Butcher Bird

by Richard Kadrey

  “Didn’t we all?”

  “Yeah, and it was fun!” said the younger Spyder. “You gave it up, didn’t you? You have that housebroken look. Way too upstanding to steal for your supper these days.”

  “What can I say? Unlike you, Peter Pan, I grew up.”

  “That’s your excuse for what you’ve become? That’s stone pitiful.”

  “I’m not going to justify myself to someone who doesn’t even exist. However, on the off chance that it means something, I’ll tell you this. Remember Santos Raye?”

  “Fat, white-haired fucker at the chop shop. Everyone called him Santos Claus.”

  “That’s him. You’re too young to know this, but Santos got murdered. Iggy Atkinson did it.”

  “So what? Santos was a snake-mean, drunk fuck who got what he deserved.”

  “Yeah, but I talked to him that morning. And Santos was Iggy’s partner. Then Santos disappeared. No body, no nothing. But everyone knew what happened. I was a happy car thief, but I never pictured myself as a murderer. And I knew if I stuck around, sooner or later that’s what I’d be. That or dead.”

  “You pussyed out. On both of us.”

  “We were always playing walking a fine line, painting and drawing in the day, stealing cars for Iggy and Santos at night. It was cool and fun. We were artists and above it all. Then Santos was dead and I knew who did it and I wasn’t above shit. I made a choice. Art or crime. I chose art.”

  “You made the pussy choice.”

  “It’s my life, and you’re just the ghost of something I don’t want to be, I don’t even want to know about.”

  “Hey, remember this?” Young Spyder pulled a punch knife from behind his back.

  “I’m you. You can’t hurt me.”

  “I saw that Star Trek, too. But it’s not how things work here. That bloody hand hurt?” His youthful reflexes were still street-fight quick. He slashed Spyder’s already bloody fist.

  “Fuck!” Spyder yelled, grabbing his cut hand.

  Spyder went down on one knee. He’d liked kicking people in the head in his youth. When his younger self approached, Spyder doubled over as if in pain, reached into his own waist band and slashed the kid’s right knee with Apollyon’s knife. Young Spyder went down hard, clutching his leg.

  “Fuck you, fucker! You’re gonna die, you sell-out motherfucker. When the Clerks gut that dyke cunt and your girlfriend, I’m gonna hold you down and make you watch!”

  Spyder felt an overpowering desire to run away. Seeing his young reckless self lying bloody on the ground and cursing him, another powerful desire took over, however. Spyder kicked the kid in the temple. Then in the ribs. Then the groin. Then he just kicked to feel the thrill of his boot making contact with a body. When he stopped, the boy wasn’t moving. Spyder wrapped the silk scarf tighter around his wounded hand and ran into the side streets of Berenice, hoping he could find his way back to the rendezvous point. He didn’t want to get lost and have to trade away another pair of good boots.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  UNSTRUNG

  When Spyder finally found his way back to the corner on the pink flagstone street, the others were already there.

  Lulu waved to him and Shrike cocked her head in his direction as he approached. Spyder wondered if she recognized his footsteps. He’d heard that blind people could sometimes do that sort of thing. His hand felt as if it were on fire.

  “Hey, we got us horses. We’re real cowboys now!” said Lulu happily. “Damn, what’s up with your hand?”

  “Are you all right, Spyder?” asked Shrike.

  “Let me see the wound,” said Count Non.

  “Later. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  “You know how to ride?” Shrike asked.

  “The end with the face goes forward, right?”

  They walked to the stables where Shrike and Primo had traded the last of her jewelry for horses, saddles and feed. Riding down the long boulevard, they left the city using a smuggler’s route they’d bribed the stable owner to reveal: a refuse tunnel that swept away the waste and trash produced by the city’s human population. The place was dark, stinking and, at times, the ancient masonry ceiling was so low that even lying flat on their mounts, the riders’ backs slid along the slimy tunnel roof. But, it was better than trying to swim with the horses, or braving the sandstorm, fire or freezing waste at Berenice’s other gates, Shrike reminded them, before vomiting into the filth. That set Spyder and Lulu off. Eventually, the tunnel ended at a sluggish stream in the open desert, just beyond the city walls. The fresh air and light was as thrilling as anything Spyder remembered in his life. They turned north, with Primo, the traveler and natural geomancer, in the lead. Lulu and the Count followed, and Spyder and Shrike rode at the rear.

  “What went on back there?” asked Shrike. “Did you have words with Count Non?”

  “Nah. He had words with me. Listen, can you hurt those things back there? Those memory ghosts?”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I had a run-in. With myself. It got out of hand. I might have killed him.”

  “I don’t think you can kill those spirits. Do you still have the memory of the part of yourself that you fought with?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Then it’s still alive back there. The only one you hurt is yourself. There’s so much pain in your voice.”

  “He was just a kid. I was just a kid. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to wipe him out.”

  “That’s not how you’re going to get rid of him, you know.”

  “What is?”

  “Learn to forgive him.”

  “Did you forgive the guy who betrayed you?”

  Neither of them said anything for a while. His hand had stopped bleeding, so he wiggled his fingers to see if they worked properly. They did, but moving them was agony. “Don’t tell the others about this, okay?”

  Shrike leaned to him in the saddle. “Kiss me,” she said. Spyder was happy to oblige.

  “Are you cured?” Shrike asked. “Back home, at the Autumn Encomium—it’s a lot like Christmas—members of the royal family must kiss any ill or injured person who asks. The kiss was supposed to cure all maladies.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Tradition says yes. As far as I’m aware, no, not even once.”

  They stopped to water the horses at a spring a few hours later. Berenice was long out of sight and before them was nothing but open desert and the Kasla Mountains in the distance. As the horses drank, the group ate some bread and meat Count Non had traded for in one of the street markets. The meat was stringy, but spicy and rich tasting. Spyder started to ask what kind of meat it was, but decided to leave well enough alone.

  “How’s your hand?” asked Lulu, between mouthfuls of bread.

  “It’s all right. The Count put on some ranch-dressing-smelling goo. It doesn’t even hardly hurt,” said Spyder, flexing his fingers.

  “You see the fight barkers back in Berenice?”

  “Think I must’ve missed them.”

  “Damn. You’d’ve loved it. After you took off, the Count and me were kind of looking for you. We went down this one street and there’s all these sideshow freaks and retards in a big metal pen with all these locals staring ’em down. Pinheads. Guys with arms where their legs should be. Or their bodies stop just south of their nipples. Monster-headed hydrocephalic she-males. It’s totally Tod Browning. And the real twisted part? These freaks fight each other while the barkers take bets!”

  “And I thought I was having a twisted time.”

  “It gets worse,” said Lulu. “I asked some old guy what the deal was. He said they were the broken memories. Like the memories of schizos or dying people. They’re like the deranged homeless of Berenice, roaming the streets, attacking each other and normal memories. I guess some humans figured how to make some money off ’em. You’d never guess those shiny, happy people would be into that, would you? I mean, all those clean, straight streets, and here’s the guy w
ho made your shoes betting that the blind geek in the corner can bite the fingers off the legless tranny.”

  “They made money tossing Christians to the lions, why not memories?”

  “Everything’s show biz, in the end.”

  “Truer words were never.”

  “Couple of those clowns thought I was with the geeks on account of my unique look. The Count straightened ’em out.”

  Spyder wondered if he should tell Lulu about running into the Black Clerks, but he decided that the news wouldn’t do her any good. He handed her the canteen of water Shrike had given him. Lulu took a long drink. A red and black snake burrowed up out of the sand, tasted the air with its tongue and dove back underground.

  “And you say I never take you anywhere nice,” Spyder said to Lulu.

  That evening, they camped in a small dune valley, out of the night wind. They hadn’t seen any airships all day, so the others started a fire while Primo showed Spyder how to hobble the horses. He didn’t feel it while riding, but once on his feet, Spyder’s ass and back were sore. It took him a while to pour grain into the horses’ feed bags, as he couldn’t grip either bag properly with his injured hand. The Count found him and helped him slip the bags onto the horses’ heads.

  “Back in Berenice, I upset you. That wasn’t my intention,” said Count Non.

  “No harm, no foul, man,” said Spyder, slipping the feed bag on the last horse. “I’m just a little on edge. You and Shrike, you’re used to this Conan the Barbarian stuff. I’m just passing through and it’s getting to me.”

  “It is a situation. I can see how ending up here unwillingly could leave one unstrung.”

  “That’s it. I am un-fucking-strung,” Spyder said. “What’s your story? You don’t sweat anything. That some stiff upper lip blue blood thing?”

  “My father certainly wouldn’t say so. Unlike Shrike, I can’t claim a tragic seduction or a kingdom stolen. I’m nothing more than a bad son who can’t go home.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What does any son do? I didn’t love my father enough. And he didn’t have the patience to let me find that love on my own terms.”

  “We’ve got something in common, then. The last thing my father ever said to me, before he disappeared into a sea of Jack Daniel’s, was, ‘You are my greatest mistake.’ I was twelve.”

  The Count nodded and stroked the neck of one of the horses. “Making our own way toughens us. Look at you. Not everyone could take the shock of being snatched unwillingly from one world and dropped into a new one.”

  “Halfway to Hell, man. I thought I’d cleaned up a little, and was going the other way. Or, at least, holding steady.”

  “It’s not a kind universe. I’ve lived many places since leaving home, many much worse than this. Compared to where we could be, this isn’t so bad at all.”

  “The idea that we could die out here doesn’t bother you?”

  “There are worse things than death. Would you rather change places with Shrike’s father?”

  “No thanks.”

  “For now, we have this sky and the moon, warm air in our lungs and good companions. I can tell you one thing for certain, little brother: In this life, no matter what anyone promises you, what allegiances of love or fealty they swear or what gods they pray to, you will never have more than what you have at this moment.”

  “Goddam, Count, you cheered me all the hell up. I might just dance.”

  Count Non looked up at the sky. “‘Every night and every morn, some to misery are born; every morn and every night, some are born to sweet delight; some are born to sweet delight, some are born to endless night.’” He motioned for Spyder to follow him away from the horses. “Show me how well you can use—what are you calling it?—the Hornet.”

  Spyder held up his injured hand. “The wing’s clipped.”

  “As it may well be in battle. Come on, I’ll show you some tricks that will impress the girls.”

  “You make a convincing argument.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  HIGHWAY TO HELL

  “My left ring finger,” said Spyder.

  “My little toe. Either one,” replied Lulu.

  “I suppose I could lose an ear.”

  “A nostril.”

  “Nope. It’s the whole nose or nothing.”

  “Picky fucker. I’ll keep my nose. How about my pancreas? I could lose that. What the hell does a pancreas do anyway?” Lulu asked.

  “That’s where your Islets of Langerhans are.”

  “What the hell are they?”

  “I have no idea. I just remember the name from high school biology.”

  “I wonder if I even have a pancreas anymore.”

  The group was riding north, into a waste of dust and heat. It was early in the day and the air was still crisp. The lemon sun had bleached the sky to a pearly blue.

  “If they took it, they must know what it’s for, so someone’s getting some use out of it.”

  “As long as someone’s happy.”

  “Smell,” said Spyder.

  “Smell? That’s a sense. Smell’s not a part of your body you can lose.”

  “Excuse me, Nurse Ratched, but smell is a neurological response in the olfactory cortex in the temporal lobe of your brain. Ipso goddam facto, ‘smell’ is a part of your body.”

  “Fuck you and the Discovery Channel,” said Lulu. “It’s still a stupid answer. Without smell, you’d never get laid again. Sex is all about smell. Pheromones and all that invisible shit that let’s you know who wants to ride you like a rocking horse and who just wants to steal your smokes.” Lulu turned around in her saddle. “Am I right, Shrike? Guys are such idiots.”

  “She’s right, Spyder. Sex is smell. Smell is sex.”

  “You’re all against me,” Spyder said. “Primo, you lost something the other day. You should be playing, too. What part of your body would you lose first if you had to lose something?”

  “I don’t think I’d like to lose anything more, thank you,” said Primo.

  Shrike said, “You don’t want to play game this with Primo. He’ll win.”

  “Why’s that?” Spyder asked.

  “Primo, what did you do with your severed arm?” Shrike asked.

  “I ate it, ma’am.”

  From the desert floor rose the detritus of long-dead cities. Spyder slowed as they rode among the ruins. He ran his fingers over broken pillars that curved up from the sand like the ribs of a fossilized giant. Spiral stairways curled into the empty sky. Faceless, wind-scarred statues stood watch over the wreckage of enigmatic machines of corroded brass gears and cracked mirrors, stained ivory, springs, sprockets and shattered quartz lenses.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit,” Count Non said.

  “It’s shit like that that most weeks made me cut Sunday school,” said Spyder. “I got a beating for it, but I’ll take that over brainwashing. Everything we do or try is corrupt? What are we supposed to do with our lives?”

  “According to a number of prophets,” said Non, “our true calling is a lifetime of worship and nothing more.”

  “Praise the lord and pass the ammunition,” said Spyder. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “I agree.”

  “You’ve got quite a stack of biblical pickup lines, Count. You in the seminary or something?”

  “I am the victim of a classical education. I learned at a young age that a good quote allows you to appear smarter than you really are.”

  “‘In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock,’” recited Spyder. “Welles says that in The Third Man. I remember it whenever life goes all abstract expressionist
.”

  “That’s every other weekend for you, right?” said Lulu.

  “Fuck you, Martha Stewart.”

  Along a high ridge to the east, desert nomads were salvaging junk from the sand. They had sheets of sand-scoured metal, ornate urns and statues piled on long sleds that they hauled, by hand, across the dunes.

  “Should we stop and say hi?” asked Lulu.

  “Why?” asked Shrike.

  “I don’t know. So we don’t seem like assholes.”

  “This is their desert,” said Count Non. “They’re more likely to think we’re thieves after their salvage than their new best friends.”

  “What about food and water? Maybe we could trade with them,” Spyder said.

  “We have enough food. And there’s plenty of water in the desert,” said Shrike. “Primo’s taking us along a route with springs and wells, aren’t you?”

  “Give me a single leaf and I will tell you the shadows of the birds that have crossed it. Give me a stone and I will tell you what army has marched past and where the freshest water can be found,” Primo said. “That’s the earliest bit of wisdom the Gytrash learn in childhood.”

  The day was heating up quickly. The tracks of the nomads’ sleds paralleled their trail for several miles, then cut to the east and disappeared. Spyder pulled off his leather jacket (causing shooting pains throughout his injured hand) and draped it over the saddle horn.

  Shrike rode up beside him and offered him some of her water. Spyder drank and kissed her hand as he gave her back the canteen.

  “Tell me more about Lucifer’s kingdom,” she said.

  A few yards ahead of them, Spyder could hear Lulu singing quietly, “I’m on the Highway to Hell…”

  “Some cultures see Hell as a pit of torment. Others as a work-house as big as the universe,” Spyder said.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  A BAD GOOD NIGHT

  “You sure you never see anything when you’re not doing your blood magic? I swear, sometimes your eyes lock on me and they’re wild and wide. There’s fireworks going off inside and bolts of lightning, like from a tesla coil.”

  Spyder and Shrike had just finished making love on a Persian carpet Shrike had manifested with her magic book behind a dune near their camp.