Dust City (8 page)

Between my fingers, the manila feels cool and rough.

“What’s inside?” she asks.

“Letters,” I tell her. “From my father.”

12

DEAR HENRY

SIOBHAN MADE A BED FOR ME OUT OF BLANKETS AND CUSHIONS, HEAPED
on the floor in Gram’s bedroom. But I told her I was too jittery for sleep, so instead I’m loping around outside with Dad’s file rolled up in my pocket. I’m looking for a quiet place to read.

Although it’s late, the main strip of Elvenburg courses with vehicles, but every shop is closed. I stalk off through the neighborhood’s great green archway, dull and blackened by the night. I end up in the only place that makes sense: under the Willow Street Bridge. Off-color trestles ascend from the ground like thick-waisted giants. At the base of each one there’s a lonely lamppost and a slatted bench. I take a seat and flip open the file.

Dear Henry,

You must think I’m a monster. I probably am. I didn’t write this letter to tell you I didn’t do the things they say I did. Because I did do them. And I didn’t write this letter to explain
why. Because I don’t know. I just walked into that cottage and I killed that girl and her grandmother. I tore them apart like paper. I’m a monster. All those years and years of evolution, they don’t matter. When it comes right down to it, I’m still the same wolf I would’ve been a zillion years ago. I’m a beast.

But that’s
me,
Henry, not you. You’re a decent wolf. You don’t have any of that old-time bloodlust in you. They told me about what you did, how you caused that accident. And about where it happened. I think I understand why you did it. Maybe you thought it was a kind of revenge. But I know you’re not bad, Henry. Not like me. That’s all I wanted to say. You’re one of the good ones.

Dad

After he was taken away, I cut off all contact with him. I always thought he did the same with me because he understood I wanted nothing to do with a murderer. Now I find out he was writing to me. Why wouldn’t Doc want me to know about this?

Dear Henry,

It’s been a while. I understand if you don’t want to write back. I understand that. But I can’t say I wasn’t hoping to hear from you. I was. I want to tell you that I started seeing a shrink. He’s a new one. And he’s a wolf this time. So I think he understands me.

They tell me he has a good reputation around town. He
must have, because they gave him his own office. He’s only here part-time, but every time he visits, I feel better. He and I really get along. He’s smart, too. He’s an artist. He paints pictures in his office, if you can believe it. Mostly trees and water and things. He says it helps him concentrate.

Sounds familiar: A smart old psychiatrist who visits part-time and paints pictures in his office. Maybe that’s why Doc never gave me the letters. Maybe treating father and son simultaneously is some sort of conflict of interest.

Life in here isn’t so bad. It has its awful parts, of course, but I guess you don’t want to hear about that. For the most part, since I’m a big guy, the others leave me alone. I guess I’m telling you because I don’t want you to worry. Or maybe you never do. Maybe you hardly think about me at all.

But I was telling you about the shrink. He’s really helped me get a handle on things. I never really talked about what I did, about what happened to me leading up to it, but the more I talk to him, the more I begin to understand. That’s why I need to tell you something, Henry. About what happened before—

“You wanna buy some dust?”

Instinctively, I slap the file closed and spin around. It’s the fox from the alleyway.

“Old Jerry’s got the finest of the fine, pure and certified nixiedust.” He’s staring at my lap, where I had the file open.
How long was he standing there? I was so absorbed I didn’t even smell him. But I do now. He smells awful.

He cocks his head to the side and wrinkles up his face. “Have we met?”

“I told you. I don’t want any.”

Jerry places his two forepaws on the back of the bench and squeezes. “Then what’re you doing here? This is my spot.”

“Yours?”

“I remember you,” he says, pointing at me. “First you say you don’t want anything from Old Jerry, but now here you are. Isn’t that funny?” He leans forward. “Come sit on this here bench round midnight and it means you wanna buy from Old Jerry, see?”

“I just wanted somewhere I could—”

“Old Jerry can get you whatever you need.”

Whatever I need. I think about that, looking up at pillars of the Willow Street Bridge. When I turn back to Old Jerry I can see the hope of a sale sparkling in his eyes. “Okay,” I tell him, “if you can get me anything, then how about this? Bring back
my mother.
Because a long time ago, she was killed right here, right under this bridge. Can your dust do that?”

Jerry shakes his head in a kind of disappointment. “You know,” he says, “if every fairy there ever was came back right this second, and if
every one
of them waved their wands, it wouldn’t do you a lick of good. That’s cuz old-time fairy magic is all about
destiny
, see? Once you’s dead, that’s it. That’s your destiny over and done with. Everybody knows
dust can only work on the
livin’
. There ain’t no magic, old or new, that can do what you’re asking.”

“Then I guess you can’t help me,” I tell him.

Jerry nods. “I guess I can’t.” But instead of wandering away, the old fox tramps around the bench and eases down beside me. “You’re just a pup. You don’t remember what it was like with them fairies coming down. Sure, it was nice, but they never tell you the truth about real dust, now do they?”

“What truth?”

“There’s the good, which they always talk about, and then there’s the bad.” He pauses a moment before explaining. “Ever’body figures the old-time stuff is all milk and honey. That’s cuz nobody looks in the mirror an’ says, ‘Gee, I think I was destined for something far
worse
than this.’ No sir, they all think, ‘I was destined for something
better
.’ But some folks—maybe Jerry his old self, and maybe some big bad wolves like you—maybe folks like us were never destined for something like that. Maybe our destinies have always been in that
other
category. You ever consider that?”

I shake my head.

“That’s why in nearly every fairy story you hear from the old days, it’s always them hominids who got the lion’s share. When’ja ever hear about them fairies waving their wands for us, eh? For the animalia.”

He’s right. In all the fairy stories I’ve ever heard, it’s always the humans on the receiving end. It’s never us.

“The way I see it, maybe this new stuff is for the best.”
Jerry taps a paw over the pockets of his ratty coat. “What I got in here is what you could call democratic magic. Magic you and me both can partake of, y’see? How about it, pup? How’bout a little whiff?”

I tuck the file under my arm. “No, thanks.”

For the first time, Jerry bares his teeth, but as I rise to my full height, his body relaxes. “Damn,” he whistles, swallowed up in my shadow. “You’re big for your age.”

“Runs in the family,” I tell him, and lope off into the shadows. My conversation with Jerry has brought back memories, things I haven’t thought about in a long time.

Once, I knew a real fairy. Just after my mother died, she visited Dad to offer him comfort. At the time, I didn’t realize how strange that was. It was unheard of for a fairy to visit with a poor wolf out in the slums of Darkforest. And although I may not remember my real mother, I do have a few clear recollections about that fairy. Her name was Faelynn, and she’s more real to me than my actual mother.

She always came in without a sound, drifting into my bedroom when she thought I was fast asleep. Once or twice, I padded to the top of the stairs, listening to the voices below me. I could hear them, Faelynn and my father, talking, laughing, clinking their mugs of tea. Faelynn had a voice that crackled like a dying fire. It wasn’t what you expected from someone who was all delicate limbs and gossamer glow.

I remember the profile of her face. The insectlike thinness
of her body. I especially remember her rings. She wore all of them on one hand, her left. All five were set with deep blue gems, the color of an empty sky just before dusk. My whole life, that particular shade of blue has been my favorite color.

Just before the fairies left for good, Faelynn began to sing to me. She drifted into my room when she thought I was asleep. Her moonlike glow warmed the walls until it felt almost like dawn. When she sang, the roughness of her voice vanished. She sang beautifully, and always the same comforting lullaby.

Sleep, little cub,

and quiet your eyes.

Bottle your tears,

and soften your cries.

Dream, little soldier.

I’ll never be far.

I’ll find you, my soldier,

wherever you are.

13

THE NTH DEGREE

I LOPE SOUTH, ALL THE WAY DOWN TO DOCKSIDE. PERIPHERY STREET, THE
road that rims the city’s outer wall, is smooth and silent. I’m looking for a quiet place where I can sit—without being accosted by dust-dealers.

Deeper into the neighborhood, there’s more life. It isn’t long before a shipping truck comes rolling past. The trademarked Nimbus halo sparkles in the moonlight. The air down here is laden with brine and the chemical stench of refineries. When I get to the far side of the street, however, I pick up something else. It’s a mixed-up scent like many things at once. Sunlight and filth; burning hair and melted rubber; still water and old bones. None of it makes sense, and yet it still cuts through all the rest. I’ve never smelled anything like it, and stranger still . . .
it’s moving
.

The scent is coming from down inside a sewer grate. A shadow slithers past. It’s
huge
. Could it be a giant? It seems unlikely. Not even a giant as clueless as Fiona’s gravedigger
would squeeze himself into a sewer. Besides, this isn’t the scent of a giant. I prick up my ears to see if I can tune in its shape. What comes back is just as mixed-up as the scent. The hair all over my body rises to stand on end. Whatever’s lurking below the street, I don’t want to stick around and find out what it is.

I back away from the grate. I’ve suddenly got a rather strong urge to get out of the shadows, to retreat indoors. Farther down the street, I spot an all-night diner. I lope toward it, grateful for its bright windows. With almost every step, I cast a glance over my shoulder. But there’s nothing there.

When I push into the diner, I’m greeted by a sour-faced dwarvish woman. She’s boosted up on a rolling stepladder behind the counter, pouring coffee for a nixie. Without even looking up, the woman calls out. “We don’t serve runners in here.”

I step forward, letting the door shut behind me.

“Didn’t you hear me, sugar?
No runners.”

“I’m not. I’m just a wolf.”

“There’s a difference?”

“I just need a glass of water.”

She points to a sign behind the counter.
Hominids Only
. “There’s a tavern up the way, The Fox and Hound. Probably more your speed.”

“I just passed it. It’s closed.”

“Then you’re out of luck, I guess.”

The nixie in the trench coat ogles me with rheumy eyes. Something dark and gooey leaks from his gills.

“You won’t serve me, but you’ll serve
him?”

The nixie belches. “Watcha mowth, boy. I’s connected. I’s friensh in high playshes. I know
Pa Nixie
hisssself.” He fumbles with his coffee cup. The scalding liquid spills over his webbed fingers. “Ow!”

“See?” says the woman. “You’re upsetting my customers.”

It’s not me who’s upsetting him, that much is clear. The guy’s potbelly is busting through his clothes and the skin’s stretched so taut you can see his innards. Something with writhing tentacles slaps about inside, so he swallows another gulp of coffee. The thing in his belly flounders and squeals, and the nixie lets out another belch, this one even juicier than the last.
Well
, I think,
that’s certainly one way to settle your stomach
.

“Listen,” I say to the woman, “all I’m looking for is a quiet place I can be for a while. I won’t cause any trouble.”

The woman peers out through the window. She shuts her eyes, tightens her lips, and takes a deep breath through her nose. “Fine,” she says at last. “What do I care? I just work here, yeah? It’s the
boss’s
sign, not mine.”

“Thanks.” I come all the way in and find a booth at the back. The nixie watches me keenly then stares daggers at the dwarf behind the counter. A moment later, the woman brings me a hot cup of coffee and a glass of water. “On the house,” she says, “provided you’re outta here quick.”

“Thanks.”

Down the bar, the nixie sneers at me. It’s rare to find one of them out in public. Water nixies: half-man, half-sea serpent, evolved from bottom-feeding angler fish. In the old days, they used their magic to make themselves beautiful, sleek hominids of the sea. But ever since they came ashore to corner the illicit dust trade, they don’t bother with the facade. These days, it’s nothing but sputtering gills, scaly rolls of blubber, and amphibious eyes like a pair of bursting plums. But I’m not here to admire the wildlife.

I flip open the file and pick up where I left off.

That’s why I need to tell you something, Henry. About what happened before I was arrested. As I’m sure you know from the trial, I was never a carpenter. That was a story I made up because you were too young for me to explain what it was I really did. How could I tell you I worked for Skinner, number one bagman for the nixies?

Now, I don’t want to make excuses for what I did. I mean, I’m guilty, just like I ended up pleading in court. But listen, I was only supposed to shake down that old woman, get her to sign over her land. That’s all.

It was Skinner who drove me to the property. Just before he let me out, he slipped me a hit of fairydust. It was a special blend, he told me. He said it would calm my nerves. Since I was pretty nervous, I took it. I’d never roughed up an old lady out in the middle of nowhere before. So I took it. And it did
something to me. I was an animal again. Like a real animal, like a prehistoric wild thing. Next thing I knew I was tearing that poor girl and her grandmother apart.