by Tom Doyle
“If it’s Chimera’s curse, we can fix it,” I said.
“Not the curse,” said Hutchinson. “It’s what happened before. Seems my soul and body don’t get along anymore. That type of possession probably should have killed both. Only Left-Hand craft kept my body alive, and that kept my soul bound to earth. But now that my business with Madeline and Abram is settled, I feel like an adverse possessor myself. I think it’s past time to say good-bye.”
I looked at Endicott, hoping that he might have some prayerful miracle up his sleeve to stop this. But Endicott was looking back at me with the same desperate question on his face.
“Gentlemen,” said Hutch, offering her hand.
“Don’t be stupid,” I said, choking back a sob, and Endicott and I wrapped our arms around the colonel.
“All right, boys,” said Hutch, patting our backs. “You’d better take care of each other, even if you don’t like each other much. And that reminds me.” She stepped back, pulled the envelope off the desk, and handed it to Endicott with a mischievous smile. “This is the matter we’ve discussed. Please see to it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, envelope shaking in his hand.
There were some other words of memory and protest, and then Hutch sat in her chair, closed her eyes, and in a soft moon glow of magic, left her body for good.
* * *
In Providence, what had been a hole in the ground had risen up to new life. Workmen had been busy clearing rubble and reassembling the gothic Morton master folly with new materials. They worked in the mental fog of overpaid people in productive dreams. That did not explain why they had left an irregularly shaped gap in the keystone of the basement arch. Wooden and metal scaffolding still supported the arch; a stepladder stood beneath it. Scherie and I looked up at the arch and down at the ruins of the subbasement. We would have to finish up down there later.
Scherie grimaced. “What kind of loan can we ever get on this place?”
My mouth curled up on one side. “The Pentagon defense wrapped a mortgage of bad odds around our necks for the rest of our lives. We’re not going to have much luck.”
“Who said anything about luck?” said Scherie.
“That’s the spirit. Ready?”
She held out her hand. “Hooah.”
Like the House, slowly resurrecting stone by stone, we’d had time to rebuild the trust and simple affection that had crumbled some when we’d fled from here, and now, hearts full of love and ready for the coming days, we needed only one more piece to bind us together.
With two swift and skilled motions, I cut Scherie’s palm and then my own. We let our blood drip on the chunk of stone that I had saved. I stood up on the stepladder, stone raised in my right hand. Like the last piece of a puzzle, I fit the blood-soaked stone into the empty slot.
My father had written to me that “with a holographic medium, a little piece can preserve the whole image, though the resolution might fade. The Morton dead, the Morton past, and the spirit of the Morton House are holographic.”
A warm glow filled the room, like a slow sunrise on a spring day. “Hello, House,” I said. “We’re your family.”
A dark line of spirit emerged from the stone in the form of a large fist, which shook with menace at us. Grandpa and Dad manifested to its left and right. “Downstairs with you lot,” said Grandpa. Bound by new blood, the darkness retreated to its old prison.
We moved in the opposite direction, seeking sunlight. The new front door swung loose on its hinges. At the threshold, Scherie paused.
“You don’t have to do this now,” I said.
“No, now is right,” she said. She raised both hands to the sun and cried in Persian: “Come!”
And they came. The dead of the house of Rezvani—men, women, and children from pre-Pahlavi to post-Khomeini—swarmed bright green through the front door and literally faded into the woodwork. Scherie called after them: “You could at least say hello.”
“Give them time,” I suggested. “They’re probably a little shy. Now we celebrate.”
I swept my cut hand across the sky, and a glowing rainbow followed its path, each color clear across the full arc from horizon to horizon. “A sign of my covenant with you,” I quipped.
“I love you too, weatherman,” said Scherie.
* * *
The private basement blood ritual would have been enough of a marriage ceremony for the craft world, but it wouldn’t do for mundane family and friends. In terms of living versus ghostly attendance, the outdoor wedding in the Morton courtyard was a small affair. Scherie had her parents and a couple of bewildered and not completely approving bridesmaids, and Dale had his old pal Chuck as best man, who made far too many unfunny jokes about the damage to his “pride” at the last Morton celebration. Acting as minister was a colonel from H-ring with a raspy Harry Belafonte voice named Calvin Attucks. The word was that he would soon be promoted to general and replace Michael Endicott’s father as head of countercraft ops.
The Rezvani family hosted the reception at their restaurant. Mr. Rezvani was beaming, expressing pleasure with his daughter and her choice of husband at every opportunity. His wife, however, seemed slightly on edge. While Dale was explaining to Mr. Rezvani and Chuck the nonconfidential version of how he had changed his mind about retiring from the service and how Scherie had decided to join him in his vocation, Mrs. Rezvani took Scherie aside for a private word.
“I hope this isn’t about the facts of life, Madar.”
“Oh God, no!” said Scherie’s mother, with a blush and laugh. “But seriously now. I know, you say you love Dale very much. Do you plan on having children?”
Scherie had decided that she had to be honest with her mother even about questions that were none of her mom’s immediate business, because there was too much already that she couldn’t talk about. “Yes. If we can.” Scherie didn’t mention how it was their patriotic duty to try, and instead added, “After my training, when my work and deployment schedule settles down enough. But yes. Most definitely.”
“That’s good!” said Mrs. Rezvani, with obvious relief. “But how will that work with your different names?”
As usual, her mother had intuitively found the most interesting question in a seemingly trivial detail. Scherie hadn’t taken the Morton name not just because of her feminist convictions, but because it was still unclear whether she was starting her own craft lineage or sharing in the continuation of the Morton line. That would probably only sort itself out with children, particularly a daughter. If she had Scherie’s talents instead of the Mortons’, by tradition that daughter would bear the Rezvani name, and that name would be carried down the matrilineal Family line.
But Scherie couldn’t say all that, so she had to find another honest thing to say. “Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Even if the bridge was an invisible path through a land and a future that was far more magical and dangerous than she had ever dreamed.
* * *
It was a dark and stormy night. There came a gentle tapping, rapping at the Morton door. I opened it, and found a rained-soaked Endicott in a black trench coat. “Can I come in?”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Not sure. Could be pleasure.”
“Won’t know until you try. Come in.” I felt House’s warm welcome, the smell of fresh-baked bread.
“Hey, it smells nice,” said Endicott.
“Good, but please don’t talk like House isn’t here.”
“I’m glad to see you too, House. Where’s Ms. Rezvani?”
Remembering where she was, I held a finger to my lips. “I think she’d like it if you called her Scherie. She’s resting. Off to boot camp tomorrow. We may need her to pay a visit to Tehran. She seems enthused.”
“Hooah,” said Endicott.
“Hooah,” I agreed.
We went quietly back into the kitchen and sat at the table. “So, married life treating you well?” asked Endicott.
I chuckle
d. “It’s the old Fighting Family curse—we had to get hitched just to see much of each other. That, and my signing up again will help. Though with our low ranks, it’s still going to be a challenge.”
“I envy you,” said Endicott.
“Whoa, don’t rush into anything. She’s brought all these fresh ghosts to the place. House seems happy with the chaos, but all these Farsi speakers get on my nerves. If it wasn’t destiny, I don’t know what I’d do.” I realized with unease that I was talking freely and off-duty with an Endicott. “Isn’t this contact against regs?”
“Regs keeping us separate nearly got us all killed. Or worse. But maybe we can do a little government business, so I can get my travel costs reimbursed?”
“OK. Have a beer?” I asked.
“An American one.”
“Patriotism?”
“No, just avoiding strong drink,” said Endicott.
I went to the fridge. “You’re wondering about the Left Hand? They’re downstairs, chastised, bound again. They like being bound, in their creepy kinky Left-Hand way.” Endicott didn’t blanche, so I continued. “They had nowhere else to go, and being tied to something has kept them intact longer than otherwise. Oh, and there’s a distinct new strain in their collective malice. Madeline has finally come home.”
“That’s good?” asked Endicott, dubiously.
“Better than the alternatives.” I set down our ice-cold Rolling Rocks.
“Have you seen…?”
“Abram? No,” I said. “He might just be gone; he was pretty damned old. I don’t know if he loved Madeline enough to be absorbed into what he’d always loathed.”
“We’ll see. Do you suppose Roman died down there?”
“With all due respect to your father, I don’t assume anyone died down there.”
I popped the tops off our beers. Endicott cleared his throat. “I didn’t come here to talk about the Left Hand, Major Morton.”
“Ah.” I didn’t pause in taking a swig of my beer. “That’s a good one. I’ve rejoined as a captain. The Five were very clear on that point.”
“They’ve changed their minds.”
“Now what the hell would make them do that?”
Endicott smiled with surprising mischief. “I told them I was out if they didn’t. And Hutch’s letter convinced them that I wasn’t crazy.”
I shook my head, dumbfounded. “That explains why she smiled like a cat in a midget penguin exhibit. Does ‘thank you’ even begin to cut it?”
“No, but I’ll say it anyway, thank you, Dale. For too many things. Consider it a down payment.” Endicott took a sip from his Rolling Rock. “I didn’t respect how difficult it was for your family to fight against the Left-Hand temptations. No one did.”
“It’s Michael, right? Nah, Mike sounds better. About Left-Hand power, I think it’s easier for me, living with the cautionary tales. But yes, I know better than most that every family can have a Left Hand.”
“There’s another thing,” said Endicott. “I’ve been too narrow with God.”
“OK, I’ll bite. Narrow? You?”
“Funny. What I mean is, I believe that all this power we use, whether for good or ill, ultimately comes from God. So I can’t draw easy distinctions among its practitioners.”
“But you know what I’ll say, right?” I asked.
“Yep. You’ll say it’s all nature. That we’re the ones who make it good or evil.”
“Yep. But that also means that I can’t draw easy distinctions among practitioners either.”
Endicott took another, longer sip of his beer. “I’ll just say it once. You too are part of God’s plan.”
“This was Sphinx’s plan,” I said, “her counterplan to Chimera’s schemes. And Sphinx is dead.”
“To Sphinx,” said Endicott.
“To Sphinx,” I said. I took a long pull at my cold beer and shook my head. “Shit, you’re too good. I give up. It doesn’t take farsight to see why you’re here. You want a reason we’re going to permanently cease hostilities, and hell, maybe despite all this history we are. You want a reason besides the fact that we’re outstanding soldiers and killers, that Hutch was our mom and pop, and that you know how to drink a beer. But you know what that real reason is. It ain’t ever going to be theological. It’s this country. It makes us all family in the end. But we, the magi, feel that tie before everyone else. Because we’re the wise guys. So we’ll be OK. OK?”
“OK.”
* * *
The two comrades finished their beers. Outside, the storm had passed. House sighed and rested in its new foundations, and sang Scherie to a dreamless sleep. From New England to Langley and sea to shining sea, everyone with eyes to see and ears to hear gave the same report: all quiet on the astral plane of America.
EPILOGUE
That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die.
—H. P. Lovecraft
Across the shining sea, on a sold-out flight to Kiev, a single seat appeared to be unoccupied, yet no one attempted to sit there. The flight attendants did their counts, and the stealthy seat slid into and out of them—whichever caused the least trouble.
The man hiding in the seat typed at his laptop. A USB-compatible cable connected the laptop to the carry-on at his feet.
The cable ran within the carry-on to what looked like the main component of a desktop machine. Looks weren’t completely deceiving—the device was in part a computer. But the device also contained a matrix of cerebral stem cells kept alive by Left-Hand craft. Any sufficiently advanced magic is indistinguishable from technology.
On the screen of the laptop appeared the following exchange:
YOU DO OK, PARDNER? BLINK LIGHT TWICE YES, ONCE NO.
I AM FEELING MORE TALKATIVE THAN THAT. SO THIS IS FLYING? ALL THIS MAGIC, AND I’VE NEVER FLOWN BEFORE. MY ARRANGEMENTS ARE COMPLETE?
WE HAVE BODY FOR YOU.
AND THE OTHER MATTER?
YES, A FRIEND. TALL, THIN, OBEDIENT. AND ONE FOR AFTER THAT.
AND ALL I HAVE TO DO IS RESIST THE CRAFT MIGHT OF RUSSIA, NATO, EASTERN EUROPE, AND THE OCCASIONAL ROGUE TURK?
HA. HA. YEP, THAT’S ALL.
Excellent. The Slav was happy, and Roderick wouldn’t argue with him. His mission had been a success. His orders had been to obtain “a Morton” and he was returning with the Morton—the “head” Morton, if you will. Roderick had needed two things: a place to go, and a break in his leash. Now that he had those, he would keep his word, because it was so easy to keep. He could do all Roman asked, and more, so much more. More than his new employers wanted, enough to make his former country regret their treatment of him. Soon, he would have to deal with the Rezvani woman; despite all his long-laid plans, she had nearly killed him instead of freeing him. No witch with that kind of power against him could be suffered to live. As for the Endicotts and the so-called Right-Hand Mortons, he would live to see the end of their Families. He took the long view.
He would live. For the first time in decades, Roderick was truly happy to be alive.
APPENDIX
THE STORY OF THE MORTON FAMILY
Part I. Thomas Morton and John Endicott
In May 1624, Thomas Morton stood on a hill in the land of the Massachuset Indians and saw endless forests and animals and possibilities. The day was perfect. He was no longer a young man, but this place made him feel young. The land had a big horizon, vertiginous to any mind shaped in small walled fields. It could drive a sufficient imagination insane.
He took a swig of rum. Thomas always prided himself on his imagination.
One hundred yards down the slope, the trees stirred and parted, almost of their own will. A tall native emerged, not like the warriors and traders Thomas had seen. He wore a patchwork cloak of the fur from black wolves and lesser animals and the cloth stripped from French sailors and given by English Separatists.
Thomas approached the native. His skin was oddly marked: a coiled serpent threatened fro
m one arm, an eagle peered from the other, long bars and stars decorated both limbs, a truncated pyramid filled the cheek below his right eye. These symbols carried a two-edged message: I’m impressive, but you had better stay away. The native stared at Thomas, then around him, as if Thomas were surrounded by hidden allies. Thomas looked about—no, he was quite alone. He surveyed the woods. The native was alone too.
Thomas signed with his liquor and firelock and threw out some words: “rum, guns, trade.” The native drew a dagger and waved it toward Morton in a casual threat. “Welcome, Englishman. Shall we dance?”
“Ah,” said Thomas, “it’s a fight you want, savage priest.” He put down his gun and drew his own dagger—the native was too magnificent to shoot. “We shall see whose devil is bigger, mine or thine.”
With a wild yell, Thomas ran the rest of the way down the slope at his opponent. When he fought a man fairly, it helped to imagine and express certain things. He said, “Knife break,” as he brought his blade against his opponent’s. The native’s blade shattered on impact, but so did his own steel. Odd, but Thomas was comfortable with his fists. He gripped the remaining hilt in his hand to help his punches. “Break arm, break leg,” but the native seemed to flow away from his blows. Thomas kept punching until he was panting for breath. Then he threw the hilt at the native. “Fight me, or the devil take you!” The hilt bounced off the man’s chest.
“Ouch. Brother, please, that’s enough!”
Thomas regained his wind. “You speak English well.”
“Not really. It’s complicated.” The man’s mouth moved differently than the sounds Thomas was hearing. Perhaps his devil was much bigger than Thomas’s.
“Why did you want to fight?” asked Thomas, wiping his hands against the sides of his coat.
“You looked, um, interesting. I didn’t recognize you because you’re a new powah, like a chick or child.”
“Powwow?” asked Thomas. It was the one word that he didn’t recognize.