Daughter of Regals

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  I couldn’t reach the ape’s eyes from that angle, so I just stuck my left hand in its mouth and tried to jam it down its throat.

  The ape gagged for a second, then started to bite my hand off.

  I could hear the bones breaking, and there was a metallic noise that sounded like my blaster cracking.

  But while it gagged, the ape eased its grip on my chest. Just a fraction, just a few millimeters. But that was all I needed. I was desperate. I dragged the generator upward between us, upward, closer to the center of my chest.

  There was blood running all over the ape’s jaw. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t—I had my tongue jammed against the switches in my teeth. I just dragged, dragged, with every gram of force in my body.

  Then the tines touched my sternum.

  The blaster was damaged. But it went off. Blew the gorilla’s head to pieces.

  Along with most of my hand.

  Then I was lying on top of the ape. I wanted to just lie there, put my head down and sleep, but I wasn’t finished. My job wasn’t finished. I still had Paracels to worry about.

  Somehow I got to my feet.

  He was still there. He was at one of the tables, fussing with a piece of equipment. I stared at him for the longest time before I realized he was trying to do something to the surgical laser. He was trying to get it free of its mounting. So he could aim it at me.

  Strange snuffling noises were coming out of his mouth. It sounded like he was crying.

  I didn’t care. I was past caring. I didn’t have any sentimentality left. I took my knife out and threw it at him. Watched it stick itself halfway to the hilt in the side of his neck.

  Then I sat down. I had to force myself to take off my belt and use it for a tourniquet on my left arm. It didn’t seem to be worth the effort, but I did it anyway.

  Some time later (or maybe it was right away—I don’t know) Morganstark came into the lab. First he said, “We got the gates shut. That’ll hold them—for a while, anyway.”

  Then he said, “Jesus Christ! What happened to you?” There was movement around me. Then he said, “Well, there’s one consolation, anyway.” (Was he checking my tourniquet? No, he was trying to put some kind of bandage on my mangled hand.) “If you don’t have a hand. they can build a laser into your forearm. Line it up between the bones—make it good and solid. You’ll be as good as new. Better. They’ll make you the most powerful Special Agent in the Division.”

  I said, “The hell they will.” Probably I was going to pass out. “The hell they will.”

  … AND STUMBLED WHEN MY FEET SEEMED TO COME down on the sidewalk out of nowhere. The heat was like walking into a wall; for a moment, I couldn’t find my balance. Then I bumped into somebody. That kept me from failing. But he was a tail man in an expensive suit, certain and pitiless, and as he recoiled his expression said plainly that people like me shouldn’t be allowed out on the streets.

  I retreated until I could brace my back against the hard glass of a display window and tried to take hold of myself. It was always like this; I was completely disoriented—a piece of cork carried down the river. Everything seemed to be melting from one place to another. Back and forth in front of me, people with bitten expressions hurried, chasing disaster. in the street, too many cars snarled and blared at each other, blaming everything except themselves. The buildings seemed to go up for miles into a sky as heavy as a lid. They looked elaborate and hollow, like crypts.

  And the beat—I couldn’t see the sun, but it was up there somewhere, in the first half of the morning, bidden by humidity and filth. Breathing was like inhaling hot oil. I had no idea where I was; but wherever it was, it needed rain.

  Maybe I didn’t belong here. I prayed for that. The people who flicked glances at me didn’t want what they saw. I was wearing a gray overcoat streaked with dust, spotted and stained. Except for a pair of ratty shoes, splitting at the seams, and my clammy pants, the coat was all I had on. My face felt like I’d spent the night in a pile of trash. But if I had, I couldn’t remember. Without hope, I put my hands in all my pockets, but they were empty. I didn’t have a scrap of identification or money to make things easier. My only chance was that everything still seemed to be melting. Maybe it would melt into something else, and I would be saved.

  But while I fought the air and the heat and prayed, Please, God, not again, the entire street sprang into focus without warning. The sensation snatched my weight off the glass, and I turned in time to see a young woman emerge from the massive building that hulked beside the storefront where I stood.

  She was dressed with the plainness of somebody who didn’t have any choice—the white blouse gone dingy with use, the skirt fraying at the hem. Her fine hair, which deserved better, was efficiently tied at the back of her neck. Slim and pale, too pale, blinking at the heat, she moved along the sidewalk in front of the store. Her steps were faintly unsteady, as if she were worn out by the burden she carried.

  She held a handkerchief to her face like a woman who wanted to disguise the fact that she was still crying.

  She made my heart clench with panic. While she passed in front of me, too absorbed in her distress to notice me or anyone else, I thought she was the reason I was here.

  But after that first spasm of panic, I followed her. She seemed to leave waves of urgency on either side, and I was pulled along in her wake.

  The crowd slowed me down. I didn’t catch up with her until she reached the corner of the block and stopped to wait for the light to change. Some people pushed out into the street anyway; cars screamed at them until they squeezed back onto the sidewalk. Everybody was in a hurry, but not for joy. The tension and the heat daunted me. I wanted to hold back—wanted to wait until she found her way to a more private place. But she was as distinct as an appeal in front of me, a figure etched in need. And I was only afraid.

  Carefully, almost timidly, I reached out and put my hand on her arm.

  Startled, she turned toward me; her eyes were wide and white, flinching. For an instant, her protective band with the handkerchief dropped from the center of her face, and I caught a glimpse of what she was hiding.

  It wasn’t grief. It was blood.

  It was vivid and fatal, stark with implications. But I was still too confused to recognize what it meant.

  As she saw what I looked like, her fright receded. Under other circumstances, her face might have been soft with pity. I could tell right away that she wasn’t accustomed to being so lost in her own needs. But now they drove her, and she didn’t know what to do with me.

  Trying to smile through my dirty whiskers, I said as steadily as I could, “Let me help you.”

  But as soon as I said it, I knew I was lying. She wasn’t the reason I was here.

  The realization paralyzed me for a moment. If she’d brushed me off right then, there would have been nothing I could do about it. She wasn’t the reason—? Then why had I felt such a shock of importance when she came out — to the street? Why did her nosebleed—which really didn’t look very serious—seem so fatal to me? While I fumbled with questions, she could have simply walked away from me.

  But she was near the limit of her, courage. She was practically frantic for any kind of assistance or comfort. But my appearance was against me. As she clutched her handkerchief to her nose again, she murmured in surprise and hopelessness, “What’re you talking about?”

  That was all the grace I needed. She was too vulnerable to turn her back on any offer, even from a man who looked like me. But I could see that she was so fragile now because she had been so brave for so long. And she was the kind of woman who didn’t turn her back. That gave me something to go on.

  “Help is the circumference of need,” I said. “You wouldn’t be feeling like this if there was nothing anybody could do about it. Otherwise the human race would have committed suicide two days after Adam and Eve left the Garden.”

  I had her attention now, but she didn’t know what to make of me. She wasn’t really listening
to herself as she murmured, “You’re wrong.” She was just groping. ‘I mean your quote. Not help. Reason. ‘Reason is the circumference of energy.’ Blake said that.”

  I didn’t know who Blake was, but that didn’t matter. She’d given me permission—enough permission, anyway, to get me started. I was still holding her arm, and I didn’t intend to let her go until I knew why I was here— what I had to do with her.

  Looking around for inspiration, I saw we were standing in front of a coffee shop. Through its long glass window I saw that it was nearly empty; most of its patrons had gone looking for whatever they called salvation. I turned back to the woman and gestured toward the shop. “I’D let you buy me some coffee if you’ll tell me what’s going on.”

  She was in so much trouble that she understood me. Instead of asking me to explain myself, she protested, “I can’t. I’ve got to go to work. I’m already late.”

  Sometimes it didn’t pay to be too careful. Bluntly, I said, “You can’t do that, either. You’re still bleeding.”

  At that, her eyes widened; she was like an animal in a trap. She hadn’t thought as far ahead as work. She had come out onto the sidewalk without one idea of what she was going to do. “Reese—” she began, then stopped to explain, “My brother.” She looked miserable. “He doesn’t like me to come home when he’s working. It’s too important. I didn’t even tell him I was going to the doctor.” Abruptly, she bit herself still, distrusting the impulse or instinct that drove her to say such things to a total stranger.

  Knots of people continued to thrust past us, but now their vehemence didn’t touch me. I hardly felt the heat.

  I was locked to this woman who needed me, even though I was almost sure she wasn’t the one I was meant to help.

  Still smiling, I asked, “What did the doctor say?”

  She was too baffled to refuse the question. “He didn’t understand it. He said I shouldn’t be bleeding. He wanted to put me in the hospital. For observation.”

  “But you won’t go,” I said at once.

  “I can’t.” Her whisper was nearly a cry. “Reese’s show is tomorrow. His first big show. He’s been living for this all his life. And he has so much to do. To get ready. If I went to the hospital, I’d have to call him. Interrupt—he’d have to come to the hospital.”

  Now I had her. When the need Is strong enough—and when I’ve been given enough permission—I can make myself obeyed. I let go of her arm and held out my hand. “Let me see that handkerchief.”

  Dumbly, as if she were astonished at herself, she lowered her hand and give me the damp cloth.

  It wasn’t heavily soaked; the flow from her nose was slow. That was why she was able to even consider the possibility of going to work. But her red pain was as explicit as a wail in my hand. I watched a new bead of blood gather in one of her nostrils, and it told me a host of things I was not going to be able to explain to her. The depth of her peril and innocence sent a jolt through me that nearly made me fold at the knees. I knew now that she was not the person I had been sent here to help. But she was the reason. Oh, she was the reason, the victim whose blood cried out for intervention. Sweet Christ, how had she let this be done to her?

  But then I saw the way she held her head up while her blood trickled to her upper lip. In her eyes, I caught a flash of the kind of courage and love that got people into trouble because it didn’t count the cost. And I saw something else, too—a hint that on some level, intuitively, perhaps even unconsciously, she understood what was happening to her. Naturally she refused to go to the hospital. No hospital could help her.

  I gave the handkerchief back to her gently, though inside I was trembling with anger. The sun beat down on us. “You don’t need a doctor,” I said as calmly as I could. “You need to buy me some coffee and tell me what’s going on.”

  She still hesitated. I could hardly blame her. Why should she want to s around in a public place with a handkerchief held to her nose? But something about me had reached her, and it wasn’t my brief burst of authority. Her eyes went down my coat to my shoes; when they came back up, they were softer. Behind her hand, she smiled faintly. “You look like you could use it.”

  She was referring to the coffee; but it was her story I intended to use.

  She led the way into the coffee shop and toward one of the booths; she even told the petulant waiter what we wanted. I appreciated that. I really had idea where I was. In fact, I didn’t even know what coffee was. But sometimes knowledge comes to me when I need it. I didn’t even blink as the waiter dropped heavy cups in front of us, sloshing hot, black liquid onto the table. Instead, I concentrated everything I had on my companion.

  When I asked her, she said her name was Kristen Dona. Following a hint I hadn’t heard anybody give me, I looked at her left hand and made sure she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Then I said to get her started, “Your brother’s name is Reese. This has something to do with him.”

  “Oh. no,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “How could it?” She wasn’t lying: she was just telling me what she wanted to believe.

  I shrugged. There was no need to argue with her. Instead I let the hints lead me. “He’s a big part of your life,” I said, as if we were talking about the weather. “Tell me about him.”

  “Well—” She didn’t know where to begin. “He’s a sculptor. He has a show tomorrow—I told you that. His first big show. After all these years.”

  I studied her closely. “But you’re not happy about it.”

  “Of course I am?” She was righteously indignant. And under that, she was afraid.” He’s worked so hard—! He’s a good sculptor. Maybe even a great one. But it isn’t exactly easy. It’s not like being a writer—he can’t just go to a publisher and have them print a hundred thousand copies of his work for two ninety-five, he has to have a place where people who want to spend money on art can come and see what he does. And he has to charge a lot because each piece costs him so much time and effort. So a lot of people have to see each piece before he can sell one. That means he has to have shows. In a gallery. This is his first real chance.”

  For a moment, she was talking so hotly that she forgot to cover her nose. A drop of blood left a mark like a welt across her lip.

  Then she felt the drop and scrubbed at it with her handkerchief. “Oh, damn!” she muttered. The cloth was slowly becoming sodden. Suddenly her mouth twisted and her eyes were flail of tears. She put her other hand over her face. “His first real chance. I’m so scared.”

  I didn’t ask her why. I didn’t want to hurry her. Instead, I asked, “What changed?”

  Her shoulders knotted. But my question must have sounded safe to her. Gradually, some of her tension eased. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s been a sculptor for a long time.” I did my best to sound reasonable, like a friend of her brother’s. “But this is his first big show. What’s different now? What’s changed?”

  The waiter ignored us, too bored to bother with customers who only wanted coffee. Numbly, Kristen took another handkerchief out of her purse, raised the fresh cloth to her nose; the other one went back into her purse. I already knew I was no friend of her brother s’.

  “He met a gallery owner.” She sounded tired and sad. “Mortice Root. He calls his gallery The Root Cellar, but it’s really an old brownstone mansion over on 49th. Reese went there to see him when the gallery first opened, two weeks ago. He said he was going to beg— He’s become so bitter. Most of the time, the people who run galleries won’t even look at his work. I think he’s been being for years.”

  The idea made her defensive. “Failure does that to people. You work your heart out, but nothing in heaven or hell can force the people who control access to care about you. Gallery owners and agents can make or break you because they determine whether you get to show your work or not. You never even get to find out whether there’s anything in your work that can touch or move or inspire people, no matter how hard you try, unless you can convince some owner hell ma
ke a lot of money out Of you.”

  She was defending Reese from an accusation I hadn’t made. Begging was easy to understand; anybody who was hurt badly enough could do it. She was doing it herself.— but she didn’t realize it.

  Or maybe she did. She drank some Of her coffee and changed her tone. “But. Mr. Root took him on,” she said almost brightly. “He saw Reese’s talent right away. He gave Reese a good contract and an advance. Reese has been working like a demon, getting ready, making new pieces. He’s finally getting the chance he deserves.”

  The chance he deserves. I heard echoes in that—suggestions she hadn’t intended. And she hadn’t really answered my question. But now I had another one that was more important to me.

  “Two weeks ago,” I said. “Kristen, how long has your nose been bleeding?”

  She stared at me while the forced animation drained out Of her face.

  “Two weeks now, wouldn’t you say?” I held her frightened eyes. “Off and on at first, so you didn’t take it seriously? But now it’s constant? If it weren’t so slow, you’d choke yourself when you went to sleep at night?”

  I’d gone too far. All at once, she stopped looking at me. She dropped her handkerchief, opened her purse. took out money and scattered it on the table. Then she covered her face again. “I’ve got to go,” she said into her hand. “Reese hates being interrupted,, but maybe there’s something I can do to help him get ready for tomorrow.”

  She started to leave. And I stopped her. Just like that. Suddenly, she couldn’t take herself away from me. A servant can sometimes wield the strength Of his Lord.

  I wanted to tell her she’d already given Reese more help than she could afford. But I didn’t. I wasn’t here to pronounce judgment. I didn’t have that right. When I had her sitting in front of me again. I said, “You still haven’t told me what changed.”

  Now she couldn’t evade me. couldn’t pretend she didn’t understand. Slowly, she told me what had happened.

  Mortice Root had liked Reese’s talent—had praised it effusively—but he hadn’t actually liked Reese’s work. Too polite, he said. Too reasonable. Aesthetically perfect. emotionally boring. He urged Reese to “open up”—dig down into the energy Of his fears and dreams, apply his great skill and talent to darker, more “honest” work. And he supplied Reese with new materials. Until then, Reese had worked in ordinary clay or wax, making castings Of his figures only when he and Kristen were able to afford the caster’s price. But Root had given Reese a special, black clay which gleamed like a river under a swollen moon. An ideal material, easy to work when it was damp, but finished when it dried, without need for firing or sealer or glaze—as hard and heavy as stone.