The Deavys (12 page)

“Now what would a quintet of such curious aspect as yourselves want with such as me?” His fingers strummed lightly over the strings of the banjo, and this time they seemed to quiver with a special intensity, sending out vibrations not all of which lay within the realm of human ken.

“You are Mr. Everywhere.” The way Amber said it, softly and with hope, made it sound like something other than an accusation.

The stocky player chuckled. “Well, I don't know about everywhere, but I'm here, anyway. Everybody has to be somewhere, don't they?” He plucked out a tune. Simwan thought he recognized a paean to Ramses II, usually strummed on a lyre. “Got a request? Want to hear something special?”

“We need some information,” he told the cross-legged figure. “Our mother is in trouble and our uncle suggested we query you. He said that if we wanted to find something anywhere in the city, you were the one to ask.”

“Did he now? Your uncle must be a person of a certain discernment.”

“He is,” N/Ice put in, “even if he is dead.”

“The dead are full of knowing.” The player squinted at her, straining to see better. “My goodness—you're not all there, are you, my dear?”

“You know how it is.” N/Ice pushed at her hair.

“I don't know about this ‘Mr. Everywhere' stuff you've been told. I'm just a simple busker. I sit here and play my band of Jo, trying to eke out a living.”

“If everyone knew who you really were, you'd eke out a living,” Simwan countered. “You're Mr. Everywhere, and as such, you can answer our question.” He tried to stand a little taller. “In the name of the eternal internal, we ask that you do so.”

The eyes that met his own were in no ways wise or rheumy now. “You're pretty sure of yourself, sonny. If I'm who you say I am, then I could be somewhere else right now. I might not be here at all. How then could there be any answer to your question?” As Simwan stared, the figure before him began to fade.

The leash was yanked out of his hand as Pithfwid leaped. Landing on the banjo player's right knee, the cat dug in with the claws on all four feet. Electricity climbed his tail as if it were a miniature Tesla generator, to flicker off and vanish into space. For a fearful instant, Pithfwid started to fade also. Then the cat solidified, his claws clinging tightly to reality, compelling the banjo player to hang with him. Frowning, the forcibly restrained Mr. Everywhere raised a hand to strike the cat.

Pithfwid's eyes flashed with inner fire as he regarded the man whose knee he was grasping. “I wouldn't do that if I were you. Better to stick around awhile.”

“It's a rare day when I encounter music lovers so persistent. All right then. Present your query. But be quick about it.” He indicated the open instrument case. “I'm not making any money squatting here yakking with you.”

Pulling out his wallet, Simwan let fall another blank bill. By the time it came to rest in the yawning black case, it had morphed into a twenty. The player's eyes glittered.

“Well now, that's a sight more welcome than even a well-worded compliment. Your question?” He glanced at the cat still fastened to his knee. “And if you wouldn't mind letting up a mite with that grip, kitty, as I believe you are beginning to draw blood?” Pithfwid responded by relaxing, but not completely releasing, his grasp.

“We're looking for something,” Amber informed him impatiently.

“What is it you're looking for, girl-on-the-cusp?”

“It's the Truth, it's in a bottle,” Rose told him, “and it is intimately tied to our family. Especially to our mother. It was taken by a resident of this city who is called the Crub.”

At the mention of the name, the man's now perfectly clear eyes went wide. His mouth opened and the shock on his face was palpable. Around the Deavys the light grew dim and yellowed, as if the power to the station, or perhaps the world, had been suddenly interrupted. The train tracks on their right, the platform opposite, the commuters waiting behind them—all faded from view without quite entirely disappearing. While the banjo remained unaltered, its owner expanded and diffused, until like a giant ghost he occupied the entire volume of the tunnel except for the place where his questioners were standing. Finding himself suddenly clinging to not much more than air, Pithfwid dropped ten inches to the ground.

An obviously frightened Mr. Everywhere now really
was
everywhere, except for the small space where they were.

As for the rest of the world, it was gone.

X

For Bubastis's sake, unseethe thyself!” Pithfwid snapped irritably, looking up at the now gigantic—if diffuse—head of the banjo player where it hovered near the ceiling. “Get a hold of yourself, or I'll have to do so again. And if you leave it up to me, it won't be pretty. I'll draw more than blood this time.”

Like a balloon rapidly losing air, Mr. Everywhere collapsed and condensed. As he returned to the size, shape, and density of a human, the light around the Deavys brightened and they once more could view their surroundings clearly. None of the waiting commuters had reacted to what had happened because it had happened outside their ordinary realm of perception. They stood still, isolated, and indifferent as ever, engrossed in their music players, their newspapers, their tablets, and their cell phones.

But the banjo player was breathing hard. “You're telling me that you're looking for the Crub?
Intentionally?
”

N/Ice nodded. “We promised our local druggist, Mr. Gemimmel, that we'd get the Truth back. He was just looking after it for our family, and he feels terrible about what's happened. We have to, so the people in our town will realize what's going on with a proposed development, and feel the presence of the Truth in their lives, and vote to stop it.” She dropped her eyes to the pavement. “And so that our mom will get better and be able to get out of the hospital.”

“Isn't there something else you can use instead? A right proper enchantment, maybe, or a powder, or a dead serpent's tears?”

Rose shook her head resolutely. “Nope. It's got to be the Truth.”

“And the Crub pilfered it,” Amber added.

“But—you're just children.” On the strings of his instrument, Mr. Everywhere plucked out a sad mad wail of a tune that hailed from the Red Cliffs of Mongolia. “Children against the Crub,” he said and shook his head dolefully.

“We're not
just
children,” Simwan informed him firmly. “We're
Deavys
.”

“Ah-hmm,” considered the musician.

“We're not asking you to come with us,” Pithfwid murmured cajolingly. “Just to give us some directions. We'll deal with this Crub by ourselves.”

The man looked up from where he was once again seated with his back against the vacant concession stand. “Will you now? I suppose it's not for me to say. But the Crub …” His voice trailed off. “If I help you, you must swear by all the ancient laws of Mesopotamia that I am not to be held responsible for the consequences. I have my morality to worry about, if not my mortality.”

They promptly swore as requested.

When the banjo player began to sing, Simwan realized it was not surprising that he should give them instructions in song. It was his manner of communicating best, without attracting the unwanted attention of anything that might be watching, or listening. To further confuse any possible spies, Mr. Everywhere couched his directions in the form of a most taut tautology.

“Oh, it's wet but it's dry, and as bold as the sky

But the place that you seek is quite dark.

There's no life but no death, just the bilious breath

Of some creatures as slick as the snark.

You've got to go careful, you've got to go quick

You need to be cautious, and wield a big stick.

Not the gods, not the wizards, not even dead Teddy

Will be able to help you, because it's so veddy

Veddy dangerous where you're going, where the BBDT is lowing

As it lies in wait for whatever comes by

In that place where the earth and the sky go to die.”

Following the conclusion of this euphonious ditty, the coubet caucused, Simwan considered, and Pithfwid committed the portentous verse to memory, at which point Rose turned and said to the somber singer, “That's evocative, and almost pretty, and more than a little bit scary—but it's not real specific.”

“Oh well then,” responded Mr. Everywhere amiably as he set his banjo down on his lap, “alternatively, you can take any of the lines going uptown, and get off at Central Park South.” He indicted the stairway they had used to cross over to his side. “You'll have to go back to get a northbound train.”

“Okay,” Simwan noted. “Central Park South. Then what?”

The banjo player's shoulders rose and fell. “I dunno. All I know for sure is that the park is the only place where the Crub is known to have been seen—by those who have lived to tell of the sighting. Maybe you can find someone there who can give you more specific directions.” Picking up his instrument, he slung it once more across his lap and prepared to play.

“I don't understand.” Amber was no less confused and disappointed than her siblings. “If you're ‘Mr. Everywhere,' then shouldn't you have been to the place where the Crub abides, too?”

A smile beamed up at her through the thicket of chin whiskers. “Even Mr. Everywhere can't be everywhere at once, or even at a fraction of once. And the Crub's lair is one where I don't care to go. So there.”

“What's the ‘BBDT'?” Rose asked curiously, remembering his song.

Abruptly, the light on the platform grew dim. For a second time, the other waiting passengers seemed to fade from view. Reality blurred around the Deavys, as if they were suddenly immersed not in air but in oil. Shapes appeared, swooping and soaring at the farthest range of their vision, as if eager to come closer. Mr. Everywhere looked around apprehensively. When nothing drew near, he leaned forward slightly. There was an undertone to his voice they had not heard before, and it had nothing to do with music. It was as if the itinerant banjo picker was suddenly channeling a voice from the past intent on dispensing the wisdom of the ages.

“The Big Bad Dark Thing lives away from the blue sky, away from the warmth of the sun. Laughter and happiness are its enemies, misery and despair its favored company. It sucks up the light of innocence and crushes small the hopes of young and old alike, squeezing them into little round black balls of ugliness it can then swallow easily, but with no delight. It can't be killed, it can't be swayed, it can't be stopped. It's attracted to bad things done, so it might well be after this stolen Truth itself.” Eyes that were now fully alert darted from girl to boy to girl to cat to girl. “Beware, take care. You might not be alone in your search for this taken Truth. You might be having some unwelcome competition for it.”

“If this whatever-it-is is also after the Truth, won't it also have to find a way to take it away from the Crub?” N/Ice had lowered her own voice without quite being certain why she had done so.

“If something it has in its possession has drawn the Big Bad Dark Thing to it, then more likely the Crub will be too busy trying to save itself to worry about a little thing like the Truth. Not even the Crub can stand against the BBDT.” So saying, he cradled his banjo closer to him, much as a father might cuddle a son, and began to play again. The light on the platform brightened, the outlines of the other travelers again grew distinct, and the sounds of feet shuffling on concrete and the muted clash of competing music players were once more sharp and clear all around them. The things that had been swimming at the range of their vision diminished to nonexistence.

Despite their best efforts, the Deavy brood could not get him to stop playing long enough to respond to their additional queries. Other travelers began to pass by now, occasionally dropping a coin or three into the open instrument case. One well-dressed man spotted the coinage of Midas that Rose had tossed in and tried to swap it for a quarter, only to draw his fingers back as if bitten. For a moment he looked as if he was going to say something. Then he thought better of it and continued on his way, muttering under his breath. Maybe it was the accusatory stare of the unblinking Deavys that dissuaded him. Or maybe it was the fact that, despite the coin having no rough edges, the index finger of his grabby right hand was bleeding slightly.

Simwan tried one more time to entice the musician to respond to them, but by now Mr. Everywhere would not even meet his eyes. His body was still present, but it was as if the rest of him had gone elsewhere, if not everywhere. His efforts defeated, Simwan turned to his sisters.

“I guess we're going to Central Park.”

The girls were not entirely disappointed. The park was on their list of things to see while they were in New York. This way they could see it while they were hunting for the Crub, and recovering the Truth, and saving their mother.

Crossing under and over and up again, they arrived just in time to catch the next northbound train. The girls insisted on riding in the lead car. From there they could look out its front window and watch the gloriously bright multicolored signal lights come racing toward the train. Simwan was content to surrender his place to them, choosing to relax on a seat with Pithfwid curled up in his lap, listening to the rattle and rumble of the train as it sped along its track.

It being the middle of the morning on a work day, the train was far from crowded. Most of the passengers had gravitated toward the middle cars, which would save them a few steps to the street once they reached their respective stops. The only other occupant of the front car was a fat man in a heavy twill overcoat and matching hat. He sat near the back of the car reading the
Times
. The dog whose leash the man kept wrapped around his right hand was a plug of a pug: short, tenacious, curious, flat-faced, and bright-eyed. It barked twice in Pithfwid's direction until its owner absently shushed it.

Near Simwan and Pithfwid, the Deavy coubet was laughing and gesturing delightedly as signal light after signal light came rushing toward them, only to sweep past in a blur of green or yellow. Reds were also visible, but off to right or left, signifying tracks that were closed for maintenance or other purposes. From time to time the train stopped to take on or disembark passengers. The front car remained unpopular, which suited Simwan fine.

“Now
that's
different.” Rose practically had her nose pressed up against the thick pane of safety glass. Her warm breath condensed against the window, a puff of life. Amber crowded close on one side of her, N/Ice on the other.

“I see it,” confirmed Amber. “There are two red lights together, but they look like they're right in front of us.”

“They probably are right in front of us,” opined N/Ice, “and we're going to go around a curve and miss them.”

But they didn't go around a curve. The twin red lights drew closer and closer, until it seemed they were going to smash into the front of the train. The faint echo of mild cursing could be heard coming from the driver's insulated compartment: a security-sealed, windowless alcove immediately to the right of the girls and their window. Then the twin lights shot on past, on the left side of the train, and the way ahead showed normal again. That is, it did until the red lights reappeared. They were quite large: much larger than the usual track signaling lights.

And this time they were not in front of the train, but racing along parallel to it, on its left side.

Something struck the train with a solid
boom
. In the cars behind them, Simwan could hear people scream and curse. Looking back through the window located at the rear of the front car and through to the one next in line, he saw people scrambling to regain their seats. Since the train didn't stop, they assumed that the jolting episode was over and done with, its unknown cause behind them now. To an individual, they were more angry than frightened. The only exception was the heavyset man sitting in the rear of the front car. He was gawking out a left-side window as if paralyzed. His pet pug had jumped up on the hard plastic bench seat. Whimpering piteously, it was trying to force its way between the seat and its master's back.

A hiss came from Pithfwid. Hair bottled, the cat had leaped up to stand on the bench and glare out the window. Spinning around on the seat, Simwan found himself looking directly at the two bright red lights that continued to parallel the train. Except they weren't lights.

They were eyes.

Big now, big as bus wheels, bright fiery red with cup-size inky black pupils, they glowered back at him, full of malevolent intelligence. They were only the highlights of a nightmare head that was the front end of a garish, cylindrical, segmented body a hundred feet long. From each segment thrust a pair of short, pointed, shiny black legs that moved so fast they were little more than a blur. Working in tandem, dozens and dozens of them provided the means that allowed the segmented atrocity to keep pace with the train.

Simwan flinched back as for a second time the monster slammed sideways into the car. More screams from the other cars, accompanied by loud demands for the driver to do something. Emergency stop buttons were pushed, to no avail. Connections between the other cars and the driver's compartment had been damaged. Within that cubicle of isolation the driver frantically studied the readouts on his console and struggled to decide what to do next. Her instruments showed nothing amiss. According to them the train was racing along nicely on its track at its proper, predesignated speed. There was nothing to show that twice now it had nearly been knocked off its rails. External cameras indicated quite clearly that it was alone in the tunnel. Apart from the two inexplicable jolts, all was as it should be. Accordingly, she saw no reason to slow down, much less brake to an emergency stop and back up the entire line all the way to the tip of the island.

It wasn't the driver's fault, Simwan knew. She was Ord and so was her equipment. Neither could detect the gigantic, frothing, centipedelike thing that was hurtling up the tunnel alongside the train, nor could the other passengers. The exception was the poor retired gentleman who had the misfortune to be seated in the same car as the Deavy brood, and who involuntarily and greatly to his distress found himself partaking of their perception.