Butcher Bird

TWENTY-NINE Berenice

“It’s Berenice,” said Shrike. “We’re lucky we followed the river.”

“Now we know what town it is,” said Spyder. “We could have just walked here through some sewer pipe and skipped the whole Hindenburg drama.”

“No. Berenice isn’t like other cities. It isn’t really here. Only the memory of the city.”

“A city like the Coma Gardens?”

“Berenice is where memories live when we’re done with them. It’s where they’re born and it’s where they eventually die.”

“What good does it do us? We can’t ride the memory of horses to the mountains.”

“There are humans in Berenice,” said Count Non. “Someone has to be there to bear witness. Otherwise, the memories fade away. To make money, the human inhabitants trade with travelers.”

“Trade what?” asked Lulu.

“Lost keys, lost pets, lost dreams, lost hope,” said Shrike. “I passed through there once before. It can be dangerous. Psychically. You don’t want to turn a corner and run into your own lost virginity.”

“Speak for yourself. I’d do me at fourteen,” said Lulu. “Let’s follow the goddam yellow brick road.”

“No road, Lulu. Just the river,” said Spyder.

“Shit.”

“We’ll swim,” said Shrike. “We just have to get past the city walls. Inside, there are walkways along all the canals.”

“You cool with swimming, Lulu?” Spyder asked.

“Excuse me, son. You were the civilian. I was a lifeguard at YMCA summer camp, remember?”

“Yeah, but that was a while back before your troubles.”

“You think my empty eyes and guts are going to fill up with water and drown me? That ain’t going to happen. But thanks a fuckload for bringing it up.”

“I’m just worried is all.”

“Don’t be,” Lulu said, and waded into the river. When she was knee deep, she turned back. “There aren’t any sharks or things with stingers out here, are there?”

“Nothing that can hurt you,” said Shrike.

“Count, you get on one side and I’ll get on the other. We’ll put Shrike and Primo between us. Make sure no one wanders off course,” said Spyder.

The Count smiled. “A fine idea.”

“Primo, are you all right swimming with one arm?” asked Shrike.

“I’ll be a little slow, I think,” he said.

“Slow’s fine. No one’s in a rush to find their lost socks,” said Spyder.

Shrike took Spyder’s arm as they waded into the river. When she swam, she did so with ease and confidence. Spyder realized quickly that she didn’t need much looking after. He kept an eye on Primo, who was doing a kind of modified dog paddle with his one good arm. The swimmer Spyder kept wondering about was the Count. How he managed to stay afloat while still wearing his chainmail amazed Spyder. Lulu was ahead of them, a strong, steady swimmer. She’d tied her jacket around her waist and on certain strokes, her Hello Kitty shirt slid up her body, letting the morning sun glint off the glass and metal she’d inserted into her wounded flesh.

Something brushed along Spyder’s legs. Fingers touched his chest, tugged at his arms as they entered the water on each stroke. “What the fuck is happening?”

“They can’t hurt you,” Shrike said. “They’re just memories. Drowned sailors, corsairs, anyone who died in water.”

Spyder suddenly wanted very much to be out of the river and done with Berenice. The towering city walls, through which they soon passed, also seemed to be made of water. Not ice, but liquid water, pulled upward and carved into imposing barriers. If all that water ever came down, Spyder thought, it would wash the city away.

Lulu was already out of the water when the rest made it to the walkway. She helped Spyder out and he grabbed Shrike. The Count leaned down and practically lifted Primo from the water. The little man bowed in thanks.

“Where to?” Spyder asked.

“Uptown Saturday Night,” said Shrike.

“You know some weird shit, girl.”

“That’s an old movie, right? It just popped into my head. That happens here.”

As they walked along the marble concourse beside the canal, Spyder asked, “Earlier, why did you say that we’re lucky we followed the river?”

“There are four entrances to Berenice. Water, air, fire and earth. Fire is the memory of violence and war. Air is the perpetual hurricane of anger and lost souls. Earth is a freezing mountain of despair and fear.”

“The memories of the drowned are like the welcoming arms of your family compared to what lives in those other places,” said Count Non.

“Wonder what would’ve happened if I’d tossed in a handful of Alka-Seltzer back there?” asked Lulu. “Would it piss those dead guys off or make ’em feel better?”