embroidered cuff. Looking down, he saw boots, pants, and a rough sweater. The jacket extended to his knees, had two rows of brass buttons, and was embroidered in painstaking detail with gold thread and tiny sequins on green velvet. All in all, thought the crow, it was bloody marvelous.
"I'm sorry about the clothes, Master Crow. It was all I could find that'd fit you. I dug them out of an old theatre wardrobe in a building back along the road a bit. They're not too musty I hope? At least, they weren't completely eaten by moths." The man who had carried him from the bridge sat on a wooden chair a few feet away. His voice was deep and unhurried, melancholy but not unkind.
"A theatre?" Master Crow's voice was hoarse.
"The building was a theatre before the war. It used to have beautiful murals." The man rubbed his scruffy chin. "I think that the clothes belonged to a monkey in one of the shows."
"A monkey." Master Crow thought about this. "What is a monkey?"
"A monkey in a production," said the man, ducking the question. "Yes, I'm sure of it. Nothing to be ashamed of."
"I'm not ashamed. They are very fine." Master Crow smoothed the coat against his sides. He smiled. It was a very unusual sensation.
"Indeed they are." The man fixed Master Crow with a curious gaze, turning a large ruby ring on his finger. "Now Master Crow, where are you from?"
Master Crow watched the swallows flitting over the water. The bridge sat in the shimmering autumn heat with mallards gliding on the oily eddies between the arches. Master Crow, yes, that would do. He must have a name if he was going to talk to people. He was pleased.
"Here, and there." Master Crow indicated the sky. "Who are you?"
"My name is John Machine. I'm from the City of Steps. It's a long way from here. I haven't been home for a few months." He smiled, without humor. "Have you heard of it, the City of Steps? It's a very old city, several days south of here. It sits on the coast of the Irridian Sea."
"Yes," lied Master Crow. There was no point being thought provincial. The questions made him uncomfortable.
"I'm looking for an old black carriage. Things have grown up so much since I was last here. I barely recognize the place now. Such a thing would stand out on Nightjar Island. Have you seen anything like that?"
"Yes!" Master Crow remembered his flight through the forest. "It was in the same p
lace that I saw the girl and some odd creatures wearing animal masks."
"Oh?" John stiffened. He raised his eyebrows, which revealed a pink scar at his temple. "Where?"
"And a nasty-looking dog with a long tongue."
"Where?" John Machine's tone had become pointed.
"In the forest." Master Crow shrugged.
The man sat forward, twisting the ring. "The forest covers fully two thirds of this island, my little friend. I would appreciate it if you could be just a little more specific."
"In the great crater in the middle of the island, quite far from here. Is that specific enough?"
John laughed, settling back. "I can't decide if you are guileless or just a sarcastic little prick. What was she doing, this girl?"
"Magic."
The man considered this. "What kind of magic?"
"Making glass things, living things. Things that change things."
"What do you mean?"
"Pupae blown from glass, brought to life with her breath." Master Crow shrugged. "I stole one."
"You stole one of these pupae?"
"Yes."
"That explains a lot." John Machine looked him up and down. "Can I look at it?"
"I swallowed it." Master Crow looked at the ground and indicated his body with his hands. "Then this."
"I saw," said John, not without sympathy. "It's quite a predicament you find yourself in."
"Yes." Master Crow's eyes grew wide. "You're not supposed to be here. It's forbidden. The Purge."
"Well," said John after a long pause, "I suppose that's true, if one chooses to recognize a certain authority, but you see, I am a collector. I don't feel it's right for one person to tell another where they can go, or not. I find things for people, special things that I can only get here on Nightjar Island. If I didn't find them, they would be lost forever. That's why I want to go to the place called Little Eye. I think I might have some luck there. I did once. That's where you saw the witch, isn't it?"
Master Crow swallowed hard, and nodded. In truth, he wished he had not mentioned the girl, or her companions. A knot of mistrust had formed in his belly, despite the apparent kindnesses John Machine had shown him so far.
John Machine looked into Master Crow's eyes and then glanced away as though he had come to a decision. He slapped his still-damp knees and rose to his feet. "I have to go. I daresay you had better not follow. If you stole from who I think you stole from, well, let's just say she's not a forgiving type." He pulled a dusty pack over his shoulder and walked away without another word. In a moment he would disappear between two bombed-out buildings.
"John Machine," shouted Master Crow in a high voice. "What should I do?"
John's voice floated back. "Find a woman named May. If you're lucky, she'll help you. And look for some new clothes. You've grown three inches since we started taking. Until we meet again, Master Crow."
Master Crow sat down on a piece of machinery protruding from the ground and put his hand over his stomach where the pupa moved. What now?
Half an hour passed. Hunger overtook his thoughts. He walked to the edge of the canal. In the water below, minnows darted through the weeds. Below them, a carp drifted with lazy gestures. The frogs had returned to the steps to warm themselves in the sun. He stared at his reflection. It would take some getting used to. Everything seemed to have a place except him. He looked into the sky, but that was no longer his home. He flapped his arms. What did this new body eat? What could it do? It seemed cruelly limited. It occurred to him then that he had three benefactors. The Monster had given him the gift of consciousness, the witch the gift of a body, and John Machine the gift of a name. A sick wave spread through his stomach as he remembered his earlier thought of how men and monsters had agency over things by giving them names.
Master Crow walked, surprised that his head did not bob. His feet made impressions in the earth still damp from the overnight rain. The ground was his home now and he had made his first marks on it. Crouching down, he grabbed a frog from the stairs before it could escape, and swallowed it whole.
LAMB'S MILK
The storm moved inland from the Irridian Sea turning the sky a dirty yellow. Thunder came through Moss's soles and for a moment he was taken back to the day twenty-five years earlier when Memoria had fallen from the seawall. A flash of lightning brought him back to the present. Black walnut trees swayed, littering the grass with leaves. Moss swore. The stolen bag would not repel the rain for long.
From the vantage point of the museum's entrance he watched the woman run down a hill in the direction of Leech Lane where coffee houses and bookshops were crowded and bleached to a common hue. Behind Leech Lane lay Hellbender Fields with its historic mansions and lush gardens. The City of Steps' smoke-veiled northern reaches faded into monochrome undulations. She slowed, turned away from Leech Lane, and instead followed the natural curve of the ground toward a ravine. Seeing an opportunity, Moss followed. The vegetation would slow her. He would be able to collar her out of public view.
The rain intensified. He splashed across the lawn shielding his eyes with a forearm. His glasses fogged and he ran almost blind as he tried to thumb the lenses clear with his shirttail. When he pressed them to his nose, he was startled to see the woman watching him from the edge of the ravine. Her breathing was rapid, but she bolted when he came within shouting distance.
Moss entered the ravine with trepidation, following an animal track. Stepping over roots, he cursed the fact that he had left his gun at home. The path soon became a washed-out bed of loose stones. He slid down a decline, snatching at branches. They ripped through his palms leaving him with hands full of leaves that smelled of decay. He hit the bottom of the slide with a spine-jarring impact.
Lightheaded, he stood astride a rill, staring into the mouth of a drainage tunnel. A brick opening obscured by vines left a keyhole-shaped entry point that was impossible to see beyond. Moments ahead of him, the woman had left cloudy footprints in the streambed. He caught his breath, resting his hands on his knees, and tried to recall what else was in the bag besides the book. There was a newspaper, an empty sinispore bottle, an assortment of pens and pencils, an eraser, a notebook, and some cigar cards illustrated with various fish that had caught his fancy in the market at the Cloth Hall. With renewed anger he plunged into the tunnel.
A few strides took him beyond the reach of daylight. As his eyes adjusted he became aware of a glow. It revealed slimy cobbles and trash. Rot burned in his nostrils. The sound of the rain faded, replaced by his breathing and the trickle of the stream. The light, he soon discovered, came from a candle sitting beside his bag on a makeshift table. The woman watched him from the shadows. Moss snatched the bag. The weight was wrong.
"Where is it?" he asked. His ears whined. Tinnitus flared when he was angry, a consequence of a childhood in the ship-breaking yards. The woman stepped forward, ringed fingers twirling hair that hung in rat-tails. Her lips were tinged plum from the cool air. Candlelight distorted her beauty with liquid shadows.
"Don't make this difficult for yourself," she said, meeting his eyes. She followed this with a burst of phrases in an unfamiliar language and stepped to the side. There was movement nearby. So, an accomplice, thought Moss.
The man who stepped forward was tall, maybe seven feet. He wore a beaver top hat that came close to scraping the roof of the tunnel. A black lace veil covered his face. A coat with an ermine collar hid the contours of his body. The only visible skin was on his large, scarred hands. Faded indigo tattoos crisscrossed his knuckles. The fingers ended at the second joint, the head of the phalanges. The man's sleeves, also trimmed with fur, were matted with the pulp and mucus-like secretions of the tunnel walls. Moss did not see a gun, but guessed that one was hidden in the folds of the disgusting coat. The man moved his left arm and The Songbirds of Nightjar Island slid out of the sleeve into his hand.
"My book," said Moss. He had decided on reasonable calm and tried not to be distracted by the woman, who had moved b
ehind him.
"Your book?" asked the man. The voice was sonorous and accented. "I think we can at least agree," he cleared his throat, "that it's not your book."
"What, it's yours now because she stole it from me?" asked Moss.
"You stole it from the museum. And, unless I am misinformed," said the man, "the judge who donated it stole it from the infamous ornithologist and serial murderer Franklin Box. It was Franklin's book."
"It was, once." Moss saw no point in lying. "It was his personal copy."
"He wrote but one book during his career, did he not? But what a book, do you agree?" The man swayed, making Moss think of the walnut trees outside of the museum.
Moss shook his head. "I'm no expert."
"The Songbirds of Nightjar Island was a masterpiece of scholarship. It would have made him a household name, at least among ornithologists. But he murdered and dismembered several prostitutes over the course of his career. A thing like that can cast a long shadow on an academic career. Many of those women were endeared to the Red Lamprey."
"You seem well informed," said Moss.
The other man shrugged. "Judge Seaforth, the same man who sent you up, understood the book's importance. It had value as a work of scholarship, but it came with quite a story attached. Tainted by association, a conversation piece. He had it confiscated on the day Box was chained and sent to prison. Franklin had been in Brickscold for what, twelve years when you met him? And then he told you his unfortunate story. That very day, you promised him you would steal it back. You would exact a small, but sweet, measure of vengeance for you both."
"How do you know all this?" Moss's voice was thick with incredulity.
"One knows things," said the man. After a moment, he added, "People call me Lamb." He set the book on the table with care, touching the corner to the wood and then laying it flat. He extended his right hand. The backs of the fingers were carapaced with rings, rubies set in dull gold. Taken off guard, Moss thought he was meant to shake hands but Lamb opened his stubbed fingers and something fell onto the table. It was a tarnished silver pendant, a running fox, with filthy red string threaded through its curled tail. The hair on Moss's arms rose.
Necessary Monsters Page 3
