A Rose-Red City

Four

There were odd things going on— no doubt about it. She hoped it was just the bone-deep fatigue, the weariness that felt like a plastic bag over her head. She hoped it was just that and not an attack of D.T.s coming on. Please not that— it had been months!

First the roadway; she was sure that she’d skidded off just after the turn, but when they had gotten to the car— and it had been farther away than she’d thought— there had been no sign of the junction. The driveway had kept straight on through the trees. Those trees— spruce or fir— she couldn’t remember those, either. Had she really been driving in her sleep, or close to it? There had been fence posts, but no trees. Now there were trees and no fence posts, very thick, dark woods in fact, showing in the glow of the lantern.

Lacey and Alan had been still asleep, thank the Lord. They had wailed and fussed at being wakened. There had been no way to keep them covered by the raincoats, so they had both been soaked and chilled and weepy by the time Jerry and she had carried them up to the cottage. And the howling was certainly coming closer. Coyotes or not, her scalp had prickled at the sound, and she had been glad to get to the porch. Even Killer’s horrible grin had been almost a welcome sight.

Then there were the clothes. She’d taken the kids into the bedroom, stripped them off, and wrapped them in towels. She was sure that she’d thrown her raincoat down in a corner, but when she looked for it, it had vanished. She could not recall taking off the boots, and those had disappeared also; she must be punchy with fatigue. Then Jerry had tapped on the door and handed in a couple of green ponchos, suggesting that they try those— and they had fitted very well and made Lacey laugh, and Alan had laughed with her, not sure why.

Clothes— when she went back out to the main room, Jerry was working on supper at the range. He’d taken his shirt and sweater off, and was wearing a white tee shirt. He blushed quite pink at her look of surprise, and, although she had started to trust him, some of her first uneasiness came rushing back. Some sort of prolonged striptease? Perhaps it was hot beside the stove, although the rest of the place was cool. Then she saw that Killer had done the same, although he had put on one of the sleeveless things they called muscle shirts, which he certainly had not been wearing earlier. He did have more right to wear it than most. He saw her looking at him and gave her that sleepy inviting look again and then grinned as she turned away quickly.

Odd things going on, but she didn’t feel D.T.-ish, just impossibly weary and tired, too tired even to feel very worried now. She was so totally at the mercy of these men that she might as well just trust them. There was nothing she could do except scream, and nobody to hear— and so far they seemed to be helpful, sympathetic, and well-meaning.

“Sorry I can’t offer you a drink, but we seem to be running a dry ship.” Jerry was peeling onions with a butcher knife and had a pan of potatoes boiling on the range. She felt another surge of relief, another notch loosened on the belt— if there was nothing to drink, then she needn’t worry about that.

“Maybe the kids would like some milk?” he suggested. Of course they would.

She wondered why the furniture was put the way it was, with the sofa facing the front door and the armchair beside it facing the bedrooms. Who wanted to sit and stare at doors? Then Killer had pulled up a wooden chair in front of the range and he had Lacey on one knee and Alan on the other, like his-and-hers elves in their green ponchos. She had never seen them take to anyone that fast before; certainly not Alan, who was a suspicious little devil. Killer and Lacey were chattering away as though they’d known each other for years, while Alan clutched his milk in two hands and cultivated a white moustache.

“Why is your nose funny?” Lacey was asking.

“It got banged,” Killer said. He spoke to her as though she were an adult, and Lacey was responding to that. “But it’ll get better soon.”

“Who banged it?” she demanded, frowning.

“A friend of mine. We were playing with big sticks. He banged my nose, and I banged his head. I banged harder than he did.”

Lacey thought about that. “Then what did you do?” she asked. Jerry caught Ariadne’s eye and smiled.

“I put him over my shoulder and carried him to the hospital,” Killer said. “He got better, and we went off and had a party.”

“You bad man?” Alan asked.

“Very bad,” Killer said. “Grrrrr!”

“Grrrrrrrrrrr!” Alan replied in great delight and innocently tipped the rest of his milk over Killer.

Ariadne swore loudly and grabbed up a towel which was lying on the counter.

“No problem,” Killer said softly. “I’m waterproof.” He wiped the shirt with the back of his hand, and a few last drops ran down his jeans and fell off. Puzzled, she went and sat down. Waterproof undershirts?

Lacey had been studying him. “Did the tooth fairy give you money for all those teeth you’ve lost?”

“No,” said Killer.

“Did the tooth fairy give you money for the one you lost?”

“She gave me a quarter.” Jerry giggled and wiped onion tears from his eyes. “Lacey, if the tooth fairy gave Killer money every time he lost a tooth, then she wouldn’t have any money left for good people like you. He’s very careless with his teeth, is Killer.” He paused and then said, “Killer? Show us your beautiful smile again. Ariadne, take a look at this.” Killer grinned up from the chair, and Jerry used his big knife like a pointer, as though he were demonstrating on a dissection. “See there? And there? New teeth coming in. See that? Broken tooth, but it’s rounded, not rough. It’s healing. Those two are still jagged because he only broke them yesterday. They’ll all be back to normal in a couple of days— unless he gets kicked in the mouth again first, which he usually does.” Such things were just not possible. She stared at the teeth incredulously, avoided Killer’s mocking eyes, and turned to Jerry.

“He… his teeth heal?”

Jerry nodded and went back to his cooking. “His nose will be straight as a ruler inside a week. I hate him to hear me say this, but it’s quite a handsome nose when it gets the chance.” She shivered and fetched a chair and sat down by the range, not too close to Killer and his burdens, and stared at the chinks of firelight. Heal teeth? Maybe it wasn’t she who was having D.T.s. Lacey examined Killer’s teeth, and he growled and pretended to bite her fingers.

“The scar doesn’t change,” Jerry remarked. “I never found out why. Why is that, Killer? Why that one scar?”

Killer shrugged. “No idea. I’ve had it as long as I can remember. Perhaps since I was born.” Killer was a puzzle. He seemed barely more than a boy, but now she could sense a strange solidity in him that was far from boyish. Incredibly she heard her own voice saying, “And when was that, Achilles? When were you born?” He frowned at her, and she raised her eyebrows— this time she would make the challenge.

He accepted, held her gaze with some amusement, and said quietly, “I’m not sure. In the sixty-ninth Olympiad.” Huh?

And Jerry was looking very thoughtful and, perhaps, pleased, as though she had wormed a secret out of his friend. “In Thespiae, right?” he demanded.

Killer hesitated and nodded.

“A city renowned for its shrine to Eros?” Jerry asked, baiting him. Killer glanced at the children and then said, “Damned right,” with a grin, implying that ‘damned’ was not the word he had in mind.

“Famous for its fighting men, also?”

Killer’s face went crimson with sudden anger, and the tall man was instantly wary, almost nervous. He said, “Sorry— shouldn’t pry. It doesn’t mean anything now, Killer.” What doesn’t? They were talking on their own band, these two.

“It does to me,” Killer growled and then switched on his smile for Lacey— to heck with adults! “Shall I sing you a song, Lacey?” he asked.

“What ‘bout?” demanded Lacey and airily handed her empty glass to her mother.

“About the place where I live,” Killer said. “It’s a very nice place. It’s called Mera. It’s the place where the sun always shines, and there’s lots of good things to do and nice people to do them with, and nobody ever gets sick or grows old. Okay?”

“‘kay,” Lacey said.

And in a surprisingly fair baritone, Killer sang:

There was silence. Perhaps this kid wouldn’t be so bad on the subway after all— certainly he would scare away any other muggers. Was that why he was here now?

“That’s very good, Killer,” Jerry said, “Whose is that?”

“Clio’s,” Killer said without looking up. “See, Lacey? Mera is the land where wishes come true. What would you wish for, Lacey, if you lived in Mera?”

“Peggy,” said Lacey. “He’s my pony.”

“Isn’t that a girl’s name?”

“He’s a boy!” Lacey insisted. “It’s short for Pegasus, ‘cos Pegasus was a pony with wings, but Peggy doesn’t have wings, but I pretend he does. I would wish that he did have real wings.”

“I going to get a pony soon!” Alan announced. “Daddy promised when I’m three.”

Killer looked doubtful. “You’re too little to ride a pony.”

“Am not!”

Alan swung around and appealed to higher authority. “Mommy! You tell Killer that I ride gooder than Lacey.” She hadn’t heard of the promise, but it sounded credible, and his birthday was only a few weeks off. On her money, without alimony, the only rides the kids would get would be on buses.

“He’s very good,” she said.

“Quite fearless.” Alan said, “See?” belligerently.

“Okay,” Killer said. “The wings might be too big a wish, but if you come to Mera you can both have ponies, and there are lots of grassy places to ride them.” He looked around at Ariadne and put on his sleepy look. “And what would Mommy wish for?” He had been talking at her all along, of course, and Jerry was watching.

“Peace and quiet,” she said.

“But there are lots of exciting things to do there,” Killer said, “and nice people to do them with. You should let me take you there and show you.”

Not likely!

“And how does one get to this Mera?” Ariadne asked. “What airlines fly there?”

“Supper’s ready!” Jerry said firmly. It wasn’t, quite, but he made them get the chairs around the table, while Killer carried Alan gently into the bedroom and laid him down, already asleep. Lacey was sleepy also, but insisted that she wanted some steak and made sure that she sat next to Killer.

Ariadne was feeling surprisingly better— perhaps it was the tea, or the coffee which Jerry had now produced, or perhaps it was an odd feeling of relief. She actually had an appetite, and the steak was good. She had reached…

“You did say that this was Canada?” she asked.

Jerry hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said. “All I said was that you had reached safety and you are among friends… I’m not quite so sure of the safety now, though.” The howling sounded again, close— real howls, not the yip-yippy stuff coyotes usually did. But of course coyotes could howl, too. Jerry and Killer exchanged glances, and their tension was obvious. They didn’t know coyotes and they didn’t know which side of the border they were on and they could heal teeth? There was no more conversation until they had finished eating.

Jerry tossed the dishes into a bowl and said loudly that they could wait until morning. Then he eyed Ariadne and said, “Do you feel up to playing a little music for us?”

“Yes, Mommy!” Lacey said, sensing another excuse to stay out of bed longer.

Ariadne looked thoughtfully at Jerry. “What makes you think I can play?”

“Can you?”

“Yes.”

“Well?” She shrugged. “Yes. Once I could.” No need to poke old sores.

He smiled mysteriously. “There had to be some reason for that piano. Killer and I arrived about an hour before you did. We’ve never been here before, either.” He nodded to indicate Lacey. “I’ll try to explain shortly. But will you play for us? It’s well tuned.”

She shook her head. “I’m too tired.”

He could tell that it was in tune “You play something.” He smiled and carried one of the chairs over to the piano.

“I’ll go check on the mare,” Killer said and limped toward the door. He did not seek out the raincoat that Jerry had worn earlier, just left in his jeans and muscle shirt. She wondered where those raincoats had gone, for there were no closets in sight, only two small cupboards by the range.

Jerry looked up from his seat by the piano and laughed.

“He doesn’t enjoy harmony,” he said. “Anything closer than an octave is a discord to Killer. Ariadne, don’t let him scare you. He does take no for an answer.” So this was a private word, was it?

“Off to bed, young lady,” she said. “Mommy’ll come and give you a kiss in a minute. Don’t wake Alan.” Lacey stomped grumpily into the bedroom, shutting the door with a bang.

Jerry hesitated, a worried look on his angular face. “This is difficult.… I am going to tell you a very strange story. You will probably conclude that I am utterly crazy. Just believe that I don’t get violent, okay? I’m guaranteed harmless.”

She could believe that. “Is your friend?”

“Killer?” Jerry said, and chewed his lip. “Yes. He’s promiscuous as a goat, an Olympic-class lecher and proud of it, but he does take no for an answer. He won’t force you, because he’s too certain that you’ll yield on your own. So just say ‘No’ firmly. You’ll have to keep saying it, but it’ll work.”

“You implied earlier that he would prefer you.” He blushed scarlet. “He’d be quite happy to get either of us, and happier to have both. He’s a Greek and he has all the bad habits of the Greeks of his day, polished by four hundred years of practice. He’s not serious at the moment, because he’s on duty. You should see him when he is serious. I’ve been saying ‘No’ to Killer about once a week for forty years.” There it was— four hundred years, forty years— he’d associated himself with the line that Killer had been shooting. She couldn’t think of a sane reply to such insanity. Jerry, sensing the tension, suddenly grinned, revealing a sense of fun under the formality and the odd shyness.

“Of course, you could try saying ‘Yes’ and see what happens. He wouldn’t bother you afterward— not for a while, anyway.”

“No, thank you,” she said firmly. “He’s either too young for me— or much too old.”

He chuckled. “One lady of my acquaintance insists that Killer is a unique experience. Like being run over by a slow freight, she says, every wheel.” The rain continued to drum on the roof unceasingly. She perched on the arm of the sofa. “The sixty-ninth Olympiad?” she said.

The yellow-haired man frowned. “I shouldn’t have pushed that; he’s never been that specific before. Give or take a year, Ariadne, Killer was born in 500 BC.” She just looked at him. There was nothing to reply to that.

He shrugged. “Okay, I warned you! I don’t mean that he’s twenty-five hundred years old. Time in Mera doesn’t run with time Outside, but he’s been there about four hundred years, as well as he can estimate. I was born in 1914. I’ve lived in Mera for forty years more or less, which makes me about seventy. I don’t know what year it is here, now, but I suspect I’m close to being on time but that’s just coincidence. I have been a long way downtime on some trips Out.”

“You’ve dropped a couple of years,” she said, as calmly as she could.

He sighed. “I’ve had broken legs heal in three days in Mera, and obviously— obviously if you believe us— we don’t age. You saw Killer’s teeth, Ariadne; if those were faked, then we’ve gone to a lot of trouble to fool you, haven’t we?” She shook her head, too confused to think.

“Were there trees on that road when you came in?” he asked. “We got here right at dusk, and there wasn’t a tree in sight, just a hedge. Now there’s no hedge but a forest. It’s faerie— magic. It has to be, Ariadne.”

“I’m punchy,” she said. “I’d been driving all day, and now this… I can’t think straight.”

He nodded sympathetically. “Go off to bed, then. Bolt the door. Don’t open the window. Don’t even open the drapes if someth… someone taps on it. Killer and I will be out here, so take whichever room you want, with the kids or the other. Come and get us if you need anything— we shan’t be sleeping. Warn Lacey about the window. Use the pots under the bed, I’m afraid— it isn’t safe to go out now.”

“Why?” she demanded. “Not just coyotes?”

Jerry shook his head. “It’s all part of the Mera thing. There are… opposing forces. They can’t attack Mera itself, or they haven’t so far, but they try to prevent anyone else getting in. We come to ‘rescue’ you, as we call it. You admitted you’re running from someone…”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “And we shall offer you the chance to come back with us. If you come, you will be invited to stay. You can refuse either offer. Nobody’s forcing you, neither here nor there. But the other side doesn’t want you to have the chance and they would love to get their talons on Killer and me— especially Killer. If those are coyotes out there, they sound more like wolves than wolves do. Before dawn there may be worse. So, ‘Watch the wall, my darling.’ ” There was something very likable about this diffident, soft-spoken maniac, unless fatigue was rotting her judgment.

“Kipling,” she said. ” ‘Watch the wall my darling, while the gentlemen go by.’ ”

He smiled, pleased and surprised. “You win a cigar! Try this, then:

She nodded; Tennyson on the death of Arthur, the departure for Avalon. “Does King Arthur hold court in Mera, then?” she asked.

He took the question seriously. “There was a man who could have been the source of the legends, a leader from sixth-century Britain. He trained Killer.”

“Was? He died?”

Jerry’s face grew even more serious. “He came Outside on a rescue— like this— and failed to return. The other side got him.”

She laughed. “I think it is certainly bedtime, Mr. Howard, when you start the fairy stories. Play me one little piece.”

He lifted the cover. “I’m not much good— I haven’t played in months, so this may be terrible. And I’m better with a score.” He wasn’t terrible, he was a very good amateur, but she could tell that his fingers were rusty. Then she got caught up in the music He stopped with a discord and a muttered oath.

“Sorry. I’m not sure of the next bit. Like it?”

Like it?

“It’s marvelous! Incredible! What is it?”

He was surprised by her enthusiasm, then his face lit up. “It’s Killer’s teeth again— another piece of evidence. It was written by one of my friends. A bunch of us were sitting around my room one night, and he’d been playing for us— doing take-offs on Sibelius, Wagner, and Copland and tying us all in stitches. And then he played some of the stuff he writes now, using twenty-third-century rhythms, which are incredibly complex, and I asked him to play a little of the kind of music he used to write, before he was rescued. He improvised that— improvised it! Next day he wrote it down for me.”

“Who?” she demanded, feeling her hands starting to shake, seeing the understanding in his eyes as she fought down that terrifying recognition.

“You would know him if you saw him.”

“No!” But she had known the music, the inevitability of the music, as characteristic as handwriting, the sensation that whatever came next was preordained by God, the utter mastery. And it was not one of the known pieces “No!” she shouted again, rising.

Jerry stood also, smiling triumphantly. “Yes! That’s it, Adriadne! The key! There’s always something to convince someone who’s going to be rescued. That’s why the piano… that music has convinced you, hasn’t it?”

“No! No!”

“Yes! He was rescued from a slum in Vienna. You’ve heard the story of the unmarked grave, the funeral that no one went to? What year was that, Ariadne Gillis?”

“Tell me?” she whispered.

“1791,” he said. “Correct?” He smiled at her.

It was true, then. This man knew a piece of music that only Mozart could have written, but which Mozart had not— a posthumous composition? The cottage wheeled around her and then steadied Jerry Howard’s green slacks and tee shirt had vanished. He was wearing a pair of very floppy gray-green trousers, the same color as Lacey’s poncho; he was bare-chested and he was holding a long white rod in his hand. Her own outfit had changed into a sleeveless cape and loose pants like his, in the same gray shade as before, but not the same clothes.

She staggered, and he grabbed her and held her up.

Killer entered in a gust of wind and rain and slammed the door. His jeans had become floppy pants also, matching the poncho that Alan was wearing. Although the trousers were dry, his bare chest was soaking.

“Well!” he said and came limping around the sofa. He looked from one to the other.

“She believes us,” Jerry said, releasing her.

Killer grinned and came too close once more. “Come with me to Mera, then,” he said, quoting his song. “Come with me to Mera, pretty lady?” She shook her head. A four-hundred-year-old juvenile delinquent?

“I’m not sure if I do believe… ”

Jerry took her arm and led her to the chair. “Belief isn’t something you decide consciously,” he said. “It’s there or it isn’t. You believe. That doesn’t mean you have to come with us, or stay there if you do. But at least we can talk about it.” The climate must be good there, she thought inanely— they both had superb tans. Good for the kids? Far beyond Graham’s reach, then, it would be the ultimate sanctuary.

“Avalon?” she whispered.

“Avalon,” said Jerry, kneeling beside the chair. “The Islands of the Blessed, the Fortunate Isles, Shangri-La, Elysium, Brasil, Tir na nOg, the Land of Youth… it’s been around a long time, Ariadne. It’s in all the legends, of all lands and cultures and times. The place where wishes come true.” And they would take her there? She had been fleeing to Canada, stealing her own children so callously stolen from her, seeking freedom, peace, and a life free of fear. Now he was offering all of that, plus immortality? She must be going crazy. D.T.s again! And yet… that earnest, gaunt face, the obvious concern… surely she was imagining all this?

“What happened to your shirts?’ “

Jerry looked puzzled. “We gave our capes to the children. I don’t know what you saw. These are Meran clothes. They provide a local disguise.”

“But you had shirts on and then tee shirts and now nothing!” she protested.

He smiled. “I only saw Killer with a cape and then Killer bare-chested. Tee shirts? I suppose that was the best the pants could do without capes. You believe now, so you are not deceived.”

“Play that music again!” she demanded. It seemed like the only straw of sanity in this hayfield of confusion.

He smiled, went back to the piano, laid the rod thing across his lap, and played again, fumbling to a halt as he had before.

She got up and went over, and he yielded the chair to her. She played it through… then back to G-sharp… first theme in the left hand, now? Second theme inverted?

“No!” she said, “too complex, that would come later, near the recapitulation?”

He was beet red. “And I was trying to impress you!” he said. “You’re professional!”

She suppressed the childish pleasure. “I’m a mother.”

“But you’re first class!” he spluttered. “Concert pianist?” She spread her hands. “Reach was my problem, Jerry. I probably could never have made the grade.” Pregnant, she had not been able to reach the keys.

“I think you would have,” he protested. “But come to Mera, and I’ll give you the score— a Mozart holograph.” She smiled and was about to say something when wind rattled the bedroom door. Killer was there in two steps, a stumble, and a curse. He had a submachine gun in his hand, and she had no idea where that came from, unless he had pulled it up from between the sofa and the chair as he stumbled. He hit the door with a massive shoulder; it was bolted. He stepped back and hurled himself against it, staggering to catch his balance as the door jamb was shattered by the bolt and the door flew open. Then she and Jerry were there also, the window was open, and the children were gone.