Throne Page 15

  Maya stood up, and stepped over. The pool was clear, crystalline, the moss and roots and dirt beneath it perfectly detailed. She glanced in, saw nothing, looked back at Old Man Oak. Who remained perfectly still, pointing at the water.

  Maya looked again. The water was clear, but looking more carefully, she saw that the roots beneath seemed further down then before. In fact, the light was playing some kind of trick, some strange reflection, because now they weren’t visible at all. Just a shaft of clarity, clear water extending down, down into the earth until light failed. Maya waited. The water began to swirl, tendrils of cold swirling within it. She forced herself to remain calm. To simply gaze.

  There. Strange geometries. Tall blocks, a city. Manhattan from above. Avenues like abstractions of canyons, the fiery swelter of life, of electric light. Deep channels of water on each side. The Isle of Apples, she suddenly thought, and then wondered, where did that come from? The image grew larger as she sank down towards it, growing and filling her vision until suddenly she realized that she was gone from the forest glade, and was now impossibly, terrifyingly above the actual city, invisible and slowly falling down toward its streets.

  Down she settled like a falling leaf. Past the uppermost heights of the towers of Midtown, down to the level of the streets. She continued to fall, through the road into the darkness below. The underworld. Maya shivered. Darkness, hard and cold. A face surfaced toward her, rising from the black void beneath the city like that of a beautiful corpse rising up from the depths of a pool of ink. A beautiful woman, hair long and black, features marked by sorrow. In her brilliant eyes, there burned an all-consuming sorrow, a cold fury, and within that fury lay the promise of power.

  The one that searches for the sword, came the voice of Old Man Oak Mark her well. Perhaps you shall meet sooner than you know.

  And then, the ringing of bells, and the face rippled, was gone. Somewhere distant, a clamorous clangor, golden bells. A vision of grass rippling before a stern wind, trees shaking their boughs, golden leaves glimmering and glittering as they fell slowly through the air. Apple trees. A vision of a puddle, rimed with frost, a leaf entrapped within the ice, perfect in detail and preserved. The ice melted, the leaf emerged, fresh and tender.

  More images followed. A tunnel, winding and ribbed with drawers and white painted closet doors. A thrill of recognition ran through her. Replaced by a vision of a small kitchen, neatly kept, metal ladles and spoons hanging against the wall next to a pot of feijoada simmering on the stove. Her home, São Paulo, and a sensation of love and peace suffused her. Tears pricked her eyes, she seemed to be crying all the time these days. A vision of the playground across the street that had been her haven years before, when she had still been allowed to act as a child. From a distance, the sound of laughter, the laughter of children.

  More. A sword. Slender and long, then changing and becoming broad and with heft, then brutal and curved, then slender once more. The same words running down each side of the blade, no matter its incarnation. Take me up, said one side, Cast me away, read the other. Twisting like a chimerical vision. She felt a yearning for it, a sorrow, a sorrow alien to her own life, but one that she could identify with, that her own pains could mesh with and through which they could be better understood. A name came to her, the name of the sword: Caliburn. Here on the Isle of Apples, emergent after so long, so many ages lost. The sound of bells ringing, and then the vision was gone.

  Maya sat back, breathing hard, tears wet on her cheek. She wiped them away, and turned to gaze at Old Man Oak who was looking placidly at her. “Caliburn, not Caladcholg,” she said.

  “Either or,” said Guillaume. “It all depends.”

  “You guys lost me,” said Kevin.

  “The sword,” said Maya. “You called it Caladcholg. But it’s called Caliburn.”

  “And so shall it be, if one of the Seelie Court takes it up,” said Old Man Oak. “You must prevent it from becoming Caladcholg. That is what we ask of you.”

  Silence, then. Maya knew she didn’t have a choice. Whether or not they agreed to intercede with the Green Man or not, she would help them. How could she not? She thought of Tim Tom Tot, of his small home, the bread and cream. The owls, risking the razor blade as they sought to save her and Kevin. The golden gaze of Old Man Oak, who watched her even now as she pondered.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll help. Though I don’t know how much I can do. I’ll do my best, though.”

  “And that,” said Old Man Oak, “Is all that anybody can ask.”

  “I’ll help too,” said Kevin brightly. Old Man Oak ignored him.

  The light was beginning to dim, the shadows taking on a velvety hue. A second dusk, thought Maya, and wished she had her sunglasses still, her purse, access to clean clothing. She stood up, her legs aching now, muscles feeling flat, hard, reacting to the run. With a groan, she touched her toes, felt the backs of her thighs unsnarl, and then straightened.

  “So should we go now?” she asked, hoping they would say no, of course not, look at the time, you should have a bowl of hot soup and lie down on this bank of deep, thick, luxurious moss, and maybe start tomorrow. Or the day after.

  “Of course,” said Guillaume, rising to his feet as well.

  “We cannot wait,” said Old Man Oak, “But we can help you on your way. Drink of the water.”

  Maya stepped back to the pool, crouched by it. She could see the roots beneath it once more. The emerald moss. She dipped both hands into it, cupped them together, and drew out some of the cold water. Drank it. It was brilliantly, deliciously cold, and flowed through her like a burst of intelligence, consciousness, sweeping the dirt and dust away from the corners of her mind. She blinked, and then ran her wet hand over her forehead, down her cheek. Fatigue melted away from her.

  “Wow,” she said, turning to smile at Old Man Oak. “That’s… that’s great.” He bowed his head, accepting her compliment. Rising to her feet, energized, she realized that even her legs felt better. “Thank you.”

  Kevin rose, pulled off his jacket so that he stood in the frigid air in just his wife beater. Ink tattoos, blue and rough, littered his arms, were scrawled around his neck, curled out over the web of his thumb. He smiled uncertainly at Old Man Oak, and then stepped over to the pool.

  Knelt, dipped both hands in it, and then splashed it up into his face. Let out a gasp, surprised, and brought more up to drink. Hands cupped, head tilting back, his curled hair hanging in wet corkscrews over his shoulders. Water running down the length of his jawbone. Throat working with each gulp. Lowered his hands, and looked at Maya, smile wide, eyes dancing once more. Reached down, and brought up another handful of the water. Drank deep. Closed his eyes, immersing himself in the experience, the sensation of cold, burning clarity.

  Silence as he drank. Something settled over him, ennobled him. A subtle shift, and to Maya’s eyes, his pose somehow seemed unconsciously like that of one of those knights in the paintings she sometimes saw in the Met. Kneeling, head tilted back. She stopped herself from laughing at the thought. He was about as far from the idea of a knight as one could get.

  “Now that,” he said, “Could give Gatorade a run for its money.” He rose to his feet. “You guys thought of going commercial with that? Seriously, I know a guy who’s friends with a dude that could hook us up.”

  Guillaume turned pointedly away from him, thick tail swishing sharply through the air. “Must we bring this buffoon?”

  Maya looked at Kevin. If Guillaume’s question had been meant to burst his bubble, it had failed. Kevin winked at her.

  “Yes,” she said, “I think so.” She didn’t know why. But something about Kevin Jones made things more… tangible. Understandable. Less terrifying.

  “So be it,” said Guillaume. He turned then and stared at Kevin. What kind of look he gave the man she couldn’t see, but there was something in it that gave even Kevin pause. No further words were spoken, but when the fox arose and moved to stand by Old Man Oak, Kevin seemed,
if not subdued, then perhaps slightly abashed.

  “The way to the Isle of Apples is various, but one path lies through me,” said Old Man Oak. His words caused Maya to shiver. She wanted to ask him about that, the name he had used for Manhattan, that she herself had used, but he continued. “Through me, the way to the Isle. Enter, and may Light and Laughter guide your steps.”

  He didn’t rise, but rather turned, looked at the great trunk to his side, the wall of curtained wood, the scabrous bark, and pointed once more. Indicated a deep cleft into the heart of the tree, tall enough for a man to walk into, wide enough that he need not turn sideways to do so.

  Guillaume rose to his feet, and without hesitation slipped through it and disappeared. Maya looked to Kevin, who only bowed and indicated she should go first. A smile played at the corner of his mouth. She tried not to smile back, and then stepped forward. Stopped, at the very last moment, to turn to the Old Man.

  “It was… an honor to meet you,” she said. She gazed into his amber eyes and suppressed a shiver. Had this huge tree been in the park yesterday? She somehow didn’t think it had.

  Old Man Oak bowed his head, and then Maya took a deep breath, and stepped into the darkness within the tree.

  Chapter 13

  The cold was bitter, but welcome. It made her feel alive, stripped her of the lingering warmth of home and of any doubts or fears, and bathed her in what felt like the cruel, pure light of the stars. Maribel wished she could cast aside all her clothing, could step out, naked and barefoot, onto the snow, could tread the streets of the city without barrier or pretense. Not yet, part of her whispered. Not yet. But soon.

  She led now. Strode forward without hesitation, the phooka walking close behind, a preternatural shadow that she didn’t cast but which belonged to her regardless. She could sense its presence, smell its fecund scent even through the thin, winter air, could hear the gentle pad of its feet under the cacophony of the city’s sounds.

  Isobel trailed behind. Maribel could sense her, half a block behind, furious, determined to find a way to change her mind. Back at the apartment, Isobel had done everything she could to convince her to leave this all alone. Had sought to change her mind, demanding, exhorting, begging, but her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Isobel didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, and so Maribel had listened until she realized that there was nothing worth listening to, and then turned from her. Told her to leave if she wished, but the other woman hadn’t. Had instead paced impotently as she no doubt racked her brain for one final argument, one final ploy. At the last, as Maribel had been ready to leave the apartment, Isobel had let out a cry and attacked the phooka from behind, had brought a kitchen knife swinging down to try and bury it in the phooka’s back. Only to have her wrist turned, the knife taken from her as if from a child, the blade reversed and brought sweeping across to sever her throat.

  For a long frozen moment, Maribel had simply stared, and then something within her leaped in horror and she had cried out for the phooka to stay its hand. The blade had come to a stop but an inch from Isobel’s throbbing throat, and there they had stood, the three of them, frozen in that tableau of horror. Isobel staring at Maribel, Maribel at the phooka, who had in turn smiled gently at the psychic, amused, and lowered its arm.

  “Leave me alone,” Maribel had whispered, “Don’t follow me. There’s nothing more you can do.” She had left then, thinking that Isobel would stay behind, and had been troubled when she realized that the psychic had persisted in coming after.

  But those troubles had faded after the first few blocks. The city was magnificent about her. The structures and pathways, the avenues scything their way through concrete and stone and marble and concrete. She lifted her eyes above the people that milled about her, and looked at the towering edifices, the sheer cliffs of glass, the obscene angles that dared the heavens. She felt its fetid wind pass by her, reeking of hot dogs and urine and exhaust and sweat, and welcomed it.

  She didn’t know where she was going, but something within her knew that direction was immaterial. What mattered was the movement, a journey she was taking both with her feet and her heart. The phooka had intimated as such, had spoken of a House whose perimeter encircled them, was everywhere, and at whose center waited a being from whom she would have to wrest a blade.

  Things were changing. This was no longer the city that she had arrived in mere weeks before. Darkness had become more exciting, now held potential for violence, seemed to promise as much as it hid. The lights were more lurid, gleamed with a new vitality that disallowed drabness. Neon smears, unnatural until you considered the iridescent colors of hummingbird wings, the electronic blue black plumage of a peacock’s head. But there was more. More than that.

  She saw things now. Things that had perhaps been there all along but which she had failed to notice. Movements and hints of other things walking the streets of the city. A group of women approached her, walking south down from Midtown, sycophantic figures clustered about an impossible creature in their midst. It was this central woman that drew Maribel’s eye, her gaze no stranger to models and beauty but hooked by a face that was painfully elegant, beautiful in a manner utterly inhuman. An impossible face, fluted cheekbones, not eyes but elongated slits, mouth a cruel sneer. Jutting hipbones, a beauty that disdained all around it, made the women about her seem little more than gross bags of sagging flesh. The ghostly hint of oily black wings arising from her shoulder blades, unseen by all but Maribel. Leading the women along the street, pausing only to bow her head once to Maribel and they passed.

  More. Small things cavorted in the slipstreams left behind by roaring buses, spinning and tumbling after, smudges of soot that trailed pencil thin tails behind them, that were all teeth and bulging eyes and elongated, tiny fingers. At the mouth of an alley she saw a hunched man pause where he was rooting in the trash and turn to face her, bare chested, bare armed, his head that of a massive pig, a head nearly as large as his torso, gleaming tusks rising up like sickle moons alongside his snout. Black eyes, bright with intelligence, turning then, back to the trash.

  The phooka by her side, saying nothing now. Following her as she wended their way across town, headed to the East Village. Music swirling from a subterranean jazz bar, steps leading down to an old wooden door. Music that promised madness, joy, frenzy, a surcease from pain and an inebriation that would never end. Maribel paused and looked down at the entrance, at the old, old wooden door, a door older than any building in Manhattan, older even that the first buildings built by white men in America, and wondered.

  At an intersection on St. Mark’s she saw a figure walking, a figure some twenty feet tall, a shambling hulk of a giant, draped in chains and dragging a club behind it, a club as long as a man, knotted and spiked and dyed black with old blood. The giant moved slowly, as if pressing his way forward underwater, striding down the center of the street, shaggy head passing by second floor windows. He paused, lifted his nose as if catching a scent, and then turned to look at where Maribel stood. A moment as their eyes met across the distance, and then he laughed, a deep sepulchral boom, and moved on.

  “They come,” said the phooka, breaking its silence. “They come, sensing the imminence of what you are about to do. It is not carved in stone that you will succeed, but the very possibility excites them, brings them forward in time from their ancient homes, brings them from across the ocean and down from the mountains. Something stirs here, a potential, and you sit at its heart. An imminence.”

  Maribel ignored it. Only its first words had mattered, had kindled the blue flames that now burned in her heart. Revenge, a chance to cause Kubu pain. She thought of Kubu’s face, the large, sunken eyes, the slit of a mouth, the ancient hunger and need. That strange, depraved innocence born of death before life. Those innocent eyes that didn’t comprehend the pain it caused, had caused, would continue to cause. Sofia.

  Voices raised in passion about her. A fight spilled out of a bar into a street as she passed the entrance, three m
en tearing at each other as they yelled and grunted, faces screwed up in pain and determination. Maribel walked around them, moved on. Shapes coming together in the dark corners, the recessed doorways. Inhibitions dropping. Moans of pleasure, of lust from a sinuous shape that was two people melded in the shadows. A scream of pain, rising high in the air, spiraling up, higher and higher, and then choking off.

  “Around this corner,” said the phooka, stepping forward and turning to face her. His horns reflected the light of a Starbucks to their left, the green glow making the ridges seem wet, as if slick with blood. “You have followed the path to your center, and around this corner you may enter the House of Asterion.”

  “That simple?” asked Maribel, amused. “I have to but turn the corner?”

  The phooka bowed his head in assent. “It is not the corner you turn, understand, but yourself. In but a matter of moments, this corner shall symbolize your commitment to revenge. Will you turn it, or flee? Beyond it lies the House of Asterion, evoked and summoned by your need. Not for decades has one walked the path that you now tread, and not for more than eighty years has someone come this close. There is blood in the air, the promise of dissolution. Turn this corner, find the blade, bring it to me.”

  “No,” said a voice, and it was Isobel, stepping out from the shadows, arms spread wide as if to stop a tide. “Last chance. Don’t do this. Maribel.” Her eyes were red. She had been crying for some time, Maribel realized.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “This goes beyond words,” Isobel said. “I can feel it in a way you can’t understand, can sense how wrong this is. I’m a fucking psychic, remember? A real one? And I’m telling you, this is wrong. Profoundly wrong. Don’t trust this thing. It doesn’t want to help you. What it wants is to bring something into the world that should be left alone. Please. Forget this sword, forget Kubu. Come home with me. We’ll pick up the pieces, move on. A normal life, Maribel. Please, come back.”