by Paula Guran
He lay very still then, so quiet and still that I found myself checking whether he was still breathing. His voice was soft when he spoke again. “But now I have seen something else, Dudek. Something alive, something alive that shouldn’t be alive. Something beautiful, and like nothing else in the world. It stands on two legs like a bird, but it’s not a bird. And always it looks at me, following me with its eyes. When I take the lid off the box it looks up at me with those eyes and … it sees me. It sees me as a fellow living being, and its eyes say to me, ‘I am alive, Mischke. I am alive like you, and you are alive like me.’ Do you understand, Dudek?” Again he raised one arm, reaching toward me, but he was too weak and his arm dropped, hanging off the side of the bed until I moved it back onto the mattress for him. A tear was making a slow trek down the left side of his face, following a deep crease that ran from the corner of his eye almost to his ear.
“What do you want me to do, Mischke?” I asked.
“Just feed it. Put some food through the holes in the box. Some bread, soft meat, maybe boiled egg. Just keep it fed! When I get down there again, I’ll take it out. Out of the caisson. I don’t know if it’s strong enough yet for the outside, but we have to take our chances, eh? It and me both, we’ll just have to see.”
On my next shift in the caisson I found Mischke’s box, pushed into a corner and apparently undisturbed. Mischke had written his name on the side of it with charcoal, the letters rough and almost illegible. The lid was still tied on with rope. I stood looking at it for a long time. In the dim light there was little hope of peering through the holes to see if anything was inside it, and I didn’t try. I could have untied the rope and taken the lid off, but I didn’t do that either. I just stood looking into the shadowy corner until the foreman yelled at me to get to work. At my lunch break I got down in a squat in front of the box with my back to the nearest group of men. Quickly and furtively I tore up half a sandwich and stuffed the pieces through the holes in the lid of the box. No sound came from inside, but I kept jamming in pieces of bread and meat as fast as I could and then walked away.
I repeated this ritual for three days, and on the fourth day the box was gone. I went to the man nearest me, and then another and another, asking each one if he knew anything about the box. Finally one answered with something other than a blank stare: “Sure, the big guy, Mickey, he had it under his arm when he locked out this morning. He was right there at the shift change—didn’t you see him?”
When my shift ended I went to the boarding house where Mischke lived. He wasn’t there, and the men he shared a room with said he had packed all his belongings and left that morning. I didn’t see him again until four years later.
It was one of the first warm days in the summer of 1876. Though the great bridge itself was still years from completion, the New York caisson was long finished. The vast space that Mischke and I and hundreds of others had toiled inside of was now filled up solid with concrete, and the huge tower of countless tons of stone had been built on top of it. But all of that was behind me. I worked at a bookbinder’s now, and I was walking in Central Park, on my way to a concert at the Naumburg bandstand. I had just passed a couple without really looking at them, only vaguely noticing that the woman was carrying a young child on her hip. But after I’d gone a few steps further I heard a gruff voice calling my name. I realized who it was before I’d even turned around.
“Mischke!”
“Young Dudek,” he answered, grinning at me.
For a moment, I could only stare dumbly at him. I knew it was Mischke I was looking at, but he was a man transformed. The rough, irregular features were still there, but his face was softer, cleanly shaven and pink. His hair was neatly trimmed and oiled, his clothes clean. Even his eyes seemed less mismatched, and far less imposing. I real-ized I was seeing Mischke as a happy man, and even as that thought occurred to me he was introducing me to the woman at his side as “My wife Rosalie.” The tenderness in his voice left no doubt about the source of his happiness. “And my little one, Anna!” he added, touching his hand to the cheek of the toddler in her mother’s arms. “Who could believe I would have such a beautiful family? Eh? Who could believe?” The pride glowed from him like heat from a fire.
For a few minutes we stood there among the trees and grass of the park, talking of our time in the caisson, the progress of the bridge, and about our lives now. Mischke told me he’d used his savings from his caisson wages to purchase half-ownership in a grocer’s shop, and had met Rosalie as one of his customers. “She kept telling me how to run the business,” he said, “so I told her she better marry me so she can run things herself!” He laughed, and his wife rolled her eyes with an expression that told me this was an old joke between them. Neither of us made any mention of Mischke’s last days in the caisson or of the box he took away from it.
As we talked, Mischke’s daughter began to squirm in her mother’s arms. She pointed down the path to one of the sausage-vendor carts that had recently begun appearing in Central Park. “Ma, Pa,” she said excitedly, “get sau’ge for J’zurkie? Get sau’ge for J’zurkie?”
Mischke smiled over at his daughter. “Jaszczurkie has plenty of other food, Anna,” he said. You can feed him when we get home, okay?”
“But sau’ges are his favorite!” Anna protested, but then her mother set her down on the gravel path, and after a few soft words took her hand and strolled out onto the grass with her.
I realized then that the word that was puzzling me was a diminutive of jaszczurka, the Polish for lizard. But already Mischke was continuing our conversation, asking me where I was living now and whether I’d met “a nice girl” yet. Distracted, I stammered out an answer. Mischke’s only acknowledgement of my befuddled, questioning expression was to give me the briefest of winks before turning to look at his wife and daughter walking hand in hand on the grass. Somehow I knew that was all the answer I would ever get.
We parted a short time later, and I walked on alone. The sun was warm on my face, and the breeze was sweet with the smell of life.
In the world of Seanan McGuire’s Incryptid series, the waheela hail from Canada’s Northwest Territories where the thaw never comes and the cold needs no name. They tend to lose their tempers and eat whatever happens to be vexing them. But Istas, like many young human women, has left her provincial family to live in New York City.
RED AS SNOW
SEANAN MCGUIRE
“Flesh is temporary; flesh will end. Ice is forever. Remember this, and choose your steps with caution.”
—Waheela proverb.
The Freakshow, a highly specialized nightclub somewhere in Manhattan Now
“Istas!”I studied my reflection in the small mirror set into my locker door for a moment more, trying to figure out what I could do differently with my eye makeup, before yawning and turning toward the sound of my name. Looking was a courtesy, nothing more: even if I could not recognize the sound of my employer’s voice, I would have known the smell of her, a mixture of cream foundation, overheated velvet, and the curious pheromone stew of her sweat.
“Yes?” I closed my locker as I turned. It was one in a row of twenty, matching three other free-standing rows, all arranged like this was some sort of gymnasium, and not the changing room of a popular strip club turned burlesque show.
Kitty Smith, owner and operator of the Freakshow—the aforementioned strip club turned burlesque show, which had been founded by her uncle—folded her arms and scowled at me. This took several seconds; bogeymen have very long arms. That, along with their grayish skin and the extra joints in their fingers, is all that visibly distinguishes them from the humans. She even wore her long black hair curled in the human style, framing her pointed, inhuman face. “You’re supposed to be on the floor. What are you doing back here?”
“I am not supposed to be on the floor,” I replied, picking up my parasol. It opened into a pleasing bloom of pink and black lace, which went perfectly with my puff-sleeved, pink and black satin dress. It had taken me weeks
to sew the alternating tiers of pink and black petticoats, but the effect was worth the effort, especially once I had dyed pink streaks into my naturally black hair. “If you check the schedule, you will see that I was scheduled to end my labors at nine o’clock. It is now nine-fifteen. I am done for the evening.”
“That schedule was made before Candy went on maternity leave,” protested Kitty.
“My request for time off was not dependent on the status of Candy’s gestation.” I gave my parasol a lazy twirl. “Ryan and I will be having a pleasant evening involving courtship activities, food, and coitus.”
There was a pause before Kitty asked, “You’re going out for dinner and dancing before you go back to his place for sex?”
I frowned. “I believe I just said that.”
“No, honey, you didn’t.” Ryan sounded amused and exasperated at the same time, a combination that I have become intimately familiar with since we began our relationship. I turned, smiling, to see him standing in the doorway of the women’s locker room. He shook his head, smiling back. “Remember what I said about sounding like a dictionary? It confuses people.”
“Refrain from discussion of carnage and how many colors are inside a person, try not to sound like a dictionary … this is why waheela don’t talk to people, you know. It’s far too difficult.”
People might be difficult, but Ryan was easy. Tall, with dark hair, dark eyes, and golden skin, Ryan Yukimura was the first man of any species who had thought to ask me if I was in search of a mate. He was not human— his species, the tanuki, originated in Japan—but as I was not human either, that did not present a significant barrier. Both of us were shapeshifters, and as such looked perfectly human when we saw the need.
“It has its rewards.” Ryan looked past me to Kitty. “My shift’s up. Angel’s got the bar. See you tomorrow night, ma’am?”
Kitty threw her hands in the air. “Oh, sure, you leave, too. My best bartender and my most productive waitress. Why isn’t there a law against employees dating?”
“Because your uncle wanted to hit on the cocktail waitresses,” said Ryan amiably. “Come on, Istas, or we’ll miss our table.”
“Coming.” I picked up my clutch purse, bobbed my head at Kitty, and followed Ryan out of the dressing room. He looped his arm through mine. Normally, he was taller than I was, but I was wearing high heeled boots, and we were almost the same height. Side-by-side, we strolled away.
Iwas born in a place that has no name, so high in the Canadian tundra that the permafrost never melted, no matter the season. There were five pups in my litter. I was third-born, large enough to fight off my siblings, small enough not to seem like an attractive mouthful to my father. The largest of us did not survive the winter. Neither did the smallest, and when the first green of springtime came, only three of us remained. I think of those days often, when I am frustrated with the crush and chaos of Manhattan, or when the stupidity of the humans I have surrounded myself with seems too much to bear. Those were my happiest days, cradled in the love of my siblings, protected by the instincts of my mother. And if those days were the best that my homeland has to offer … is it any wonder that I have no intent to ever, ever go back?
Ryan kept his arm looped through mine as we walked along the sidewalk toward our destination, as much a restraint as a show of ownership for the people around us. He didn’t want me departing from the path that we had charted for our evening. A pity. There were some lovely-smelling rats in the nearby alley, and I had yet to eat.
“We’re almost there, Izzy,” he said, still pulling me along.
“Anyone else who called me by such a diminutive would find them selves searching the gutters for their arms,” I said, amiably enough.
Ryan grinned. “Good thing I’m not anyone else, then, isn’t it.”
“Yes.”
We walked a few blocks more, finally stopping in a pizza parlor that smelled amazing enough to make up for the fact that it was essentially a dark cavern carved from the wall. I frowned. Ryan tapped my shoulder and pointed to a sign in the window.
SUNDAY ONLY—ALL YOU CAN EAT, NINE TO MIDNIGHT.
“I love you,” I breathed.
He grinned. “Yes, you do.”
To be waheela is to be a creature of endless appetite, as hungry as the winter wind which blows from the north. After consuming the better part of three large pizzas with everything and an entire medium pizza with ham and pineapple, I began to wonder if the north wind had been going about things the wrong way for all these years. Maybe it just needed to visit a nice Italian restaurant and eat until it wanted to vomit.
Not that this was technically a “nice” Italian restaurant. It was narrow, and dark, with walls that had once been white, and were now a dingy shade of cream. I would have thrown away any article of clothing as visibly stained as those walls. The furniture was old, full of splinters and scarred by inexpert repairs. None of which mattered; the food was plentiful, and that was the end of my concern.
Ryan reached for one of the last slices of pizza. I growled briefly, reminding him that the food was mine, before leaning back in my seat and allowing him to take it. Ryan grinned.
“I take it you approve?”
“I do.” I nudged him under the table with my toe. “How did you discover this venue?”
“I told some friends that I needed somewhere to take my lady where they wouldn’t look at us funny for eating everything in sight. This place,” he gestured to the restaurant around us, “does all-you-can-eat Sunday once a month, at which point it winds up packed with college kids, competitive eaters, and lots of other folks who are more interested in eating than they are in judging.”
“Excellent.” I scanned the room, taking note of the wide variety of people who had crammed themselves into the narrow space. I was most definitely the best dressed of the lot, or at least the only one who had bothered to coordinate my earrings with my vertically striped stockings.
Most waheela do not care for crowds. I do not care for crowds. But I am very fond of watching fashion trends, and this has required me to learn to be still even when surrounded. It was not an easy lesson.
One of the waitresses wove through the crowd with an easy grace that I admired, putting a small dessert pizza down between us. It was grated chocolate and sliced strawberries on cinnamon bread, and I appreciated the artistry of it, even as I felt no desire to continue eating.
“We didn’t order this,” said Ryan, sounding puzzled.
“Compliments of the chef,” said the waitress. “You’re tonight’s big eaters!” Her announcement drew a round of applause from the tables around us.
“Oh. Well, thanks.” Ryan looked back to me and shrugged. “I guess we should try it. To be polite.”
“Your weakness for chocolate will be your undoing one day,” I said, and sighed, and reached for the pizza. If there is one thing I have learned since leaving the cave of my fathers, it is how to be polite.
There was a bitter taste lurking beneath the sweetness of the treat, like bones sleeping under snow. I paused in the act of chewing my first mouthful, trying to figure out why I knew that flavor—and more, what it was doing in my food.
Then Ryan’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he fell, face-first, into his plate. I threw my slice of pizza aside, reaching for him. Someone in the crowd protested. I swallowed my half-chewed mouthful in order to snarl at her. The protests stopped.
My hand never reached my boyfriend’s shoulder. Cold swept over me like the cruel north wind, and I barely felt my own head hit the table.
Isnapped awake. The pizza parlor was gone, replaced by a dark, cold room and a metal chair beneath me. Something held me in place. I tensed, testing my bonds. Metal chains, with a smell I did not recognize. No common alloy, then. They were wrapped around my body half a dozen times, holding me down, torso, arms, and legs. If I changed forms, and the chains did not snap …
I have seen stronger than I killed by their own foolish bravado, believing they could tra
nsform their way out of any trap or trouble. I calmed my breathing and was still.
The scent of Ryan hung in the room, but I did not know whether it meant my boyfriend was present or whether I was simply smelling my own clothing until he groaned off to my left, and said, “I don’t think that pizza was a good idea.”
“Shh,” I cautioned, despite my relief. “We are unlikely to be alone here.”
“I know, but they wouldn’t have put us together if they didn’t want us talking. Can you change?”
“The chains are too tight. I fear I would break myself. Can you?”
“No. Same.” Ryan sighed. “They’re too tight for me to get bigger, and too complicated for me to get smaller. Even if I shrank, I’d be all tangled up.”
“Ah.” Waheela have two shapes that we choose to wear: the one I was chained in, and my great-form, which was ten feet tall and difficult to buy shoes for. Tanuki have three common shapes—man, beast-man, and beast. It was a pity that none of them were currently available to us. “Is there a length of chain between your legs?”
“Yeah, and it’s, um, a little closer to the boys than I really appreciate.”
“Is there direct constriction of your testicles?”
I could virtually hear Ryan’s wince. “No, but it’s close.”
“Hmm.” I looked around the darkened room again. My eyes were adjusting to the dark, allowing me to pick out some small details, such as the location of the nearest walls. I considered rocking back and forth until I fell over, but dismissed the idea as impractical. I would injure myself well before I did anything to damage either the chains or the chair, and I would probably rip my stockings in the process. That was unacceptable.
“So honey? Do you smell anything that might tell us where we are?”
“I smell you. I smell metal. I smell cold. We are near something refrig erated. I do not smell anything that would indicate why we are here, or how we have been brought here.” As I said the last words, I froze. There was one thing that would explain how we had been brought here without our captors leaving any scent hanging in the air to warn me of their natures.
