For Love of Mother-Not

by Alan Dean Foster

  The clerk was about to continue, then found something unexpected lodged in his throat and turned his attention instead back to his desk top. “That’s all. The two of you can go.”

  Mother Mastiff harrumphed as if she had won a victory and led the boy out onto the streets of Drallar. They had supplied him with that one vital piece of clothing, a small blue slickertic of his own. He pulled the cheap plastic tighter over his head as they reached the first intersection.

  “Well, boy, ’tis done. Devil come take me and tell me if I know why I did it, but I expect that I’m stuck with ye now. And ye with me, of course. Do you have anything at the dorm we should go to recover?”

  He shook his head slowly. Quiet sort, she thought. That was all to the good. Maybe he wouldn’t be a quick squaller. She still wondered what had prompted her sudden and uncharacteristic outburst of generosity. The boy’s hand was warm in her gnarled old palm. That palm usually enfolded a credcard for processing other people’s money or artwork to be studied with an eye toward purchase and even, on occasion, a knife employed for something more radical than the preparation of food, but never before the hand of a small child. It was a peculiar sensation.

  They worked their way through crowds hurrying to beat the onset of night, avoiding the drainage channels that ran down the center of each street. Thick aromas drifted from the dozens of food stalls and restaurants that fringed the avenue they were walking. Still the boy said not a word. Finally, tired of the way his face would turn toward any place from which steam and smells rose, Mother Mastiff halted before one establishment with which she was familiar. They were nearly home, anyway.

  “You hungry, boy?”

  He nodded slowly, just once.

  “Stupid of me. I can go all day without food and not give it a second thought. I forget sometimes that others have not that tolerance in their bellies.” She nodded toward the doorway. “Well, what are ye waiting for?”

  She followed him into the restaurant, then led the way to a quiet booth set against the wall. A circular console rose from the center of the table. She studied the menu imprinted on its flank, compared it with the stature of the child seated expectantly next to her, then punched several buttons set alongside the menu.

  Before too long, the console sank into the table, then reappeared a moment later stacked with food; a thick, pungent stew dimpled with vegetables, long stalks of some beige tuber, and a mass of multistriped bread.

  “Go ahead,” she said when the boy hesitated, admiring his reserve and table manners. “I’m not too hungry, and I never eat very much.”

  She watched him while he devoured the food, sometimes picking at the colorful bread to assuage what little hunger she felt herself, barely acknowledging the occasional greeting from a passing acquaintance or friend. When the bottom of the stew bowl had been licked to a fine polish and the last scrap of bread had vanished, she asked, “Still hungry?”

  He hesitated, measuring her, then gave her a half nod. “I’m not surprised,” she replied, “but I don’t want ye to have any more tonight. You’ve just downed enough to fill a grown man. Any more on top of what you’ve already had and you’d end up wasting it all. Tomorrow morning, okay?” He nodded slowly, understanding.

  “And one more thing, boy. Can ye talk?”

  “Yes.” His voice was lower than anticipated, unafraid and, she thought, tinged with thankfulness.

  “I can talk pretty good,” he added without further prompting, surprising her. “I’ve been told that for my age I’m a very good talker.”

  “That’s nice. I was starting to worry.” She slid from her seat, using her cane to help her stand, and took his hand once again. “It’s not too far now.”

  “Not too far to where?”

  “To where I live. To where ye will live from now on.” They exited the restaurant and were enveloped by the wet night.

  “What’s your name?” He spoke without looking up at her, preferring instead to study the dim storefronts and isolated, illuminated shops. The intensity of his inspection seemed unnatural.

  “Mastiff,” she told him, then grinned. “ ’tis not my real name, boy, but one that someone laid upon me many years ago. For better or worse, it’s stuck longer with me than any man. ’tis the name of a dog of exceptional ferocity and ugliness.”

  “I don’t think you’re ugly,” the boy replied. “I think you’re beautiful.”

  She studied his open, little-boy expression. Dim-witted, dim-sighted, or maybe just very smart, she thought.

  “Can I call you Mother?” he asked hopefully, further confusing her. “You are my mother now, aren’t you?”

  “Sort of, I expect. Don’t ask me why.”

  “I won’t cause you any trouble.” His voice was suddenly concerned, almost frightened. “I’ve never caused anyone any trouble, honest. I just want to be left alone.”

  Now what would prompt a desperate confession like that? she wondered. She decided not to pursue the matter. “I’ve no demands to make on ye,” she assured him. “I’m a simple old woman, and I live a simple life. It pleases me. It had best please ye as well.”

  “It sounds nice,” he admitted agreeably. “I’ll do my best to help you any way I can.”

  “Devil knows there’s plenty to do in the shop. I’m not quite as flexible as I used to be.” She chuckled aloud. “Get tired before midnight now. You know, I actually need a full four hours’ sleep? Yes, I think ye can be of service. You’d best be. Ye cost enough.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, abruptly downcast.

  “Stop that. I’ll have none of that in my home.”

  “I mean, I’m sorry that I upset you.”

  She let out a wheeze of frustration, knelt and supported herself with both hands locked to the shaft of the cane. It brought her down to his eye level. He stood there and gazed solemnly back at her.

  “Now ye listen to me, boy. I’m no government agent. I don’t have the vaguest notion what possessed me to take charge of ye, but ’tis done. I will not beat you unless you deserve it. I’ll see to it that you’re well fed and reasonably warm. In return, I demand that ye don’t go about braying stupid things like ‘I’m sorry.’ Be that a deal?”

  He didn’t have to think it over very long. “It’s a deal—Mother.”

  “That’s settled, then.” She shook his hand. The gesture brought forth a new phenomenon: his first smile. It made his tiny, lightly freckled face seem to glow, and suddenly the night seemed less chilly.

  “Let’s hurry,” she said, struggling erect again. “I don’t like being out this late, and you’re not much the bodyguard. Never will be, by the looks of ye, though that’s no fault of yours.”

  “Why is it so important to be home when it’s dark?” he asked, and then added uncertainly, “Is that a stupid question?”

  “No, boy.” She smiled down at him as she hobbled up the street. “That’s a smart question. It’s important to be safe at home after dark because the dead tend to multiply in direct ratio to the absence of light. Though if you’re cautious and never grow overconfident and learn the ways of it, you’ll find that the darkness can be your friend as well as your enemy.”

  “I thought so,” he said firmly. “I’ve thought so for”—his face screwed up as he concentrated hard on something—”for as long as I can remember.”

  “Oh?” She was still smiling at him. “And what makes you think that it’s so besides the fact I just told it to ye?”

  “Because,” he replied, “most of the times I can ever remember being happy were in the dark.”

  She pondered that as they turned the corner. The rain had lessened considerably, giving way to the mist that passed for normal air in the city. It didn’t trouble her lungs, but she worried about the boy. The one thing she didn’t need was a sick child. He had cost her enough already.

  Her stall-home was one of many scattered through the seemingly endless marketplace. Stout shutters protected the nondescript façade, which occupied ten meters at the far
end of a side street. She pressed her palm to the door lock. The sensitized plastic glowed brightly for an instant, beeped twice, and then the door opened for them.

  Once inside, she shoved the door shut behind them, then automatically turned to inspect her stock to make certain nothing had disappeared in her absence. There were racks of copper and silver wares, rare carved hardwoods for which Moth was justly renowned, well-crafted eating and drinking utensils, including many clearly designed for non-humans, cheap models of Moth itself with interrupted rings of flashy floatglitter, and various items of uncertain purpose.

  Through this farrago of color and shape, the boy wandered. His eyes drank in everything, but he asked no questions, which she thought unusual.

  It was in the nature of children to inquire about everything. But then, this was no ordinary child.

  Toward the rear of the shop front a silver box stood on a dais. Its touch-sensitive controls connected the shop directly to the central bank of Drallar and enabled Mother Mastiff to process financial transactions for all customers, whether they came from up the street or halfway across the Commonwealth. A universal credcard allowed access to its owner’s total wealth. Banks stored information; all hard currency was in general circulation.

  Past the dais and the door it fronted were four rooms: a small storage chamber, a bathroom, a kitchen-dining area, and a bedroom. Mother Mastiff studied the arrangement for several minutes, then set about clearing the storage room. Ancient and long-unsold items were shoveled out onto the floor, together with cleaning equipment, clothing, canned goods, and other items. Somehow she would find room for them elsewhere.

  Propped up against the far wall was a sturdy old cot. She touched a button on its side, and the device sprang to life, skittering about as it arranged itself on springy legs. Further excavation revealed a bag of support oil, which she plugged into the mattress. It was full and warm in minutes. Finally, she covered the cot with a thin thermosensitive blanket.

  “This’ll be your room,” she told him. “ ’tis no palace, but ’tis yours. I know the importance of having something ye can call your own. Ye can fix up this bower however ye like.”

  The boy eyed her as if she had just bestowed all the treasures of Terra on him. “Thank you, Mother,” he said softly. “It’s wonderful.”

  “I sell things,” she said, turning away from that radiant face. She gestured toward the storeroom out front. “The things ye saw on our way in.”

  “I guessed that. Do you make much money?”

  “Now ye sound like the government agent back there at the platform.” She smiled to show him she was teasing. “I get by. I’d much like to have a larger place than this, but at this point in my life”—she leaned her cane up against her bed as she strolled into the larger room—”it seems not likely I ever will. It does not bother me. I’ve had a good, full life and am content. You’ll soon discover that my growls and barks are mostly show. Though not always.” She patted him on the head and pointed toward the compact kitchen.

  “Would ye like something hot to drink before we retire?”

  “Yes, very much.” Carefully, he took off his slickertic, which was dry by then. He hung it on a wall hook in his bedroom.

  “We’ll have to get ye some new clothes,” she commented, watching him from the kitchen.

  “These are okay.”

  “Maybe they are for ye, but they’re not for me.” She pinched her nose by way of explanation.

  “Oh. I understand.”

  “Now what would ye like to drink?”

  His face brightened once again. “Tea. What kinds of tea do you have?”

  “What kinds of tea do ye like?”

  “All kinds.”

  “Then I’ll choose ye one.” She found the cylinder and depressed the main switch on its side as she filled it with water from the tap. Then she searched her store of foodstuffs.

  “This is Anar Black,” she told him, “all the way from Rhyinpine. Quite a journey for dead leaves to make. I think ’tis milder than Anar White, which comes from the same world but grows further down the mountain sides. I have some local honey if ye like your drink sweet. Expensive, it is. Moth’s flowers are scarce save where they’re grown in hothouses. This world belongs to the fungi and the trees; the bees, poor things, have a hard time of it, even those who’ve grown woolly coats thick enough to keep the damp and cold out. If honey’s too thick for ye, I’ve other sweeteners.”

  Hearing no reply, she turned to find him lying still on the floor, a tawny, curled-up smudge of red hair and dirty old clothes. His hands were bunched beneath his cheek, cushioning his head.

  She shook her head and pushed the cylinder’s off button. The pot sighed and ceased boiling. Bending, she got her wiry arms beneath him and lifted. Somehow she wrestled him onto the cot without waking him. Her hands pulled the thermal blanket up to his chin. It was programmed and would warm him quickly.

  She stood there awhile, amazed at how much pleasure could be gained from so simple an activity as watching a child sleep. Then, still wondering what had come over her, she left him and made her way across to her own room, slowly removing her clothes as she walked. Before long, the last light in the rear of the little shop winked out, joining its neighbors in nightfall. Then there was only the light wind and the hiss of moisture evaporating from warm walls to break the silence of the mist-shrouded dark.

  2

  The boy ate as if the previous night’s dinner had been no more substantial than a distant dream. She cooked him two full breakfasts and watched as he finished every bite. When the last pachnack was gone, and the final piece of bread wolfed down, she took him into the shop.

  He watched intently as she entered the combination to the metal shutters. As they rose, they admitted a world entirely different from the empty night. One moment he was staring at the dully reflective line of metal strips. The next brought home to him all the noise, the confusion, and bustle and sights and smells of the great Drallarian marketplace; they flooded the stall, overwhelming him with their diversity and brilliance. Mother Mastiff was not a late sleeper—which was good, for the crowd would rise in tandem with the hidden sun. Not that the marketplace was ever completely deserted. There were always a few merchants whose wares benefited from the mask of night.

  The boy could tell it was daytime because it had grown less dark. But the sun did not shine; it illuminated the raindrops. The morning had dawned warm, a good sign, and the moisture was still more mist than rain. A good day for business.

  Mother Mastiff showed the boy around the shop, describing various items and reciting their prices and the reasons behind such pricing. She hoped to someday entrust the operation of the business to him. That would be better than having to close up every time she needed to rest or travel elsewhere. The sooner he learned, the better, especially considering the way he ate.

  “I’ll do everything I can, Mother,” he assured her when she had concluded the brief tour.

  “I know ye will, boy.” She plopped down into her favorite chair, an overupholstered monstrosity covered with gemmac fur. The skins were worn down next to nothing, and the chair retained little value, but it was too comfortable for her to part with. She watched as the boy turned to stare at the passing crowd. How quiet he is, she thought. Quiet and intense. She let him study the passersby for a while before beckoning him closer.

  “We’ve overlooked several things in the rush of the night, boy. One in particular.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “I can’t keep calling ye ‘boy.’ Have ye a name?”

  “They call me Flinx.”

  “Be that your last name or your first?”

  He shook his head slowly, his expression unhappy. “Mother, I don’t know. It’s what they called me.”

  “What ‘they’ called ye. Who be ‘they’? Your”—she hesitated—”mother? Your father?”

  Again, the slow sad shake of the head, red curls dancing. “I don’t have a mother or a father. It’s
what the people called me.”

  “What people?”

  “The people who watched over me and the other children.”

  Now that was strange. She frowned. “Other children? Ye have brothers and sisters, then?”

  “I don’t”—he strained to remember—”I don’t think so. Maybe they were. I don’t know. They were just the other children. I remember them from the early time. It was a strange time.”

  “What was so strange about it?”

  “I was happy.”

  She nodded once, as though she understood. “So. Ye remember an early time when you were happy and there were lots of other children living with you.”

  He nodded vigorously. “Boys and girls both. And we had everything we could want, everything we asked for. All kinds of good food and toys to play with and …”

  A wealthy family brought to ruin, perhaps. She let him ramble on about the early time, the happy time, a while longer. What catastrophe had overtaken the boy in infancy?

  “How big was this family?” she asked. “We’ll call it your family for now. How many other boys and girls were there?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. Lots.”

  “Can you count?”

  “Oh, sure,” he said proudly. “Two, three, four, five, and lots more than that.”

  Sounded like more than just a family, though an extended family could not be ruled out, she knew. “Do ye remember what happened to them, and to you? Ye were all happy, and ye had lots of friends, and then something happened.”

  “The bad people came,” he whispered, his expression turning down. “Very bad people. They broke into where we lived. The people who watched us and fed us and gave us toys fought the bad people. There was lots of noise and guns going off and—and people fell down all around me. Good people and bad people both. I stood and cried until somebody picked me up and carried me away. They carried me down lots of halls and dark places, and I remember getting into some kind of a—car?”

  She nodded approvingly. “Probably. Go on, boy.”