by A. Sparrow
But Inverness had not ever been a home to her. Negative experience had a way of tainting even the quaintest locale for eternity.
As they waited for a light to turn, Karla’s gaze lingered on a woman standing on the corner, her hair ginger and gray under a floppy rain hat, her long, purple dress splattered with drops. The woman’s head turned. Karla gasped.
It was Ida Mackie, one of Papa’s staunchest supporters. The miserable woman had never hesitated to report any lapse she perceived in her and Isobel’s every lapse in behavior directly to Papa. And yet, there was this distinct lack of recognition in Ida’s eyes. How could the woman not know who she was looking at?
The light turned green.
“Go!” said Karla. “That lady, she’s one of them!”
Jessica slammed her foot on the accelerator a little too abruptly and peeled away, zooming past the red sandstone walls of Inverness Castle.
Her phone buzzed. Renfrew snatched it up off the seat. “Hullo?” said Renfrew. “Yeah. We’ll be right there. Meet you at the corner.” Renfrew’s eyes popped wide and wild. “It’s Sturgie. He says the church doors … they’re open for mass. But there’s coppers out front. They’ve brought in security.”
Chapter 40: Mr. O
The cells of Lalibela’s wings glittered like mirror shards. Urszula rode tall in her saddle, silhouetted against the sun, wild hair whipping in the turbulence.
My chest clamped tight as I watched them dwindle in the sky. Here I was again, watching her leave, acutely aware that every glimpse might be my last. Why it stung so much to see her go, baffled me. Was I that scared of being alone?
I turned and clambered up into the ruins, looking for a place where the Old Ones didn’t lay quite as thickly. But those damned mummies were everywhere.
A human femur, bleached white, protruded from a slough. Knuckle bones lay strewn in the dry groove of a drainage channel. Apparently not all bodies were preserved.
Most of the mummies were tucked away in pleasant little nooks with pretty views, as if these people knew what was happening to them and had time to seek out cozy places to settle into for eternity. The bones, in contrast, were dispersed more randomly, pinned under blocks, often with skulls crushed and limbs shattered. These were obviously victims of violence.
Other signs of calamity riddled these ruins. Slabs upended or torn out of walls. Fractured and toppled columns. Spherical pocks and pits gouged into massive flagstones, their bottoms retaining bits of pulverized stone.
The damage looked far from recent. Thick-stemmed, bonsai-like shrubs grew from some of the cracks. Ferns took advantage of the moisture that collected in the deeper pits.
War must have stricken this place sometime after many of the Old Ones had already begun to enter their long sleep. Given the newness of Frelsi, it had to have involved Dusters fighting Dusters. This wasn’t totally unexpected, given what Urszula had told me, but it sure was disappointing.
I sat down on a sun-warmed block of stone overlooking the lower terraces. A spring trickled nearby, its musical gurgle calming to my nerves.
Sleepily, I admired an ivied wall that supported the next terrace. In its diversity, it reminded me of one of those living billboards that were gaining popularity in cities around the world—vertical landscapes planted with grasses and shrubs whose diverse colors and textures created an artistic effect.
An eye blinked at me from behind the greenery.
“Gah!” I lurched back, sliding off the stone, landing hard on my elbow.
A mummy sat upright on a bench-like ledge at the base of the wall, peering through the draping foliage.
I got up and moved away but something about this one made me do a double-take. And then it hit me. Those heavy-lidded eyes and that rotund face made him a dead ringer for Mr. Ortiz, the guy who had tended the gardens of some of our wealthier neighbors back in Ft. Pierce.
Mr. O had always been kind to me. I had known him since I was a little thing. He would see me playing in the backyard and bring over toads and interesting beetles for me to see. Every baseball, Frisbee or water rocket that went astray, he would retrieve and return, always with a kindly smile and never a sharp word. He even taught me how to make screech whistles out of grass blades.
This mummy’s resemblance to Mr. O was uncanny even through that grey blotchiness that all Dusters sported and all the withering and weathering he had suffered from being exposed to the elements for so long.
I knew it couldn’t actually be him. Mr. Ortiz had a thin corona of fuzz surrounding his bald spot. This guy had a full head of crusted and matted hair. So maybe he wasn’t an exact replica, but if he wasn’t so gray, he could have passed as the real Mr. O’s brother.
I couldn’t help being drawn to him, desperate as I was for any semblance of familiarity in this world. That placid, half-smile, sad but kindly, was so like Mr. O’s, it disarmed me.
Not wanting to leave just yet, I settled back onto the stone. It was just like old times when I was bored and I would climb the fence and watch the real Mr. O at work. He would sidle by and tell me stories about growing up in the Dominican.
“It must bug the crap out of you watching all these weeds get so shaggy. I could picture you taking your machete to all this. You’d get it all straightened it out in a jiffy, wouldn’t you, Mr. O?”
I imagined for a second that he had nodded a millimeter or so, but it was probably the wind in the ivy. There was so much wisdom behind those eyes. I wished he could speak.
A bee came buzzing, and before I could react, it landed on my back and crawled onto my shoulder extruding a bubble of nectar from its crop. I accepted its hospitality and drank up. The stuff tasted better and was way more energizing than those little five hour energy drinks they sold at the 7-Eleven.
Something long and shiny caught my eye from a pile of rubble and bones by Mr. O’s feet. It looked like a sword, its metal pitted but gleaming, without a speck of tarnish or rust.
“Holy crap, Mr. O! I think I found you a machete.”
I shooed the bee off my back and went over and tugged at it, but it was wedged in tight. It had a fancy hilt of wood and leather that was all punky and rotten. It crumbled in my hand.
I rolled some stones off the heap, gripped the sword in both hands and pulled with all my might. It came free with a loud zing that sizzled in the air. The blade had more heft than those souvenir grade samurai swords I tended to Weave, but something told me that this weapon was not a product of Weaving. A Woven blade would have reverted back to roots in all the time this thing had been laying under the rubble. On closer inspection, I could see the wavy patterns created by endless folding and hammering.
What a lucky find! I’m not sure I had it in me to Weave even a letter opener at this point. Weaving never worked when I was feeling timid or scared, and I was feeling both right now.
But my confidence grew with this potent mass in my hands, and a little confidence went a long way when it came to Weaving. I picked some long grass and wrapped it around the base of the sword where the hilt had come apart.
I pressed my hands over it, and when they parted, I found a brand new hilt of burl and rawhide. Beaming, I showed off my handiwork to Mr. O.
***
Me and Mr. O sat together and watched the sun go down. But then it came time to find myself a shelter, while there was still a little glow left in the sky. There were plenty of ruins but I chose one of the few spaces that were still partially roofed with flat stone slabs. It was L-shaped, with a hall-like narrowness that kept it cozy. The bend in the layout gave me a hideaway where I wouldn’t have to stare straight out into the darkness.
Once I got the floor cleared of rubble, I made myself a bed of ferns and settled in under Urszula’s shroud. I was feeling calm and drowsy for a change and looking forward to tuning out of consciousness.
Out of nowhere, this horrible, buzzing screech wound up like a siren. It persisted for a ten count before dying away. It sounded like katydids chirping through amplifiers.
Fingernails scraping chalk boards sounded more pleasant. After the briefest of silences, a barrage of screeching kicked up all around the lower terraces, building into a continuous din.
The noise was unrelenting. The noise just went on and on and on. I pulled the shroud over my head, but it didn’t help one bit.
And then, just outside my shelter, something bulky scraped through the rubble piles, knocking over stones. I pushed myself into the farthest recesses of my shelter. I didn’t care what it was, I just wanted it to go away.
The damned thing climbed right onto the shelter and clattered over the roof slabs, blotting out the stars that had been visible through the gaps. It made a sound like air escaping from an inner tube.
When it finally moved on and I had recovered my breath, I piled up any loose stone I could find to barricade myself in. It was a token gesture. If anything seriously wanted me as prey, there was not much to stop it from digging me out. I could tell this was going to be a long night.
***
Curled up under Urszula’s shroud, fingertips touching the flat of the sword, I listened to monsters come and go all night. Their feet clicked against the stones outside. Their antennae slithered, probing the gaps in the walls.
In the midst of all this, my purchase on this existence began to slip. I didn’t fade. I oscillated, flitting between the worlds with transitions so rapid, I inhaled from one world and exhaled into the other.
It was dark in both places so sounds and smells were my only cues to what universe I inhabited from moment to moment. The acrid musk of piss and mold alternated with mineral and duff. Echoes of pain lagged and lingered, so the hurting didn’t tell me much.
For once, it was that cell in the church basement that provided a sense of escape. There, I found glorious silence. And its monsters were human and predictable.
I knew, any moment my soul could blink out of both existences and end up in a third totally unfamiliar and possibly worse than anything I had yet experienced—the Deeps.
The oscillations slowed and eventually ceased, my presence stabilizing in the din and darkness of those Duster ruins. Exhaustion helped me tune out the noise and transport me through a night that seemed to last a hundred years.
When the first light began to sift between the roofing slabs, the crickets’ chirping had wound down to a random and half-hearted scraping here and there. One last, defiant screech came screaming out of the blue, followed by silence. Absolute, dead silence.
I pulled off the shroud and watched it shrink, stuffing it in my pocket when had contracted to the size of a bandanna. I took apart my barrier stone by stone, and waddled out into the soft, dawn light.
There had to be a spring somewhere that some Old One wasn’t using as a footbath. I found a cool trickle burbling down a channel carved into a ledge and had my fill.
A fuzzy speck appeared out over the barrens. I shielded my eyes against the glare of the sun, craned at the sky, hoping it was Urszula, returning to fetch me. But this was a riderless mantis, escorted by a flight of bees that rode the mantid’s draft like a school of pilot fish. Its saddle was empty.
It landed first on the lower terrace, exhausted after a long flight. I sprinted through the ruins to the edge of the upper cliffs. It perched on one of the larger succulents, watching the occasional leafhopper glide by as a quartet of bees circled overhead.
When the mantid spotted me, its wings burst into action. In two, short hopping flights it landed on the upper terrace across a stone platform from me. I assumed it was Seraf, but I wasn’t sure. There were scars on her wing case, but all of these mantids seemed to have them. She stood there staring at me, cocking her head at an angle that sharpened with each step closer.
I stood there, heart pounding like a novice lion tamer, unable to get over the fact that it was a predator and I was a meal. I told myself that this had to be Seraf. She expected me to approach her. After all, Urszula had sent her here to fetch me.
I stepped forward with the sword loose in my grip, thinking I should go up and pat her side, calm her the way one would reassures a horse, let her know that my intentions were friendly.
She lurched back, clacked her mouthparts and threatened me with her forelegs. That gave me pause. I thought maybe I had startled her by moving too quickly, so I kept my motions slow and deliberate this time, like a man walking on the moon.
The mantid hissed and lunged, slapping the sword out of my hand with one swipe of her spiny forelegs, bobbing and weaving as if expecting me to counter. I scurried back and took cover behind a fallen pillar.
So much for my ride. Me and the mantid just stared at each other, neither of us daring to make a move. Gradually, she smoothed her wing cases, lowered her forelegs and flew down to the lower terrace to hunt among the succulents.
Now what was I supposed to do? If she came back up, I guess I could ditch the sword. If … she came back up here.
I just sat there on the edge of the platform and watched her hunt. The bees scattered. Two of them flew back over the barrens the way they had come. One went down to the lower terrace and appeared to harass Seraf. The other landed hard right in front of me and this one had no interest in offering me any nectar. It did this agitated and buzzy little dance.
“Sorry, but I don’t speak bee,” I said.
It repeated the dance, same exact steps, buzzing louder, stomping its feet against the stone.
“I told you, I don’t understand.”
If an insect could show exasperation in its body language, I’m pretty sure that’s what I saw. It flew off and joined the other one in harassing Seraf, probably figuring it would have an easier time getting its point across to a fellow insect than some dumb ape.
I retrieved the sword and wandered off, hungry and confused. Not knowing where else to go, what else to do, I moseyed over to Mr. O’s terrace corner of the terrace.
“Hey, Mr. O,” I said, with the familiar ease with which I might greet the real Mr. Ortiz. “Rough night, eh? Well, for me anyway. I guess those things that go bump in the night don’t bother you, do they? Good thing. I guess there’s not much you could do about it if they … ate … Old Ones.”
He wore the same placid smile.
“And those crickets! Man! I hope you can’t hear them.”
I wedged the point of the sword between some paving stones and twanged it. Maybe it was no way to treat a sword, but this metal was tough enough to take it.
“Looks like another sunny day, eh? When was the last time it rained around here? I suppose that’s good for you. I mean, with you being exposed to the elements and all. I’d hate to be in your spot when a real toad strangler of a rainstorm comes around. The way your head’s tilted back like that, the water must get up into your nose. Do you … even breathe? I wonder.”
I held my palm up to his face and felt not a hint of breath coming from his nostrils. I snapped my fingers an inch from his eyes. He didn’t flinch or blink. I sighed.
“I sure wish you could talk. It sure would be nice to have someone to talk to.” I scanned the tiered ruins. “I bet you could tell me all about this place. I’m sure a guy like you has stories to tell. It must suck to have to keep them all to yourself.”
I looked at him and he just stared back with that same blank smile, like some guy kicking back with a beer and a sitcom on a Friday night. Every once in a while he blinked, but his expression never changed.
I yanked the sword out of the crevice and pointed it at his face.
“I command you to speak your mind, sir!” I snickered. I was just goofing around. I tucked the sword over my shoulder and started to walk away.
Mr. O sputtered and hacked. His arms and legs began to flail.
I lurched away, nearly crapping my pants. “Oh my God!”
He rolled on the ground, coughing and gasping for breath, his eyes bulging in shock. Air rattled through his lungs. He slammed his eyes shut and screamed.
I didn’t know what to do. He acted like he was suffocating, but he was breat
hing. It wasn’t like I was going to give him mouth to mouth.
He rolled over onto his hands and knees and looked up at me. He muttered in a low and scratchy voice, speaking that guttural language that the Dusters used with each other.
He stared, eyes pleading, repeating the same thing over and over.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
He crawled towards me, one hand reaching out to me, tears running down his face. I backed away slowly.
You would think a guy would be pleased to be woken from years of paralysis, but he sure didn’t act like I had done him any favors.
“I didn’t mean to do this. It was an accident. I’m so sorry.”
He collapsed and cried, writhing in utter anguish, narrow chest heaving with dry sobs. I felt so guilty for doing this to him. I wished I could take that sword and send him back to his previous condition, but I was afraid I might only make things worse. I just stood, helpless, and watched him suffer.
The quakes shaking his body eventually eased, and apart from an unpredictable aftershock or two, his breathing quieted and he became calm.
I brought him some water that I scooped from a spring in a big, floppy leaf. Most of it ran right through his mouth and dribbled down his chin. He was sitting up now but he was having trouble coordinating his movements.
Face damp with viscous tears, he sat and picked at the bits of vine that clung to the deep creases in his withered skin. A pair of bees landed on the ledge beside us, butting heads, wagging their abdomens. They took turns feeding Mr. O nectar and some of that pasty stuff before flying off, one to the lower terrace, the other towards the barrens beyond.
I felt responsible for what I had done to Mr. O. He looked so weak and vulnerable. I couldn’t just leave him lying there. I thought it would be good to get him under some shelter.
So I slipped my arms under his back and legs and picked him up. He didn’t object. He seemed totally dejected and resigned to whatever fate had in mind for him.
He was even lighter than Urszula—bird light—as if his bones were hollow. He smelled like truffles and turpentine. His eyes were closed, his chin tucked against his chest. He sobbed quietly.