TableofContents

by Low Bo

  He nod at the Mouse man, jerky like, an wipe his face where the sweat run down.

  "Dig it," he say, his voice scratchin outta his throat.

  "Good," say Mouse an push back from table. He fold his papers an slide them in a side pocket. He straighten that silk knot on his tie, that big diamond leakin green off his finger.

  "Come with me," he tell Jag Saratoga, whose mama name him William Bzdrecky, an head off down them stairs.

  They hit the street an Mouse turn left. White boy look right fore he follow, see three Jax boys movin down the sidewalk from Preston. White boy scuttle after Mouse.

  "They here. They right behine," he say into Mouse's ear. Mouse don't even look around.

  "We fine, boy. They know better then come down this street. "

  He take white boy's elbow an steer him right, tween the clean factory an Shantelle. Steer him right onto that street an it be hot an the buildins boogie an shimmer: yella, red, green, black, mocha-gone. An back.

  White boy stop an throw his hand in front his face. "Why they do that, man?"

  "That?" Mouse look at the buildins, look at them dancin. And he smile some, Mouse, cuz this his street and what he say-go.

  "See, they do that cuz they ain't neither here nor there," he tell white boy. "They here an there-they boogie down with Granny Time."

  White boy don't dig it, course, would you? But he don't get to say, cuz Mouse move his hand an that diamond show wetblood red-move his hand an say, "This way, now, boy. You gotta book an I don't wanna keep ya."

  He go on down that shimmery, glimmery sidewalk an white boy got no choice but follow. He don't be likin this, unnerstan, but Mouse Mojo is his only hope of life. Jax boys find him, they make him into pieces, then kill the pieces, one by one. He take one look behine fore he follow Mouse away, just to see how close Jax boys come.

  Behine him there's the street, buildins jumpin on either side. End of street, where it hit Howard, is-nothin. Not black. Not white. Not fog. Not light.

  Nothin.

  "Face of Granny Time," say Mouse, an take his elbow, easin him down the street.

  There people on the street. Cops an drug kings, whores an queens. Some dress in satin, some dress in silk. Some dress in khaki, homespun. Rags. They smile when they see Mouse. They raise their hands. Mouse smile back. Wave. His people go on down the sidewalk, go in them buildins an out.

  White boy look at Mouse.

  "They dance with Granny Time, too? These folks here?"

  "They do," say Mouse.

  White boy take a breath, watchin the people flow past him-minidresses an zoot suits. Ayrab cotton an hoop skirts.

  "I gonna dance, too, Mister Mouse?"

  Mouse he laugh, soft like, reach out an ruffle the hair of a pickeninny in homespun.

  "No, boy. These folk here ain't got no 'counts. Their ledger sheet gone missin. Or their sum be in dispute. You, now you got 'count. You be added, subtract-ed, noted down an analyzed. We know just what to do with you, m'man. We seen your kind before."

  White boy swallow an try to think of another question. Fore he do, Mouse stop, fingers diggin white boy's elbow.

  "In here."

  This buildin don't boogie. White boy find that-ominous. This buildin got no window. Got no door.

  "In?" he say to Mouse. "How the hell I'm s'pose-"

  Mouse step forward, draggin white boy with him. He walk through that wall, white boy half a step behind.

  Everything go way for a minute into cold nasty. Then everything come back an they in a round room all shiny black marble. White boy's stomach turn over. He gag. Mouse pull him close inside, stand him in the center of the room an step back. That big diamond on his finger be black by now. Black like the shiny black walls.

  "All right, William," he say, pullin the papers from his pocket. "Now's time to pay up." He unfold his papers an look down.

  "You holdin three grand cash," he say, for all the world like he readin it off a list. "You holdin one pound crack. They forfeit." He look up an point at the floor by his shoes. "Toss 'em out here."

  White boy's feelin foggy hisself. Feelin-less then together. He reach in his pocket. He toss the stuff. Minute later, he toss the cash.

  "Right," say Mouse. "Now you book." He fold the papers, start to slide them in his pocket

  "Wait!' scream white boy. "Wait. I-I change m'mind. I stay here. Talk with Jax. Make it right..."

  Mouse shake his head, put his papers away. "Too late, William. You walk the street, you pay the price."

  White boy break, then. He fling hisself at Mouse, hands out like he gonna latch roun m'man's throat an-

  He bounce, half a foot out from his standin place. Bounce an fall. He's up quick and jumps again. Bounce an fall. This time he get up slow, wipe blood off his nose.

  "At least tell me where I'm goin," he say then.

  Mouse sigh. "Up to Granny Time, boy. Can't say where for sure. This street-what they call a vortex, see? Sometime it here, sometime it not. I don't know all the places you might go. I can tell you what kind of places, if you wanna know. Might be better, not to know."

  "I'm gonna know in a minute, anyhow," white boy say an Mouse bow his head.

  "That's so." He pull his papers out an stand holdin them in his hand. "Way it works, you got a debt to Granny Time. Debt ain't balanced by cash an' stuff-not near balanced. So Granny take the rest outta your hide, just like your old man useta." He sigh.

  "Places like maybe you go: Ancient Egypt, totin stone. Old Turkey, cock shaved an servin the harem. Whore boy in Victorian England. Other places-I can't say'em all, boy. Granny Time span planets, some of 'em worse then here."

  White boy slide down to sit on the shiny black floor. Tears mix up with the sweat on his face.

  "I ain't goin," he say an dig real sudden in his pocket. Pulls out his piece. Mouse shake his head.

  White boy set the barrel in his mouth, close his eyes, pull the trigger.

  Nothin happen. Course not.

  White boy scream, then, jump up an throw the piece. It hit the floor tween Mouse's shoes.

  "You kill me, then!" he yell.

  Mouse shake his head an step back, tucking his papers away.

  "Can't do that, boy," he say, soft like. "Granny Time got her hook in me, just like she got it in you."

  White boy got time for one more scream, while his standin place fills up with fog, swirlin, glitterin. The fog spin an Mouse watch, like he have to watch, everytime this go down. Then the fog fade away an Mouse look down at his hand. That big diamond's clear now. Clear, just like tears.

  * * *

  Jax boys climb that long black stair, come out into Shantelle an stop. Grooj come forward by hisself, nod to Widda, there hind her counter.

  "Lookin f'Mouse Mojo."

  Widda point an Grooj go back to that certain table. The man sittin there look up from his papers an fold his hands, the big diamond on his least finger blazin white.

  "Mornin, Mister Mojo."

  "Mornin, Mister Robinson."

  Grooj he ain't been Robinson for thirty year, but he know better then to ask.

  "Lookin for a friend," he say instead. "Mister Jag Saratoga. Thought maybe you seen him."

  "I seen him," say Mouse.

  Grooj sigh. "I need somethin to tell Jax, Mister Mojo. You unnerstan."

  "I do." Mouse take a minute, look down at-into-his diamond.

  "Tell Jax Mister Saratoga he gone," he say, an look up at Grooj. "Tell Jax woman he got everything he ask for."

  ANGEL'S KITCHEN

  Chris Szego

  "WZF'DR?"

  Kess said, "Swallow, Bee."

  Bee chewed at a ferocious rate, swallowed audibly. "What's for dinner?"

  "More of what you're eating, so I hope you like it."

  "S'fine," Bee said, already into the next mouthful.

  Kess resisted the urge to tell Bee to slow down. In this part of Senneville, he who ate slowly, went hungry. Or she, as was likely the case with Bee. Kess was fairly certai
n, but wasn't about to ask. It was still marginally safer to be a boy, and here in the Darks, any margin was better than none.

  The seeded roll and the stew disappeared faster than charity in hard times. There were barely crumbs left. Partly because Bee's technique was three quarters inhalation, but also because Bee was a tidy person.

  As if that sounded some sort of silent direction, Bee gathered plate, bowl and spoon in one motion. "I'll just do these up quick."

  Tidy and responsible. For months Kess had worried about Bee, who was neither Hap nor Cane, and who, though undoubtedly older, was the size of a fragile eight year old. But Bee would take nothing extra, would take barely at all, until, inspired, Kess had offered a job. Now Bee appeared at the Kitchen at midday, to help Kess with the mountain of dishes left over from the previous night's meal.

  And Kess got to be sure that her smallest charge was eating enough, if not plenty.

  And not 'charge'. Small, yes, and possibly fragile. But Bee's eyes were as old as everyone else's around here. As old as Senneville; as old as hunger.

  Kess followed Bee into the dish room. Bee had already started on the cutlery. Kess went to work on the pots.

  An hour later saw the dishes clean, and Bee out the door. Kess never watched when Bee left: it would be too much like prying. But she always knew the moment Bee had gone. And that was a problem.

  If there was one lesson to be learned at the Angel's Kitchen, it was not to get attached. Not to the hungry crowd who came every night. Not to the wealthy few, who helped out until their hearts broke and they quietly disappeared. And never to the children.

  A heavy fist on the door pounded her out of those thoughts. Kess looked through the mirrored arrangement Lucius had set up for her, and sighed. The young man was wearing Cane black. She didn't recognize him. He wasn't long in the Darks, not with that smooth skin, that bright hair. Farm boy, probably, recently come south.

  She opened the door. "Dinner's not for another few hours."

  "What?"

  "You're early. Canes don't eat until eight."

  "What?" He shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

  "Dinner," she said patiently. "Canes eat at eight; Haps come at nine."

  The young man, boy, really, goggled. "Haps? Here? In Cane territory?"

  Hmm. If the Kitchen was now in Cane territory, the next few weeks would be... exciting. To say the least. "Did Ash send you to tell me that? That Cane territory has grown?"

  "Ash? Talk to me? Huh." The boy pulled back, looked away. "I mean, he will, soon. He'll know me. He'll know my name." He said it like a vow, a prayer. Not to Bel, but to one of the older gods, who dealt in gold and fire.

  From a boy who looked like he should have been piping the wild sheep down from their ragged hills, it was particularly ardent. And touching. Kess decided not to tell him that Ash knew his name, his hole, and likely, his entire life history.

  "And it's all Cane territory," the boy went on, fierce and proud. "Ash just lets the Haps have a corner to give us something to do."

  Ah. That, if Kess wasn't mistaken, was a direct quote from Ash's welcome to newcomers. The territories hadn't changed, then. Good. "So... I'm sorry, what's your name?"

  "Mac."

  "...So, Mac, why are you here, again?"

  Mac lifted his hands in frustration. "I'm here for the Vig!"

  Kess rubbed her eyes. Bel save me from the new ones. "I don't pay vig. To anyone."

  "What?" This was outside his experience. He was shifting now from foot to foot. Nervous, new, and very eager to prove himself. And big. Not a good combination. "Come on, lady..."

  She moved forward, sharp, before he could square up. He went back, into air, then down a step, hard. "Listen to me, Mac," she said. "You're a Cane. What are the Cane rules?"

  They came automatically, a simple, shining order to guide them through the Darks. "'Cane helps Cane. Cane protects Cane. Cane hides Cane.' And, uh..."

  "...No one messes with the Angel's Kitchen."

  "Yeah." He frowned. "How do you know?"

  "Because this is the Angel's Kitchen." Her tone, developed specifically for this speech, turned into ice, into hall. "There is no Cane here, Mac. No Hap. No weapons, no fists. No rank. And no hunger. Canes come at eight; Haps at nine; everyone else until midnight. This is the Angel's Kitchen." She leaned in, forced him to meet her eyes. "And I am not the angel."

  Mac went down a step, then another. "Right." Down again, to the ground. "Uh, I didn't mean to..." He stopped, bewildered. And all at once, desperately young. "I thought the Angel's Kitchen was, you know, a metaphor."

  Hmm. Anyone in this part of Senneville who knew metaphor enough even to pronounce it was worth a second look. Maybe Ash had sent him this way after all. "No harm done. You were just doing your job as a Cane. I can appreciate that."

  She let her tone lighten, her eyes. "Want to come in and look around?"

  The flash of yearning she saw then, for the memory of walls, of safety, proved him as new to the Darks as she'd thought. Only the new had time for memory. But the way he straightened, and shook his head, proved him to be more than just new, or eager. Resolute.

  Or, knowing Ash, romantic. Gods help him.

  "Can't," he said. "I've got another block to do." He walked away, stopped after a few steps. "But... thanks."

  Kess felt her throat tighten. Rarely did even the new have time for manners. "Some other time."

  She closed the door firmly, and when he was gone, locked it. And if she stood for a moment with her hands over her eyes, there was no one to see.

  * * *

  Later that night, she pointed Mac out to Lucius. "Over there," she said, as she passed out rolls. She kept her gaze light, impersonal, moving. It was not done to stare. "Third table. Next to that tall one."

  "Which tall one?"

  "Twig, I think. I can't quite see from here."

  Lucius glanced over. "Green hat?"

  "No, the third table."

  "Sorry. Oh, I see. The fair boy." He kept up the slow and steady rhythm of stew, ladle, bowl. To stew again. "But where are his sheep?"

  Kess snorted back a laugh.

  Lucius was her absolute favorite Brother. Oh, the Brothers of Bel were all kind, and courteous, and helpful. And grave. Only Lucius made her laugh. Only he seemed to understand that it was more than just important to laugh, here. It was absolutely vital.

  "He's new," she said, risking another glance. "He's smart. He doesn't belong here."

  "My dear, no one belongs in the Darks. Not him, not you, not any of us."

  "And yet," she said, "Here we are."

  "Yes." All the bowls were filled now. They glanced around the room, watching over the eaters. Then Lucius asked, "Do you ever wonder why?"

  The north door opened before she could answer. Two men came through, calm and quiet, the way lightning patiently awaits its moment in the heart of the storm. One was Yil, the Silesian refugee who was the Cane's Second. The other, of course, was Ash.

  A current eddied through the room at his entrance. Words began to rise as mouths remembered how to make room for more than food. Yil, slim, handsome, beginning to develop the smoky hair of his race, took his bowl with a sly smile. "Did you meet our new friend, then?"

  She nodded. "He's over there. Sitting with Twig, I think."

  "Not Twig." Yil lost his grin. "Twig's gone."

  Kess' heart stuttered. "What happened?"

  "He was taken for theft two days ago."

  She exhaled. "Can I bail him out?"

  "No." Tattoos circled Ash's eyes, a dark and twisting pattern on his dark skin. They curled, like shadows, teasing the eye, hiding his expression most effectively. "The Council declared him Penitent. His ship sailed this morning. We will not see him again."

  He took the bowl from her hands, and went with Yil to a table, where a place was hurriedly made for them.

  Lucius tactfully withdrew to supervise the Canes, ensuring that cups, bowls and spoons were returned with alacri
ty, if not grace. Kess went into the kitchens. She dragged the first empty cauldron into the dish room, scoured it out with savage strokes. Then, calmer, she stirred the second lot of stew. And said a prayer for Twig, on a cramped ship, headed for Bel knew where. His salvation, the Council would say. Quite possibly, his death.

  When she returned, she brought the stew with her. Ash's arrival had shivered new life into the Canes. They were all but gone, trailing out the south door in his wake, a banner of living energy.

  She helped Lucius gather the last of the dishes. Then, into the quiet, she said, "I know why I'm here."

  He looked up.

  "Because I want to save someone."

  He gave her a gentle smile. "That's why we're all here."

  "No. I used to want to save all of them. Now, I'd settle for one. Just one." She turned, abruptly, headed to the north door. "I'll let the Haps in."

  The Haps entered in a flood, a shoal of blue darting into every corner. They equaled the Canes in number, and in hunger. She and Lucius ladled stew, handed out rolls, kept light and easy eyes on the room. A flurry at the entrance, a wave of chatter heralded the arrival of big Johns, leader of the Haps.

  He was stevedore sized, bluff and blond. Kess handed him a bowl containing no more, or less, than any other. And said as he took it, in barely a whisper, "Twig's gone. This morning. Penitent ship."

  Where Ash was smoke and shadow, Johns was a wall. A cliff. An impenetrable blank. He moved off with his stew, a mountain in the midst of the sea of Hap blue. Kess stayed behind the counter, a lone island in a sea of bobbing bowls.

  * * *

  It seemed, sometimes, that the Canes and Haps were just the prelude to the large, unwieldy chorus that was the rest of the Darks At least it seemed that way tonight. There were families here, ragged remains of what might have been. Elderly men and women so brittle and numb they could have been made of ice. Stunned survivors all, searching for a little light, a little food, a voice that was not their own.

  Bee came in, behind a small group of raddled women. Kess who was immovably fair in her division of food, gave Bee the largest roll she could find.