by Patrick Ness
This must be insanity.
(But I’m as sane as anyone.)
He ripped up a handful of grass and stuffed it in his mouth. It was bitter and juiceless, but he chewed slowly just the same, grinding it into a mulch before swallowing. He pulled another and had it halfway to his mouth when he realized that the herd was moving on, wandering out of the park onto a street behind. How had he missed that? He tore up two more handfuls and got up to run, forcing as much grass as he could down his gullet and trying not to lose the rest in the jostling. They couldn’t be leaving him behind, could they? Was this still the dream?
He ran as fast as he could, but the fatigue that had hugged him tightly for what seemed like weeks now slowed him down. The muscles across his chest began to cramp with the effort, and without realizing it, he let out a strangled series of coughs, green saliva drooling down his chin and across his cheeks. He ambled after them, finally reaching the street in time to see that they had stopped in a group, waiting for individual animals to file through an opening in a wooden fence. He fell to his knees, gasping loudly. And then, before he even noticed it, his grip on himself vanished. He disappeared from his own consciousness, blacking out, consequences be damned.
Waiting at the fence, the herd heard the long cry first. The more curious amongst them near the back turned to see where it came from. They could smell the thin creature’s approach more than they could see it, their noses noting a shocking odor, their eyesight barely registering a growing form. The first herdmember who was hit was more surprised than hurt. It was difficult for the tiny front foreleg of a thin creature to make much of an impression on the massive hindquarter of one of the herdmembers. But when he hit her again and then again, the middle-aged female swung around to take notice.
The thin creature jumped back to avoid being hit by her horn and with another cry began slamming his forelegs against another member of the herd, flinging himself indiscriminately, trying to strike whatever he could reach, jumping out of the way of an ever-increasing irritation of lunging horns. He hit eyes and mouths and rumps. He kicked under to less-protected stomachs and genitalia. He shouted the entire time, and his stench was almost blinding to the olfactories, throwing some of the animals into confusion. One animal accidentally punctured a neighbor’s side by thrusting blindly into the smell. It was this cry of pain that alerted the leader, standing patiently on the other side of the fence, waiting for the herd to make its way through.
There were gaps in the wood, and when she turned around sharply, she could see that something was happening at the rear of the herd. The sickly sweet dying smell of the thin creature reached her nose. She pushed into the oncoming line. The herd thundered out of her way as she forced herself back to the small opening they had all been walking through so peacefully. She gently, yet hurriedly, pushed a small juvenile male out of the opening and made her way to the other side.
A chaos of sight, sound and smell surrounded her. Animals ran in all directions, some of them clearly panicked at the overwhelming sensory attack. A cloud of his odor hung in the air like a lingering poison. It took her a long, tense moment before she could sort any of it out, before she could even find where he was in that writhing, movable shock that caused the ground to tremble with shifting weight. At last, two members of the herd parted, and she saw him standing between them, forelegs held high, running after a youngster. She was instantly, instinctively at a run, shoulders dropped, horn low, all four feet leaving the ground at the high point of the step. She saw him see her coming. She saw him stand his ground. At the last second, she turned her head slightly, hitting him with the broad flat of her nose rather than the lance of her horn. He flew off of his feet, and for a brief moment, they were together in momentum, him against her, moving across the pavement at a frightening speed, before she slowed and he separated, tumbling into space. He hit the concrete very hard. She heard a distinct and unmistakable snap as he rolled across the ground in a heap, turning end over end, until finally coming to rest halfway under a thin creature carrying-box.
Maggerty opened his eyes to find himself in immense pain and also upside down, both of which were disorienting. He tasted blood and realized he had somehow bitten through his tongue. He couldn’t move his arm, and the jabs of pain coming from his elbow were what cleared his head enough to notice that he was sprawled up against a parked car. He felt blood pooling beneath him. Pains in his chest kept his breathing shallow. He didn’t have the strength to get up, barely enough to move his head to look for the herd.
He saw the leader standing a little way from him, snorting loudly and pacing back and forth in what seemed like agitation, although he wasn’t sure. After a moment, he heard her let out a low grunt in his direction, and then he watched her turn and walk back to where the rest of the herd seemed to be standing in isolated groups. What happened? Where was he? A grayness started permeating his thoughts. He realized, at last, that he was passing out, really passing out, not disappearing to somewhere else, and as he closed his eyes, he was grateful for the chance to rest.
58. A Most Delicious Proposal.
—And somehow here he is again.
—Surely you don’t mind, Thomas? Am I interrupting something?
—Only my wonderment at your ability to appear here repeatedly, this time without even a warning from my secretary.
—I’m afraid I didn’t give her a chance. You’ll have to forgive me. I have been accused of being over-driven. I’ll use the proper routes next time.
—Apology accepted.
—I don’t recall apologizing.
—You just—
—I’ve got something you might be interested in. Are you busy?
—Would it do any good to say yes?
—No. If you wanted me out of your office, you’d have me out. I recognize that I’m here as part of your good humor.
—Appealing to my vanity doesn’t hurt either.
—Shrewd. I knew there was a reason you were the right man for me.
—Right man for what?
—Do you remember my disclosure of my relationship with the Mayor?
—An old flame, if I remember correctly.
—You don’t remember correctly. I never said any such thing, but your inference is smart and your way of putting it even smarter. The Mayor is an ‘old flame’ of mine, an old flame around whom I swirl not an abundance of nice feeling, if you understand my meaning.
—I’m guessing you’re either looking for some kind of revenge or trying to win her back.
—Both, actually.
—Both? This I’ve got to hear.
—Leave that part up to me. All I wish to share on the matter is that I’ve got certain feelings toward the Mayor, and I’ve got a plan, a plan that requires you and one that would bring you many, many benefits.
—All right, but let me say right at the beginning that I don’t know much about the Mayor, but what I do know, what everyone knows, is that she ain’t leaving her husband. Have you ever heard of a ‘Cora and Albert'?
—It’s ‘Albert and Cora’ and yes, I’m quite sick to death of hearing it, thank you. I reiterate that the plan is mine, and the consequences, pro or con, are up to my calculations. I merely ask you to get involved because your involvement could help us both immensely.
—Fair enough. What do you imagine my involvement to be? Understanding of course, that I’m a very busy man with many irons in the fire. It would have to benefit me in a very large way indeed in order to pique my interest.
—Hear me out.
—By all means.
—The Mayoral election is coming up in four months.
—The one without any candidates?
—So you’ve heard that Maximillian Latham, the presumptive winner, has dropped out.
—I do read the papers, Mr Noth. I know what’s going on in the city.
—Then you might also know that there is speculation that Mayor Larsson will run again?
—It’s only speculation. I don’t see i
t happening.
—Why not?
—Four terms. She’s nearly sixty. She wants to retire. The most she’ll do is be caretaker until a new election is scheduled early next year.
—I happen to agree with you. So you are aware then of the peculiar power vacuum in which Hennington currently sits?
—Ye-ess. I think I see where you’re heading.
—Do you?
—Yes. You want to run for Mayor against your former girlfriend, showing her, well, showing her God knows what, that’s your affair, and you want me to help you do it.
—You’ve got it exactly wrong.
Part IV. Commodities.
59. The Foster Downs.
Katherine Tcham, Davis’ mother, was nearly two feet shorter than Jacki and couldn’t possibly have equaled more than a third of Jacki’s body weight, yet somehow she managed to get Jacki out of bed, into a bath, out of a bath, and to the breakfast table every morning with only the faintest help from a strengthening but still emphatically wobbly Jacki.
—How in the world do you do that?
—I had five children in four years. It got to the point where I could carry them all at the same time if I had to. Willpower, I guess. It has to be done, and so you do it.
Then she smiled, a smile at once more sly and sanguine than Jacki had expected, much like the Downs itself. Jacki had heard only that it was a housing development for low-income families. She had immediately translated this to ‘slum’ and filed it away, never expecting the subject to arise again. Stepping out of Davis’ car, though, the first thing she noticed was the flowers. In every corner of green area, in every windowsill, in every pot on every flat public surface, wave after wave of flower upon flower upon flower. Irises, tulips, roses, primroses, tuberoses, peonies, hayslips, zenias, azaleas, parenzans, rhododendrons, philodendrons, bougainvillea, dewlaps, blue cowls, morning glories, violets, even a rack of hanging orchids thriving under hot mist, and heaps upon heaps of the light blue fosters which gave the Downs its name. Somehow, in the midst of a drought, the air lived in a shimmer of sunlight, bees and butterflies.
Wow, Jacki thought. Just, wow.
The apartment buildings were all gorgeous aged brick, recycled from ruins discovered in the Brown and peaking in flying black roofs, a row of chimneys buttoning the top ridge. Each set of apartments surrounded a brick-inlaid central courtyard, these too swarming with flowers and sunshine. Between each building were broad brick walkways leading to a massive green field behind the development. Children’s football games were in progress, with teams of little ones in matching jerseys running up and down the grass. The first thing Jacki ever said to Katherine was,
—Holy moly.
—What do you mean?
—I had no idea it was this nice. No offense. Sorry.
—None taken. It didn’t used to be. It was always livable, but it didn’t get really spruced up until the Mayor started that bond investment cycle about twelve years ago. It’s gotten better and better since then. I’m Katherine Tcham.
—Jacki.
—I know. I’ve got a room all ready for you. I hope you’re not allergic to flowers.
She smiled. Jacki immediately felt better and then fainted. She woke up on a sunny bedspread in a sunny room with sunny wallpaper.
—Tell me if the cheer gets a little oppressive. It does to me sometimes. I’ve got darker rooms we can put you in.
Jacki shook her head slowly.
—Obviously, the first thing we need to do is get your strength back.
Jacki nodded her head equally slowly.
—Sleep now. We’ll see if we can get some of my cooking into you a little later.
Jacki was unable to leave her room for over a week. The simple twenty-five minute car ride to get Jacki into the Downs had proved to be enough to sap every ounce of strength she had managed to gather. Katherine, who insisted she had never been a nurse but who Jacki believed must have been, if not in this life then somewhere in reincarnation’s datebook, didn’t even require Jacki to move to the bathroom, providing a chamber pot that looked like it pre-dated Pistolet. In fact, it wasn’t until the ninth day of her stay, and going on a month of qutting Forum, that she was able, with help, to walk to the kitchen table, at which point she discovered to her astonishment that she was not the only invalid in Katherine’s care.
—This is my grandfather, Reginald, and his sister Rhona. Papa, Auntie, this is Jacki, who I’ve been telling you about.
The two oldest people Jacki had ever seen nodded and waved their greetings to her. Jacki did some mental arithmetic. Even if Katherine was younger than she looked, say fifty-two instead of fifty-seven, and setting the variable of the mother’s age at a low seventeen, then these two must be—
—I’m one hundred and four.
Off by eighteen years. The chamber pot wasn’t the only thing that had outlasted Pistolet. Reginald smiled at her through strong, white teeth that couldn’t possibly have been his own. He pointed to Rhona.
—She’s a hundred and seven.
Rhona looked up, more alert than before.
—What? What’s he saying?
Katherine placed a steaming tureen of creamy potato soup on the table.
—They’re the oldest living brother and sister on record anywhere in the country.
—My goodness.
—I’m one hundred and seven.
—Yes, Auntie, we heard.
—Will you be here long?
—I don’t know.
—What was that?
—Let’s not tax Jacki too much, Auntie. She’s not well, remember?
—What?
—She’s not well!
—It’s not contagious, is it?
—Of course not. Eat your soup before it gets cold, Papa. You too, Jacki. Just ignore them if they get to talking. It’s a bottomless pit, trust me. After you turn a hundred, that’s all you ever talk about.
—Katie! A terrible thing to say.
—Hush, Papa.
—Don’t you listen to her, Jenny. You can talk to me all you want.
As Jacki took her first sip of the potato soup, and as the slight taste of rosemary caressed its way across her tongue, and as it worked its warm way down her throat into her stomach, and as Reginald intently watched her eat before picking up his own spoon, Jacki felt herself smile, actually smile from actual happiness for the first time in, well, who knew when?
60. How to Serve Man.
Thank you all for coming. This turnout surprises even me. I have more connections in this great city than I thought. Or maybe it’s my infamy that’s so large. Ha ha ha ha ha. I’m digressing and I haven’t even started. Ha ha ha ha ha. Seriously, though, thanks to all of you, members of the press, trusted colleagues and members of Hennington Hills, my friends in high places, ha ha. Well, get out your pens and dictaphones, because I’ve got a surprise for you all, hopefully a pleasant one, definitely a brief one, ha ha.
I am here today to announce my candidacy for Mayor of Hennington.
Okay, calm down, calm down. Quiet, please, give me a chance to talk.
Thank you. I know what you’re thinking. Now, why in the world is Thomas Banyon, a man with no political experience and one of the cushiest jobs in the city already, ha ha, running for Mayor of Hennington? It’s simple, really. I love this city. Love it with all my heart. I was born here, attended school here, made my livelihood and my business here. And it’s no secret that I’ve thrived. Some might say that I’ve thrived on my father’s coat-tails, but I can assure you, he would be the first one to deny that. I’d be the second, ha ha. I took Hennington Hills from a decent golf course and turned it into a center for city commerce, as well as the spot in the city for that most important factor to quality of life: relaxation.
But this is not a commercial for Hennington Hills, though I’ve got membership application forms with me in case anyone wants to join, ha ha ha ha ha. I merely point to it as a measure of my success in business, in management, and most imp
ortantly, in giving back to this great city of ours.
There is a power vacuum in Hennington. You know it, I know it. Since Max Latham took himself out of the race, for honorable reasons as I understand it, no one has stepped forward to assume the stewardship that Cora Larsson has held on this city for the past twenty years. More importantly, no one has stepped forward with a promise to be more than just a standard-bearer. No one has stepped forward with a vision for the city, with a will to push us forward into new avenues, with a burning desire to make Hennington even better and brighter than it already is, and what’s more, with the power, influence, and talent to make that all happen.
That is, no one has stepped forward until now.
I will admit to you that the idea of running for Mayor has not been on my mind for long. In fact, I, like the rest of you, was expecting a stay-the-course Mayorhood by the competent Max Latham. It was only when he dropped out and when a trusted advisor of mine suggested that I might be the man to take his place that I began to consider the possibility. The more I thought about it, though the idea shocked me as much as it did you today, ha ha, the more sense it made.
I am the one to take us forward. I am the one with the vision. I am the one ready, willing, and most importantly, able to help Hennington and her citizens fulfill every ounce of potential we have inside us. I will reinforce our business community and add to it to bring a new boom to our economy. I will work with the police force to drop our already low crime rate to proportions so infinitesimal as to be nonexistent. I will increase funding to our public schools so every child, non-Rumour and Rumour alike, has the best opportunity to advance in the world at large. I will knock down the taxes that we over-pay, the taxes that we then have no say over how they’re spent. I will do all of these things and more. But these promises are just the beginning.
As I’ve said, it’s early yet. I’ve only just begun to look at how I will reform this city and create a better place to live. And make no mistake, reform is needed. No one will argue with the fact that Mayor Larsson has done a good job. I’d be a fool if I tried to run on that platform, ha ha ha. But perhaps four terms has taken some of the steam out of the Mayor that we’ve all grown to love and respect. Perhaps that’s even why she herself is retiring when it’s obvious she could easily win re-election in a landslide. New blood is needed. A new outlook is needed. Mayor Larsson has served us well, but she herself realizes that it’s time for a change, time for a reinvigoration of government, time to sweep out all the stagnation and usher in a new vitality.