Fiction River: Hex in the City (27 page)

I lean toward him, a hand snaking between his legs. “You owe me. I want to collect.”

“Here?”

“Why not. Not much traffic this time of night.”

He jumps out of the Jeep, pulls the top up and secures it. “You sure?” he asks.

But he’s already got me pinned back against the reclined seat, his hands working on the zipper of my jeans.

“I’m sure,” I whisper, wiggling him free of the confines of his own jeans. “One good deed deserves another.”

Introduction to “
Fox and Hound”

Leah Cutter is one of the most gracious people I have ever met, and she has an incredible grasp of spellwork and the Far East. She is a Mistress of Folding magick where one starts with a simple square of paper and finishes with origami. “Fox and Hound” is her latest masterpiece, where the layers of this tale are better perceived with each reading.

Leah writes historic fantasy, with novels set in China, Hungary, and the Yucatan peninsula. She also writes contemporary fantasy, with novels set in Oregon, Louisiana, and Seattle. Her short fiction has appeared in
Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine
as well as many anthologies. She lives in Seattle with the requisite writer's cat and huge library of books. For more stories by this author, visit KnottedRoadPress.com. She writes:

“I wrote, and threw out, three other beginnings to this story. The process felt as though I was circling in, getting closer and closer, until I finally had Gou in the train station with his fare beside him. That theme continues throughout the story as well, circling and circling, as Gou tries to corner his prey.”

Fox and Hound

Leah Cutter

“You need bicycle taxi? Rickshaw?” Gou asked for the ten-thousandth time, trying to catch the eye of yet another tourist pouring off the late afternoon train from Hong Kong. He wore his second best shirt, the one with the fake American brand logo on the front pocket, that made him look more official, as well as his lightest-weight beige slacks, and rubber sandals. It was far too hot to wear jeans, though he had two pairs that he kept pristine and folded up at the noodle shop his mom ran.

Gou wasn’t supposed to be in the West Beijing station, of course. The guards weren’t supposed to let anyone without a ticket or a license into the huge concrete courtyard in the front of the massive station, let alone into the echoing, noisy halls close to the trains.

But Gou paid Shu well, and often, which got him into the station next to the staircase coming up from the trains, where he could get tourists to follow him before they headed to the subway stop. Stretching away from the bottom of the stairs and off into the distance were
li
upon
li
of railway lines going to places Gou had no hope of seeing. Loud speakers with polite, nasal accents announced the times and train numbers to places Gou had only heard about in stories told by his grandmother.

Only a few other bicycle taxi drivers were still waiting at the top of the stairs, mainly old men who needed a fare as badly as Gou, but didn’t speak enough English or wanted to work as hard. Gou’s friends were already gone: Hy with his official green uniform and colorful, laminated maps had snagged an entire group, while Long Yen with his charm and smile had persuaded an American couple to follow him.

“Best ride in town,” Gou assured a western woman with strange blue eyes and brown curls poking around the sides of a wide brimmed hat. “Very smooth, very cheap.” She shook her head and pulled the straps of her huge pack tighter, as if she was afraid Gou would rip it off her back.

Gou rolled his eyes and turned back to the few stragglers. He had to get a fare this afternoon. He needed the money. The platform in the back of his bicycle taxi, where his passengers put their feet, had broken off. He’d needed to buy a new one, and he’d had to pay to get it attached: The welder wouldn’t barter trips with him.

Shu would be there tomorrow, demanding his cut. And Gou couldn’t be short, or he’d lose his access to the train station. He might even be forced to join Hy, and work for a real company, where he’d never make enough money for his dreams. As an independent, if he hustled enough, at least he stood a chance.

Only a couple of straggling tourists remained, and they wouldn’t even look at Gou, these tall white people with their big packs that they carried on both their front and back, as if they were taking all their possessions as well as their children with them.

The other drivers left, but Gou hung on, just for a bit, hoping.

Maybe he could work the northern night market tonight, hauling either drunken tourists or merchants and their goods. But the last time he’d done that, he’d ended up working for a fisherman and his cart had
stank
for a week.

However, he had to get the money somehow.

Gou turned to go and almost walked into an Asian man standing right beside him. “
Duibuqi
,” he said, automatically apologizing.

The man replied in English. “You have a taxi?”

“Bicycle rickshaw,” Gou said with his best customer smile. “Faster than cars and traffic,” he assured the man.

His potential customer wore a crisp, white, short-sleeved shirt, brand new jeans, and Western sandals. He had a sharp nose and chin, like they’d been pinched out of clay. Freckles scattered across his nose, and his hair had been cut short, possibly too short, as it highlighted oversized ears and a broad forehead.

Beside the man, a large black trunk stood, almost waist high, with gold molding on the corners and around the lock.

“Best service in Beijing,” Gou assured the man, reaching for the leather handle on the top of the trunk and tugging.

It didn’t budge.

The man smiled at Gou. “Can you take me to
Huli Hutong
?”

“Of course,” Gou boasted, though he had no idea where that was. If the man had actually pronounced the Mandarin correctly, it would have translated into Fox Lane. It didn’t matter, though. Gou could find anything in this city.

The man laughed. “Very well, then,” he said.

Just like that, the trunk came off the floor. It was heavy, and it didn’t have wheels like most foreign luggage. However, Gou was strong, and he worked to make it look easy to carry. He led the way across the expansive, brown-marble entranceway, weaving around the huge pillars, and out into the soft night air.

The concrete courtyard was still full of people. Gou had heard more than one American tourist compare it to a football field. He glanced behind him, but his fare wasn’t staring with wide-eyed amazement. He’d either been in China for a while, or he’d been here before.

Gou nodded to the boy who watched all the bikes to make sure they didn’t get stolen, past the other peddle cabs where the owners were stretched out, reading or napping, all the way to his own little brown and yellow cab.

His cab wasn’t licensed, but Gou had spray painted numbers on the back of it, to make it look official. The brown seats were filled with rubber he’d scavenged from the side of the road, that his sister had sewn together. They smelled funny sometimes when it was too hot, but they were more comfortable than most of the other seats Gou had tried. The yellow cover that unfurled over the seats was patched, yet it was still mostly waterproof. Gou kept the wheel bearings and the frame oiled and rust free, and the brakes tight.

“You from out of town?” Gou asked as he hoisted the trunk onto one side of the carriage.

“Yes, I’m visiting here from Japan,” the man admitted.

Gou raised his eyebrows at that. China didn’t have the greatest relationship with Japan, and Gou had met very few visitors from there. “Ah,
konichiwa,
” Gou said, bowing his head.

The man replied with a flurry of Japanese.

Gou held up his hands and shook his head. “I only know a few words,” he said. According to his mother, his father had been Japanese, or had come from there. But he hadn’t stuck around; something Gou’s stepfather reminded him of at almost every dinner they ate together.

His mother had insisted that Gou learn a few words in the language, however, Gou hadn’t stuck to it.

“Pity,” the man said, peering closely at Gou. “I would have thought—never mind. You speak good English, though,” he said, settling into his seat.

“Thank you,” Gou said, climbing onto his bike. “I practice. But I need more.” More work. More money. More time. More powerful relations who could smooth his way.

The man laughed. “We all need more,” he said softly.

***

Gou bumped his way across the cracked concrete, up across the sidewalk, and into the bike lane along Fuxing Lu. He automatically started peddling east, going toward the heart of Beijing. It was late enough in the day that many workers rode around him on their black, sturdy bikes. Every time one passed Gou, they rang their bell. Cars filled the road, bumper-to-bumper. Pollution hazed the air across the eight lanes of traffic, and stank of rotten eggs, wood smoke, and burnt oil. Gou had worn his mask when he peddled into the station, but he couldn’t put it on now: He didn’t want to scare the tourist, and maybe not get a good tip.

“First time in Beijing?” Gou called out over his shoulder.

“No, no. I have family here,” the man assured him.

When Gou stopped at Wanfeng Lu, he realized he didn’t know where he was going. “
Huli Hutong
?” he called back as he stood on his pedals to get his bicycle moving again.

“Yes,” the man replied.

Gou didn’t have to look back to know he was being laughed at.

“It’s near
Dai Tong
,” the man called out helpfully.

Gou peddled and thought, rolling out a map of Beijing in his mind.
Dai Tong
neighborhood was south of the city, and not too far from the railroad station, just the next big circle in. It wasn’t a tourist place, so he hadn’t gone there often. But maybe…

“Is it near
Ji lu
?” Gou asked, remembering a small neighborhood near the east corner of
Dai Tong
—Chicken Street, close to a night market that specialized in many chicken dishes, from feet to butts to tongues.

Plus, wouldn’t the foxes want be close to the chickens?

“Very good!” the man called out.

Pleased, Gou peddled faster. Though he didn’t know exactly where he was going, at least he wouldn’t be circling forever. Maybe he could get a fare from the market there, before heading back to the noodle house that his mom ran to sleep.

The light dimmed and night settled in as Gou turned off the main thoroughfare and onto the side streets. Few cars remained here, and they were happy to blast their horns at him, making him jump, or blinding him with their lights. But it was only a few more blocks before he could slip into the smaller hutong streets, where cars weren’t allowed.

Gou didn’t mind driving down a hutong during the day, but he hated it at night: Light came only from a few lanterns hanging outside of house gates, as well as from windows. No overhead lights lit the narrow alleyways. It was impossible to avoid the deep ruts in the road, or the broken stones. He winced every time he heard the board in the passenger cab groan. He didn’t have the money to fix it again.

The smell of chicken and garlic, frying in a wok, floated out to Gou. He hadn’t eaten dinner—and he was never sure if his mom would leave anything for him at the noodle house. He couldn’t afford much, not even with this fare, not with Shu’s bribe due.

Beyond the tall walls that lined the tiny street, Gou heard the occasional radio or TV. They passed a doorway where half a dozen old men sat out on small chairs on the stoop, drinking shots. Two girls in navy blue school uniforms walked slowly down the lane, only stepping to the side when Gou rang his bell.

“Turn here!” the man suddenly called out.

Gou turned immediately. An open gate sprang up before him, with a peaked roof and plain walls. He barely missed the edges, but managed to drive his cab directly through the center.

Hushed air fell on Gou, making him slow down. The street here was even narrower, and the old stone houses were only a few feet apart. Trees grew next to the walls, shading the street. Broken flagstones marred the path.

“Then another right here,” the man said, his quiet voice echoing in the small space.

Gou pulled out of the tight alley into a broader street. It was funny—he couldn’t hear the traffic beyond the walls, not even the motorcycles. And the air smelled sweeter. It didn’t burn his lungs like the badly polluted air of the city usually did.

There were no cars to be seen, not even parked, even though it was wide enough to hold them. Tall, brick fences lined the street, with doors that still glowed brilliant red even in the dark. Old-fashioned lanterns hung outside each. Large, graceful trees rose up to form an arch overhead. Sweet night jasmine bloomed in the gardens. Gou’s tired legs suddenly felt refreshed, as though he could peddle for ten thousand
li
.

“Down at the end of the street,” the man said.