The Native Star (23 page)

When she returned to the platform, she searched the crowd for Stanton’s lanky form. They hadn’t thought to agree on a meeting place, and as they were switching to a Pullman she had no idea what car they would be getting on.

“Miss Edwards,” a voice behind her said, making her jump. It was Stanton, his head low and his hat pulled well over his eyes. “Put your veil down. Word has finally caught up with us.”

She followed Stanton’s eyes to where two men in shiny gray suits stood side by side, scanning the platform. Emily put her veil down casually.

“Maelstroms?”

“Maelstroms, Pinkertons, undercover police … who knows. But they’re not waiting for friends. Come on. We have to pass them to get to our car.”

“How do I look?” she whispered to him.

“Better,” he whispered back. “Who’ll bother a man traveling with his widowed aunt?”

“The compliments just drip like honey from your lips, don’t they?” she muttered as he extended his arm to her. She took it, keeping her head down and drawing herself against his body as if for support in a time of mourning. Taking the cue, Stanton bent his face close to hers and patted her arm tenderly.

“Walk slowly,” Stanton murmured as he felt Emily’s urge to run. They were passing directly in front of the men in gray. Emily could hear them breathing, feel their tense energy like big cats ready to spring, see the knives sheathed at their belts.

“Never give them cause to chase you.” Emily spoke the words in an exhaled breath as they put the men behind them, neither one having given the poor man and his widowed aunt so much as a second glance.

They stayed hunched down in their seats until the train was well out of the station, after which time they could relax and enjoy the comfort of the Pullman. Once they were enfolded in its profusion of scrollwork and button tufting, it seemed as if nothing could ever go wrong again.

They had gotten into a parlor car, so they had their own little room and a porter in a white coat to see to their needs. Seats were dusted, pillows fluffed, ice water fetched. All around them, red velvet and burled wood shone, polished brass winked.

The atmosphere seemed to rejuvenate Stanton substantially. His eyes seemed brighter and clearer, his face ruddier, his mood noticeably more cheerful.

“I feel as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders,” he sighed pleasurably, stretching his long legs out before him. “Not to mention from my ears.”

The train charged toward Chicago. Night came. The attendant laid a table for them with white linen and crystal, and served steaming bowls of terrapin soup and fat grilled steaks. Stanton bolted the food ravenously.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said, as he was working on his third plateful. “After our business is done, I must show you around New York. I hear Central Park is coming along quite nicely.”

Emily, taking a deep swallow of red wine, smiled slightly.

“Mr. Stanton, I’d be overjoyed to see Central Park or any of the wonderful sights New York has to offer.” The idea of sightseeing was so ludicrous as to be unimaginable. A free trip to see the wonders of New York, and all she had to do was stay one step ahead of military blood sorcerers, escort the spirit of a dead holy woman around her neck, and avoid becoming a rampaging Aberrancy. What a delightful bargain!

“You’ll like New York,” he said with a certainty she thought he had no claim to. “It’s a wonderful city. Everything anyone could ever want is there.”

“I’m sure you’ll be glad to get back,” she said. “And your family will be pleased to see you, I imagine.”

He lifted an eyebrow at her, considering the statement.

“I hadn’t thought of it,” he said. “If bringing you back to the Mirabilis Institute contributes to the glory of the Stanton name, maybe they will be. Perhaps even tickled, though imagining my mother in that state is quite disturbing.”

Emily stared at him. There was so much about the words that puzzled her, she didn’t even know where to begin.

“But you’re more than just a name.” Emily looked at him. “A family’s more than just a name.”

“Not my family,” Stanton said, stabbing a piece of steak with his fork.

“Then it doesn’t sound much like a family,” Emily said. “At least not my idea of a family.”

Stanton shrugged. “I think we’ve already established that your ideas and the ideas of civilized people are not always precisely aligned.”

“I’m not talking about civilization,” Emily snapped. “I’m talking about common decency.”

“So then we’re
not
talking about my family,” he said.

“Any particular reason you’re being so tedious? Or is it just a matter of general principle with you?”

Stanton tasted his wine, grimacing at some defect.

“Vile stuff, and halfway corked to boot,” he said. He twisted the stem of the crystal between his long fingers, regarding the offending liquid with a frown. “My father is in politics, as you learned. He’s an awful crook, but he’s one of the most powerful men in the Republican party.” He paused. “All the money’s from my mother’s side of the family. Her people are old Dutch, and she spends her time brutally enforcing the rock-ribbed ideals of propriety and decency that comprise ‘the way things have always been done in New York.’” He looked at Emily. “I can’t imagine you want to hear more.”

“Try me,” Emily said. She herself saw nothing wrong with the wine and was glad to pour herself another large glass.

“Three sisters—”

“Euphemia, Ophidia, and Hortense,” Emily interjected.

“As unpleasant as their names suggest,” Stanton continued. “Being the youngest, I was constantly subjected to their malformed mimicry of motherhood.”

“They put your hair in curls and pushed you around in carriages, didn’t they?”

“One prefers not to remember,” Stanton said, taking up his glass, unsatisfactory as it was, and draining it swiftly.

When dinner was finished, the porter retrieved their plates and glasses, cleared the table, offered them a selection of reading materials, and volunteered to turn their lights up or down. He seemed on the verge of offering to get down on his hands and knees and provide them with a human footstool when Stanton waved him away.

Emily sat looking out the window, her chin cradled in her hand. The sunset was a beautiful shade of lavender, the clouds tinged with lime. Before the sun went down again, she realized, she would be in New York. The thought sent a nervous thrill through her entire body. Her throat was tight, her heart suddenly racing. She looked at Stanton.

“He will help us, won’t he?” she blurted suddenly. Stanton, looking up from an evening edition of
The New York Times
, met her eyes quizzically. “Professor Mirabilis, I mean. He will help us. Everything’s going to turn out all right, isn’t it?”

“Professor Mirabilis is the most powerful credomancer in New York City,” Stanton said. “He’s the Sophos of the Institute—its leader. Its Heart. He’ll know exactly what to do. Everything will be fine.”

Each of Stanton’s words fitted carefully against the last, building a comforting wall of syllabic certainty. But still, Emily rubbed her finger over the cool metal of the ring she still wore on her thumb—the ring Stanton had given her in San Francisco. She frowned, not looking at him.

“At Cutter’s Rise, Caul said that Mirabilis had no faith in you.” Emily spoke softly. “He said that he wanted to make you a failure.”

“Caul was doing his best to squink me.” Stanton’s voice was dismissive, but his brow knit slightly. “For all Caul derides credomancy, he’s not above using its tools.”

“What exactly is a ‘squink’ anyway?”

“It’s a minor credomantic tactic. It is an attempt to undermine the power of another by attacking his sense of self-worth. It’s a contraction of the words ‘squid ink,’ because it’s like a squid squirting ink to muddy the waters. A successful squink makes one question oneself, and questioning oneself leads to muddleheadedness and uncertainty.”

“But what was he trying to make you question? What did he mean about squandered opportunities?”

“Speaking of Central Park,” Stanton said, folding his paper and tilting his head to peer at her. “Did you know that it has a castle with enchanted swans?”

She blinked.

“A what?” Emily said.

“A castle,” Stanton said. “With enchanted swans.”

“But what does that have to do with—”

“It’s called Belvedere Castle, and it’s built on top of Vista Rock.” Stanton’s voice was low and rhythmic. “The second highest natural elevation in Central Park. Before it stretches a beautiful smooth lake dotted with irises and blue flags. It’s actually a reservoir full of Croton water, but they’ve done a lovely job disguising that. Anyway, the enchanted swans swim around on this lake, and on nights with a full moon, they can talk. One of them has a very cultivated Afrikaner accent, though no one knows where he picked it up. He’s called Charlie.”

Emily blinked at him again. His eyes held hers, and in their green depths she felt, for a strange moment, that she could almost see the castle—a pile of white stone reflected in a rippling lake, blue flags and irises stirring in the wind.

“He can do what? In what kind of accent?”

“All of the swans have excellent conversational skills, but Charlie is the most celebrated. Someone, though no one quite knows who, has taught him to recite several cantos of Dante’s
Inferno
. Someone with an Afrikaner accent, it stands to reason. It’s really quite a mystery.”

Emily’s head was suddenly a stew of castles and talking swans and mysterious Afrikaners. She scratched a place behind her ear as if that would bring her thoughts back into some kind of logical arrangement.

“How did we get on enchanted swans?” she said with vague irritation. “What were we talking about, anyway?”

“Sophos Mirabilis,” Stanton said. “And how he’s going to help you.”

Emily nodded, remembering.

“He’ll know what to do? You’re sure of it?”

“I’m absolutely certain of it,” Stanton said. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. Don’t lose heart now. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Emily breathed out. The force and sureness of Stanton’s words made her feel warm and hopeful.

The feeling of pleasant optimism lingered for the rest of the evening. The porter made up the beds, and Emily took the bottom berth, drawing the velvet curtain closed. Snuggling under the blankets, looking forward to a good night’s sleep, she found that some of the excitement she’d felt at the beginning of the trip had returned. They were almost to New York, and New York was sure to be a wonderful place.

“You know, Mr. Stanton,” she said drowsily, as she heard him douse the lamp, “I find that I really am looking forward to seeing Central Park.”

Rocking, swaying gently in that soft bed, Emily dreamed.

She dreamed that the whole world pulsed and throbbed around her like the heart of a giant beast.

She dreamed that she was standing in the middle of a wide stretching place, edges curving into the distance, the land reflecting the sky and the sky reflecting the land. The sound was all around her, as if she were a tiny grain of sand within a great thumping drum.

What if she lost herself in all that emptiness? How could anyone find her? How could she find herself?

She could see the veins of the earth, its sinews and structures. With the topsoil torn away, peeled back, she could see the shimmering traceries that lay hidden beneath, imagined but never seen—veins that glowed with orange and gold and yellow and red. Mirrorlike, the sky reflected the light, shimmering and shifting, cloudy and ethereal.

“It’s so beautiful,” Emily whispered in Miwok. Her words, spoken, sent light in a shimmering ripple along the glowing tracery, along thick broad veins and small feathery capillaries. To her surprise, Emily found that she could feel the movement of the light, feel it all through her body. It was ticklish and maddening all at once, like having her spine stroked by a velvet glove, like having her ears licked by a cat, like having her toes rubbed with ice by a warm hand. She gasped with delight, closing her eyes.

It is Ososolyeh
, Komé said.

Opening her eyes, Emily saw that the old woman was before her, her naked old body withered and shrunken. Her body was entirely black, as if she were made of stretchy shining tar. She stood perfectly motionless, arms crossed over her sagging breasts, her head down.

Ososolyeh, ancient and vast, wanderer from the stars, the
great spirit of the earth
. Komé’s voice rose and fell counterpoint to the thrum of the earth around them.

“Then it does live,” Emily whispered, feeling the certainty of it.

It lives
, Komé exhaled.
It needs you, Basket of Secrets
.

“I don’t understand what it wants,” Emily said.

It has been trying to tell you. It has been trying desperately
.

“I haven’t heard it.” Emily’s despair made the light around her ripple with sad shades of blue and purple.

It speaks in the music of the wind. The shift of grass and branch. The shape of clouds. In all of these, Ososolyeh speaks. It has told you its will in every bird that has flown over your head, every mote of dust that has swirled before your eyes, every piece of earth that has turned from beneath your foot
.

“I don’t know the language of grasses and birds and dirt,” Emily said. “Why can’t you just tell me yourself?”

Ah, that would be a story that would take millions of years to tell in words
, Komé said regretfully.
And the foulness binds me, and I am tired
.

“You have to help me understand,” Emily begged.

The mind of Ososolyeh cannot be imagined. To hear Ososolyeh’s voice, you must allow your mind to stretch to the size of the stars, for that is the size of Ososolyeh’s dreams. You must forget that time exists. You must forget that you can die
.

Emily didn’t think she could forget that, looking at Komé’s body, at the oily ugliness that bound her. She fell to her knees before the old woman, bending her head.

“I can’t do it.” She put her face in her hands. “Mother, I can’t.”