The bird stared up at her, beak open. The inside, including its little tube tongue, was dull, fired clay red. Twitching its head left, then right, it asked, “But what about the argument?”
“What about our schedule?” asked the second unstuck pigeon.
The first messenger hopped and fluttered its wings in horror. “Our schedule! We’re behind on our schedule!”
“The schedule!”
“The schedule!”
The three wriggled into their cycles, in such a hurry that Sandy had to tuck one back in when he fell over his seat. As soon as their feet hit their pedals, they zoomed out of sight.
Next, she picked up the mass, frowning and pursing her lips as she brought it right up to her face to examine. After a few seconds of fiddling, she said, “There’s a gap in each ring. Maybe that’s part of how they’re put together. It took incredible bad luck getting these all to line up at the same time, but you did it. At least it means I can take them apart.”
One of the birds wore a little hat. Well, it was small in size, even compared to his head, but in shape it was quite tall like a top hat with a bill sticking forward instead of a brim going all around, and a feather stuck out the top. Taking the hat off with one wing, he held it to his chest and said, “We’d be deeply grateful, your humanness.”
A second untied the rolled-up paper from his leg, and mopped his forehead with it. “The schedule! I’d forgotten about the schedule!”
“We’re so behind!” complained the third.
Sandy paused for a second in trying to line up an inner and outer wheel, which let me lift up a support strut in the next monocycle so it would pop out as soon as she had. Their machines were impressively tangled. Looking down on them, she asked curiously, “What is this schedule? I mean, when are the letters supposed to be delivered?”
“Yesterday!” answered the pigeon still holding his scroll.
“Always yesterday,” emphasized the one with the hat.
I nodded. What a responsible attitude.
Metal went ca-chunk as Sandy pulled a bike free. Setting it down, she leaned over to look now at the rolled-up paper the second pigeon held. The others had theirs still tied to their legs. “And this is how you take messages?”
“Usually,” the messenger bird answered.
The hat-wearing pigeon puffed out his chest importantly. “Par-tic-ularly from the bundlish.”
Nodding furiously, the third agreed, “Very formal, the bundlish. Do things right.”
Sandy flashed a grin, and with a hint of laughter in her voice said, “Now you’ve got me wishing I could read them.”
“Oh, they can teach you to read, too,” the third bird assured her. His compatriots nodded.
Hurriedly, Sandy corrected herself. “I mean I wish I was allowed.” Then, as the pigeons looked at each other blankly, she added, “There’s no rule against it, is there?”
The pigeons continued looking at each other, their heads pulling back, pushing forward, tilting to the side, swiveling one way then the other, until the third said, “Not that I recall.”
“Do you think there should be?” asked the second.
Instead of answering, Sandy reached over cautiously and pulled the scroll from his wing. As she unrolled it, she mumbled, “If they’re not secret, I suppose I can take a peek and then give them back and you can go make your deliveries.”
Crowding in close to Sandy’s chest, I leaned my head in and read as well.
Oh most secret and exalted bundlevich,
The plan proceeds perfectly. Yesterday, I swapped the cotton sheets for linen, and my target did not notice at all. Soon, I will begin changing the color of subject code named ‘Limburger’s frocks, one tiny shade at a time. In six months, I anticipate progress from indigo blue to royal blue.
Insidiously,
Mausoleum
Her face as expressionless as only a human’s could get, Sandy rolled it back up tightly, tucked it back into the string around the messenger bird’s leg, and pulled the knot tight. Then she slipped the scroll free from the third messenger, and read that one.
To the bundlessa, who knows all things,
I have located a secret room within the manor! It was cleverly hidden right off of the kitchen, next to the preparation counter. The walls were lined with shelves, on which some diabolical mastermind has been hoarding supplies from the visiting flops. When I uncover who, you shall know immediately.
Always Obedient,
Perfidy
The be-hatted pigeon had his message off and held up for her by the time she got this one tied back into place.
My servant whose identity must be protected,
Continue your observations. When the event happens, proceed to the next stage of the operation. In particular, the second extraneous detail may prove to be of previously unpredicted importance. Adjust the safeguard accordingly.
The bundlevich
With the tangle reduced by having one bike free already, Sandy separated the remaining two monocycles with a precise snap. She set all three down in front of their owners, or at least in front of pigeons who accepted the identical looking vehicles as if each one was theirs. Very solemn, she told them, “I can see that I am heading toward a den of intrigue and cunning, devious evil. You should be proud of the work you do spreading the bundlish influence across Here and There. Go on, now. If you hurry, you may still be able to get to your destinations yesterday.”
The three messengers got so excited, they cooed and stomped in a circle for a couple of seconds before leaping into their bikes and speeding away—two towards Here, and one along the trail we were taking to Bundleberg.
Sandy grabbed me by my middle, and tossed me into the air. The weight of the book slung over my back sent me sailing in an exhilarating arc through space, until I landed right on the horse with no name’s neck. I wrapped my arms in its mane as Sandy thumped into place on the saddle behind me and shouted, “Follow that bird!”
The request was madness. No one could outrun a messenger bird. The rocking horse tried, leaping forward and squealing in delight. His runners left grooves in the path, spraying up dirt as we sped along the tunnel of grey trees after a steadily receding brass monocycle.
We did stay close enough to see which path it took at the next intersection, although it was gone in the distance by the time we turned that same corner.
“He was moving too fast to read signs. How do you think the messenger birds know where to go?” Sandy asked in a soft voice and with a distant, thoughtful expression.
“They… hmmm. I don’t even have any ideas. Perhaps we should ask one,” I suggested.
Sandy laughed, and leaned forward to kiss my cap, which made my whole body wriggle in glee. Then she whispered into the horse’s ear, “You are very fast. I’m impressed.”
Thank goodness I’d kept my grip on its mane, because the horse bounced into the air twice without slowing down!
Chapter Twenty-One
An indeterminate amount of time—after all, we couldn’t even track the sun—later, the latest forest path widened, and kept widening. Flagstones replaced the packed dirt, making harsh scraping sounds underneath the horse’s runners. Rather than the distant yellow glow of a crossroads lamp that we’d gotten used to, pale white lights loomed in the distance.
They turned out to not just be lamps, but starlight.
Bundleberg happened suddenly. Trees on the side of the road gave way to houses, looming and grey, with lots of spires and peaked roofs. House after house after house. The town seemed to be only one street, but it was an impressive street indeed, larger than the inhabited area of Cul-De-Sac, and perhaps bigger than Port Rait, if you could stretch the latter into a straight line.
Bundleberg was certainly inhabited. As we passed, doors slammed and window blinds closed. Ahead of us, bundlish in all their finery gasped and rushed into the nearest house. We weren’t halfway to the end of town before the street was entirely clear.
Our horse slowed to
a gallop, and then down to what I would have thought of as fast before this ride. At the end of the street, a fountain rose from a pool ringed by shining white stone. It had to be a statue of a bundlish, enveloped in a loose robe and holding a stone scythe over its head. Aside from the robe, only its gloves were visible. The hood not only draped far over the statue’s head, from inside poured a waterfall of… uh… red stuff?
We pulled up in front of the fountain. Sandy lifted her face, and sniffed the air. I did the same, and caught a strange smell from the fountain, both fruity and unpleasantly acrid.
Crouching down, she sniffed the pool again from a mere inch away. In the quiet of someone talking mostly to themselves, she said, “I think this is wine. That’s unexpected.”
Straightening up, she turned to look down the silent street of Bundleberg, with its gloomy wooden houses and black iron lamp posts with glass cages providing pure white light. Her smile bloomed, and I knew it was time. Sitting up next to the saddle, I joined Sandy in clapping with sincere enthusiasm. “Bravo!” I shouted.
Of course, her claps were much louder than mine, banging like wood slapped together. She cheered, “Very creepy and intimidating! Sinister, even!”
In a chorus of squeaky hinges, doors opened all the way down the row. Bundlish peeked out, then shuffled into the street, bowing and curtseying as appropriate to their clothes.
Behind us, hinges creaked and ended with a boom that put all the others to shame.
At the very end of Bundleberg’s street loomed the biggest building in town. It had the sharpest roof, the tallest towers, and wide wings that helped it dominate the square around the fountain. This, obviously, was a town hall. The town hall. The most town hall of town halls. It wasn’t Charity’s palace, but it certainly did its best with grey wood and rust-brown ceiling tiles. Large cobwebs even clung to eaves and corners.
Below the huge, central peak, massive double doors opened onto a porch that descended to the street in wide wooden steps. Most of the buildings were bundlish sized, which was pretty big already, but a glance inside showed rooms so tall even Sandy would feel small in them.
Down those steps descended a bundler in multiple layers of black robes and sashes, with red and gold designs and trim. A metal hat rather like an elaborate bucket with a point sat on top of its hoods, and a smiling gold mask attached to that, providing him with a face. He moved slowly, although quite how a shadow could be stiff I didn’t know. Too much starch in his clothing? The weight might be hard to move in?
Sandy reached for me automatically, but I slid down the rocking horse’s leg and walked on my own legs next to her as she approached the old bundler.
He held up a red velvet glove and greeted her. “Sandy Golding, the Witch of There. I have heard much about you.” He had a hoarse voice, but spoke with even, confident strength rather than any hesitation or weakness.
My human smirked a bit. “I bet. Are you the bundlevich?”
He smiled. Well, his mask always smiled, but he sounded like he was smiling as he said, “Ah, the clairvoyance of witchcraft serves you well.”
Sandy had one of her little pauses, as usual followed by a blank expression and tone. “Sure, let’s go with that.”
He folded his hands, the drooping sleeves of his robes almost completely enfolding them. Rings twinkled in the gap. Taking a step back, he nodded several times. “We are fortunate in your mystical perceptions, great witch. You have arrived at our hour of magical need.”
She paused again, until this time her face set in a concerned frown. “Show me.”
He turned and began hobbling up the stairs. I pulled myself up onto the first. Sandy grabbed me by my book bag, looped an arm around him, and hoisted us both into the air. He got put back down when we reached the top. Suddenly worried, she said, “I hope that was okay.”
“You are mighty and compassionate,” he replied.
I beamed with pride. “Isn’t she?”
The front room boasted a wrought-iron candle chandelier, some wooden waiting chairs, a wilted grey plant in a tall and elaborate vase, and a huge painting of the bundlevich and a bundless wearing gowns and wigs and a crown. The bundlessa, obviously. As we passed through a side door into another room, and a hallway, the furnishing theme remained consistent. What I did not see were any other bundlish. I was about to ask why when we entered the “hall” part of the town hall.
Not that there were any bundlish here, either. Rows of pews suggested there should be lots, lined up facing a raised platform with a lectern and a long table behind it. Candlesticks lined the aisles, because chandeliers would not have worked. The ceiling of this room went up and up and up, past occasional but heavy rafters to the pointed peak of the roof itself. Pillars along the walls split at the top, going right up to that peak in curved arches that met like webs, several joining in one spot. Very pretty.
What I could see was pretty, anyway. Quite a lot of the room was obscured by another gaping, shiny hole that went right down the middle. A couple of pews and a few candlesticks were obviously missing. Anything else, well, how could I know what wasn’t there if it was gone?
Sandy stared. Dangling from her hand at her side, so did I. She stared for a long time, and the bundlevich and I waited. This was way beyond us, but we both knew it would not be beyond her.
Our faith was rewarded when she said, soft and grim, “I know what to do.”
Wheeling on the bundlevich, she asked—practically demanded, if that word could ever be applied to Sandy, “Bundlish do a lot of sewing, don’t you? I need the biggest needle you have, and a lot of thread.”
He rubbed his gloves together, head hunched down, voice even huskier with anticipation. “Oh, we bundlish have some very large needles, indeed.”
“The length of my arm would be perfect. And string. Lots and lots of string.”
The bundlevich hunched further, and sounded even more gleeful. “It shall be as you desire. I will make it so.”
At high speed, his limping gait made him bounce and wobble as he left us alone. Sandy tucked me into the corner of her arm, and sitting up there was certainly more comfortable than my arms and legs dangling from the horizontal. Not just the position, but she had absolutely the fuzziest sweater. If I were made out of whatever this sweater was made out of, I would be the best loved clothling Anywhere!
As we waited for the bundlevich to return, Sandy walked up the center aisle, uncomfortably close to the crack itself, and studied it. I tried to do the same, but… well, it was uncomfortable, and there wasn’t anything to see. Up close, when it filled my vision I felt dizzy, and my head wobbled around trying to find something to see instead of nothing. There wasn’t anything to look at. Even the flickering opalescence was an impression, not actually color.
So pretty soon I asked, “What are we looking for?” I certainly wasn’t helping as things stood.
“It looks like furniture fell in. Do you see any hints of anything?”
“No.” That took no thought or wondering to figure out. Until a few seconds later… “Of course, with the condition of my eyes, perhaps I wouldn’t be able to? Both are damaged right at the center. Even with these glasses, a small detail in the midst of a smudge would escape me.”
She shook her head, and looking up at Sandy was a great relief, although it was hard to put words to the sensation of having there be only a left half of my vision. To the right of Sandy’s frowning face, everything ended, as if the rest of the room had wandered off around the back of my head.
I was really quite obsessed with trying to find words that accurate described looking at these gaps. Shouldn’t I be? How else would I understand them?
Sandy dragged my thoughts back to task. “I don’t think there’s anything to see. Whatever goes in isn’t destroyed, but it’s lost forever. We have to shut these down. If even one person has fallen in already, I don’t know how I’ll forgive myself.” She paused, took a deep breath. “Okay. Next, we look at the edges.”
Climbing up onto th
e platform at the back of the room, we reached the pointy end of the crack. One thing leaped out immediately. “It is perfectly flat!” I squeaked.
She shifted me so that she could look straight down the tear. If you lined it up right, the whole thing vanished and the room looked normal.
“What happens—” Sandy and I started to say together, but our train of thought got lost as the bundlevich returned. A whole procession of bundlish returned, in fact, bowing and shuffling in ceremonial fashion as they followed the bundlevich himself, who held a white bone needle like a sword across his palms.
The procession carried the string, bright green and as thick as yarn. How long it actually was I couldn’t say, because it went out the door, around the corner of the next room, and out of sight.
Sandy didn’t ask. She laid me over her shoulder, where I clung with all four limbs as she accepted the giant needle—which wasn’t quite as long as her arm, but certainly much taller than me—and wound the string through its eye. That took no precision, and neither did passing the needle above the sharp end of the nothingness tear, around underneath, and pulling the loop tight.
Oh, my. The gap shut, barely visible as a sparkly line compressed by the twine. She made another loop with the needle, and pulled it shut as well. And another.
This was the crudest possible stitching, but it worked, and if I wasn’t anxious about interrupting the concentration required by great magic, I would have applauded the most brilliant part. The rip was far too tall in the center to pass the needle over, correct? Only at the beginning of the process! With each stitch, the remaining edges were pulled closer together as well. There was always room for the next loop of the needle. In a couple of places, she had to back track and tie down splinters from the central crack, but again, they were within reach because she’d shut everything leading up to them.
In much less time than I expected, we reached the other end and Sandy tied the final knot. A whack of the needle severed the string, which I filed away as instinctive magical knowledge, since the needle had no visible edges, only a point.
A Rag Doll's Guide to Here and There Page 31