The Deavys

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Then where do you keep your food?” N/Ice leaned forward to peer into the empty, lightly padded refrigerator compartment.

  “I don’t have that problem, either,” he told her.

  Putting her hands on her hips, Rose regarded her half a sister. “Well, duh! I mean, he’s dead.”

  N/Ice was defiant. “That doesn’t mean he isn’t interested in a snack now and then, just for memory’s sake.”

  “Not really.” Herkimer moved toward the table and folded his crumbling corpus into one of the old chairs. “Food’s not much fun when your sense of taste has been gone more than a hundred years, and being a ghoul never really appealed to me.” He shook his head distastefully. “All that moaning and wailing and bawling mournfully in the middle of the night. Too much like politics.” He brightened. “But there’s a nice neighborhood market a couple of blocks away, in the direction of the South Street Seaport. You can buy whatever you want there and cook it here.” He indicated the monolithic fridge. “Plenty of storage room on the other side.”

  “So we’d keep our food in—with you?” Amber considered the prospect. “Eewww—that sounds great!”

  “And this is New York,” Herkimer reminded them yet again. “There are interesting places to eat on every block, on every street. Just be careful that anything you buy hasn’t been dead too long. As non-Ords, you’ll be offered all sorts of exotic dishes. Some of them with food on them.”

  “We’ll be careful, Uncle Herkimer.” Drifting upward, a dreamily diaphanous N/Ice fell to an examination of the kitchen ceiling where Pithfwid and Señor Nutt had been gamboling. “A little glue and a simple blending spell and I think I can fix this.”

  Amber made a disgusted noise. “The only blending spell you know is the one Mom showed us for Socratic mousse.”

  Her sister peered down at her, defiantly. “So? I happen to think it will work for wallpaper, too. The constituent organic components …”

  While his sisters energetically debated the merits of paste-summoning and ceiling repair, Simwan settled himself into a chair next to his uncle. Fiddling with his left ear, which was threatening to fall off at any moment, Herkimer smiled through horrifically bad teeth.

  “So, nephew, what do you kids want to see first? The Museum of Natural History? The Metropolitan Museum of Art? The Empire State Building? The Efferwhere of Sensorlium? Or maybe you’d like to go shopping? There’s always Macy’s, though I guess that’d be more for the girls. You—you’d probably like the Shop of All Worlds. I’m told there’s a really nice little restaurant next door: Mirabilis Southwest. Specializes in Tex-Mex-Hex.” Folding his moldering hands, he rested them on the table. “Myself, I never was big on spicy food.”

  “That all sounds great, Uncle Herkimer. But first …”

  “But first,” Señor Nutt piped up from next to him, pausing in his race with Pithfwid, “there’s something I have to know. Something that’s intrigued me ever since Herkimer told me who was coming to visit.”

  An uncertain Simwan braced himself. Had he and his sisters overlooked something in the course of their careful planning? Something this uncanny dog had sniffed out? “Uh, sure, Señor Nutt. What is it you need to know?”

  “How did your parents ever come up with a name like Simwan for a nice boy like yourself?”

  Simwan sighed. It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked that question, and he doubted it would be the last. “It was all an accident. The name, I mean: not me. As I was told it, the nurse attending the ward where they put me after I was born was from the Old Country. Nobody ever said which Old Country. The story is that she was always kind of hard to understand at the best of times, and not real careful with her magic, and on that night she’d had a lot to drink. Whenever anyone came to visit and to see the new Deavy baby, she got kinda confused when she was trying to point me out, and kept saying, ‘Someone’s right there for you. Someone’s right there in that bed.’ Intentionally or not, she enchanted the name right onto me. The Ords who ran hospital administration were unsure about it, but by then it was too late, and you have to keep in mind that this was rural Pennsylvania. There’s lots of unusual ethnic names in rural Pennsylvania.” He shifted his backside on the kitchen chair, trying to ignore the subtle, crawling movements within the seat.

  “After that, the name kind of stuck. I say ‘kind of’ because my parents couldn’t just name me ‘Someone.’ I mean, how would that work out? People would be looking for ‘someone,’ and they’d invariably come after me. Or a person reporting a crime wouldn’t be able to identify the perpetrator, so they’d say ‘Well, all I know is that someone did this,’ and the police would come looking for me.” Tired of having to tell the story of his name yet again, he found himself using one finger to trace circles on the tabletop. He would erase them later.

  “So my parents settled on Simwan, which sounded enough like the name the nurse had imprinted on me not to cause confusion, but different enough to keep me from having to deal with constant misunderstandings all my life.”

  As the explanation lapsed, Herkimer took over again. “Now then: back to your vacation. Where do you want to go and what do you and your sisters want to see first?”

  Simwan considered how best to reply. He and the coubet had already decided that they couldn’t tell their uncle why they had really come to New York. Just as they had when they were convincing their parents to let them make the trip, they had to pretend that they were there to sightsee, and get educated. At the same time, Uncle Herkimer had been so accommodating and so sweet that it pained Simwan to have to lie. He had an idea.

  “Actually, we’re not really sure. I guess what we need to do first is check everything out and then make some decisions.” He made a show of scrutinizing his surroundings, even though he knew what he was about to ask for was not likely to be found in the kitchen. “Do you have a guidebook?”

  “Why certainly!” Herkimer rose, tottering no more than usual, and beckoned for Simwan to follow him into the front room. “Your parents didn’t send one along with you?”

  “I have the Metaphysician’s Manual for New York on my tablet, but that’s not exactly the same thing as a regular tourist guidebook. It’s mostly about the right places for a visiting non-Ord to sleep, eat, and invoke.”

  “Quite so. Well, let’s see what we can scare up.”

  As the two of them entered the front room, a pair of streaking shapes rocketed past Simwan’s legs, one on either side. A pair of very small sonic booms followed in their wake.

  “Señor Nutt, Pithfwid—don’t you two break anything, now!” Herkimer shook a warning finger in the general direction of the two disappearing streaks as he approached a bookcase filled with moldering, cobweb-clad tomes. “Pets—I tell you, sometimes I wonder if they’re worth it.”

  Simwan was struck by a sudden thought. Fortunately, it was a small, relatively soft thought, and so left no mark. “Where does Señor Nutt sleep?”

  “On the other side of the refrigerator, of course.” Bending low, his back creaking audibly with the effort, Herkimer studied a shelf of books, using an index finger to move from one title to the next. “But don’t worry—he won’t eat your food. He doesn’t eat any more than I do, and his bed doesn’t take up any more space than a frozen pizza. Ah, here we are.” Pulling out a slim, blue-bound volume, he passed it to Simwan.

  It was exactly what his uncle had promised: A Compleat and Thorough Guide to All of New York City, Including Its Boroughs and the Surrounding Countryside. Simwan flipped to the back of the title page. It required an effort not to smile.

  “Uncle Herkimer, this was published in 1869.”

  “It was?” Taking the book, Herkimer squinted at the small print. “Dear me. Well, I don’t get to bookstores much anymore. Or any other kind of stores, for that matter. What to do, what to do …” Resting his chin in his right hand (to keep his head from falling off) he pondered the conundr
um for a moment, then nodded knowingly.

  “I suppose you can go buy a current guidebook. Or download one. That might be best. Or even better, you can put any specific requests to Mr. Everywhere.”

  Simwan made a face. “Mr. who?”

  “Mr. Everywhere. Old friend of mine. Not dead. Just kind of immortal.”

  Wondering how someone could be “kind of immortal,” Simwan thought rapidly. “He knows New York?”

  Uncle Herkimer laughed. Though it was more of a deathly, hollow cough, there was no mistaking the genuine delight in it. “Mr. Everywhere knows New York, London, Rome—he’s a wandering city boy, he is. Likes the fast life, the night life.” Moving to the desk, which dated from no later than the Federalist Period of American furniture, he put pencil to work on paper. “I’ll give you directions on how to find him. Just tell him your interests and he’ll tell you where to go and how to get to them.”

  “For any place in New York?” Simwan’s tone was hesitant as he continued to query his uncle.

  “Anyplace,” Herkimer assured his nephew. “Anything you want to see, Mr. Everywhere will know about it.”

  A hopeful Simwan watched his uncle’s dead fingers wrestle with the recalcitrant pencil. If he and his sisters were lucky, maybe “anyplace” even included the hiding place of the Crub. It had better, he thought.

  From the tone of Rose’s conversation with their father, and while he did not want to add any more gloom to what was already a serious mission, it seemed to him that their mother might be running out of time.

  IX

  When he finally awoke and looked at his watch, which he had left facing him on the nightstand, Simwan was startled to see that it was already after eight o’clock in the morning. Recalling the gravity of his mother’s condition and the need for speed, he blinked away reluctant sleep and started to sit up—only to be struck square in the face by something large, heavy, and relentless. It was followed by another of its kind, and another, all assaulting him with obvious intent to smother. Still only half awake, he fought back furiously. He relaxed his efforts only when the laughter started to penetrate his panic.

  Irate, he flung out both arms and shouted “ALAMAK!” The heavy pillows, stuffed with feathers plucked from reluctant lyre-birds, were flung aside to reveal his mischievous two-and-a-half sisters already mostly dressed, drifting near the foot of his bed and laughing at him.

  “Did you see his face?” Amber could hardly contain herself.

  Rose was pointing. “Brother, you looked like the Crub itself was in bed with you!”

  N/Ice, for her part, was laughing so hard she kept flashing in and out of existence.

  “All right, all right. Very funny.” Trying (and failing) to ignore their laughter, he slid out of bed and starting jamming his legs into his pants. “Get yourselves together. We’ve got a long day ahead of us and no time to waste.”

  Being male, it took him far less time to get ready than it did his sisters, so their considerable head start meant the four of them were all more or less prepared to leave at about the same time. They slipped out of the apartment quietly, not wanting to wake Herkimer or Señor Nutt. Simwan took charge of the apartment key their uncle had left out for them. Only Pithfwid had to be reminded to keep his voice down as they stepped out into the hall and started for the central stairwell.

  When outside his carrier, the Deavy cat was obliged to travel on a leash lest his free-roaming presence upset some felinophobe Ord. Even though no leash or line could restrain or hold him if he wished otherwise, he resented even the appearance of such a restriction. Necessity, however, demanded that he bear indignity with dignity. Manhattan was not Clearsight, and its inhabitants held different feelings about the wisdom of letting animals run “loose.”

  “Take it easy,” Simwan told him, gripping the leash a little tighter. “Slow down.”

  Pithfwid complied, albeit reluctantly. “I just don’t want anyone to get any wrong ideas about who is leading whom.”

  It was on the second floor that they encountered the two dwarves and the leprechaun crossing the hall. The trio’s attire differed as dramatically as did their appearance. All three looked to be about the same age, though with the leprechaun it was hard to tell.

  “I’ll bet he dyes his whiskers,” Amber whispered to N/Ice as she nodded in the direction of the stunted, green-clad, red-haired resident. In contrast, the two dwarves positively flaunted their graying tufts. They were dressed more casually, in jeans and cotton shirts. One wore a leather bomber jacket while his companion was clad in a more tasteful full-length winter coat. London Trog, Simwan guessed, having seen the attire advertised in one of the numerous odd magazines to which his parents subscribed.

  “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye,” the leprechaun called out to the cluster of Deavys as they descended the stairs. “I heard old Herkimer had relatives a’visitin’.”

  “Good day,” added the dwarf in the leather jacket politely. Lost deep in thought, his companion did not offer a greeting.

  “Where are you off to?” N/Ice was nothing if not direct.

  The dwarf pointed to the far end of the hall. “Number 2B. Waltzinger’s place. It’s our weekly poker game.”

  Passing the Deavys, the fey trey reached the end of the hall. Glancing over his shoulder, Simwan could just see a massive, coal-black hand covered with rocklike nodules opening the door to apartment 2B. The treelike fingers gripped the door high up, near where it met the lintel, which made him wonder just how large the occupant of that particular apartment might be.

  Though the day remained overcast with low clouds, it was amazing how quickly the light seemed to brighten once they had walked a couple of blocks from Uncle Herkimer’s street. All of a sudden there were people everywhere: well-dressed men and women hurrying to and fro, teenagers traveling in small barking packs, children clinging onto the hands of their parents or nannies or older siblings, looking for all the world like commuters hanging onto the overhead straps inside a subway car.

  Ords, all of them, Simwan saw. Ordinary people, living ordinary lives, ignorant of those who had access to special abilities and unique knowledge dwelling among them. Those like himself, and his sisters, and the cat leading them on his leash. He did his best to take the measure of everyone who passed him on the sidewalk. Though it was possible to overlook a non-Ord, it was uncommon. Finding themselves outside what appeared to be a nice, clean, inexpensive restaurant that served breakfast, Simwan led them in. It was busy, which he knew was a good sign. Much as the girls might dislike letting their big brother always take the lead, their mother had impressed on them how important it was for them to do so in order to mollify the cultural expectations of ignorant Ords.

  “Four for breakfast, please,” he told the young woman in charge of seating customers.

  She started to escort them to a table, then halted. “You can’t bring that animal in here.” A finger pointed accusingly at Pithfwid.

  It took an effort for the cat not to bristle angrily, much less hold back from turning the hostess into a newt. Instead, he walked up to her and began rubbing himself against her lower legs while purring like a smothered locomotive.

  “Please?” pleaded Rose, making her eyes as big and limpid as possible. “We can’t leave him outside. Somebody might try to take him.” (Pity the poor person who did, Simwan thought while keeping silent.) “We’ll keep him under the table, out of sight. Nobody will see him, or hear him. He’s very well behaved,” she added, concluding with a lie.

  “Well …” Hesitating, the hostess looked around for her boss. “Pretty please?” added Amber, making her eyes as mirror-big as her sister’s.

  Abruptly, the hostess broke into a sympathetic smile. “Come with me, kids. Keep him between you.”

  She led them to a table next to the long front window, where they could not only watch the endlessly fascinating foot traffic outside, but where Pith
fwid could curl up against a wall and out of sight. Simwan, Rose, and Amber ordered omelets and toast and potatoes with onions while N/Ice opted for the waffles. Rose waved a menu in her sibling’s face.

  “What are you gonna put on waffles here, sis? This isn’t home. There’s no ambrosia. Just fake maple syrup.”

  “I like fake maple syrup,” N/Ice countered. “I didn’t expect ambrosia. I know it can’t be like home cooking.”

  It certainly was not, but the food that arrived sooner than expected was tasty and filling. Periodically reaching under the table, Simwan slipped Pithfwid samples from his own plate. A feline of wide-ranging tastes, Pithfwid was content to eat everything that was passed to him, from buttered toast to bits of egg.

  When they had finished, Simwan examined the receipt, chose a pretreated bill from the wad in his wallet, spit on it, and passed it three times over the single gold denarius he always carried with him. It took a moment for the avuncular portrait of Benjamin Franklin to appear on the front of the newly enchanted bill. As soon as it had properly solidified, Franklin winked back at him from the face of the bill, then went quiescent.

  Uncle Herkimer’s instructions for finding Mr. Everywhere had been straightforward. Go down this street, find a place to have breakfast, then continue on to this place, turn right, walk so many blocks, and enter the designated subway entrance.

  “But if he’s everywhere,” Rose had speculated with her wonderful muddle of thoughtfulness and innocence, “why isn’t he just here?”

  “Even everywhere can’t be everywhere at once,” Herkimer had explained. “Because if everywhere was everywhere, then there’d be no room for nowhere, and we know that nowhere has to be somewhere, now don’t we?”