“No,” says Firescape. “That’s not what I mean at all. I mean if you tell Her M about your — I mean, about Doug’s idea — and wait a week or so, His M will be boggled to pieces when you come tell him the Fabled Tree’s just recommended the very thing he’s been pondering for ever-so-long.”
I have long suspected Firescape is a natural merlin. Now, I'm sure of it. And I am not only a hero, but a humanitarian. But there is still this PROBLEM, which is how to convince His M to share our magic with the Potreros. And then there’s this other PROBLEM, which is how to convince Lord E that he should accept our largesse.
I don’t even bother with the rune can. Doug is on a roll — the visions, the premonitions, the words coming out of my mouth before I can even think them, etal. I take the PROBLEM straight to him.
Doug says we should spring a leak. A magical leak, so that knowledge can just trickle south little by little.
So, I start looking for a place to make a hole — just a tiny, little hole — in that wall of old junk that separates Embarcadero from Potrero-Taraval. As it happens, I find the perfect place — right along the Border where it parallels the Farm.
Bags and Kaymart aid and abet, of course. We leak food and knowledge about certain things, and we start teaching some little Potreros interesting things like how to read.
Meanwhile, I decide I must work on the Royal Conscience. I speak to the Majesties almost daily about the sad plight of our neighbors — especially the children. His M doesn’t react much, and Squire is most offensively and eloquently derisive of my concern, but Her Sweet Majesty wrinkles her lovely brow and pouts.
While I am working hard to raise sympathy in the Royal Quarter, our leak backflows — the Borders of Embarcadero become the scene of illegal immigration.
At first, I take this as a Bad Thing. Hismajesty is perturbed, Hermajesty is scared, and Squire is a grumpy sonofabitch. All eyes turn to me again, and I am expected to determine our response to this fine state of affairs. I thank the Patient God that no one knows how appropriate that is (seeing as how this is All My Fault).
Our first response is to double the knighties along the entire length of the Slot, which means recruitment goes up and piffle crime right along with it. With the knighties concentrated out on the edge of Embarcadero, folks in the heart of it who are so inclined find it easier to indulge their klepto tendencies.
On a walk through the Gee Gah, you hear cries of, “Stop thief!” almost as often as you hear haggling. This makes Hismajesty more perturbed, Hermajesty more scared, and Squire more grumpy.
Meanwhile, along the Borders, I decide to follow the advice of a great philosopher, whose name I cannot remember, but who said: If God gives you a lemon, make lemonade. It is with lemonade in mind that I instruct our knighties to turn back all wannabe Embarcaderans...except for women with small children, which is to say, except most of them. I make sure they get right into remedial reading programs at the Wiz and Wizlets. This puts a strain on our kingdom’s Social Services, of course, and makes Lord E cranky enough to send unveiled threats along to Hismajesty via a particularly bold and nasty Lubejob.
No lemonade yet.
My prayers become quite beseeching, Doug trembles as if in anticipation, the Whisperers whisper, and Squire continues to grump.
In this climate, a king of Hismajesty’s ilk naturally consults his merlin (me), and his merlin tells him that the problem is one of ignorance.
“Lord E’s pathetic population,” says Hismajesty’s merlin, “is scopin' ours truly because it’s quantum leaps better than the usual. We got stuff they don’t, which can only breed a horrible, deep sort of longing, which, if left unchecked, will eventually transmogrify into envy, and envy into jealousy. And when the pathetic populace of Potrero-Taraval is as jealous of your royal immensitude as is their terrible Lord, Elvis, well then, Majesty, we got problems.”
“Problems?” he repeats, eyebrows meeting head to furry head above his royal nose.
“Immense problems.”
“How immense?”
“War,” I say.
He pales. “But Potreros have become lazy and feckless. They aren’t up to the vicissitudes of war.”
“Lazy and feckless,” I agree. “But jealousy will make them reckless.” True — and it scans, yet.
Hismajesty grips the arms of his throne and stares off into the immensity of his throneroom. He is imagining the world at war. Not a pretty thought. I feel a niggle of guilt because I don’t really think Lord E could organize a picnic lunch, let alone a whole war.
“Options,” demands my liege.
I begin to pace around the Fabled TOD, whose shiny new pot I have rolled into the middle of Hismajesty’s throne room where sunlight will hit it and render it blinding.
It is partly cloudy today, so the Sun is on and off, but the effect is still great. He is glowing right now like a house afire.
“It is jealousy of what we have that makes the Potreros connive to slip across our Borders,” I say. “If they had what we have, they wouldn’t need to do either conniving or slipping, and their warlike tendencies could be nipped in the bud.”
“You want to give away the farm?” he asks, scandalized.
I pause. “Majesty, I would never suggest we give away the Farm. As you know, it represents a significant food source. I think we could get Bags and Kaymart to grow extra stuff for them, though.”
Hismajesty is waving his hands at me. “No, no. I meant — you wanna give them what we’ve got, literally speaking? What the hell does that mean?”
I hold up a finger and cock my head as if listening.
“What?” I say, and Doug, playing along, waves his boughs.
“What’s he saying?” asks His M.
“The Tree says: If you read a man a book, he will hear a story, but if you teach him to read, he can learn until the cows come back to Cow Hollow.”
I nod as if I am considering this and glance at Hismajesty. I don’t think he is getting it. “All of our stuff comes by way of the Wiz. By the light of literacy and knowledge we know the secrets of the ages.”
His M nods. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Then he gives me the sharpest look I have ever seen in those eyes. “The Potreros’ problems all stem from their incredible lack of smarts, illiterate sods that they are. If we educate the sods, they will know how to make stuff happen, instead of stealing it after we make it happen. They’ll understand how to feed themselves, how to clothe themselves, how to repair their infrastructure. Perhaps Lord E might even learn how to govern wisely.”
That’s pushing the envelope, I suspect, but what the hell — His M is clearly primed and ready to go off.
“Majesty, your insights amaze me. It’s no wonder you are king.”
“Don’t jink me around, merlin. My young and spunky (if not overly bright) bride has already pitched the idea in her ingenuous manner. I suspected it must have come from you and yours.” He slants a glance at the Tree. “I been musing upon it.”
“Uh,” I say. “This did, indeed, come from the Tree. I am merely the messenger boy.”
Hismajesty leans down toward me, eyes still weirdly keen. “I see that there are advantages to this idea, merlin, but tell me how we are to keep our advantage over the Potreros if we pursue it. Explain to me how this knowledge you propose to give them will not make them more dangerous to us.”
Okay. Straight shootin' time.
“It’s this way, Majesty — as anyone who has ever traveled through Dog Patch can aver, a wild dog is most dangerous when it’s hungry, and right now, there are a lot of hungry dogs in Potrero-Taraval. Now the difference between dogs and Potreros is: Potreros are gonna look ahead to the next meal. They’re not likely to do things to put that meal in jeopardy. Think of it, Majesty, if you’d been dumb and hungry all your life, and suddenly you got to be smart and well-fed, how eager would you be to slink back to dumb and hungry?”
Now, His M is man who appreciates a well-mixed metaphor. “Got it,” he says and sits back,
waving his arm expansively. “Mobilize your forces of enlightenment, O most excellent merlin. I give you Executive Carte Blanche.”
“Your largesse shall become legend,” I intone, bowing. I bow my way out of the room — which is tough to do, hauling Doug’s increasingly heavy wagon.
“You know, Squire isn’t gonna like this,” I tell Doug as we take our Executive Carte Blanche and prepare to run with it.
Thirteenth: The Neutral Zone
I send Deadend in to Potrero-Taraval. Not because I’m afraid to go myself, ni dong, but because this is protocol. Smeagols always go in first. And as I have already been where smeagols fear to tread, so Deadend doesn’t dare beg off.
I am on pine cones and needles until he returns with his report.
“Lord E is inclined to disbelief,” he tells me. “Actually, he said monkeys would fly from the nether regions of his royal anatomy ere he believed your intent was benign.”
“I expected as much,” I have to admit, and cannot contain a sigh.
“I ain’t finished yet,” Deadend informs me. “Lord E thinks this is all crap, but it seems he’s got hisself yet another new merlin, and this new merlin advises him he ought to hear me out. So he does, see. And then the new merlin tells him he’s got nothing to lose by accepting our most benign offer. And damned if old Elvis don’t turn right back around to me and say, ‘Well, I got nothin' to lose by accepting your most benign offer.’ I tell you, Taco, it was like somethin' out of Star Wars — creepy.”
I am immediately suspicious. “So, who’s this new merlin?”
Deadend shrugs. “Clueless, your merlinhood. Some smilin' jack he found under a rock someplace, I guess. Like I said — righteously creepy.”
“Creepy?” I try to get details.
“Creepy. Never stopped smiling. Not once. Oooga-booga.” He does a reasonable Creepy Lou impression.
“So, we’re on?”
Deadend nods. “You got a high level conference to be held at the location of your choice — as long as it’s in Potrero.”
I have no problem with that. There’s only one place I’d want to hold this conference, Potrero or no.
oOo
The Mission Dolores seems almost a part of the real world in the unusually bright and wintry day. There is no shabu dong nor any other fog-like (or un-fog-like) substance in evidence. The stones of the courtyard are smudged and pale and, in the sunlight, the graveyard isn’t scary, just sad. I try to remember how long it has been since I was here. Six years; seems like a hundred.
Elvis keeps me waiting. I expect as much. It is his way of exerting Authority. Fine by me; he can exert all he wants in ways that don’t mean a sneeze. For my part, I go for the whole enchilada: I braid up the sidelocks of my hair and wear my best jeans, my brightest and best merlinly robes and a rabbit-leather amulet bag that contains a vial of Attar of Doug. I hang this on a thong around my neck, since according to the Books of Kingdom, this is the way merlins have worn them since time immemorial... and since I have determined that a glass vial in the pocket is a Bad Idea.
The negotiations take less time than they would if Potrero’s Lord and Master half-cared about details. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even bring his new merlin, who is, he tells me, minding the ‘ranch’ while he’s away.
In the end, I get classes set up for young Potreros both on home ground and in Embar. Lord E will get private tutoring from our finest teachers and the Mission Dolores, and all approaches thereunto, are declared The Neutral Zone.
I only have to put up with about a dozen suggestions, whines, wheedles, pleas, growls and long-winded soliloquies all of which indicate that, 1) we ought to consider just giving them cars and stuff and teaching them how to drive them and, 2) I ought to think about the advantages of being merlin to Elvis instead of Hismajesty. This I pointedly ignore, mostly because I am listening for whispers. I hear a word now and again, usually punctuating something Elvis has said — sort of like "harumphs" or other expressions of skepticism.
When the whole thing is over and done, and I have Lord E’s squiggly and thumbprint on a contract he can’t read, but swears his new "ear man" can, I hear one great Whisper from out of everywhere.
Good, it says. Just, good, like a giant’s sigh, or like wind soughing through the sequoia, which I guess is the same thing.
I am pleased they approve, whoever the heck they are.
After the Agreement, I go up to the Mission at least once a week, usually alone, except sometimes for Doug. The Mission seems a peaceful place to me now. Peaceful, but filled with a kind of bottomless sorrow. The Whisperers speak to me most clearly when I am here. I am understanding about every other word, but the words sometimes make no sense whatsoever. Like amnah they say, and then people. And then cattaus, they say, and son.
I severely regret having something so pea-like for a brain. All I can do is sit before the rock pile, rolling strange syllables around on my tongue, while my language lessons provide entertainment for a bunch of slack-jawed Potreros.
One day, I have given up on the rock pile and am wandering about in the ruined sanctuary of the old church. It's silent but for the sound of pigeons in the rafters, and it is still but for the fluttering of their wings and the slow sifting of the dust they send raining onto the gritty floor. Light pokes into the place through every hole, every broken window, every rotted out eave, every door half off its hinges.
I move through the shattered light to the altar because I am drawn there. And when I am there, I get down on my knees in the grit to pray.
I am in the middle of a conversation with the Almighty when something creeps up my spine and makes my hair stand on end. It is a portentous Moment, and I am surprised I recognize it, being that all I have of Doug on me is the attar in my amulet bag. I wait for the Moment to unfold, but what unfolds instead is a wheezy, hacky, snuffly sound behind me. I freeze.
“Hell, Taco, I didn’t know you was Catholic.”
The pigeons freak. I turn around to see Scrawl standing in the aisle in a mad rain of feathers and dust and other crap.
She folds up on herself just a little when my eyes hit her. Then she kind of sidles down the aisle toward me, making these little mewing noises. Simpering, I think they call it. When her face comes into the puddle of light where I am standing, she blinks and looks aside so she doesn’t have to meet my eyes.
“I’m not,” I say.
She just nods, then glances around like a kid who’s just been told to apologize to somebody by a mother who is watching from close enough by to land a solid blow.
“I got somethin' to say t’you, Taco,” she says. “It’s important. ‘Cause I hate bad enough goin' down in history for somethin' I did. I can’t stand goin' down for somethin' I didn’t.”
“Meaning what?” I ask.
“Meaning, you got me righteous on two counts for burning out that old bum and scopin' for Lord E. But I had nothin' to do, no way, with that fire on the pier. That wasn’t me. I did the old clown’s digs ‘cause I was s’posed to create a distraction and I figured, why not get sweet revenge while I’m at it? They was s’posed to grab the Tree right then and there, but when you sent old Winky into the Palace and then got back pronto yourself, they couldn’t do it. The night of the big fire, all I did was let Lord E’s smeagols know you was out of the Palace. That fire wasn’t me — I’d’ve never burnt out no innocent fisherfolk. That was someone else.” She holds up her left hand. “On a stack of Holy Books,” she adds, with great conviction.
Something in my heart of souls tells me this is muy important to the old girl.
“You’re serious — a stack of Holy Books?”
The hand doesn’t waver. “Bhagavad Gita, Iqán, everything in between.”
“Someone else, you said. Like who — Lubejob?”
“Naw. Don’t think so. Lubejob an’ that bunch was caught nappin'. When I went to tell ‘em you was out of the house, they had to scramble to snatch the Tree. I don’t know who done it. I can only tell you what I se
ed.”
She stops right there. Good old Scrawl, still knows how to milk a mystery.
“Which was?”
She takes a step toward me, so her face is in weird shadows, and lowers her voice, like the pigeons might hear something they shouldn’t.
“Ninjas,” she says and nods once, emphatic.
“Ninjas?”
“Little hurry-scurry guys all in black. Like shadows. Like big old cats. Like the shadows of big old cats.”
“At the Wharf?”
“Down by the Old Ferry Building, just after the fire started. They was watching the hulks burn. I seen ‘em afore that, too.”
“Where?” I prompt.
“Around. Just around. Around the Palace and the Gee Gah, mostly. Always at night.”
“Yeah? Got any theories?” I invite her to feel as if I am consulting with her. Equal to equal.
“I think they’re evil spirits. Demons.” She steps closer and lowers her voice even more — those pigeons are gonna catch none of this. “Nasgul,” she intones, then makes a high-pitched whiny sound and signs at the altar. “Oi! Bad ju-ju.”
I thank her kindly for this revelation and assure her three times that I believe her before she will leave me alone to think. And what I think is that I don’t know what to think. I sit in the dust and debris on the floor, stare at the carvings behind the altar, and finger my amulet bag.
Five nameless, painted saints stand frozen in niches, looking for all the world as if they are about to leap from the windows of a very fancy building. There was once a crucifix in the middle niche of the first row. I can tell because of the light spot in the back of the niche.
A crucifix is a wooden cross, by the way, that has a carved, wooden Jesus hanging on it. But He’s gone, and there’s a funny shaped light spot in His place.
“So let’s say I believe old Scrawl,” I say to the saints. I expect no response, ni dong, but I get one, from the pigeons, who flap crap all over the place. “What’s the story — bad ju-ju ninjas from Godknowswhere start a fat old fire on a couple of barges and Lord E opportunes into a Tree-napping? Why?”
Taco Del and the Fabled Tree of Destiny Page 12