by Ellen Datlow
Sophie was gasping and wheezing as she tried to crawl toward him. Evading her, he turned to me with fury in his creep face. “This is your fault, you bitch! You had to come here and spoil everything! She was the best I’d ever had! I’ll never get anyone else that good, ever! Get out of my garden before you spoil them all, get out of my garden right now!”
The bouncer and another equally burly man materialized on either side of me. I tried to twist away but one of them dug a fist into my hair and held on. I had one last, quick glance of Sophie flattened on the ground with the creep screaming at her before they rushed me out of the garden and into the darkness.
The sky was just getting light when the police woke me in Leicester Square. I was lying on a park bench in the garden, right next to a statue of the Little Tramp.
I tried to get him to tell me what had happened to Sophie but he wouldn’t even twitch. I thought it was because the police were there but Chaplin was just as mute and still when I came back by myself later. All the statues are like that, everywhere I go—Leicester Square, Covent Garden, the West End, the South Bank. It doesn’t matter what I say or how loud I yell, they’re all unmoved. Like stone.
The Janus Tree
GLEN HIRSHBERG
Glen Hirshberg’s most recent collection, American Morons, was published in 2006. The Two Sams, his first collection, won the International Horror Guild Award, and was selected by Publishers Weekly and Locus as one of the best books of 2003. Hirshberg is also the author of a novel, The Snowman’s Children.
With Dennis Etchison and Peter Atkins, he cofounded the Rolling Darkness Revue, a traveling ghost story performance troupe that tours the west coast of the United States each October. His fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, including multiple appearances in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror and The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror, The Dark, Trampoline, Cemetery Dance, and Dark Terrors 6, as well as online at SCI FICTION. He lives in the Los Angeles area with his wife and children.
Go to it, boys and gals, fierce, fierce, up and down, swing your partner
round an’ round, to the beats of your heart, the drums of your hearts under
your leathery skin. Go to it now while the night is still young …
young … young … young.
—Myron Brinig, Wide Open Town
So much about your life depends on when you fight. And whom. I learned this growing up in Silver City, Montana, which someone proclaimed the richest ruined mountain on earth half a century ago, and where the ghosts are still waiting two generations later for the last dazed living to leave so they can set up permanent shop in the abandoned mansions and collapsing mine shafts.
You do have a choice. You can take on the Company grinding you into debt, or the Chinese next door trying to lowball you out of your job. Take your stand against the Communists coming for your freedom, or the copper barons coming for your last unclaimed dime. You can fight for the town you hate, or the earth that dried up underneath you. For mining safety regulations, or the Apex Law that lets you follow a vein off your underground claim right into the tunnels of someone else’s, and you can fight that one in court with lawyers or underground with dynamite and high-powered hoses. Up to you.
At the moment it happened, I really believed I was fighting Matt Janus for Robert Wysocki, whom I couldn’t help anymore, and Mr. Valway, who may not have cared, and Jill Redround, who didn’t love me. But I was doing it for myself. In a way, I guess I won.
What I remember is walking with Robert one night during the summer after sixth grade, all the way across Aluminum Street past the hunched, dark taverns with their decades-old, hand-lettered signs proclaiming NO MINERS still posted in the windows. Just in case Company employees from some other town with enough miners left to matter decided to come by on a road trip, we guessed. We walked under a ridiculous, blazing moon, down rows of tightly packed, boxy Company houses, their yards full of rusting bikes and truck parts and swingless swing sets, into a wind that pummeled our faces or horse-kicked us in the back, depending on whether we were coming or going. We were bouncing a red rubber ball we’d found somewhere. Robert had his black cloak billowing around his peach polo shirt and yellow shorts. And he had his backpack, of course.
“The Dark Lord appeared at my window at dawn,” he said.
“Again?” I asked.
“He’s never been at my window.”
We cleared the houses, and the wind half lifted us off our feet, but we punched forward. To our right, the gouged mountains loomed black and treeless. The moonlight pooling in the biggest of the abandoned blast pits up there made it look more like an eye than a wound. To the east and below us, the plains stretched out, running free of the mountains. Robert took a cigarillo from his shorts pocket and pretended to snap an imaginary match to life on his thumb. He made puffing motions with his mouth, and the cigarillo popped out. Robert picked it off the pavement and plugged it back in his lips.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked.
“Elven Trading Post.”
This meant the 7-Eleven the Welsh women owned on Magnesium Street, in Robert-speak. It also meant he’d been shoplifting again. At age eleven, he’d already been caught three times. The last time, his parents had avoided reform school for him by agreeing to a weekly 110-mile trip to Missoula for a kid-shrink Robert called the Delphic.
We came to the place where the sidewalk gave out like a tapped ore vein and just kept walking, past the last houses, to the rocky overlook over Snake Lake. Robert pointed down the slaggy hillside to the surface, which reflected the moon, all right, but in the hard, flat way tin roofs do.
“New ones,” he said.
He was right. A whole family, it seemed. Every year, some hopeless set of ducks who’d somehow missed the memo alighted to fish and nest down there. Calling the place a lake was a local in-joke. Once, it had been the biggest open-pit mine in North America. Lately, it had started filling with a red-streaked, metallic liquid that almost looked like water. At least to the dumbest ducks. We usually found the ones that hadn’t sunk bill-down on what passed for a beach, dead-necked, like unfolded paper boats.
Dropping to his knees, Robert scooped up a fistful of pebble-sized slag, whispered one of his spells over it, and pitched his first toss of the night toward the lake. One pebble actually dropped close enough to a dead duck to splash muck onto it. A rare occurrence, as most of Robert’s throws never got near the water.
“One night,” he said happily, “when the moon is full, and my aim is true … ducks will rise from the dead.”
I threw some pebbles of my own, pegged one bird right on its flappy foot, and barely moved it. Then I bent down to scoop more rocks.
“What’d the Dark Lord want?”
“He summoned me to the Janus Tree.”
Halting midthrow, I turned and looked at Robert. He just stood there, toeing the backpack at his feet.
“Matt Janus came to your window?”
“He said to come tonight. At the stroke of twelve.”
“Your parents will never let you out.”
“My parents are offering libations.”
It was the first I’d known that Robert’s mother had started drinking again, too. “I’m coming,” I told him.
“The Dark Lord said to come alone.”
“Don’t go, Robert. I mean it, don’t go.”
“Young Ted, don’t be a jackanapes. It’s Matt.”
“He’s …” But I stopped, having no idea what to say. I hadn’t actually spoken to Matt Janus in close to a year. Not since his partyfreak dad bolted for South America or somewhere, and Matt had stopped hanging around the basketball courts with me or climbing into the old quarries to have miniatures battles with Robert. I only saw him at school, where he mostly lurked by his locker or hunched over his desk in the black leather jacket his dad had given him as a going away present while his legs just kept sprouting underneath him, longer and longer. The way he always seemed to be leaning forward mad
e him look like a praying mantis.
“He’s not the same kid,” I finally mumbled.
“Nor am I,” Robert said. Turning my way, he squared his shoulders and huffed out his practically concave chest at me.
I snorted. “Yeah, okay, Warlock.”
“Sorcerer.”
“I don’t think you should go. I mean it. Didn’t his dad just come home? I hear he’s super-sick, and he never …” Liked you, I was going to say, and didn’t.
Robert wasn’t listening anyway. He stared up the butte overlooking Silver City, squinting at The Virgin of the Great Divide, all lit and glowing white in the moonlight. For the thousandth time, I wondered who had decided to build a giant statue of Mary up there, right as everyone who had the means was fleeing town. It was as though all those soon-to-be-former inhabitants from all those faraway places, sharing virtually nothing except their devastating plunge into poverty, had built themselves a collective mom to wave good-bye to.
Eventually, Robert said, “I’ll take the backpack.”
Did Robert Wysocki really believe his backpack was magic? He never once let on either way, even to me, which is probably why kids liked him or left him alone. It also may be why I let him go. Robert just seemed to have this bubble around him. Aura, he might have called it. Or level three shield or something. Whatever it was, I think I believed in that.
Two evenings later—moon gone, thunderheads looming way out on the prairie but riding the wind clear of town—Robert and I biked to a Silver City Copper Barons game at Anaconda Stadium, recently proclaimed the worst facility in minor league baseball by some magazine or other. We sat in the backless, splintering bleachers out past third base, several rows closer than we used to sit to the high school girls in their short skirts and pink lipstick, all of them whispering together and catching the eye of every uniformed player jogging back to the dugout.
In the fourth inning, Robert stood up, knocking my half-eaten hot dog out of my hands, lifted his backpack, unzipped it, and turned it upside down. A roll of cherry Chapstick and a single, black Darth Vader minifigure spilled onto the cement at our feet. Before I could even react, Robert threw the backpack onto the field, where no one paid any attention to it, climbed over the three-foot wall separating the stands from the parking lot, made his way to the heap of slag beyond the left-field fence where little kids chase home run balls, and started climbing it. No one except me even looked at him until he started taking off his clothes. The cloak went last. Then he sat down stark naked on the rocks, put his face in his bone-white hands, and started weeping.
It took maybe ninety seconds for paramedics to show up and scoop him off there. The Wysocki family fled town that night for Missoula, then Seattle, and then they disappeared into Canada somewhere. I left the backpack where Robert had dropped it, which I’ve always regretted. And I never saw him again.
I didn’t see Matt Janus either, or anyone else much for a while after that. That fall, in my first month of seventh grade, I started yelling at teachers in the middle of class for any reason I could think of or sometimes no reason. On my fourth or fifth trip to the principal’s office, I shoved her, and that was that.
My parents came to get me, but when I saw their car pull into the lot, I bolted off campus, through the neighborhoods, hopping fences, dodging broken bikes and yapping little black dogs I desperately wanted to kick and would have if I’d had time, and lost everybody on my weaving way back to Snake Lake. I think my plan was to dive in there, take a giant swallow, fill my mouth and lungs with metal. But the humped, furry dead thing splayed on the rocks nearby—could have been a crow, a baby coyote, or even a cat—stopped me. In the hard September sun, it looked gray-red, oxidized, more like a discarded mining tool than anything formerly living. Even at twelve, I understood that that’s what all the residents of Silver City were, even with the Company long gone: discarded mining tools. I sat down in the slag and thought about Robert and kicked stones in the lake and stared up the mountains at the Virgin and then to the left, where the easternmost roofs of the Janus mansion could just be seen, tucked among the ledges, red and complicated, like an aerie. At some point, I broke down. After that, I just sat for more than twenty-four hours, until I was good and sick. Then I went back to my house.
My parents decided to homeschool me, and somewhere in that first month I must have made some kind of decision, because I stopped battling them. All morning, I forced myself through the math and geology I hated (although I liked the bits about exactly what the Anaconda Company had done to my hometown). It was fun explaining to my parents exactly why we had to drink bottled water, and why our sheets came out of the laundry pocked with permanent orange spots that looked like bloodstains and terrified the two motels’ occasional out-of-town guests, most of whom had only come to examine the business prospects in the malls my dad spent his working life developing.
Afternoons, I went to the library. There, for my English and history work, I started rooting through the dust-caked shelves full of decades-old books and periodicals. I taught myself to research. On the Friday of each week, I came home with a paper I’d written—annotated in proper footnote format—about fights my parents had never heard of despite living in Silver City all their lives, like the 1889 boxing match at a roadhouse outside the town limits, where some miner named Groeninger broke his left arm and hand in the forty-eighth round against some carpenter named Broad and went on fighting until he knocked Broad out in the 105th. Broad died the next day, and Groeninger disappeared out of the newspapers, off the registry, completely out of history.
As surprised as my parents were by the way I hurled myself into my schoolwork, I think they were more surprised by the sheer number of kids I somehow surrounded myself with. This wasn’t so much through any conscious plan as the discovery of the one thing Robert had missed, or didn’t care to know: that just plain smiling, acting interested, and not expecting much can earn you a whole lot of friends.
So I came out of the library and rode skateboards (badly) down the banister rails on the front steps and got chased out of the lot with the buzz-haired skateboys and girls. From one of the infamous picked-over junkshops in Uptown, stocked half a century ago with the belongings the mining families and their bosses could no longer afford to own or carry, I bought a set of congas. One drumhead was complete, though the other had a jagged rip down the center, like a mouth with teeth. I took my new congas to Kenny Tripton’s house when he and his fledgling cowpunk band had their Thursday night rehearsals in the basement, and if I never exactly became a band member, they did get me a stool and a microphone after a while, and I got to beat my one good conga and scream “Hey F OFF!” when the choruses called for it, which they generally did. One of the conditions of rehearsing at the Trip-ton’s was that we were only allowed to say “F.” It became a band trademark.
I didn’t join the junior high chess class at the library on Tuesday afternoons, but I lurked in the doorway, and there were seven class members, so they needed an eighth come game time, and eventually I became friends with most of those people, too. I snuck onto Anaconda Stadium field with the football team one sleety night and came home soaked and bloody-mouthed. In May, my parents applied to Mrs. Morbey, the principal, for my reinstatement, and were welcomed enthusiastically.
“We’ve taken note of Teddy’s progress,” Mrs. Morbey bubbled as we squirmed in the cracked green vinyl chairs across the desk from her. “It’s a hard thing to lose a pal like that. We all understand.”
Lose a pal. I wanted to jump on her desk. Kick the lamps over. But I didn’t really want to shove her anymore. The truth was, Robert already felt like years ago. That weirdo with the backpack I’d hung around with in grade school. And anyway, as soon as that meeting was over, I was going walking with Jill Redround.
I honestly don’t remember exactly how that started. At the Spring Powwow, probably. Watching Matt Janus, come to think of it. His dad and Mr. Redround, the local Blackfeet chief, had been business partners for years on cas
ino and nightclub projects on the reservation and off, and Matt had known Jill since birth and also had the softest outside jumpshot in Butte, which is why he’d been the only white kid welcomed to play in the reservation games. Seeing him now, it was like his spine had just popped up on him like an expanding tent pole. His blond, spiky head loomed too far over his absurdly elongated body, and his legs had stretched even taller and thinner. Also, weird muscles bulged out the sides of his shoulders, all knobby and asymmetrical, as though he’d stuffed his skin with slag. He’d always been pale enough to verge on albino, but now his cheeks had ugly, blotchy patches, and little pits, too, as though he’d been mined.
He dominated the basketball game. Not only could he still shoot from outside, but everyone just ducked out of his way as though fleeing a bear when he barged through the paint for rebounds. Twice, he caught Jill’s eyes and waved. Once, near the end, he saw me, stopped in middribble, and got called for traveling. Shrugging, he tossed the ball to the ref and retreated to the other end of the gravel court.
At some point, Jill wound up next to me. She had on some open-sleeved, beaded dress with fringes everywhere for the Powwow, I remember that, and she wasn’t wearing shoes—she rarely did, except when forced—and her boundless black hair streamed over her strong shoulder blades and back.
“You’re the only person everyone I know knows,” she said. “Know that?”
I smiled—the smile I’d practiced all year long—and earned myself an answering grin. “You, too,” I told her.
“And Matt, of course.”
Glancing toward the court, I saw him sink a jumpshot, flash an unreadable look our way. Or maybe just our direction.
“And Matt,” I agreed.
That night, at her invitation, I watched her dance the dance to Old Napi, and then we took our first boulder-scramble up the buttes. After that, we did it at least once a weekend and usually more for the rest of the summer.