by Lisa Mason
Not understanding annoys him greatly. And he knows, then and there, he will never journey to the Unseen of either kind. Nor could he ever stay with the genny woman for she trafficks in too many evil things.
Deciding this makes him feel clear and strong for the first time in days. Yes. He breathes deeply of the night air, of Whoosh. And he hears upon the breath of Whoosh another breath. A soft breath. The low, sad coo of a pij.
He backs away from the glass doors, ducks out of the wirefires illuminating the deck, steps into darkness. Cold needles down his spine. He feels light and heavy at the same time.
He is not alone. Not without his tribe.
Someone has seen him.
* * *
Ouija confronts Zebra and Styx at the bottom of Beach Street. His own chief and the rival shaman are accompanied by hunting parties from both the tribes, as well as several folk who wear a reddish tribal stain, steel rings piercing their eyebrows, noses, cheeks, ears, and lips, and bleached white dreadlocks.
He ducks below the rickety fence separating Aquatic Park from Fort Mason, where warehouses stand on long gravel lots amid ancient twisted trees. The fence doesn’t help.
They stand before him, though he could have sworn they were behind, could have sworn he’d gained a good lead as he’d sprinted from Tellie Gulch. Styx wields a writhing cyberweb. Glass Land mech-tech, as deadly as the one the ultra had carried. Such a powerful spirit lives in it, Styx has difficulty controlling the shiny silver strands.
Ouija stands tall, refusing to fall to his knees as the rule of defeat requires. Styx brandishes the cyberweb, lifts it, twirls it.
“Stop,” Ouija calls out. The cyberweb thrashes angrily. “I have no wish to feel a cyberweb around my neck again.”
Zebra gestures to Styx, who yanks the cyberweb back. For a moment, Ouija’s chief’s eyes brighten with tears. Then he regards Ouija haughtily.
“My shaman,” Zebra says, speaking with power. “You have foreseen many-many things. You have read the signs and prophesies of the Glass Land. You have given us timely warnings, as well as tidings of joy. You have hunted well. Yet our fellow folk of the tribes have spoken to me. We all fear for you, Ja. We are troubled by your transactions with the Glass Land.”
“Troubled, pah!” Styx shouts, struggling with the cyberweb, which wraps its silver strands around his elbow and his knee. “Young Ja must answer to the tribes for the forbidden deeds he has done.”
“Yes, I will answer,” Ouija says. Though every dark thought that has tugged at him clamors at his soul, he is thankful he reached a moment of clarity standing on the genny woman’s deck. Mojo and Nokko move to restrain his arms, but he waves them away with his conjuring hand. His folk do not reach for him again, but stride at his side, deferentially, when Zebra indicates the path.
They take him along the waterfront to Fort Point, a ragged strip of gray stone whipped by great Whoosh and lashed by cold tongues of the Bay. The waves send a dank, rotten smell into the air. A smell of death. Above, the great red bridge looms, tilting inland as it has since the last Great Quake.
The banshee living in the bridge shrieks and yells curses whenever Whoosh speaks harshly to her. Whoosh speaks harshly now, and the banshee screams in the voice of a thousand furious women.
The tribes form a circle on the gray stone and crouch. Mojo finds a trash can filled with scut and sets it burning at the center of the circle. The fire bursts, flinging dirty sparks into the night.
Styx stands. Five rinds of dried flesh resembling human ears have been added to his necklace of braided hair and human bone. “We call it”—he gestures at the tall towers above them, lit as always by many-many glittering wirefires—“the Glass Land. We all know of the evil that lives there. We all have seen the spirits.”
“The spirits live in the canned folk, in the stones, in the glass, in the wires, in the fires,” Ouija speaks up. “Here, and in the Unseen, which is everywhere, too.” He does not wish the rival shaman to impress these folk that only he knows the ways of the spirits.
“Young Ja speaks truly,” Styx says, raising his voice. “For his sage, Louie Zoo, is wise. And we all know how the Glass Land has sent all manner of its folk to speak with us. Yet the Glass Land possesses us not. Oh, they promise us food, shelter, clothing, many-many magic things. Yet the Glass Land has hunted us not, nor sent us to the shelters, nor stabbed wires in our necks, nor fed our souls to the spirits of the Unseen. And do you know why?”
“Why, Styx?” his tribe calls out.
“Because we transact not with the Glass Land. That is why ever and always we must transact not with linkers, canned folk, live wires, nor any folk of the Glass Land. We must hide in the drains, hunt at night. We must hide in our lairs and live humbly. We are invisible, thus we are free! And must remain so!” Styx paces around the circle. “But young Ja heeds this not. We have warned you about your dealings with the silver woman.”
Sharp fear cuts his heart, but Ouija casts a disdainful look at the rival shaman. “You have thought nothing of dealing with her yourself, Styx. For that is her cybweb you carry, is it not?”
Styx jerks, and the cyberweb whips him, silver tentacles flailing.
Ouija adds, “You see? It is not his cyberweb. He cannot command the spirit living inside it.”
The folk of Ouija’s tribe chuckle. The folk of Styx’s tribe keep their silence, glaring with vengeful eyes.
“Enough!” a hunter of the ringed tribe shouts. “Styx is not answering for his transactions, here and now.”
“If I am to answer, so must he,” Ouija declares. “Styx accuses me of transacting with the silver woman. For indeed, she is evil, a canned folk who consorts with men of the flesh-and-blood. Thus I say to you that he has transacted with Patina, too, for he possesses her cyberweb. I say ‘tis hers, for she used the very same to trap me.”
His folk murmur their support, as do some of the ringed tribe.
“Hold still!” Styx throws the cyberweb down, stomps on its silver tentacles. “What makes you think, young Ja, that I have transacted at all with the silver woman? I would slay her for such a fine weapon. Indeed, that is what I have done. I have slain the silver woman as you should have slain her when she confronted you in the great chief’s whirlie.” The tribes grumble. “If you had slain her then, you would not have had to contend with her further at all.”
“How did you slay Patina?” Ouija demands.
“As any prey.”
“But how?”
“I cut her throat.”
“Cut her throat with what? With your blade? Your spear? You could not cut the silver woman’s throat with a mere blade. You need a special metal cutter to harm the canned folk for they are not flesh-and-blood.”
Now all the tribes murmur. Someone in the back calls out, “Liar!”
“Am I to answer for my transactions, or is Ouija?” Styx says, enraged. Turning to Zebra.
Zebra shakes his head, but he frowns at Styx, and Ouija breathes with relief. He has made his point with his chief. The fist of fear gripping his heart releases a little.
“I say to you still,” Styx says, regaining his arrogance, “if young Ja had slain the silver woman, he would not have had to transact with her. And what was this transaction? He was to hunt the genny woman. Hunt her he did.” His face contorts in a conjuring way. Styx stalks up to Ouija, points his finger of power in Ouija’s face. “The genny woman is a linker. She feeds her soul to the wires, enters the Unseen. She speaks with spirits there. And young Ja has transacted with her, too.” Styx sneers. “Indeed, that is where we found him tonight. Climbing into her window to bed her again.”
“No! Her lair is protected by powerful spirits. I could not get in, even if I’d wanted to. Which I did not.” Ouija gestures with his own hand of power.
The tribes show their teeth in an expression of approval.
“So he says. I say no. That is what young Ja must answer to.” Styx waves his rebuttal away. “For the genny woman is a servant of the spir
its. She is another set of eyes and ears through which the spirits can watch us and listen.”
“I say no!” Ouija says. “Louie Zoo told me there are no eyes and ears watching through the genny woman.”
He bites back the rest—and that is why Louie Zoo commanded me to watch her. His heart pounds in his throat again. The truth leaps into his head even as he speaks, burns hot in his soul. Is his sage a spy for the Glass Land? And worse—does that make him a spy, too, and he knew it not?
“And that is why Louie Zoo commanded me to watch the genny woman.” Ouija swiftly forms the lie that must follow his secret truth.
The tribes break out in argument and protestations.
“Silence!” Zebra shouts. “Let me hear him. Your sage asked you to watch her, Ouija?”
“Yes, my chief. For one reason, and one reason only. To ask her a question. A question she is to ask of a great spirit she goes to in the Unseen. For her spirit is not of Data Control nor of the Glass Land. Yet it is a very powerful spirit.”
“Ho! And what is this question?” Styx says.
“Whether the Glass Land plans to wage war on the tribes.”
The tribes shout in amazement and anger. Folk leap to their feet.
“Did you dare to ask her the question?” Styx says.
“Yes.”
“And what is her answer?”
“I am waiting for her answer. That is why I went to her lair at Tellie Gulch tonight. To get her answer. She was not there. But you saw that, too.”
Zebra stands, moves both his hands in gestures of power, trying to quiet the folk. For Ouija’s tribe readies their spears, withdraws knives from their belts, stands tense and watchful. The ringed tribe rises, too, clattering the metal adornments on their faces.
“Ha! So there is no answer.” Styx glowers, gesturing with much mighty power.
“Styx,” Zebra says, placing his hand on Ouija’s shoulder. “My shaman has answered your troubles with him. When he receives the answer from the genny woman, he will reveal it to all the folk of the tribes. You have my word.”
“I believe him not!” Styx begins leaping up and down, shaking his spear.
“What more do you want?” Zebra says.
Ouija nods at him, gratefully.
Styx’s necklace of hair and bone and dried flesh bounces on his chest. His eyes blaze with rage. “He has no answer! I want an answer!”
“Answer! Answer! Answer!” The tribes take up the cry.
“Silence!” Zebra bellows. He stares at the rival shaman in the Way of power, and Ouija sees once more how it is that Zebra is his chief. And his heart swells with gladness. “We will not war among us here, Styx! The Glass Land would be only too pleased if we should war here tonight.”
Styx huddles with his hunting party and calms himself, then gestures and murmurs to his tribe. At last he turns haughtily and says,” Young Ja has shown us nothing. Thus he proves nothing.”
“My shaman has shown me how you, fine Styx, have consorted with evil, too. You are not blameless. Now, you will name what more you wish my shaman to do to dismiss your complaint. Then you will go back to your lair before Lord Day frowns upon us all.”
“The bridge.” Styx glances up and smiles. “To prove his loyalty to the tribes, Ouija must cross the towers of the bridge.”
* * *
Ouija vaults onto the pedestrian railing of the Golden Gate Bridge. He tucks his amulet against his chest for whatever power and courage he may find in it. He steadies himself against Zebra’s shoulder. The chief cannot hide how his face draws down with worry, his lips pale beneath the tribal stain, his eyes troubled. They easily crept past the toll booth, staffed by a couple of lethargic canned folk, and onto the fog-shrouded walkway.
“I would not permit this if you had not consented, Ja,” Zebra says. “I would have fought for you, my shaman.”
“My chief, I must prove my truth to Styx and all the tribes. And to you.” Ouija readies himself, unraveling his hook and rope, handing down his spear. “For who will respect our tribe otherwise? And who will believe my reading of the signs and prophesies?”
Zebra nods. “Is it true? That you consorted with the genny woman only to ask her about a war to come between the tribes and the Glass Land?”
Ouija shakes his head. “I did not consort with her,” he lies and is glad for it. “We talked about life, shared food and drink. Is that so wrong?”
Zebra knots his brow. “Perhaps times are changing. And not for the better.”
Ouija laughs. “You see, my chief? Even you question my word.”
Zebra’s eyes gleam. Now he does not hide his tears. “I only wish you had spoken with me first, little Ja. My heart warms to you as a broodling. You hide too much in your heart.”
“That is my predilection.” Ouija grins, filled with fierce love for his chief and his tribe. “I am your shaman.”
“Yes.” Zebra sprints off into the swirling fog, heading toward the far side of the span where Ouija, if he does not fall to his death, will climb down from the two towers of the great red bridge and prove his truth.
Fear vanishes in the overwhelming thrust of his determination and his joy. A bittersweet joy. The sweetness comes from the truth that his tribe has not forsaken him, nor he them. For at last he understands his actions and his doubts. Yes, he has been pulled this way and that, has tried to please this person and that. But he has acted for the tribe. Always. If his soul, his inner stirring has pulled him, too, he cannot be blamed. He is an initiated man and a fine hunter. And he has not been shamed.
And the bitterness? The bitterness comes from his realization that he can trust his sage no longer. You must take your eyes and ears where there are no eyes and ears. For who? For me. For Data Control. For Louie Zoo is evil. Ouija knows that now.
Ouija wraps his rope around his waist, then around the thick suspension cable that will take him over the tower, across the next span to the second tower, and down to Vista Point. Thus the tribes will be assured of his loyalty. His rope holds no spirit, his knife houses no demon. They are still and true, subject only to his will and his strength.
He sets to the task, looking not at the stunning distance to the dark water below. No, he will not be afraid. He has seen great heights from another bridge long ago. And from the high deck of the genny woman’s lair. He has seen that the world is a vast and terrible place, with much evil and many-many sorrows.
Here, Ouija only has to prove his truth.
“Get off the bridge now. Trespassers will be prosecuted. Get off the bridge now. Trespassers will be—”
A security monitor extrudes from a cable, a ring of flickering red flames.
Ouija feels no fire, no heat as he crawls through the ring. It is no more than wirefires without any power.
Ouija hoists himself slowly, climbing steadily up the cable. He knows how to climb. At first, the heat of his will shields him from the punishing wind, a servant of Whoosh whose cold, wet breath Ouija knows well. As he nears the summit, Whoosh Himself begins to howl, and the banshee begins to shriek.
“Auuuuuwhooo!” moans the banshee.
“Get off the bridge now. Trespassers will be prosecuted. Get off the bridge now. Trespassers will be—”
Another security monitor flares, extruding from the cable silver spikes with fiery tips. Ouija reaches, touches. His finger sparks with pain.
He shifts from gripping the cable to pushing himself up and away from it. He crawls over the pain-giving spikes. Whoosh whips him, and he slips, nearly losing his footing.
“Auuuuuwhooo whooo whooo!” moans the banshee.
Ouija scrambles, clawing at the cable. Suddenly darkness fills his soul, and his will grows as cold as a fire stamped out. He jerks at the evil sound, setting his will anew at his task. Yet as the banshee moans, her voice rising and falling, he begins to tremble. His hands slip. His feet fight to find purchase. His skin becomes dead, as if his lifeblood has left him, and he looks down.
Huge waves crash far b
elow him, whitecaps foaming. A roaring fills his head. The distance down suddenly fills him with terror. The distance ahead on the spans is the rest of eternity. His life hangs briefly, hands weakening. Hands that will not hold.
He does not know if he’s cried out, yet he hears his voice join the cry of the sea birds. The wirefires blink many-many eyes, blinding him. The cable hums beneath his hands. Mighty Whoosh lashes him with huge, wet strokes. His amulet falls away from his chest, dangling on its silver chain. Ouija yells, a strangled sound deep in his throat.
At the top of the tower, a length away, a bluish glow springs up. Ouija braces himself for another security monitor. But as he pulls himself higher, the glow resolves into the figure of a man.
A tiny gray man seated cross-legged on the crossbar of the tower.
Louie Zoo. Fierce Whoosh tears all around him, yet his robes are still and calm. His thin gray hair streams around his narrow face. A silver cat with blue eyes clings to his shoulder. A black-capped tern perches on his head. A dappled gray snake winds around his arms. A shrew like a lump of charcoal with bright red eyes peeks from behind his toe. The sage himself glows, as if lit from within. His eyes sparkle, and he extends his helping hand.
“No!” Ouija yells, waving the sage away. The violence of his gesture, the loosening of his startled soul, his feet losing their grip on the cable, all conspire to tear him away from the bridge. He slips, wildly kicking up. Great Whoosh toys with him, and he grips the cable with two fists, the rest of him flung out upon the wind. “You lied to me!”
Louie Zoo touches his hand, a touch as light as the brush of a bird’s wing. “The Way is wide, reaching far and near. The Way confers life upon the myriad creatures, yet it claims no sovereignty. The Way clothes and feeds the myriad creatures, yet It is not their master. The Way accomplishes its task, yet claims no attribution.”