for a while, the rain tracing the arch of her back, but nothing seemed to happen to the tree.
"The first son became a soldier, though whether he would have anyway I could not tell you. He would see Death on the fields, flashing through the battle, towering over the carnage, harsh and serene. Sometimes she would be there at his side, her face set. The soldier loved her, though as close as he came she always held her distance. He would whisper to her over the rattling breath of the dying, lift his bloodied hands to her silent form, but she said nothing."
I did not know if, watching her naked form move across the lawn, I should feel something. I would say she was like a dancer, but she did not move quite like any human. And then I would say like a sculpture, but she had not been birthed from any human mind.
I was fearful more than anything.
Mab stopped suddenly and looked at me. "You will find my things?"
The change in tone and topic was so abrupt that I just stared. The crow shifted uneasily on the top of the clothesline pole.
"Your things?"
"My things and my people." She tilted her head like a child. "My museum. They all went away, but I think they can come back now. You will find them for me?"
"If I can. I don't know where to look."
"They will probably find you, mostly." She started ticking off names on her fingers. "There is the Red Hand, Christopher 57, all of the gripe water, Thirteen Shades and his lovers, and Janie Wringer."
"That's all?"
She shrugged and held up her hand, five fingers outstretched. "All on this hand."
"Why me?"
She shook her head, coming closer, moving like a snag of cloth caught in a breeze. The closer she got the harder she was to see, until she was whispering right in my face. I smelled dirt and dry leaves on her lips. "Then you would understand too much," she was saying. "Then you would know the whole story."
I took a step backward.
"They will mostly find you," she repeated, and then she was gone.
I wrote the names down on a piece of paper and put it on the refrigerator so I would not forget them, and then I promptly forgot them. This was difficult to do because I still had a bird that spoke, and he would perch on the top of the fridge and crane his neck to look down at the list.
"Good list!" he said. "Good things!" His vocal range seemed to have decreased again now that he had explained what he needed to about Dresden and the museum.
"Sure." I mixed equal parts orange juice and cranberry juice against a coming cold.
"Find them!" He cocked his head so I knew it was a question, and I shrugged in response.
"She told me they'd find me."
I was taking Carla to a movie that evening. She was still engaged, and I still had not met her fiancé. The stories about him always seemed to change. Now it appeared he was working on an offshore drilling rig. I did not want to meet him when he came home, if he even existed.
Nor did I want to see Mab again.
I did not get either wish.
"Thirteen Shades lives in the Blur," the god of the garage told me.
"I don't care."
"You should."
The god of the garage -- I could not get him to explain if he was the god of
all
garages or simply the god of my own -- had pulled himself together from a gasoline can, some rags, an old sheet, and gardening tools that still had caked dirt from the summer before. When he spoke, some of the dirt fell from his lips. He smelled of gasoline and mowed grass.
"Why should I care?"
I had stepped into the garage to find something -- the air gauge for my bicycle tires, I think.
The god ticked items off on a hand formed from a bent metal rake.
"People -- and I use the term here loosely -- are using you. The Blur is beginning to leak. Thirteen Shades can help you find the rest of the lost items."
I shook my head. "Mab said they would find me."
The god sighed. He climbed up to an old metal shelf and sat on it like it was a throne. Perhaps it was. One of his eyes was a broken piece of an old bottle; the other was the metal
"The first son became a soldier, though whether he would have anyway I could not tell you. He would see Death on the fields, flashing through the battle, towering over the carnage, harsh and serene. Sometimes she would be there at his side, her face set. The soldier loved her, though as close as he came she always held her distance. He would whisper to her over the rattling breath of the dying, lift his bloodied hands to her silent form, but she said nothing."
I did not know if, watching her naked form move across the lawn, I should feel something. I would say she was like a dancer, but she did not move quite like any human. And then I would say like a sculpture, but she had not been birthed from any human mind.
I was fearful more than anything.
Mab stopped suddenly and looked at me. "You will find my things?"
The change in tone and topic was so abrupt that I just stared. The crow shifted uneasily on the top of the clothesline pole.
"Your things?"
"My things and my people." She tilted her head like a child. "My museum. They all went away, but I think they can come back now. You will find them for me?"
"If I can. I don't know where to look."
"They will probably find you, mostly." She started ticking off names on her fingers. "There is the Red Hand, Christopher 57, all of the gripe water, Thirteen Shades and his lovers, and Janie Wringer."
"That's all?"
She shrugged and held up her hand, five fingers outstretched. "All on this hand."
"Why me?"
She shook her head, coming closer, moving like a snag of cloth caught in a breeze. The closer she got the harder she was to see, until she was whispering right in my face. I smelled dirt and dry leaves on her lips. "Then you would understand too much," she was saying. "Then you would know the whole story."
I took a step backward.
"They will mostly find you," she repeated, and then she was gone.
I wrote the names down on a piece of paper and put it on the refrigerator so I would not forget them, and then I promptly forgot them. This was difficult to do because I still had a bird that spoke, and he would perch on the top of the fridge and crane his neck to look down at the list.
"Good list!" he said. "Good things!" His vocal range seemed to have decreased again now that he had explained what he needed to about Dresden and the museum.
"Sure." I mixed equal parts orange juice and cranberry juice against a coming cold.
"Find them!" He cocked his head so I knew it was a question, and I shrugged in response.
"She told me they'd find me."
I was taking Carla to a movie that evening. She was still engaged, and I still had not met her fiancé. The stories about him always seemed to change. Now it appeared he was working on an offshore drilling rig. I did not want to meet him when he came home, if he even existed.
Nor did I want to see Mab again.
I did not get either wish.
"Thirteen Shades lives in the Blur," the god of the garage told me.
"I don't care."
"You should."
The god of the garage -- I could not get him to explain if he was the god of
all
garages or simply the god of my own -- had pulled himself together from a gasoline can, some rags, an old sheet, and gardening tools that still had caked dirt from the summer before. When he spoke, some of the dirt fell from his lips. He smelled of gasoline and mowed grass.
"Why should I care?"
I had stepped into the garage to find something -- the air gauge for my bicycle tires, I think.
The god ticked items off on a hand formed from a bent metal rake.
"People -- and I use the term here loosely -- are using you. The Blur is beginning to leak. Thirteen Shades can help you find the rest of the lost items."
I shook my head. "Mab said they would find me."
The god sighed. He climbed up to an old metal shelf and sat on it like it was a throne. Perhaps it was. One of his eyes was a broken piece of an old bottle; the other was the metal
Similar Books
