Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (13 page)

Probably.

But if portals could go
anywhere . . . .

It took several minutes, I guess, for me to stop gasping for
breath. The nose finally went to work. Dead fish and salt—I smelled salt. This
was near a sea . . . close enough to smell the sea. Was this
place somewhere else on Manhattan Island? Was I all the way to China? I watched
the faces of people moving by. Few of them looked lost, or bewildered. Mostly
they had the bustle of merchants, or simply looked tired. I pointedly averted
my eyes from the women. I’d heard sad and terrible things about women who lost
their husbands and had no trade to support their children and themselves. I
felt for them, but this was not the time to offer sympathy or charity.

Everyone, whether dressed in rough clothing for dirty work,
or dressed for selling their wares to people, looked like they knew where they
were going. I looked like a farm boy, so these merchants probably would ignore
me. I had to move, though. I didn’t know how to look like I belonged, so I needed
to hide.

The flow of people moved pretty much in two directions, and
I joined the group heading right. There was not much snow to be seen. Icicles hung
from wood shingled roofs, and dirty snow formed a large pile at the crossway we
approached, but otherwise we plodded through mud and manure. Walkers competed
for space with wagons loaded high with barrels marked as salt or sugar, wine or
ale. One cart had huge sacks perched precariously in a heap, a few seams
bulging with raw wool. That driver was in a hurry and had a temper—he was as
likely to snap his whip near the walkers as near the ears of his horses.

The buildings towered over us, making me uncomfortable. I
felt trapped among so many people, despite a cart path twice the width of any I’d
seen back home. Daylight seemed darker, dirtier, and the place felt very
foreign.

I was listening so hard I’m surprised my ears didn’t cramp
from strain. Most of what I heard was English, either our smoother American
words or the sharper-edged speech from England herself. I recognized French and
German, but otherwise the languages used around me were a mystery. And the
noise! Our monthly market back in Sun-Return was silent in comparison. I looked
frantically for any kind of hint as to where I was, but so far, I saw only
signs for barrel-making—and for selling to agents. I had no idea who “agents”
were.

The signs were in English. That was good.

We walkers passed wood sidewalks rimming water and huge
boats—
ships
, I reminded myself. On
salt water, the big ones were called ships. The masts on those ships rose far
above the crowded buildings. Men with rolling carts filled with fish pushed
their burdens before them, crying their wares.

No one was loading or unloading anything from those ships.
This fact actually made me feel a bit better. I knew that President Madison had
an embargo in place.

The crowd jostled me, but no one did any yelling at me, so I
kept my head down and my feet moving. We reached a cross street with posters
hammered to an upright board.

I snaked toward it, and eventually reached the signboard,
taking hold of it to keep from being pushed on. I gulped a few deep breaths of
air and thinned a tiny little peephole through my mental walls to watch for anyone
unfriendly looking at me.
Lord and Lady,
these people have messy minds
, I thought. The river of thoughts was like a
waterfall of sound.

Then I scrutinized the signboard.

One of the handbills kindly told me that the
SOLSTICE of New Haven, whereof James Edwards
is master, is bound from New York to New Haven. The ship requires two more
crewmen. Healthy, seasoned sailors of good character should arrive at SOLSTICE
in Berth 23 before high tide Thursday next.
The sign looked new—the snow
had not made any of the text puddle from too much cold water.

I was at the port of New York!

My height was suddenly a good thing; I looked around to get
my bearings, and saw brick buildings on several of the corners. Well-dressed
men in their Sunday best entered the buildings, even as others left. The ones
leaving had one of three expressions on their face—pleased, annoyed or
somewhere in-between. Probably something like horse trading going on—

“
Yeah
goin’ to grip that board all day?” said a rough voice behind me.

I dropped my heels and stepped to one side. “My apologies,
sir—I am in sore need of information.”

“
Well,
this is a good place for information,” the man conceded as he tilted his head
to read the posters. His clothes were cut simply but clean, and even mended on
one elbow with a leather patch. “Lost yeah berth?”

“
I’m
supposed to find the house of Dr. Livingston, the place called Windward?” It
was daring, but I had to get away from all these minds and noises if I was
going to yell for instructions or for help. I had a low voice for a woman, and
prayed that these people would see what they expected to see—a young man
getting his bearings in a new port.

The man flicked his gaze to me, his dark brown eyes taking
me in all of a piece. He was maybe my father’s age, in work if not in years,
his face tanned and creased from years of sun and wind. “New here?” His voice
was resonant, and I guessed he could be heard on the windy deck of a boat.

I felt no darkness, no dangerous thoughts hidden even from
himself. “Yes, sir. I am expected at Windward, but we got separated in the mess
down by the fish market.”

“
Aye,
it’s messy,” he agreed, smiling faintly. “Well, no one posts maps down here,
boy. They’re too valuable; someone would walk off with them first thing. Yeah
want to go down to the Broad Way.” Turning, the man pointed a chapped, tanned
hand in a new direction. “Yeah go past Water, Pearl, William, and Nassau, big
streets all of them. Keep an eye peeled for livestock—if they can’t control the
damn pigs and geese, they should not own any, eh? Pearl—Queen Street—has the
crushed oyster shells on the road. Broadway is big, with fine houses, like this
here Wall Street. Broadway is graded, too. Turn this way—” The man pointed all
the way to his right. “And keep going. Past the fancy houses, past the Park Row
gardens and the big green place. Yeah’ll reach the green land that comes to a
point, right before yeah . . . and there yeah lose me.” He
grinned. “I’ve never been farther up the island than that. I think where the
green ends, yeah go left for Broadway, and right on a twist to the dividing
street. But I don’ know for sure. More than that, yeah need to ask again.”

“
Thank
you very much,” I said loudly, trying to make myself heard.

“
I
have a lad about yeah age and size,” was his answer. “I help yeah, and please
God someone will help him sometime.” He leaned forward slightly. “Yeah don’t
walk like a sailor, so I’ll tell yeah this, too. If a couple of burly men start
looking yeah way, and they start yelling about yeah being a British sailor that
jumped ship? Flee! People know yeah can’t be a sailor, yeah walk too straight,
but they may not be strong enough or inclined to fight them off for yeah—they
might get grabbed, too.”

“
New
York tolerates this?” I knew I was gaping like a greenhorn, but I didn’t
remember ever hearing about this.

“
The
watch can’t be everywhere,” was his reply. “And there was President Jefferson’s
first embargo, and then his second embargo—President Madison has his work cut
out for him. Useless, all of it. I smell war in the air.” He straightened, his
gaze flitting over the crowd. “They grab most from merchant ships, the British
fleet does . . . but they’ve snatched a few here. They get hold
of yeah, yeah’ll find yeahself on a boat for England.”

“
The
people expecting me would come after me,” I told him, “but I thank you for your
warning.” I cut things off there, afraid that something in my speech or manner
might make him suspicious.

He nodded once my way, and then with a last poke at the
SOLSTICE manifest, he moved on down the docks.

I have a plan
,
I told myself.
It will change—plans always change—but it
makes me look like I know where I’m going
.
I rested one hand in the pocket sewn into my trousers, scratched my neck like
my brother Josh always did when he was puzzled, and then marched myself down
Wall Street with Shaw’s long stride.

It did occur to me to wonder if that man had reasons to send
me down this street. But the direction made as much sense as any.

The city was . . . how do I explain a city?
It was as if someone smashed together all the buildings on a big farm, some on
top of each other, many built of dark red brick. It looked as if everything
that happened on a farm happened in the city—but not all in one place. The
street by the docks was a pit of mud, although the storefronts had stone or
brick walkways before them. I wondered what would happen if the temperature
dropped suddenly. Did the city grade the street at night? How could they drive
with those deep ruts frozen into the path?

I drank it all in as I walked, still nervous, but aware of a
strange feeling of freedom in this unexpected jaunt. I didn’t have to shorten
my stride, or wait patiently behind folk strolling along. I could slip past
them with a “Pardon” and no one seemed to think anything of it. I wondered if
Marta had ever walked down a city street in broad daylight wearing trousers.

My breath quickened.

It was exhilarating.

Wall Street had some lovely buildings. Some looked like
meeting houses, and others taverns or maybe boarding houses, the smell of
roasted beef and fresh ale wrestling with the heavy scent of fish and blood.
Either a slaughterhouse was close at hand, or something terrible had happened
back in those twisted, narrow streets the man had not bothered to name. The
openings to those dark holes surely had names, but none were posted. Large
paths had their names spelled out on the brick street corners in contrasting
colors of brick.

The pale sunlight added no warmth, but at least I could see to
avoid horse patties. I already could tell I was going to have to brush these
boots a long time to get them clean. Where did they sell all this stock being
herded down the streets? Did the taverns need to buy every day, or did they
have cold attics or cellars? I hoped to see a few of the Dutch homes I’d heard
of, with the stair-stepped roofs that were supposed to look like chains of
quilt blocks. I thought I remembered reading that part of the city had burned
while the British occupied it during the revolution, so a Dutch building might
be hard to find.

I also saw one of the strangest people you ever did hope to
see—he wore clothing as brilliant as the songbirds my mother planted sunflowers
for, his boots had enormous heels, his coat had long tails hanging down past
his knees, and his vest screamed color like a field of wildflowers.

And he had lace on his cuffs and collar! He had spectacles
on a gold stick hanging from his vest, too.

I decided that he was my reward for surviving my visit to
town. Chances were I could spend an entire letter to Idelia writing about that
man.

In truth I should have kept my mind on finding Broadway, and
saved looking around like a visitor for another day. I’d left my thin little
hole open in the back of my mind, and it was a good thing.

Suddenly I was aware of someone’s attention . . .
their complete attention.

That was wrong.

I turned to the right as casually as I could, weaving my way
into a narrower street past workmen unloading carts and high wagons. I stooped
so I could hide behind the row of men unloading sacks of flour, and watched two
sailors step swiftly into the twilight of the back doors of buildings, their
heads swiveling as they scanned the crowd. I decided to remain where I was—the
workers didn’t seem to mind.

I could see that the two burly men pushing their way through
the crowd possessed dark, muddy auras.

So they were ill, or bad people, or controlled by something
magical. I wanted no part of them, whichever was the true answer.

They weren’t stupid—they soon passed the wagon walking the
other way, studying faces as they moved. I let them reach Wall Street, and then
I slunk past the row of servants’ doors.

“
You!
Sailor! Stop! He’s jumped ship!” Someone cried out.

I started weaving through the bustling horde of farmers and
tradesmen, ducking sacks of flour on shoulders and dancing around full barrels
being rolled.
Look for a hole with a
second door
. In this case, I was going to enter from the back and go out
the front.

That sailor cursed but I didn’t look back. I darted past a
drunken man, but someone grabbed at my sleeve. I spun to see dark intent eyes
and a big groping hand. He wore a uniform trimmed with bright colors, and I had
no doubt he was one of the pair following me.

No knife in his hand.

I grabbed for a piece of sky.

No. I couldn’t draw down weather to fight—too many people
could be hurt. Then the drunk crashed into us both, knocking the sailor so hard
that he staggered. I pushed back, tearing off the red wool cuff on my pursuer’s
shirt as the drunk rolled over the fellow and squashed him flat.

“
I’m
terrrribly sooorrry, sor, that I amm, terrrribly soorrry,” the drunk said, his
breath strong enough to light a fire. The sailor cursed and tried to fight off
the man even as the drunk looked my way and winked!

For a moment—just a heartbeat—I saw a flicker of fire in his
eyes and the faint image of burning antlers upon his head.

Then I forced my way through the crowd, heading into the
nearest open doorway.

Dark, smoky, loud, smelly—
how do people live like this?