The Nimble Man (A Novel of the Menagerie)

by Christopher Golden, Thomas E. Sniegoski

  He saw confusion upon the faces of the Menagerie and would have liked to lead them to his conclusions, to show them the logic through which he had arrived there. Conan Doyle felt it was more instructive to cause others to think than to do their thinking for them. But the time for such indulgences was over.

  "This tale is more than legend, my friends. Seven months ago, outside the English village of Windling, workers cutting blocks of peat from a local bog discovered a human skull, mummified by the peculiar conditions of having been put to rest in the bog. There was some skin left upon the skull, and wisps of hair, and in the scored left orbital cavity, a silver sphere marked with runes."

  Even the wind had quieted outside the house. It was Clay who spoke.

  "The Eye of Eogain," he said.

  "Indeed," Conan Doyle replied, taking a long breath. "I have been following the progress of this story since I first learned of it. Those who are studying the skull have been unable to remove the Eye without damaging the skull, and are reluctant to do so. For now, they have chosen to leave it intact, and for the last several months, Windling Man, as they refer to the skull, has been touring America with an exhibit bearing the crude title 'The Bog People.'"

  One by one, Conan Doyle watched as understanding lit their faces. They all seemed intrigued, but Ceridwen looked genuinely surprised, even a bit angry. Conan Doyle had dealt with such reactions from her before. Even when they had loved one another beyond reason, she had felt that he kept his thoughts too much to himself.

  "And you think that Morrigan is also aware of the Eye," Dr. Graves ventured, his spectral form shimmering in the candle light.

  "I'm certain of it. All of her actions of late have been timed to coincide with the arrival of Eogain's skull in Boston, at which time she would have access both to a power locus, the Eye, and a place where the walls between worlds has been worn thin. Namely, my home. All she needed then was Sweetblood, and, of course, she's found him."

  Ceridwen lifted her chin, and when she spoke it was with the regal bearing she had learned as the niece of King Finvarra. "Why have you not mentioned this to us before?"

  Conan Doyle frowned. "Until Dr. Graves gave me his report a scant hour ago, I was not aware that Morrigan had an interest in the Eye. I admit I ought to have at least suspected she might desire it, but we have had several other things to keep us occupied."

  "Okay," Squire said, "but how did Ceridwen's bitchy aunt know about the Eye in the first place? Far as I know, she hasn't set foot in this world since the Twilight Wars. And even before that, she always talked about 'the Blight,' didn't like hanging around here much."

  "Ah, but once upon a time she liked it very much," Conan Doyle said. "This was two thousand years ago, Squire. And Morrigan knows very well the tale of Eogain and the power of his Eye, for she was the one who murdered him, who left him to rot in that bog in Windling."

  "Why didn't she just take it?" Eve asked. "I mean, she's an evil twat, but she isn't stupid. An item like that is exactly the kind of thing you magicians collect, just in case. Why leave the Eye in his head, at the bottom of some bog?"

  "The Fey hate silver," Clay noted, "but still . . ."

  "I told you Eogain was powerful. The runes he etched into the silver eye were not only to absorb and channel magick. There were others as well. Defensive marks. He enchanted the eye so that if it is touched by hands not human, it will simply destroy itself, disintegrate." Danny slapped the table enthusiastically. "I get it! She's controlling some of those zombies, sending them to the museum to get the Eye for her because she can't touch it."

  "Precisely," Conan Doyle agreed.

  Clay stood up quickly, troubled. "Which means we've got to get to the museum right away. We have to get the Eye before the undead can retrieve it."

  "Or, at least, before they can return it to Morrigan," Conan Doyle said.

  Eve scowled as she rose. "What are we waiting for?"

  Conan Doyle frowned. "You were waiting for our few clues to be evaluated, and for a plan to be set in motion. And now they have, and now it is. By all means, don't let me keep you, Eve."

  He shot a glance at the goblin, who had his glass of fine scotch slightly tilted, pressed against his lips, but paused now as Conan Doyle spoke his name.

  "Squire. Take Eve, Clay, and Dr. Graves to the Museum of Fine Arts. Provide them with weapons. After you have obtained the Eye, we shall all regroup here. By then, I am quite certain we will know exactly what it is that we face."

  They all began to rise, heavy with the weight of purpose. For too long they had simply been reacting to the horrors that were unfolding in the city. At last they were going on the offensive. Conan Doyle sensed that each of them shared his satisfaction that the time had come. All save one.

  "Wait," Danny Ferrick said, idly stroking one of his small horns. "Wait a second."

  Everyone paused and regarded him curiously.

  "What about me?" he asked.

  Conan Doyle stiffened, nostrils flaring, and his eyes narrowed as he studied the boy who was not a boy at all. He had felt the boy deserved to know what was happening, and that it might help him to accept the truth about himself to know what other sorts of creatures existed in the world. But his intentions ended there.

  "You're to remain here with your mother and myself," Conan Doyle said.

  "Bullshit," Danny snapped. "What's that about? I can fight. Look, obviously I'm not just some kid. I'm strong, and nearly fucking impossible to hurt. I want to help."

  "Admirable," Conan Doyle said. "But there is something I want you to understand. Ever since I learned of your existence, I have kept watch over your development, checking in from time to time. I did this, Danny, not because I hoped to recruit you to fight on my side of this war, but to make absolutely certain you did not fight for the other side."

  The boy's mouth hung open in astonishment, little rows of fangs glinting in the candlelight. He looked as if he had just been slapped.

  "That's so . . . that's totally unfair. You don't even know me. Where the hell do you get off saying shit like that?"

  "I think I've been more than fair," Conan Doyle replied, giving him a hard look. "There are those who would have killed you in infancy, just to be safe. We shall see what your destiny holds, Danny Ferrick. But not tonight. Not tonight."

  He turned and left the room, and the Menagerie followed.

  In the hall they were met by Julia Ferrick, who had overheard at the very least the last few moments of their conversation. She had woken from her sleep and wrapped herself in a blanket. Her face was etched with sadness and she held one hand to her mouth as if to block a scream. When Danny emerged from the living room, his mother went to him. Though he tried at first to push her away, a moment later he relented, and she held him in her arms and whispered a mother's love into his ears and kissed his hair, careful to avoid scratching herself upon the points of his horns.

  The crimson mist churned, a sea of red clouds that drifted across streets and lawns and swayed trees, a dread wind rustling branches and killing leaves, which fell and were carried away in the fog. The night sky above was obscured by the blood mist, swirls of scarlet against the black heavens. Somewhere in the night, not far off at all, dogs snarled and let out unnatural cries as they tore at one another.

  All along the street where the Ferricks lived, doors and windows were closed. Some homes had electricity still, though it flickered unreliably. Others glowed with the light of candles. But most of them were dark, and things shifted in the shadows behind the windows. It might have been people that moved within those homes, or it might have been something else.

  Conan Doyle smoothed his jacket, then raised one hand to brush down his mustache. His fingers crackled with static, and with magick, for though his hands performed these idle tasks, his eyes were alert and he scanned the red fog around the Ferrick house for any sign of attack. The way that supernatural events were rippling across the area, there were certain to be other enemies than Morrigan out there in t
he dark.

  He spared a glance to his right. Ceridwen clutched her elemental staff and stood at attention, the breeze ruffling her gossamer robe. A soft blue glow emanated from the ice sphere at the top of the staff, and a cold mist seemed to furl up from it, untouched by the bloody fog that swept around them.

  The two of them stood guard while Clay and Eve checked the interior of the limousine, and Squire looked beneath it. There was no sign of anything sinister, and so the goblin hitched up his pants and slid into the driver's seat. Graves's ectoplasmic essence rippled as he passed through the door and took the passenger's seat.

  Clay held the door for Eve, who slipped on a long leather coat she had retrieved from the trunk of the limo and then climbed into the back seat. Hesitating a moment, Clay looked across the roof of the limo and locked eyes with Conan Doyle. The two men nodded at one another, and then Clay got into the car beside Eve.

  Conan Doyle and Ceridwen waited silently as the limousine pulled away. When its red taillights blended with the mist they retreated together to the door of the Ferricks' home.

  "I'll take the living room," she said. "You'll take the dining room, I assume?"

  "Fine," he agreed.

  Danny and his mother were waiting in the living room. When Conan Doyle and Ceridwen entered, Julia Ferrick drew in a quick breath, as though she had to summon her courage or her self-control, or perhaps both. When she spoke to him, her tone made it clear that her opinion of him had suffered greatly these past few minutes.

  "I understand you need my help," she said.

  "I'm not sure I need it," Conan Doyle answered truthfully. "But it is always wise to have someone watching over me when I place myself in a meditative state. If there is an attack here, you could wake me, and the same if I seem unduly troubled in my trance, if I convulse or wounds begin to spontaneously appear upon my flesh."

  Ceridwen sighed and the two females exchanged a meaningful look. "In other words, he does need your help. He simply wouldn't choose to phrase it that way."

  "He must be loads of fun on a date," Julia muttered.

  Neither Conan Doyle nor Ceridwen responded to that. After an awkward moment, Conan Doyle simply nodded to Ceridwen and then gestured toward the Ferricks to proceed with him toward the dining room.

  But he found he could not leave Ceridwen to her work without pausing. He stood at the arched entry that led to the house's main corridor and looked back at her. Her fingers had begun to scratch at the air, to dart and weave and paint sigils. The ground rumbled and shifted slightly beneath the foundations of the house and the temperature in the living room dropped twenty degrees in a matter of seconds, and continued to go down.

  The ice sphere upon her staff glowed more brightly, and the blue mist that wreathed it began to spin around it in a pulsing ring.

  "Ceri," Conan Doyle whispered.

  She started at the sound of his voice. Slowly, she turned to face him, her features sharp as shattered glass, eyes bright with magick and pain.

  "Don't call me that," she said.

  Conan Doyle nodded in apology and regret. "I just wanted to tell you to be careful."

  "I don't need you to worry for me, Arthur," Ceridwen said coldly, snapping off each word. Instantly, she seemed to regret it. She went back to preparing her spell, lips moving soundlessly, fingers sketching at nothing. Then, without looking at him, she half-turned and she spoke again, and this time her voice was intimate with the memories they shared.

  "But I . . . I am glad that you do."

  Julia Ferrick had stepped into a dream.

  That was untrue, of course, and she knew it. Even so, that thought ran through her mind time and time again. "It was like a dream." How many times had she heard that expressiona? Hundreds? Thousands? It was funny in a nauseating way, because there was nothing remotely dream-like about the things she had experienced in the previous twelve hours.

  There were monsters in her house. A vampire woman whose name and comments implied she might be so much more. A man who could be anyone or anything, wear any face. A goblin with a foul mouth, crass and yet somehow comforting. An elf, or fairy or — and here an insane little giggle threatened to bubble out between her lips — whatever Ceridwen was. Conan Doyle . . . a magician. A real magician, who also claimed to be Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a man who had been dead as long as Julia's grandmother had been alive.

  And her son. Her own son.

  Daniel. Oh, sweet God, Danny.

  According to Conan Doyle, he wasn't even remotely human. And yet he was. He was her son, damn it.

  Again that mad giggle tried to escape her lips and she raised a hand to cover the smile it brought, not wanting it to be misinterpreted. This wasn't a dream or a nightmare; it wasn't Julia through the looking glass. She was wide awake, and there was no doubt in her mind that her senses were reporting accurately. The things she saw and heard and smelled and touched were real. All of her assumptions about the world — taught to her by generations of human society — were wrong. Were lies.

  Her mind wanted to reject it all, wanted to retreat to the protection of ignorance. But the contents of Pandora's Box could never be returned to their place. The truth could not be undone.

  Julia blamed Conan Doyle for that. She knew it was absurd, knew that the man was trying to combat the dark forces that were at work upon the world. But he was also aloof and distant and had known the truth about her son for years yet kept it secret from her. And the way he had spoken to Danny in the dining room . . . Julia was glad Conan Doyle wouldn't allow Danny to accompany the others; he was safer here. But Conan Doyle didn't know her boy. As tormented as he had been in recent years, dealing with the physical changes they had initially thought of as some kind of affliction, Danny was a good kid. Conan Doyle's suggestion that Danny was not to be trusted because of what he was infuriated her. What mattered wasn't what he was, but who he was.

  Conan Doyle sat at the far end of the dining room table. He had done away with the filthy pipe he had been smoking and now simply steepled his fingers beneath his chin, leaning back in his chair. He almost seemed not to notice her, his eyes closing, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that gradually slowed.

  "Mrs. Ferrick?" he said, sounding disoriented.

  "Yes?"

  "I wish things could have been different for you," he said, barely above a whisper, so that she was not at all certain if she had heard him correctly.

  And then, "Wake me at any sign of trouble."

  Julia stared at Conan Doyle as his breathing slowed further. His face seemed almost jaundiced in the candlelight. Soon he inhaled only once or twice a minute, and his eyes were partway open, revealing only the whites beneath.

  He was gone. And Julia found herself feeling more charitable toward Conan Doyle than she had previously. For though his body was here, his mind was clearly elsewhere, and without him the walls seemed closer and the crimson mist more ominous. She was more aware than before that out there on the streets of her city the dead were walking. Without Conan Doyle's reassuring presence, she felt afraid.

  It made her hate him all the more.

  "Mom?"

  Startled, Julia turned to see Danny standing in the corridor, just outside the room. He had been silent since they had joined Conan Doyle for this meditation, or whatever it really was. She smiled wanly at her son, wanting to believe his assertion that the truth had made him happy. Plainly there was more to it than that. To know that she and her bastard ex were not his biological parents had to have hurt Danny, but she could understand that it helped him to know that he was different for a reason. That he might have a purpose beyond being the freak the other kids stared at in the high school hallways.

  "You look tired, honey," Julia said. "Why don't you get some rest? Nothing else is going to happen until they come back."

  "That's what I was going to say," Danny told her. "Yell if you need anything, or if anything, y'know, happens." He gestured at Conan Doyle.

  "I will," she promised.


  Then Danny was gone from the doorway and she was left alone with the hollow husk of Arthur Conan Doyle and the flickering glow of candles.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ceridwen was taken aback by how much it still pained her.

  Standing in the center of the Ferricks' living room while attempting to establish communications with the elemental forces of this withered world, the sorceress was forced to deal with emotions she had thought to be callused over long, long ago. They were feelings buried so deeply that she had underestimated their devastating strength, believing that after all this time, she had surely grown stronger than they, the overwhelming sadness and fiery anger that had come as a result of Arthur Conan Doyle leaving her life.

  But she knew she had been wrong, feeling the effects of seeing him again as if the decades that separated them were but the passing of a season. Ceridwen had hoped she would be stronger than this, and at that moment, wished in hindsight that she'd had the wisdom to partake of some spell or magickal elixir that would have dulled the painful memories of what she and Arthur Conan Doyle once shared.

  The hurt of their lost love was a distraction, and that was something she could ill afford at this time.

  Ceridwen hissed aloud, suppressing the rabid emotion that now bled from the newly ravaged wound of feelings, and forced her attentions fully to the chore at hand. There would time later to deal with the trivial pains of her failed relationship, when the fate of worlds did not hang so precariously in the balance. Right now, she had to concentrate every facet of her consciousness upon communicating with the elemental spirits that composed the world of man — the world that the Fey had come to call the Blight.

  With her staff, upon the parchment of open air, the Faerie sorceress wrote the intricate spells of elemental calling that had been passed down from generation to generation, as far back as the Fey could remember. The forces of nature had always been at their beck and call, a symbiotic relationship built upon a strong mutual respect.