Blind Shrike

by Richard Kadrey

The balloon portion resembled an enormous, ruby-colored seahorse. Below this was a comfortable looking gondola of a dark, lacquered wood with gold filigree. Spyder saw the seahorse blocks away, but wasn’t worried. By now he knew that no one else could see the thing or would remember it for more than a few seconds if they did.

  Spyder parked the Dead Man’s Ducati by a clam chowder stand in front of Fisherman’s Wharf and left the keys in the ignition. Taking Lulu by the hand, he led her down the long wooden walkway connected to the piers. Long before Fisherman’s Wharf had been transformed into a video game and fried fish tourist trap, the place had been a working pier for fishing boats coming in from beyond the Golden Gate. Even weekend sailors avoided the place now, however. It wasn’t just the tourists. The few places left to tie up had been staked out by hundreds of growling and extremely territorial sea lions. Mostly, the animals used the piers to sun themselves, so in the cool morning air there weren’t more than a dozen or so sacked out on the deck. Spyder walked Lulu carefully around the sea lions to the airship.

  Primo waved to them from the end of the pier. Shrike was sitting on one of the pilings, her face to the sun. Her pale skin was outlined in the orange and pinks of dawn light. Spyder stood behind her. She got to her feet, put a hand on his chest and smiled at him. “I never doubted you for a moment, even if you doubted yourself,” Shrike said and pecked him on the cheek. She went to the balloon and Primo helped her into the gondola, then Lulu. Spyder followed them inside as Primo cast off the rope that tethered them to the wharf. For a second, it seemed as if nothing was happening. Then, they rose straight into the chill morning sky. Spyder’s stomach dropped with the nauseous sensation of riding in a freight elevator.

  Shrike was passing around cups and a thermos full of hot coffee. Spyder poured some and watched Primo at the front of the gondola operating a spider web of lines and pulleys, positioning the airship to catch the bay winds. Spyder took his cup and went to little man.

  “Want some coffee?” Spyder asked.

  “I don’t drink stimulants, sir.”

  “Need any help with the ropes?”

  Primo grinned. “Oh, no thank you. I’m fine.” He pulled enthusiastically on one line and let another slide through his hand as they turned away from the coast and drifted toward the Golden Gate Bridge, steadily gaining altitude as they went.

  “You look like the cat who ate the canary, after fucking it,” said Spyder.

  The little man nodded. “I’m doing what I love,” he said. “I serve Madame Cinders because that is my duty. She gave my clan sanctuary centuries ago and we always honor our debts. But living sedentary in her palace isn’t the happiest life for me.”

  “A ramblin’, gamblin’ man.”

  Primo laughed. “We Gytrash are travelers both by profession and by disposition. I grew up on horseback, in trading ships clad in gold and on endless overland treks through all three Spheres.

  “This airship reminds me of one I was on many years ago. My clan landed on the island of Montes Lunae to make repairs on take on supplies. Montes Lunae is a rich, green island in the second Sphere which, back then, was ruled by Chashash, the Raven King. It was the hundred and fiftieth year of Chashash’s rein and in keeping with Lunae tradition, he’d declared Jubilee.”

  “That some kind of party?” asked Spyder.

  “It’s much, much more than that, sir. During Jubilee, all laws are suspended, all slaves freed, all the lands won in battle are returned to their original owners. Jubilee is a time of renewal and madness. A time to burn the fields—both physical and metaphysical. Prisons became art galleries. Art galleries became bordellos. Bordellos became court houses. Then it all changes again over night.

  “As time goes on, the laws of physics begin to fall apart. Mortals can fly…badly, in my experience. On Montes Lunae, many aeronauts cracked their skulls before they got the hang of it. And when they did learn the basics of flying, they’d still get air sick. It was a bad idea to enter some neighborhoods without an umbrella.

  “There was a method to all this madness. Everyone who lived on the island, including visitors like us, were given tattoos with colored shapes—circles, triangles or squares, along with alchemical symbols. This complex combination of colors and symbols told you who you were in relation to everyone else on any given day. On my chest, I received an inverted red triangle with the symbol for quicksilver.

  “The night my clan received its tattoos (each of us received a different combination of symbols), we had no idea of our place among the islanders or to each other anymore. We were saved when I saw a Captain from the Raven King’s army. I had met the man earlier, but that night he prostrated himself before me. He was a slave, he told me, the lowest off the low in relation to those who carried my symbol. I had him explain the pecking order to my whole clan, so that we might fit in with the celebrations. When I saw the captain again a few days later, he was the lord and I was the slave. This is how it was during Jubilee. Anyone could be anyone else on any given night. Even the Raven King himself was, on occasion, both a prisoner and a slave. I know this because I, Primo Kosinski, of the Black Iron Gytrash, for three full days became king of the second Sphere.

  “I was in prison when it happened. Everyone ends up prison during Jubilee. What I didn’t know was that the Jubilee kings and queens were chosen in prison by a lottery. My lottery card bore the outline of a wolf’s paw. This meant nothing to me since a number of other prisoners had similar symbol on their lots. But through a combination of the wolf, the configuration of the stars in the sky and my tattoos, I was declared king and taken to the royal palace high atop the World Poplar.

  “I loved being king. Pretty girls—exotic dancers who were now the legislature—would bring me fruit and legal documents. I often signed the document without reading them, assuming I would learn what they were eventually.

  “We passed new Jubilee laws constantly, then would make it illegal to enforce them. The laws were often deliberately ludicrous. It became illegal to carry an small dog while smoking a pipe. It was further illegal to attempt sexual relations with an animal while either party was on fire. No one could smile while wearing white, or frown while in the presence of a man in stripes. Those found guilty of these charges might find themselves banished to the sewers with nothing but a candle and a baseball bat. Or they might be made Archbishop.

  “The only law that remained constant and coldly rational throughout Jubilee was simple: Everyone on Montes Lunae, resident or guest, must participate in Jubilee wholeheartedly while he or she was there. This was a hard thing for some people. It was a hard thing for my family.

  “Eventually, my mother found herself subordinate to a man she didn’t like, a marriage broker who was also a card cheat and a libertine—two things my mother couldn’t abide. She refused to serve the man when it was her time. When the broker insisted, my father and brothers beat him. My family was arrested and bought before me. I was King. I had no choice. They had broken the most basic law of Jubilee.

  “I executed them.”

  Spyder looked at Primo hard as the little man made subtle adjustments on the lines that controlled the airship’s progress.

  “But this isn’t a sad story,” Primo continued. “To honor my family’s death, I prepared their bodies as a great feast on my last night as king. I invited all the citizens of the island to dine with me. Everyone ate and through the citizens’ digestive tracts, my family became a part of every person on Montes Lunae. When those citizens had children, a tiny piece of my family was passed on to them. To this day, I am welcome in any home on the island, from the highest to the lowest, because, in a sense, every person on Montes Lunae is a blood relation.”

  TWENTY TWO

  Bewitched

  “It occurs to me that I have no idea where we’re headed.”

  “To the desert. The Kasla Mountains,” said Shrike. “They’re our entrance to Hell.”

  Spyder and Shrike were in the galley below deck and she was mixing a strong tea fo
rtified with red wine and spices. Spyder liked the smell and he enjoyed watching Shrike work, feeling with her small, sure hands for each utensil and ingredient as she prepared the brew.

  “I’ve never heard of the Kaslas.”

  “They’re on the island of Kher-aba in the Sunkosh Sea.”

  “This is going to be one of those places that regular people can’t see, right? And I’m going to recognize fuck all.”

  “Chances are.”

  “Tell me how nice I am for coming along.”

  Shrike smiled. “You’re an angel. A life saver. My prize pony.”

  The living quarters in the airship were like a flying palace, an equal, in miniature, of Madame Cinders’ ornate quarters. The place smelled of cedar, mahogany and Shrike’s herbal brew. Nearby, Lulu slept on a heavy Chinese fainting couch, delicately carved in the shape of an emperor dragon. Though smaller than his warehouse, the airship was easily the best place Spyder had ever lived.

  “I’m the teacher here, school girl. You’re not allowed to sexually harass me.”

  “You’re missing your chance, Humbert. I was going to do my best Lolita for you.”

  “How is it that a princess who knows about Lolita has never heard of stuff like James Dean or a Porsche?”

  “Sorry if I skipped Pop Culture 101 before we met. I’ve lived in this Sphere on and off and I’ve picked up a few things. TV I learned about from my old partner. He would describe the shows to me.”

  “You never told me much about him.”

  She shrugged. “He was a boy I met in the third Sphere, Ozymand Riyahd, a thief and the son of a swordmaker. He helped me train and perfect my skills. But it was dangerous for us. Soldiers from my kingdom were still looking for me. We bribed a wizard for the magic to get to the First Sphere. Neither swordsmanship nor magic helped, in the end. Ozymand was murdered. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to go all Jimmy Olsen on you. but I needed to know what it was between you two.”

  “Why?”

  Spyder shrugged. “Because you have my interest. Because you’re not like anyone I ever met before which, I know, is an understatement. I like you, but I don’t want to go shaking my tail feathers where they’re not wanted.”

  “Ozymand was my friend and will always own a piece of my heart. But he’s gone now. We murderers are a practical bunch. Just like on TV. When the first Darrin left Bewitched, they got another.”

  “You know about Bewitched?”

  “Uncle Arthur makes me laugh. But TV witches aren’t much like the ones I’ve known.”

  Shrike finished preparing the tea and handed a cup to Spyder. It was warm and revived him after his sleepless night.

  “Maybe you can get a job as a demon consultant in Hollywood.”

  “I’ll be a stunt person for all the famous blind female action stars,” said Shrike. She laughed. “I liked Jean Harlow. Is she still in movies?”

  “Not for about 50 years.”

  “Oh. The way her voice sounded made her sound so beautiful.”

  “She was beautiful. Good guess.”

  “I told you: there’s blind and there’s blind.”

  “Which means what?”

  “I’ll explain later. Tell me about your friend. Is she an expert on Hell?”

  “Not hardly. That’s Lulu. She’s a friend I couldn’t leave behind.”

  “Can she fight? Can she find water in the desert? Navigate by the stars?”

  “She can give you nipple rings and a nice labret.”

  “Then why did you bring her? You know where we’re going. Every step of this journey is going to be over razor blades and landmines.”

  “Things back home are steel wool panties—somewhat uncomfortable and crawling up your ass. A demon’s pissed at me, and now everyone thinks I’m Ted Bundy’s cabana boy. If I’d a left Lulu behind, she would have offed herself or been offed by some solid citizen. You should understand about wanting to protect a friend.”

  “She’s not one of your little harem girls?”

  “Lulu’s my oldest friend in the world. And if she was going to do the Dance of the Seven Veils it would be for you, not me.”

  “Ah. A girl’s girl.”

  “She’d likely prefer ‘Soft Butch,’ but yeah. You’re not jealous or anything are you?”

  “You’re the one whose penis has its own answering machine. I heard and smelled a woman coming on board…”

  “And thought I was bringing a snack? Thanks for letting me know you still think I’m an idiot.”

  “I don’t think that. We just don’t know each other that well, yet. In my kind of work, trust is important. And I don’t give it easily.”

  “Neither do I, and I’m not even a killer.”

  “Then, you should understand that I’m enjoying your company, but am not entirely at ease with it yet.”

  “I’m right with you there, Calamity Jane.”

  “We’ll know more by the end of the trip.”

  “Not me. Aside from meeting you, I want to forget every bit, every minute of this,” said Spyder. He lit an American Spirit.

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Shrike said. “When you lose the sight, I’ll be gone, too. I’m from another Sphere. If you saw me at all, it would be as a ghost.”

  “Bollocks. Madame Cinders said her book has the power to create and uncreate things. She should be able to bend a few rules about what can and can’t be seen. I want to see you. I don’t want to see anything that’s going to eat me; I don’t want to see demons or talking snakes; and I don’t ever want to see anyone with horns or wings. “

  “Some of my best friends have horns and wings.”

  “I’ll be your hillbilly boyfriend. Tell your magic buddies I’m pretty, but kind of slow.”

  “No problem there.”

  “See? We’re halfway home.”

  “And if Madame Cinders can’t bend the rules? What if, to regain your precious ignorance, we never see each other again?”

  “We’ll deal with that when it comes up. And it won’t. Besides, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing out here. I’m going to get eaten by a demon dachshund or shanked by a fire-breathing tea cozy.”

  “Stick with me, pony boy. The talking dogs will have to get through me to get to you.”

  Shrike laid her hand on Spyder’s chest. He didn’t move, but became aware of his heart beating and the movement of blood through his body.

  “I think you’re sexually harassing me again, but I’ll let it go for now,” he said.

  “Did you bring your books?”

  “Jenny took ’em all. But I know the big stuff, the grand schemes. The first, most important thing you need to understand about Hell is what the alchemist Hermes Trimegistus said: ‘Hell is like anywhere else. Only worse.’ Course, that sounds a lot better in Latin.”

  Spyder talked into the night, telling Shrike about the pits and traps of Hell—the cunning lies demons tell, the slowly spinning trees full of knives in the abattoir forests. Lulu slept nearby in the hold. Spyder checked on her from time to time and made her drink water. They sailed west all day and all night. Like bright toys, airships drifted in the distance.

  TWENTY THREE

  Death is not the End

  Among the greatest lies ever told, probably the greatest is that death only comes in one flavor.

  Depending on the time, the place, the species of the deceased and its general standing in the universe, the nouveau-dead can find themselves experiencing any number of different types of death.

  Most often, the classes of death experienced by humans fall into three categories:

  Total Death. This is the typical human death. Sleeping the big sleep. Taking a dirt nap. The spirit has moved on and the body is empty meat in the cold ground. Nothing, short of some expensive special effects or an act of god, is going make a Total Death any but a common separation of spirit and a feast for worms.

  Hungry Death. This is a loathsome kind of half-death. Ty
pically, the hungry dead end up as zombies—slow-witted, gluttons for human flesh and smelling like an abandoned pig farm. This is the category where you never want to find yourself. Too deranged for Heaven and too unstable to accept damnation in Hell, there’s no love lost in any Sphere for the Hungry Dead.

  Petit Mort. The little death. This is the most elusive, but perhaps the most sublime human death. It’s reserved for those enlightened souls to whom death and life aren’t separate states, but the continuation of a single thought. Once they’ve made that initial transition between life and death, your typical Petit Mort spirit slips continually been the Land of the Dead and the Living Earth, wherever the action happens to be at the time.

  Each state of death has a very different cast. Not all bad ones are punished. Not all good souls are rewarded. Luck or the lack of it, timing and intelligence are as important in death as they are in life.

  A few of the humans who’ve experienced Total Death are musicians Buddy Holly and Bob Wills (plus most of his Texas Playboys); comedian Andy Kauffman; aviatrix Amelia Earhart; Picasso; cosmonaut Valentina Tereshkova; Marilyn Monroe; and Hitler.

  The Hungry Dead also include a number of musicians, most notably Jim Morrison; also actress Jayne Mansfield; serial killer (and the real Jack the Ripper) Frederick Bailey Deeming; author Ayn Rand; big-eyed child painters Margaret and Walter Keane.

  The small Petit Mort roster includes most of the major prophets, plus a few artists, such as the painter Marcel Duchamp; singer Robert Johnson; inventor Nikolai Tesla, and Lilith, the first wild wife of Eden. Also in this category is a peculiar class of being, not quite human and not quite divine. These are the Tricksters. They slip between life and death for the simple reason that they refuse to take either state seriously. The Tricksters—Loki, Legba, the Painted Man, Coyote, Kubera and others—are pure chaos. Some cultures are certain that the Tricksters created the universe as a colossal practical joke, while others believe that as a joke is how they will end it.