Black Locust Letters

by Nicolette Jinks

  “Thank you, but you've helped me quite enough.” She pulled away with a nervous laugh.

  Clarkin cocked his head for an instant, contemplating; then he grinned and motioned for her to enter the rotating doors first. Betty paused beneath the eaves, realizing with despair that it was raining cats and dogs, and she hadn't brought an umbrella. She would be soaked within ten feet.

  There came the snap of spokes as Clarkin opened a big brown umbrella.

  “I never caught your name,” Clarkin said as they stepped into the night where mists obscured the slippery sidewalk.

  “Betty. Betty Cratchet.”

  “The morning show? I thought I recognized your voice. It’s a pity that more of its charm isn't relayed accurately in transmission.”

  Betty laughed. “Thank you, I think.”

  “It is indeed a compliment, if a bit clumsy.”

  “I don't think you are clumsy,” Betty said before she could stop herself, thinking that it was an appropriate response, as no one wants to insult a demon.

  “Could I walk you to a bus stop? I believe there is one in service on the half-hour.”

  “No need, I live nearby.”

  “The crows are still about and you don't have a hat. I will walk you to your door.”

  Betty did not object a second time. Neighbors would see her with a business man, if they thought to view the street at all, and she did fear the black birds. For the rest of their walk, they were silent, even though Betty noticed every time their strides made their hands brush. As they turned down her street, the rain started to come in larger, harder balls which slid off the umbrella's rim and turned the ground to slush. Overhead, a couple of flyboys in leather suits and gas-powered jetpacks battled the coming storm, dipping low and narrowly dodging the lamplighters on their ladders.

  “Are electric pyros real?” Betty asked, reminded by the lamplighters of the reason Tesla's spark starter wasn't used on the streets.

  Clarkin's jovial stride faltered. “Yes.”

  Yesterday's mansion fire had been attributed to pyros in the electric wires from a clothes iron. Betty hadn't been sure if that was a cover or a real event. Ever since Franklin Smith headed the Secret Forces Police six months ago, some very strange occurrences had happened.

  “Here's my house,” Betty said over the descending echo of the jetpacks' hissing rush. They always sounded louder going away, but she didn't know why. Gremlin tech. Although she intended to leave him at the black metal gate heading her front garden, Clarkin opened it for her and escorted her up her straight concrete path lined on either side with purple mums and yellow marigolds. On her porch the promised swing rocked in a gust of wind, and Betty faced her rescuer. Had he been a man, courtesy would have demanded she invite him to weather out the storm in her parlor, no matter how long it took. Had he been a man.

  He removed his fedora and shook out his umbrella while she found her keys.

  “Thank you again for all your help,” Betty said, holding out her hand by way of parting. Clarkin didn't look disappointed, accepting her hand and holding it longer than customary. Waves of warmth trembled through her body, senses suddenly acute and aware of his every movement. Betty withdrew her hand.

  Unabashed, Clarkin studied her with amber eyes and asked, “Will you attend Autumn Moon with me in a fortnight?”

  She had always dreamed of being asked to go to the festival, but not like this. Not by a Never Were. She thought of her job, her family, her career. Being a woman, not to mention the daughter of a General, was hard enough.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I'm afraid I can't.”

  “Then I am sorry, as well.” He sounded as though he spoke from the heart, but did not insist. Betty hastened inside, eager to escape, but after she closed the door, she peered through the curtains, watching him leave with a sprightly step and a whistle on his lips. She resisted the urge to call him back, remembering the scented letter in her bag.

  Humans weren't meant to mingle with things that Never Were. That was more than regulation, more than common sense, it was an order direct from the General.

  She'd heard that in other places, life is as it has been for generations. No devils, no ever growing banana bushes or crying heads in a cabbage patch. Her father said it was true, and that's the reason for the order. That one day long ago devils existed only in stories. When strange things happened with no reason or explanation, humans just accepted it. Coincidence, they'd call it, and carry on with their lives.

  At least, that's what the library says. Some old folks say, “When I was young, when your keys moved, you forgot where you put them. Now you've got a bogey.”

  Betty had a bogey. She'd seen it.

  The rest was nonsense.

  The letter was there, and fragrant.

  What if she got another letter, then another, and another, so sweetly scented and kindly written, and she grew to love the sender without having opened a single one?

  She must burn it.

  She fumbled with Slim's old lighter and struck it, held the flame to the edge of the envelope.

  But at the last second, she opened her hose drawer, threw in the letter, and slammed it closed.

  The rattle of the force from slamming the drawer made her dresser wobble, and her radio wriggled—Betty caught it before it could reach the ground, and her finger pressed a button. Crackling came first, and when she put it back in its proper place, it caught the signal and the staticy voice of the Alpha day host, Betty thought her name was Jenny, said through the speakers, “...and that was Bippidy Bee by Yours Truly. We at Aphla Bravo Charlie are with you again after the commercial break, it is time for the weather.”

  Betty snorted and left it on, realizing that the sound of another voice helped to take the chill off the room. She needed a distraction. She set about cleaning, did some laundry, and was getting out a broom when she heard, “The Sheriff is asking after an incident which took place in Sunny Glenn earlier this afternoon.”

  Betty gripped the dustpan.

  “If you saw something, say something. James Legrand is taking inquiries, so please help out and keep our communities safe. Once again, that was an incident at Sunny Glenn this afternoon. If you saw something, ask for James Legrand at the Sheriff’s office. Now, for local news...”

  Numb, Betty reached forward with a shaking hand and clicked the radio off. She grabbed for her stool, but her hand missed it, so she let herself sink to the floor. Her ears buzzed, as though she still heard static coming through the radio, but one thing rang through her ears.

  Slim was on the case.

  She knew she should say what she saw—but what if she did? What had she seen? A ring of crows. Heard crows squawking. Saw them leap onto it. She couldn't tell their number or what had been said. There was no way to identify them, except perhaps for the man who chased her, but even so, she couldn't recall his face, just the panic of running. The only thing her information would confirm was that crows were involved. And if you saw something done by crows, you pretended not to have seen it.

  Supposing she did seek out the Sheriff, would she come to regret it by midnight? Betty put a finger to the pulse in her neck, tried to count it as a way to settle her stomach. That was why they had Slim Legrand on the case: To keep informants safe. If it was anyone but him, she might have done it. She might have said what she saw. But she couldn't say, not if it brought her back into contact with him, and by extension through him, back to her father.

  Betty swallowed hard and climbed up off the floor. She wouldn't do anything differently. She'd pretend that nothing strange had happened. That was just how it would have to be.

  But she couldn't sleep that night. By 10:55, she was in her dressing gown and her teeth were brushed, her hair in plaits so she would have waves in the morning, but she couldn't sleep, not even when 11 found her with a spotless house and bogey angry at her disturbing his nightly romping. She turned the radio back on again, rolling the dials to slide the bar so she could listen to Tango Lima R
omeo. Listening to Alpha Bravo Charlie had been a mistake, had brought back memories of the horrors of realizing that what she wrote could get people killed.

  Richard Welch's soothing croak popped against the speakers, making her smile despite herself. “...and remember that when you do interview for a place at the Police, you need to first make an appointment with a street magician. Ask him to teach you to hide doughnuts up those newly-tailored sleeves, and to reveal his secrets of the sly pass. We all know the way to the piggie's heart is to palm them a well-wrapped bismark.”

  Betty snickered. Welch was perhaps the only radio host who could get away with poking fun at the Council and make them laugh while he did it. Well, all but a few curmudgeons, like her father.

  “And now for the weather. Clouds will not be present tonight, as the Council did not pay its water bill. However, the moon has decided to grace us with her presence to cast some light through the dark. Temperature is mild, without a sign of any frosts on this night, so your poppies will be standing strong come morning.”

  Poppies were what they planted on contaminated war fields. Betty wondered if Welch had mentioned them intentionally. She shook her head firmly. Come off it Betty, one surprise encounter, and now you're seeing wave talkers everywhere.

  Her hands shook as she made them work on her crochet again. The repetitive action soothed her nerves, and soon she was settled enough to begin to drop off. As she smothered the last light and reached to turn off Welch, he said, “As we near the witching hour, those of you working the night shift will be taking a drag, eating a snack, or munching on your granna's sticky caramel walnut buns. Oh you nutters, you only wish you had my lunch. Pity that our sink no longer drips, actually, it means I'll have to get the handles dirty. They fixed my leaky faucet earlier today, and I have to say, I'm almost missing the silly thing.”

  Betty stared into the darkness, waiting for her eyes to adjust. There had not been a leaky faucet at the station. There was only one sink, and the thing scarcely put out enough water to get the hands wet on full blast. She jabbed the radio off so roughly that the button didn't press, and she heard Welch go prattling off on a commentary about his granna's secret caramel recipe, which he wouldn't share, just wanted to make everyone else jealous.

  Betty felt her way into bed, arranging the covers to fit against her body. It's just fictional commentary to make people laugh. Richard is like that. Then she sighed, blinking into the darkness. She tugged a curtain open a bit to let the light in, but outside, there was not even a sliver of the moon. Just the empty, star-prickled night sky, cold and dark and clear.

  Chapter 3

  Four and a half hours later, she was blinking in the station's harsh lighting, reading over the bulletin for the morning. Several things she saw were a repeat of Welch's show, like the actual weather forecast, a reminder of key events like the building of a new dog park on the corner of Whissemton Road and Venice Drive, and the upcoming School Board meeting. To Betty's surprise when she went to fill her cup, the sink had been fixed and it flowed in one perfect and steady stream with aeration, the way a sink should flow.

  Betty would have consciously made an effort to keep her hosting rather dry this morning, except that a night of tossing and turning, a night of remembering code phrases from Alpha, had completely ruined whatever creative spark she might have resisted imbuing into the show. Her head ached something terrible, and her mouth was dry, so she made heavy use of the coffee in the station, coffee which very well might have been mud from the garden. But this morning, she didn't care. She just needed something to put a spring in her step and to stem off the impending pounding behind her eyes.

  What actually happened was her heart raced and she felt even more strung-out than ever before. She said her bulletin, she made some polite comments about the weather and a brief mention of wanting to go for a nice walk through the leaves, and bit by bit, she made it from one commercial break to the next, then to songs, then to a repeat of the key points, and news on the hour. First one hour, then the next, and the next, and the next. She relaxed as the coffee wore off and she fell into a routine so by the time she signed off, she could almost imagine that everything was the way that it was every other day of her life since she had come into her position.

  Still nervous of taking to the streets, Betty took her time eating a sandwich and salad while the day hosts entered. She didn't know if they were lucky or not, to have someone to co-host with them. Betty and Richard did their shows alone, and at times she wished that she had someone who could correct her when she misspoke, or someone who she could banter with. Having everyone listening solely to her was an intimate experience. She learned to pretend that she was speaking to one listener, and one listener only. She pretended he was a man, the one she could look at over a coffee cup and comment about the banal trivialities of life with, the one that she could share her triumphs with and someone she could trust and confide in.

  She pretended that she had this person as a listener because there was no one in real life that she dared to trust like that. Even if she did have someone, she would worry after their safety constantly. Betty knew her father watched her. She knew Slim watched her. For that matter, the Sheriff seemed to drive up and down her street an awful lot. At least no one had been about her windows or doors.

  “Betty.”

  She yelped. Liza stood in the doorway, giving her a startled expression. Liza, unlike Betty, was whiskey in a teacup. She had limbs like bone china and painted green eyes and red hair, and a way of speaking and moving as abrupt as a coiled rattler.

  “Sorry, I'm a little jumpy today. Rough night,” Betty said.

  Liza nodded. “Boss man wants to see you. I told him to wait until you were done with your food, and you've been staring at the wall for ten minutes.”

  “Oh.” Betty stood and moved.

  Down the hallway by five doors past the recording studio, where Emma and Joe were already going through their greetings, Betty knocked on her boss's door.

  “Enter.”

  Mr. Gresley sat stretching his neck behind the desk, a metal table with papers cluttering it. It was a temporary solution until he got something which wasn't military surplus. He'd been waiting for years, and would be waiting for years more. She stared at him, trying to see something in those brown eyes that would suggest he was a Never Were sympathizer, but he looked, as always, like an almost-retired grump who had forgotten to take his codfish liver oil.

  “Liza said you wanted to see me?” Betty asked.

  “Here,” he grabbed a manilla envelope, one of the large rectangular ones without a label, and held it out for her. Betty took it and looked inside, seeing what looked like a wood plank. “It's your invitation to the Pixie Carnival thing that's being held in the forest.”

  “The Autumn Moon Festival?” Betty asked, to clarify, which she knew would annoy him. It did.

  “Hrm. Yes. That thing. I want you to go represent TLR.”

  He did that a lot, used elementary school ways of pronouncing the letters, but Betty had never called him out on it. Today she scarcely stopped herself in time. “I thought Thomas was going?”

  Mr. Gresley blinked. He swished some tobacco from one cheek to the other. “He was.”

  She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't, so she said, “And why isn't he still?”

  “He's no longer with us.”

  What did Mr. Gresley mean by that? Had he transferred to a sister station, got fed up with Mr. Gresley's coarse manners and refusal to obey the regulations and quit, or was there a more sinister undertone to it all?

  Mr. Gresley spat into a small blue flowerpot which he kept by his desk and emptied when it got to smelling horrid. Today it was pretty clean. “You're next up. So off with you, unless you're going to say you're scared to go.”

  “No,” Betty said. “I'd be glad to go.”

  He thought women needed to cook and clean, and maybe teach children. He certainly didn't understand why Betty hogged a whole house to herse
lf, or why she worked, so he gave her what he called the Shit Shift.

  So Betty would go, to prove to him once more that she was every bit as capable as the men in the station. And perhaps, to have a bit of fun. Her mind involuntarily went to Clarkin's face and she forbade herself from hoping she would meet him again.

  At the bus stop, a doppelganger noticed her long face. She didn't see anyone else around other than the blue-coated policeman swinging his hat at a small bird swooping down at him time and again.

  Betty had talked with this doppelganger before; or perhaps it was a different one. They all looked the same—well, the same to the person observing them, at least. They look like your shadow. They sound the same. And they listen. Though what they say back, if anything, changes from time to time.

  This one said nothing, and that was strangely comforting. Then the will-o-the-wisps arrived on time five minutes later. Betty stepped into the center of the lights, they spun, and she went back home.

  The police officer had somehow beat her home. As she passed, he spoke to a green man in a tree, “I don't care if you are guarding the apples. You are giving the little one quite the scare at night. You need to move.”

  He was too loud to hear a whispered reply about gremlins. Betty could only shake her head. The policeman was a new transfer to Sunny Glenn, presumably from near the Rift, and would soon learn the Never Were territories or meet his end with the fairies of the market.

  Chapter 4

  The hospital glided into view, each tick of a leaf in her bike spokes marking another rotation nearer and nearer. Despite the frosty touch of autumn air, Betty sweated. She would be nervous, wondering what she'd say so she wouldn't attract attention to her investigation, except the ride had made her too tired for worrying. She knew the hospital nurses, besides.