by Neil Gaiman
“How does she do it?” they would ask each other incredulously. “How the hell does she do it?” And their eyes would meet, and silently say: if she was a car she’d be made by Ferrari, she’s the kind of woman you’d expect to see as the beautiful consort to the corrupt generalissimo of a collapsing Third World country, and she hangs around with guys like us. We’re the lucky guys, right?
Ms. Zuigiber just smiled and bought another round of drinks for everybody, on the National World Weekly. And watched the fights break out around her. And smiled.
She had been right. Journalism suited her.
Even so, everyone needs a holiday, and Red Zuigiber was on her first in eleven years.
She was on a small Mediterranean island which made its money from the tourist trade, and that in itself was odd. Red looked to be the kind of woman who, if she took a holiday on any island smaller than Australia, would be doing so because she was friends with the man who owned it. And had you told any islander a month before that war was coming, he would have laughed at you and tried to sell you a raffiawork wine holder or a picture of the bay done in seashells; that was then.
This was now.
Now a deep religio-political divide, concerning which of four small mainland countries they weren’t actually a part of, had split the country into three factions, destroyed the statue of Santa Maria in the town square, and done for the tourist trade.
Red Zuigiber sat in the bar of the Hotel de Palomar del Sol, drinking what passed for a cocktail. In one corner a tired pianist played, and a waiter in a toupee crooned into a microphone:
“AAAAAAAAAAAonce-pon-a-time-dere-was
LITTLE WHITE BOOOL
AAAAAAAAAAAvery-sad-because-e-was
LITTLE WHITE BOOL … ”
A man threw himself through the window, a knife between his teeth, a Kalashnikov automatic rifle in one hand, a grenade in the other.
“I glaim gis oteg id der gaing og der—” he paused. He took the knife out of his mouth and began again. “I claim this hotel in the name of the pro-Turkish Liberation Faction!”
The last two holidaymakers remaining on the island19 climbed underneath their table. Red unconcernedly withdrew the maraschino cherry from her drink, put it to her scarlet lips, and sucked it slowly off its stick in a way that made several men in the room break into a cold sweat.
The pianist stood up, reached into his piano, and pulled out a vintage sub-machine gun. “This hotel has already been claimed by the pro-Greek Territorial Brigade!” he screamed. “Make one false move, and I shoot out your living daylight!”
There was a motion at the door. A huge, black-bearded individual with a golden smile and a genuine antique Gatling gun stood there, with a cohort of equally huge although less impressively armed men behind him.
“This strategically important hotel, for years a symbol of the fascist imperialist Turko-Greek running dog tourist trade, is now the property of the Italo-Maltese Freedom Fighters!” he boomed affably. “Now we kill everybody!”
“Rubbish!” said the pianist. “Is not strategically important. Just has extremely well-stocked wine cellar!”
“He’s right, Pedro,” said the man with the Kalashnikov, “That’s why my lot wanted it. Il General Ernesto de Montoya said to me, he said, Fernando, the war’ll be over by Saturday, and the lads’ll be wanting a good time. Pop down to the Hotel de Palomar del Sol and claim it as booty, will you?”
The bearded man turned red. “Is bloddy important strategically, Fernando Chianti! I drew big map of the island and is right in the middle, which makes it pretty bloddy strategically important, I can tell you.”
“Ha!” said Fernando. “You might as well say that just because Little Diego’s house has a view of the decadent capitalist topless private beach, that it’s strategically important!”
The pianist blushed a deep red. “Our lot got that this morning,” he admitted.
There was silence.
In the silence was a faint, silken rasping. Red had uncrossed her legs.
The pianist’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Well, it’s pretty strategically important,” he managed, trying to ignore the woman on the bar stool. “I mean, if someone landed a submarine on it, you’d want to be somewhere you could see it all.”
Silence.
“Well, it’s a lot more strategically important than this hotel anyway,” he finished.
Pedro coughed, ominously. “The next person who says anything. Anything at all. Is dead.” He grinned. Hefted his gun. “Right. Now—everyone against far wall.”
Nobody moved. They weren’t listening to him any more. They were listening to a low, indistinct murmuring from the hallway behind him, quiet and monotonous.
There was some shuffling among the cohort in the doorway. They seemed to be doing their best to stand firm, but they were being inexorably edged out of the way by the muttering, which had begun to resolve itself into audible phrases. “Don’t mind me, gents, what a night, eh? Three times round the island, nearly didn’t find the place, someone doesn’t believe in signposts, eh? Still, found it in the end, had to stop and ask four times, finally asked at the post office, they always know at the post office, had to draw me a map though, got it here somewhere … ”
Sliding serenely past the men with guns, like a pike through a trout pond, came a small, bespectacled man in a blue uniform, carrying a long, thin, brown paper-wrapped parcel, tied with string. His sole concession to the climate were his open-toed brown plastic sandals, although the green woolen socks he wore underneath them showed his deep and natural distrust of foreign weather.
He had a peaked cap on, with International Express written on it in large white letters.
He was unarmed, but no one touched him. No one even pointed a gun at him. They just stared.
The little man looked around the room, scanning the faces, and then looking back down at his clipboard; then he walked straight over to Red, still sitting on her bar stool. “Package for you, miss,” he said.
Red took it, and began to untie the string.
The International Express man coughed discreetly and presented the journalist with a well-thumbed receipt pad and a yellow plastic ballpoint pen attached to the clipboard by a piece of string. “You have to sign for it, miss. Just there. Print your full name over here, signature down there.”
“Of course.” Red signed the receipt pad, illegibly, then printed her name. The name she wrote was not Carmine Zuigiber. It was a much shorter name.
The man thanked her kindly, and made his way out, muttering lovely place you’ve got here, gents, always meant to come out here on holiday, sorry to trouble you, excuse me, sir … And he passed out of their lives as serenely as he had come.
Red finished opening the parcel. People began to edge around to get a better look. Inside the package was a large sword.
She examined it. It was a very straightforward sword, long and sharp; it looked both old and unused; and it had nothing ornamental or impressive about it. This was no magical sword, no mystic weapon of power and might. It was very obviously a sword created to slice, chop, cut, preferably kill, but, failing that, irreparably maim, a very large number of people indeed. It had an indefinable aura of hatred and menace.
Red clasped the hilt in her exquisitely manicured right hand, and held it up to eye level. The blade glinted.
“Awwwright!” she said, stepping down from the stool. “Finally.”
She finished the drink, hefted the sword over one shoulder, and looked around at the puzzled factions, who now encircled her completely. “Sorry to run out on you, chaps,” she said. “Would love to stay and get to know you better.”
The men in the room suddenly realized that they didn’t want to know her better. She was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful: something to be admired from a distance, not up close.
And she held her sword, and she smiled like a knife.
There were a number of guns in that room, and slowly, tremb
lingly, they were focused on her chest, and her back, and head.
They encircled her completely.
“Don’t move!” croaked Pedro.
Everybody else nodded.
Red shrugged. She began to walk forward.
Every finger on every trigger tightened, almost of its own accord. Lead and the smell of cordite filled the air. Red’s cocktail glass smashed in her hand. The room’s remaining mirrors exploded in lethal shards. Part of the ceiling fell down.
And then it was over.
Carmine Zuigiber turned and stared at the bodies surrounding her as if she hadn’t the faintest idea of how they came to be there.
She licked a spatter of blood—someone else’s—from the back of her hand with a scarlet, cat-like tongue. Then she smiled.
And she walked out of the bar, her heels clicking on the tiles like the tapping of distant hammers.
The two holidaymakers climbed out from under the table and surveyed the carnage.
“This wouldn’t of happened if we’d of gone to Torremolinos like we usually do,” said one of them, plaintively.
“Foreigners,” sighed the other. “They’re just not like us, Patricia.”
“That settles it, then. Next year we go to Brighton,” said Mrs. Threlfall, completely missing the significance of what had just happened.
It meant there wouldn’t be any next year.
It rather lowered the odds on there being any next week to
speak of.
Thursday
THERE WAS A NEWCOMER IN THE VILLAGE.
New people were always a source of interest and speculation among the Them,20 but this time Pepper had impressive news.
“She’s moved into Jasmine Cottage and she’s a witch,” she said. “I know, because Mrs. Henderson does the cleaning and she told my mother she gets a witches’ newspaper. She gets loads of ordinary newspapers, too, but she gets this special witches’ one.”
“My father says there’s no such thing as witches,” said Wensleydale, who had fair, wavy hair, and peered seriously out at life through thick black-rimmed spectacles. It was widely believed that he had once been christened Jeremy, but no one ever used the name, not even his parents, who called him Youngster. They did this in the subconscious hope that he might take the hint; Wensleydale gave the impression of having been born with a mental age of forty-seven.
“Don’t see why not,” said Brian, who had a wide, cheerful face, under an apparently permanent layer of grime. “I don’t see why witches shouldn’t have their own newspaper. With stories about all the latest spells and that. My father gets Anglers’ Mail, and I bet there’s more witches than anglers.”
“It’s called Psychic News,” volunteered Pepper.
“That’s not witches,” said Wensleydale. “My aunt has that. That’s just spoon-bending and fortune-telling and people thinking they were Queen Elizabeth the First in another life. There’s no witches any more, actually. People invented medicines and that and told ’em they didn’t need ’em any more and started burning ’em.”
“It could have pictures of frogs and things,” said Brian, who was reluctant to let a good idea go to waste. “An’—an’ road tests of broomsticks. And a cats’ column.”
“Anyway, your aunt could be a witch,” said Pepper. “In secret. She could be your aunt all day and go witching at night.”
“Not my aunt,” said Wensleydale darkly.
“An’ recipes,” said Brian. “New uses for leftover toad.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Pepper.
Brian snorted. If it had been Wensley who had said that, there’d have been a half-hearted scuffle, as between friends. But the other Them had long ago learned that Pepper did not consider herself bound by the informal conventions of brotherly scuffles. She could kick and bite with astonishing physiological accuracy for a girl of eleven. Besides, at eleven years old the Them were beginning to be bothered by the dim conception that laying hands on good ole Pep moved things into blood-thumping categories they weren’t entirely at home with yet, besides earning you a snake-fast blow that would have floored the Karate Kid.
But she was good to have in your gang. They remembered with pride the time when Greasy Johnson and his gang had taunted them for playing with a girl. Pepper had erupted with a fury that had caused Greasy’s mother to come round that evening and complain.21
Pepper looked upon him, a giant male, as a natural enemy.
She herself had short red hair and a face which was not so much freckled as one big freckle with occasional areas of skin.
Pepper’s given first names were Pippin Galadriel Moonchild. She had been given them in a naming ceremony in a muddy valley field that contained three sick sheep and a number of leaky polythene teepees. Her mother had chosen the Welsh valley of Pant-y-Gyrdl as the ideal site to Return to Nature. (Six months later, sick of the rain, the mosquitoes, the men, the tent-trampling sheep who ate first the whole commune’s marijuana crop and then its antique minibus, and by now beginning to glimpse why almost the entire drive of human history has been an attempt to get as far away from Nature as possible, Pepper’s mother returned to Pepper’s surprised grandparents in Tadfield, bought a bra, and enrolled in a sociology course with a deep sigh of relief.)
There are only two ways a child can go with a name like Pippin Galadriel Moonchild, and Pepper had chosen the other one: the three male Them had learned this on their first day of school, in the playground, at the age of four.
They had asked her her name, and, all innocent, she had told them.
Subsequently a bucket of water had been needed to separate Pippin Galadriel Moonchild’s teeth from Adam’s shoe. Wensleydale’s first pair of spectacles had been broken, and Brian’s sweater needed five stitches.
The Them were together from then on, and Pepper was Pepper forever, except to her mother, and (when they were feeling especially courageous, and the Them were almost out of earshot) Greasy Johnson and the Johnsonites, the village’s only other gang.
Adam drummed his heels on the edge of the milk crate that was doing the office of a seat, listening to this bickering with the relaxed air of a king listening to the idle chatter of his courtiers.
He chewed lazily on a straw. It was a Thursday morning. The holidays stretched ahead, endless and unsullied. They needed filling up.
He let the conversation float around him like the buzzing of grasshoppers or, more precisely, like a prospector watching the churning gravel for a glint of useful gold.
“In our Sunday paper it said there was thousands of witches in the country,” said Brian. “Worshiping Nature and eating health food an’ that. So I don’t see why we shouldn’t have one round here. They were floodin’ the country with a Wave of Mindless Evil, it said.”
“What, by worshipin’ Nature and eatin’ health food?” said Wensleydale.
“That’s what it said.”
The Them gave this due consideration. They had once—at Adam’s instigation—tried a health food diet for a whole afternoon. Their verdict was that you could live very well on healthy food provided you had a big cooked lunch beforehand.
Brian leaned forward conspiratorially.
“And it said they dance round with no clothes on,” he added. “They go up on hills and Stonehenge and stuff, and dance with no clothes on.”
This time the consideration was more thoughtful. The Them had reached that position where, as it were, the roller coaster of Life had almost completed the long haul to the top of the first big humpback of puberty so that they could just look down into the precipitous ride ahead, full of mystery, terror, and exciting curves.
“Huh,” said Pepper.
“Not my aunt,” said Wensleydale, breaking the spell. “Definitely not my aunt. She just keeps trying to talk to my uncle.”
“Your uncle’s dead,” said Pepper.
“She says he still moves a glass about,” said Wensleydale defensively. “My father says it was moving glasses about the whole time that made him dead in t
he first place. Don’t know why she wants to talk to him,” he added, “they never talked much when he was alive.”
“That’s necromancy, that is,” said Brian. “It’s in the Bible. She ought to stop it. God’s dead against necromancy. And witches. You can go to Hell for it.”
There was a lazy shifting of position on the milk crate throne. Adam was going to speak.
The Them fell silent. Adam was always worth listening to. Deep in their hearts, the Them knew that they weren’t a gang of four. They were a gang of three, which belonged to Adam. But if you wanted excitement, and interest, and crowded days, then every Them would prize a lowly position in Adam’s gang above leadership of any other gang anywhere.
“Don’t see why everyone’s so down on witches,” Adam said.
The Them glanced at one another. This sounded promising.
“Well, they blight crops,” said Pepper. “And sink ships. And tell you if you’re going to be king and stuff. And brew up stuff with herbs.”
“My mother uses herbs,” said Adam. “So does yours.”
“Oh, those are all right,” said Brian, determined not to lose his position as occult expert. “I expect God said it was all right to use mint and sage and so on. Stands to reason there’s nothing wrong with mint and sage.”
“And they can make you be ill just by looking at you,” said Pepper. “It’s called the Evil Eye. They give you a look, and then you get ill and no one knows why. And they make a model of you and stick it full of pins and you get ill where all the pins are,” she added cheerfully.
“That sort of thing doesn’t happen any more,” reiterated Wensleydale, the rational thinking person. “ ’Cos we invented Science and all the vicars set fire to the witches for their own good. It was called the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Then I reckon we should find out if her at Jasmine Cottage is a witch and if she is we should tell Mr. Pickersgill,” said Brian. Mr. Pickersgill was the vicar. Currently he was in dispute with the Them over subjects ranging from climbing the yew tree in the churchyard to ringing the bells and running away.
