F&SF July/August 2011

by Fantasy; Science Fiction

  My phone beeped. I switched to the other line. "Ramshead."

  "Rammy Pa-jammy!"

  "Hanna!" I sat up straight. "You're there!"

  "Where else would I be?"

  "Forget it. Have you—did you—"

  "That thing you wanted? Yeah, it's fine. You haven't gotten it yet?"

  I sagged with relief. "It's fine?"

  "I just said."

  "But you didn't call me."

  "Call you? Oh—I forgot that part. Hey, I got you a snail—is that okay?"

  "A snail's perfect. Hanna—thank you."

  I heard her say, "Actually, do you have it in white?" and then to me, "Oh, it was no problem. I mean, it was, but that's okay, because I'm really curious about what's going on. Is the guy really not there yet? He should be. Like, any minute."

  "What guy?"

  "I'm having a guy come to the house and drop it off, to make sure you get it."

  I sat up straight again. "Hanna."

  "Yeah?"

  "What house?"

  Pause.

  " Which house, Hanna?"

  "Rammy, what's the big deal? Dad's house. Cuz that's where you usually are when you're around, right?"

  I was already running down to the garage.

  Sunset now. I drove fast, but each passing minute still shrank my world into a ball of idiocy and ugly consequences. Of course Hanna had sent it there—why wouldn't she?

  I reached the gate and got buzzed in. I drove up to the house like I meant to ram into it, but instead I parked, badly, at the foot of the main steps.

  No other cars were there. I got out and leaned against the hood of the Jag, staring at that priceless coat of Coronado paint in the gathering darkness. The Daytona on my wrist read 8:13. Had Hanna given me a time? Had she given me his name?

  I mounted the stone steps of the house and went inside, dialing Hanna's number.

  "Who are you calling, Ramshead?"

  My body stiffened. In my ear, Hanna's voicemail message said, "Hey kiddies, it's Hanna. Leave me a message, 'kay?"

  I closed my phone and slid it into a pocket. Then I looked up at him, leisurely, as though everything were normal. "I'm waiting for someone. He's late. What are you doing by the door?"

  In a doorway across the entrance hall, my father smiled. It was more like a grimace. "This friend of yours. Is he an older gentleman? Bearded?"

  I didn't say anything.

  "Ramshead. How about you come upstairs with me to my office?"

  It was not a question.

  He turned and stalked down the hall, and I followed him. I don't know why. I could've just turned and run away.

  No I couldn't.

  He led me into his private office on the second floor, the one directly off of his bedroom, full of rare treasures and strange gifts from around the world. My father seated himself at his desk (Dutch, mid-seventeeth century, carved by Grinling Gibbons himself), crossed his legs at the knee, and swiveled to look at me.

  I did not sit.

  "Ramshead," my father said pleasantly. "What in the name of Christ do you want with a snail?"

  Stay calm. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Your colorful hippie friend," he said, still pleasantly. "The bearded gentleman. Before you decided to grace me with your presence this evening, he arrived with a snail for a Mister Jones. It's not Alan's. It's sure as shit not mine. Well?"

  "Where is it?"

  My father paused, as if he hadn't heard me and something else had just occurred to him. He glanced at his desk, at his framed photograph of my mother, then raised his eyes to one of the mysteries on the wall—a framed silver bird feather from a species I could never identify, something fantastic that looked more like it belonged in the other life I lived. "Ramshead," he said, "I am trying my absolute hardest not to lose my temper. Do you know how difficult that is for me?"

  I did not reply.

  "Now t|up or television—hen. Please answer my question."

  "It's none of your business."

  "It's my house."

  "It's my purchase."

  "It's my property."

  "Where is it?"

  My father rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was a theatrical gesture only. He never got headaches. "This moment we're having right here? This is precisely indicative of the ongoing problem that I am having with you. What did I tell you this afternoon, Ramshead?"

  I didn't respond. I felt a flush creep up my skin, some ugly synthesis of self-consciousness and fear.

  "I said, 'I suggest that you grow up.' Didn't I?"

  He was waiting for me to nod. I did not.

  "Aren't you going to answer me?"

  I didn't want to, but silence was the losing move. They were all losing moves. "Yes."

  "That's right. Now, have you taken my suggestion yet?"

  I closed my eyes. I felt sick. "Where is my snail?"

  "No?" My father made a tsk-tsk noise behind his teeth. "Someday, I'm hoping, you'll finally realize what's good for you. In the meantime, why don't you let the grownups make the big decisions, hmm?"

  I opened my mouth, but where could I even start?

  My father abruptly turned to his desk and shuffled through a few papers. His tone dropped to one of boredom. "The Morro Shoulderband Snail. Indigenous to California and endangered, and found only in Montana de Oro State Park, under coastal scrub and chaparral, as well as some places in nearby Los Osos. Recognizable by the thick brown stripe running around the outside of its lighter, tawny shell, which is globular in shape, and marked by deep grooves. Or so your bearded friend told me. That's cute, Ramshead. Very cute. 'Accidentally' finding an endangered snail under the bushes out back would mean that I couldn't do a damn thing to the land until they assessed it, wouldn't it?

  "Too bad for you, but Los Osos is a long way from L.A. It may seem close if you're desperate, but honestly, nobody would buy that sad sack of crap. So forget the snail. It wouldn't've worked anyway."

  I said nothing.

  "Ramshead, look—this is my house. I own it. I do what I like to it. You have your own house, which I bought you several years ago, to which you can do whatever you like. You're that attached to the hedge maze? Fine. Build one of your own. Jesus, build a Neverland Ranch over there for all I care. But here? Don't even try to fuck with me. This house is not a democracy.

  "I don't know what your problem is, Ramshead, but though I've tried, it's clearly nothing I can address. So get out of here. I've better things to do than talk to someone who never listens."

  I whispered, "My snail?"

  He scribbled on some papers. "I sent it away, back to wherever it came from. Good night, Ramshead."

  I stared at his hands. He would not look up and acknowledge me, even though I stood there in the crucifying silence.

  I left his office. I went into a drawing room somewhere on the first floor and collapsed onto the couch. Around me, the house settled further into nighttime, as unseen staff opened windows to let in the cool air.

  When I felt able to speak with a steady voice, I called Hanna.

  "Hey kiddies, it's Hanna. Leave me a message, 'kay?"

  "Hanna. Hi. The guy you sent over? Is he—do you have his number? Can you get him to come to my house instead? Hanna, please, pick up...."

  I trailed off into silence. I hung up and dialed again.

  "Hanna. Okay, goddamn it, the snail is for a spell. The most important one I've ever done. Hanna. Please. Send him to my house. Please, pick up!"

  I hung up. I twitched for ten more minutes, then called again.

  "Hanna, I'm begging you. I'll tell you everything if you'll call me back. I don't want to, not like this, not over a fucking cell phone, but Hanna, please, you don't know all the things at stake here. I'm sorry—that sounded patronizing and stupid. Just—call me back...."

  I hung up and waited, and dial an unusual number of shouldor television—ed again.

  And again.

  I finally pulled my feet up onto the couch and hugged my k
nees to my chest, as if I were a child curling up in the shadow of the rose garden, expecting that someone would care enough to comb the monstrous yard to find me. And now?

  And now—what?

  Now I kick myself without moving. Now I ask myself why I ever thought that I had anyone here I could rely upon. I had kept The Maze a secret for nine lonely years, after my first accidental entrance one drunken night at age sixteen, and I should've just kept going.

  Why had I thought that exposing my secret would change things? My family would continue to weave their shifting nets around me and themselves, and not even my greatest need was sharp enough to cut through the old hurtful patterns. May as well just go out and hide under the bushes in the rose garden again, looking for answers there.

  Wait.

  The bushes.

  Answers under the bushes.

  I closed my eyes. "Montana de Oro State Park," my father had said, speaking of the endangered snail's habitat. And there was a GPS in my car.

  Time to be a Space Cowboy Hero.

  Night. Route 101, winding north against the edge of the sea, the wind in my ears and salt in my nose. Hours rolled by beneath my tires, and by 11:29, I hit Los Osos. From there I entered Montana de Oro State Park, a place of soft darkness and hungry silence. The road dead-ended in a parking lot. I swung into a space too hard, my tires rolling over the pavement and into the scrubby dust beyond, but I was already climbing out.

  I felt under the seat for the flashlight, and once I had it, I walked across the lot to a random trail. My light lanced feebly into the chirping, clicking darkness, and I followed.

  The night swallowed me with ease.

  I walked slowly. Snails of any kind are tiny, and the park was huge. To better my odds, I worked out a system: take a step or two. Bend over. Shine light under some likely-looking vegetation. Take another step or two. Bend over. Shine light.

  Step. Bend. Light.

  I inched my way into trail-scored wilderness. I got discouraged fast. Weren't they more likely to be hiding under places away from the trails? Dare I step from the path to search and maybe, accidentally, step on one?

  It was cold here. I slid my free hand into a pocket and felt the hard edges of a small box. My Trail Crew 98 Emergency Kit. A fat lot of good something that powerful could do me here.

  Step. Bend. Light.

  Behind me, some small animal rustled in the brush. Something broke a twig, and something else took flight. The little lives in this place made it breathe and shift, barely, and I felt a rush of homesickness for The Maze. Why is it that I find the maintenance of chaos so attractive?

  Step. Bend. Light.

  Again. Again. Ad infinitum. All the way to the coast, and along it some, in the breathing darkness. And all the way back to the Jag.

  And, six hours later, while sitting on the sandy earth near the driver's-side door, with the rest of my life scheduled to be spent in an artificial world with no escape waiting for me, under the front tire, hidden from someone who would not think to look so close to home—

  —a snail.

  The Morro Shoulderband Snail oozed along for a leisurely inch. I was too numb to react with emotion. I just reached over and picked it up. It felt how you'd expect a snail to feel: cold, slimy, light.

  Fragile.

  I ripped up a chunk of grass with my free hand. With my other, I gently placed the snail onto the roots, where it was cool and moist. Then we stood and climbed into my car. I started the engine and put the top up.

  Four thirty-six A.M.

  I drove back to L.A. with the muddy clump of grass placed on the dashboard. The snail oozed and appeared to sleep. I watched it and barely dared to breathe.

  By the time we drove through Santa Ynez, the sun was rising.

  We got snared in Santa Barbara trafficI pick up the corner of the net... I pick up the corner of the netacb the womanb b, broke free, and drove down the edge of the world. We turned inland at Ventura, moved on to Oxnard, Thousand Oaks, Calabasas, and the home stretch. I passed the big park nestled between Route 101 and I-405, and then remembered that I couldn't just roar up the street, saber rattling, to his backyard. I needed the rest of my blocks for the portal-moving screw to work.

  I made a detour to my place and parked the car. With one hand, I scooped up the life rare (and the grass it rode in on) and unlocked the door with the other. We banged into the house.

  On the couch, a strange man without a shirt awoke with a start and sat up. " ¡Puta que lo parió! "

  I ignored him and ran upstairs, snail habitat cupped against my chest, spraying dirt and roots on the floor with each footfall. I burst into my office and scooped up the printed pages of the Voynich Manuscript. And the language rare was in my head, and the life unknown—oh.

  Right. I needed some homunculi.

  I cursed, set down the snail's life raft on my desk, wiped my palms on my pants, shut the door, and unzipped my fly.

  As I worked, I heard footfalls. Doors opened and closed. " ¿Alguien subió aqui, fué el tipo? "

  " ¿Tipo blanco? "

  " Sí. "

  " ¿Donde fué? "

  " Al cuarto, alli. "

  Footsteps approached my office door. A tentative knock sounded, along with a faintly accented voice. "Mr. Jones?"

  I shut him out and focused, savagely, and pulled the pages of the Voynich Manuscript closer, like readied sheets of tissue. Combine the language unknown with the life unknown, the screw instructions had said.

  As I finished, the handle turned.

  "DON'T COME IN!"

  The handle froze. "Mr. Jones? You want me to clean up all this dirt?"

  I distributed my homunculi across the pages and fought to keep my voice even. "Yes, fine, whatever!"

  "And Mr. Jones? Diego says he's very sorry for falling asleep on your couch."

  "I don't care."

  "Mr. Jones, I'm very sorry. I did tell him he could stay a little, since you said visitors are okay, but I didn't say he could sleep on your couch with his shirt off."

  "I still don't care." I composed myself and gathered my blocks.

  "Mr. Jones—"

  I opened the door. Javier stood in front of me, wide-eyed and conciliatory. "And listen, about the mail?"

  I pushed past him. "It's fine."

  "But—"

  I fled from the house. "It's fine!"

  When I climbed back into my Jag, my hands were shaking. My snail was still safe on his weedy clump. My pages were primed and ready. I put the pages on the passenger seat and the snail on the dash, and looked back and forth between them, unable to believe that I was succeeding.

  My Daytona read 8:16 when we roared out into the street.

  RUSH HOUR DESCENDED, full and hard. My ballooning panic got trapped in gridlock and the wails of horns. Eight twenty-seven. Contractors always started early, before nine o'clock, while the morning was cool.

  We broke free of traffic and I kicked the gas pedal, and the Jag's supercharged V8 roared awake. My blocks and I flew down the asphalt, nearly bottoming out. Home stretch now, for real. The long upward slope of the hill, the houses growing more sprawling and ostentatious, with the summit holding the grandest one of all.

  We made the final turn. I took the service road that loops down the hill's other side. The gate had been left open, and an ominous caterpillar tread was imprinted in the grass.

  We drove all the way down. I slid my Jag behind a parked bulldozer, before they could see me, but not before I saw them: rough men toting chainsaws, circling the hedge maze's bushes and settling into position. Someone started a chainsaw, and the calls of two more answered.

  I grabbed the pages and the tuft of grass, and ran from my car without even shutting the door. Sprinting to the first thing that looked like a corner, I crum subsequentbor television—pled up a ball of manuscript and ripped up a piece of lawn and half-shoved the paper under the turf to make sure it would stay. Then I plucked the snail from its haven and thrust the startled animal against th
e page, and formed the alien but somehow intimately charged words that could cage the zap and funnel it down, into that curling shell:

  "Nika mamook saghalie kushis yahka tenas sitkum."

  I felt a jolt. I drew a breath. My magnetism was rising, fast, so close to the wall of leaves. The zap was spinning close and hot around me. A man without a chainsaw noticed me crouching there, and he frowned and started to shout me away. But I was already up and bolting along the southern wall of the hedge maze, fanning zap in my wake, moving east to the next corner.

  I shoved a page halfway beneath a rock and tapped it with the snail. "Nika mamook saghalie kushis yahka tenas sitkum!"

  A second jolt, stronger, with an almost audible hum. Someone else saw me. "Hey! Hey you!"

  North. I moved low and hard, like an offensive tackle, knocking someone's hips with a shoulder and sending him spinning into the grass. Someone else popped a dirty transceiver from his belt and shouted into it. I sprinted to the third corner, zap fanning out like flames, within view of the cherry orchard and three other men. They glanced at each other and then trotted toward me. I tossed down a page and ground it into the earth with my heel, then dropped onto my knees and rubbed it with the snail and shouted, "Nika mamook saghalie kushis yahka tenas sitkum!"

  "Who the hell is that? Hey, bozo!"

  One more. I ran west with all the terror of my soul, final page clenched in a fist, snail in my half-closed palm, $1,000 Christian Dior shoes ripped, beaten, and filthy, Yves Saint Laurent jeans muddy and torn, the zap hot enough to ignite air, and not giving a fuck about anything, anything, anything, except making that final corner before he ordered all those chainsaws forward.

  Ten feet from the corner, I had to pass him.

  "RAMSHEAD!"

  I dove into the earth, zap hitting me like a sonic boom. I mushed a page into the grass and bumped it with the snail, gasping, "Nika mamook saghalie kushis yahka tenas sitkum— pee kow klapite! "

  One last jolt.

  Next to me, the coalesced curtain shook. Some meta-pattern slid sideways, into me, into us. Into the startled little ball in my palm. Suddenly, the hedge maze before me was just a bunch of tidily groomed bushes.