I crept closer. It did not smell like blood. It was a smell I knew. I had smelled it every day in my life. All students did.
I put my hand to the snow, touched a drop, raised it to my nose, touched it to my tongue.
Ink? It was red ink.
Wait a minute. Who had just been saying that wounds were nothing but red ink… ? And the vulture. I knew who sent the vulture. Lord Mavors. It was part of his curse. Whoever threatened to kill one of us would die. And the vulture…
The vulture had not been coming to save me. Grendel had no intention of killing me. The vulture had been coming to save…
I looked at the eagle.
"Colin… ? Is that you… ?"
1.
I walked south, parallel to the sea cliffs, my feet wiggling a bit inside Grendel's big boots. Snow whitened the ragged boots and the burnt hem of the bearskin. I wore the bearskin over my head like an Indian squaw in a blanket. My hair was still wet, and it hung in icy snarls down my back.
I had lost my leather aviatrix cap somewhere along the way. It was true that I also had lost my shoes and underwear and clothes and every other worldly possession. But I missed my cap.
At first, I walked with the eagle held close to my chest, with a flap of the bearskin over him, trying to warm his cold feathers with my body heat. His wounds were mostly healed, but not all. I do not know why the turn-the-blood-to-red-ink trick worked on some wounds and not on others.
For that matter, if Colin could cure two broken wings, why was Grendel unable to wish his severed leg back on? Surely there was no desire stronger or more profound than that of a one-legged man to get his foot back. I wondered if Boggin had interfered with Grendel's wishing-ability in some way.
There was still blood seeping from his feathers, but I did not see any red spurts, as you would get if a major artery were pierced. I kept him wrapped in a handkerchief, until it got brown; then I would change bandages by throwing that hankie away, and wrapping another one around the shivering bird.
For the first mile, I had talked with the bird, trying to get him to clack his beak to count out numbers, or respond to signals, or do something to demonstrate that he was something smarter than a bird. Maybe he was too sick and cold to try to communicate. Maybe he wasn't Colin at all. I didn't know.
My ability to fret was eroding. I was still grateful to the bird, even though the idea that he was not Colin grew on me. I did not drop the creature in the snow, but I stopped thinking of him as my wounded comrade-in-arms. I held him to my chest under Grendel's shirts, so that his head was under my chin, his beak peeking out from my collar, yellow eyes peering at the pathless path ahead.
2.
After the first mile, I was too cold and weary to keep trying to talk. I just gritted my teeth and trudged.
Little white clouds puffed from my lips; sogginess sloshed in my boots. Every hundred paces, I would try to look into the fourth dimension. The light from the hypersphere was a distant ember, then a dull spark, then a not-so-dull flicker. It was still too dim and far-off to see with; my hyper-body and higher senses were blind and numb still; but the fact that Grendel's curse seemed to be wearing off comforted me.
And I admit, I had to use one of the handkerchiefs to wipe away tears that, to my surprise, I kept finding on my cheeks. By rights, I should have cheered when Grendel got his throat ripped out and fell to his death. He had boasted about murdering people and "biting ears off," and I suspected I was not the first virgin girl he had dragged down to his lair for a quick wedding and a brief life as a sex toy.
I could not even think of another person so horrible as Grendel had been, except maybe for some of the oriental tyrants described in Herodotus, or Torquemada, or Adolf Hitler or something.
Those sailors he killed had wives and sweethearts and children back home. No doubt, they had stared out windows at the gray sea on cold nights, wondering; and no doubt, years passed, and no news ever came of the boyfriends, husbands, and fathers who had been the central pillars of their lives.
But pity is not something that fits in an either-or matrix. Just because I felt sorry for his victims did not mean I was not also sorry for him.
It would have been simpler if I could have just hated him and laughed when he died, or made some cruel wisecrack, like a good British spy in the movies when he pushes the bad Chinese spy into a nuclear reactor coolant tank. ("Have a nice trip, Grendel! See you next fall! Har, har, har!") When I was young, I thought the act of getting older meant, year by year, getting more sophisticated, more hard, cool, and unpitying. Less innocent.
Maybe that was a childish idea of what getting older was about. Maybe adults, mature adults, get more innocent with time, not less. Because the word "innocent" does not mean "naive," it means "not guilty."
Children do small evils to each other, schoolyard fights and insults, not because their hearts are pure, but because their powers are small. Grown-ups have more power. Some of them do great evils with that power. But what about the ones who don't? Aren't they more innocent than children, not less?
So I trudged in the snow, weeping slow tears for a dead monster who had wanted to marry me, and wishing I were like a child, cruel and unpitying, again.
3.
I topped the rise. Below me was a narrow slope of hill, then the brink of the upper cliffs, the ragged limestone juts of lower and lesser cliffs, and the inlet, where the docks of Abertwyi are. The village curves around the mouth of the inlet, separated by a low stone retaining wall from the water. Across the water could be seen the looming silhouette of Worm's Head, a steep-sided island, which rises sheer from the waves.
On the slopes north of the village, climbing up toward my vantage point, were derricks and ropes used by stone miners. To the south was the fish cannery that had made the Lilac family rich. On a hill in the middle of the village were the church and the courthouse, and to the east were the tenant estates of some of the influential local families, the Penrice and Mansel Halls. To the northeast was the extension of the highway, easily visible through the nude trees of wintertime, a marching line of telephone poles and power lines to either side…
Except it was not there.
Gone. Vanished.
The physical features were the same. There was the inlet, the cliffs of limestone, and, across the water, the brooding rock of Worm's Head.
There was a village there. It looked enough like Abertwyi that a moment passed before I noticed how small it was. During the day, it is hard to tell whether a town has suffered a power blackout, but after a moment, I noticed no lights were burning anywhere.
The fish cannery was gone. The highway was gone. There were no power lines or telephone poles. The streets were narrower, unpaved, and there were no signal lamps. There was no traffic. On the slopes closer to me, there were a few crudely made wooden derricks, and only a small part of the cliff had been mined for limestone. At the mouth of one of the cuttings, I saw, not a diesel engine, but a steam engine from a museum, next to a coal bin. Both were coated with snow and ice at the moment, white and motionless.
The boats. Nothing seemed that different about them, except that there were far more, even though the docks were fewer. Then I noticed the lack of motorboats. Then I saw the side-wheeler, with a crooked black smokestack above it.
I tried to look into the fourth dimension again. For a moment, I got a clearer view, then a dimmer, and I could see the utility and inner nature of the things around me. The moment I looked, a strand of the morality substance touching me jerked rigidly, and glittered as some energy or signal passed along it.
That jerk frightened me; it looked too much like a trip wire being sprung. I closed my eyes tightly for a moment. When I opened them again, the fourth dimension was dim again, my hypersphere only a candle flame, illuminating nothing.
I admit I was scared. It is much easier to be scared when you are cold, tired, and footsore. And hungry.
When was the last time I had eaten? Holiday pie and hors d'oeuvres at Lily Lilac
's house, I think.
Why had my upper senses failed just now? Maybe I had strained them by trying too hard. Maybe fear hindered their operation. Maybe it was part of a trap, or an attack. Or…
I said aloud, "Colin, this is creeping me out. What was your motto: 'When in doubt, bug out'?"
Time to run away.
4.
I turned east and began to jog. In ten minutes, I had trees around me. By fifteen minutes, I was getting tired and beginning to wonder what time it was. Near noon? In the afternoon? Where was I going to sleep tonight?
Twenty minutes, and I came to a break in the trees.
And there was the highway. I walked across the empty lanes, staring left and right in wonder.
Power lines were dripping with icicles like Christmas ornaments. The telephone poles stood as stiff, regular, and proper as Beefeater guards before the palace of the Queen, with no expression to show that they had been gone from their posts when I last looked for them, half an hour ago.
One lane of the highway was paved in black slush and puddles of blue-gray water. In the distance there came one truck on the road, rolling cautiously down the lane, little wings of filthy water dashing from its tires as it came.
I put up my thumb. I cannot recall if they ever taught me not to hitchhike at school. Maybe they thought I would never leave the estate. But, unless the guy driving the truck was Grendel Glum's twin brother, I thought I would be in less danger than I had been anytime that morning.
I danced back to avoid getting sloshed, tripped on the snow, and landed on my bottom by the roadside, my bearskin flopping open, my hair tangles spilling every which way. My bird flapped and shrieked in annoyance, a high-pitched whine like a steam whistle, cold and lonely.
And shockingly loud. No ghost, no banshee could utter a wail as penetrating as a prince of chaos, trapped in the form of a brainless, bloodstained bird, lost in the snow.
The truck went on by. I understand it is customary in these situations to make rude finger-gestures in the rearview mirrors. I was too well brought up. I stood up, bird in one hand, and tried to shake the snow off my bearskin with the other.
Maybe the bearskin flapping did it. The truck slowed, stopped. Its reverse lights came on, and it backed up. It made a little beep-beep noise as it came.
A man leaned from the driver's side and pushed open the passenger's door. He was a rough-looking fellow in a gray knit cap and a heavy woolen sweater. He had a pipe in his teeth, and the cab of the truck was thick and wet with pipe smoke. I stared in disbelief. Who smoked a pipe in a cab without opening a window?
He had a thick Cornish accent when he spoke. "Merry Christmas, little lady. What might yew be doing out in the wet, on a day like this day?"
"You would not believe me," I said.
"Oh, I hear a lot of things."
"Today was supposed to be my wedding day and someone stole all my clothes, and I'm lost, and I was supposed to meet some friends at the docks in the village, but that was this morning, and they may have left——-"
He looked at my face, which was probably all tearstained and red-eyed; at my clothes, which obviously were not mine; and at my bird, which was wrapped in a bloodstained handkerchief. The collar or choker made of green glass was still around my neck, and the matching bracelets shimmered and twinkled on my wrists. Maybe he thought they were real jewelry.
The pipe, as if by itself, slid from one corner of his mouth to the other. He pushed the door wider. "Get in. I can give yew a ride to the dock. 'Tis nought but five minutes awa'."
I climbed in gratefully. The cab was so high that I had to climb a little ladder thing set along the wheel guard.
It was hot to the point of stifling in the cab, and I coughed on the smoke.
He reached across me to grab the handle and rolled down my window. I must have had a worse morning than I thought, because when he reached out his arm, I fully expected him to grab me and tie me to the seat, or something.
He leaned back, giving me a cocked eye. "Jumpy, are we, missy? Yew've had a bad time, no doubt." He pronounced it doowt.
I said, "I can't believe you believe my story."
He shrugged. "Yew dinnae know me. Why would y' lie? If yew are to lie, why not say something like to be believed, such as yer car broke down? Or that yer a travel-ing bird salesman who carries a big black bearskin rug around on her head? Besides, it's Christmas Day, it is. So I'll pretend to believe yer tale, and yull pretend yew fooled me, and 'twill be our little Christmas gifties to each other, hnn? Tis a day of faith, ye know."
The truck trundled over the rise and came down again into the village. The lanes narrowed, and he began maneuvering the massive lorry down crooked little cobblestone streets to the dock area.
I looked in relief at the red and green traffic lights.
I said, "Ever had one of those days where you are not sure what year you are in?"
He grunted. "Every Saturday morning, if my Friday night goes as big as planned. If I remember not a thing, I know I had a real damn fine good time."
Then he extended one big hand in my direction, not taking his eyes from the lanes. "Name's Sam."
"I am Miss Windrose." I shifted the eagle to one hand and took his handshake gingerly.
"Howdjadoo." (He pronounced it as one word.) "Yer thinking 'tis unchancy that there is no one about?"
("aboowt") "They're all at church. Driving on holy days…" (This was two words) "… 'tis always quiet and graveyardlike, hn? But they give me triple wages, any hauling I do today. How's that for a life? But I won't tell you my base wage, either. It's a pretty penny, too. We got the whole country by the throat, and they pay what we say. It's grand."
I looked at him sidelong. There he sat, working his clutch and gearshift with unselfconscious grace, puffing away like six chimneys, half-hidden in clouds of tobacco, boasting of the highway robbery he enjoyed. Was this what real human beings were like?
I said, "What would you do if you had magic powers?"
"Hn? Join the circus, I guess. Do tricks."
"No, I mean real magic powers. If you could grant wishes… ?"
"Travel the countryside on holy days, disguised as a beautiful motion picture star in baggy clothes, wearing a rug and carrying a bird. Then I would ask folks strange questions. What would you do, missy?"
"I'm serious!"
"Of course you are. Anyone who carries around a hawk covered with blood on her wedding day is serious."
He slowed the truck, stopped, engaged the brake. We were on Waterside Street. I could see the boardwalk and the piers. Empty. I could see the slip where Lily Lilac's boat used to be. Empty.
5.
Sam was looking at my face. He said, "You need some food in you?"
I stirred. I said, "What… ?"
He pointed at a little shop across the way. "I always eat there. The owner is a Hindoo, and he is only closed on Hindoo holy days. Ramandan, or something."
"Ramadan is Islam," I said.
"Well, whatever may be. He's open now, and the first cup of coffee is always free."
"I don't have any money," I said.
"I'd throw it back in yer face if yew did. Christmas gift. Coming?" And he opened his door and began striking his pipe against his boot to throw hot ashes out into the snow.
Not five minutes later we were both eating potato bread and butter pancakes and breakfast ham; not what I expected a Hindu to serve. (I had never seen pancakes before; I thought only Americans ate them.) Of course, the place was called "Jerry's Fine Cafe," and Jerry (whose name was probably Ramarjuna or Sajeeve) was a dark-skinned man who came out and exchanged pleasantries with Sam.
Jerry looked disapprovingly at my eagle, but Sam told him the bird was my Seeing Eye bird and the law required
i
shop owners to allow him on the premises. Sam and I were the only customers in the place, so Jerry let the matter rest
I leaned and whispered, "Is it okay to take these boots off? My feet are all wet and sore."
Sam leaned and whispered back, "Go on. Jerry comes back, I'll tell him yer Japanese."
He stared, not without curiosity, at my beaded slippers, glittering with translucent green beads and lines of crystal. I dried my feet off with a paper napkin, and put my feet back into the slippers, but left the boots on the seat of the chair next to me.
"Yew need something warm in you," he said.
I sipped my first ever cup of coffee. Bleh. Did people actually drink this stuff?
We ate without speaking for a time. I was very hungry.
Then, with no preamble, Sam pointed at me with a fork, which had a piece of pancake on it, dripping syrup. "I been thinking! Here are my wishes. First, I got a nephew who's wrong in the head. They have him in this place near Edgestow. He's fifteen, but he thinks he's five. Bright, for a five-year-old, but…
Well, I'd wish his head back straight. I'd wish my wife, second wife, be up in heaven with the angels. She died of tuberculosis, oh, four years back. About this time of year. First wife, I'd wish her straight to hell, her and her lawyers, too. That's three. Course, Annie probably didn't need any help from me getting to heaven, so let me change my second wish to curing everyone who's got tuberculosis. Filthy disease.
Aside from that, I don't have much I need. Wouldn't wish for money, though. Ruins people. How 'bout yew?"
"Well, I actually have magic powers, and I am trying to decide how to use them."
"Hn. Use 'em for good rather than for evil, I'd say. Create world peace, that'd be a good one. So they let yew out of the institution on Christmas, do they? I don't suppose yew know my nephew. Mortie Finklestein."
I goggled at him. "Your name is Finklestein?"
"My sis, she married a Jew. What's so bad about that! Is it a crime to marry out of the faith? Benjamin Disraeli was a Jew, and he was the finest PM this island ever had, says I, bar none. Einstein was a Jew and smartest man ever lived, wasn't he?" He waved the bit of pancake to make his point, and chomped into it aggressively.
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