The Bronze King (18 page)

I covered my ears, not to hear the chittering-snarling, which was now a roaring, but I couldn't stop looking, I couldn't close my eyes.

The thick neck of Jagiello's horse doubled and its feet skidded on the turf. The centaur-king turned to face the kraken with his crossed blades raised. He shouted in a voice like the bells of a hundred steeples. If there were words, I didn't hear them.

Then he lowered the swords and uncrossed them so that the points were aimed straight over the horse's bent neck and at the kraken. He charged into the lake.

Sheets of water shot up from the plunging bronze hooves—and the horse stopped, swayed, almost fell. It dragged one hoof free with a fat, sucking sound, and I realized that its great heavy feet must be caught in the mucky lake bottom.

I saw the kraken arch over them both. The horse threw its metal head and strained its huge shoulders. Jagiello stood high in his stirrups, his body curved taut like the horse's body, because of course they were one being, one great, mired, doomed figure.

I found something heavy in my pocket. It was Granny Gran's chain-link purse still heavy with silver dollars. It hefted beautifully. I hauled back and fired it off as hard as I could, and it smacked that coiling mass somewhere high up and stuck there.

The kraken voices shrieked, the sparky little eyes turned and glittered in my direction.

It breathed at me.

Not fire, just an incredible hot stench rolling over me that could have suffocated a dinosaur. I wanted to throw up and my eyes streamed tears.

I grabbed what I thought was a rock lying at the base of a tree—I think it was a little kid's shoe, actually—and I threw that too. I yelled, “Kraken, kraken, dirty, lousy, rotten kraken, stinking kraken, come and get me!”

It came. I caught a glimpse of the bronze horse-and-rider struggling back toward shore, and then the kraken's bulk blotted out the sight. It blotted out the little castle, and the southern skyline of tall light-spangled buildings outside the park, and the skyful of shifting clouds and washed-out stars, and everything.

The kraken heaved itself partway out of the lake and up onto the grass. The worse part was the awful noise it made, this hoarse, hungry, hateful breathing. It hissed in its breath, and if I hadn't had a lamppost to hang onto, I'd have been sucked right up into its dirty black mouth.

It clashed its jaws together.

I kicked over the trash basket chained to the lamppost, grabbed up some empty soda bottles and threw them.

One, two, three bottles.

The kraken heaved another coil of itself over the grass toward me. Two bottles left, nothing else—everything comes in those weightless cans now. When it opened its mouth to inhale again, I was done for anyhow.

Where was Jagiello? Where was Paavo? Where was anybody?

I was really going to die.

I could see better now. The kraken was coated with mud and slime and chunks of trash, with huge flat plates of broken concrete from under the lake bottom stuck all over it like scales. I could make out the wreck of a baby carriage riding high on one side of its head (if that was a head) like an ear. I could see splinters of glass gleaming and bicycle bars like horns. Its open mouth split down and down and down its reared-up bulk. It was all mouth except for the sparky little eyes that were bike reflectors, I think, red plastic embedded in mud.

It had teeth. I saw the moonlight gleam on them. Spokes of bicycle wheels, pieces of wire and jaggedy rods from crates, junk that people had thrown into the lake over the years, were stuck into the edges of the mouth like the baleen of a whale, gappy and rusty and raw-looking.

Tetanus, I thought, heaving another bottle. One touch and I've got tetanus, I'm dead anyhow.

My throwing arm was gone. I couldn't lift it at all.

I tried to run. My shoes slipped on the grass where the kraken had dripped slime and down I went.

On one knee I watched the thing haul back to swoop down and grab me. I tried to drown its crowing, whooping voice with a scream of my own, a scream wild and strong enough to power a final throw, with my left arm.

The last bottle flew wide, of course. Beautifully wide. It hit something that rang out a glorious, clear note. It was Jagiello, his horse's legs trailing weeds and wet paper trash from the lake as he came pounding at last over the grassy bank.

No war cry this time, just a hurtling figure with his swords pointing straight forward. Moonlight glinted on his crown and bent back, and the heavy bronze folds of his cloak lifted out behind him. The horse leaped like a train jumping the track at full speed and slammed into the monster headlong, right between two of the great, clumsy concrete scales.

The kraken's mouth gaped like a split in the sky as the monster stretched swaying and squalling above me. Then, moonlight shining on its ragged, rusty teeth, the kraken dove down, but not at me.

With a tearing, crunching sound, it plucked Jagiello out of its side. Still screaming, it lifted the centaur-king high against the moon, horse and rider caught in jaws like railway cars. The horse's legs kicked and threshed and Jagiello's upper body arched back out of the grinding mouth.

Then the kraken toppled and its screaming ended in a ground-shaking crash.

Silence, a ringing, vibrating silence.

Someplace beyond the park, I heard a bus grind its gears. The clouds had scattered, and the moon was very bright. Now I could see the towers of the city glittering with lights around the borders of the park. I could see the little castle sitting neatly on its crag, and the wall of the empty theater at one end of the lake, and Jagiello's empty plinth at the other.

At my feet, something vast and rotten-smelling shrank and drained away. All that bulk melted in front of my eyes, with no more sound than the trickling of water running back into the lake. Nothing was left but a huge dark stain on the grass. Bits of junk stuck up here and there, like trash on a beach after a slimy ebb tide.

One of the bits of junk was a big, twisted hunk of metal with two horse-legs sticking out into the night sky.

I stumbled over to the remains of Jagiello.

The statue was mangled and crushed. What looked like black splashes of blood were really rips in the bronze where it had been gashed open by the kraken's jaws, showing the darkness of the hollow inside. The head of the horse was an unrecognizable mash of metal.

Jagiello's torso lay propped on one shoulder on the grass, at an ugly angle to the bulk of the ruined horse. His arms were all crumpled together with the blades of his swords. Something hung off one of the points of his crown, covering his face: a soggy leather cap with enameled metal pins stuck all over it. I pushed the cap off with a stick.

The face wasn't marked, except for a scratch on one blank bronze eye, from the Chewer's knife. An odd-shaped eye, with an Asian fold over the upper lid—

I wasn't looking at the crude, middle-aged face of the statue I knew so well, with that smug mouth and comic-book scowl. This was another face, lined and old and fixed in a pain-twisted glare of grim determination. It was Paavo's face.

Now I knew how he had gotten the statue of Jagiello moving.

I cried, though crying felt childish and stupid. I sat there sort of holding the hurt side of his face, half to hide, half to try to comfort that blank, scratched eye. I shut my own eyes and willed myself to stop living.

Inside my head came faint music. I didn't exactly hear it. It was like music coming straight into my mind without passing through the air at all: pure sounds, sweet and warm and chiding me a little. They sang my name: “Val. Valentine.”

Then the bronze under my hand went cold.

I snatched my hand away and opened my eyes.

I saw only Jagiello's heavy, foolish face, a statue's face, and not a very good statue at that.

 

16
Gifts

 

 

T
HE FRONT DOOR TO OUR APARTMENT
was open. Mom stood there leaning against the jamb.

I wobbled out of the elevator to her and I said, “Mom, I'm back.”

She slapped me so hard that I saw stars. “You ran away from me!”

I just stood there rocking. She grabbed me and hugged me, crying into my hair that it was just anxiety that made her hit me, being out of her mind with worry.

When you've had a kraken kill somebody you loved and nearly kill you, a smack from your mother—even a real belt—comes across differently. I hugged her back because it seemed like the right thing to do, though to tell the truth I wasn't feeling much of anything. In a tired, far-off sort of way, I was sorry to have put her through so much.

Any other time I would have cried, too, but I was all wrung dry. I just waited until she was done. By then she'd gotten my hair and cheek wet enough for both of us anyhow.

“Are you all right?” she was babbling, pulling me with her into the dark hall of the apartment. “Did anybody hurt you? My God, baby, you're covered with mud, you look as if a bus ran over you! What happened? Why did you run away from me tonight? Where did you go? Tina, for heaven's sake, what's been happening?”

Being called “baby” didn't bother me a bit, I noticed in a detached way, while all sorts of possible lies flashed through my head: I ran away because I was doing badly in school and I couldn't stand how upset it made you. I ran away to live in the park and get material for a terrific paper for Mr. Chernick's creative writing class. Spies kidnapped me, mistaking me for a diplomat's daughter. I ran away to make you pay attention to me. Standard stuff.

But I did not want to lie to my mother. Something serious had happened. Now that she couldn't put a stop to it anymore I wanted her to know, because it had been important to me.

I said, “Mom, I've got something to tell you that you're going to think is crazy, but I think you should hear it. First, though, I'm okay. I'm only a little bruised and skinned and tired, I'm not hungry, and I must still be the only kid in my grade who doesn't do drugs.”

“One thing, Tina,” she said, still holding me by both shoulders as if she was afraid I'd run off again if she let go. “Is Joel's disappearance connected with all this at all? Because if it is, I'd better call his parents right away. They've been frantic. And I should call the police, too, and tell them you're back.”

I said, “I think Joel is okay. And I think you should hear the whole thing before you talk to anybody.”

“You know,” she said, “I thought I was worried before, but this tone you're taking is scaring the hell out of me. Okay, tell me. I can take it. I'm listening.”

She could take it all right, but she couldn't believe it, not right away.

I edited a little about Paavo and me because
a
, she'd have killed me; and
b
, I'd rather have died than told her my real feelings about him; and
c,
as it was, I could hardly say his name without choking up and going all achy inside with misery.

When I was finished I sat there on the living room couch wondering when I was going to fall over into a dead sleep, which would be a terrific relief. Mom sat with me, gnawing on her knuckles. Finally she said, “Let's go over to that subway stop.”

“I don't think I can,” I said. “I'm tired, Mom.”

She stood up. “I'll go myself, then.”

I said, “Don't go into the park, though, all right? The kraken's gone and the Princes too, but there are still plenty of crazies and meanies wandering around.”

And I keeled right over.

I slept until the middle of the next day. Mom came into the living room when she heard me stirring. She didn't say anything. She handed me the newspaper and went back in the kitchen.

I was glad she had stayed home from work because I felt sort of all disconnected. I wouldn't have eaten or dressed or anything without somebody getting me moving in this direction or that one. I mean it was good, being taken care of.

And I knew as long as she was there I wasn't going to break down and think about Paavo, and that was fine. I didn't want to think about him. I didn't want to cry over him any more than I had right there on the grass the night before, because it hurt and it didn't do any good.

The papers were full of this crazy mystery of a “vandalized” subway station. The token booth person was in a hospital, under sedation, and described as “in shock.” I bet. Then there was the discovery of the remains of Jagiello, looking as if he'd been crunched in an earthquake, and the messed-up wiring in the subway system and the traffic lights, and a few other things. Mysteries.

All the things that were missing had returned to their places when Jagiello came busting out of the blue wall. Which left us with two medicine cabinets trying to share the same wall space in Mom's bathroom; and there were all those mail chutes and things. Nobody knew what to think.

Mom and the landlord came to some sort of straggling truce. This pleased Mom. She at least has some idea of what went on, and he didn't have a clue and still doesn't.

About the return of my bookbag with a many-days-old tuna fish sandwich in the bottom of it, the less said the better.

I don't know whether Paavo's cap turned up anyplace. Most likely some old derelict took it, as Paavo had thought, and he's welcome to it.

At lunch that day Mom sat across the table and stared at me over her cup of coffee, while I picked at some grapefruit she'd cut for me.

“Joel's mother called,” she said. “She says he came in this morning and told them he got fed some kind of dope by practical jokers at school and went wandering off in a daze. He won't give any names and they're not going to pursue it. I don't know about his other talents, but he's certainly a champion liar.”

I was sorry Joel didn't think he could tell his parents the truth, but if that was the only way he could handle it with them, I didn't want us to mess it up for him. I said, “You didn't say anything to his mother about what I told you?”