The Time Of The Transferance

by neetha Napew

  “Let’s hope not. Two of that ilk are all I ever want to encounter.”

  “I were thinkin’, there’s a chance, just a chance mind now, that someone as clever an’ resourceful as that parrot might be able to talk ‘is way out o’ trouble. Those two ‘umans who were goin’ to sell us to some sideshow weren’t exactly wot you’d call any world’s brightest. If Kamaulk could convince ‘em ‘e were more than a trained pet ‘e might be able to get them workin’ for Mm. If they came marchin’ back through that cave passage with a few o’ those lightnin’ throwers like the kind they used to kill Sasheem with they could make a lot o’ trouble.”

  Jon-Tom looked uneasy. “I hadn’t thought of that.” The idea of an enraged Kamaulk returning with armed humans from his own world was more than disconcerting. “We’ll just have to hope that nobody believes him.”

  But as they marched along the beach he found himself brooding over the image Mudge had called forth. As if they didn’t have enough to worry about with just trying to reach Chejiji.

  “I’m telling you, Lenny, you ain’t never seen nothing like this.”

  The neatly dressed man leaned back in his leather chair and fiddled with his glasses. “Boys, I’ve booked acts at the Palace for fifteen years. There aren’t any acts I haven’t seen.”

  Cruz stepped back from the desk. “And I’m saying you haven’t seen anything like this because there ain’t never been anything like this. This damn bird is unique. Almost weird how it talks.”

  “Yeah,” chipped in Manco. “I mean, you don’t have to prompt heem to talk or nothing. You just loosen hees beek an’ hee starts talkeeng nonstop. Hee’s smarter than a cheempanzee.”

  “And big.” Cruz held his palm a meter off the floor to show just how big. “I’ve never seen a parrot this big.”

  “A macaw.” The booking agent steepled his fingers. “Macaws get pretty big.”

  “Not like this. And broad in proportion. Almost heavyset.”

  “Well.” The agent glanced pointedly at the clock on the far wall. In fifteen minutes he was due to watch a quartet of former showgirls who’d developed a specialty juggling act which included watermelons, chain saws, flaming torches and, most important for Vegas, strategic articles of their clothing. Sort of a nudey version of the Flying Karamazov Brothers. He was looking forward to interviewing them a lot more than he was these two street clowns, the good dope they’d slipped him in the past notwithstanding.

  But they’d been convincing enough to get past his secretary and there was in their spiel an almost childlike certitude that gave him pause. It was one thing to waste your time on every fruitcake that wandered in off the street convinced he owned a million-dollar act, quite another to dismiss them out of hand only to see them turn up headlining the lounge over at the MGM Grand or Circus Circus the following night. Fifteen years’ time with the company or no, that was a good way to find yourself out on the street shilling for the cheap joints downtown. He studied the two expectant visitors. Had they actually managed to latch onto something special? Or had they stolen it from another performer? There was such a thing as a one-in-a-lifetime novelty act.

  Wild thought, of course. Talking parrots were a dime a dozen. Cockatoos were always in demand because of that old TV show that was still big in syndication, that, what was it—Berreta, or something. No, that was a gun. And every animal act he’d ever seen required the presence of a trainer to cue the critter. There was no such thing as a spontaneous animal performer. All required direction. Yet these two insisted theirs could perform alone. Dare he risk passing on the five minutes needed to check it out?

  Cruz watched him waver. “Listen, the bird’s outside in the back of our truck. All you gotta do is come look at him.” He was begging and trying not to. “I promise you, Lenny, once you’ve seen and heard him I won’t say another word. I won’t have to.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Promise. I swear.”

  The agent sighed, rose from behind his desk. “You boys better not be wasting my time. And don’t try fooling me with a hidden mike or something. I’ve seen every scam in the book.”

  “No tricks, Lenny.”

  He followed them toward the door. “I can’t figure your angle. You two don’t look like animal trainers.”

  “We ain’t,” said Cruz agreeably. “We just sort of acquired the bird. As payment for a debt.” What the hell, he thought. “We gave a guy a ride and he paid us with the parrot.”

  “Just sort of acquired it, huh?” Well, that wouldn’t matter. All that mattered was whether or not the act would astonish the blue-hairs from Topeka.

  They entered his outer office and he told his secretary he’d return in a few minutes and to make sure the juggling chorines didn’t leave until he had a chance to check out their act. Flanked by Cruz and Manco he strolled across the main floor of the casino, past ranks of jangling slots and the intense preoccupied stares of the quarter-feeders. They exited through the marbled front lobby.

  Out on the edge of the vast parking lot he halted suspiciously. “Where is your truck, anyway?” Not that he was carrying a lot of cash, but it still paid to be prudent. These weren’t two kids from Boise, after all.

  “Take it easy, mon.” Cruz pointed to the far corner of the parking lot. “It’s right over there.”

  The truck was parked off by itself next to several large commercial buildings which stood on the lot next to the casino. There was a bank and a big discount drugstore complex, then another casino. The lot was brightly illuminated.

  “Why didn’t you just bring the bird to my office?” the agent grumbled as he stepped over a large puddle.

  “I said he was big.” Cruz jumped the same puddle. “The other thing is, well, when he does talk he’s pretty blue.”

  The agent considered. A few four-letter words wouldn’t hurt a talking bird act. Not in Vegas. “What else can he say?”

  “I told you, mon. Pretty damn near anything you can think of. Whoever trained him really knew what the hell he was doing. He sounds just like a person.” They reached the truck. As they turned the rear corner Cruz acquired the look of a man who’d just said hello to a two-by-four with his forehead.

  The back of the truck had been rolled up.

  Cursing, he climbed inside. The agent could hear furniture being thrown around. “Something wrong?” he said mildly to the other member of the pair.

  “We didn’t leave thee door up. Hey, Cruz, I thought you lock eet.”

  “Lock it?” The other man’s voiced echoed from inside the truck. “Why lock it? To keep somebody from stealing this junk? I don’t see no ropes, so he didn’t get loose in here. Maybe somebody got curious and lifted the door and he hopped out.” He jumped down out of the truck, his eyes scanning the parking lot, the agent forgotten. “He’s got to be around here someplace. His wings were tied. He couldn’t fly away.”

  “Are you sure?” The agent’s voice was tinged with sarcasm. “I’ve seen plenty of acts where the birds did that.” The two men ignored him. Manco ran down the alley between the drugstore and the bank.

  “Sorry, boys, but I’ve got another act to review.”

  Cruz put a hand on his arm. “Just give us a minute, please, just a minute. He’s got to be close by somewhere. We ain’t been gone that long.”

  “Hey, down heere!”

  Cruz let out a sigh of relief. “See? I told you it was a smart bird.” Reluctantly the agent allowed himself to be led into the alley. The casino doorman had seen him leave and would be after him in two minutes if he didn’t return.

  It was more service road than alley and plenty wide. He didn’t think the two men had robbery on their mind. If so, they would have jumped him already, behind the truck.

  Halfway down the road was an elderly gentleman who was not a casino patron. The agent knew this immediately because the man was wearing a long overcoat. You don’t wear overcoats in Vegas in the springtime. The smell of liquor was stronger here than at the gaudy bar in the casin
o. The man was swaying unsteadily, obviously uncomfortable at being the object of so much unexpected late-night attention.

  “Hey, lay off. I didn’t do nuttin’.”

  “We know, mon.” Manco was standing close to the rummy, licking his lips and look farther down the alley. “We’re just lookeeng for sometheeng.”

  “Ain’t we all. Me, I’m lookin’ for the ten grand I dropped in this burg six years ago. Lost it in there.” He nodded toward the nearby mirage that was the casino. “No offense. They were honest cards.” The agent aknowledged this with a slight nod.

  “It was a big bird.” Cruz traced shapes in the air with his hands. “About this size.”

  The rummy’s eyes narrowed as he fought to concentrate.

  “Big bird. All tied up?”

  “Yeah! That’s him. You seen him?”

  “Yeah, I seen him. Me an’ my buddies.” He turned and sort of gestured with his whole body. Cruz and Manco sprinted down the alley. The curious agent followed at a more leisurely pace.

  A small fire crackled behind a pair of massive dumpsters. The group of bunis clustered around it tensed, then relaxed when they saw that their visitors weren’t uniforms. A few lay against the rear wall of the bank. Others rested on their backs, staring up at the stars and remembering better nights.

  Cruz arrived out of breath. “We’re looking for a bird. Big green parrot.”

  “Parrot?” One of the old men sat up and frowned. “We ain’t seen any parrot.”

  “Hey.” A younger down-on-his-luck gestured with a half empty bottle. “He must be talking about the chicken. That belonged to you, huh?”

  “Chicken?” Cruz talked like a man who’d just had Novocain. “What chicken?”

  “The big green chicken. Hey, look man, we didn’t know he belonged to anybody. He just sorta came hoppin’ down here and, well, some of us ain’t had a square meal in three days. He was big enough to feed the bunch of us and what with him all trussed and ready for the fire, well—hey, don’t cry, man. What was it, somebody’s pet?”

  Cruz couldn’t answer. He just put his face in his hands and sobbed. His partner stared past the fire at the small pile of bones on the far side. “That weren’t no cheeken, mon. It were a parrot. A talking parrot. A special talking parrot.”

  The younger bum leaned back, shrugged, and picked at his upper left bicuspid. “I don’t know about special, but he sure was delicious.”

  The agent sighed. “Sorry, boys. I’ve got another act to review.”

  “That’s all you got to say, mon?” Cruz stared blankly at the ground. “You’re sorry? Somebody ate the most unique act in the history of this town and you’re sorry?”

  “Hey—that’s show business.”

  With the pure white sand beach gleaming beneath their feet, the pale blue sea on their right and the warm sun shining down through a perfect cloudless sky it was impossible to believe anything was wrong with the world, Jon-Tom reflected.

  “Wonder ‘ow far from ‘ere it ‘tis to this Chejiji.” Mudge kicked a shell aside. “Not that I’m complain’ about the walk. This is charmin’ country. Plenty to eat an’ easy to catch, but even paradise can get borin’ after a bit.”

  “I’ve no idea, Mudge. All I remember is that it lies southwest of here and we haven’t begun to turn west yet. It might take weeks to hike there.”

  “Months,” put in Cautious.

  Weegee was cleaning her lashes. “I, for one, have no intention of hiking hundreds of leagues. If we don’t find a village where we can buy or rent a boat pretty soon, I think we should seriously consider stopping and trying to make one.”

  “A raft’s not out of the question. There are plenty of straight palms we could use.”

  “Sure thing, mate,” said Mudge. “An’ while you’re at it, ‘ow about singin’ up some saws an’ ‘ammers an’ nails. Come to think o’ it, why not sing up a couple o’ ships’ carpenters as well. Because speakin’ for meself, I don’t know a damn thing about shipbuilding.”

  “Come on, Mudge, we built ourselves a raft once before.”

  “When we were travelin’ to fair Quasequa? You’re forgettin’ one thing, mate. You spellsang that one up.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Well, we’ll do something soon. I promise you won’t have to walk all the way to Chejiji, Weegee.”

  Mudge leaned over and whispered to her. “ ‘E’s always makin’ promises like that, ‘tis Jon-Tom. Sometimes, through no fault o’ ‘is own, ‘e actually keeps one or two.” He raised his voice. “Anybody ‘ungry besides me?”

  “You’re always eating. I don’t think it has anything to do with hunger.”

  ‘ Tain’t much to life if you don’t indulge, mate.” The otter scampered into the palms, returned a few minutes later with several large chunks of real breadfruit. It peeled apart in flat, faintly green sections.

  “Now for somethin’ to put on it.” His eyes fastened on the water’s edge. “Ah, the very thing.”

  Jon-Tom observed the otter working with his knife and flinched. Mudge was dicing several large, pale-hued jellyfish which had washed up on shore.

  “You can’t eat those, Mudge. They’re poisonous.”

  “Now mate, when ‘ave you ever known me to eat anythin’ that weren’t ‘ealthy, much less bloomin’ delicious?” So saying, the otter slipped several quivering slabs of coelenterate between two pieces of breadfruit and commenced chewing noisily. Despite Jon-Tom’s fears, he didn’t fall over kicking and twitching. Instead, he handed a sandwich to Weegee, who bit into it with obvious gusto.

  She looked up, dripping jelly from her whiskers, her muzzle smeared. “Mudge is right, Jon-Tom. It’s lovely. Have some.”

  “I don’t know.” He warily approached the sandwich the otter preferred. “Where I come from jellyfish are anything but tasty.”

  “We’ve already ‘ad a taste o’ ‘ow perverse your world is, mate. Now ‘ave a taste o’ ours.”

  Feeling queasy, Jon-Tom took the sandwich. Droplets of jelly oozed from the edges. His stomach jumped.

  “Go on, mate,” Mudge urged him. “If I wanted to poison you I’ve ‘ad a dozen better opportunities than this.”

  Jon-Tom closed his eyes and took a deep bite out of the sandwich. His mouth froze and his taste buds exploded. Raspberry. He chewed, swallowed the wondrous concoction, and took another bite. Grape. To his utter astonishment each bite had a different flavor. Huckleberry, cherry, lingonberry, pear and so on.

  “Mudge this is marvelous!”

  “O’ course it is. Didn’t I recommend it? Would I suggest indulgin’ in anythin’ that weren’t absolutely amazin’?”

  “Given your degenerate and occasionally despicable life, yes you would. But I’ve forgiven you such history.” Weegee tapped his nose with the sandwich.

  Mudge put his arm around his ladylove as they strolled down the beach. “That’s a dear.”

  “I just don’t understand.” Jon-Tom was on his second sandwich.

  “Wot don’t you understand, mate? Why the ‘ell do you suppose they’re called jellyfish?”

  “That’s just not the way it is in my world.”

  The otter made an obscene noise. “Your world don’t work proper. ‘Tis smelly an’ impolite an’ brutal. One day I expect you’ll be goin’ back through your tunnel or cave or wotever that passageway we found is, but you’ll ‘ave to make the trip without me.”

  “Or me.” Weegee shuddered slightly. “I don’t think I could take that again.”

  “I understand. I don’t expect you to go with me.”

  Cautious had moved out ahead, scouting for the shellfish which constituted his favorite food. Now he beckoned for them to join him, having found something less tasty but far more significant. Jon-Tom saw the prints right away. There were quite a few. They were similar but subtly different.

  “All related.” Cautious traced several with a finger. “Foxes, wolves, dingoes, like that. Doen often see species exclusivity so much.”

  “Maybe the
y’re just part of a larger community,” Mudge suggested.

  “Could be.” The raccoon nodded down the beach. “Goes that way. Fresh, or they would’ve been washed away by now. I think we better go careful from here, you bet. until we find out whose back yard we playing in.”

  They abandoned the exposed beach in favor of moving through the trees. The village was not far. It was located on the far side of a clear stream. A number of double outriggered canoes lay drawn up on the sand. They looked solid and seaworthy, especially the larger ones.

  “Transportation!” Jon-Tom was already selecting a favorite from the line of boats. “I told you we wouldn’t have to walk all the way to Chejiji.”

  “ ‘Old on a minim, mate. We don’t know as ‘ow these ‘ere chaps are in the boat rentin’ business, much less ‘ow they’ll react if we go stompin’ into their town uninvited. Let’s just ‘ave ourselves a bit o’ a sit-down ‘ere and study our prospective suppliers, wot?”

  “I thought you were sick of walking.”

  “Sick in the feet, but not sick in the ‘ead. ‘Aven’t you learned anythin’ about me world yet? Fools rush in where sneaky types fear to tread. I ain’t no fool.”

  “Remember the attitude of the last villagers we encountered.” Weegee was peering around a large fern.

  “AH right, but this looks like a completely different kind of village.”

  He was right about that. The owners of the outriggers were in no wise similar to the primitives who’d sold them back to the pirates. On the other hand, Mudge’s caution proved well-founded as observation revealed they were not the type of folks to spend their time helping old ladies across the creek, either.

  Most revealing was the high-walled wooden corral that dominated the center of the village. It did not look especially sturdy, but the tops of the walls curved inwards and were lined with sharp thorns. The intent was clear: to prevent anyone inside from climbing out. Presently the corral had a single occupant.

  Each villager wore a single massive necklace from which hung long, brightly colored interlocking leather strips. Hammered breastplates of thin metal were secured to the leather. The individual in the corral was attired in a similar garment, but Jon-Tom didn’t think he wore it voluntarily. For one thing the leather was dyed dead black. There were no bright colors, no additional adornments of beads or quills. For another, he was pacing restlessly back and forth as he tried various sections of the wall. Nor was he related to canus or lupus.