Just as well. I didn't start Spanish yet, though I suppose I'd have to in September. Micky started a year early, though, and I'd picked up a little out of his ramblings. ¿Donde se queda la biblioteca? Right?
She walked out of the water then and up the beach to her pile of gear, me stumbling along in her wake, forgetting to grab my Keds, eyes glued to her backside regardless of what I wanted them to do. She started a fire with something that went sparkle-flash, then conjured a frying pan and some kind of trivet from nowhere.
Christ. I don't remember seeing a foldbox, but there must've been one somewhere. Suddenly, there was hamburger sizzling in the pan, having been somehow kneaded into perfect patties. Then a little tray on short legs she pressed into the sand. Two plates. Buns. Ketchup. Mustard. Sweet relish. Sliced onions.
Then she sat down cross-legged in the sand, patting a place opposite her, hamburgers frying away, drowning out the sudden sound of crickets in the grass. I sat down awkwardly, almost falling, too busy thinking, There must be a better word than diaphanous....
Long pause, just me and her smile. She looked up, looked over me, looked back down the beach the way we'd come. Then she stood up. I managed to get up too, managed to turn and look, some kind of dread squirming in my guts.
Kenny, looking all bedraggled as he walked toward us across the sand.
I felt a moment of intense relief, followed by, God damn it. ...
He said, “Alan...” then seemed to stagger when he got a good look at the girl. “Jesus!"
I pointed at him, half turning to the girl, and said, “Kenny."
She frowned. “Grrnnee?"
Right. Better than Bawk, anyway. So I said, “This is my old friend, Adar Thu of Cillpa."
“Ah-dahr Thoo...” she said, and “Seel-pah!"
I think we got Cillpa from Silly Putty or something. I said, “She doesn't speak English, and can't say our real names."
He looked her up and down, eyes stopping here and there, then said, “I don't think she needs to!"
I felt something odd curdle in my throat. “Kenny."
He looked at me for just a second, eyes hard and judgmental, then said, “Right.” He looked away for just a second, and when he looked back at me, everything was all right again.
Kenny's got two older brothers, twin brothers, just graduated from high school, about to head off to college. Sometimes I realize he knows a whole lot more about stuff than I do.
Now, he said, “No English, huh? Du bist a Yid?"
I said, “Funny, she don't look Jewish!"
“Asshole."
“Yah. Anyway, I already tried German and Spanish on her."
“I might know a little Russian...."
The girl rolled her eyes, in exasperation, I think, and said, “???!"
Kenny twitched, popeyed. “Hebrew? You speak Hebrew?” Then he said a string of those guttural syllables.
The girl replied in kind, sort of in kind, anyway, her guttural syllables a good bit spittier-sounding than Kenny's had been, and I felt any number of odd pangs crawl through me. And I felt glad when I could see Kenny didn't really understand what she'd said.
“Oh, maybe not. What the hell...?"
I said, “You do speak Hebrew, don't you?"
He shrugged. “My parents aren't Zionists, and we don't speak that Modern Hebrew they use in Israel. All I know is the Biblical Hebrew I had to learn for my Bar Mitzvah."
“Great.” I made it sound sarcastic, not wanting him to know I was glad he couldn't talk to her either.
She looked him over carefully, then said, “Khah-bee-roo."
That made him uneasy. “Maybe she speaks Canaanite? That was pretty close to Old Hebrew."
She said, “Khah-nah-nee."
I said, “Maybe she's a Phoenician!” That'd be cool. Or a Carthaginian? Cooler still.
Kenny said, “I don't think they had any red-headed Canaanites."
“Try that Russian now.” Crossing my fingers it wouldn't work.
Kenny said, “Voo-ee go-vo-ree-tee..."
The girl, laughing, put up her hand, palm toward him, and turned away to tend the fire and frying pan. Bending over, then squatting to take up cooking utensils that'd appeared just as magically as everything else, like some invisible sprite was putting them out when she needed them, and not before.
Watching her, Kenny said, “She doesn't have anything on under those slacks, does she?"
“I don't think so."
He looked at me. “Doesn't require much thinking."
It turned out she'd made enough hamburgers for Kenny too, as if she knew he was coming. In fact, she had made just the right number, enough hamburgers we could eat ‘til we were full, but not an overstuffing bite more.
Kenny said, “You get any kind of name out of her?"
I shrugged. “Nope. Could be Dah-ee-lah for all we know...” Dah-ee-lah was the name of Onol's girlfriend in “The War in Aceta,” his wife already in “Revenge of the Plant-Men."
Her eyes flamed with pleasure then, and she cried, “Dah-ee-lah?” More spitty syallables, hissed through big white teeth in a big white grin, followed by another, “Dah-ee-lah!"
“Okay. Dah-ee-lah it is!” When I looked at Kenny, I think nonplused was the right word.
A little later, she gave us each a dark green wool blanket, pretty much the same as the Army blankets my dad sometimes brought home from field trips. Kenny and I laid down on opposite sides of the fire. When the girl laid down, she came over by me. Not touching me. Not so close I could reach out and touch her or anything, but on my side of the fire.
I felt unaccountably good about that.
Tried not to think about much of anything else.
I laid there then, not quite able to sleep, staring up at the starless, velvet black sky, watching a dull copper moon sail overhead, and wondered just what the fuck could possibly be going on.
Whenever I glanced over at the girl, she was lying on her side, eyes open and looking at me. Somehow, sometime, I managed to sleep, but I sure don't know how.
* * * *
The sun was a pale yellow spark rising out of the sea, from just where the moon must've set, when I woke up the next morning, long slanting rays lighting up the beach, the grass beyond, treetops of the forest, the blinding white expanse of the escarpment, looking just the way I imagined the White Cliffs of Dover looked before I saw the real ones in a movie.
My dad always says, “That's life,” when I talk that way. Things are always better in your imagination, he says, and...
I sat up hard, head spinning, looking around wildly, at the campfire, at Kenny's inert form humped under a green wool blanket. In the hills beyond the grass, there was the City of Gold, though, already looking like so much metallic glitter in the sunlight, the last of its red window fires winking away.
No girl.
No...
Then I turned toward the creek, and there she was, sort of crouched down in the water, picking up handfuls of the stuff and dribbling it on her head. On the sandy bank of the creek, her harem pants and halter top lay neatly folded.
I felt my teeth wanting to chatter, though they didn't quite manage to do so.
I felt my self grow very wry indeed, inner voice tittering as it said, Jeez. You'd think a boy who was going to be fourteen years old in a few weeks would be able to manage this a bit better.
So I made myself walk slowly, very quietly, to the edge of the stream, agonizingly self conscious, but ... yeah, right. But. Me. Me in all my terrified glory. Another inner voice pointed out, quite reasonably, that I wasn't a grown-up yet; not even an eleventh or twelfth grader who ... Didn't do any damned good.
She looked over her shoulder at me and grinned, then stood up and turned around, water barely coming to the middle of her thighs, and gestured for me to join her.
I don't think I wanted to faint, but my feet sure as hell grew long roots just then, reaching far down into the sand. What the hell is wrong with you, Burke? Take off your God-damned cloth
es and get in there! She can already see you've got a hard on. Look at that smile!
My teeth chattered loud enough I'm sure she could hear it.
She laughed and cupped up a double handful of water, throwing it toward me in a long, shimmering arc, like diamonds in the air, but it seemed to evaporate on the way, not getting me wet.
Then she walked splashing out of the water and up onto the beach, shook herself like a slim, beautiful dog, and put on her clothes, me standing there like some retard, watching for every glorious second.
Back up at the camp, Kenny was awake and sitting up in his blankets, owl eyed. Looking at me, he said, “If it'd been me..."
I said, “Right. Would you have peed your pants or merely been struck blind?"
He grimaced, and said, “I was thinking maybe a pillar of salt."
I said, “I've been dreaming about something like that happening for the past three years. Wish I was a little older."
“You think that would've helped?"
“Beats me."
“My brothers talk about it some. I think it's supposed to be a little more gradual than...” He gestured at the beach. “You know. Dates. Kissing. Stuff you do in the dark at the movies."
I'd read a sexy novel about it one time, some girl who lets things get out of control in an old-time movie theater balcony, then gets caught by the ushers. It seemed pretty silly, but still...
There was a sizzle from the reinvigorated fire, as the girl, Dah-ee-lah or no Dah-ee-lah, loaded up a frying pan with little link sausages and fine, round eggs. They turned out perfect, and I only wondered for a second where she was hiding the refrigerator.
A part of me wanted this all to be real. Some other more sensible part wanted me to wake up in bed and realize I was late for my meeting with Micky, Kenny, and Johnny down at the creek. That woke up a third part of me that, ever so briefly, wondered what'd become of Desta of Aceta and Tengam of Alaln.
After breakfast, the girl collected the wool blankets and laid them one atop the other, took our dirty plates and the greasy, still-hot frying pan, piled them together in the middle, and then started folding and folding. I must've blinked at the wrong time, because I missed what happened, and the stuff was gone, girl grinning and dusting off her hands. Kenny was standing there looking like his dark, curly hair wanted to straighten out and stand on end.
“What happened?"
Owl eyed again, he looked at me and said, “Beats me."
She put her hands on her hips, big eyes on me, made an after-you gesture, and said a few words in maybe-Canaanite.
“Kenny?"
He shrugged. “Hard to say. I think maybe she wants us to go that way."
I smiled back, doing my best to seem like I deserved the way she was looking at me, and said, “'After you, Alphonse!"
She cried, “Dah-ee-lah!"
“Oh, right. After you, Dah-ee-lah."
Kenny muttered, “'Alphonse.’ Dummy."
But the girl turned away, leading us through the creek, getting our sneakers soaking wet at last, then up a path into the long grass I hadn't noticed before. I said, “Did you see this last night, Ken?"
“It was dark."
“Right."
“Maybe it wasn't here."
Maybe so.
He said, “Nice scenery, anyway."
Watching the girl walk ahead of us up the trail, I had to admit he had a point.
We walked on for two, three miles, maybe more, as the sun mounted into the sky and whitened, blazing down on us, making us sweat and pant. Didn't seem to bother Dah-ee-lah, of course, her short red hair fluffy as ever, where mine was plastered down the sides of my face and Kenny's mass of curls retreated to tight black knobs.
I wouldn't have minded if she'd gotten a little sweaty, of course. Diaphanous cloth is more transparent when it's wet.
Beyond her, above the waving stalks of grass, you could see the misty hills starting to loom ahead of us, City of Gold shimmering, winking in and out among the drifting clouds. Funny clouds, seeming to emerge from the air and sink toward the ground.
“Like habitation fog,” I whispered.
Kenny said, “I was thinking the same thing, but it's gotta be at least a hundred out here."
Maybe it's cold in them thar hills? I was going to say it, but the girl stopped in her tracks, spun, and looked beyond us, grin vanished, mouth opening in an oh of surprise.
Made me look.
The men were running toward us, waving long curved swords over their heads. Swords with basket hilts. Cutlasses. Men with long hair and big black beards. Men dressed in floppy-top boots, with dopey-looking tricorn hats. Men with striped shirts and long socks that came up to their knickers.
Kenny said, “Shit.” Then he whipped out his rapier and fell en garde, just the way he had in the cave under the abandoned mine, not all that long ago.
All I could do was wobble on my feet, and squeak, “Pirates?"
The lead pirate cried out, “Arrrgh! Ye're a thoroughly modern Jew! No oy fer yew! Long John Silver will soon fix yer wagon!"
I thought, Okay. Kenny's about to be killed by Wallace Beery ... no more time. I drew my two swords, katana on the right, wakizashi on the left, and tried hard to remember if I knew anything at all about bushido. Nope. Nothing but the word itself. The first pirate to come my way, a skinny, dorky-looking little guy with brown and rotten buck teeth, whanged me over the head with the flat of his cutlass. I sprawled backward into the long grass, head spinning and throwing off bits of sparkly white light, swords flying out of my hands, tumbling end over end away.
I think maybe I said, “Ow!” Or maybe I just imagined it.
Wallace Beery dodged under Kenny's long, flickering blade, and slapped him aside with the back of one black-gloved hand. “Arrgh!” Nothing more, nothing less.
Then he moved on to Dah-ee-lah, tossing his cutlass aside, grabbing her with both rough hands. “Now, me hearties!” he cried. “Now we'll have some sport!"
I rolled over, gagging, head spinning, inner voice yammering, Get up! You've got to get up! But my head twirled round and round and threw me back down on the ground. No use. Sorry, Dah-ee-lah. Sorry, whoever you are.
I remember, in my fantasy land, I always wanted to see something like this. See it happen, fly on the wall.
Here and now, I changed my mind.
Struggled to get up. Gagged. Realized my nose was bleeding, that my ears felt wet, that I might have a fractured skull, might be very badly hurt indeed.
No excuse.
And now, you have to watch.
Good work, Burke the Jerk.
Wallace Beery had her by the hair, picking her up off the ground, and, glimpsing her face for just a second, I could see she was calm, wasn't scared, wasn't worried at all.
Made the jelly of fear in my guts seem all the worse, right now.
He put one rough hand on the waistband of her harem pants, and gave them a good downward yank.
Silence.
Tableau.
Collective gasp from the pirates.
I remember thinking, What the fuck? Then shying away from that last word, seeing it in a different light just then.
One of the crewmen, maybe the skinny, dorky-looking little guy who'd whipped me so easily, screamed, “Cor blimey! Hit's the Untouchable!"
Dull thought, simmering somewhere in my ringing, spinning head: Blimey? Did he just say blimey?
Suddenly, Dah-ee-lah was standing in a circle of pirates, hairy, rough and ready men shrinking back as she pulled up her pants, eyes blazing, reached out one hand like a witch's claw, and shouted, in ringing tones, those spitty, guttural words.
A curse, I thought. An honest to God curse. ...
The skinny crewman spun, landing a roundhouse slap across Wallace Beery's bearded chops, knocking him spraddle-legged on his ass in the dirt. “Ye've laid yer filthy paws on the Untouchable! We're all dead men!"
There wasn't enough room on the trail for all the pirates at once, and I thought f
or a second they would jam up like Stooges, trampling one another in their zeal to run away, but it was only grass, and they spread out, splashing and slipping in the muck, falling down, getting up, running away, screaming as they ran.
Screaming for mercy.
There was a soft, whistling moan then, from everywhere, all at once.
Wallace Beery, still sitting at Dah-ee-lah's feet, grew short, dense yellow quills, looking for all the world like a man stuck all over with newly sharpened pencils.
He said something like, “Oh, darn...” and flopped over on his back.
Dah-ee-lah seemed to smile.
More moaning and whistling and I could hear the pirates scream. Scream for mercy. Scream for salvation. Too late.
Kenny came out of the grass then, eyes downcast. Stooped and picked up his rapier, wiped it off on the leg of his shorts and slowly slipped it into its scabbard. “Thought I knew how to use this,” he said. “Guess five lessons weren't enough.” It sounded sensible, but his eyes were so very far away, feverish, almost blind.
Dah-ee-lah helped me to my feet, steadying me as I staggered, blinking away new stars, wishing the ground would keep still for just a second.
And then there was a tiny, piping voice from somewhere nearby, “Is your ladyship unharmed?"
I didn't want to look, but I did anyway, and there was a little mouse, no more than three inches tall, standing on his hind legs, dressed in Lincoln green, complete with a tiny feathered cap. The thing in his hand was a little bitty longbow, a quiver of little yellow arrows peering over his shoulder.
Behind him, more mice came out of the long grass, like men emerging from a darkling wood, behind them more mice still.
The thudding sound I heard was Kenny fainting dead away on the ground.
* * * *
As the sun set toward the White Cliffs, shadows lengthening all around us, we marched on through the long grass toward the City of Gold, a squad of Merry Mice on point, Dah-ee-lah next, fetching as ever, she and the Mouse Commander squeaking away at each other, Kenny and me in the protected middle, another squad of mice making up the rear guard, mousy scouts rustling in the grass.
I imagine the ticks and sand fleas and smaller flies could still sneak up on us, but not much else. I'd stopped wondering if any pirates had survived. Wallace Beery sure as hell had not, laying there like some vast yellow porcupine while we were reviving Kenny and getting on our way.
Asimov's SF, October-November 2006 Page 31