Taco Del and the Fabled Tree of Destiny

by Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn

  I look up along the rope that brought Firescape down to me.

  “How’re we supposed to get Doug up there?”

  She points up the rope. “I’ll go up first. You make a cradle around the pot. I’ll hoist him, then I’ll send the rope back down for you. By the way,” she adds, before ascending, “I love you too.”

  Good plan. We do it. And, as I am floating on a cloud of love, everything goes pretty smooth. Not a drop of soil lost. Blood neither.

  Out on the roof, though, we got a problem. We gotta slide the pot to the back edge without (1) making a hell of a racket and (2) accidentally rolling Doug off the sloping roof (also, coincidentally, making a hell of a racket). We finally link arms and pick up the pot so we are face to face on either side, looking at each other through the boughs. They tickle my nose. For a guy who’s just been starved for three days, Doug sure feels heavy.

  “You just watered him, didn’t you?” Firescape whispers.

  I nod and stifle a sneeze.

  We have to crab-walk to the back edge of the roof. Our footsteps sound like thundering hordes and I slip twice and skid some inches toward the edge of the roof. Then I get the hang of it.

  I also get a little cocky, and the very moment I think about already being through the Fence, I slip, I fall, I take a long, lonely skid on my furry tummy, right for the edge of the roof.

  Suddenly, there is air under my feet and space opening its big yawp below me and a big, hairy scream building up in my throat. Then, a hand clamps on the back of my jacket and I just stop, legs swinging in the air, a rain-gutter crimping my ribs.

  Firescape, clinging to a rope, puts her face next to mine and hisses, “Hold me.”

  I’d like nothing better. I wrap my arms around her waist and dig my fingers under her belt. Together, we crawl back up the slope to where Doug waits, Firescape’s climbing hook sunk into the tiles behind his pot.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, but Firescape merely detaches herself from me and says, “Thank me when we’re outta here.”

  We start moving again; sidle-sidle, slip-slip, ouch-ouch. It seems to take forever, but at last we are at the back edge of the building and do the cradle thing again, this time going down.

  Okay, I think, this is it. We’ve done it. But I’ve forgotten about the Fence. Now, I remember it. Which, I think, says something to me about the nature of reality. The Fence will not go away just ‘cause I need it to. Neither will the curls of truly wicked razorbarb across the top.

  While I pause to reflect on this, Firescape hunkers down and disappears behind a bush. Before I can ask what she’s doing, the bush rolls clear over, showing a little hacked-off trunk and Firescape standing behind. She’s pulling on the wire which parts like, well, like cut wire.

  She holds the edges apart and grins at me. “After you, Merlin Taco,” she says.

  “After the Tree of Destiny,” I correct, and drag Doug over to the hole.

  It takes both of us to hoist him through the hole, then I follow while Firescape covers us with her Magic Weapon. I’m just straightening on the other side of the Fence when I hear her say, “Shit,” in that tone of voice that can only mean one of two things: Shit, I have stepped in something unpleasant, or Shit, we have been discovered.

  In this case, it is the latter.

  “How,” I ask Firescape as we are herded along by five Big Ugly Dudes, “did they get the drop on you?”

  She scowls ferociously. “I got caught in the damn Fence, coming through after you. Couldn’t even get the damn muzzle up.” She snorts, glancing to where her AK rests in the hands of one of the aforementioned Dudes. “Some Magic Weapon.”

  Now, I am scared. I didn’t think old Squint had it in him to thwart the magic of an Embarcaderan Weapon. I have learned an important lesson: Never underestimate a fellow merlin, no matter how much like a court jester he is.

  That merlin and his lord are grinning ear to ear when the Big Ugly Dudes bring us in. I notice the grins get even bigger when they gander Firescape. My insides get freezer burn.

  “Bonus prize!” squeals Squint and Lord E says, “Merlin Taco, you’ve brought some really good stuff my way these days, but this takes the garbanzo. How’d you know I was down a lordette?”

  And the two of them wink and yuk it up.

  I realize suddenly that I have been had six ways from Sunday. I grip one of Doug’s little boughs tight enough to draw sap. A wave of perfume hits my schnozzle and makes its way to my weeny brain.

  “Scrawl,” I say aloud. “You got Scrawl to say all that garbage about deadjim lordettes.”

  “Not garbage, exactly,” says Lord E. “It's true, y’know. I really do go through lady-lords pretty fast. But, yeah, it didn’t hurt to have Scrawl mouthing off.”

  “Yeah,” Squint guffaws. “That old hag is so hot to crumble your tortilla, she’d buy the Baybridge from a blue whale if it’d do the job. Passin' along Lord E’s sad, sad story was nothin'.”

  “And the wall-scrawl? She did that herself, huh?”

  “She’s got imagination,” says Lord E.

  “Yeah, and a source of ethanol and fireworks,” I guess.

  It comes clear, at last. The only thing I’m not sure of is what these two are really after. Huh — I mean, what I’ve helped them get besides, possibly, me and Doug and Firescape. I grab her hand and think real hard about what I’ve said.

  Somewhere in the middle of all this thinking, it comes to me — where all Squint’s questions were headed — straight to the Wiz.

  Eleventh: Straight To The Wiz

  In the end, we meet at the Border across the trench — Alcaldé to King, smeagol to smeagol, Squire to Squint.

  Today, the dead Potreran buildings are full of eyes. I feel them prickle my skin. A bridge has been laid over the Trench for this momentous occasion, and on the Embar side old Scrawl looks smugger’n hell. She figures my goose is paté. She’s probably right.

  Firescape and Doug and I are brought front and center while one really Big, really Ugly Dude holds Firescape’s AK on us. He does not know how to use it. Strangely, this is not comforting.

  “As you can see, Mercedes,” says Lord E, and Hismajesty winces at the sound of his real and secret name on Potreran lips, “we got yer merlin, yer Tree, and one very pretty knightie — a General, she tells me. I bet you’d like to have them back, hey?”

  His M snarls. “Scunge,” he calls. “Slime. Of course, I want them back, scum. Your terms, scuzz, your terms.”

  The Alcaldé is unaffected by this heroic speech. He merely chuckles.

  “My terms — simple: Let me at the Wiz.”

  Hismajesty’s eyes all but pop out of his royal head. Squire’s too and, to my irrelevant satisfaction, Scrawl’s.

  “The Wiz? But I thought — “

  “Ha-ha!” crows the Alcaldé, and Squint cuts a caper. “As you were meant to think, Mercedes, old bud. ‘Cause what I really want is all the other stuff you got — guns, ammo, running water, electric light, warm clothes that don’t come second hand from dead folks. I want to keep the cold out and the warm in. I want a merlin who can do more than just rattle his beads and chains and dance the oingo-boingo.”

  Squint goes all surly when he hears this, but Lord E forges on: “I want to keep my lordettes from cacking before they plop forth an heir. I want more of my favorite cola. Shortly, Merc, I want the magic you been hoggin' in that place. And don’t tell me it’s not there. I know what I seen and I seen all the good shit you guys got. Plus I got it on grapevine and a hot say-so that this Wiz the bonanza of all good shit.”

  His M blinks at Squire, who shrugs.

  “He says,” I translate, “that he’s got it on good authority that the Wiz is the fountainhead of all our knowledge.”

  I don’t mention I’m the authority of which we speak.

  “I see,” says His M, looking majestically pained. “And if I accept your terms....”

  “You get your property back.”

  “You don’t have my propert
y,” says Hismajesty, taking a literal tack, “you have my General, my merlin, and the Fabled Tree of Destiny — all of which better be none the worse for wear.”

  “Whatever.”

  “And if I decline?”

  “Huh?”

  “He asks what’ll happen if he says, ‘no,’” I translate.

  Squint and Lord E and that scum, Lubejob, all light up like Winky’s ex-boathouse.

  “Well,” says Lord E, “in that case, we’ll just keep your merlin, your General and your Tree and thank you kindly. See, I need a mother for my heirs, and my merlin, here, could sure as hell use some help merlining, and as for the Tree, well, there’s no telling what I could do with that kind of magic. So you see, what I got here is a win-win.”

  More grinning.

  At this point, Firescape leans over to me and whispers in one of my red hot little ears, “Del, do something. I don’t wanna be the mother of little Alcaldés. I wanna be the mother of little Taquito Flannigans. I mean it, Del, I'd rather be deadjim.”

  She means it, and in this moment of great desperation, as I see my majesty deliberating on what is the lesser of two evils, I don’t care what happens to me. But for Firescape — for Jade — I gotta do something. As usual, I look to Doug for help.

  Okay — stupid, I s'pose. I mean, maybe he is just a pet tree. And maybe I do sort of exaggerate a few things about me and him and us. And maybe I feel wonky sometimes (like right now) ‘cause I’m just naturally wonky.

  But then, maybe not.

  I look at Doug sitting there in the watery sunshine in his poor, dented pot and see his boughs and needles all a-quiver and a-shimmer with weird light and time stops.

  It comes to me, then, like Doug whispered in my ear: Everything’s gonna be okay, Taco-boy. Let them into the Wiz — the Wiz will take care of itself, you’ll see. ‘Cause it really is magic.

  I’m convinced. Yeah, convinced I’m muy loco. But hell, what’s a merlin to do?

  “May I speak to my lord?” I ask Lord E. “I think I can, uh, speed things up...maybe.”

  The Alcaldé gives me the eye. “You ain’t gonna split on me, are you?”

  I am so incensed, the hair jumps up on my head. “And leave my Tree and my true love in your slimy hands? I’d sooner leave you my liver. I’ll be back.”

  The Alcaldé gives me the go-ahead.

  As I walk across the bridge, I feel something behind me. Hairs stand up on my neck and say, "howdy!" and I know it’s the smeagol, Lubejob. I sweat. What I got to say to Hismajesty is not for the ears of smeagols. But here I am, face to scowling face with my majesty and I gotta say something. I can almost feel Doug quivering the air behind me. Wonky whispers come to my inner ear.

  I bow to my King. “Majesty,” I say, “have no trepidation. The TOD informs your worthless, despicable merlin that we are to evince no concern. I am assured that all will proceed felicitously to a satisfactory conclusion. Go ahead and let Lord E Lordy at the Wiz,” I add for Lubejob’s benefit. “No deleterious effects will accrue. You have the Tree’s word on it.” And I wink slowly for emphasis.

  Hismajesty’s left brow spocks upward and I detect an itty-bitty grin at the corner of the royal mouth.

  “I see,” he says, “a bit of subterfuge is afoot.”

  “Indubitably,” I affirm, though I feel clueless.

  “So be it,” says my liege. He raises his head, peers across the trench and waves. “You got it — the Wiz is your oyster. Elvis, come on down!”

  Elvis?

  A glance at Lord E proves he is none too pleased to have his own real and secret name flapping around on enemy lips. Huh. He can dish it out, but he can't take it. Big surprise.

  “What goes around, comes around,” HisMajesty growls. “Now you know what the ‘E’ stands for.”

  We proceed to the Wiz in a strange and wondrous procession. His M calls out the royal vehicles; a fleet of flip-top Mercedes (natch), flanked by a rainbow of knighties on chrome chargers — Vespas, actually.

  Lord Elvis is impressed as hell and practically licking his lips, ‘cause he just knows the Wiz is gonna give him all this good stuff too. There goes our strategic advantage...and my head with it, I don’t doubt. About now, I’m racking my chickpea-brain trying to figure out how the Wiz is not gonna give all this good stuff away.

  The loud procession winds through the streets of Embarcadero, watched on by the good and confused citizens of same, who surely deserve a merlin better than me. Elvis and Squint and the arch-smeagol ride in one of the Mercedes, keeping Doug and Firescape between them just in case. I ride with His M, all the time feeling Scrawl’s beady blues digging holes in the back of my head. She’s mad as hell, ‘cause she had to be hoping His M was gonna strand my butt in Potrero-Taraval.

  Scrawl and I go way back...unfortunately. Back to when I was still in my probationary period as a merlin. I had a wonky vision of a freak storm, which, since everything else I had wonky visions about happened, I took to His M. Scrawl laughed right in my face, but Hismajesty took some cautions in spite of the fact that no one else had said squiddle about a storm.

  As it happened, I was right. The storm came and it was a doozy. Which made Doug and I look like the Good Witch of the West and Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott rolled into one, and made Scrawl look like a quack. Scrawl has not cared much for either of us since.

  But back to the present crisis. Lord E-for-Elvis is just about glowing as he and his right and left hand dudes and the Big and Ugly squad stand and gaze up at the sign that hangs above those hallowed doors — the sign that devoted acolytes have kept bright and new and spiffy clean for decade upon decade.

  CITY LIGHTS BOOKSTORE, it says in letters two feet tall.

  The Alcaldé looks at me. “This the place?”

  I sigh, praying I am not just naturally wonky, that I have really heard and smelled Doug’s firry whispers. “Yeah, this is it.”

  He scowls. “Don’t be yankin' me, Taco-face.”

  “He’s not,” says Lubejob. “I been here. I seen it. This is where they do their magic. Pictures that move...cars, boats, bikes, even people. The cars are in these little boxes and they drive them right out of the pictures, I bet. I ain’t no merlin, but I seen the moving pictures.”

  What the hell? I think, but old Elvis the Alcaldé is already on the move.

  “Good enough,” he says, and leads his smeagol and his merlin and his Big Ugly Dudes into the Wiz.

  I am appalled. They don’t even genuflect. I breath a prayer that if the sky falls, Chicken Little, the good people of Embarcadero will be able to dodge the pieces. We genuflect, I can tell you, which bewoggles the Potreros.

  Once inside, Lord E just stands there and gapes like a beached fish, turning and turning, not even aware that he has interrupted scads of folks in the worshipful act of reading. I know how he feels, though. Whenever I lay my unworthy eyes on these knowledge-crammed walls, I am overwhelmed and awed.

  Finally, Lord E stops turning and gaping and says to me, “So, where’s all this great stuff, all this magic and what-not you guys promised?”

  I am perplexed. “It’s here. All around you.”

  “Show me. Show me how you guys get all your stuff.”

  I choose the book upon which our government rests. It is called ARTHUR ‘cause it’s about that great father of all monarchs and his magic kingdom. I hand the book to Lord Elvis who gives its colorful cover a long look before opening it. He stares at the first page, then begins flipping quickly through the book, stopping here and there to look at the pictures, which are beautiful. Finally, he slams the book closed.

  “These pictures don’t move,” he says to me, then looks at Lubejob. “They don’t move. They just sit there.” He waves the book at me. “Are they all like this?”

  “Yes and no,” I say. “That one is about government. It’s companion volume — uh, the next book in the series — is about the very first Merlin. The others are about...well, everything.”

  “About? How can it b
e about anything? It’s full of pictures of-of big dudes in tin cans on fat horses. And what do these scrawls mean?” He pops the book open making me fear for the binding. “Are these the magic runes?”

  And, finally, I understand. “Those are words,” I say. “Those tell the story, not the pictures.”

  “What’s he mean?” he asks Squint, but Squint just shrugs and squints and jumps like a scared cat when the Alcaldé tosses the book into his hands. “Read the runes, merlin,” he demands.

  But Squint can’t read them either. “I can’t,” he says and looks about ready to cry, and I actually feel sorry for the geezer.

  The Alcaldé grabs the book and points it at me again. “You’re trying to tell me these runes tell you how to make electric light and feed all these fat people?”

  “Not those runes, particularly, but others.”

  “Bullshit,” says Lord E. “All bullshit. What good are runes my merlin can’t read? You’re yankin' me, Taco-face. These ain’t magic. Hell, we use this crap for fire-starters.” And he dumps ARTHUR back into my hands with no ceremony whatsoever. “Where’re the moving pictures, Taco-boy? Where’s the real magic?”

  Of course, what he means is the videos. I tilt my head toward the AV Shrine, and kind of let my eyes wander that way like I really don’t want them to.

  He grins at me and waves a hand at the Big Ugly Dudes. “What we want’s back there. I don’t know what it is, but Lubejob will know when we find it, won’t you, Lubejob?”

  Lubejob agrees that he will know it immediate, and with that, they take off into the back rooms and begin searching for this magical stuff they think we’re hiding. Which, of course, we’re not hiding at all.

  Hismajesty sidles up to me as we tag along. “What’s up, Taco?” he asks. “Can’t these Philistines read?”

  I shake my head. “It would appear not.”

  His M grins. “Then the Wiz can’t do them any good.”

  I cross my fingers. “We’ll see. There’s still the videos,” I say, which goes down like the Titanic.