Root (19 page)

“
So we save a soul now and then. Why
not?” said Lille. “It’s not like your silly little burg is getting
overpopulated.”

“
He freed himself … by
himself!
… from a pod,”
said Karla. “He can … already … he can Weave.”

“
Pfft. Finding one’s way out a sack
does not a Weaver make. Any kitten can do that. This one can’t even
dress himself properly. Look at him! His kilt has no
sporran.”

“
He is still learning,” said Karla.
“But he is already good. Very good.”

“
No Luther, this boy has real
skills,” said Bern. “He’s a natural.”

“
Make something glow,” whispered
Lille. “Wait till he sees your talent for lighting.”

Luther swallowed, making his bulging Adam’s
apple bob. “Show me. Weave me something boy. Anything. I don’t care
what. A pair of mittens. A sock. Is that too much to
ask?”

Karla looked at me and nodded, her expression
grave but confident. “Go ahead. Show him what you can
do.”

Jitters overcame me. My brain
froze.

“
But … there’s nothing to weave
here,” I said. “No roots. All this stuff … is real.”

Luther snickered.

“
No James,” said Bern. “Everything
in root is made of string. Even our flesh. On every scale
imaginable, all is made of thread.”

“
You can take anything … and change
it,” said Lille. “True, some things are harder to budge, but Luther
hasn’t locked everything down, I don’t think. The more natural
things should be—”

“
Don’t help him!” said Luther. “Let
him figure it out on his own.” He stomped his insect feet and they
clicked and clattered against the cobbles.

“
I need time,” I said. “I don’t like
being put on the spot.”

“
Stage fright?” said
Luther.

“
Look closer, James,” whispered
Karla. “Look and you can see the fibers. And then you will
know.”

I stooped and picked up a loose stone that had
rested by the leg of one of the benches, next to Bern’s scuffed
brown shoe.

“
Remember what I told you … about
touching,” said Karla.

“
Leave the Weaver boy to his own
Weaving, please” said Luther, arching his wings, swinging his tail.
I couldn’t take my eyes off his stinger.

I wrapped my hands around the stone, feeling
every curve and groove. I slid my thumbnail across it and it
ratcheted across some fine striations. I held the stone before my
face. I could see fibers now, hardly thicker than the grooves on a
thumb print.

I closed my eyes and tried to conjure an image
of something else about the size of that stone. My mind drifted to
that box of my mom’s old knick-knacks sitting in the back of Dad’s
truck. She had all kinds of crap, souvenir mugs, wooden
carvings.

When I was little she used to keep them locked
up in a cabinet to keep them away from my curious and destructive
little fingers. I must have spent hours staring at those things
behind that glass.

I pressed my fingers into the stone and sent
myself back to those days, at the old apartment in Cleveland, with
Dad in the living room, reading his Sports Illustrated and mom with
a pot of corn chowder on the stove.

The stone softened and then collapsed, turning
into a repulsive ball of writhing, wiry larvae-like creatures. I
almost dropped them on the plaza.

“
Keep hold! Don’t let go,” said
Karla.

The larvae shrank as they shifted and then
stiffened. A new, slender and elongated shape asserted itself as
the surface went from bristly to fuzzy to slick. It hardened and
froze into a something cool and glossy.

“
Okay, that’s enough,” said Luther.
“Let’s see what wonders you have wrought to that stone.”

I opened my hand. Karla gasped. Bern and Lille
started clapping.

A perfect replica of Mom’s glass giraffe
slipped from my trembling fingers and shattered against the
pavement.

***

Karla cleared some of her furniture away and
dragged a great big futon to the center of her chamber. I sat in a
chair and sipped on a cup of her strange colorless tea.

“
Did you see Luther’s face?” she
said, beaming. “He was not expecting. I was not expecting … none of
us were.”

“
No idea how I did it. It just
happened.”

“
No, it did not just happen. You
made it happen. You are already a very good Weaver. It is
amazing.”

She tossed some pillows onto the futon and
made it up with some gauzy blankets.

“
There,” she said. “For
us.”

I choked on my tea and sputtered. “Excuse
me?”

“
What’s wrong? Is big enough for
two, no?”

“
Um … sure … but—“

“
Is for when we get sleepy. You
don’t think I am expecting the hanky-panky do you? What kind of
slot do you think I am?”

“
Slut,” I said.

“
What?”

“
The word is slut … and no … I don’t
think … I just—”

“
Get off it, huh?” She plopped down
on the bed. “I am tired. I plan to sleep. I am just suggesting that
you should rest too. Even your soul gets tire. Our conscious cannot
go twenty-four hours, all the time.”

I sat scrunched on the chair, tucking the hem
of my kilt, nerves thrumming.

“
I’m not tired,” I said. “Not in the
least.”

“
Well, I
am
tired. Very tired. So what will
you do, sit and watch me sleep?”

“
Sure. I’ll be your guard … your
night watchman.”

She pulled off her moccasins and slipped under
the covers. “You know, that sounds nice. Someone to watch over me.
Like the song.”

“
Don’t know that one,” I
said.

I saw her staring straight up. I followed her
eyes to the stained glass dove that topped her dome.

“
I like your little bird window. Did
you make it yourself?”

“
Thank you, yes,” she said. “But it
is not my design. I copy it from Vaticano.”

“
The Vatican?”

“
San Pietro.”

Distant rumbles sent vibrations rippling
through the walls.

“
Christ, that’s a big one,” I said.
“Do Reapers ever sleep?”

“
Eh … that is a good question. I
don’t know. I don’t want to know. I never go where they
stay.”

“
Do you ever worry … about getting
Reaped?”

“
Nah,” she said. “I am a Weaver.
They never Reap us.”

“
Really? Why not?”

“
They don’t dare. They are not
stupid. They know Luther can turn them into a pile of worms. They
are scared of us.”

“
Reapers … scared?”

“
I mean, I think so. I hope so. They
don’t chase us. Only the pods. They like the fresh meat. Even you …
maybe … you are spoiled to them now. Shall we try? You go stand in
the tunnel and see if they eat you?”

“
Real funny,” I said. “Why don’t you
go first?”

“
I am not scare of them. I respect
them, but I am not scare. And you should not be, either. They are
just animals.” She laid her head back and closed her eyes.
“Especially not you. I think you are already a powerful
Weaver.”

“
Nah. I’m just James Moody. Never
been anything special. Never will be.”

“
Shush. Save your whining for the
other side. Now we are here in Root. All the rules have changed.”
She yawned and sighed. “I am very sleepy. Is okay if I make the
light lower?”

“
Um … sure.”

She raised her hand and the ceiling darkened
as if the implied sun behind the window with the dove had slipped
behind a thick cloud.

“
Pretty nifty … you
Weavers.”

“
Is nothing. You can do this and
more, I am sure.”

Her head sank heavy onto her pillow and her
breath softened into a gentle wheeze. I pulled the covers up over
her shoulders and went back to the chair. The chair legs scraped
harshly against the floor.

“
James? Are you still here?” She
spoke without opening her eyes.

“
Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake
you.”

“
No. It’s okay. I’m just glad … you
are still here … to watch over me.”

“
Not a problem.”

She drifted off again and right then I
realized that this—right here—was where I wanted to be. I never
wanted to go back to that broken truck and that drug deal gone bad.
But as soon as that feeling hit me, my fingers started to tingle. I
was afraid to look at them, but I did, and those translucent spots
again blotched my skin.

“
Oh Christ! Karla! It’s happening
again!”

“
What is happening?” she said,
sleepily.

“
I’m falling apart.”

She propped herself up on her elbows and
looked up at me.

“
Oh!” She looked alarmed at first,
but then her face softened and she smiled. “But this is a good
thing. It means you still have hope. It is better not to be here.
When you are here so short, it means you find a way to make your
life on the other side tolerable.”

“
I don’t want to go! Can’t you make
it stop?”

“
No,” she said. “I am sorry, but
that is beyond any Weaving.”

“
Tell me! Where can I find you … on
the other side?”

“
Find me? Forget about it. We
Weavers are a sorry bunch on the other side. You do not want to
become like us.”

“
I want to see you again. Will
I?”

She sighed and gave me a sad look. “Probably.
Though I wish not, for your sake.”

The tingles in my hand spread to the rest of
my body. Something cold splatted against my face and seeped into my
clothes. I held up my arm and could see tall grass waving through
the emptiness outlining what had been my elbow. My flesh became a
window to the other side.

“
Ciao James. It was nice to see
you.”

“
But—”

Chapter 19: Land of the
Cleves

My senses snapped and sizzled back into place.
I lay inert, on a slope, staring up at a dense and swirly
cloudscape, its underside brushed by the sodium glow of a thousand
street lamps, its gaps backlit by the approach of dawn.

Lightning stitched the horizon. Black
knobs—funnel clouds—jutted down like judging fingers. A cacophony
of grumbles rebounded across the fields and hills. I pictured
legions of Reapers advancing across the landscape.

A beam panned the overpass like a search light
and a truck whined past. Reality, in a dose pure and unadulterated,
struck me cold and hard. The webs clogging my brain blew
away.

I rolled onto my knees, all queasy and
disoriented. A blast of wind mussed my hair. Great gobs of rain
splatted against my face.

I got up and plodded through the sopping
weeds, fighting the wind, my jeans collecting burrs and
hitchhikers. Marble-sized hail pelted and stung. A lightning bolt
cracked into the low hills across the highway, not an instant of
lag between flash and thunder.

“
Go ahead! Fry my ass!” I displayed
both middle fingers to the sky. “See if I care!”

I crossed the overpass and spotted my truck
still stranded on the shoulder, illuminated by the occasional
passing headlight. I felt buoyed to see it, though I’m not sure
why. I wasn’t going anywhere without that radiator hose.

Still, it might be nice to go down and curl up
in the cab. At least it would be dry inside. I could towel off,
scrounge a pack of chewing gum or even a Slim Jim, from the deepest
recesses of the glove compartment, something to calm the pangs
cramping my stomach.

I had at least one bag of clothes protected
under plastic. My books, though, had only cardboard between them
and the elements.

No biggie. I was getting used to shedding
possessions. With every loss, I had a few less things to worry
about.

The glow of my watch showed me it was a little
after five a.m.—two hours before the garage opened up. What the
heck? I supposed I might as well take up the owner’s offer to call
in that parts order and come and tow me to his shop. I was going to
be late getting to Cleveland now, no matter what.

Jared had said his bosses had zero tolerance
for lateness. What would they do, would they whip me once for every
minute I was tardy? Fine me? Unleash their pit bulls? So why should
I bother?

It made me think I might be better off taking
whatever I could carry from the truck and walking away from
everything. I could get on a bus and go to California, or maybe
Canada. Somewhere tucked away in all my stuff was a valid
passport.

Problem was, that truck was linked to
me—perhaps criminally. And eventually, some cop would find the
booty hidden under that liner and track me down. I might be better
off drenching it all in gas and torching it.