Wizard of the Pigeons (21 page)

‘I don't know,' Wizard replied foolishly.

Rasputin danced away in disgust. ‘So you got a wizard, Cassie. You got an I-Don't-Know Wizard. What the hell good is that kind? What does he do?'

‘He feeds the pigeons,' Cassie retorted. ‘People know they can talk to him, and he listens to them. The Truth comes out of him. And sometimes he Knows. Isn't that enough?'

‘What do you do?' Wizard, made bold by Cassie's defence of him, dared to ask.

‘I dance!' Rasputin retorted loftily. ‘And that's enough, the way I dance. While I dance, I keep the bogey-man away. You got a bogey-man, I-Don't-Know Wizard?'

Wizard shivered. ‘There's something grey,' he confessed, and the summer air turned cold.

‘Sounds about right. Well, what you gotta do is this. You got to feed the pigeons. Pigeons sacred to you now, hear me? Never harm a pigeon. And you got to listen to people that come up and start talking to you. Can't turn away when what they say hurts. You got to tell them what they need to know. And you got to admit you Know. Got to balance the magic, I-Don't-Know Wizard. Got to give away more than you get, all the time. If you don't, that grey thing going to get you. And if that happens, don't yell, well, Rasputin didn't warn you. Now get him out of here, Cassie. I got to dance.'

They watched him leaping and whirling away, flashing black and silver in the sunlight. ‘Is dancing all he does?' Wizard had asked Cassie naively.

‘Yeah,' she said mockingly. ‘All he does is Dance. And look at derelicts and find out if they're wizards or not. And give wizards the rules of their magic. And keep the bogey-man away from the Seattle Center. Come on, Wizard.'

He trailed at her heels as they moved on the paths between the hillocks of grass. She stopped at a bench that overlooked water and ducks. She dropped into it gratefully and he copied her.

‘Well?' she demanded suddenly. ‘What did you think of him?'

Wizard shrugged. ‘What I think of Rasputin is that what I think of him makes no difference at all. It's like asking what I think of Mount St Helens. It's there, and it's a hell of a lot bigger than me.'

Cassie laughed softly. ‘I never thought of him quite that way before, but you're right. What I really meant was, what did you think about his theory on wizards?'

‘Just what I said. I don't know.'

‘And you don't want to make any guesses, do you? Well, I do. I have my own ideas on it. Think about this for a minute. Think about the threads of colour in a tapestry. When you need a bit of silver, for the shine on a river or the snow on a mountain top, you bring the silver threads up to the surface where they can be seen. Or if you need gold for the sheen on a princess's hair, or the spark in a unicorn's eyes, you bring that thread up. But it's not like the threads come and go. It's more like they're seen and unseen.'

He gave another shrug. He could tell she was getting into one of her obtuse moods. It was all going to be stories and parables for the rest of the day. ‘Maybe. I don't know.'

Cassie laughed wryly. ‘Rasputin named you well. Well, that's how I think of us. And another thing. Imagine these special threads, silver and gold, say. The tapestry weaver doesn't need them often. Maybe they're hardly
ever used together, but there they are, running along together behind the tapestry, and sometimes coming out on the front together to light up a mountain or deck the princesses' robes. Think of what it would be like for those threads. Do you suppose they miss one another while they're apart? And when they come together in the tapestry, do you suppose they'd remember the times before when they'd been woven together?'

She had lost him again. ‘Do you suppose,' he asked, ‘that we could scrounge some lunch? I'm starving.'

‘I suppose,' she had laughed easily, but her eyes searched his with a hunger that was not for food.

Wizard opened his eyes and stared down at the pipe in his hand. He held his throat shut against the hot smoke and passed the pipe to Lynda. ‘You are feeling fine,' she told him. ‘I can tell by your eyes. Isn't it funny, Mitch? When we get stoned, I talk even more and you get even quieter. I don't think you've said a word since you finished the wine. Are you still in there?'

‘I don't know.' He gave her a sad and foolish smile. The I-Don't-Know Wizard. That was him. He watched her drawing on the pipe and holding it down and then whistling smoke. She passed it back to him and rose languidly.

He was still holding his hit when she flapped the hat in front of him. ‘Put it on,' she demanded with a giggle. ‘I've just got to see you in the complete outfit. When I first saw the hat in the bag, I didn't realize it went with the robe and cloak. Let's see it on.'

He set the pipe down on the table. He took the midnight hat from her hands and gazed in melancholy at its bent tip. ‘I don't think I want to,' he said softly. Just looking at it
filled him with the sadness of opportunities lost. ‘Put it away,' he requested, and handed it back to Lynda.

‘Oh, come on!' she urged, and before he could protest any more, she set it atop his head. He cringed his eyes shut, expecting the flash of magic and the tingle of power against his skull. Still expecting it. Fool. He heard only Lynda's drawnout giggling. He opened his eyes to her.

‘It's perfect,' she gasped. ‘Oh, geez, it's perfect. You really do look like a wizard. I never would have believed it. But with the robe and the cloak and the hat, I mean, your eyes have that mystic look, that kind of sad and weary look you see in old fairytale books about kindly wizards. It would be even better if you had a beard and moustache. But even without them, you really got the looks for it. Come on, sorcerer, work me some magic. Draw me one of them pentagon things and summon a demon. Do me a magic trick. Got any rabbits in that hat?'

‘That's a magician, not a wizard,' he told her, trying to smile with her. ‘And they're pentagrams, not pentagons.' He tried to bring the words out lightly. But the skin of his face was stiff with dread, and a chill had invaded him when she spoke so lightly of summoning demons. His required no summoning. They lurked always, chill on the back of his neck. Would he ever feel warm again?

‘Oh, come on, magic man,' she pleaded in a voice gone husky. ‘Do a trick for me.' She paused infinitesimally. ‘Or turn a trick with me.' She giggled suggestively. ‘I shouldn't tell you this, I really shouldn't.' She dropped down beside him and put her hand on his knee as she lowered her voice to a naughty whisper. ‘You'll think I'm kinky or something. But that outfit kind of turns me on. It makes you look so strange and wild somehow. And just
now, when I looked at you, I remembered that you had nothing on underneath it. And I felt this kind of a tickly shiver that began you-know-where. You know, I always wondered why men were turned on when they found out a woman didn't have a bra or panties on. Now I know. It's the thought of you just being kind of loose and reachable under there.' Her hand dropped to his ankle and began to creep up under the robe.

Wizard flowed to his feet. He removed the cap from his head and let it drop with a thump upon the table. His newfound verbal skills rescued him. ‘Don't you think you're asking a bit much of me? You feed me a big meal after I've been cold and wet all day, pour a bottle of wine down me and then get me stoned. About all I'm ready for is eight hours of sleep.'

‘Oh, you!' Lynda rebuked him, but she looked more tantalized than refused.

Wizard stood looking slowly around the room. He felt a lucidity upon him, an awareness that had been missing for a long time. He could not remember what had so engrossed him that he had been blind to his own life passing. Things were going to be easier now. What had he been thinking of, to try and live like this? For what? He was letting it go now, with relief. He was moving in with Lynda, flowing back into the stream of reality. She'd help him. He'd get some clothes, sleep in a bed at night, find a job…

‘Lynda, what kind of a job should I look for?'

She shrugged lightly. ‘What did you use to do?'

‘I was a sniper.' The words came quickly, without any thought. They extinguished the flames of change that had burned so brightly just an instant before. But Lynda laughed.

‘No, dummy. Before the army.'

‘I was a kid.' Those words came heavily. Truth was on him, he thought to himself, and then tried to chase the phrase away. No magic about it. It was simply true and he had said it.

‘Well, baby, hate to tell you this, but there's no money in being a kid these days. I haven't seen any Help Wanted: Sniper ads, either.'

‘Neither did I.' A jacket of ice squeezed his soul. The scene leaped up in his mind, as bright as the flame. He was signing the papers, nodding as the recruiter reminded him that he couldn't guarantee he'd get the engineering training, but that there was a good chance of it. No more money to finish college, so what the hell. Such a deal. So he hadn't ever built a bridge or a road. He'd blown up a few. He'd learned things in the military he'd never have learned anywhere else. And he had been good at them. Damn good. Better than anyone else in his outfit. He'd gone places no one else would go. Eyes like an owl, nose like a wolf, walking softer than a spider in the night. He'd been so damn good. And proud of it; they'd all been proud of him. Until he came home.

The high was evaporating. He looked for the pipe, but it was out. He waggled it at Lynda, who took it and began to fill it for him. He watched impatiently as she lit it and drew on the weed to glow. But when she smiled and handed it to him, he just stared down into the bowl. ‘It's not here,' he said softly.

‘What isn't, baby?'

‘Peace. Love. Freedom. Bullshit. There's nothing in here but burning leaves.'

‘Buds, baby. That makes all the difference.' She took
it back from him and sucked the smoke into her lungs. She swayed slightly as she exhaled and gave him a softly unfocused smile. ‘Hey, magic man,' she said huskily. He looked at her. ‘Hey,' she repeated low. ‘Come here.'

She advanced on him and embraced him. He stood cold within her arms, suddenly wondering why he had been so passive as to allow her into his life this way. He hadn't been looking for this type of involvement, still didn't feel ready for it. Didn't want it, he admitted reluctantly. So why go along with it? Because the lady wasn't taking a polite no for an answer. She bumped against him and he staggered back a step. She was not a dainty woman. It was like being nudged by a cow. The edge of the mattress brushed his ankles. ‘Take me down, magic man,' she whispered urgently, rubbing against him.

‘Not right now.' Games. She was playing a romance game, with him as a prop; he was playing a delaying game. She had fed him and stoned him and wanted her due. But he needed to think carefully right now, not be a toy for someone else's passion. Couldn't she see that? Was she so oblivious to his moods?

‘Don't fight it, baby. Go with it. I'll make you feel good.' Her wandering hand groped through the robe. His pulse quickened in spite of himself.

‘No!' he growled, feeling the sudden high rush of anger. Strength coursed through him and his frustrations focused on her. He gripped her wrist tightly, putting a turn on it. The pain put a slight twist at the corner of her smile.

‘Do it, baby,' she whispered. ‘Hurt me a little and love me a lot. Show me your claws, magic man. Make me do what you want. Make it wild and new for me.'

‘Stop it!' he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Stop it
now!' She was the one summoning the demons that could destroy him. The instant he released her, she reached for him again, her mouth wide with laughter. He seized her shoulders and shook her violently, her head snapping on her neck, her long hair whipping with the motion. Self-disgust stopped him. He dropped her onto the mattress and turned aside from her. She shook the hair from her face and peered up at him. He felt his own nails rake his cheeks.

‘I'm sorry,' he whispered. ‘I'm so damn sorry, and always sorry. But it's always there, right behind me, reaching for the controls. I don't know what brings it out. But you're not safe with me. I want you to go. Now.'

Her face was flushed, her mouth wet. She took a gasping breath. ‘Rough doesn't have to be bad, baby.' She licked her mouth. ‘If you're so sorry, prove it.' Reaching up, she caught at his hand and dragged him down. His heart was beating thunderously in his chest and his legs felt rubbery. He couldn't get the air down to the bottom of his lungs. He sagged onto the mattress beside her.

‘Don't tell me sorry,' she murmured against his chest. ‘Show me sorry.' He closed his eyes to her brushing touch, blacking out the memories.

‘I don't like the man I was,' he tried to explain. ‘It's him or me in the grey place. I won't go back to being him. I don't have to, and I won't.'

‘All right, baby, all right. It doesn't matter, it'll be fine now. Lynda's not angry.' She wasn't listening to him, any more than he was tuned into her hands and mouth on him. He kept himself divorced from it, holding back the touching and feeling that could unleash the pain. It was a fair trade. If he let himself be reached, she would hurt him,
would drive him with agony until he destroyed the source of the pain. No touch of pleasure, no touch of pain. Being numb was the key to it all. He found the balancing point again and felt a certain bitter satisfaction with it. He was safe from her now. She'd get nothing from him. He felt her squirm against him, heard the rustle of clothing as she arranged her body against his. He let her, unworried. There were other things he could think about, things that were safe to remember.

‘If you could do anything, be anything, what would you do?'

It had been an expansive afternoon, roaming the city with Cassie. He was beginning to get the hang of this new life, starting to realize the possibilities. It was a heady sensation. She was in a tweed skirt; he wore a corduroy jacket with leather patches at the elbows. They had gone everywhere that eccentric scholars could go, with numerous side trips en route. They had merged unnoticed with a group touring underground Seattle, and had nearly managed to be left behind in the dank dark below the streets. She had shown him a bakery where a kind-hearted assistant set out the discarded baked goods on a tin foil tray atop the dumpster to save the street people the trouble of digging for them. They had explored what was left of the old plant at Gas Works Park and sampled five kinds of coffee at Starbucks. Cassie had taken him to the Klondike Gold Rush National Historical Museum on Main, and introduced him to the ranger there as her associate, Dr Reynolds. The ranger had shown them films and opened the display cases for them, to let them handle the relics of that remote time. Wizard had promised to return soon, and spend more time
talking about the Gold Rush era and how it had affected Seattle.

‘Especially on rainy days,' Cassie had offered as soon as they were on the sidewalk again, and they had giggled together like wayward truants.

It had been a very mellow day. No schedules to keep and no assigned tasks. They had turned down every street that had appealed to them, in their conversations as well as in their wandering. He had learned that she loved roses and pansies, but thought orchids a cold flower. She knew that he liked green grapes more than wild blueberries, and commercial blueberries not at all. So now, as they strolled, he asked her the childish question, and waited for her answer. She disappointed him. ‘I'd be Cassie, and do what we did today,' she replied blandly.

‘Not me!' Wizard had been expansive, risking her displeasure. ‘I'd be a hero, a saint, or a mystic. When I was small, I always wanted to be a prophet. Sackcloth and thunder. I'd drive violence from Seattle and let peace reign.'

Cassie snorted. ‘And under your protection, no seagull would peck another, no children would quarrel over marbles, no drunk would bloody another drunk's nose over a baseball pitcher's reputation.'

‘Not that kind of violence. You know what I mean.'

‘No. I don't. You keep acting like I'm some sort of mystic myself, some seer who knows all. Well, I'm not. I'm just Cassie, and while I know more than some, I don't know it all. I've only just met you, though I've been noticing your presence in Seattle for weeks. I suppose you could say our paths have crossed before. But that doesn't mean I know
you from the soul out. So tell me. What kind of violence do you mean?'

‘The sickest kind. I mean the kind where someone strong finds someone weaker and hurts him. And hurts him and hurts him and hurts him. Hurts past the point of damage, past retaliation, hurts him past the point of resistance, and beyond. Like parents who beat infants, like rapists who batter bodies and minds, like men who turn on other men too confused or different to defend themselves, and hurt them…'

‘Which end were you on?' Cassie had muttered the question, looking at him with eyes both sympathetic and wary. His voice had thickened as he spoke, some emotion choking him, but the words tumbled from him, refusing to stop until he clamped his teeth and closed his eyes. Cassie slipped her arm under his, drew him aside to a bench and sat him down. He sat far-eyed, kneading his hands together, rubbing at the tiny scars that marred them.

‘I'm sorry,' he said finally. ‘I don't know…'

‘Me, neither,' she cut in. ‘But listen. Number one. You are taking on too large an opponent. Do you think you're Saint Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland? No. At most you're Saint Wizard, feeding the pigeons. Number two. You're too close to it to fight it. Not yet. I won't ask you how or why you're so close to it, but I'll remind you of this. When the enemy's on top of you, you can't win by bombing his position.'

He wished she had asked him then. Back then, he might have been able to tell her about it, while she was still the stranger Cassie, before she became so important to him. In days to come he swallowed his secrets in large, choking lumps, lest she discover his flaws. He struggled to
learn it all, to be the best at it as he had been the best at his tasks before. His failures he kept to himself. He coped, living hand to mouth at times, trying to believe her when she told him the city would open to him as soon as he opened himself to it. At first she fed him often, and he was sheltered many a night in her various domiciles. But he began to feel overexposed, fearful that he might be revealing more of himself than he wished her to know. And he began to have days when he ached with a dull hunger to be even closer to her. Never mind that it would destroy all she had made of him. Never mind that it would drive her completely from his life. The depth of the sudden need that would come upon him was terrifying. Lust he could have dealt with. But this was the forbidden hunger, the desire to be less alone. He found his strength before it was too late; he knew he had to separate his life from hers.

His wits and the skills she showed him helped him create his own niche. If she missed his daily presence, she never rebuked him for it. He suspected she was relieved by his independence, and he worked for her respect. For an instant he wondered where she was this night. His eyes rolled open of their own accord. Lynda lay atop him, her hair straggling across his face. Sleeping. Stoned or drunk, she had finally given up her attempts to arouse him. It gave him a perverse satisfaction to have defied her. Her body was heavy and lumpy, her perfume oppressive. He reached up to wipe her hair away from his nose and mouth. He shifted to heave her chin off his collarbone. She stiffened suddenly and wriggled to get her wrist up to her nose.

‘Oh my god!' She peeled her body off his, letting the
cold rush in to fill the places she had made warm. ‘Look at the time!' She shook her dress back down over her hips, tugged the hem straight. ‘It's okay, baby. Don't lay and worry about tonight. You were just tired, that's all. I read about it in this book, says it's normal, can happen to any guy when he's tired, and being stoned might have made it worse. Promise me you aren't going to get all depressed about it. I really don't mind. Really. Are you okay?'

He nodded, feeling the total hypocrite. He watched her scoop her pantyhose from the floor and ball them up to stuff them in her purse. She didn't seem all that disappointed. Was her lust a game she played with herself as well; the wild and wanton woman who must always be eager?

‘I've got to get up at six! If I don't go now, I'll be too beat to shower and wash my hair before bed. That's another thing I bet you'll like about my place: hot showers and clean bedding. Look, I got the early shift tomorrow.' She ripped a brush through her hair, sleeking it back from her face. ‘But as soon as I'm off, I'll come to pick you up. Just take the stuff you really want. Leave the rest of this shit here. One trip should do it. You want I should borrow my sister's car?'

‘No,' he replied absently. She sat down on the makeshift table to drag on her boots. He couldn't even remember when she had taken them off.

‘Right. Look, I'll bring a suitcase for your clothes, put the rest in grocery bags, and we'll take the bus. Oh, the cat. I can't have pets in my place.'

‘I don't have any pets.' Black Thomas belonged to himself. He'd been a resident of the building before Wizard moved in, and would be after he was gone. For
an instant he worried about Ninja and the pigeons. A foolish worry; they'd all have to take care of themselves from now on.

‘Good.' Lynda had rekindled the pipe and was taking a farewell hit from it. She waved it at him, but he shook his head. She shrugged, then regarded him more closely. Her boots thumped as she crossed the room to suddenly crouch down beside him. ‘Look. You look so worried about it. Don't be. So we didn't make it tonight. It doesn't change anything between us. You told me you were tired and cold and a little too stoned. I should have listened to you and not pushed it. I mean, hey, if a woman can say no when she's too tired, why can't a guy? So it's not a big deal, okay? Not like a failure or anything. Okay?'

He nodded wearily, wishing she were gone. All he wanted was sleep. She rose then to snatch up the window blanket from the floor and snap it out over him. ‘Okay, then. Now don't worry. Sleep tight, baby. See you tomorrow.'

‘Tomorrow,' he echoed. Irrevocable commitment. She snuffed the candle as she went and disappeared into the next room, closing the connecting door as softly as a burglar leaving the scene of crime. He listened. There was the sliding of the window, then the thunk of her boots hitting the pavement. The city silence flowed back in as soon as she was gone. The traffic noises and far muffled voices of a sleeping city filled his ears. The street lamp light seeped in around the cardboard and bathed his room in a dark grey wash. Grey light of the city burning up the night with cold, dirty fire. It was hard to see the stars over Seattle at night. Too much light pollution and more every year. He wondered if the air pollution and the light
pollution would ever meet in the middle. He imagined a city never night nor day, only a uniform greyness in the sky overhead. He envisioned grey people slipping through its streets, their voices swathed in fog, their clothing damp with grey mist. Grey as the ceiling.

He stared up at it and suddenly felt horrible. Guilty. He had cheated and deceived Lynda by not performing tonight. But he hadn't wanted to. Still, what must she be feeling now? Did she guess he did not find her desirable? But he did; it was only when she got close that he was repelled by her. She was an attractive woman, generous and willing. Only a crazy man would turn away from her. So what was wrong with him? He didn't know. He just knew that he hadn't wanted to be that close to her. So. Would it have hurt him to have given in to her needs, let her keep intact the image she had of herself? But what about his own feelings, his desire to keep his body private from her? Weren't they just as valid as hers? And if he had served her, like a cow brought to a random bull; what then would he be feeling? Would he be lying here, gazing at the ceiling and wishing he had not so shamefully deceived her? His mind chased the questions and guilts in a hamster wheel of bad feelings. ‘No right answers,' he tried to console himself, and coughed. This was life back in the real world. The walls of it were closing in on him already. But this time tomorrow, he would be running through his own maze, back on the track with the rat race.

The ceiling was coming down on him. He blinked, willing the illusion away. No more playing games with my mind, he warned himself sternly. No magic, no Truth, no Knowing. No scary things in the closets waiting to get me. Kid stuff. Like being small and being afraid to close the
bedroom curtains at night because you might accidentally look out the darkened window and see something. Never look in the bathroom mirror when you're getting a drink of water in the middle of the night; you might see what is standing behind you. But he was an adult now, and back in the real world. He wasn't going to play that kind of mental hide-and-seek anymore. He stared up at the grey ceiling, daring it to come closer.

It did.

It did not, he insisted to himself. He was just sleepy. That was true, he was tired, but now he found he could not close his eyes. For if he looked away from the ceiling, perhaps it would dare to come closer. Even with his eyes opened, he could see the greyness of his ceiling descending on him. Impossible. Summoning every ounce of courage he possessed, he extended his arm and hand straight up and touched…nothing.

‘See,' he told himself aloud. ‘It's an illusion.' He let his arm fall back to his side. He was warm and incredibly sleepy. He closed his eyes and started to let consciousness slide away. A pigeon fell to the floor with a soft thud. And another.

Wizard sat up. His face pushed up into dense grey smoke that choked him mercilessly. He fell back onto the mattress, into a cooler stratum of air. His mind raced. The pipe! Where had Lynda left it?

He rolled onto his belly and gazed around wildly. There seemed to be no flames yet, but he was sure that when they came, it would be a single flash, engulfing the room in an instant. He had only moments to get out.

His cracked window might offer fresh air, but no chance of escape. The fire escape was under the other window, in
the next room. From his window it was a sheer four-storey drop. He began a wriggling belly-crawl to the connecting door. His seeking hand fell on a small feathered body. Its legs twitched against his palm. The cooler air near the floor was reviving it. He became aware of other thuds as more pigeons fell, overcome by smoke and fumes. He wondered where Black Thomas and Ninja were. But they were smart animals, smart enough to leave a burning building. Weren't they? Not like the stupid goddamned pigeons that couldn't take care of themselves. Stupid, useless, shitty birds. He scooped up another body from the floor. His burden made crawling difficult.

He crept on. The floor was getting warmer. And when he finally reached the connecting door that should have led to escape, he found the wood of it nearly too hot to touch. It must have started in there, somehow. He thought of the stacked cardboard boxes. He heard helpless flutterings on the floor behind him, felt soft pinions brush his bare legs.

‘Oh, shit, shit, shit!' he roared suddenly, wasting precious breath. He scuttled in a circle on his belly, the stupid wizard's robe winding up around his legs and hobbling him. He gathered up the little bodies as he crawled, putting them into the sling of his cloak. He took the tall wizard cap from the table and filled it with birds. They were heavy. How many did he have? He had no idea how many roosted in his room at night. The idiot things struggled against his rescue, hopping out of his reach as the grey ceiling pressed even closer.