Five Odd Honors (23 page)

Brenda had enjoyed her first year on campus. Her preassigned roommate hadn’t been too much of a horror—a bit more of a party girl than Brenda was, but they got on well enough. This year, Brenda was going to room with Shannon, the best of her new college friends. They’d corresponded over the summer via e-mail, with Brenda giving Shannon the highly edited version of her internship.

Lately, she’d talked about the pretend internship so much that it was beginning to seem almost as real as what she’d been through. Only the amulet bracelets—one for Dragon’s Tail, one for Dragon’s Breath—that she wore on each wrist provided a constant reminder of how real it all had been.

Shannon wasn’t in their shared room when Brenda returned after dinner with her folks.

Not quite in the mood to seek company, Brenda put the leftovers from dinner into the little fridge, then set about unpacking her most necessary clothing. She’d just finished stacking her pan ties when she heard a key rattling in the lock.

Turning, Brenda saw Shannon coming in, accompanied by a very tall, carrot-haired, freckled young man. They were giggling and speaking in clumsy Gaelic.

Brenda had met Shannon at a club devoted to things Irish: the Gaelic language, folk dancing, history, literature, and even less serious things like food and (very under the table, since technically only the seniors and the graduate students could legally imbibe alcoholic beverages) drink.

They’d ended up sitting next to each other during a reading from Synge’s
Playboy of the Western World
, stifling giggles since half the people seemed determined to read in what they fancied was an Irish brogue, while the other half stuck to their own—largely Southern accented—modern American English. By the end of the “performance,” although they hadn’t shared a word, they were well on the way to being fast friends.

Neither of them exactly knew what they wanted to major in, and that had helped, too, since they found themselves taking mostly the same required general courses. Then their shared fondness for fantasy fiction—and some science fiction, too—had cemented the bond.

So Brenda wasn’t surprised that Shannon’s male companion looked as Irish as only an Irish American could. Shannon’s crushes always ran that way, and usually lasted until her male companion learned Shannon was as serious about her Irish Catholicism as they wished she was not.

“This is Dermott,” Shannon said with a wave of her hand. “I met him at church this summer and told him all about the club.”

Promising, promising
, Brenda thought, offering Dermott her hand, and seeing his mild look of surprise that Shannon’s friend from the Celtic Culture Club looked not in the least Irish.

“And this,” Shannon said, motioning to someone Brenda hadn’t seen because he was standing behind Dermott, “is a new transfer student. Dr. McGee asked if I could pick him up from the airport. He’s from Ireland.”

Brenda could have guessed this from the combination of “transfer student” and “Dr. McGee” since the latter was the sponsor of the Celtic Culture Club.

The transfer student eased himself into the room around Dermott—who finally remembered to stand to one side.

“My name,” the newcomer said, in a voice touched with just the faintest music of an Irish accent, “is Parnell. You must be Brenda. Shannon’s been telling us all about you.”

Brenda blinked. Parnell was only slightly taller than average height, but something about him made tall, brilliantly colored Dermott seem pale and washed out. Parnell’s medium length curls were a dark blond, but when the sunlight drifting through the window caught his hair, it shone the red-gold of honey. He had a good build, neither thickset nor thin, but definitely athletic. Yet what caught Brenda’s attention were his eyes, large and of a clear leaf green.

“Have I met you before?” she blurted before she could think.

“In your dreams.” Shannon giggled. “I told you. We just picked him up from the airport.”

“In your dreams,” Parnell agreed with a faint smile. He had a very nice mouth. “Lovely phrase. You must have kissed the Blarney stone, Shannon.”

Shannon, who was also fair, with wheat-colored hair she wore in a thick braid, and a curvaceous figure that Brenda had envied until Shannon had confessed how often she had back aches, colored right up to her hairline.

Dermott cut in. “We’re going out for coffee,” he said, reaching out and taking Shannon’s hand with a proprietary air. “And then we’re going to walk around campus and show Parnell where some of the buildings are. Want to come along?”

“Absolutely,” Brenda said, dropping the lid on her suitcase closed. “Let me grab my bag.”

In your dreams . . .

Loyal Wind was concentrating on the footing over a particularly rocky spot when he heard Riprap say in a choked voice, “Tell me I’m not hallucinating, but I see an old man over there, on that lake. He’s gliding over the water. . . .”

Loyal Wind flicked an ear back and heard Riprap fumbling with the binoculars he wore around his neck.

“And he’s balancing on what looks like a crutch—a metal crutch?”

“I see him, too,” Des said, his voice tight with excitement, excitement that was quite merited given that this was the first time they’d seen anyone even vaguely approaching human in all their days of travel. “Powers above and below, could that be who I think it is?”

Flying Claw shifted his weight—Loyal Wind felt the grip of his knees and turned to bring them to where they could both see the lake they had been skirting for the last several days.

“If you mean Li T’ieh Kuai, Li of the Iron Crutch,” Flying Claw said, and although the young man tried to keep his tones laconic, a thrill of emotion colored the words, “yes, that is who I think I see as well.”

“Li of the Iron Crutch,” Des repeated. “One of the Eight Immortals. Is he real here then?”

Horse, Ox, and Ram, along with their various passengers, had moved toward the lake. Now Bent Bamboo said, “If by ‘real’ you mean, are the Eight Immortals said to dwell in the Lands—a long with dragons, ghosts, and various hsien—the answer is yes. If you mean is such an encounter common, not in the least.”

Gentle Smoke’s hissing Snake voice came from where she currently hung about Riprap’s neck.

“My teacher claimed to have seen several of the Immortals once. Han Hsiang Tzu, the flute player, was performing in the marketplace. Everyone was dancing or singing, and Lan Ts’ai Ho had spilled the flowers from his basket onto the pavement and was using the basket to collect coins from the audience.”

“Li of the Iron Crutch,” Riprap said. “I’ll ask later who that is, and why I should be impressed. What I want to know now is do you think we can flag him down and maybe learn something about what happened here? None of the hsien we’ve spoken with have been anything but confused. That looks like one purposeful old man.”

“We can try,” Loyal Wind said, slowing and shrugging his skin to tell Flying Claw he should dismount, “but if Li doesn’t wish to stop, I don’t see what we can do. We don’t have any means of traveling over water.”

Flying Claw swung down, and in a moment Loyal Wind was a man again. He accepted both the binoculars Flying Claw offered him and a pair of loose trousers. Donning the latter, he raised the binoculars and focused in on the distant shape now receding over the waters of the lake.

Riprap was waving a piece of cloth—a bandana, he’d called it—back and forth and bellowing loudly, “Mr. Li! Mr. Li! Please, come back. We’d very much like to talk to you.”

He paused for breath and said, “Or is it Mr. Iron Crutch?”

“No, Li is correct,” Gentle Smoke assured him. “Try again. I think he was turning.”

Riprap resumed his polite call. This time Flying Claw and Loyal Wind joined in. Bent Bamboo added some surprisingly loud calls, given that they came from his monkey chest. Copper Gong bleated.

“Undignified,” she admitted in a pause, “but I think we must catch his curiosity.”

“Well,” Des said with a laugh, “we’re a pretty curious group.”

Nine Ducks had divested herself of her passengers and was in the process of returning to her human form. Des had helped remove the luggage the Ox had carried, and was now digging through his pack. Raising his head, he added his voice to the general clamor.

“Please, Honored Li, we would be able to entertain you. We have a small amount of wine. . . .”

Loyal Wind had the binoculars to his eyes, and saw the wake cut through the waters by the iron crutch change angle and shift direction.

“He’s coming toward us! Good thinking, Des. Do you really have some wine?”

“I hope he likes California merlot,” Des said. “I brought a bottle, well, just in case we needed to bribe someone or get them drunk.”

“Explains why,” Nine Ducks said, straightening her hastily donned shenyi and brushing her hair into order, “your pack was so heavy. Here I thought the weight was the lamp oil and water purification systems and medicines you insisted on hauling along.”

“Li is definitely coming in to shore,” Flying Claw said. “We should prepare.”

He bustled around, spreading one of the blankets from his bedroll. Des was removing a wine bottle and some collapsible drinking glasses from his pack.

“I hope,” he muttered, “one bottle is enough. From what I recall, the Eight Immortals liked their wine.”

Riprap said, “Why is this Li traveling on a crutch—an iron crutch, if I understood what you said a moment ago?”

“He’s crippled,” Copper Gong said, as if that was something any idiot should know. “Cripples use crutches.”

“But not,” Riprap said with heavy patience, “to go surfing. In fact, my usual experience is that metal poles sink—and that an iron crutch would be awfully heavy anyhow.”

“Don’t stress over it,” Des advised. “Worry more about us running out of wine, okay?”

“For now,” Riprap said, glancing to where their guest was about to bring his unlikely vessel to shore. “For now.”

Riprap squared his shoulders and, with Flying Claw and Loyal Wind, headed down to meet their guest. Seen up close, Li proved to be an old man, balding, resoundingly ugly, clad in the casually wrapped robes of a Taoist scholar. “Old” was probably the wrong word for him, for although Li’s skin was wrinkled and his bright eyes set within wreaths of lines, there was an aura about him that defied the weariness and illness associated with age, transforming them into a pure vitality.

“A man made of polished obsidian,” said Li in a voice that was high-pitched,but not in the least effeminate. “An obsidian man who smells like a Dog. A Tiger who walks on two legs, and a half-naked Horse. Indeed, I am glad I decided to accept your invitation. Did I hear a Rooster crow that there was wine?”

“Imported,” said Des, walking forward and offering a small cup, “from a very far land.”

“From a land where Fire transforms,” said Li, “into Earth and from there into Water, Wood, and Metal. Yes. I never thought I would drink such a rare vintage. Truly, this is a wine to be savored.”

Li sipped the wine, leaning on his iron crutch, surveying the group assembled to meet him. All had resumed their human shapes, but even so they were a motley group. Des and Riprap wore the clothing of their homeland. The three women and Bent Bamboo wore shenyi. Loyal Wind, responding to that “half naked” comment, quickly pulled on a rumpled tunic. Flying Claw wore armor.

“A curious party of traveling companions,” said Li, returning the cup to Des with a slight inclination of his head. “Nearly as strange as myself and my fellows, although we have had many more years to cultivate eccentricity.”

He leaned on his crutch and limped with a certain ease that spoke of his familiarity with that form of locomotion. When he came to the blanket Flying Claw had spread, he eased himself onto the ground and raised his hand in anticipation of the cup of wine Des was already handing to him.

“An excellent vintage,” Li said. “Will no one join me?”

Nine Ducks smiled. “I am making tea,” she said, indicating a small spirit stove where, true to her place as a member of the House of Construction, she already had a small kettle heating. “You are welcome to join me.”

“Ah, I will stay with the wine,” Li said. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. I should ask why you wished to talk with me, but truly that would only be a formality.”

“You seem to know something of us,” Des said cautiously, “enough to give some of us one of our names.”