He watched them plod off with their sacks over their shoulders before he approached the dumpster. He gave a snort at Euripides’s idea of good stuff. Fish bones and stray socks. empty cans and crumpled newspapers. A ripped tutu. Seven squished tubes of Vampire Blood, complete with plastic fangs. Empty cardboard boxes and packing. A plastic fright wig. A box of brown lettuce. A brown paper sack labeled WIZARD.
It was cold, suddenly. Not that the wind came any swifter off the bay. The seagulls were still screaming as they wheeled, the traffic still rushed and rumbled. A breeze, half of power and half gray, stirred his hair. The cold began in the pit of Wizard’s stomach and emanated outward. His ears rang and he cringed from the expected blow.
A pigeon swooped down suddenly to alight on the edge of the open dumpster. He eyed Wizard anxiously. He was very young, his beak still wide and pink. “I’m all right,” Wizard reassured him. “Just give me a moment. I’ll be fine.” The pigeon fluttered closer, to peck at the fish bones, and reject them. A sudden jab of his beak rustled the paper sack. “Yes, yes, I see it. It just took me a bit by surprise, that’s all. Go along now. Popcorn later, at the park. If you see Cassie, tell her I’m looking for her. No, on second thought, stay clear of her. You’re still tender, and you aren’t fast enough to get away from her. Just pass it on to anyone. I’m looking for Cassie.”
The young bird was gone in a clap of wings. A lot of homer in that one. Wizard thought, watching his soaring, careless flight.
He flicked the fish bones away from the bag and extracted it from the dumpster. It was not heavy. He felt it cautiously.
Cloth, perhaps. He walked slowly away with it. He was not ready to look inside the bag. Not yet. It swung ominously at the end of his arm and disturbed him. It didn’t thatch his clothing. It betrayed him. No one in this suit and shoes would carry a dumpster-stained crumpled brown bag. He could get away with trash digging in a suit; people were always throwing things away by mistake and digging through dumpsters for them: lottery tickets and car registrations and phone numbers scribbled on the backs of envelopes. But men dressed as salesmen did not wander around the city carrying dirty paper bags labeled WIZARD. He felt the cold touch of the power on him again, both a threat and a consolation. If he could find the balancing point, he could use whatever force was working here.
If he failed to find it, it would smash him.
Today he had had enough of shadows and the rumble of Highway 99 overhead. He needed sunlight. He crossed Alaskan Way recklessly and wandered out onto the pier of the Aquarium.
The sky was overcast, but he sensed the sun behind the clouds and took comfort from it. He sat down on the guard mil of the dock and looked down at the sloshing water. The bag leaned against his leg, rustling secrets whenever the wind touched it.
People were slowing to stare at him. It would be a very stupid place to try to commit suicide, but he felt them wondering if he were going to jump. He rose and took up his bag.
Privacy, he reflected as he strolled down Alaskan Way, was in damned short supply in the city. Whatever was in this bag, it was not something to be poked through on a crowded sidewalk, or investigated in the closed stall of a men’s room. No, it demanded solitude. And the only way to be alone in a city was to be where no one else wanted to be. Someplace cold and windy and smelly with nothing worth looking at. He hiked along Alaskan Way, past the fireboat station and the ferry terminal, past Ye Olde Curiosity Shop. Beyond it was a small grab-and-run diner in a sort of kiosk in a bare parking lot.
There was a dumpster behind it, redolent of old grease and fish. Not even the cold wind off the bay could disperse the stink. Wizard stood in the lee of the dumpster and opened his bag.
It took his breath away. For a moment he forgot the stink and the cold and the traffic sounds. He touched with a cautious finger.
The long robe was dark blue, spangled with stars and crescent moons that sparkled silver when the cloth moved. It had long, loose sleeves and a high collar. There was no need to hold it up against himself. He knew it would fit. The cloak was the same blue, but unadorned except for silver trim at the collar and throat. It tied with little silver tassels.
Wizard looked into the bag again. The hat. It was blue, one shade short of black. It had a broad brim, floppier than he had supposed it would be, and a tall, pointed peak. But the tip of this lofty spire was bent. He reached into the bag and attempted to straighten it. The touch of the hat on his hand was like the touch of ice against teeth, like the unfelt slicing of a razor blade against callused skin. Slowly Wizard drew back his hand. The tip would not straighten. It was meant to be bent, and the power in it had let him know it. He felt it as a rebuke to him, some sort of subtle mockery that the tip of his wizard’s hat should be bent at such a rakish angle. He remembered to breathe and took a long draw of air. Meticulously he refolded the robe and cloak and replaced them in the bag, packing them around the tall hat. He was carefully folding the mouth of the bag shut when the flutter of wings jarred him.
“Stupid!” Wizard rebuked him. “I warned you that you weren’t fast enough for her.”
The young homer’s feathers were still ruffled, and two of his pinions were missing. In spite of his rakish appearance, he cocked his head at Wizard, fluffed his throat out and gave a bob and coo.
“I’m coming. Next time, don’t be such a show-off. No, no popcorn until I get to my bench. Go on, now. I’ll see you there.”
The young homer soared off. Wizard watched the flick, flick, glide of his wings silhouetted against the lowering sky.
Despite the chill of the day, he took off his tan overcoat and draped it over his arm, concealing the bag. That done, he headed for the bus stop.
HE STARED UNSEEING out the bus window, trying to still the small moth of excitement that always fluttered inside him when he knew he was going to rendezvous with Cassie. Rasputin’s remarks of a few days ago came into his mind to haunt him.
He pushed the ideas away angrily. As if he would ever endanger his relationship with Cassie that way, let alone the magic she had shown him how to unlock. That he had always had the ability to be a wizard he did not doubt; but without Cassie it would never have developed past the stages of odd hunches and strange turns of fortune. He had not been anxious to develop it either.
The second time Cassie had come to him, he had thought he was having a vision. He tried to remember the exact alley, but all his memories from that time were shadowed, like portrait proofs slowly darkening in his mind. It had been winter. That much was certain.
It had been snowing as it did in Seattle once or thrice a winter, with large wet white flakes that spiraled down from the sky. For the first hour, the flakes had melted as soon as they touched the gray streets or the red bricks that cobbled the alleys.
Then the snow had begun to unite in ridges of gray slush in the streets, and in trackless white strips down the centers of the alleys. Soon even the edges of the streets turned white, and the snow filled in the black footprints of the few pedestrians as quickly as they passed. Tomorrow there would be school closures, and the buses would run on emergency schedules and refuse to stop in the middle of the steep streets. He had wiped a drop of moisture from the tip of his nose and slid his numbed hands back into the small warmth between his cramped thighs.
He had been crouching between the back of a dumpster and the brick wall of a building, where only the most persistent of the breezes could find him, and none of the snow. But the cold radiated from the bricks at his back and rose from the cobbled street beneath him. The earth was a cold fickle bitch that had turned her icy back on him. The seams of his old black boots were cracked and the faded denim of his pants was as stiff and rough as sandpaper against his chilled skin. His flannel shirt was not long enough to stay tucked in, and the denim jacket he wore was short, barely touching the top of his hips. The collar was turned up to chafe against his reddened ears whenever he turned his head.
He had been watching the snow as it fell past the glow of a streetlam
p, trying to dream. There were two parts to the dream. The first was that if he sat still enough, crouched on his heels behind the dumpster, an envelope of body heat would form around his still body and protect him. Whenever the wind was still, he felt the warmth seeping out of his body and resting against his skin like a benign and transparent spirit. But then the wind would stir and rip his warmth away, and he would shiver again. The shivering made his spine ache and his muscles cramp. Every so often, his legs would give way beneath him and he would find himself sprawled flat on the damp, cold pavement. The bricks sucked greedily at his body heat until he raised himself to crouch on his heels again, his body in a shivering curl over his knees.
The other part of the dream was more frightening. When he stared at the swirl of flakes in front of the streetlamp, his perception of distance and speed changed. The flakes seemed to be originating in the lamp and zooming toward him in a dizzying rush. Stare a little longer, and he would feel that he was the one in motion, journeying to that far-off light, and the white bits of matter that rushed past him were the bright stars of a thousand galaxies. He could feel himself drawn to the light like a moth to the candle flame, could fed the pull as he was lifted from his aching crouch and rushed through a thousand nights. Then his body would fall with a crash, jarring him from both dreams, and he would have to begin again. Each time he felt he was getting closer to the light. He did not know what he would find when he arrived there, but he hoped it would be warm.
Without warning, his dream changed. He frowned to himself in annoyance. What business had this vision in coming between him and the brightness of his light? She floated toward him, white face and dark eyes, dark hair outlined and tipped with silver white, wearing a long dark garment that sparkled and shifted with the wind and whirling flakes. She seemed familiar, and yet he was equally certain he had never met her before.
As she got closer to him, she became darker and darker, until she was a black shape between him and the light, nearly blocking out the glow of the street lamp. He blinked up at her.
“So here you are.” There was relief in her voice, tinged with exasperation. “I was beginning to think it was a fool’s errand to try and find you tonight. Rasputin told me not to waste my time. I told him there was a wizard lost in the city, and close to being dead. ‘If he’s a wizard, Cassie,’ he told me, ‘he’ll find himself, and then come looking for us.’ He can be so hard sometimes. But I told him no, I didn’t think you would. I don’t think you believe in yourself yet. Maybe because you don’t want to. But it doesn’t work that way, wanting or not wanting to be a wizard. You just are. Look at me!”
He had been trying to see past her, to focus on the streetlamp again. Her sharp nudge sent him sprawling to the cold damp pavement. Pins and needles shot through his cramped legs. He couldn’t move, couldn’t crawl away from her if he tried. She towered over him, darker than the night, and silver. He cowered, awaiting the finishing blow.
“You know who I am.” It was an accusation.
He struggled with his mind, longing for his dream to come back, wishing that he were more stoned. But there was something about her that would have forced an answer from a rock.
“You’re the woman from the park bench,” he said, his words thick as settling snow. “The one who talked about popcorn.”
“Damn right I am. But only a wizard could have known that.”
She stooped beside him suddenly and he cringed away. “No. Please, no!” What was he denying? The charge of being a wizard, or the easy way she gripped him by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet? His knees, numb from his long inactivity and the cold, started to buckle under him. She slipped under one of his arms, bearing him up and taking charge of him. She staggered him along, he knew not where. The streets were silent, black and white and silver with snow and night and streetlights. Nothing else moved. No car passed, no other pedestrians struggled against the wind. Seattle was deathly silent, paused and poised between one moment and the next.
“Where arc we going?” he managed. Their feet made tracks in the pristine white sidewalks, and the snow filled them up behind them, making their passage a fantasy. He wanted so badly to lie down in the soft clean snow and rest.
“To shelter,” she told him, and in her voice he heard the telltale pant of effort. She was strong, but he was no easy burden for her.
“I don’t want to go to a shelter,” he half groaned. He had been to one of the shelters once. They had given him two pajama bottoms, one to sleep in and one to use as a towel after his shower. They had given him a box to put his own clothes in, and a piece of soap to wash himself. He had slept on a flat mattress on the floor with a rough blanket over him, listening to the coughs and rustlings and mutterings of a score of other men. The noises had brought back the old dreams and fears, so that he had sweated through his pajamas and blanket, soaking the mattress with sour fear stench. Never again. Better to freeze to death in the snow than to endure that long night again.
“To my shelter. This way.”
The feeling came back to his legs and he supported his own weight, but she did not release his arm. He began to take note of the buildings they passed. Uneasiness sandpapered his nerves.
This was no Seattle he knew. The patterns of brick in the buildings suggested vague faces, the fireplugs that hunched beneath snow caps were like cossack trolls. It was all alive and watching, awareness in the details like a Kay Nielsen illustration for a metropolitan fairytale. Cassie’s grip was firm on his arm and he was suddenly grateful for it, sure she guided him past dangers and pitfalls. This was no place of dead stone and bare pavement, though thousands might walk its streets by day and believe so. This was an ecosystem, vital and aware, of interdependent life. of predators and prey and parasites. Wizard’s heart nearly stopped as be thought how blindly he had wandered through these streets.
“This way. Down this way.”
An alley mouth, and a wooden door in a brick wall. And then stairs. Stairs that barked his shins and cramped his cold calf muscles. He followed her up them, and through a door into a place that pressed him with silence and warmth. He noticed little more than that at first. He sank into the corner of a fat couch upholstered in cream cloth with large blue flowers on it. He let his head sag back against the cushioned support, feeling warmth and smelling dust. He heard her close the door, and then she moved into his field of vision again. She swirled a dark cloak free of her body, ridding it of snow with a snap.
The tack, tack of her boots faded into another room, and was followed by the homey clatter of pans and cups. His cheeks and forehead tingled as his skin began to warm. Somewhere a kettle whistled, and a spoon stirred against ceramic mugs. A refrigerator opened and closed. Then he heard the soft tread of bare feet on carpeting and suddenly smelled rich chocolate.
He opened his eyes, wondering when he had closed them. She was placing a tray on a low coffee table before the wide couch.
“Hungry?” she asked.
He dragged himself upright. The smell of the food beckoned him, but he hesitated, wary as the wolf lured to the trap. He stared at the woman.
She was dressed in a long soft robe as white as the snow they had come from. It fell to her bare feet and then puddled wound them as she suddenly sank down to sit gracefully on the floor by the table. Her long dark hair, dampened by the snow, hung straight past her shoulders, but short tendrils of it wisped around her face. And her face was classic, oval, with a straight nose and chiseled mouth such as one might expect to find stamped on ancient coins. Her eyes were darker than brown but not black, and the chill of the night had flushed her cheeks. He suddenly felt dirty and uncouth.
Behind her was a jungle. Plants lined and banked the wall, plants that trailed or climbed or stood upright on their stalks. Some bore blossoms in a rainbow of colors and some were innocently green. He recognized none of them. Turning his head, he discovered more plants, in tubs and pots and basins.
Yet the room did not feel crowded. There was a harmony to t
his interior garden that he had never sensed before. They took in tension and breathed out peace.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked, and he realized she was repeating herself. He nodded dumbly and took the mug she offered.
It was a most unorthodox meal. There was hot chocolate topped with dollops of cream, small rich biscuits swirled through with cinnamon and brown sugar, and little oranges she peeled for him because his hands were still too cold to manage them.
He watched the long curls of rind, more green than gold, trail from her graceful fingers. The oranges were sweet and tart, and strangely right with the chocolate. He had not realized how cold he had been until he abruptly stopped shivering, and breathed a deep sigh as his body relaxed.
“Warmer now?” she asked, and when he nodded, smiled and said, “A quick shot of sugar will do that for you. Helps the body chase off the chill.”
“You’re gentler this time,” he said suddenly, and then wondered what had prompted it from him.
“Am I? Sometimes I am. It depends on my mood more than on my form. Why, did I scare you before?”
“A little. I guess I’m just not that used to dealing with people anymore. I still don’t understand what’s happening, or who you are, or why I’m here. I’m just glad to be warm.”
“For now, that’s probably enough. But I’ll give you a little more than that to think on tonight. I’m Cassie. And you’re here because you have a lot to find out, and you won’t find out what you already know by crouching behind a dumpster and freezing to death.”
He nodded as if that made sense. “And where are we?”
“In my place. One of my favorite Seattles. We’re in the one that would have been if the great fire hadn’t happened at the turn of the century.”
Wizard of the Pigeons Page 7
