The Deavys Page 12

  Rose had left it at that. The subway entrance their uncle had specified would have to suffice.

  The stairs were narrow, busy, and no dirtier than they expected. Once below the surface, the omnipresent street noise was drowned out by the echoing clip-clop of many feet, the distant rise and fade of the rumbling subway, and a thickening of the atmosphere that was the result of hundreds of Ords exhaling heavily within a warm enclosed space.

  Tiled walls lined with glassed-in advertising boxes split off into two corridors. After a moment’s hesitation and a brief caucus, the Deavys chose the tunnel on their right. It soon opened up onto a platform fronting empty tracks. Several dozen commuters waited, sitting on benches and reading or standing and waiting for the next train (most Ords were already at work). The dark mouths of the train tunnel were visible to left and right. Across the tracks, other travelers awaited trains going in the opposite direction. An empty, boarded-up concession booth occupied the center of the platform.

  “He’s got to be here somewhere.” Amber was looking around restlessly, searching the platform and the benches. None of the people who were present looked like someone who could be everywhere.

  “Uncle Herkimer said we’d know him when we saw him.” Rose had started up the platform, unobtrusively studying the faces of each commuter as she passed.

  “That’s not much of a description.” More solid than usual, N/Ice joined her sisters in scrutinizing the travelers.

  They split up, wandering among the largely silent commuters, the girls covertly listening in on several of the stolid travelers who were wearing personal music playback devices in hopes of overhearing something new and interesting. Simwan’s seeking was more restrained, constrained as he was by the need to keep track of Pithfwid. Fortunately, there were no other pets on the platform and therefore nothing with which the obstreperous Deavy cat could become embroiled.

  Inordinately perceptive, the coubet identified insurance adjusters and office clerks, assistant chefs and oily mechanics, temp teachers and daydreaming librarians, but none who might qualify for the sobriquet Mr. Everywhere. When the next train stopped, everyone who had been waiting got on. Those who emerged shuffled in massed silence toward the two exits. Within moments, the platform was deserted. One by one, the next batch of southbound travelers wandered down to the platform from the street above. And still no sign of anyone who could be Mr. Everywhere.

  Then Pithfwid’s ears perked up. Not surprisingly, having far more sensitive hearing than any of his merely human companions, it was he who heard the music first.

  Simwan felt a purposeful tug on the leash. “What’s up?”

  Glancing around and back, Pithfwid favored him with an urgent expression but said nothing. He couldn’t, now that Ord commuters were repopulating the waiting platform. Simwan allowed himself to be led forward. Behind him, Rose saw what was happening and notified her sisters.

  The music was coming from the far side of the tracks. They had to go down a flight of stairs, cross under the tracks, and come up on the other platform. The blank-faced commuters waiting on the opposite side were no different from those they had previously encountered. Only the music was new. It came from a banjo. This battered but still serviceable instrument was being plucked and strummed by a middle-aged man of dubious appearance and unsteady mien. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his back resting against another shuttered concession kiosk, a tattered floral cushion the only intermediary between his flat backside and the cold concrete. A smattering of coins and a couple of bills lay in the open instrument case lying in front of him. He was shorter than Simwan, shorter even than the girls, with jet-black curly hair exploding out from beneath a battered brown fedora and a tangle of a beard in which anything from lice to a small lemur could have been hiding. His brown jacket was open and unzipped to reveal a stained blue and white shirt, and there was a hole near the left cuff of his dark serge slacks.

  At the moment, he was playing something wistful. From his music studies, Simwan recognized it as a traditional Bohemian folk lament better suited to a mandolin than a banjo. It seemed an odd selection for a subway busker. Focusing on his instrument, the short, swarthy figure concluded the dirge and effortlessly segued into a Mozart violin concerto. Simwan had never heard Mozart played on a banjo and suspected the man had fashioned the necessary transcription himself. Leaning over, Simwan spoke to the black cat on the leash.

  “That him?”

  For the nonce, there were no other commuters, or music lovers, nearby. Pithfwid glanced up and nodded confidently. “That’s him.”

  The coubet had gathered alongside their brother. “That’s Mr. Everywhere?” Amber was unconvinced. “He doesn’t look like much.”

  “He’s certainly not what I expected.” Rose frowned as she studied the cross-legged lump of human dishevelment.

  “Definitely a letdown,” put in N/Ice for good measure.

  “How do you know it’s him?” Simwan whispered to the cat.

  Raising a paw, Pithfwid pointed. “Several reasons. A number of astral axes align in his presence. He stinks of data. And lastly, I notice that his posterior is not actually in contact with that cushion.”

  Blinking, Simwan crouched down as low as he could without drawing the curious attention of the commuters behind them. It was true: There was a gap of a millimeter or so between the busker’s backside and the cushion he was nominally sitting upon.

  They were soon standing close to the banjo picker as he shifted effortlessly from Mozart to Mahler. A bit of the Erlicht solo, Simwan noted. It was doubtful that Mahler had ever envisioned his sublime music being played on a banjo. Still the player did not look up. Reaching into her purse, Rose took out a coin and tossed it into the open instrument case. Maybe it was the arrival of the money that made the man finally stop playing and raise his gaze. Maybe it was the fact that the coin (albeit a small denomination) came from the original hoard of King Midas. Rheumy brown eyes blinked at them, traveling from coubet to cat to Simwan. Like oil dispersing on a wave, the corneas cleared even as Simwan met the player’s gaze.

  “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 somewhe
re 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.