The Very Best of Charles De Lint Page 9

  It was a good fifteen-minute walk from the Kelledys’ house to the Grasso Street station and Jilly plodded miserably through the rain at Meran’s side for every block of it. Her sneakers were soaked and her hair plastered against her scalp. She carried the stone drum tucked under one arm and was very tempted to simply pitch it in front of a bus.

  “This is crazy,” Jilly said. “We’re just giving ourselves up to them.”

  Meran shook her head. “No. We’re confronting them of our own free will—there’s a difference.”

  “That’s just semantics. There won’t be a difference in the results.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  They both turned at the sound of a new voice to find Goon standing in the doorway of a closed antique shop. His eyes glittered oddly in the poor light, reminding Jilly all too much of the skookin, and he didn’t seem to be the least bit wet.

  “What are you doing here?” Jilly demanded.

  “You must always confront your fears,” Goon said as though she hadn’t spoken. “Then skulking monsters become merely unfamiliar shadows, thrown by a tree bough. Whispering voices are just the wind. The wild flare of panic is merely a burst of emotion, not a terror spell cast by some evil witch.”

  Meran nodded. “That’s what Cerin would say. And that’s what I mean to do. Confront them with a truth so bright that they won’t dare come near us again.”

  Jilly held up her hand. The discolouration was spreading. It had grown from its pinprick inception, first to the size of a dime, now to that of a silver dollar.

  “What about this?” she asked.

  “There’s always a price for meddling,” Goon agreed. “Sometimes it’s the simple curse of knowledge.”

  “There’s always a price,” Meran agreed.

  Everybody always seemed to know more than she did these days, Jilly thought unhappily.

  “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here,” she told Goon. “Skulking about and following us.”

  Goon smiled. “It seems to me, that you came upon me.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I have my own business in Old City tonight,” he said. “And since we all have the same destination in mind, I thought perhaps you would appreciate the company.”

  Everything was wrong about this, Jilly thought. Goon was never nice to her.

  Goon was never nice to anyone.

  “Yeah, well, you can just—” she began.

  Meran laid a hand on Jilly’s arm. “It’s bad luck to turn away help when it’s freely offered.”

  “But you don’t know what he’s like,” Jilly said.

  “Olaf and I have met before,” Meran said.

  Jilly caught the grimace on Goon’s face at the use of his given name. It made him seem more himself, which, while not exactly comforting, was at least familiar. Then she looked at Meran. She thought of the wind outside the musician’s house driving away the skookin, the mystery that cloaked her, which ran even deeper, perhaps, than that which Goon wore so easily….

  “Sometimes you just have to trust in people,” Meran said, as though reading Jilly’s mind.

  Jilly sighed. She rubbed her itchy palm against her thigh, shifted the drum into a more comfortable position.

  “Okay,” she said. “So what’re we waiting for?”

  * * *

  The few times Jilly had come down to Old City, she’d been cautious, perhaps even a little nervous, but never frightened. Tonight was different. It was always dark in Old City, but the darkness had never seemed so…so watchful before. There were always odd little sounds, but they had never seemed so furtive. Even with her companions—maybe because of them, she thought, thinking mostly of Goon—she felt very much alone in the eerie darkness.

  Goon didn’t appear to need the wobbly light of their flashlights to see his way and though he seemed content enough to simply follow them, Jilly couldn’t shake the feeling that he was actually leading the way. They were soon in a part of the subterranean city that she’d never seen before.

  There was less dust and dirt here. No litter, nor the remains of the skells’ fires. No broken bottles, nor the piles of newspapers and ratty blanketing that served the skells as bedding. The buildings seemed in better repair. The air had a clean, dry smell to it, rather than the close, musty reek of refuse and human waste that it carried closer to the entrance.

  And there were no people.

  From when they’d first stepped through the steel door in Grasso Street station’s east tunnel, she hadn’t seen a baglady or wino or any kind of skell, and that in itself was odd because they were always down here. But there was something sharing the darkness with them. Something watched them, marked their progress, followed with a barely discernible pad of sly footsteps in their wake and on either side.

  The drum seemed warm against the skin of her hand. The blemish on her other palm prickled with itchiness. Her shoulder muscles were stiff with tension.

  “Not far now,” Goon said softly and Jilly suddenly understood what it meant to jump out of one’s skin.

  The beam of her flashlight made a wild arc across the faces of the buildings on either side of her as she started. Her heartbeat jumped into second gear.

  “What do you see?” Meran asked, her voice calm.

  The beam of her flashlight turned towards Goon and he pointed ahead.

  “Turn off your flashlights,” he said.

  Oh sure, Jilly thought. Easy for you to say.

  But she did so a moment after Meran had. The sudden darkness was so abrupt that Jilly thought she’d gone blind. But then she realized that it wasn’t as black as it should be. Looking ahead to where Goon had pointed, she could see a faint glow seeping onto the street ahead of them. It was a little less than a half block away, the source of the light hidden behind the squatting bulk of a half-tumbled down building.

  “What could it…?” Jilly started to say, but then the sounds began, and the rest of her words dried up in her throat.

  It was supposed to be music, she realized after a few moments, but there was no discernible rhythm and while the sounds were blown or rasped or plucked from instruments, they searched in vain for a melody.

  “It begins,” Goon said.

  He took the lead, hurrying them up to the corner of the street.

  “What does?” Jilly wanted to know.

  “The king appears—as he must once a moon. It’s that or lose his throne.”

  Jilly wanted to know what he was talking about—better yet, how he knew what he was talking about—but she didn’t have a chance. The discordant notmusic scraped and squealed to a kind of crescendo. Suddenly they were surrounded by the capering forms of dozens of skookin that bumped them, thin long fingers tugging at their clothing. Jilly shrieked at the first touch. One of them tried to snatch the drum from her grip. She regained control of her nerves at the same time as she pulled the artifact free from the grasping fingers.

  “1789,” she said. “That’s when the Bastille was stormed and the French Revolution began. Uh, 1807, slave trade was abolished in the British Empire. 1776, the Declaration of Independence was signed.”

  The skookin backed away from her, as did the others, hissing and spitting. The not-music continued, but its tones were softened.

  “Let me see,” Jilly went on. “Uh, 1981, the Argentines invade—I can’t keep this up, Meran—the Falklands. 1715…that was the year of the first Jacobite uprising.”

  She’d always been good with historical trivia—having a head for dates—but the more she concentrated on them right now, the further they seemed to slip away. The skookin were regarding her with malevolence, just waiting for her to falter.

  “1978,” she said. “Sandy Denny died, falling down some stairs….”

  She’d got that one from Geordie. The skookin took another step back and she stepped towards them, into the light, her eyes widening with shock. There was a small park there, vegetation dead, trees leafless and skeletal, shadows dan
cing from the light cast by a fire at either end of the open space. And it was teeming with skookin.

  There seemed to be hundreds of the creatures. She could see some of the musicians who were making that awful din—holding their instruments as though they’d never played them before. They were gathered in a semi-circle around a dais made from slabs of pavement and building rubble. Standing on it was the weirdest looking skookin she’d seen yet. He was kind of withered and stood stiffly. His eyes flashed with a dead, cold light. He had the grimmest look about him that she’d seen on any of them.

  There was no way her little bits of history were going to be enough to keep back this crew. She turned to look at her companions. She couldn’t see Goon, but Meran was tugging her flute free from its carrying bag.

  What good was that going to do? Jilly wondered.

  “It’s another kind of truth,” Meran said as she brought the instrument up to her lips.

  The flute’s clear tones echoed breathily along the street, cutting through the jangle of not-music like a glass knife through muddy water. Jilly held her breath. The music was so beautiful. The skookin cowered where they stood. Their cacophonic noisemaking faltered, then fell silent.

  No one moved.

  For long moments, there was just the clear sound of Meran’s flute, breathing a slow plaintive air that echoed and sang down the street, winding from one end of the park to the other.

  Another kind of truth, Jilly remembered Meran saying just before she began to play. That’s exactly what this music was, she realized. A kind of truth.

  The flute playing finally came to an achingly sweet finale and a hush fell in Old City. And then there was movement. Goon stepped from behind Jilly and walked through the still crowd of skookin to the dais where their king stood. He clambered up over the rubble until he was beside the king. He pulled a large clasp knife from the pocket of his coat. As he opened the blade, the skookin king made a jerky motion to get away, but Goon’s knife hand moved too quickly.

  He slashed and cut.

  Now he’s bloody done it, Jilly thought as the skookin king tumbled to the stones. But then she realized that Goon hadn’t cut the king. He’d cut the air above the king. He’d cut the…the realization only confused her more…strings holding him?

  “What…?” she said.

  “Come,” Meran said.

  She tucked her flute under her arm and led Jilly towards the dais.

  “This is your king,” Goon was saying.

  He reached down and pulled the limp form up by the fine-webbed strings that were attached to the king’s arms and shoulders. The king dangled loosely under his strong grip—a broken marionette. A murmur rose from the crowd of skookin—part ugly, part wondering.

  “The king is dead,” Goon said. “He’s been dead for moons. I wondered why Old City was closed to me this past half year, and now I know.”

  There was movement at the far end of the park—a fleeing figure. It had been the king’s councilor, Goon told Jilly and Meran later. Some of the skookin made to chase him, but Goon called them back.

  “Let him go,” he said. “He won’t return. We have other business at hand.”

  Meran had drawn Jilly right up to the foot of the dais and was gently pushing her forward.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “Is he the king now?” Jilly asked.

  Meran smiled and gave her another gentle push.

  Jilly looked up. Goon seemed just like he always did when she saw him at Bramley’s—grumpy and out of sorts. Maybe it’s just his face, she told herself, trying to give herself courage. There’s people who look grumpy no matter how happy they are. But the thought didn’t help contain her shaking much as she slowly made her way up to where Goon stood.

  “You have something of ours,” Goon said.

  His voice was grim. Christy’s story lay all too clearly in Jilly’s head. She swallowed dryly.

  “Uh, I never meant…” she began, then simply handed over the drum.

  Goon took it reverently, then snatched her other hand before she could draw away. Her palm flared with sharp pain—all the skin, from the base of her hand to the ends of her fingers, was black.

  The curse, she thought. It’s going to make my hand fall right off. I’m never going to paint again….

  Goon spat on her palm and the pain died as though it had never been. With wondering eyes, Jilly watched the blackness dry up and begin to flake away. Goon gave her hand a shake and the blemish scattered to fall to the ground. Her hand was completely unmarked.

  “But…the curse,” she said. “The bounty on my head. What about Christy’s story…?”

  “Your curse is knowledge,” Goon said.

  “But…?”

  He turned away to face the crowd, drum in hand. As Jilly made her careful descent back to where Meran was waiting for her, Goon tapped his fingers against the head of the drum. An eerie rhythm started up—a real rhythm. When the skookin musicians began to play, they held their instruments properly and called up a sweet stately music to march across the back of the rhythm. It was a rich tapestry of sound, as different from Meran’s solo flute as sunlight is from twilight, but it held its own power. Its own magic.

  Goon led the playing with the rhythm he called up from the stone drum, led the music as though he’d always led it.

  “He’s really the king, isn’t he?” Jilly whispered to her companion.

  Meran nodded.

  “So then what was he doing working for Bramley?”

  “I don’t know,” Meran replied. “I suppose a king—or a king’s son—can do pretty well what he wants just so long as he comes back here once a moon to fulfill his obligation as ruler.”

  “Do you think he’ll go back to work for Bramley?”

  “I know he will,” Meran replied.

  Jilly looked out at the crowd of skookin. They didn’t seem at all threatening anymore. They just looked like little men—comical, with their tubby bodies and round heads and their little broomstick limbs—but men all the same. She listened to the music, felt its trueness and had to ask Meran why it didn’t hurt them.

  “Because it’s their truth,” Meran replied.

  “But truth’s just truth,” Jilly protested. “Something’s either true or it’s not.”

  Meran just put her arm around Jilly’s shoulder. A touch of a smile came to the corners of her mouth.

  “It’s time we went home,” she said.

  “I got off pretty lightly, didn’t I?” Jilly said as they started back the way they’d come. “I mean, with the curse and all.”

  “Knowledge can be a terrible burden,” Meran replied. “It’s what some believe cast Adam and Eve from Eden.”

  “But that was a good thing, wasn’t it?”

  Meran nodded. “I think so. But it brought pain with it—pain we still feel to this day.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Come on,” Meran said, as Jilly lagged a little to look back at the park.

  Jilly quickened her step, but she carried the scene away with her. Goon and the stone drum. The crowd of skookin. The flickering light of their fires as it cast shadows over the Old City buildings.

  And the music played on.

  * * *

  Professor Dapple had listened patiently to the story he’d been told, managing to keep from interrupting through at least half of the telling. Leaning back in his chair when it was done, he took off his glasses and began to needlessly polish them.

  “It’s going to be very good,” he said finally.

  Christy Riddell grinned from the club chair where he was sitting.

  “But Jilly’s not going to like it,” Bramley went on. “You know how she feels about your stories.”

  “But she’s the one who told me this one,” Christy said.

  Bramley rearranged his features to give the impression that he’d known this all along.

  “Doesn’t seem like much of a curse,” he said, changing tack.

  Christy raised his eyeb
rows. “What? To know that it’s all real? To have to seriously consider every time she hears about some seemingly preposterous thing, that it might very well be true? To have to keep on guard with what she says so that people won’t think she’s gone off the deep end?”

  “Is that how people look at us?” Bramley asked.

  “What do you think?” Christy replied with a laugh.

  Bramley harrumphed. He fidgeted with the papers on his desk, making more of a mess of them, rather than less.

  “But Goon,” he said, finally coming to the heart of what bothered him with what he’d been told. “It’s like some retelling of ‘The King of the Cats,’ isn’t it? Are you really going to put that bit in?”

  Christy nodded. “It’s part of the story.”

  “I can’t see Goon as a king of anything,” Bramley said. “And if he is a king, then what’s he doing still working for me?”

  “Which do you think would be better,” Christy asked. “To be a king below, or a man above?”

  Bramley didn’t have an answer for that.

  Timeskip

  Every time it rains a ghost comes walking.

  He goes up by the stately old houses that line Stanton Street, down Henratty Lane to where it leads into the narrow streets and crowded back alleys of Crowsea, and then back up Stanton again in an unvarying routine. He wears a worn tweed suit—mostly browns and greys with a faint rosy touch of heather. A shapeless cap presses down his brown curls. His features give no true indication of his age, while his eyes are both innocent and wise. His face gleams in the rain, slick and wet as that of a living person. When he reaches the streetlamp in front of the old Hamill estate, he wipes his eyes with a brown hand. Then he fades away.

  Samantha Rey knew it was true because she’d seen him.

  More than once.

  She saw him every time it rained.