“I thought of that. It’d explain why the runes are warning me about him. But the Dolores are always chewin' on him, too. It’s like they’re...scared of him or something. They call him Wiwe.”
“Wiwe?” repeats Kaymart. “Carrier Away of Souls?”
I’ve read about a person’s jaw dropping, but this is the first time it’s ever actually happened to me, personally. Though my chin is floor-bound, I manage to squawk out, “You know Wiwe?”
“Yes. It’s a word in one of the Costanoan language groups. He’s the Ohlone equivalent of — well, of Suti — the one these little amulets were supposed to guard against.” She taps the shen with a fingertip. “Remember, this ankh is a symbol of eternal life — that means an escape from Suti. A seemingly universal quest. It’s shaped the course of many religions, turning them from the here and now to the there and then. Taoist alchemy was essentially born out of a search for the elixir of immortality. I don’t know how Master Chen fits into all this, but it seems the Dolores aren’t the only ones trying to send you a message about him.”
I get up and pace over to the fireplace, which is about the cheeriest thing I’ve seen all day.
“But what message? That he’s a rotten spot in the universe? Okay, I can buy that. I mean, I think he’s the one who tried to toast our sovereign lord. And he sure feels rotten. He wants to be immortal, maybe. Okay, but what’s that got to do with me? Or the Dolores? And why are the Dolores telling me I gotta save the world from whatever-it-is? It’s like you said, Kaymart, a game. Only I don’t know what the game is and I don’t know who the players are and I don’t know what the rules are and I just don’t know, period.”
All of which makes me muy cranky let me tell you.
“Trust your feelings, Del,” Kaymart tells me. “Trust your intuition.”
“She’s right, son,” says Bags. “Go with your gut. And your channels. Let them lead you.” He gives Doug a little pat.
Doug waves his boughs and says nothing, but I know with a flash of certainty that he’s more worried about Chen that he is about the aliens. In some strange way, so am I. I mean, you gotta have some kind of powerful juju to get a bunch of 400 year old spirits riled, right?
I look at the three of them sitting there, huddled around the lamp lit table, watching me — an old man, an old woman and a Tree — and I realize that here are three good reasons I got to figure out what Chen’s game is.
That night I dream. I am before the fire in the smoky, upside-down bowl of a room, and I am alone. Really alone. I sense no presence but my own. I wait, but no Voice addresses me.
“Hello?” I say, then, “Where are you?”
The fire snaps and crackles without meaning, but nothing else speaks. Half wake, I toss and turn some, trying to escape the empty dream, trying to return to it. The perfume of fir washes over me and I am put firmly back on the sandy floor of the dream place.
On the floor in front of me, where I cast runes before, there is a pile of stuff. Even through the dream smoke, I can tell it’s Indian stuff — Ohlone stuff. There is a piece of folded cloth, a shirt maybe, with beads woven into it. On top of this is a head-dress, a pipe of clay, and a painted wooden stick stuck into a gourd that’s wearing a horse-hair wig. Another, shorter stick is driven crosswise through the gourd and the handle to hold them together. It kind of reminds me of the ankh, only 3D.
I smell fir again, and a voice — the Voice — says, “Shaman.”
“Yes!” I cry. “Yes?”
“Save the world from Wiwe,” it says and there is no further message.
I wake with tears on my face and turn to see if I’ve waked up Jade, more than half-hoping I have. Something prickles my cheek, distracting me from my need for comfort. It is a Doug sprig, no more than three inches long.
I turn my head the other way, toward the window. “Thank you,” I whisper. And wonder, Is Doug channeling the Dolores?
“Del?” My Jade is propped up on one elbow, looking at me. “You alright?”
“Glad you asked,” I say, and let her wipe away my tears.
oOo
“How’d you hear about the Dolores?” I ask Creepy Lou as we wend our way through the Sang Yee Gah, picking up alien gossip and trying to cool some of it down before we put it back in circulation.
“Huh?” he says and scratches his head. “You told me, remember? You studied hithtory and — ”
“Not the Mission, the Ghosts, the Whisperers.”
“Well, I didn’t ‘xactly hear about ‘em. But it's hard not t'hear ‘em.”
I stop me and him both. “You hear the Whisperers?”
Lou’s looking at me like I just asked him if the sky was gray. “Yeah. Am I not s’posed to?”
I grab his arm less gently than I mean to. He jumps.
“Do you hear them now?”
He looks hangdog at me and shakes his head. “Nope. Not lately. Not since the alienth. At least, that's what I think.” He screws up his face and stomps his left foot a couple of times. “You hear ‘em, Taco?”
“Same as you — not since the aliens. D’you understand what they say?”
“Nope. Not a word. They just chant, ni dong. Kinda like the monkth. Never did understand all that. Guess God doth though, huh? Must be neon t’understand every language there is.”
My heart does a slow slide south. “So, what they say doesn’t mean anything to you?”
He tugs at his ear and grins. “Nope. But sure is entertaining.”
Okay, no hope here. I can’t hear them, Lou can’t understand them, and when I ask Doug what he picked up at the Mission, he lets me feel it: it’s like the Gam Saan is holding its breath. I don’t know what to make of that, but I know I gotta take action. With that in mind, I plan another trip to the Tin Hau.
Firescape is not in favor of my plan.
“Geez, Del!” she says. “We got aliens camped next door and you gotta go off in search of more trouble? This is a hell of a time for a spirit quest.”
“It’s a gut call, Jade. It’s what I do. Bags and Kaymart both told me I gotta go with my gut. I told you about the shen and the Peach Pit and Wiwe.”
“Yeah, yeah. You told me.” She scowls. “It’s a ghost-chase, Del. Get your mind on the real problem: Makepeace and his damned aliens.”
“I do got my mind on ‘em,” I say. “I’ve consulted every resource at my disposal. I spent the day scopin' the aliens and doing research at the Wiz. I’ve incanted until I’m blue in the face. I’ve done everything a merlin can do. This isn’t a ghost-chase, Jade. It’s important. I know it. I feel it. Doug feels it too.”
She is unconvinced and angry and goes off mad as hell. I got no words to tell you how un-Jade-like this is. Still, there is nothing I can do about John Makepeace, so I gotta see if I can do something about Chen.
I wait until very late — or early, depending on how you look at these things — then get my butt out into the fog. It’s a thick, chill, shaggy sabana, almost a jin rain, and hangs in pale banners that lap at the streets. The occasional neon light makes it pulse with color that runs, gold, red, blue, green across the wet pavement and into the gutters. In between the neon flash, the moon oozes down through it, silvery white.
The Gee Gah never really sleeps, but it bustles a little less in the early AM. Even so, I am dressed in black with my head all wrapped up in a black turban, trying to look as unlike myself as possible. Leaving Doug behind goes a long way toward this end, since he tends to make me kind of conspicuous. I carry a Doug talisman, though; the sprig that interrupted my dream last night is on the thong around my neck. The shen is there too, inside the amulet bag, on the chance that it is a talisman meant to protect me.
Still, this general Douglessness causes me no end of self-esteem problems. The closer I get to my destination, the shakier I am. By the time I have skulked my way through the darkness of Spofford Alley and around to the side of the Tin Hau, my nerves are on full alert. So, I’m not surprised when I start to see things, merely scared spitle
ss.
I’m looking for the best way into the dark temple when the sabana seems to come to life. Out of the corner of my eye I see a dash, a slither, a scurry; out of the corner of my ear I hear a scrape, a swish, a bump, a murmur. I think of Scrawl’s black ninjas and my insides woggle.
I stop long enough to take myself severely to task. I get tough, and have just about talked myself out of the woggles when Something that is not fog — living or otherwise — rises up out of the darkness not four feet from my nose.
“What took you?” it asks, and I practically dissolve into the pavement.
I cover the four feet in a lick and get right in his face.
“What d’you mean ‘what took me?’ What’re you doing here?”
He scratches his head. “I dunno. I thought maybe you’d need company — being Treeleth and all.”
“How did you know I was coming? Did you follow me?” I ask, wondering who else might’ve done the same thing.
He cocks his head sideways in a way that reminds me of a little kid or a dog and says, “Wiz, Taco — how could I follow you when I got here first?”
“Then — ” Nah, it’s not worth it, I decide. “I need a way in. Any ideas?”
“Front door? It's not locked, y’know.”
We go in through the front door. I don’t even try to talk Creepy Lou out of coming with me. I tell myself it’s because he wouldn’t listen anyway, and I ought to have him where I can keep an eye on him. This is all true, but I gotta admit, I’m glad of the company.
In the downstairs hall, Lou heads for the staircase before I can stop him. What the hell, I figure, and follow him. The elevator makes a lot of noise anyway. The stairs creak a little when I step on them, and I realize that they don’t creak at all when Creepy Lou steps on them. He’s juking from side to side, putting his feet right along the outside of each tread. I follow suit. Creepy Lou seems to know a lot about climbing stairs.
I lead the way into the sanctuary. It’s dark except for the tiny red glow from the braziers at the scattered altars. The air is still almost chewy with incense, but it’s the heavy scent of cooling embers. There are no worshippers, no monks, no one. I glance toward the Tin Hau altar and catch a chill from Thousand League Eyes. I shake myself and wish Doug was here to let me know if we’re being watched by real people or just my active imagination.
The door behind the dragon screen is still unlocked and I get a little light-headed when it opens silently at my touch. The hallway beyond is dark. No, not just dark, black. My chickpea brain supplies a memory of how low the ceilings are here (for which I thank it kindly), and I duck a little without meaning to. I pause, trying to recall how the hallway is laid out. All I remember is a lot of doors and a couple of windows and, of course, that ceiling pressing down on my head.
The windows, I realize, are where the little glimmer of light is coming from — a very small, dull gray glimmer, useless to see by, unless you happen to be a cat. Not being a cat, I send a prayer heavenward that the sabana will politely step aside and let the moon through. I am sincerely surprised (and pleased) when it does.
Clear, silver light floods into the hall and I see each heavy wooden door like a hole in the white washed walls. They’re all the same. I suppose I could just start at one end and move to the other.
I glance left. There is a lone door at the end of the hall. Might as well start there, I guess. I start to move that way, but Creepy Lou clamps a hand on my shoulder and points to the other end of the hall. This end doesn’t have a door. It has a tapestry — a big, silk one, covering practically the whole wall.
Okay, I’ll bite. We go that way, moving like ninjas (or at least, the way I imagine ninjas move).
The tapestry hides a door. I quiver. Okay. Good place to start. My hand shakes as I turn the latch. I thank the monks for taking such good care of the place. This door is just as silent as the last one.
There is light here, too. The same silvery light as in the hallway, but much brighter. It cascades like ghost-water down the long, narrow staircase I am now staring up. At the top of the stairs is a window, and framed in that window is the moon, fat and round.
I am moonstruck for a moment, watching as the sabana trails across its face.
Creepy Lou whispers, “Pretty,” snatches at the moonlight, and moves ahead of me up the stairs, feet going right, left, right against the walls.
I close the door and follow. The latch makes only the tiniest snick!
At the head of the stairs, we stand in the moonlight and are amazed. The upstairs hallway is a tiny palace. Ivory and gold and flame-colored silk gleam against dark wood, lit by the moon and the light of flames hidden in clever little brass lamps. Across the stairwell from where we stand gawking is a set of double-wide doors, carved with all kinds of strange symbols — some I know, some I don’t.
We tread on thick, soft carpets on our way to the doors. I’m scared to open them. I got no idea what might be on the other side. I whiff conifer effluvium and realize I’m squeezing my talisman. I am suddenly inspired to get down on hands and knees and put my nose to the bottom of the door.
Incense. The same heavy, cold smell as downstairs. This is a private shrine.
I rise and try the door. It’s locked.
This does not boggle me. I have always had an affinity for locks. A good merlin must be able to waltz in and out of locked rooms like the wind. I pull a carefully twisted piece of stout wire out of a pocket and poke it delicately into the lock mechanism. I find the tumblers and tick them over one by one. Tick. Tick. Tick. Click!
I glance at Creepy Lou who grins at me and pushes the door. It glides open on silent hinges.
It’s like no shrine I’ve ever seen. More like an art gallery. Tables and stands of carved wood hold all sorts of oddments, and more stuff hangs on the walls.
“Wow!” says Lou softly, then mouths, “Sorry.”
In the center of the room, I look down at my feet. Even the wooden floor is art. I’m standing in the middle of a five-pointed star all of inlaid brass. At each point of the star is a tall wooden stand with a twisting column. On one stand is a menorah, on another a Buddha sitting in a golden lotus, on a third is a golden, jeweled bowl of water, on the fourth, a bowl of fire. The fifth one is empty.
Closer to the walls are tables, massive and as intricately carved as the dragon screen downstairs. There’s more stuff there: a Tibetan prayer wheel; a little doll with buggy eyes and a big ego; a glass ball with an ivory monkey in it; a piece of bone with funny burnt squiggles on it — an oracle bone, I suspect; an ankh; a strange, bee-hive shaped stone; some funny, twine-wrapped sticks with faces; a dragon; a drum with two heads; a ram’s horn, decorated and wrapped in silk cord; some more shen and other medallions or amulets; all sorts of figurines and cups and bowls and knives.
I pause in my circuit of the room and look at Creepy Lou. He’s standing in the middle of the star turning round and round staring at the walls and mouthing, “Wow!” at every turn. I step back and follow his eyes. More wonders: a sun disc with tiny hands at the end of each sunbeam; a carved wooden mask with angry eyes and major-league lips; a painting done all in sand; a mandala with a blue Krishna in the middle. There’s clothing too, all kinds of ceremonial robes hang from the walls. And there’s a crucifix.
This causes me to do a double-take. I get close. The size is right, the shape is right. It could be, I realize, the missing crucifix from the Mission Dolores. There are smaller, golden crucifixes around it.
“Looky,” whispers Creepy Lou.
He is standing at the head of the room, opposite the doors, where there is an altar of sorts. On the altar is a din, which is a sort of three-legged stone offering pot that has great significance if you happen to be of the Chinese dynastic sort. Emperors had them — only Emperors had them — because Emperors were the scions of God. Godlets, sort of.
My mind asks the obvious question: Is the din just part of the collection, or is it another sign of Chen’s elevated self-image?
Next to the din’s altar is a cabinet of big dark wood, with lots of carving, just like all the rest of the furniture in the room. In the cabinet are herbs in bundles, bottles, boxes, tins — you name it. Next to the cabinet is a bookcase full of all sorts of books. I recognize a Bhagavad Gita, a Dhammapada, Pentateuch, Bible, Qur’an, Iqán, I Ching. There are scrolls, too. Next to the bookcase is a totem pole. Tlingit, I think.
So, Master Chen collects religious art. That’s nice. But it can’t be why the runes, the Dolores, my Tree and an old monk have warned me about him. Further questing is clearly in order.
I give the room another eye sweep, hoping to see a door. I only see the ones we came in through. Okay, so it’s hidden. I lean close to Lou’s ear and whisper, “Gotta be a door hidden somewhere.”
He nods and I wave him to the bookcase. I start behind the herb cabinet. Nothing. On the other side of the bookcase, Creepy Lou looks at me and shakes his head. He moves right, I move left, feeling the walls with our hands — we’ll meet at the front doors.
I’m about halfway down my side of the room on my hands and knees when I hear Lou say, “Uh-oh.”
I rise and turn and see Creepy Lou staring at me from the other side of the room. Well, actually, it’s not me he’s staring at, but the all in black, turbaned ninja who’s just appeared between us in the middle of the room.
I freeze. It’s like I’m looking into a mirror sideways, until the ninja turns his head to look at me. His eyes are like the young monk’s eyes — big, black, chaos orbs and nobody home with a vengeance. The ninja turns his head to look at Lou, then turns back to me and bows.
Okay, I figure, when in Little China...I bow back.
He inclines his head toward Lou. “Ta shi shei? Who’s he?”
It takes me about two seconds to realize I’m the luckiest little shit in the Gam Saan. He thinks I’m one of him — a ninja, I mean. I look at Creepy Lou.
“Ta shi yishujia,” I say quickly. “He’s an artist. Master Chen, zai nar?” Good tactic, I figure — pretend to be seeking our unintentional host.
Taco Del and the Fabled Tree of Destiny Page 17