Read Child of a Rainless Year Online
Authors: Jane Lindskold
Child of a Rainless Year (43 page)
“Or the broken rainbow of color?” I added. “I think I see, but we were talking of kaleidoscopes.”
“Yes,” Mikey agreed. “We were. You know how kaleidoscopes work—that they have an interior mirrored chamber.”
I nodded.
“Well, Colette’s obsession with mirrors extended to kaleidoscopes and teleidoscopes as well. That was common knowledge. Many of us knew that she was amassing a collection of them, and that among that collection were pieces that were …”
“Enchanted?”
“Why not? It’s as good a word as any. In any case, created for a specific purpose. That’s why I placed my message to you as I did. It was set to intercept you if you did any mirror scrying, through the kaleidoscope or not.”
“How?”
He waved his pudgy hands. “It’s very technical, and, frankly, you don’t have the vocabulary to understand what I did. Will you accept that I know how to place things at liminal crossroads? I located the road you would need to travel to begin scrying, and set my marker there.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “So if I had tried gazing in a pool of water or an oiled shield or whatever, your note would have reached me?”
“Only if you did it with a conscious knowledge of what you were attempting,” Mikey said. “Idle studying of your face in the mirror would not have done it. Scrying with some sincere belief that such could be done would—and did.”
“Tell me,” I said, “what would you have done if I had tracked you down in some more usual fashion? I had already decided to do so when I, uh, intercepted your message. I had your name, and even a few addresses and phone numbers. It might have taken me a while, but I figure I could have tracked down you or one of the others.”
“Only me,” he said sadly. “I am the sole survivor of your three trustees. We are not an extraordinarily long-lived family, though seventies, and even eighties are not unusual.”
“But what would you have done if I’d phoned you not on the special scrying line?”
“I would have been happy to hear from you, made arrangements to come see you, much as I did, and then tried to get a sense for how much you knew, and how much you could handle knowing. I might even have found a way to see that you came across certain books or articles. Or, if you were obviously uninterested or unable to comprehend such odd concepts, I would have done my best to make sure you were comfortable, and then reported to what, for lack of a better term, I’ll call the ‘Family Council’ that Phineas House might be on the market.”
I had a sneaking suspicion how Mr. Gilhoff, the bookseller, might have acquired some of those books that were so fortuitously useful in guiding Aunt May in her studies, but I didn’t ask. Colette wasn’t the only rebel in Aldo Pinca’s line. I thought that, for all his pudgy body and cheerful demeanor, Mikey Hart might be one, too. There was no need to put him on the spot about what was done and gone. He’d probably simply reply that it had been another of his ways of looking out for my interests.
“We’ve gone off on another tangent,” I observed. “I suppose that’s another form of liminal space, isn’t it?”
“You could see it that way. I prefer to think of it as a sign of active curiosity and a healthy mind. Now, kaleidoscopes. Phineas House did not exactly encourage prying after Colette’s disappearance. It didn’t do anything like drop pictures on us or make the carpets rumple and trip us, but it had a distinct way of making us uncomfortable.
“Moreover, making an inventory of the property wasn’t our job. Therefore, although we did look for the kaleidoscope collection, when we didn’t find it, we didn’t look too hard. I take it you did find it?”
“Hidden in the drawers of my mother’s vanity,” I said.
“Appropriate,” Mikey said. “Kaleidoscopes and teleidoscopes, both.”
“That’s right.”
“And were there any particularly unusual ones?”
I rose and pushed back the kitchen chair, outside the sound of a Spanish-language talk show drifted in from where the painters worked.
“Why don’t you come with me?” I said. “It will be easier if I show you.”
They stript Joseph out of his coat, his coat of many colours.
—Genesis 37:23
“This is an amazing collection,” Mikey said, looking up from his inspection of the kaleidoscopes.
We had lifted the trays from their drawers in the vanity and carried them into my mother’s front parlor. While Mikey systematically inspected each kaleidoscope and teleidoscope, I idly lifted one or another out at random, enjoying the shifting patterns, determinedly
not
trying to see anything but the pretty colors.
not
trying to see anything but the pretty colors.
“As I’m sure you realize,” Mikey said, “these seven are the most remarkable of the lot.”
I liked that he didn’t try to lecture me, and answered easily. “I did notice the symbols on the casing, and lucked into some information in one of Aunt May’s books that helped me realize what they are. They’re an adaptation of the cabalistic seven mirrors of divination, aren’t they?”
“That’s my guess, too,” Mikey said. “I haven’t studied the cabala in any detail, but I have an interest in scrying. In my opinion, this is a particularly lovely system: a different mirror for each day of the week, each made of specific materials, and meant to provide information on a specific type of question.”
“But are they really ensorcelled?”
Mikey shrugged. “Mira, that’s an almost impossible question to answer. Magic—to use a word I’d rather not—is not as simple as technology. Anyone can turn on a radio or flip a light switch. Magic takes training. A violin, for example, is an elaborate construct, but where one person can use it to create lovely music, another will make only scrapes and screeches.”
I lifted one of the kaleidoscopes and rolled the barrel between my hands, listening to the rainfall hiss as the items in the object case shifted against each other.
“So you’re saying that items created for magic are more like violins than radios. The virtue in them is as much in the user as in the item.”
“Precisely,” Mikey said. “As with violins, there are varying degrees of quality. The majority of these kaleidoscopes are the Stradivariuses of their kind, but just as an amateur handed a perfect violin would not become a perfect violinist, so these cannot create visions for someone who lacks both talent and training.”
“I see.” I picked up the rose-colored kaleidoscope. “When I used this and found your message, I certainly wasn’t trained, so I was going on raw talent?”
“That’s right. You mentioned how doing so wore you out so much that you fainted. That’s because you didn’t know what you were doing and, for lack of a better analogy, pulled a muscle.”
“Pulled a muscle? Playing a violin?”
“That was only a comparison,” Mikey said, “and the dangerous thing about comparisons is that they can be taken literally. Let me use a more physical one. Think of the kaleidoscopes as skis.”
“Like for sliding down hill on snow.”
“Right. Again, anybody can strap skis on their feet and slide over the snow, but an amateur is going to fall, pull muscles, and wear himself out, even on the bunny slopes. In contrast, a professional will perform far more ambitious acts and hardly break a sweat. Even a potentially talented skier needs to learn how to balance, how to shift his weight, how to push off right …”
“Do you ski?” I asked, eyeing his soft, flabby body with distrust.
“I do not. I have weak ankles. However, I have spent many hours drinking hot cocoa and watching various family members exert themselves.” Mikey grinned. “Now, do you understand a bit more about the nature of magical items?”
“It sounds to me like they’re not magical at all.”
“Remember Phineas House,” Mikey said. “Tools created to conduct forces sometimes acquire virtues in themselves.”
I thought about it, “Like a favorite paintbrush or whatever will seem to work better for you, even though there’s no particular reason.”
“We’ll leave it there,” Mikey said. “I’m fresh out of clever analogies. As long as you understand that using these marvelous kaleidoscopes and teleidoscopes will not be like turning on a radio, I am content.”
“Okay, I accept that.”
Mikey gestured toward the Cabalistic Seven. “These seven kaleidoscopes were created for specific purposes, and that may make them easier for you to use. Think of skis again.”
“I’d rather not,” I laughed. “I’ve never skied in my life. I think I see where you’re going, though. It’s like paintbrushes. There are different brushes for different purposes, and the differences don’t just have to do with width and length of the bristles. Bristle materials make a huge difference, so does quality, so does the angle at which the brush is trimmed. A long time ago, I was advised to buy the best brushes I could for a specific task because what I’d spend in money, I’d save in effort, clean-up, and even paint.”
“Wonderful!” Mikey said. “I’ve never painted, either, but I’ll have to add that one to my list of examples. Very well. Since these seven kaleidoscopes have been crafted to make certain types of inquires easier to do, in using them, you will save effort. However, you will lose generalities.”
“Generalities?”
“Do you remember card catalogs?” Mikey asked.
“Sure.”
“Well, computer databases are wonderful, but the one thing you lose when doing a computer search are the generalities. The computer takes you to a specific point, whereas in leafing through the card catalog you would see the surrounding entries. Sometimes, at least in my experience, these would be as useful as the one you had intended to find.”
I grinned. “I know exactly what you mean. Especially when I’m researching something nonfiction, I write down the numbers for the topic and then scan the entire shelf, looking for what else I might find. That’s why I don’t like researching something new over the Internet. Even the best search engines can’t match what my own curiosity might find.”
“And that will be the limitations of these kaleidoscopes,” Mikey said. “Let’s see, today is Wednesday, right?”
“Right.” I’d grabbed the appropriate volume of Aunt May’s mythology dictionary on our way up, and looked up the entry for mirrors. “Wednesday is Mercury, crystal, and money. So if we looked into it and inquired after Colette, we’d get nothing.”
“Right,” Mikey said. “Is there one that is meant to help with finding lost objects?”
I scanned the entry. “Saturday. Lost articles and secrets. Let me guess. If we tried it today, we’d get nothing.”
“I’m afraid so. That limitation is one of the prices of precision. What are tomorrow’s and Friday’s?”
“Thursday might be interesting,” I said. “Jupiter, tin, and probable success. Friday probably won’t be much help. It has to do with Venus and love.”
I thought about Domingo, and wondered if I might take a peek on Friday, run a search, so to speak, for my true love. Would that be fair?
“Friday might be more useful than you imagine,” Mikey said. “You might be able to inquire after your father by inquiring after Colette’s love.”
“She had lots of lovers,” I said dismissively, “and there’s no proof she loved my father, just got a child with him. Mikey,” I said, deliberately changing the subject, “you keep saying ‘you.’ Aren’t you going to use the kaleidoscopes? After all, I may have some talent, but I have no training.”
Mikey shook his head. “I could, I suppose, but you are the one who needs to find Colette. I had planned to coach, but I think you would have a better chance of getting good information.”
“That mother-daughter bind you mentioned yesterday?”
“That, and that these are her tools, and this is her house, and many other things that I can’t go into without being confusing. Suffice to say that the probabilities are better if you do the scrying.”
I started to protest, but stopped. Liminal space was supposed to be useful for probability analysis. Had Mikey already made some inquiries? I thought, too, about how Mikey had been able to place his message where it would intercept me. Had Colette—or her abductor—placed barriers against pursuit? Might my relationship to Colette be sufficient to enable me to move those barriers?
Instead of protesting, I nodded. “I accept that, Mikey. However, I’d appreciate some training, if you can give it. Last time I fainted and slept like I was dead for over ten hours. If I’m going to be useful at all, I’d better not pull any more muscles.”
Mikey gave a crisp bob of his head. “That’s wise. Unless you’re interested in inquiring after money …”
“I’m not.”
“Then why don’t we put these away. Keep one kaleidoscope out, one you haven’t looked at much, and that will be it for now.”
I chose a kaleidoscope whose stained-glass barrel held hues ranging from deep teal to a sea foam so pale that the greenish hues were almost lost in the white. Its object case was, appropriately, one of those in which the items within were suspended in a thick liquid. The images here would shift even without my turning the case, but slowly, like dancers in a dream.
The rest of the day drifted by in a fashion that itself seemed rather like a dream. Mikey was right. There simply aren’t words to explain the sensation of drifting between things, riding with that betweeness without forcing it to become something by your use. It’s hard. More than once I concentrated so intently that I solidified a line, a sensation rather like being inside water as it freezes, though not in the least cold.
I grew tired, and ate a late lunch that would have satiated a football player. I napped, and woke up ravenous. Mikey and I continued my training until late afternoon, then he invited me to an early dinner.
“You shouldn’t have to cook, after all of that. Tell me, would Domingo Navidad be interested in joining us? I’d like to get to know him better.”
“We can ask,” I said. “He’s usually out back around this time, watering the garden. The painters usually knock off in late afternoon to give them time to clean up.”
“Let me go ask him,” Mikey said. “You rest.”
I was tired enough to agree, leaning back in the leather chair in the office where we’d been working. When I heard the soft clink of a glass onto the coaster on the desk, I said, “Thank you,” without opening my eyes.
“You’re welcome, Mira,” said a soft, female voice.
I opened my eyes quickly enough to see one of the silent women leaving the room. She used the door, just like any person would. Was that habit or necessity? I didn’t seem to have the energy to worry about an answer.
Dinner, which we had at the Landmark Grill in the Plaza Hotel, did a great job of restoring my energy. Over dinner, Mikey and Domingo carried most of the conversation, discussing home repairs and restoration, mostly. Mikey’s hobby was carpentry, and I enjoyed listening to the two men talk. They did so without the one-upmanship that is so common in man-to-man conversations among near strangers, each feeding the other’s tale with one of his own.
After a while, I started participating, for although I hadn’t done much renovation work until I came to Phineas House, I was a builder in my own way. We chatted through dessert and coffee. Then Domingo, after glancing at me and assuring himself that I was no longer on the verge of collapse, suggested we go for a stroll around the Plaza.
“There are some very interesting buildings there,” Domingo said. “I worked on a few.”
Mikey agreed, though I suspected that a stroll around the Plaza area would be just about his limit. He really was in astonishingly bad shape, but I put that down to living where the weather was cold enough to make Ohio seem tropical. If you didn’t like winter sports, just how much exercise could you get?
Domingo gave his tour-guide spiel much as he had done for me, though with more attention to specific details of structures rather than to local history. I trailed behind, enjoying seeing the buildings again, my gaze scanning the Plaza for a structure that shouldn’t be there.
I found it. The windmill overlaid the gazebo and other structures, complete in every detail, but translucent. Paula Angel sat on the base, swinging her long legs beneath her ruffled skirt. Without saying anything to the two men, I walked over to her, marvelling that as I did so everything became more solid, so that by the time I reached the ghost’s side, the modern Plaza was less substantial than the windmill’s rough wood.
“Hey,” Paula said. “Walking out with a couple guys. Not too bad.”
“Not too bad,” I agreed. “How are you?”
“Making do, making do. Not a hell of a lot changes here, y’know. I drift.”
“Drift on over to my place some time,” I said. “You’ve got to get bored here. I could use some girl talk.”
“Girl talk is about guy talk,” Paula said with a laugh. “You gotta guy you can’t figure out?”
“Something like that,” I admitted, “but mostly I remembered what you said about being bored. You helped me out with what you told me about my mother. I guess I wanted to help you in return.”
“I’ll remember that,” Paula said. “Hey, the fat guy. He looks familiar, but I don’t know why. He been around here before?”
“He has,” I said. “Seems to know you. Calls you Pablita, not Paula, though.”
She narrowed her eyes, her lips curving in a sensuous smile. Then she laughed.
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