The Deavys

by Alan Dean Foster

  Her sister took a halfhearted swing at her. “When eternity gets here, we’ll see about that. She who cackles last, cackles best!”

  “Get yourselves ready.” Simwan did his best to appear stern and in charge. “When we get off the train, we want to look like we know just what we’re doing and exactly where we’re going. That’s how Dad said we need to act to avoid attracting the attention of the sleazy types who hang out in big train stations.” Woe unto any type, sleazed or otherwise, he thought, who might have the misfortune to draw the attention of the Deavy coubet. But he didn’t say that, of course. He needed to keep his outrageous sisters in line. Especially now that it was apparent they were being tracked. The Crub must have left minions at every Hudson River crossing to watch out for them since there was no way to predict just how they’d come into Manhattan.

  The girls behaved reasonable and proper as the train pulled into the station. Not because their disposition had grown any less rowdy or their nature had become suddenly subdued, but simply because the effort of holding back the Hudson and dealing with the underwater assault had sapped at least a little of their otherwise irrepressible energy. Striving to look ten years older than his sixteen, he led his sisters off the train and onto the platform. Lights, signs, and the single direction being taken by the passengers exiting the cars in front of them eliminated the need for him to ask questions. All the Deavy progeny had to do to find the exit was go with the flow. The fact that his sisters had hooked them up to a different train going to a different station mattered not a whit. All that mattered was that they had arrived safely in Manhattan.

  The young couple in the front seat of the car who had slept through everything awakened as the train pulled into Grand Central. While the woman stretched and yawned, her paramour rose to remove their luggage from the overhead storage rack—and promptly slipped and fell. Picking himself up off the floor of the car, he paused to stare at the hand he had used to try and break his fall. It was covered with slime and fragments of unrecognizable plant matter. A hasty inspection showed that more of the same unidentifiable goo inexplicably coated the walls and floor of the car. Muttering about the lack of maintenance on the commuter line, the traveling pair hefted their luggage and exited the car while actively discussing the letter of complaint they intended to write to the train company’s management.

  At least they did better than the salesman who had slept the entire journey in the rear of the same car, who upon rising promptly stepped on an almost-dead carp and nearly threw his back out. Propelled by a combination of fear and bewilderment, he too hurried to be on his way. Unlike the younger couple who had preceded him, however, he had no intention of complaining to the company, lest someone inquire about the nature and origin of the hangover he had been sleeping off. It was to this he attributed his arrival at Grand Central when he had been certain, absolutely certain, that he had originally embarked for Penn Station.

  Neither his puzzlement nor that of the young couple who preceded him were anything compared to that of the train’s engineer, who swore on his twenty-two years in the industry that he had been assigned four cars and not five. Nor could anyone explain how a commuter car from Pennsylvania and New Jersey headed for Penn Station had ended up riding tail-end on a midday commuter line out of Long Island traveling in the opposite direction. By the time confusion reigned supreme, the only individuals who could have answered those many questions had long since departed not only the train but the station.

  “Wow!” Setting aside any hope of acting cool, Simwan tilted his head as he took in the immense enclosed space that was the main hall of Grand Central Station. Less concerned about whether any onlookers thought them in charge of themselves or anything else, the girls spread out slightly to marvel at their surroundings. The slight dispersion was enough to remind Simwan of his responsibilities.

  “Stay together. Amber, get back here!”

  “I just want to see!” she called back to him as she dragged her wheeled backpack in the direction of one art-filled corridor.

  Rather than challenge her loudly, Simwan chose to follow her lead, hauling her sisters, his own backpack, and the awkward cat carrier with him. The fact that they had arrived at Grand Central instead of Penn Station did not trouble him. According to what he had read in the guidebook, there were several exits from Grand Central. Since they intended to take a taxi to Uncle Herkimer’s apartment, one way out was pretty much as good as another, just as their place of arrival would make no difference to how they eventually reached their final destination.

  As he and Rose and N/Ice trailed the excitable Amber, they had time to observe that the massive, venerable old station was a meeting place not only for daily commuters of the Ordinary kind, but for all manner of travelers. One would think, for example, that the insurance company workers and office drones and hurrying executives would notice that the large man in the dun-colored overcoat had two heads: a sight unusual even in New York. But the secondary skull was as invisible to the hordes of Ords as a beggar in front of Bergdorf’s.

  At least the two-headed traveler was more or less (more, in this case, Simwan decided) human. The presence of otherworldly creatures indiscernible to Ords but perfectly visible to him and his sisters was enchanting. Chain-clad giants trod the polished stone floor, delighted at having a place to meet that was both safe from the chilly weather yet sufficiently expansive to allow them to move about without having to bend to clear low ceilings. A tour guide led a group of wide-eyed loup-garous across the center of the station, pointing out highlights of the historic architecture as they walked. Or rather, loped, since Simwan knew they were anything but your usual clutch of French package-tour visitors.

  On a coffee break, a clutch of harpies occupied an upper corner of the main hall. Over lattes and laughter, they discussed the latest doings on Wall Street: what aviation stocks were doing well, which airlines were in trouble, the weather back home in Greece and Turkey, who was disemboweling whom—the usual morning tittle-tattle. They wore the latest uptown fashions—though only the upper halves of the perfectly tailored suits and blouses they had purchased, of course.

  Leaving the contrary giants and cappuccino-sipping harpies and curious loup-garous behind, Simwan and his sisters entered one of the access corridors that led to the street outside.

  They spotted a snack shop equipped to serve both ordinary and more knowledgeable visitors. Located in an alcove on one side of the busy access way, it offered cold and hot drinks, sandwiches, sushi boxes (no calamari, Simwan was relieved to see), burgers, and desserts. The girls were immediately drawn to the snakezel bin. Ords ordering from the display cases had access only to the usual giant pretzels. They were unable to see the half-foot long serpents that twisted and coiled around the metal serving spears on which they had been skewered.

  “I want a diamondback!” Rose exclaimed, nudging Simwan’s free arm.

  “Stripes for me.” Amber eyed the bin hungrily. “I think they’re spicier.”

  As he set down the cat carrier and reached for his wallet, Simwan eyed his third sister. “N/Ice, you’re not hungry?”

  “Not yet,” she told him. “But I could use a drink.”

  The short-sleeved proprietor, a slight fair-haired immigrant from Atlantis, did not question their requests. Anyone who could see the snakezels coiling and writhing within the serving bin was by definition sufficiently adept to deal with one. Using a pair of special tongs, he removed a twisting, hissing diamondback from the container and placed it within a large piece of appropriately enchanted wax paper. On contact, the snakezel suffered instant petrification, freezing in the shape of the less exotic pretzels with which it had shared a home only a moment before.

  “Y’want mustard wid dat?” the proprietor asked Rose.

  “Sure. Also frankincense and myrrh.”

  The young blond émigré smiled and jerked a thumb toward a nearby shelf. “Over there with the other condime
nts.” Fishing out a striped snakezel, he passed the sleek solidified snack across to Amber. “What you want on yours?”

  “Just sea salt, thanks.” Taking the wax paper handful, she bit into the snakezel with gusto, starting at the head.

  In addition to the snakezels, all four of them ordered drinks: cold mead for Rose and Amber, a coke for Simwan, and for N/Ice a tall glass of imported schweel, which managed to be both hot and cold at the same time. As they headed away from the snack booth, the pet carrier rocked insistently in Simwan’s grip.

  “Hey, what about me!”

  Leaning toward the box, Simwan whispered tightly, “Cats don’t eat snakezels and they don’t order drinks with ice.”

  Reluctantly acknowledging the truth of that statement, Pithfwid urged them on. “We can’t stand around gawking all day. Better get to your uncle Herkimer’s place and check in. You know your parents will be waiting to hear that you’ve arrived safely.”

  “Aw, Pithfwid,” Amber protested, “can’t we just walk? There’s so much to see!”

  “Indeed,” the cat replied, drawing a seriously startled look from a passing six-year-old firmly attached to his mother’s hand. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Check in first. Get me something to eat. Then we have work to do. Put out feelers in search of the Crub.” As he finished, a pair of feelers emerged from his ears and promptly set out across the street, looking like a pair of fuzzy black worms training for the hundred-meter dash. Ords did not see them, of course, but the pair did have to deal with a brace of persistent pigeons. They made it safely across the street and disappeared into a welcoming drainage grate when one of the pigeons, overly fixated on the unusual prey, ended up ornamenting the windshield of a speeding delivery van, thereby contributing much to the ongoing irritation and bad language of its bilious driver.

  VII

  By a Foulness ye shall know Him. Also by his home address.”

  That was the thought that was in Jekjik’s mind as he zig-zagged his way toward the entrance. It looked no different from any other drain in Central Park: a decorative round steel grate that covered the terminus of a small concrete drainage ditch, almost completely hidden by trees and grass. Only someone educated in the ways of the city would know that it led to realms beyond the imagining of the urban engineers who had designed and built the system.

  Making sure he didn’t catch his large, fluffy tail in the grate, Jekjik squeezed through one of the several gaps and dropped down onto the service ledge that paralleled the deeper, wider ditch. He was thankful it had rained hard last week. The flush of fresh water had scoured the tunnel clean of the more mephitic muck with which it was often filled, and the stench that still lingered was tolerable.

  Even so, he had to catch and hold his breath several times. A resident of the trees, he was never comfortable underground. Occasional squeaks and scritches marked the movement of those who were. Despite invitations to do so, he did not stop to chat with any of them. He was already late. A bearer of bad news was never welcome. One who was also tardy was apt to receive the full force of his master’s displeasure. Jekjik shuddered, his tail quivering. He had considered making a run for it, only to discount the notion out of hand. For one thing, the presence of man and his grinding, crushing works throughout Manhattan made attempted flight to the suburbs suicidal. For another, trying to avoid the attentions of the Crub when he demanded your presence was more than foolish.

  There were worse things, Jekjik knew as he scampered onward, than dying.

  The deeper he plunged into the depths of the New York City sewer system, the darker and danker it became. Fading and hesitant, light from above grew intermittent, then nearly absent. Fortunately, like all his kind, Jekjik could see extremely well in the dark. Where overhead light was lacking entirely, occasional clumps of phosphorescent fungi that clung to walls and ceiling supplied a pale, eerie glow. Eventually, he had penetrated far enough into the secret places to pass not just rats and roaches, but Other Things.

  He was not sure how far he had descended when he came upon the first ools. Sluglike in shape and sluggish in manner, they were creatures to be avoided. Arising from the bubbling, fermenting sludge that collected in the deepest, filthiest, most stagnant corners of the sewers, they were largely hydrocarbon based. Set alight, an ool would burn with the ferocity of a gallon of kerosene. They fed by enveloping their prey, then forcing extensions of themselves down the throats of their unfortunate victims until they suffocated on the choking mire. Not a pleasant way to die. Jekjik found himself desperately wishing for the cool clear skies and swaying treetops of the great park that was his home. But that refreshing, open landscape lay far above his head now. He could not go back until he had delivered his report.

  The tunnel down which he had been running abruptly opened up into a sizable underground chamber. More than a hundred and fifty years ago it had been a collection, distribution, and clean-out nexus for several sewer lines. Long since abandoned in favor of larger, newer culverts, it was aboil with rodents of every shape and size. In the enclosed space their continuous, combined squealing and squeaking was deafening. Suppurating slime and bloated fungi hung from the ceiling. At the far side a podium of sorts had been constructed out of fragments of human detritus. A steady stream of rodents carried food to the podium, and other things.

  Flanking both sides of the throne that dominated the center of the podium was a compilation of the eclectic: all of it scavenged or stolen. A gold diadem set with green diamonds rested on the skull of a long-dead philosopher. Spanish doubloons lay scattered among the corpses of dead pixies whose tiny bones had been gnawed bare raw. A wand of pure silver inscribed with symbols in ancient Mandarin lay propped up against an Ashanti idol. The eyes of the idol flickered, indicative of the life trapped helplessly within. There were brooches and bracelets, teeth from unnatural beings and frozen howls waiting to be released, spirit capsules and disembodied bejeweled tongues. Lying indifferently to one side of the pile and waiting to be moved to the storage area that held the bulk of the hoard was a certain small, inconspicuous, ancient blue bottle, still intact and filled with its precious contents.

  The throne that rose up from the piles of scattered booty consisted of an ivory pedestal that had been looted from a still-undiscovered tomb in ancient Hellas. Lying prone on his sprawled-out belly atop the pedestal-throne, his legs spraddled out to the sides, was the Crub.

  Though currently no more than twice the size of the rodents who made up his personal ratinue, the Crub was, Jekjik knew, capable of more impressive expressions of self. Such demonstrations of power were not appropriate for a location like the sewer nexus, where the ability to race rapidly down often-narrow tunnels was paramount. But the implication, the perverted promise, was there. This potential was not nearly as intimidating to supplicants as was the Crub’s stare.

  It was cold and unblinking, as dank and rank as the sewer surrounds. Presently, it was focused on Jekjik. He would rather have been anywhere else, but he was not, there being no point in trying to run from the Crub’s reach. The servant had been summoned to inform. With luck, he would also be given time to explain.

  Sniffing the rancid air, whiskers twitching, his host looked down at him. The voice of the Crub was deceptively soft and cloying, each sentence lingering like wet Kleenex on the hearing of those within its range.

  “How went the intercept of those who follow?”

  In spite of himself, Jekjik stammered. “The—the intercept—went well, Master.”

  The Crub considered. “I perceive that you are being truthful, but incomplete. Do elaborate. Do you mean to say that those who follow have been destroyed?”

  “No—no, Master. Many were the hurdles that I conjured in their path. Each of these, I am ashamed to say, was shunted aside. It was my feeling that had I been dealing with but a single follower, or perhaps two, they would now be slowly dissolving in the toxins of the river bottom. But
there are four of them. Or three. Or possibly even five. To this moment I am not sure which is correct. Whatever the actual number, their ability to work together was remarkable, their knowledge of the Ways and Callings impressive. I suspect that both accomplishments are born of inculcated persistence and a righteous family.”

  The Crub’s upper lip curled back, exposing dark, sharp teeth. “I can admire the former while despising the latter. So, at least I have a better idea now of what comes. Three or five or four individuals of knowledge would constitute an unpresumptuous threat. Three or five or four bound by blood are another matter entirely.” He brooded. “I perceive a distinctive relationship between what was taken, one or more who remain behind, and those who follow.”

  After allowing for a pause of respectful silence, Jekjik hazarded a hope. “Then Master recognizes the dimension of the menace that I strove to deal with, and does not blame me for failing to call it to account?”

  “Hmm … what?” Behind the Crub, a hairless fleshy tail inexplicably struck sparks from the stone that supported the ivory throne. “No, Jekjik. Not realizing the binding nature of those who follow, much less their skill in the Ways, you could not be expected to be prepared for or equipped with the means to challenge them efficiently.”

  The visitor exhaled a barely perceptible but heartfelt sigh of relief.

  “However,” the Crub continued, “that does not excuse you.”

  Jekjik tensed up all over again. “Forgive me, Master, but I am confused. If I am not to be blamed for preventing these followers from reaching the kingdom, then what is it that I am not excused for doing? Or for not doing?”

  “Why, isn’t it obvious?” declared the Crub, quietly ominous as he leaned down and forward from his prone position on the pedestal. “You have forgotten to bring the customary gift.” One claw-tipped paw gestured to take in the noisy, malodorous surroundings. “You know full well that each time one is granted a formal audience, those who serve are expected to bring me a gift. Those who are present must present a present.”