by Tom Deitz
“Where’d you get all these?” she gasped. “Widows, too! Lots of ’em.” She regarded him skeptically. “You didn’t get bit, did you?”
Dale laughed: a sound like wood splintering. “Too smart for that—or my skin’s too thick, one. Or maybe I ain’t got enough juice in me to go to the trouble of suckin’ it out.”
“More like they could smell all that ’shine in you and didn’t wanta get pre-pickled.”
Dale eyed her warily. “What you gonna do with all these?”
LaWanda shook her head. “Can’t say. That’s part of the mojo. Granny says I can’t tell.”
“Guess it’s what happens that matters,” Dale mused. “Not the way you get there.”
“I’ll tell you if it works,” LaWanda conceded, looking speculatively at the door. The rain had slackened. She thought she even saw a sunbeam out there. That would make Scott as happy as it would’ve dismayed Piper all to hell. Because that was one point nobody—including Scott, she was proud to note—had bothered making: that Scott thoroughly detested bad weather. Still, he was doing his part—or so he said. “Best way I know to make it rain,” he’d confided last time they’d got together, which was that morning, “is for me to go campin’ in a tent.”
That’s where he was now: scrunched up in that two-man out on the point south of the Sullivan Cove turnaround, watching the lake waters rise up above the naked rocky shelves that lined the shore.
Poor Scott.
Dale lit his pipe. “You don’t need me, I’d best be goin’. Gotta check up on the rest of you younguns. See what Aikin’s learned on the Internet.”
“What was he tryin’ to learn?”
“Anything he can ’bout Ralph Mims and Mystic Mountain Properties. And I think he was lookin’ for something called The Anarchist Cookbook.”
“God,” LaWanda snorted, “that boy really is serious.”
“Rain’s let up,” Dale observed. “Don’t know about you, but I’m ready to get outta here.”
LaWanda slapped her hand down on a rickety shelf beside her, but cupped it in lieu of laying it flat, then curled her fingers around something that moved. “Got another one!” she grinned. Then: “You do what you gotta do; I gotta do my thing too!”
“No you don’t, you little eight-legged motherfucker!” LaWanda warned thirty minutes later. She swatted at the inky mess of angles and baggy body that had just sent one of those legs probing toward the rim of the cast-iron bathtub in Dale’s abandoned house, and knocked it back down inside.
And sighed.
Was she really ready for this? She’d put up the front, but now was time to pay the…the piper, she finished with a lump in her throat, as tears unbidden burned into her eyes.
Fuck this! she chided herself right back, and set the last of the half-dozen Mason jars on what remained of the linoleum floor.
Took another deep breath, and peered into the tub.
The bottom was alive: crawling with arachnids of every shape and size, from tiny little guys not as big as the end of her pinky finger to those godawful big wood spiders that looked like they could saunter right out of the kindlin’-pile and carry you off for dinner. There were black widows, too: lots of ’em ,most of which had lived under this very house, and which all the others seemed to be respecting, to judge by the distance they kept from those hard, glossy legs and those evilly gleaming bodies, black as her brother’s new Camaro.
There were flat spiders, too, and leggy ones, and spiders that were all round abdomen; spiders that were naked, spiders that were furry, and spiders in between. There were garden spiders in black and yellow livery, and fiddle-blacks in sensible brown and gray. She’d even—wonder of wonders—found a comatose tarantula, which Dale opined was one Little Billy claimed to have lost, that he knew JoAnne had flushed down the john. Some of these fuckers could sure hold their breath!
Rain rattled the roof again, and a leak jingled into the corner, to establish a new puddle there.
Which reminded LaWanda of what she was about, which was also what she’d been dreading. But Granny had told her this was how it had to be. And Granny was always right when it came to mojo.
Taking a deep breath, and muttering a short prayer to a God whose attentions she generally preferred to avoid, LaWanda Gilmore took off her muddy black shoes and grimy white socks, rolled up her soggy britches to the knee—and stuck her neat brown feet into that squirming tub.
“Step on a spider, make it rain,” she chanted, gazing at nothing save her own grim reflection in a grimy mirror, even as she felt things crunch and squish beneath her heels and toes. “Step on a spider, make it rain,” she repeated over and over, still not looking down. Still trying, very hard, to convince herself that this wasn’t much different than stomping grapes, save that these oozed the wine of mojo out of their shattered shells.
Pain stabbed into her once or twice (but there was no power without pain, Granny had advised); and she felt her stomach give a nasty heave as her heel came down on what had to be the panicked tarantula.
But it was already raining harder. And in honor of Piper, LaWanda Gilmore smiled.
Chapter XVI: Moebius Ship
(the Seas Between—no time)
David was getting royally sick of bagpipes.
He hadn’t the vaguest notion how much time had elapsed since they’d hoodooed Lugh’s vessels—six hours perhaps, or six dozen—but he hadn’t expected to have practically every single spare instant since then soundtracked by caterwauling. He really didn’t know how long that performance had lasted, either, because there was either no sun by which to determine such things, or the sun was wrong: too large, too small, or an odd color—like lime green. And while he knew it was all one sun viewed from the diverse Worlds that layered around the Track, still, the effect was damned disturbing. Never mind what those screwy light-dark alterations did to his circadian rhythms, which were clearly plotting serious rebellion.
He was pondering mutiny of his own. It wasn’t that the music was bad—normally he loved the pipes, highland or Uillean either. But normally he wasn’t stuck on the deck of a boat with a set being played nonstop—and a hundred feet was actually far too close when Piper really started wailing, nevermind that the relentless fog that shrouded every sight save sky, Track, and (close in) water seemed to amplify rather than inhibit. Shoot, he wouldn’t have been surprised to see some vast leviathan rise out of the deep, drawn to what it mistook for a mating call. Hadn’t Bradbury written a story like that, involving a lighthouse and a dinosaur? And hadn’t the lighthouse suffered dire consequences when it failed to respond to that Jurassic hormonal urge? Or was he confusing the story with the movie based on it: Beast From 20,000 Fathoms, or whatever?
Misery, however, appeared to be loving company; certainly everyone else seemed to have sought the same solution he had, which was to cram into the stern and pray the sail screened out the worst of the noise.
Noise….
Actually, it was pretty decent music, if you didn’t have to hear it all the time. At least Liz and Myra had distractions: they liked to draw—which they were doing. Brock could evidently sleep through a Who concert. Alec had Aife—and cotton stuffed into his ears. Fionchadd was forward, listening raptly to Piper’s playing. Which left David to sit and stew.
Dammit!
Eventually he could stand it no longer. He reached over to stop Liz’s pencil in mid-line. “Remind me,” he muttered, “to make Piper vet his promises through me next time.”
Liz looked up from her drawing: Brock’s bare feet rendered in excruciating detail. And scowled. “Thought you liked the pipes.”
“I do! It’s just…I dunno. It’s like too much chocolate, or something. I think I’ve OD’d on it.”
Whereupon the music ceased abruptly.
Liz started, then twisted her head down at an awkward angle, to peer beneath the sail Fionchadd had unfurled a short while back—mostly for appearances he said. It was red and wrought of a canvaslike material far coarser than most
Faery sails. A silver chameleon was limned upon it in thick silver cord: an homage to the name Fionchadd had received in Galunlati: Dagantu, in reference to the way the Faery moved, all quick and deft and flickery—like a lizard.
“Oh, Christ!” Liz moaned. “He’s passing the pipes to Finno. Please tell me he knows how to play.”
David rolled his eyes. “I hope so, but I fear not. I think it’s that art thing again: the one thing we’re better at than they are.”
Liz regarded him askance. “What about the so-called Faery musicians that are always enchanting us poor mortals?”
“Stolen humans, I reckon. Hey, maybe that’s what happened to Hendrix and Morrison. They’re not really dead, and those were just sticks of wood left in their place.”
Myra’s eyebrowns lifted delicately. “Interesting theory, anyway.”
Liz nibbled her pencil. “All that stuff Pipe’s been playing is safe, right? It’s not supposed to do anything weird, like pierce the World Walls, or sort through Tracks, or anything.”
David traced designs on the deck with his fingers. “Finno promised him songs. I assume he meant songs he could actually use and enjoy. Therefore, safe songs.”
“He’ll be the hit of the 40 Watt if he ever gets back to Athens,” Myra drawled. “If.”
David pinched her leg. “I thought you were the eternal optimist—and here we are at the bare ragged start of what Finno says oughta take three days Faery time this time of year, and already you’re complainin’.”
“You were too,” Liz protested. “I—”
The rest of her words were drowned out by the most godawful screeching David had ever heard.
“Jesus Lord-and-Savior!” David yelped, gazing around imploringly.
Brock still slept—though he had flopped over and folded his arms around his head. Alec grinned and forced the cotton further into his ears. Myra calmly reached into Alec’s fannypack, secured the remainder of the wad, and proceeded to mirror his precaution.
David and Liz exchanged resigned glances. David had a sudden idea.
“C’mon,” he hissed, grabbing Liz’s hand. “Something I’ve been meanin’ to ask you—”
Liz grimaced irritably. “Now?”
David gestured down the deck. “Would you rather listen to that?”
“I…see what you mean.” Fionchadd was clearly not a very quick study.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” Alec called too loudly, as David and Liz sprinted for the tiny cabin that projected waist-high amidships, just behind the mast. The cabin-of-many-wonders, they’d termed it, for its ability to produce anything needed, from food, to clothing, to drawing materials, to—well, not sunblock, if Alec’s fresh new burn were any indication.
David led the way down the short flight of steps and pushed through the thick carved door into the lushly carpeted space beyond. Silence enfolded them there, as complete as any tomb.
“Thank God!” David sighed, as he sank down against the nearest of the dark wooden cabinets that framed the low-ceilinged chamber. Liz joined him there, sitting opposite in lieu of beside. Which generally meant she was pissed but indulging him.
“Need a favor,” he blurted out, before she had time to berate him for distracting her from her drawing. Evidently he had the most sensitive ears on the whole frigging vessel.
Liz’s brow furrowed cautiously. “What?”
David fished into the neck of the belted tunic he’d adopted like everyone else but Alec, and drew out the medallion Brock had given him. It gleamed even in the dim light admitted by the thick frosted glass windows that lined the cabin’s walls for a foot below the rafters. Impulsively, he raised it to his face and inspected it more closely. It seemed to have suffered no damage from having turned—or simply blasted—a Faery assassin’s knife. And it really wasn’t anything special to look at, bar an occasional hint of glow that was so subtle it might’ve been a trick of light. The boar relief on both sides was workmanlike, if vaguely Celtic in execution. Someday he’d have to find out why the Sullivans had claimed that for their emblem.
“What do you make of this?” he demanded.
“What do you?”
A shrug. “Kid gave it to me in the pool back at the castle. Said he bought it in England. Said somebody told him it was magic, and that it was supposed to offer protection against the Sidhe. It’s my family crest,” he added.
Liz frowned. “Odd coincidence, huh? Protection against the Sidhe and it’s your family crest.”
David nodded. “I thought so. And I can’t say why I think this, but…it just seems like Brock’s not bein’ quite straight with me about it.”
Liz’s frown deepened, though she made no move to touch the medallion. David had removed the piece and cupped it in the palm of his hand, which rested on his thigh. “Would you like to elaborate?”
A long sigh. “Hell if I know. I mean, I know the kid’s basically a straight shooter. Cal wouldn’t put up with him if he wasn’t, never mind Sandy, and sure as hell not Uki—and before we get off this boat, remind me to find out what he’s been up to out there—or up there—or in there, or wherever Galunlati is from here. But anyway, I just thought I’d ask you as a favor, since I know you don’t like to do this, if you could, you know, do a scryin’ on it.”
Liz exhaled wearily, but held out her hand. “I’m not very good at this, you know. It tends to come when it wants to, not when I do.”
“So you’ve said,” David returned. “Still, anything’d help. I don’t want to accuse Brock of sneakin’ ’round on me, but I don’t want mojo around I don’t know about, either.”
“Ha!” Liz snorted. “Would that there was mojo we did know about! Now hand it over.”
David was not entirely surprised to feel an odd reluctance thrill through him as he let the disc fall into Liz’s palm and coiled the chain atop it. That accomplished, she closed her eyes and took three deep breaths.
David watched avidly—a little frightened. He hated to do this to her, but he also hated not knowing. Yet he also feared what he might find—
The door burst open. Light flooded in. Alec stood there, dark against the glare, and preposterously wild-eyed. “Dave!” he yelled. “On deck. Now!”
David started to protest—but then he saw the sky. “Oh shit!” he choked. “Forget that, Liz: come on!”
Liz blinked in startled confusion, like someone who’d barely awakened.
“Come on!” David repeated, as he grabbed her hand.
“Davy, what—?”
“Come on!”
“Davy, I— Oh shit!”
For Liz had seen it too.
He froze there at the base of the stairs, shivering uncontrollably and staring at the sky—at the entire world beyond the gunwales, which had clearly gone totally, utterly bonkers.
It was black. It was white. It was gray. It was clear, it was closed. It was still, it was giddily awhirl. It looked like a TV screen trying to show dead air, a test pattern, and a kaleidoscope at once, save that all those hues were dark and grim and muddy.
Liz pressed against him, shaking; he clasped her back, and didn’t mind a bit when Alec clutched him from the other side. Myra was also there now, face pale and drawn, fluffy hair flaring wildly in a wind that had roared in from nowhere with the force of a hurricane. Brock wedged in as well. A moment later, Piper likewise squeezed in beside them.
“What’s going on?” David shouted.
Piper’s face had gone completely blank—from surprise, or unadulterated terror, David didn’t want to know. He still had his pipes; however, David doubted he’d ever let them out of his sight again.
“Piper?” David all but screamed through the still-rising wind. “What’s up? Where the hell is Finno?”
“Trying to save your skins!” the Faery called from above and behind them. “Trying to atone for not attending to what I should have.”
David twisted around. Fionchadd was braced atop the cabin, striving mightily to lower the sail. It didn’t seem to be
working. “Need some help?” David hollered, because that was what you were supposed to say.
“Nothing can help us now!” Fionchadd yelled back, releasing the line he’d been holding, which sent the sail crashing onto the deck, where it draped across the forepart of the cabin, revealing the dragon prow—and what lay beyond.
David’s blood turned to ice when he saw it.
Nothingness! He was gazing at absolute nothingness!
A nothingness they were sailing into.
“Finno!” he shrieked one last time, though the Faery’s face was less than three yards from his own. “What the fuck?”
“A Hole!” the Faery screamed, even louder than before—from necessity. “A Hole in the Seas where your World has eaten through!”
And then everything beyond the gunwale turned white.
* * *
“We aren’t anywhere,” Fionchadd groaned, when he reentered the dragonship’s cabin. With seven of them sheltering there, it was approaching cramped, even with everyone being fairly slender, Brock being small for his age, and David somewhat less than average height. Alec, at five-ten and one-fifty, was by a slight margin the largest.
Still, however tight the quarters were, it was better than being on deck, where there was neither zenith nor horizon; neither right nor left nor up nor down visible beyond that hard arc of deep-carved oak and the graceful curve of the dragon prow.
“We can’t be nowhere,” Liz shot back—being practical because it kept her sane, David reckoned. He wondered how long they’d last—or how long they’d lasted already, given that time itself seemed oddly protracted, so that some words took whole minutes to complete, followed by entire sentences compressed to one quick, wavery burst.
Fortunately that didn’t happen often, but David wasn’t so sure they hadn’t slept, or passed out, or…died. Certainly it seemed an eon since Fionchadd had explained their situation, and another since he’d gone back on deck to make certain. At least things had calmed down out there. At least the sky was no longer crazy—because there was no sky. No water beneath them either. And no Track.