. It clocks in at 70,000 words - pretty short by my usualy standards, but chances are the tale will "grow in the telling", as another author once said. And for now, it's long enough for the NaNoWriMo contest.
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Fair warning; upon reflection, it's going to have to be a trilogy. So
is going to be the title of the whole mess. My NaNoWriMo submission is going in under the working title,
59,000 words down, -9,000 to go. But you know me; brevity is not one of my flaws.
This one's headed for 100,000 words. The other two will be just as long by the time they're done. Maybe longer.
Those are provisional titles, of course, but they'll do for now.
It'll get better, trust me.
♦
His first appointment
necessitated a walk of a little more than a mile. After only a couple of
blocks, Raven tired of his disguise; the freezing mist had become a drizzle, a
chilling spray of near-ice that slicked the sidewalks and transformed his
illusory boot-heels from an inconvenience to a danger. He’d used his charms to
cure minor injuries and incidental ills before, but he’d never had occasion to
try to mend something as serious as a broken ankle, and had little interest in
finding himself compelled by importunity to do so. Passing the metro station at
Delancey and Essex he stumbled on a curb, and that was the final straw; he put
his right hand into his pocket, found the silvery imp, flicked it with a gnawed
fingernail, and between one breath and the next, allowed his disguise to bleed
away into the dusk. His right boot-heel clacked against the cement, but when
the left struck, it did so with the squishy thud of a well-worn running shoe.
Skirt, short jacket, ponytail and lip gloss faded away into the night. Raven
stepped out of the illusion without breaking stride. Passers-by, their necks
tucked tightly into coat-collars, their eyes downcast against the freezing rain
or glued to illuminated digital screens, saw nothing.
Sure-footed now – he wore his
runners through all the seasons, even in the snows of winter, preferring their
comfort and reliable grip on the skin of the world to the conveniences of
warmth or water resistance – Raven walked three blocks up Essex. At East
Houston Street. He paused for a longing leftward glance at Katz’s Delicatessen
(pockets bulging with cash sparked all manner of thoughts in his brain, not
least of which were the hungry thunder pounding against his consciousness, and
his fondness for latkes and vereniki, and similarly artery-clogging
conglomerations of dough and cheese, onion and potato), then shook himself and
crossed over to Avenue A. Dismal apartment blocks, an art gallery, shop fronts,
sidewalk cafés and the utilitarian brick of the East Fifth Street Con Ed plant
rose before him and receded in his wake.
A shadow followed behind him, but
he didn’t notice.
With the persistence of a
dentist’s drill, the drizzle worked its way down his collar, and he briefly
considered holding back a few dollars for a new hat at one of the Chinatown
street vendors. Up until a few weeks ago he’d had a Yankees cap, an old and
tattered thing thick with filth and reminiscence, but had been forced to part
with it as a favour to one of the watchers at Saint Joseph’s near Washington
Square Park, in payment for a clean escape from a couple of street cops who’d
happened to witness him sliding out of a liquor store with a handful of
crumpled bills. They’d been a little more astute than the norm for their type,
and Raven had had to think on his feet. He didn’t like to offer sacrifices to
work the magic; each time he did it, it felt as if he were carving away a chunk
of his being. He was scattering little pieces of Raven all over the city,
leaving himself naked and exposed to its raw, elemental might, laying bar his
activities, the very core of his being, to anyone with the eyes to see. That he’d had no choice was no balm
to his wounded pride; with careful planning, he could work all the wonders he
needed with his charms alone, and not be forced to fall back on the might of
tokens like his cap, rich with essence and memory. He didn’t like the thought
of one of the watchers keeping it, wearing it even; or worse, trading it in
turn to some darker being in a further exchange of favours. There was power in
personal objects. Raven didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. He knew it in
his bones.
Six more blocks, and he was
there: Tompkins Square Park, the heart of the East Village. Normally one of his
favourite places in the city, he knew it with the intimate familiarity of a
lover. He’d been there in summer time, luxuriating in the scent of oak buds and
ash, walking barefoot, the better to feel the sparse and struggling grass
between his toes. He liked sitting atop tree roots, leaning back against the
towering trunks, feeling the life and wonder of living wood quivering beneath
him, drawing strength from the vitality of the timber, and returning it in
equal measure. He’d had a moment of awakening here, once upon a time; years
ago, when he’d still been young in the world, before the darkness had come to
cloud the light of day, and life had become a burden. He’d been at the park and
had been caught unawares by a sudden rain-squall. He’d taken shelter beneath a
leafy maple, only to discover that the tree had been struck a foot or so above
the ground by some thoughtless lout behind the tiller bars of an earth-mover of
some sort. The bark had been entirely torn away, half of the heartwood beneath
it had been splintered into kindling by the force of fire-driven steel. He’d
put a hand upon the groaning trunk, and felt the tree’s dying; and with the
empathy of the pre-pubescent (an empathy tempered by hardship that kept tears
at bay even when he’d happened across a human corpse), he’d wept.
Fumbling through his pockets,
he’d grasped the runestone in his left hand, fingers working feverishly against
the silver as he thumbed his way through the ten charms that he kept upon a
leather thong. He had already learned the trick of knowing whether a charm
would serve him in any given instance; either the old, worn silver token would
feel alive and electric in his grasp, or it would lay still and quiescent like
an old bone. He’d tried the nisse,
the paired ravens, the hammer, the shield, the bull, even the crossed, crooked
spears, the newest of his charms, the one that had come to him by mysterious
paths on his tenth birthday. None availed him. It wasn’t until his questing
fingers lit upon the horse – the peculiar eight-legged destrier, rearing and
magnificent, that he’d had for more than half his life thus far – that he felt
the pulsing tingle of possibility. With the runestone in his left hand and the
horse-token in his right, he’d leaned forward, touching his forehead to the
wounded tree...and worked a wonder.
Hot, golden light burst from him,
exploding from his body like the radiance of a star, spilling from his eyes,
his mouth like the very benediction of heaven. An effervescence of the spirit,
the light washed over the wounded maple, cloaking it in health, in life,
squeezing vitality into its very pores. Before Raven’s astonished eyes, the
breach in the bark closed over, filled from all corners by new growth. He
embraced the tree, glorying in the new access of strength that he had summoned,
breathing in air charged with the shattering weight of possibility, laughing
and weeping at the same time. Though it did not move, though not a single
branch did more than quiver, it felt as though the tree had embraced him in
turn, granting him life and strength in equal measure; and as it did so, Raven
felt his senses expanding, his nerves running through the living wood of the tree
until he could sense the distant Sun beyond the clouds. Through his fingertips
he could taste the air, tainted with the dust and brimstone of upwind power
plants; through his toes, the water, drawn from deep in the earth, the
foulnesses of the rivers leached from the life-giving fluid by filters of
porous stone. He and the tree were one, sugary sap and blood running together,
shared in perfect, temporary harmony.
He’d learned another lesson, too;
after so vast an expenditure of power he’d fallen prey to exhaustion,
collapsing to sleep at the foot of the tree he’d healed. He awoke the next
morning, rising wiht the Sun – with the tree itself, he’d realized later on –
to find himself warm, dry and safe. The tree had sheltered him against the rain
and the night’s chill, in gratitude perhaps for the gift of life and strength
that he had imparted. Before leaving he’d thanked the new-healed maple with a
touch, and had been a little disappointed not to feel the same explosion of
glory and might. He never felt it again, but that didn’t change his memory of
the majesty of what he’d done. For years afterward, every time he’d passed the
park he’d looked in on the tree. Just to see how it was doing.
Now, as he stalked across East
Seventh Street and entered the park from the south, hunched forward against the
ever-increasing rain, he didn’t bother looking for the tree. It wasn’t there
anymore; a few years ago, it had vanished overnight, hacked to the earth along
with dozens of other maples to make way for a studio that advertised modern
dance and something called ‘pilates’. Apart from the biblical reference to a
former governor of Judea who (insofar as he’d been able to gather) had been
conspicuously lacking in both decision-making skills and moral courage, Raven
had no idea what ‘pilates’ were. But he was certain that they were a poor
substitute for a living tree.
His appointment was behind the
studio. There was an awning above the back door, nestled between a dumpster and
an old Ford truck that had been parked behind the building shortly after it
opened and didn’t appear to have moved since. These features made for decent
shelter against the elements, and thus it was here, beneath a single overhead
light bulb that was either burned out or had been partially unscrewed, that
Two-Beats was generally to be found. Raven had no idea what the fellow’s real
name was; everyone called him by his street handle, uttering the moniker with
contempt or quivering respect, depending upon whether they looked up at him in
fear, or not. Raven didn’t fear the man, but he respected him, just as he
respected other dangerous features of the city, like speeding trucks or
condemned buildings. Out of caution and customary politeness, he approached the
back of the building in the open, walking slowly but steadily, keeping his
hands in his pockets.
As he drew closer, he saw his
contact’s head come up. The man’s right hand crept towards the back of his
waistband, but stopped as recognition set in. Raven nodded at the compliment
and stopped a couple of paces away. That left him under the rain instead of the
awning, but it was prudent. Two-Beats was considerably larger, and had both a
longer reach and an unpredictable temper. If it came to fisticuffs, Raven
planned to beat a retreat. Fighting was for fools; for fools with a death wish,
in fact.
His contact spoke first.
“Blackie.” The word came out in an exaggerated drawl. Two-Beats was himself
black-skinned, and embraced every aspect of the stereotyped culture portrayed
on television. Raven knew that he had been born in Western Connecticut, in a milquetoast
town that bore as much resemblance to Harlem as it did to Pakistan.
It didn’t bother him; as far as Raven
was concerned, everyone had the right to smith-craft their own legend. It was
what he himself did every day, more or less. “Beats,” he replied with a
deferential nod. There was a glassy sheen in the taller man’s eyes, and Raven
thought it might be cocaine. Two-Beats, he knew, had expensive tastes. Best to be polite, he thought. It usually
was.
“You buying?”
“Paying.” Without moving too
quickly, he pulled his left hand from his pocket, opening it to reveal a tight
roll of bills. His right hand was still concealed, his fingers caressing the
star-shaped silver slug that he thought of as the horn-charm.
Beats’ moist eyes widened. “Okay,
then,” he exclaimed, reaching for the money.
Raven pulled it back a hand-span.
“It’s for Sherlyn. A thousand. For what she owes you.”
The other man snorted. “Bitch
owes me more’n that. A lot more.”
“I’ll get more,” Raven promised.
“Tomorrow.”
Two-Beats blinked once, twice,
working the offer and its implications through the thick, alkaloid-sodden
sludge of his mind. “Three G’s,” he said, “on top o’that.”
Four thousand, Raven thought. A
lot, but it might have been more. He waggled the roll. “Three more, and
she’s clear?” He watched the tilt of his contact’s head, the set of his jaw,
the narrowing of his eyes. The horn-charm granted loquacity, but it also helped
the speaker read the truth of what he heard.
Beats nodded. “Yeah.”
Lying. Raven’s cheek twitched, but he gave no other sign. He put
the roll of bills in the pimp’s outstretched hand. “Same time tomorrow, then?”
“Why you care, anyway?”
Raven blinked. “Sorry?”
“’Bout Sherlyn. She just Jersey
ass, man.” Beats grinned, displaying decaying teeth. “You in love or
something?”
Raven cocked an eyebrow, then
shrugged. “She helped me out.”
“Ah just bet she did!”
Raven decided to let that pass.
“Just trying to help out,” he said soothingly, grinding the horn-charm between
thumb and forefinger and willing the magic to work. “Same time tomorrow?” he
repeated.
Two-Beats frowned for a moment.
Then his face cleared, taking on an almost beatific cast. He caused the money
to disappear. “Yeah.”
“And she’ll be fine?” Raven said
clearly, fixing the other man with his eyes, unclenching his will a little and
letting their unsettling colour show through.
The fellow heaved a theatrical
sigh. “’Course, man. My word’s good, right?”
“Right.” Raven’s cheek twitched
again; he couldn’t help it. “See you tomorrow.”
Beats nodded. “Ah’ll be here.”
Raven dipped his head in
farewell. He left the park, heading eastwards, crossing Avenue B towards
Alphabet City, heading for the riverfront. There was a mission at Saint
Emeric’s where he could usually find a lukewarm meal and a cold bed, and he
planned to stuff the rest of his ill-gotten gains into the donation slot near
the arched front doors.
Between the rain, the mounting
wind, the slickly treacherous sidewalk, and his preoccupation with his bargain
with Two-Beats, Raven failed to notice the old woman until he was practically
atop her. At the last instant his brain registered the presence of a clot of
shadow huddled in the corner between a mailbox and the crumbling brick of an
artisanal bakery, and he stumbled to a halt the barest fraction of an instant
before treading on her.
She was old; he saw that at once.
Old, and wrapped in shawl and blanket like a film stereotype. The peculiar
appropriateness of her attire caught Raven off guard; and when she looked up at
him, her eyes caught the rain-dampened streetlamps, reflecting glints of feral
yellow and scarlet. There was something atavistic, medieval even, about her
appearance, and he found himself recalling the severed head he had seen only an
hour ago, wide-eyed, staring, clotted with foulness, and swirling haplessly
down into the maelstrom of the rain-tide. Despite himself, he took a step back.
A hand – a claw – age-gnawed,
gnarled and spotty, crept tremblingly from beneath the shawl. “Milostenie?” she murmured. “Ofranda?” Though her voice was as
decrepit and tremulous as her frame, he heard her words clearly, as if they had
been coins dropped from a great height into still water.
Raven cocked his head. “I
don’t...I’m sorry, I don’t speak your language.” He’d been about to say that he
didn’t understand her, but shied at the last moment away from falsehood. He had
no idea what tongue she used, but he knew what she’d said. A plea for alms.
The ancient, bird-like eyes
didn’t move; they remained fixed upon him, like nails driven through the planks
of his soul. The hand quivered again. “Halp,” she quavered.
There was curiosity in those
eyes; assessment, evaluation, even interest. Raven could sense it all. But
there was no compulsion. Had he known more about the temper of the world, he
might have walked on; but it was not in his nature to deny someone in need.
That, after all, was what had drawn him to Sherlyn’s plight, and into the
dangerous world of Two-Beats and his ilk.
He didn’t stop to consider his
next action; he simply plunged his hand into his pocket, drew out the remainder
of the money he had purloined, and pressed it into the old woman’s hand.
The ancient eyes widened,
although their colour and focus didn’t change. “Too mach,” she protested,
shaking the wad at him. “Too mach!”
Raven took her hand, suppressing
a shiver of disgust at the damp, crepe-like texture of her skin. “There’s no
such thing,” he said gently, folding her brittle, twiggy fingers over the roll
of bills, “as too much help.”
That brought a grin to cracked,
ancient lips. The old woman tucked the money away with a conjurer’s finesse,
and began to laugh – not a clean, hearty guffaw, but a chilling chortle, a
cackle of glee that sent a runnel of spittle trickling down her chin. “No...no such
thing!” she crowed.
Raven cast her a nervous sidelong
glance and stepped back. The withered hand shot out and seize him by the wrist.
Her strength and dexterity shocked him, and he tugged reflexively.
She held on, patting his hand.
This time he did shiver. “You good boy,” she said eerily. “Very good boy, yes.”
Her sleeve fell back, and he saw something on the inside of her left forearm; a
scrawl of some sort. A tattoo, possibly.
“Lucky boy, nu?” she went on, almost crooning now. Behind her words the wind
had fallen silent, and the tinkling tumble of sleet had ceased; glints of ice
lay along the edges of roofs, silvering the power lines and glazing the
streets. “Son of Sun and Moon, grandson of sea.” She tugged him closer, and he
stumbled towards her; and with her free hand she grasped his forearm, kneading
the muscles. “Strong son. Strong arm,
strong heart. Very good.”
Alarmed, Raven reared back,
yanking his hand out of her grasp. He felt her nails score his wrist, but
forbore to glance at the scratches. “I – I have to go,” he stammered. His hands
were empty, his charms buried deep in his pockets, all but forgotten, and his
eloquence had deserted him.
“Fii bine, fiul lunii,” she murmured. She patted her bosom.
“Thanking. You see me soon, nu?”
Raven stumbled backwards. “Sure,”
he grunted. Turning his back on her, he pointed himself at the river and threw
himself into motion. He could feel her eyes on his back, touching him, probing
him like cold, lifeless fingers.
The eyes followed him until he
passed behind the apartment building at East Tenth and Szold. The instant he
turned the corner, he paused, then glanced back around the edge of the
structure.
She was gone. The streetlamps
shone cold and passionless on the lip of stone where he’d spoken to her.
Raven took a deep, calming
breath. By the time he’d let it out he was chuckling at himself, laughing at
the megrims that had him staggering through the night like the liquor-stinking
derelicts that gathered with their gauze and lighters beneath the Queensboro
Bridge. By the time he was done laughing, he couldn’t recall what he’d been
laughing about. A few moments later, lost in thought, he strode past Saint
Emeric’s, wondering idly what had happened to the money he’d planned to drop
into the church’s donation slot.
When Raven slept that night in an
unheated room on a stained and musty-smelling mattress, wrapped in a threadbare
blanket against the coming winter’s chill, he dreamed of the Sun and the Moon
and the Sea...and of a dark god, tall, majestic and terrible, with lips and
loins stained with blood, and a great stag’s head crowned with horns that
towered over the earth like the dead branches of the world-tree against the
starry sky. The vision shook him, and he woke screaming, but when he did he could
remember none of it. All that he could remember was clammy, parchment skin,
strange-sounding words...and an old woman’s cold, yellow eyes.
♦♦♦
