by Sue Perry
Of course, it could be a coincidence that the same stone showed up at an illegal Connector and a Lobotomist training facility. Or there could be a tie between that rock and Warty Sebaceous Cysts. I intended to find out which.
Granite, rhodonite, cursed, quarry, Witch Hollow. Waiting for a train to take me back to the city, I played with internet search keywords until I found the magic combo that yielded information. Around New York and New England were six additional buildings with the rhodonite granite. The two closest were in Queens—in fact, both were in Flushing—and before my rendezvous with Lilah I had time to check out those buildings.
The first building felt bad from half a block away so I Traveled to Frivolous Bedlam before I approached it. In Bedlam, the building was silent and its neighbors whispered as though on a sick ward. I returned to Ma'Urth and stood across the street from the building, which was surrounded by the green webbing of construction site fencing. There was no activity at the site but a big sign with artist's renderings showed the ambitious remodel planned by Lantana Ltd. Most of the structure was being razed, leaving only the first floor with its black stone facade. Rhodonite granite and Lantana Ltd. construction. Double whammy. Kelly Joe's demolition talents would be well applied here.
The second building had never been repainted, much less remodeled. Like other nineteenth century houses on the block, it was converted to stores and flats in a neighborhood that fell somewhere between down–to–earth and downtrodden. Varied ethnic restaurants made the air smell like a spice market. I got only a vague uneasiness about the building, but a steady stream of frowning people departed it, suggesting a meeting had just concluded.
I fell into step with a straggler. "There's a meeting tomorrow, right? At two?" The straggler's head jerked in what might have been a nod and she gave me the look you'd give somebody who spit at your mother. Had to be a Lobotomist in training; when fully trained she'd have more control over aberrant impulses like polite response to a question.
My gut told me that if I wanted to infiltrate a Lobotomist pod quickly, the distraught twin of Sam Strongfellow—feeling excluded from her brother's life for the first time—was a more likely potential recruit than my outsider who was determined to join the club.
Lilah's stilettos tapped their way east on 57th Street, rhythmic enough to mark time as she approached.
"What do you know about Sam?" she called to me as soon as I was within hearing range.
Maybe I confused controlling the conversation with controlling the outcome. I saved my reply until she arrived where I stood. "I'll tell you down here." I led her to the southbound subway platform at Columbus Station and we sat on the bench in silence. I assumed that she, too, was reliving our times hearing Kelly Joe's music. Her eyes glinted but she didn't cry.
I warned, "What I'm going to tell you won't make you feel better, except for that faint hope we get when we have action we can take. My story will sound nuts. Actually what happened to Sam is nuts. There's only one way to help him and even that might not work. And it's dangerous. Either or both of us could die."
Her response was, "Tell me all."
I told her as all as I dared. I had my words planned, or I thought I did. "Sam is part of a cult now. This cult attracts people who crave something—success, attention, sex, money—and who blame others for what they lack. The cult distorts such thoughts, controls through them. Sam's brainwashing is so complete that the only hope to snap him out of it is to identify the cult leaders—which are called managers—and show them up as frauds. First we need to learn their identities."
Her tears were back.
"My plan is for us to crash one of the cult's training sites. We have to act fast. The training will be done soon and they'll leave the meeting halls. So. Maybe you can't handle life without Sam. Maybe whatever your twin is doing, you want to do, too. And maybe you bring along the detective you hired to find your brother. I was the one who learned about the meetings and what I found out intrigued me. Maybe I like the way that cult thinks." I caught myself in a sneer.
"Which gives you a personal interest now, beyond my hiring you." Lilah was all business.
"Precisely. Now I need you to believe something farfetched. Some of the meeting organizers—called handlers—are crazy good at reading people. They read our body language, whatever, I can't say how they do it. But if we don't completely believe our stories, they'll know, and we're screwed. Big time. So when I walk near those meeting rooms I hate just about everybody."
"And I am so obsessed with my brother that if he thinks this is right then it must be. And I want to prove to him how important I can be to his new cause." Lilah's eyes looked at me but all she saw was Sam.
"That's perfect. Now. I have to stress. These people—and what I am proposing—terrify me. If you're not scared, it's because you haven't met them yet."
"I believe you. I can see you're serious."
"I couldn't be more serious. We could die." My voice scraped like rusted nails. Were there really no other options?
"When's the next meeting? Am I okay dressed the way I am now?"
I knew she would downplay danger to herself so I played my trump. "With us meddling, Sam could die."
A subway train came and went.
"But otherwise there's no chance of his breaking free of all this?"
"None, according to my sources, who could not be more credible."
"Then how can I refuse?" Her voice was garbled like an underwater train wreck.
We made plans to meet the next day and go to the training session in Flushing.
"Queens." was the last thing she said to me.
Back at the apartment, Jenn was elbow deep in her suitcase and naked except for gypsy hoop earrings. She had lost weight recently so was now a bony Madonna; but still worship–worthy.
"Good thing Hernandez isn't here. Or would that be too bad he isn't?"
"Not for me to say." She pawed fabrics pensively.
"Let me guess, you haven't a thing to wear."
"Shove it, princess, we both know you're the one with the clothes problem. When was the last time you got any? Clothes, I mean."
It takes two to rattle a cage. "I'm about ready for dinner. You?"
Jenn has a short attention span when it comes to conflict. "Definitely. Just need to take a quick shower first. I'll be out in a jiff."
"I'll be here."
Jenn's jiff meant it might still be autumn when she emerged. But that was just as well, because I had business in Frivolous Bedlam. I could go there, do that, and be back before she discovered I was gone. I grabbed all my copies of Lose Twenty Pounds and took us to Bedlam.
34. T–E–X–T–C–O–M–E–S–B–A–C–K
I sat on my couch in Bedlam and my seven copies of Lose Twenty Pounds of Worry in Twenty Days hovered before me. I had brought these books to Bedlam because I needed to understand book interactions.
"We came to this place before," I told my first copy of Lose Twenty Pounds. "Please train these books like you did the others."
I observed the flying lesson from the couch. The books didn't seem to share a collective consciousness like the healers or the grannies. When one book squawked, the others had to listen. Or not. The books displayed a pecking order—when certain books squawked, they got ignored or interrupted; and all the books, including the book I'd appointed as trainer, showed deference to a particular volume, a hardback with a cover that was plainer than the others, lacking the bold bright #1 Bestseller banner.
"Hey, everybody, land for a minute." They complied, some more quickly than others, and I looked at each book's copyright page. The book that earned deference was the earliest edition. I held it up before I released it. "This book was printed before any of you others. Did you know that?"
They all nodded and the trainer shed text: o–f–c–o–u–r–s–e.
"How did you know?"
W–e–j–u–s–t–k–n–o–w.
?–?–?
Y–o–u–n–g–e–r–
s–m–e–l–l–s–g–r–e–e–n–e–r.
They used a lot of text to give me little usable information. "From now on I'll stick to yes–no questions. I don't want to waste your text, you could need it."
T–e–x–t–c–o–m–e–s–b–a–c–k. And the oldest ruffled its pages until I saw faint gray bumps where shed text was regenerating.
Wowza. I had even more questions now, but I needed to be home before Jenn finished in the bathroom.
"I'd better get us back to Ma'Urth. Please stack yourselves."
Several books did a quick flying loop before a squawk from the earliest edition got them to comply. They weren't uncooperative, they simply enjoyed being free.
I picked up the stack of books and opened my front door. I'd Traveled from the hall to ensure that Jenn wouldn't see me materialize in the front room. That might get her to believe in the Frames but it would launch an all–night discussion and I needed rest. Lilah and I had a big day tomorrow.
As soon as I stepped into Ma'Urth, I heard my name. "Nica," came a raspy genteel voice like a butler with a pack–a–day habit.
"Julian, how goes it?"
"I am well, thank you," the building replied. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with your tomes. I regret any intrusion."
"No need to ever apologize about that. You can't help but listen and I appreciate your discretion."
"I thank you a second time. From your questions, I thought you would like to know about the existence of the Frame Monasterium, where scribes have recorded the long history of the Frames, including the history of books. These reside in the Halls of Shared Knowledge. If you wish to visit, I can guide your Travels to Monasterium."
"Fantastic! I'll be back soon for your help with that! You're a peach!"
"I do enjoy fruitwood wainscoting on my upper floors. That is one of my most handsome features."
Jenn sat at the kitchen counter with damp hair and what I assumed was another perfect outfit. She was writing on a paper towel and humming bits of songs, which meant she was concentrating. She glanced up. "How many copies of that book do you have?"
"Seven. I want to give them to a few people."
"Isn't it such a good book? I can't believe you finally read a book I gave you!" Usually savvy and cynical, Jenn had an inexplicable soft blind spot when it came to self–help books.
"It—they are good books." I set them on the shelf and patted their spines fondly. "What are you writing?"
"My epitaph."
At first I felt nothing, like the day I grabbed the wrong edge of a razor blade and as the blood gushed I had time to think, that's going to hurt. "You're planning to have a tombstone now? A grave? I thought you wanted your ashes scattered into the world's most explosive volcanoes?"
"That hasn't changed and I just emailed you the list of volcanoes. You're going to post my epitaph on my blog. I emailed you the log–in."
A puff of a laugh got past the lump that filled my throat. "Okay. I'll be sure to save those emails. What kind of food are you in the mood for tonight?"
"I don't want to talk about this shit either, sweetie, but we can't put it off." She gave me a look. She was stuck in a pit and wanted help to climb out but feared she'd pull me in with her. "Not that any of it matters, worms don't read blogs."
"You know how it is. You have to tailor for the audience you want to reach. You have to gear your blog content to interest worms."
"Composting dos and don'ts?"
"Break–in tips for presswood coffins?"
She crumpled and tossed the paper towel. "The next time I talk about dying just fucking shoot me."
"Okay but hold off for a while. I'll need to borrow a gun first."
We looked at each other.
"I'm in the mood for Chinese tonight," she announced.
I spoke with pride. "I know a great dim sum truck."
"Now tell me everything about Hernandez."
We had so much fun that evening, and enough laughs to strain my stomach muscles, even though we were home and in bed by eight. Jenn feel asleep immediately. I lay there, considering how to resume our conversation about the Frames. Maybe I should get Hernandez involved in the discussion. That could boost my credibility.
As soon as Jenn's breathing kind of smoothed, I slipped out of bed and got back to work. First I went out on the fire escape to sit on the sentient lawn chair. Nothing new, I was relieved to learn. Then I went into the hall outside my door, Traveled to Frivolous Bedlam, and called out to Julian.
35. ANY KNOWLEDGE WILL HELP MY QUEST
My earliest memory is the first time I saw the ocean. I was three. I stopped with my feet in the surf, stared, patted the water, stared, stared until my parents feared a sudden brain disorder. Ever since and still today, when I'm at the ocean it sweeps me away.
The Frame Monasterium rivaled my discovery of the ocean, with a similar sense of power and beauty that would perpetually stretch beyond my imagination.
In sum, it was totally rad there.
At Julian's suggestion, I did my Traveling from his roof, where it was easy to see when I'd arrived. In Monasterium, the island of Manhattan was covered in brown sand, with an occasional building rising up. Only sentient buildings persisted there.
Edging the island like a great wall was a broad structure with shiny brown sides and a supple white roof that trembled in the breeze. On the New Jersey side of the Hudson River was a similar structure. Between the walls, the Hudson flowed with tremendous force—I could hear the rush of water from this roof, long blocks inland. According to Julian, my destination was that wall, the Halls of Shared Knowledge.
The deep smooth sand was slippery and soon I was carrying my shoes and walking with a forward tilt. Each time I sank into the sand, it replenished me like a foot massage. What was this stuff? I scooped a handful of sand and saw rounded polished bits of permineralized wood. Most folks would call it petrified wood but I dated a geologist once and he geeked me forever about some things. Each grain had dazzling bright spots like frozen sunlight and I felt good to hold it but somehow knew that I shouldn't keep any. I let the handful sift through my fingers.
The Halls of Shared Knowledge had walls made of stacked boulders. Same stuff as the sand, as polished as Cat's Eye agate and glowing with internal light. Each boulder reflected dozens of tiny Nicas. I touched one and found it warm. When my hand was in contact, I was filled with assurance about all that I knew (like the time I'd really studied, and left an exam certain I'd aced it) and humility about how little I understood (like the day I'd learned Ben was an addict). The boulders were stacked without support, a stone country wall built to gravity–defying height of twenty feet.
Now that I was close to the Halls, I spotted arched entryways every few hundred feet. I took the next arch. Inside the Hall, the floor shone with the same sand and the roof was parchment that diffused sunlight into every cranny. The walls were lined with stacked bookshelves like I'd seen in lawyers' offices, but these had parchment instead of glass fronts, and wood grain that pulsed and flowed. These bookcases were alive.
In the center of the room was a table covered by parchment that curled off the sides into thick rolls. This parchment glowed like light in a pitcher of cream. As far as I could see, tables with glowing parchment scrolls lined the center of the hall. Way down yonder, what might be two cacti were bent over a scroll.
"Welcome, seeker." Warm tones greeted me from many directions and I understood that the bookcases had spoken.
"Hello. I'm looking for information about how books became soldiers and killers." I expected to be shown to a 'history' wing.
The air vibrated with tones like a pipe organ, which must have been the bookcases discussing my request. Silence followed and a warm condescending voice said, "What is your interest in that tragic and terrible time?"
"My interest must remain my business, that is, I cannot divulge it. Frankly, I'm surprised you asked. I wouldn't expect the Halls of Shared Knowledge to question information
gathering."
The air vibrated with tones that were less resonant, more shrill. "We seek your intent, not to restrict, but to protect. All knowledge is available but not all beings can adapt to all truth." My greeter had the smug arrogance of an academic. That always pushes my buttons.
"Thanks for caring. Please direct me to the info and we can all get on with our days." Now the tones of the pipe organ could accompany a slasher movie. "I am so sorry," I yelled, which won silence. "My need for haste has made me rude. I am allied with Anwyl, son of Rayn, a framewalker, and Anya, daughter of Niav, an exalted seer." Based on the tones of their reactions, my apology pleased them but Anwyl's name distressed them but Anya's name excited them. Maybe that left me operating in the black.
"I regret that I cannot confide in you but I am on a mission that must remain secret. I will be able to withstand what I learn. Anya would never give me an assignment that would be more than I could bear."
"Do you mean that Anya sent you here?"
"Everything I do must be for Anya and Anwyl's cause. All else is irrelevant should their efforts fail," I hedged.
Their tones became Wagnerian, as though they understood the conflict and the stakes. They conversed and I pretended to wait patiently.
Damn, close but no cigar. The reply sounded sympathetic, but held firm. "We must put no seeker at risk. Perhaps if Anya accompanied you."
"I don't know when I can get her here."
No response. I couldn't leave things like this. I needed a yes from them or future encounters would all be based on no.
"Is there anything you can show me about the history of books? Any knowledge will help my quest."
This led to discordant discussion, an avant garde student film soundtrack. When a Mozartian melody emerged, I knew I had my yes.