At 9:47 in the morning Lonesome Jack Shade stood on Lexington Avenue, north of 72nd Street, and watched a slim young man open the door to Laurentian Chocolates. Along with his all black clothes Jack wore the carbon blade knife in a sheath up his left sleeve.
Jack knew he should go get what he needed before the shop filled with customers, but he hated what he had to do. He wondered, did chocolate-shop owners around the city all talk to each other? Would Monsieur Laurentian see Jack’s knife, roll his eyes, and say, “Oh, it’s you.” Or would he just moue in fear, like the last poor truffle-maker?
Jack sighed. At least he could disguise himself. He pretended it was to escape detection, but knew it was really to lessen the embarrassment of what he was about to do. He slipped the knife from its sheath and stared at the point, so sharp it could cut sunshine. In two quick touches he lightly pressed the point against his forehead and then his lips.
He cried out, loudly enough that a woman walking five dogs turned around and stared at him, and a bike messenger reflexively shouted, “Fuck you, man!” Gently, Jack moved his fingertips around his face, feeling a smooth plastic quality that told him the trick had worked. Once it firmed up, his false face would look so bland that Laurentian would not be able to describe Jack at all. “I don’t know,” he’d tell the police if he even bothered to call them. “It was just one of those faces. You know. As if it wasn’t really there.”
On the street corner Jack touched his nose, his cheeks, the area around his lips. It still felt like some opaque plastic mask but it held firm against his prodding. He crossed the street toward Laurentian Chocolates.
He was nearly at the door when he felt a light brush against his legs. He glanced down and there was the golden tail, its tip just leaving his left knee. Unlike at the poker table, where the fox had vanished almost before Jack caught sight of it, it turned to sit on its haunches right in the middle of the sidewalk, its fur dazzling in the sun. No one but Jack could see it but people automatically walked around it, some squinting at the glare from the invisible fur. One young woman walked by, stopped, and turned to stare right at the spot where the fox sat, then shrugged and walked on. You’ve got a future, Jack thought. With any luck it’ll never find you.
“Hello, Ray,” he said to the fox, who bowed his head a moment. Jack Shade had met Ray on one of his first travels, when he found himself in a bad place, surrounded by, of all things, predator chickens. He did an action for help and Ray had appeared, a fitting protector, Jack supposed. Now Ray came to him mostly to warn him, or show him things. The name was Jack’s choice, short for Reynard, of course, but also the correct pronunciation of Ra, the Egyptian Sun god, for in the catalogue of foxes—mountain fox, fox of the willows, fox of the stairways, tracker fox—Ray was a noon fox, a solar helper, bringing clarity and strength.
“Thanks for being here,” Jack said. “You know I hate this part, it’s so damn embarrassing. But what can I do? I’ve got to give the Door Man what he wants.” Ray stared at him awhile longer, then leaped off the curb to vanish in front of a taxicab, whose driver hit the brakes then looked confused before he sped up again.
The owner of the chocolate shop appeared to be around twenty-two but was probably ten years older. In black creased pants, shiny wingtips, and gray vest over his pale blue shirt he looked as old-fashioned and immaculate as his glass display cases filled with exotic concoctions. He looked Jack up and down briefly, his expression confused as he tried to focus on the face that wasn’t quite a mask, then more relaxed again as he let his eyes move back to Jack’s muscular upper body and thighs. “Good morning,” he said, with a smile. “You’re my first. At least for today.”
Blank-faced Jack pointed to a tray of dark chocolate truffles covered in chocolate powder. “I’ll have one of those,” he said.
Mr. Laurentian nodded his appreciation of Jack’s good taste. “Certainly,” he said. “Shall I put it in a presentation box?”
“Yes, thank you.” Jack watched Laurentian carefully set the truffle in a miniature cardboard box, which he tied with a red ribbon and a slight twirl of his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “That will be 7.95.”
With a sigh Jack slipped the black knife from the sheath in his sleeve and pointed the tip at Laurentian’s neck. “I’ll just take it,” he said.
“Oh! Oh God,” the chocolatier said. “Take whatever I’ve got. I mean, there’s not much. I just opened. But take it. Whatever’s in the register.”
“I just want the truffle,” Jack said
The young man froze, as if stuck in the strange moment. Then he said, “Of course. Yes. Let me get a bag, I’ll put all the truffles—”
“No. Just this one.”
“What? Are you—it’s only 7.95! I said you could—” He stopped himself, realizing he was trying to argue an armed robber into taking more than he wanted. It was a reaction Jack had seen before. “Here,” Laurentian said. He thrust the small box at Jack, who grabbed it and ran from the store.
A principle of opposites governed the entryways to what an old German Traveler once called “non-linear locations.” Opposites and doorways. In New York City, you entered the Forest of Souls in a garage on 54th Street, through a red metal door marked “Employees only.” As with every other NLL entrance, you couldn’t get through unless you paid the Door Man. In the Empire Garage this job fell to a white-haired gentleman named Barney. And Barney liked chocolates. Stolen chocolates.
When Jack began his travels Barney demanded nothing more than chocolate kisses. Just one each time. He used to pull the little ribbon top and smile as the foil came away. As he popped the brown cone in his mouth he would nod to Jack to go on through. The nice thing about chocolate kisses is that they were easy to steal. But then a couple of years ago Barney had gone upscale. Jack had heard that some Wall Streeter had taken up traveling after the credit swap bubble burst, and had ruined things for everybody by giving Barney his first dark chocolate delight. Now it had to be a truffle. Fresh. And it had to be stolen.
“Why can’t I just buy you one?” Jack asked him once.
Barney had smiled. “Money comes and goes, Jack. Silver, paper, even beads sometimes. You got money, you never know what you got. But stealing is forever.”
He found Barney, as always, sitting on a steel chair against the wall of the garage, alongside the door he protected. He wore a blue shirt and pants, with “Empire Garage” in italics on the right pocket and “Barney” in gold script on the left. He was short, about five-eight, and stocky, but not fat. He had a full head of fine white hair, cut short, and a square face with enough fine lines on it that it might have served as a map of the Non-Linear worlds. Jack had no idea how long the old man had served as Door Man. Fifty years? Five thousand years? Maybe the first Manhattan Traveler had found a white-haired man in a beaver cloak sitting on a tree stump next to a cave that served as entrance to the Forest. Or maybe Barney would get the job next week. Non-Linear employment.
One time, just to see what would happen, Jack had asked the cashier about “the old guy who just sits in a chair upstairs.”
“Oh, that’s Barney,” the man said.
“Well, what does he do? He doesn’t seem to ever leave his spot.”
The cashier looked confused. In a tone that suggested Jack had asked a really dumb question, he said, “I don’t know. He’s Barney.”
Today, Jack walked up with a smile, waiting for Barney’s usual “Hey, kid,” but instead the Door Man tilted his head to the side slightly and squinted at Jack like he was trying to make out who he was. “Can I help you?” he said.
Jack stared at him. “Barney? It’s me. Jack Shade.”
Barney shook his head, then laughed. “Jack!” he said. “Sorry, kid. My old eyes ain’t what they used to be, I guess.”
Jack touched his face to make sure the mask was gone, and in fact, for just a moment he thought he felt smooth skin, but no, there were the scars. He said, “It’s probably just me, Barney. I had to dupe my face for something and th
ere’s probably traces of the overlay still on it.”
Barney nodded. “Ah, that must be it.”
Jack said, “I’ve got something for you.”
“Hey, you’re all right, Jack,” Barney said as he took the box and undid the ribbon. “Ah, Charlie Lawrence,” he said. “You know he calls himself Charles Laurentian now?” He pronounced it “Sharl Lor-en-zhin” in the worst French accent Jack had ever heard. “I guess whatever sells product, right, Jack?” He smiled at the candy in its gold foil nest. “You know, Jack, you’ve got taste. That’s what I tell the others. Jack Shade, I tell ’em. He knows what to bring an old man.” Biting down, he waved Jack to the door.
The handle was hot, like the door to a furnace, and when Jack opened it all he could see was a red glow so intense his face felt on fire. As soon as he stepped through, however, and felt the dirt and leaves under his feet, a cold wind hit him. He gasped, as he always did, for knowledge of what’s to come doesn’t help much in the Forest. It wasn’t really cold, just as before it wasn’t really hot. If he’d had to guess the actual temperature he would have said around 60. But it felt like his bones would freeze so tight his toes would snap off.
Jack paid no attention, only took a piece of red chalk from his jeans pocket and marked “JS” on the door, which stood incongruously all by itself, surrounded by trees. Jack made his mark graffiti style, with block letters and a flourish at the end. Almost as soon as he finished, the door just faded away and all that was left were trees. Endless trees, all sizes and shapes, a few with dusty leaves or yellowed needles, but most bare, the branches black and twisted. Unlike an actual woods, where the trees grow densely together, blocking your view, here each tree stood by itself, as if they refused any contact, so that Jack felt like he could see for miles and miles with no horizon, only twisted trees, forever and ever. It was twilight, dim, the only color the faint fire that wound in and out of the branches like pale weightless ribbons.
Jack Shade closed his eyes and took a breath, and when he looked again everything had changed. A department store. He was in some kind of large store, standing in the watch and jewelry section, looking out toward various clothing sections for men, women, and children as shoppers moved in and out of mannequins displaying middle-of-the-road clothes, the kind you might see in suburban malls. People in winter jackets rushed about, some checking lists, and as if that observation triggered a next step, red and green ribbons appeared on the walls and displays, while voiceless holiday Muzak whined through the noise of the crowd. It all looked so real—except for the wisps of flame that snaked through the shoppers and the mannequins.
Jack moved slowly, careful not to touch anything, the people, the displays, the clothes on the racks. He knew only one thing for certain, that Alice had to be somewhere nearby, for part of the reason for the cut on his arm was to act as a kind of homing signal to bring him to that part of the Non-L Forest where Alice was trapped. But he couldn’t begin to summon her until he could identify the trees in all this crowd of goods and shoppers.
He kept looking, staring, until suddenly he realized he was doing it all wrong. You don’t look in the Forest, you listen. Jack was staring round corners, and through the crowds, and even under the counters in the unconscious hope he would spot Eugenia. Unconscious and useless. This wasn’t his dream, after all, and if his daughter was even in this part of the Forest, she would show herself only if she wanted to. Right now he was here for Alice.
He said out loud, just to be sure, “Genie, if you’re anywhere around, and you want to show yourself, I want to see you. Right now I’ve got a job to do, but I’m here. I love you.”
Then, reluctantly, he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, another. On the third exhale he heard the Forest. Voices, whispers, a roar of whispers, waves and surges of grief and loneliness, hurricanes of rage. Jack screamed, fell on all fours where he shook wildly, like a terrified dog, and it was all he could do to keep from howling. But when the voices subsided enough that he could stand up and open his eyes he knew.
The mannequins. The trees were the mannequins, the plastic bodies in absurd poses prisons for the dead. Jack could see it in the blank smooth faces, where underneath the plastic eyes something pulsed. He could hear, or just feel, the whispers in the rigid half-opened mouths.
Jack slipped his knife from its sheath and in one stroke sliced open the left sleeve of his shirt. Years ago, when he was first learning, Jack had laughed and asked his teacher why he couldn’t just roll it up. “Oh, Jack,” she’d said. “Carefree Jack. Don’t you know you have to sacrifice something? Even if it’s just a shirt?” These days Jack figured he’d sacrificed more than enough in his years as a Traveler, but you didn’t mess with tradition. He held up his exposed arm like a signpost, the cut bright and shiny.
Slowly he turned around, like a lighthouse lamp. “I’m looking for Alice Barlow!” he shouted, then, “Alice! I’m carrying your mark. Your memory. Show yourself! I’ve come from the Old World to release you to the New. You don’t have to stay here anymore. I’m here to help you. Alice Barlow! Show yourself!”
For a long time nothing happened, and Jack wondered if somehow, some way, he’d made a mistake. Why didn’t she respond? Usually, all the dead wanted was to get free of their tree prison. Could he possibly have screwed up the action and took himself to the wrong part of the Forest? He thought back over everything he’d done and it was all correct, he was sure of it. There was Barney’s odd reaction when he first saw him, but that was just—
Then he saw it. In the men’s sportswear section, a mannequin dressed in jeans and a checked shirt and one of those denim jackets with a corduroy color gave off a faint pulsing light.
Jack walked over to it, still with his arm up and held so that the cut faced the mannequin’s face. “Hello, Alice,” he said gently. “I’m very glad to meet you. I’ve been searching for you for some time.” The mannequin—the tree—didn’t move, of course, but Jack thought he saw a glow of heat in the smooth plastic and even the sweatshop polyester clothing. “It’s okay,” Jack said. “I know you’re scared. And angry. That’s always the way it is. But now I’m here, Alice, and it’s all going to end. Here’s what I’m going to do, Alice. I’m going to bring you out, and once you’re free, I will open a gate so you can leave here. Are you ready, Alice?”
Not just a glow this time, but a real flash of light. It lasted only a second but there was no mistaking it. He nodded. “Thank you, Alice. Thank you for showing yourself.”
Without turning his back on her he moved a few feet away, far enough that he could draw a circle with his chalk on the floor in front of the mannequin. Jack sometimes thought that in all his Traveler training the hardest thing had been to learn to freehand a circle. Now he looked at his work and couldn’t help but smile a moment. Taking Alice as due south he marked the compass points, then drew various signs in the cross-quarter. Using the various points to guide him he found the circle’s center, where he drew an eight-pointed star. It was a little awkward because he had to make sure he didn’t actually step inside the circle or touch the rim. “This is your mark, Alice,” he said. “This is where you’ll go. It won’t be long now.”
He stood up and took a position behind north so he would face the mannequin, with the circle between them. He reached in his jeans pocket and took out the silver bracelet he’d worn in Alice’s bed and held it up high. Slight shocks ran from the bracelet to the cut in his arm, but he ignored them. “Remember this, Alice?” he said, his eyes fixed on the blank plastic face and the fire he could sense under it. “It holds the genuine you. Your existence here isn’t real, Alice. This is real. I’m going to open a kind of door. You’re going to feel it more than see it. And when you do you’ll know the bracelet is calling to you. Just like I’ve been calling you. I’m going to start now, Alice. Are you ready?”
As Jack leaned over to lay the bracelet on the chalk star a strange smell almost made him stumble. For a few seconds the air stank of dead meat and wet fur, of
layers of urine and feces. Some kind of animal den, large, like a bear. Was that how Alice experienced her imprisonment? Not what Jack saw, not a mannequin or even a tree, but the prey of some wild animal?
The smell faded, and with it Jack’s attempts to figure out what it meant. It was time to do what he’d come for. Jack pulled out his knife and raised it in his left hand to point at the ceiling. Then as hard as he could he brought it down to slice the air inside the circle. “Alice Barlow! “ he shouted. “The way is open!”
All around him the shoppers, just props after all, paid no attention but continued to chatter and check their lists and hold clothes up against their bodies. The Muzak, however, crackled, then sputtered out halfway through “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” Within a range of twenty feet or so the mannequins all turned dark, then suddenly flashed with light so brightly Jack had to shield his eyes to prevent retina burn.
He kept his focus on the blank manly face of Alice Barlow’s prison. The expression didn’t change, of course, or the pose, but the whole thing shuddered and swayed, as if something was shaking it. From the inside.
Slowly something began to emerge, first a vapor so fine Jack wasn’t sure he was really seeing it, then more pronounced, an ooze that came out of the mannequin so slowly it might have been sweating. The sweat turned to a thick mass, the colorless gelatin that a French Traveler in the nineteenth century called “ectoplasm.”
Jack held his breath. This part was tricky, for the dead person could emerge as anything, and he had to be ready to welcome it. Usually they ended up as who they were in life (though sometimes idealized, with bigger breasts, say, or poutier lips), often naked but sometimes so dressed up they looked like they’d stepped out of Downton Abbey. But sometimes they emerged as something else entirely, a different person, some other kind of creature, even an object. Once, Jack brought forth a child who’d died too young, but instead of a boy there was a school composition book, full of handwriting in some alphabet Jack had never seen.
The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year, Volume 7 Page 46