Blood River Down

by Lionel Fenn

  When he saw it, he decided that perhaps Glorian was the wiser of the two.

  —|—

  It was much larger than the tiny room it was trying to squeeze through—its head was long and narrow on a thick stumpy neck, its eyes were set high and were of a green so dark they were almost black, and its mouth when it opened it to roar its anger again was filled with two rows of teeth a tyrannosaurus would die for. It had horns that curved back from its crown. It had two front legs that ended in claws that gouged through the wood and linoleum as if they were paper. The rest of it he couldn't see; it was wedged in the opening.

  And it was black.

  The black of winter midnights that intensified cold and drew the warmth from a hearth and turned the edges of dark dreams into the edges of dark razors.

  It saw him, and it bellowed.

  It tried frenziedly to push itself forward and shook its head wildly from side to side, slamming it mindlessly into the frame, cracking the wood, spilling chunks and flakes of plaster onto the floor.

  Gideon's mouth dried, his heart stopped, and he knew that if he stood there one more minute, his bowels were going to loosen and his stomach was going to empty.

  It bellowed again, and a lone jar fell from what remained of the bottom shelf. It rolled into the kitchen and the creature opened its mouth, flicked out a tongue as thick as a man's thigh, and scooped it up, crushed it in a curl, and let the preserves drip between its teeth like slow-moving blood.

  Gideon lost his temper.

  His pantry, his kitchen, and now his dead sister.

  He didn't give a damn now if he were dreaming or not, if he had been thunked on the head or not; he had had enough of it, enough of every damn thing, and he shoved the table aside, raised the bat over his head, and brought it down squarely between the black beast's eyes.

  It bellowed in pain and tried to draw back, changed its mind, and tried to get him with its tongue.

  He struck it again, cracking several of its teeth, struck a third time, and a fourth, and heard bone splinter, heard leathered skin split, heard screams he wasn't sure were his or its. But now that he had started all he could do was swing and dodge the teeth and the tongue, and swing again without thinking about what he was doing.

  It bellowed.

  He bellowed back.

  It became the failure of providence to give him more than ordinary skills as a player; it became the failure of the world to give him his due; it became the crush of futility, the anger at a sister who had left him too soon; and it became the image of himself, waiting for fortune to knock on the door, hold out the silver tray, and present him with his millions.

  The bat splintered.

  The jagged edges dug into the creature's now bloodied and ragged head, making it more difficult after each swing for Gideon to retrieve it.

  The head sagged, and he moved closer, stabbing now in a frenzy that made him dizzy, made his eyes close, made him finally stagger backward and fall on the floor, legs splayed and trembling, arms limp in his lap.

  A crashing, then, nails screeching out of wood and metal, and when he looked up he saw the pantry empty, and the meadow clear beyond.

  He heard a sound to his left and barely had the strength to move his head around.

  "Damn," Glorian said. "Boy, you don't fool around."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "I want you to know before you even try to explain that I'm still not convinced," he said.

  "What do you have to do?" she asked. "Die?"

  They were in the living room, moving there at his request since he didn't want to have to look at the carnage in the kitchen anymore. He didn't turn on the lights, only opened the curtains more to catch the last of the moon and a glimmer of streetlight. She sat in his favorite armchair, her long legs curled comfortably beneath her, the hem of the white dress pulled demurely around her ankles. He lay exhausted on the couch, head on a lumpy throw pillow, one arm limp over his eyes. His shirt was gone, his boots and socks off, taken by a shaken Glorian, who had insisted on bathing the odious blood from his face and chest, his arms and hands. Miraculously, none of it was his, but he was too weary to offer a thankful prayer for the favor.

  "You really are stubborn, aren't you?"

  He shrugged.

  "If you want, I'll go out again and bring back another."

  "No!" he said quickly. "No. Just give me a chance to get my breath back so I can think."

  He inhaled deeply, feeling the pull of aching muscles across his ribs, through his arms, along the backs of his legs. There was the sting of several clumsily extracted splinters that had lodged here and there when the bat had broken. There were the bruises on his jaw where Glorian had hit him. And there lingered in his nostrils the stench of the black beast, the smell of its blood, its breath, the fear it induced.

  His arm lowered stiffly, his legs hated him for even thinking about moving, and he shifted to his side so he could look at her without causing a cramp in his neck. And it saddened him to think that at the moment he could not appreciate how lovely she was.

  "I hurt," he said with a wry smile.

  "I know."

  "It isn't going away."

  "It will."

  "Hurt in dreams doesn't last."

  "I've noticed."

  "What I mean is, if this whole thing isn't a ridiculous dream and I'm not drunk and I haven't been clobbered over the head and I'm not dead already and just waiting for someone to take me where I'm supposed to go and it isn't some lousy practical joke, then what the hell is it?"

  She considered him for several long seconds, enough to make him feel uncomfortable about watching her so intently, before she slipped down off the chair and sat cat-like on the floor beside him. She said nothing; she only hummed tunelessly for a while before falling silent.

  He shifted again. The moon was finally gone, but the leaf-shrouded streetlamp outside gave him just enough light to see the color of her eyes, and the lines of her hair, and the set of her mouth while she thought and touched his hand.

  "Are you a princess or something?" he asked finally.

  She gave him a look: knock it off, this is serious.

  "I mean, are you here to... that is, are we talking about going on some grand quest to find a magical talisman that will save your... country from destruction or something?"

  She gave him the look again.

  "Oh."

  It was evident she had no idea how to say what she had to say, and just as evident that when she said it she knew he wouldn't believe her. And he probably wouldn't because, in spite of her touch, he didn't believe it himself.

  The problem was, he couldn't rid himself of the image of the creature in the next room, the battering it took, and the very real blood that was still on the floor.

  "Try me," he said.

  "I can take care of myself," she said by way of prologue.

  "I wouldn't doubt it."

  "But I can't do this alone."

  "I gathered that."

  "I need someone who can... well, fight a little, talk a little, think a lot." She stirred and held up a finger to prevent his interruption. "Now you're asking yourself, Why you? Why, of all the people in the world, your world, should I pick you for this job? What demonstrative qualities do you, Gideon Sunday, have that are so unique that I am willing to risk my life to contact you and bring you back with me? What is there about you and your existence—"

  "Stop," he said, pushing himself into a sitting position. "I don't know if I want to know the answer to all those burning questions."

  She smiled. "That's good, because I don't have any."

  He was suddenly disappointed. "You don't?"

  "No."

  He couldn't help himself. "Then why?"

  "Chance," she said with a shrug.

  "What? You're kidding."

  "No," she said. "I'm not kidding."

  "Damn. That's not very flattering, you know."

  "It wasn't meant to be."

  His smile twisted, but
he kept silent.

  "There is little personal control over the Bridges, you see," she explained. "In fact, there's barely any at all that I'm aware of. When it seems as if you need one badly enough, they happen. Most of the time, that is. And then you either choose to go across, or to ignore it. If you ignore it, it lifts, as it were, and can't be summoned again for whyever you got it in the first place. If you cross, you have to hope that there's a reason why it is where it is, and you also have to hope you can figure it out fast enough to do you some good if it isn't immediately evident. And if what you need is in fact on the other side, then all you have to do is bring it back and hope that it will take care of things for you. It doesn't always, though. Sometimes it's a mistake. Sometimes it's deadly. And sometimes everything works out just fine. There's no telling. No telling at all."

  "Chance?" he said when he thought he had untangled everything she'd said. "You mean, I'm a random choice?"

  "Not a choice," she told him. "An event."

  "Oh. I'm an event."

  "Yes."

  "And now you have to decide if I'm right for whatever it is you wanted the Bridge for, whatever that is."

  "I already told you what it is."

  "But you didn't tell me how it happens."

  "Yes, I did."

  "But..." He put his elbows on his thighs, cupped his face in his hands, and rubbed at his temples, hoping that if he rubbed hard enough, the pain would help him think, or make her go away so he could go back to sleep and wake up screaming. "But what you're saying, then, is that it's something like... like magic."

  "Sure. Something like."

  "I don't believe in magic."

  "You have a meadow in your pantry."

  He had an idea. With a gesture that asked her to stay where she was, he went to the front door, unlocked it, and went outside. The night was cool, dark now that the moon had finally set, and he shivered as he went down the steps and across the small front lawn. The blades were cold, the dew colder still, and he was hugging himself by the time he reached the side of the house.

  He stopped, looked at the high untrimmed hedge that separated his house from the next, then stepped quickly forward and turned right.

  The house was normal.

  Ignoring the wet grass, he hurried to the pantry window and looked up. There was no break that he could see, no bulges, no screens, no lights, no sophisticated projection equipment, no signs of anyone's elaborate tampering. He touched the clapboard below the sill, pushed at it, thumped it lightly with a loose fist, and stood back, frowning. He cocked his head, he squinted, he cocked his head the other way and squinted again. He considered checking it upside down and told himself he was being stupid. Then he returned to the foyer, looked at Glorian still on the floor beside the couch, and went to the kitchen doorway.

  There was blood spattered on the floor, the remains of the bat lay in front of the stove, and a golden glow pulsed dimly from the pantry.

  "You're a hard man to please," she said when he sat on the couch and shrugged. "Are you satisfied?"

  "I'm satisfied that I don't think I'm any crazier than I used to be."

  "It's a start."

  "Now what?"

  "I guess we go." She stood, hesitated, then leaned over and kissed the top of his head. "Thanks."

  "Don't mention it," he muttered, put his hands on her waist, and eased her to one side. He rose, looked down at himself, and shook his head. "I'm really going to do this, I think."

  "Great," she said with a remarkable lack of enthusiasm.

  "Yeah, well, if I am, I'm not going like this."

  "I don't have much time."

  "I'm not going to pack a trunk," he told her, and ran up to his room, pulled his aluminum-frame backpack from the closet, and dropped it on the bed. He moved quickly to prevent himself from thinking, every so often looking at the picture of his sister and asking her what in hell he was getting himself into this time?

  She didn't answer.

  He didn't think she would.

  He dressed in boots, jeans, and a dark shirt; he packed another pair of boots, two more pairs of jeans, underwear, and two shirts. He figured anything else he needed he'd pick up along the way. A shrug, and the pack was on, and after he locked all the windows and pulled all the plugs, he closed the door and hurried into the hall. As he passed the bathroom he paused and looked in, wondering if he should take his razor, his deodorant, his brush, his shampoo. Then he reminded himself that he was not on his way to play in Los Angeles or Detroit. He was going somewhere else; the fact that he didn't know where, or what name it had, didn't make him feel any easier.

  Glorian was standing in the kitchen doorway. When she saw the pack, she shook her head. "That isn't necessary."

  "Is it a nudist colony out there?"

  "No."

  "Then it's necessary." Before she could turn he took hold of her arm. "Glorian, you said you never knew if what you found on the other side of the Bridge was what you wanted until you got there. I still don't know what you're after, but, just for the sake of my ego, am I what you want?"

  "As opposed to what?"

  "Never mind."

  With exaggerated care they crossed the littered floor and moved into the pantry. The meadow was still filled with a gold light, somewhat dimmer now that the sun was nearing the distant mountains. A breeze rustled across the top of the grass, and the birds he had seen earlier were gone.

  "Wait a minute," he said as she moved to step through.

  "Now what?"

  "How do I get back?"

  "The same way you get in."

  "Through the pantry?"

  "On this side, yes."

  "Is there a limit?"

  "What?"

  "Is there a time limit? That is, do I have to do what I have to do in less than twenty-four hours or the Bridge goes up and I'm trapped on the other side? Or do I have a month, maybe a year? For that matter, now that I think about it, is time the same out there as it is in here?"

  She frowned. "You sure have a lot of questions."

  "I've never done this before."

  Her lower lip pulled slowly between her teeth, and she bit down lightly. Her frown was disturbing. "Well, to tell the truth, neither have I."

  "Oh."

  "What I mean is, I don't know about the time question. I assume it's the same on both sides. I do know that there isn't a limit on what you have to do."

  "Which is?"

  "Stay alive long enough to help me."

  Why, he wondered, am I not surprised.

  "And what do I have to do to help you?"

  "Find something for me."

  "Ah," he said, smiling at last. Now, at least, she was treading familiar ground. "It is a quest."

  "No, not really."

  "Do me a favor," he said. "Let me think it's a quest, all right? It'll help me cope."

  "All right, if you insist."

  She moved again, out of his grip and into the meadow. There was no shimmering of light, no thunder, no music. She was in the pantry, and she was standing in the ankle-high grass, waiting impatiently for him.

  How bad is it here, he thought, that I have to lose my mind to keep my sanity?

  He looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow.

  Pretty shitty, he thought.

  "Hey," he said as he took a deep breath and stepped through the wall, "what am I looking for, anyway?"

  "Oh, that," Glorian said.

  "Yeah, that."

  "What you're looking for is a duck."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "A what?" he yelped, stumbling over the threshold and nearly falling to the ground.

  "A duck," she said as if he should have known, and headed straight for the mountains.

  "Forget it," he told her, turned around, and started back for home.

  And stopped.

  Home was gone.

  Instead of the gap in the pantry wall, there was a tree. A rather large tree with a rich thick crown fully sixty feet above the mea
dow. Its wide bole was a dark green so smooth and glossy he was able to see a vague unflattering reflection of himself when he stood up to it and slammed it with a fist. It didn't give. He slammed it again, then walked around it, hoping to find some sort of break that indicated a doorway, or a clue, or a sign, or a knothole through which he would be able to squeeze. But there was nothing but the bark, and when he put a palm to it his hand slipped away, negating the possibility of climbing up to the nearest branch some twelve feet over his head.

  It smelled strongly of pine, but he wasn't comforted.

  He stood back and scowled, and checked the other trees around it in case he had made a mistake.

  None of them, however, looked like his pantry.

  "I thought," he said to Glorian when she returned to fetch him, "that I'd be able to go back."

  "And I told you I've never done this before."

  "Then how did you know that?"

  "Hearsay."

  "Wonderful."

  "Come on," she said, tugging at his arm. "We've got to get across before the sun sets."

  "Why?" he said sourly. "More monsters?"

  "Right."

  "Damn."

  He followed her, but not gladly, as she strode across the rolling land. More than once he was tempted to tell her to go on ahead, that he wasn't having any part of this fantastic nonsense, that he was going to, by god, wait by the tree until he figured out how to locate the Bridge that would take him home; and more than once he changed his mind because he didn't like the looks of the birds that lifted from the trees to the south. They were the same ones he had seen before, but now that he was here and not there, it was easy to see they were considerably larger than he had thought. So much so that he wished he had brought his bat with him, a notion that reminded him cruelly that he hadn't bothered to think about bringing a weapon—all he had were his feet for running and his fists for punching and his head for butting up against the nearest wall for talking him into doing this.

  A glance back when they were halfway across, and he saw another mountain range, this one much higher than the one ahead, much more rugged, and darker despite the fact that its uneven slopes received the full brunt of the setting sun. He walked on, but he couldn't help looking again, and again. Were he superstitious, he knew he would have thought that a goose had danced a drunken jig on his grave.