“What?”
She looked up. “Sorry.” She read aloud: “ ‘And then, from the east, thunder. And at the sound of this Ablakha’—that’s something they used to call Father—‘Ablakha did rise up. And looking to the east, Ablakha did see that the thunder was a voice of a man, and that this man was known to him. This one had been the…’ Um, I don’t know what this word means. ‘This man had been the something-or-other of the Emperor, and his trusted confidant. But now this one had seen wisdom, and cast his lot in with Ablakha. And seeing this, Ablakha’s…’ mmm, fury? No, not fury. His warlike heart.
“ ‘Seeing this, Ablakha’s warlike heart was renewed, and he did rise up. So too did the armies of Ablakha that had been rent asunder’—killed, I guess?—‘rise up anew.’ Blah, blah…smite, smite, smite…‘and thus did dawn the fourth age of the world, which is the age of Ablakha.’ ” She handed the paper back to Michael. “Did that make sense?”
He nodded.
“OK, good. So what’s all this for, anyway?”
Michael shrugged. “I am to meet this one tomorrow—begin my learning with him.”
“Oh.” Her heart sank. Michael was the closest thing she had to a friend. She thought about asking how long he would be away, but he wouldn’t know. Well, she thought, at least we’ve got tonight. In the Library you took your good times where you could find them.
“Name,” Michael says. “What was his name?”
“Father?”
“No. The thunder of the east. Him.”
Carolyn squinted down at the manuscript in her small hands, already dry and permanently stained with ink.
“Nobununga,” she said. “His name was Nobununga.”
Chapter 3
The Denial That Shreds
I
On the morning after she murdered Detective Miner for the second time, Carolyn came awake on the floor of Mrs. McGillicutty’s living room. It was shortly after dawn. As was her habit, she lay very still at first, eyes closed, careful not to give any sign that she was conscious. Mornings were always hardest for her. As far as she knew, no one—not Father, not David, not even Emily—could see into her sleeping mind, so it was only there that she did her real planning. But when she was fresh out of sleep it was difficult to keep the truth of her heart from tangling in the lies of her conscious mind, and her fingertips often trembled.
She sniffed the air in the room, learning what she could that way. Michael was gone. As they agreed, he had left before sunrise. They would meet later at the bronze bull.
Most of the others were still there, still sleeping. Faintly, from the back bedroom, she caught a whiff of sour sweat and fresh blood—David. Mingled with that, the smell of brown earth and rotting meat—Margaret. Alicia was closer, just back from the far future and still smelling of methane. Mrs. McGillicutty was making food in the kitchen—coffee, potatoes frying in garlic, some kind of sauce.
Carolyn opened her eyes the barest crack. This American room still looked alien to her, like a half-remembered dream. In calendar years, Carolyn was something like thirty years old, but calendar years were only part of it. By the time it occurred to her to wonder what her true age was, she could only make the roughest guess. She understood all languages—past and present, human and beast, real and imagined. She could speak most of them as well, though some required special equipment. How many in all? Tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands? And how long to learn them? Even these days, it still took her most of a week to master a new one. But when she looked in the mirror she saw a young woman. Father had given her things to improve her memory, to help her mind work more quickly. But it was also true that time worked differently in the Library. And Carolyn, more than any of them, had passed her life in there.
So the America that had once been her home now felt exotic. The thing called a “couch,” while comfortable enough, was far too tall, much higher than the pillows she was used to. In the corner was a box called a “television” or “teevee” that could show moving pictures, but you couldn’t step inside it or touch things. There were no candles, no oil lamps. And so on.
Mrs. McGillicutty was a living woman, an American, who had taken them into her home of her own free will. Well…more or less. Lisa had had a chat with her, but the effects of that were only temporary. Also, Jennifer gave her a blue powder that made her less curious about their eccentricities. But it was also true that Mrs. McGillicutty, a widow who lived alone, liked having the company.
They had been there about six weeks. By the second night of their banishment from Garrison Oaks and the Library, it became clear that the whatever-it-was keeping them out of Garrison Oaks wasn’t going away. Peter and a couple of others had been grumbling about sleeping rough. Everybody was hungry. They might have gone to one of Father’s courtiers, but David thought it was unwise. “Until we know who is behind this, we keep to ourselves.”
On the horizon, the lights of America glittered.
So they set out en masse, walking east down the westbound lane of Highway 78. A mile or so outside of their valley, they walked up a hill, turned into the first neighborhood they found, and knocked on a door at random. It was just before midnight. Carolyn stood in front. David towered behind her, spear in hand.
Mrs. McGillicutty, a widow whose only son didn’t ever call, came to the door in her housecoat.
“Hi!” Carolyn said brightly. “We’re foreign exchange students! There’s been some sort of mix-up with the program, and we don’t have a place to stay! We were wondering if you might put us up for the night?”
Carolyn wore her student robe, a gray-green cotton thing along the lines of a kimono with a hood, tied at the waist with a sash. The others were dressed similarly. They did not look like foreign exchange students.
“Smile,” Carolyn said under her breath, in Pelapi. They all did. Mrs. McGillicutty was not reassured.
Oh well, Carolyn thought. It was worth a shot. A lot of cultures had a tradition of sheltering strangers. Evidently not America, though.
“Er…I think there’s a Holiday Inn just down the road, there,” Mrs. McGillicutty said. “On the left.”
“Yeah,” Carolyn said. “That probably won’t work out.” Then, in Pelapi, “Lisa, can you…?”
Lisa stepped forward and touched Mrs. McGillicutty on the cheek. The older woman flinched at first, but when Lisa spoke her face softened. The sounds Lisa made weren’t in any language that Carolyn knew, and if there were any sort of grammar or even a pattern to them, she had never noticed it. Whatever it was, it was outside of her catalog. But it worked on the old woman just as it did on all Americans. After a moment she said, “Of course, dear. Won’t you please come in?”
They did.
Even under the effects of Lisa’s whatever-it-was, Mrs. McGillicutty was cool to them at first. Carolyn could see that she was afraid. She asked a lot of questions, and didn’t seem satisfied with Carolyn’s answers. Then the subject of food came up.
“You’re hungry?” Mrs. McGillicutty said. “Really?”
“Yes. If it isn’t too much trouble, anything you have would be—”
“I’ll make a lasagna!” She grinned, perhaps for the first time in years. “No, two lasagnas! Growing boys! Won’t take but a moment!”
Actually, it was more like a couple of hours, but she also put together some things she called amuse-bouche, which meant “mouth amusement,” a term Carolyn rather liked. These were bite-sized snacks of cheese, olives, salami, bread fried in oil and garlic, things like that. She had wine as well. Jennifer’s silver pipe made a few rounds. By three a.m., when the lasagna arrived, they were all pleasantly buzzed and laughing, temporarily carefree.
There was only one bad moment. David, done with his olives, went to the counter for more wine. He dipped his finger in the cheese mixture and slurped off a bit of goo. Mrs. McGillicutty slapped his hand.
Everyone froze.
Ah, shit, Carolyn thought. This was going so well.
David’s face cloud
ed. He towered over the old woman. She tilted her head back and met his eyes. By now she understood that they did not speak English, at least not well. She waggled her finger in his face. David’s eyes widened.
Carolyn looked away and braced herself for blood.
Mrs. McGillicutty pointed at the sink. David looked confused. Everyone was confused actually…but at least the old woman was still alive.
“Um…David?” Richard said after a moment.
David glared at him.
“I think she wants you to turn on the taps? To wash your hands?” He pantomimed doing this.
David thought about this for a moment, then nodded. He walked over to the sink and turned on the water. Oh no, Carolyn thought, despairing. He’s going to drown her in it. Boil her. Something.
But he didn’t. Instead, David washed his hands, first letting the clear water rinse off the caked dirt and clotted blood, then giving them a good lather with something called Palmolive. When he was done his hands were shiny and clean halfway to his elbows. He showed them to Mrs. McGillicutty.
“You’re a good boy,” she said in English. “What’s his name, dear?”
“David,” Carolyn said. Her lips felt numb. “His name is David.”
“You’re a good boy, David.”
David smiled at her. Then, perhaps the most amazing thing Carolyn ever witnessed happened. David mined the Paleolithic depths of his memory and returned with an English phrase: “Tanks…gamma.”
Mrs. McGillicutty grinned.
David grinned.
Mrs. McGillicutty presented her cheek.
David, bending almost to the level of his waist, kissed it.
Jennifer looked at her little pipe, blinked, looked back up. “Are you guys seeing this?”
“Seeing, yes,” Peter said.
Mrs. McGillicutty got a clean spoon and scooped out a bit of the cheese-and-egg mixture. She fed it to David, then used the spoon to wipe a little dribble off his chin. He rubbed his tummy and made “yum” noises.
Carolyn looked around Mrs. McGillicutty’s kitchen table. All she saw were wide eyes and slack jaws.
David filled his wineglass and came back to the table. “What?” he said, looking at them. “Oh, for gosh sakes. You guys always act like I’m some kind of ogre.”
II
Now, just over a month later, Carolyn rose and tiptoed between sleeping bodies to Mrs. McGillicutty’s sanctum sanctorum. Some yellow sauce bubbled gently on the stove next to the ingredients—cream, eggs, butter. Mrs. McGillicutty stood before her encyclopedic spice rack, tapping her cheek with a finger, considering. “I’m out of the fresh ones,” she said apologetically, waggling a little plastic lemon.
Carolyn smiled. Mrs. McGillicutty was a gentle soul. All she really wanted out of life was to be feeding someone. And she’s really good at it too. Breakfast turned out to be something called Eggs Benedict. Carolyn, normally indifferent to food, had two helpings. When she could eat no more she waddled off to clean herself up.
Coming out of the bathroom she saw that Peter’s eyes were open, watching her. Silently, she held one finger at a particular angle on her chest. This angle corresponded to the height that the sun would be in the sky at around ten a.m.
That was when Peter would meet her and Michael at the bull.
According to Rachel’s ghost children, Nobununga would arrive sometime today. He would meet with all of them eventually, but Carolyn had arranged that she, Michael, Peter, and Alicia would have a private word first. Peter nodded silent understanding. Alicia wasn’t awake yet, but Peter would pass the word along.
When she got back to the kitchen, Jennifer was at the table. In front of her sat a steaming mug of black coffee.
“Good morning,” Jennifer said in Pelapi.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” Her smile was warm and genuine but, even though they had their privacy, she did not show Jennifer the sign she had exchanged with Peter. She liked Jennifer well enough, but at the meeting with Nobununga they would discuss matters of life and death. In Carolyn’s estimation, Jennifer had drowned in her smoke and her fear a long time ago. She is of no use.
Mrs. McGillicutty looked over her shoulder at Carolyn. “Could you ask your friend if she’s hungry?”
“She’ll have some.” Then, to Jennifer, “I hope you’re hungry.”
Jennifer groaned. “I’m still recovering from dinner. Is it really good?” Carolyn gave her a grave nod. “It’s ridiculous. I don’t know how she does it.”
With real glee, Mrs. McGillicutty stirred a pot of simmering water and cracked an egg into the vortex.
Jennifer sighed. “OK. Fine.” She opened up the little leather pouch she kept her drugs in and sighed. It was almost empty. “I don’t suppose you thought to—”
“Yeah,” Carolyn said. “Matter of fact, I did.”
Jennifer grinned. “My hero!”
Carolyn went to her bag and pulled out a foil-wrapped brick about the size of a paperback. She tossed it to Jennifer. “There you go, Smoky.”
Jennifer turned the brick over in her hands, eyeing it doubtfully. “What’s this?”
“It’s called hashish,” Carolyn said. “I think you’ll like it. It’s the same stuff you usually get, but more concentrated or something.”
Jennifer unwrapped the brick, sniffed it, pinched off a piece. She crumbled it into her pipe and lit it. A moment later: “Whoa!”
“You like?”
She nodded. Smoke trickled out of her nostrils. She coughed a little, then blew out the smoke with a satisfied sigh. “My hero,” she said again. She took another puff, then offered the pipe to Carolyn.
“No, thanks,” she said. “Bit early for me.”
“Suit yourself.” She took one last puff, then stashed the gear in her pouch. They sat in silence for a while, watching Mrs. McGillicutty cook.
“The poor woman,” Jennifer said in Pelapi. She was shaking her head.
“How do you mean?”
“She has a heart coal. It’s very distinct.”
“She has a what?”
Jennifer gave her a quizzical look. “I thought you spoke all languages?”
“I do and I don’t,” Carolyn said. “I mean, I understand the words you used, but they don’t mean a lot to me. I’m guessing it’s a technical term? Something…from your catalog?” Then, hurriedly, “I’m not asking you to explain!”
Talking about your catalog was the one thing truly and enthusiastically forbidden to them. Father never said why, exactly, but he was very serious about it. The general thinking was that he didn’t want any one of them growing too powerful, but after what happened to David, no one ever dared ask.
“It’s OK,” Jennifer said. “The rules are a little different for me. I can talk about medical conditions, about their symptoms, diagnosis, likely outcome, anything a patient might have a legitimate interest in. I just can’t go into any kind of technical detail about treatments.”
“Oh? I didn’t know that.” She and Jennifer didn’t talk much, hadn’t in years. “So it’s…what? A bad valve, or something?”
“No, no. Nothing physical. ‘Heart coal’ is just a term for the syndrome.”
“Awfully flowery.”
Jennifer shrugged. “Father has a poetic streak.”
Carolyn stared at her. “If you say so. So, what’s wrong with her?”
Jennifer pursed her lips, searching for the right words. “She makes ‘brah-neez.’ ”
“ ‘Brah-neez?’ You mean brownies?”
“Right!” Jennifer nodded. “That! You do understand.”
“Er…no, Jennifer. I’m sorry. I’m not following you at all.”
Jennifer’s face fell. “She makes brownies,” she said. “She doesn’t eat them herself, but she makes them anyway. She does it every few days.”
“I still don’t…”
“Sometimes she sings when she does it,” Jennifer said. “That’s how I know. It doesn’t have to be words. Hearing someone sing o
r even just hum can tell me everything.”
“About what?” Carolyn asked, utterly lost.
“Her pathology,” Jennifer said. “The brownies aren’t for her. They’re for someone she lost a long time ago.”
“Her husband?” Mrs. McGillicutty’s husband was a couple of years dead.
“No,” Jennifer said. “Not him. He spent most of their marriage at work. That was what defined him. And he had other women. Once she tried to talk to him about it and he beat her for it.”
“Lovely.”
Mrs. McGillicutty bustled in the kitchen, her eyes far away.
“But there was a child once. She doesn’t even know it herself, but the brownies are for him.”
“What happened?”
“The boy liked getting fucked in the ass,” Jennifer said. “This made his father very angry. One day the two of them came home and found him doing it on the couch. It was an older man, one of his father’s friends. She wouldn’t have minded, not much, but it made the boy’s father crazy. He beat the child rather badly, broke his left tibia and the mandible in two places. He was in the hospital for a long time, but the bones eventually healed. The damage to his spirit was catastrophic, though. The boy and his father had been close, when he was younger. The beating broke him. He started taking drugs—amphetamines, mostly, but anything he could get his hands on. He withdrew. He stayed away for days at a time. Then one day he didn’t come home. They spoke to him once or twice after that—” Jennifer pointed at the thing on the wall.
“It’s called a telephone,” Carolyn said. She had gotten Miner to explain about telephones before she killed him the first time.
“Right. That. They spoke twice on the tel-oh-phone, and once there was a note. He was in a place called Denver, then another one called Miami. Then they didn’t get any more phone calls. That was ten years ago.”
“Where is he?”
Jennifer shook her head. “Dead, probably. No one really knows. At first this was agony for her. Every phone call, every knock on the door ripped open the wound. She lay awake every night for years. Her husband recovered…moved on, forgot. He was a man who never felt anything very deeply, just as Mrs. McGillicutty’s own father was. But Eunice cannot move on. She lies alone in the dark and waits for her little boy to come home. The waiting is all that she has now.”
The Library at Mount Char Page 6