Butcher Bird

THIRTY-FIVE Unstrung

When Spyder finally found his way back to the corner on the pink flagstone street, the others were already there.

Lulu waved to him and Shrike cocked her head in his direction as he approached. Spyder wondered if she recognized his footsteps. He’d heard that blind people could sometimes do that sort of thing. His hand felt as if it were on fire.

“Hey, we got us horses. We’re real cowboys now!” said Lulu happily. “Damn, what’s up with your hand?”

“Are you all right, Spyder?” asked Shrike.

“Let me see the wound,” said Count Non.

“Later. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“You know how to ride?” Shrike asked.

“The end with the face goes forward, right?”

They walked to the stables where Shrike and Primo had traded the last of her jewelry for horses, saddles and feed. Riding down the long boulevard, they left the city using a smuggler’s route they’d bribed the stable owner to reveal: a refuse tunnel that swept away the waste and trash produced by the city’s human population. The place was dark, stinking and, at times, the ancient masonry ceiling was so low that even lying flat on their mounts, the riders’ backs slid along the slimy tunnel roof. But, it was better than trying to swim with the horses, or braving the sandstorm, fire or freezing waste at Berenice’s other gates, Shrike reminded them, before vomiting into the filth. That set Spyder and Lulu off. Eventually, the tunnel ended at a sluggish stream in the open desert, just beyond the city walls. The fresh air and light was as thrilling as anything Spyder remembered in his life. They turned north, with Primo, the traveler and natural geomancer, in the lead. Lulu and the Count followed, and Spyder and Shrike rode at the rear.

“What went on back there?” asked Shrike. “Did you have words with Count Non?”

“Nah. He had words with me. Listen, can you hurt those things back there? Those memory ghosts?”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I had a run-in. With myself. It got out of hand. I might have killed him.”

“I don’t think you can kill those spirits. Do you still have the memory of the part of yourself that you fought with?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Then it’s still alive back there. The only one you hurt is yourself. There’s so much pain in your voice.”

“He was just a kid. I was just a kid. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to wipe him out.”

“That’s not how you’re going to get rid of him, you know.”

“What is?”

“Learn to forgive him.”

“Did you forgive the guy who betrayed you?”

Neither of them said anything for a while. His hand had stopped bleeding, so he wiggled his fingers to see if they worked properly. They did, but moving them was agony. “Don’t tell the others about this, okay?”

Shrike leaned to him in the saddle. “Kiss me,” she said. Spyder was happy to oblige.

“Are you cured?” Shrike asked. “Back home, at the Autumn Encomium—it’s a lot like Christmas—members of the royal family must kiss any ill or injured person who asks. The kiss was supposed to cure all maladies.”

“Did it work?”

“Tradition says yes. As far as I’m aware, no, not even once.”

They stopped to water the horses at a spring a few hours later. Berenice was long out of sight and before them was nothing but open desert and the Kasla Mountains in the distance. As the horses drank, the group ate some bread and meat Count Non had traded for in one of the street markets. The meat was stringy, but spicy and rich tasting. Spyder started to ask what kind of meat it was, but decided to leave well enough alone.

“How’s your hand?” asked Lulu, between mouthfuls of bread.

“It’s all right. The Count put on some ranch-dressing-smelling goo. It doesn’t even hardly hurt,” said Spyder, flexing his fingers.

“You see the fight barkers back in Berenice?”

“Think I must’ve missed them.”

“Damn. You’d’ve loved it. After you took off, the Count and me were kind of looking for you. We went down this one street and there’s all these sideshow freaks and retards in a big metal pen with all these locals staring ’em down. Pinheads. Guys with arms where their legs should be. Or their bodies stop just south of their nipples. Monster-headed hydrocephalic she-males. It’s totally Tod Browning. And the real twisted part? These freaks fight each other while the barkers take bets!”

“And I thought I was having a twisted time.”

“It gets worse,” said Lulu. “I asked some old guy what the deal was. He said they were the broken memories. Like the memories of schizos or dying people. They’re like the deranged homeless of Berenice, roaming the streets, attacking each other and normal memories. I guess some humans figured how to make some money off ’em. You’d never guess those shiny, happy people would be into that, would you? I mean, all those clean, straight streets, and here’s the guy who made your shoes betting that the blind geek in the corner can bite the fingers off the legless tranny.”

“They made money tossing Christians to the lions, why not memories?”

“Everything’s show biz, in the end.”

“Truer words were never.”

“Couple of those clowns thought I was with the geeks on account of my unique look. The Count straightened ’em out.”

Spyder wondered if he should tell Lulu about running into the Black Clerks, but he decided that the news wouldn’t do her any good. He handed her the canteen of water Shrike had given him. Lulu took a long drink. A red and black snake burrowed up out of the sand, tasted the air with its tongue and dove back underground.

“And you say I never take you anywhere nice,” Spyder said to Lulu.

That evening, they camped in a small dune valley, out of the night wind. They hadn’t seen any airships all day, so the others started a fire while Primo showed Spyder how to hobble the horses. He didn’t feel it while riding, but once on his feet, Spyder’s ass and back were sore. It took him a while to pour grain into the horses’ feed bags, as he couldn’t grip either bag properly with his injured hand. The Count found him and helped him slip the bags onto the horses’ heads.

“Back in Berenice, I upset you. That wasn’t my intention,” said Count Non.

“No harm, no foul, man,” said Spyder, slipping the feed bag on the last horse. “I’m just a little on edge. You and Shrike, you’re used to this Conan the Barbarian stuff. I’m just passing through and it’s getting to me.”

“It is a situation. I can see how ending up here unwillingly could leave one unstrung.”

“That’s it. I am un-fucking-strung,” Spyder said. “What’s your story? You don’t sweat anything. That some stiff upper lip blue blood thing?”

“My father certainly wouldn’t say so. Unlike Shrike, I can’t claim a tragic seduction or a kingdom stolen. I’m nothing more than a bad son who can’t go home.”

“What did you do?”

“What does any son do? I didn’t love my father enough. And he didn’t have the patience to let me find that love on my own terms.”

“We’ve got something in common, then. The last thing my father ever said to me, before he disappeared into a sea of Jack Daniel’s, was, ‘You are my greatest mistake.’ I was twelve.”

The Count nodded and stroked the neck of one of the horses. “Making our own way toughens us. Look at you. Not everyone could take the shock of being snatched unwillingly from one world and dropped into a new one.”

“Halfway to Hell, man. I thought I’d cleaned up a little, and was going the other way. Or, at least, holding steady.”

“It’s not a kind universe. I’ve lived many places since leaving home, many much worse than this. Compared to where we could be, this isn’t so bad at all.”

“The idea that we could die out here doesn’t bother you?”

“There are worse things than death. Would you rather change places with Shrike’s father?”

“No thanks.”

“For now, we have this sky and the moon, warm air in our lungs and good companions. I can tell you one thing for certain, little brother: In this life, no matter what anyone promises you, what allegiances of love or fealty they swear or what gods they pray to, you will never have more than what you have at this moment.”

“Goddam, Count, you cheered me all the hell up. I might just dance.”

Count Non looked up at the sky. “‘Every night and every morn, some to misery are born; every morn and every night, some are born to sweet delight; some are born to sweet delight, some are born to endless night.’” He motioned for Spyder to follow him away from the horses. “Show me how well you can use—what are you calling it?—the Hornet.”

Spyder held up his injured hand. “The wing’s clipped.”

“As it may well be in battle. Come on, I’ll show you some tricks that will impress the girls.”

“You make a convincing argument.”