by Douglas Rees
I didn’t know. But, since I didn’t, I thought the thing to do was to push it a little further and see what happened.
On Monday afternoon, Turk and I went down to the courthouse. We were going to find out who owned that mill.
The Gomorrah County Courthouse was a red brick monstrosity from the nineteenth century that had been designed to look like a castle by somebody who had never seen a castle. It had turrets and gargoyles and tall, narrow windows covered with iron bars. There were even ramparts that looked like they’d be good for pouring boiling oil down onto the cars driving by.
And of course it had dungeons.
Not real dungeons. Just offices. Three levels of them, all underground and all as small and dark as if the people who worked there were serving life sentences. But jenti aren’t too hot for natural light, so it made a kind of sense to build it that way.
The hall of records takes up most of the first floor basement, but you can’t find the documents about Crossfield there. To find those, you have to go to the annex, which is down on the third basement floor, at the end of the hall, behind an old-fashioned oak door, which is locked. The door has a window of frosted glass and the word ANNEX painted on it, and the word HOURS under that. Under that, there’s nothing.
I knocked. Nothing happened. I knocked again. More nothing.
“Move over, Cuz,” Turk said then, and started dragging one long, black pinkie nail all over the door.
“Turk, what is it with that scratching thing?” I asked.
“Back in the seventeenth century, they got so refined at the French court that they decided knocking was rude,” Turk said. “So they started scratching at the door. And the longer the nail on your little finger was, the politer you were. I just like it.”
“Doesn’t seem to work any better,” I said.
Turk started to scratch on the glass. Figure eights, spirals, curlicues, louder and faster. When she got to the zigzags, the door opened.
There was a tiny white-haired man glaring at us from behind the door. He was wearing a suit so old he looked like a character in a play.
“What do you want?” he snarled.
“Fire,” Turk said.
The little man turned even paler.
“Get outta my way,” he squeaked, and pushed past us. He went scuttling up the stairs, and the sound of his footsteps faded into the stones.
“Turk, that was the lowest lie I’ve ever heard you tell,” I said.
“What lie?” Turk said. “All I did was say the word fire. Is it my fault if he draws false conclusions?”
We went into the annex. Turk shut the door behind us and locked it.
“Now, where’s the stuff on Crossfield?” she said.
It wasn’t hard to find it. There was one wall of shelves with big leather-bound books on them, and the words CROSSFIELD TITLES at the top. The only other things in the room were a wooden desk with a chair, a gooseneck lamp, and a big map on the wall opposite the books.
“Perfect,” I said when I saw it.
It was Crossfield, divided up into lots and numbered. There were spidery words on some of them. SIMMONS MILL, PRESCOTT MILL, TURNER MILL.
Turk put one of her long nails on the Simmons Mill.
“That’s the one we want,” she said.
I made a note of the plat references and found the volume that matched up with it.
The deeds for that piece of land started in the 1650s. They ran through the seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries, up till when the Simmons Mill had closed in the 1930s. Then they stopped.
The last owner listed was Grover Simmons.
“Eighty years nobody’s paid any attention to that place,” Turk said. “Grover Simmons has got to be long gone.”
“Unless he’s a jenti,” I said. “Then he could show up tomorrow.”
“No contact information, is there?” Turk said. “Running down ol’ Grove ain’t gonna be easy.”
The office door rattled.
“Hey, let me in to my place,” an old voice squeaked.
“See if you can find anything with old telephone numbers or addresses,” Turk said. “I’ll handle this.”
I went searching through the shelves of books. Turk went over and leaned against the door.
“It’s locked,” Turk said.
“I know it’s locked. Unlock it and let me in,” the voice said.
“How do I know you’re supposed to be in here?” Turk said.
“It’s my office. You saw me in it. Let me in, you brats,” the voice said.
“I can’t see you now,” Turk said. “How do I know you’re the same guy?”
“Unlock the damn door and you’ll see I’m the same guy,” the voice said.
“Okay, I’ll try,” Turk said.
She rattled the lock for a long time.
“It’s not working,” she said.
“Turn the key!” the voice said.
“There’s nothing here,” I said.
Turk nodded.
“Oh, wait,” she said. “I see a key. Hold on.”
And she opened the door.
The little man pushed into the room. His eyes were glaring.
“You lied to me,” he said. “You said there was a fire.”
“No, I didn’t,” Turk said.
“Yes, you damn well did,” the little man said.
“No. I said the word fire completely without context,” Turk said. “You drew your own conclusions. It’s part of a living art project I’m working on, throwing out a word and seeing how people react. You’re the best one so far, by the way. Thanks for your help.”
“Get out of my office and don’t come back,” the little man snarled.
“But wait,” I said. “You’ve helped her with her homework. Now you have to help me with mine. My local history project. That’s why I came here. Everybody says you know more about Crossfield than anybody else.”
“Who said so?” the little man said. He sounded curious now.
“Well, everybody I asked about it,” I said.
The little man crossed his arms.
“Well, maybe I do know more about Crossfield than anybody else,” he said. “But that don’t mean I have to tell what I know. Just because these are public records don’t mean I have to shoot my mouth off. But anyway, what’d you wanna know?”
“I’m doing research on the Simmons Mill,” I said. “And I don’t find any records for the—the chain of title—after 1932. Why is that?”
“Chain of title? You’re not here about the other thing?” the little man asked.
“What other thing?” Turk said.
“Nothin’. Forget about it,” the little man said. “Anyway. The Simmons Mill. Maybe I can help you.”
He pulled out the same volume that Turk and I had looked at and went slowly through the Simmons documents page by page.
Finally, he said, “It ain’t here.”
“So I was right,” I said.
“Looks like it,” the little man said.
“But somebody’s got to own it, right?” I said.
The little man shrugged.
“Look, just end your research thing where the paper trail ends,” he said. “1932. You lucked out, kid. Almost a hundred years you don’t have to write about.”
“Hey,” I said. “I go to Vlad Dracul. If I turn in a paper that stops in 1932, I’ll be lucky to get a C. Isn’t there anything to update this with?”
“No, there ain’t,” he said. “That place could be in Frontierland by now. Probly is.”
“What’s Frontierland?” I said.
“Aw, it’s this old thing,” the little man said. “See, Crossfield ain’t really a part of New Sodom. I mean, it is, but it ain’t. So there’s this old law. Goes back to 1676 or something. When a piece of land in Crossfield stands empty too long, and nobody knows who owns it, anybody who wants it can homestead it. There’s certain things you got to do to claim it, and you got to stay there a certain time, but then i
t’s yours.”
“Wow, that would make a great footnote,” I said. “Can I see the document?”
The little man sighed, went to the bookshelves, and climbed up on a footstool.
“I shouldn’t have to do this after what you kids done to me,” he said. “I’m only doing it ’cause I’m a public servant.”
“We appreciate it,” Turk said. “And anyway, you were great.”
“You really call that art?” the little man said. “Scaring someone?”
“Sure do,” Turk said.
“Nutcase kid,” the little man grunted. “Anyway, here it is.”
AN ACT FOR THE TENURE OF EMPTY WASTES
When it shall hap that a farm or steading of any sort shall be left untenanted for the time of three yeares, and no owner be writ down in the towne records, whoso shall tenant it and build thereon a cabin or a wigwam, and plante corne, and dwell for seven yeares upon it, shall have possession of said farm or steading so long as it shall please him. To keep or to sell, to leave unto descendants, and to do all things that may be done with a farm or steading.
“They had all these places standing empty, see?” the little man said. “From the war. And nobody wanted to go back to Crossfield. So they tried to give it away, and that worked pretty good. Like you saw, there was somebody owned where Simmons Mill is up until the Great Depression.”
“And this is still on the books?” Turk said.
“Yep,” the little man said. “Just me and the rest of the guys in records know about it. Well, us and a few old-timers. Kind of a joke. Tear down the old mill and put up a wigwam. Plant some corn and stay there seven years and it’s all yours.”
“Gee, imagine somebody trying to do that now,” Turk said.
The little man laughed.
“Good luck trying to grow corn in September,” he said. “Anyway, that dirt’s solid rock.”
“Thanks,” I said. “We’ll do our best.”
12
Turk and I drove out to our homestead in the empty wastes of Crossfield.
The mill looked different now that we almost sort of owned it. Those three floors of red brick looked exciting, like anything might happen there. And I was noticing details. The tall windows—those that were still there—had twenty-four panes of glass in them and were higher than a man, even a jenti. The main entrance had an arch with a flagpole hanging over it. And wrapped around the pole, all along its length, were two big brass rattlesnakes.
Turk noticed them, too.
“My kind of place,” she said.
“Where are we going to put our cabin?” I asked.
“Wigwam,” Turk said. “We’re making a wigwam. It’ll be my first art installation.”
“So, our work but your art?” I said.
“Exactly,” Turk smiled. “You can be my assistant. All the great artists have them.”
I think it was the first time I’d ever seen her smile.
I was not smiling.
“Guess what, Turk?” I said. “You still don’t have an assistant. You have a partner.”
“Come on, Cuz,” Turk said. “Get real. You can’t do this. You don’t even know what an arts center is supposed to look like. Without me, this is never going to happen.”
“How many arts centers have you founded?” I asked.
“Almost one.” Turk grinned. “But this stuff is my life. I know things. You don’t.”
I almost walked off. Turk’s ego had found something bigger than Turk, just like Ileana had said, and it was my idea. Swell.
“Well, come on. Let’s check out the inside,” Turk said.
“I’m thinking,” I said, turning away from her and back toward the river.
If I walked away, would that be the right thing? Wrong thing, I decided. In fact, I’d be damned if I’d quit. I’d had about all of Turk’s ego I could take. This was my idea, and she couldn’t have it. I’d hang in, fight her when I had to, and make this thing happen. I’d do it for Mercy, and for everybody in New Sodom like her.
The Act for the Tenure of Empty Wastes seemed like a clue that I was on the right track. I’d just have to deal with Turk, and make sure things went the way I wanted them to while she got her studio. I wouldn’t get tied up in a tree house this time.
“Okay, partner. Let’s take a look,” I said.
We went in.
The floor was dark and dirty, and had holes where the big machines had been taken out. There were long lines of pillars running from wall to wall. And the smell of damp old dust was everywhere.
“Home sweet home,” Turk said.
“It’s going to take us a year just to get the floors swept,” I said.
“Then it’ll take a year,” Turk said. “Only I’ll bet it won’t. I’ll bet once we get the lights on and the windows replaced, people will be showing up to help. This is just waiting to happen. You can feel it.”
I didn’t feel anything except the dank cold, and maybe a kind of loneliness seeping out of the walls. Like the building missed the old days and wanted to be filled with people again. Or maybe I was just getting hungry.
Turk kept a flashlight in her car. Using it, we wandered through all the floors and found the bathrooms, some of which had very artistic vines growing in them. We found the old cafeteria, which had a good-sized kitchen attached to it. There was an old walk-in freezer and a couple of old-fashioned iron ranges. We went into the dispensary, which still had its red cross on the door, though nothing was left on the other side of it. Down in the basement, we found the old furnace, the generator, and a pair of big old turbines.
“I knew this place would have its own electricity,” Turk said. “Turbines. When we get those working again, we can do anything.”
More and more, I was getting the feeling that the Simmons Mill had been a world all its own. And that it could be again.
I wanted to do everything at once. Sweep, fix the windows, get the lights back on and the furnace working, then go to Ileana and say, “It’s yours.”
I must have been imagining it really hard, because just then a voice started singing in jenti. It was a powerful, dark voice, and it came from somewhere above us.
“Damn,” Turk said. “What is that noise?”
“Jenti music,” I said.
“Come on,” Turk said. “Let’s find out who’s in our place.”
We climbed up the metal stairs that led to the second floor, then to the third. The sounds of the music got louder and louder. I was almost sure I knew who was making them. But what would he be doing here?
At one end of the third floor was a big wooden door. It probably led to offices. On it, handwritten on a long sheet of paper, was this:
I fly.
High above this small, smug place which I hate. Where the streetlights shine down on the bland roofs of Cape Cod cottages and ranch houses, I fly at night.
I fly.
I fly under the sun, daring it to roast me, casting my shadow on the streets. I swoop low over the trees, over the small yards that contain the small lives.
They pretend not to see me, the gadje. But I span twenty meters. My shadow falls on them and they tremble.
Sometimes I shriek my war cry.
We are not supposed to do any of this here in New Sodom. There are civic codes against flying without a license. They look like they were written for airplanes. But they were written for us.
We are supposed to behave ourselves here, we of the jenti. It is an old tradition that we do not upset the gadje.
I no longer care.
Gadje, jenti, they are all alike to me.
And I cannot love this place. I will not love it.
I fly because it is the one thing left to me.
When I can find one, I fly into a thunderhead. The winds in the tall tower of cloud tear at me, send me climbing high on a blast of air fast as the coming of a new hate. I struggle just to keep flying. To keep from being torn apart. The air rushes me up, up, until ice forms on my wings. Until the air becomes too thin t
o breathe, and a black shroud drops over my mind.
Then I plummet. Thrown by the wind, blinded by the clouds and my own oxygen-starved brain, I fall through the maelstrom, through the lightning. The thunder shakes my bones.
Then at last I fall out of the storm. I may be anywhere by then. The storm moves, and takes me where it wills. No, not where it wills. It wills nothing for me. It does not even know I am there.
In rain or hail, in wind and shadows, I try to figure out where I am. Then I fly in the direction I came from.
No matter how tired and beaten I am, I never stop until I return to New Sodom. That is my game. I will not allow myself to rest.
If the day comes when I fall exhausted from the sky and lie on some patch of stranger ground, gasping out my last breath, slowly changing back into my human form, let it be. If I never find that last flight, let that be. I do not seek the storm because I want to die.
I seek the storm because it is my only home.
“Oooh. A tortured soul,” Turk said.
I tried the door. It swung open without a sound.
The singing stopped.
There were a couple of old couches, a ratty carpet, a few chairs, a low table, and a few other things. On one wall was a huge poster that showed an old castle and said LANGUEDOC. Another showed a deep river valley and said RHEINFELLS.
“None of this is left over from the 1930s,” I said. “It’s too new.”
“Some homeless guy’s place, I’ll bet,” Turk said.
“That’s a very good description,” a voice behind us said.
We turned and saw Gregor glaring at us. He had come in from the next room. Behind him, I could see a music stand.
He looked embarrassed. Anyway, his pale skin was dark. On the other hand, his fangs were out. Maybe he was just blushing.
“What are you doing here?” he said.
“Taking over,” said Turk.
“This is my place,” Gregor said. “You are taking nothing over here.”
“Wrong,” Turk said. “We’re the new homesteaders.”
“Whatever that means, it means nothing,” Gregor said. “These rooms are mine.”
“The hell they are,” Turk said. “We own this.”