by R. E. Vance
Judith rolled her eyes. “Always looking to argue with me.” Her voice lacked its usual ire. “No one would have been fast enough. I saw the footage. I know what you tried to do. And if I don’t see you again, then I just want you to know that I don’t blame you.”
“Thank you,” I said. Things were evolving between us. This might even have been a new chapter for us. Too bad it was likely to be a very, very short chapter for me.
“Now, what happened at this hotel and to Joseph,” she said, the shrill quality of her voice returning. “I absolutely blame you for what happened here. Really, Jean. There’s only one way to make this right. Kick that smiling bastard right in the teeth.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “That’s exactly what I plan on doing.”
↔
Armed with my Mickey Mouse watch, I tapped on Castle Grayskull’s front door and said, “Tink—it’s time to go.”
She came out in a flash and shook her head in protest.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’m not taking you with me.”
She gave me a concerned look and cocked her hand like a pistol, mimicking a shootout.
“No, no—nothing like that. I’m not going guns blazing. This is a recon mission, and that’s all. No engagement.” I didn’t know what it was about talking to Tink, but my old military vocabulary always snuck out whenever I wanted to get her to do anything she wasn’t interested in.
She gave me a skeptical look, to which I crossed my heart and said, “Swear to the GoneGods.”
She nodded and buzzed around, seemingly convinced. That was the thing about Others—they took swears, oaths and promises very seriously. I guess in some ways we were pretty similar.
“But still,” I said, “I don’t want to just leave you behind, in case he—or anyone else, for that matter—comes back. We need to hide you.”
Tink fluttered around, a golden tail of dust following her. She buzzed around my head three times and, like a comet, shot into Castle Grayskull. She popped out a couple seconds later wearing Man-At-Arms’s helmet and carrying He-Man’s sword. She saluted me, buzzed around three more times and grabbed an old velvet pouch I used to hold my dice. She handed it to me, gesturing for me to put it around my neck.
“No, Tink. It could be dangerous. We’ve got to hide you. In the spot we talked about. The drainpipe of the church, and you climb to the top. When I’m back, I’ll hit the pipe twice and you come down. Remember?”
She nodded, then tried to push through my fingers again.
“It’s too dangerous.”
She fluttered into my face and wagged a finger at me. I’d seen that look before. Tink was coming and that was that. Truth was, I was glad to have some company and swore to myself that I’d hide her before engaging anyone.
“OK.” I softened. “OK, but first sign of trouble, we hide the pouch and you with it. Agreed?”
She nodded once and dove into the pouch. I put it around my neck right next to my silver necklace with the plastic twist tie, and with a whoop the pouch went flat. I didn’t know how she did it. Burned time, I suspected. When I asked, she insisted that she didn’t, miming that there was a hole in my chest where my heart should be. Thanks, Tink, way to make me feel good about myself.
With Tink in tow, I dressed, opting to leave behind my collarless black jacket and instead wear my old leather jacket and jeans. I started to put on my old Army-issue steel-tip boots and then thought better of it. Where I was going, I’d need my knee-high rubber boots.
I grabbed my old Army-issue canvas bag, prayed I wouldn’t have to open it and headed out the door.
↔
I didn’t want to risk being seen, so I decided to use the one advantage I had in getting around this city. I had my own personal tour guide in the sewers below. I headed to the basement and lifted the drainage grille in the center of the floor. Being in frequent use, it lifted easily enough and I climbed down.
I made a lot of noise when entering CaCa’s domain. The last time I came in here I had scared the lumbering, gentle beast half to death, and with a knee-jerk reaction he employed one of his natural defenses. There was very little natural about it. Think of a skunk’s spray, then imagine that it hung in the air like a squid’s black ink cloud. Now replace both spray and ink with what CaCa was famous for. It crusted within seconds, simultaneously blinding, nauseating and encumbering me. There were not enough baths in the world to get that stuff off of you, and I never, ever wanted to go through that again.
“Hi,” I cried out in an exaggeratedly friendly tone. “It’s me. Jean-Luc.” I added, just in case, “From upstairs.”
There was a clamoring as I looked down the man-sized sewage drain. I couldn’t see anything, and as for smell—well, there was only one thing I could smell. I turned on my flashlight and saw a river of human and Other waste that was thankfully only ankle-high.
I held my breath and spoke loudly again. “Hey, CaCa—are you down here?” He might be out, painting another one of his masterpieces from his vantage point below. But then my flashlight caught a stirring, and I focused on where the movement came from. Perfectly blended with the sludgy browns and grays of the pipe behind him, two eyes opened, a piece of something yuk falling into the muck below. A grunt was followed by a hand that removed itself from the background as CaCa breeched forth from where he had, quite literally, stuck himself. It looked like someone emerging from mud, if not for the smell.
CaCa separated himself from the wall and raised a hand in a sort of wave. From the way he did it, I knew he was mimicking something he’d seen humans do. The wave was as unnatural to him as my presence here was to me. Still, not wanting to discourage him, I waved back. He smiled and, as his lips parted, little bits of solid waste fell from them.
Hellelujah, we can only be what we are, I thought, and wondered if I was as repulsive to him as he was to me. I don’t think so, because even though he literally wore a shit-eating grin, I sensed he was genuinely happy to see me. He gestured for me to follow as he lumbered away from the cellar-grate entrance.
↔
CaCa led me to a drier—and considerably less fragrant—open chamber adjacent to the pipe I had entered. It was large, about three times the size of the breakfast room that I used for the “Coping with Mortality” seminar. In it were two dozen erect easels, each holding a canvas. I walked around the room and saw Paradise Lot, not for what it was, but for what it could be. Pictures of humans and Others walking hand in hand, children playing in clean streets, vibrant businesses that catered to all species. Each was rendered at a level that would have made Norman Rockwell turn green with envy, for CaCa captured hope in ways that I doubted any mortal-born could. These paintings were the end of one possible path we could all take. And even though I really wanted to share in CaCa’s view of a brighter tomorrow, I knew all too well that there were darker, more likely futures for Paradise Lot.
“I love them,” I said to a smiling, proud CaCa. He raised his hands like an old man dismissing a compliment, as if he were saying, These old things. A hobby, nothing more.
Such humility. CaCa was the best among us, and his reward was to be tucked away, forever below, all because of the way he looked—well, and smelled. And yet, despite that, he was still so hopeful. But not for himself—I noticed that no painting depicted him walking in the sunlight above—solely for his fellow Others and humans.
CaCa disappeared behind his latest painting. I started to go around, but he gestured for me to stay on the other side of the aisle. I guessed that whatever he was working on was not quite ready.
“CaCa,” I said, “I need your help.”
He looked around from his painting with an inhumanly wide smile on his face in an imitation of Grinner.
“Yes. I’m looking for him. He killed the Unicorn.”
CaCa’s smile immediately disappeared.
“I need to also find that man who fought that grinning Other. Can you help me?”
He shrugged.
“That’s OK,�
�� I said, “I have this.”
I showed him my watch, the second hand running slightly faster than normal. CaCa understood.
“I don’t want to wander the streets above, in case Grinner is out there. And besides, he’s not who I’m looking for. I want to talk to that other guy. The one who saved me. I figure that if he burned time he’ll be relatively easy to find.” I pointed at my Mickey Mouse watch. “Can you take me around?”
Without hesitation, CaCa stepped out from behind his canvas, smoothing his rumpled chest with his hands. With an unnatural speed, he drew a crescent on his chest that reminded me of a knight’s banner. It was of a unicorn and human standing on a crown. Apparently this was his way of saying that he was in.
Chapter 6
The Light at the End of the Tunnel of Shit
Using the sewers was a fast way to travel around Paradise Lot. We walked under the city, the second hand of my Mickey Mouse watch revving up bit by bit as we progressed through the tunnels. And then we found it, in the heart of the city—Mickey went crazy, his tiny arm spinning round and around with such a fury I thought he’d fall apart. From the sidewalk’s drainage grate across the street, I could see the building where one of the most powerful Others the world has ever known was holding out.
There was only one thing to do. Watch and wait.
We were just on the outskirts of Paradise Lot and, although technically a human part of town, this area was still close enough to the center that most of the humans had moved out. And it showed. The adjacent houses were falling apart, several of them boarded up or with broken windows. It was an old story. Once upon a time, families lived in this neighborhood, their kids playing together as the community thrived. Then the wrong type of neighbors started showing up. Real estate prices dropped and crime rates rose until it was “Bye-bye, families” … Only difference was, now humans discriminated against Others, as in with a capital O, instead of just others.
All the buildings on the street showed neglect—all except one. It was an old brick building, three stories high, with two blooming rose bushes and an old sycamore tree in the front yard.
I watched for hours, boredom taking its toll. At one point, my chest started to stir as Tink poked her head out of her hiding place. “Don’t,” I whispered. “We’re not alone.”
But the fairy pushed out nonetheless, looking down the pipe where CaCa stood, enthralled as he drew his latest masterpiece. How he had found the right materials and colors in the patch of sewer where we were standing, I don’t know, nor did I want to. But you know what? It didn’t matter when I looked over at the mural CaCa had drawn using the raw materials common to sewers. Despite his tools, what he drew was beautiful. There was a park with children running, flying kites, playing ball. Their parents were there, picnickers laughing, drinking, being merry, each with CaCa’s signature joy on their face. But they weren’t just human picnickers, there were Others, too. Standing next to each other, happy, each tolerant of the other’s ways. A perfect scene of serenity.
And then I saw him, on a hill watching over the serene scene: Joseph. Except not my Joseph, who reminded me of my PopPop, or Penemue’s, who looked like light—but a roly-poly man with a Buddha belly, smiling down on all of us.
“Holy shit,” I said, turning to CaCa. “This is amazing.”
The demigod put a hand over his chest with a shrug that said, What? This old thing?
“Yeah, this! So is that what he looks like to you? Joseph, I mean,” I said, pointing to the happy man on the hill.
CaCa shook his head, making a hugging motion.
“Oh,” I said with sudden comprehension, “that is how he looks to most people.”
CaCa nodded.
So that was it—he didn’t depict Joseph as his own personal comfort, but searched for a figure that gave comfort to the greatest number of beings, Other and human alike. And seeing that happy man on the hill, well, it worked for me. I could buy into this symbol of Joseph.
I don’t know if it was seeing the picture of a future denied us by the Unicorn’s death or if it was simple boredom, but I just couldn’t sit around and wait any longer. I walked over to a more remote part of the pipe and removed the old dice pouch around my neck, placing it on a bit of brick that jutted out. Tink poked out her head and started to gesture that she was coming with me, when I whispered, “You promised.”
I turned to CaCa and said, “Thank you, I can take it from here.” Then, as an afterthought, I added, “CaCa—if you don’t see me back at the One Spire Hotel by tomorrow, I want you to come back here and take this pouch to Miral. Make sure she, and no one else, gets it.”
He looked at the brick ledge and nodded. Then he began lumbering back down the pipe.
“Thank you,” I whispered, and looked up at the manhole that separated me from the world above.
↔
The grate slid open easier than I had expected and I popped into the alleyway behind the little house without making a sound. Luckily for me, the grate was in between a parked van and an old SUV. Unless someone was standing right there, no one would have seen me getting out of the sewers.
The back door was about twenty feet away, and I used the sycamore tree as cover as I slunk up the stoop. Whether or not he lived there, someone did.
OK—remember the plan. Get in, see who’s here, gather intelligence. Do not engage.
I looked up and down the street. Empty. OK, it was now or never. In the Army, one of the skills I particularly excelled at was sneaking around. Not to beat my own drum, but I was uncannily light on my feet. Bella joked that it was because I was part cat. After the Army, when I retreated to the mountainside, I used to practice this skill by taking down game with only my hunting sword, which meant I had to be less than ten feet away before the animal saw me. How good was I? Let’s put it this way: I never went vegetarian in those mountains.
I employed my best skills, taking great care to get to that back door. Just as my hand touched its handle, it opened. What was worse, my phone started to ring at that exact moment, professing to the world that I had forgotten to put it on silent.
“Aren’t you going to answer that, Jean-Luc Matthias?” the Ghost asked.
↔
I picked up the phone, and a frantic Penemue said, “I figured out what the box is. Where are you?”
I shot a quick glance up at the street sign, before returning my gaze to the Ghost. “Bread Street,” I said. “I’m with him.”
“Who?”
“You know … the Ghost.” Then, still looking at him, I asked, “You are the Ghost, right?”
He smiled, waving a hand. “Please, of all the names I once had, the Ghost is the least inviting. Call me Hermes.” And with that he opened the door wide, gesturing for me to enter.
“I gotta go,” I said, hanging up before the angel could protest.
“You seem upset to see me,” Hermes said, his smile touching the corners of his aged eyes. The person, or rather Ghost, who stood before me was an elderly man, well into his sixties, not the young man who had saved me last night. But there was no mistaking him. He wore the same white shirt, black pants and buzz cut, which was now more gray than black. The elderly man shuffled into the room, taking strides that his body simply was no longer designed to take. He wasn’t used to being old and still moved as he had in his youth. “Did I ruin your surprise?”
“I really put a lot of thought into coming here. You could have at least had the decency to pretend you were surprised to see me,” I said.
He chuckled. “I do not believe that traveling through the sewers was for me.”
“True,” I said, nodding.
“That was wise. Thus the only wasted theatrics was your approaching my home like a thief in the night, instead of the welcome guest that you are.”
He led me to his living room, a sparsely decorated space with two couches, a throw rug on wood-paneled flooring and an open liquor cabinet. Unframed photographs were taped to the walls—him fishing up north, him in a
military uniform, him with some girl. All of them showed a young man who, as far as I knew, could have been photographed yesterday. Gardening gloves and a small hand rake sat on a coffee table, dirt still clinging to them. It was your typical bachelor pad, sparsely furnished, a half-hearted attempt at decoration, except for the candelabrum that sat in the corner. There must have been fifty candles of various sizes and shapes, all lit.
He examined the candles, relighting one that had extinguished, and went over to the liquor cabinet, pulling out two glasses and a bottle of wine. “Drink?”
“No thanks,” I said. “How did you know it was me and not … you know, Gravity’s rejected son?”
He gestured at the candelabrum. “I have my own ways of hiding from him. Now, an enterprising human … well, that is much harder to hide from.” Hermes looked at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. “So you’ve figured out that you are up against a First Law,” he said. He poured himself a glass and lifted it toward me before taking a sip. “The Fallen One told you?” It was more a statement than a question.
“We’re all the fallen now,” I said.
He took a seat a little too quickly. The youthful thump rather than the careful lowering that an old man would do caused him to groan. He took another sip and said, “Touché. We are, indeed. Fallen and blessed. Are you sure that you do not want a drink?”
I shook my head.
“Too bad. When you reach my age, you learn to slow down and enjoy the finer things in life,” he said, not masking his bitterness. “I do pray that Joseph was right about you and that my sacrifice was not in vain.”
What do you say to someone who literally aged fifty years in an hour just to save your ass? Thank him? Skirt the issue? Offer to help him with the gardening? All I could do was lower my head and apologize. I looked at my hands and saw more blood on them.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he said.
