Black Locust Letters (13 page)

“
You
mean that some human wants to trick me into thinking I have a Never
Were admirer. And possibly mislead the community in this
way.”

“
Or
perhaps just you,” Jenny said, but her expression indicated that
she thought that anyone who would go to this extent would be of
nefarious reasons greater than a bit of personal
vengeance.

While Betty reeled with this possibility, Jenny looked a
second time at the letter; or rather, the envelope. “But I really
do doubt it. If this is a forgery, it's a good one. See the angle
of the 'l'? Left hand slant and the curl is at the bottom of the
letter instead of at the top, as humans do. It is in all capitals,
which is unusual, but perfectly acceptable for someone who has
spent time in the field or military office. The details are
correct.”

Jenny licked the ink, tasting its quality, and Betty tried
not to look revolted by the display. “Sap and resin. Grasshopper
spit, too. I don't know enough to pinpoint its origin, but I can
tell you a little of the sender.”

At
this, Betty perked up noticeably and her heart skipped to think
that the letters might be genuine, but this time she was more
guarded than before. “Who?”

“
I
can't say who, but I can guess as to what. Obviously avian, if you
hadn't supposed that much then I really think you daft. Not a
raptor, raptors use the more revolting types of stains to write
with.”

More
revolting than grasshopper spit? “Like what?”

Jenny shrugged. “Bile from small rodents, larger ones if they
can get a hold of it. Blood sometimes, but they like to mix that up
with things.”

Betty felt a little nauseous, and Jenny laughed.

“
It
is not so bad as you would imagine. They use all they can from
their hunting, that is all.”

If
it wasn't for the chill of the day, Betty might have been thinking
that this all was nothing more than a waking dream. She shivered.
“Well, then I am glad that the sender is not a raptor. Can you say
anything else about him?”

Jenny's lip quirked but she kept from teasing or making a
fuss. “Hard to say. It is possible he or she is a type of songbird,
but I really do not know. Could be a common wren.”

“
Basically, anything in the air which doesn't have
talons?”

Jenny nodded, then considered something. “Never Weres like
their territories. It is very likely that you either live in or
walk through his territory frequently. Why don't you make note of
the noises birds make, and identify them that way?”

Betty considered this, too. “The library has a stash of bird
recordings and I think a couple of reels about them.”

“
And
there are books, but you'll have to be familiar with the
onomatopoeias they use to describe the sounds.”

The
upstairs collections reading room of the Sunny Glenn Library sat
echoingly empty, and Betty checked the clock on the wall, wondering
if she should take the hint and leave. The librarian had been out
of sorts this morning and this was unfortunate as Betty had to ask
her for the recordings of the birds. As she had also asked to view
documentaries, Betty had been shown to a small room with a bare
bulb and no heating. She sat on the table, having used the sole
chair to prop open the door to allow what little heat she could
into the room.

Meanwhile, Betty leafed through the book she had brought with
her, her mind too much in disorder to do anything more than
mindlessly skim over the words and turn the pages, not having read
a single line all the way through. Her head felt better now, than
it did earlier this morning, but the tea and coffee she had had in
the meantime did little to rid her of the after-effects of too much
wine from the night before.

Presently there came a huff at the entrance to the room, and
Betty saw the librarian standing there, a cart loaded up with two
boxes. She said, “Do you know how to run the equipment?”

Betty knew. She did work in a recording booth, after all, but
she did not dare to cross the librarian while her hair was frazzled
and her eyes were hard and angry, so Betty allowed the woman to
show her. Once the woman was contented that all was situated, she
left the cart and contents for Betty's perusal.

Soon
a moving picture flickered on the far wall and Betty sat in a
chair, having decided to use the cart to keep the door open for the
heat, even if she did have to rub her fingers to bring life into
them.

“
Birds. They live in the air and the trees, and we admire
them, but do we truly appreciate them for what they do for our
world?” the narrator said over flickering landscape scenes with
blurs of motion that Betty presumed were supposed to capture birds
in flight. She stared blankly at the images, not finding them at
all interesting, and finding the dialogue even more
dull.

Her
mind wandered to last night, as she was completely unable to focus
on the film but needed to listen to it anyway. Half-way through the
film, perhaps twenty minutes in, Betty wondered if they would ever
play a recording of bird noises, or if she was going to have to
listen to a stuffy ecologist professor administering his drivel for
the entire film. It didn't take more than a few minutes for her to
lapse back into her daydream.

Betty changed the film to another one, smiling as she did so,
wondering now on her initial reaction to the letter, and admitting
that she shouldn't be surprised that her opinions had morphed,
grown both more wary and more hopeful.

As
the new film played across the wall, she was pleased that it opened
with bird songs, but disappointed that the birds were not
identified. For a time she watched this film intently, but it ended
at twenty five minutes in length, and the birds it covered had not
been native to this region, but were rather birds of the
southeast.

She
put away the reels and the machine, then set to listening to the
dry intonations of a bird watcher who would say the bird name, play
a recording, repeat the name and recording, then move on to the
next.

Her
mind wandered, remembering what it was that had brought her
here.

She
had relinquished the reels to the librarian, who had come to scowl,
and most of the other recordings, and was ready to throw in her hat
when she heard a familiar whistle.

Betty stopped and replayed it. She was certain she'd heard
the whistle before, but not from the trees. No, it had come from
the ground, from a man, as he had walked away from her door after
the first time she had rejected him.

Clarkin knew mockingbird whistles.

With
the afternoon came the taste of snow upon the air, and the dark
clouds moving slowly overhead supported the ominous idea of a
winter storm.

In
rebellion against the early onset of bitter temperatures, Betty had
a taste for something bright and summery, and so she found herself
at Crawley's Soda Fountain, a place with giant windows painted in
the geometric patterns popular thirty years ago and now trending
again with their vintage vibes.

Inside, the Speak Easy had new life with excitable girls in
ponytails and winged eyeliner. They stared at Betty's lips as she
ordered a black cow, the float not the shake, then sat near the
entrance on a tall stool with a small table before it. Lipstick was
all the fashion, but it was a fashion parents hated, a throwback
from the days when prostitutes set themselves apart from the good
girls with a vibrant red.

Betty had no such qualms. As Welch had said, no man would
keep her hours, and she had much greater things to worry about than
what people said about her lips.

Upon
the table Betty laid open the
Journal of
Patrick Summerscale
, which detailed his
experiences being stranded in a Never Were community. Betty had
checked this out from the library by simply tucking it in her bag.
Yes, a mortifying thing to do, but she had not wanted a paper trail
to follow her, not when she might come under suspicion, and she
doubted that anyone would want to rent the book given that it had
only two entries on the card on the inner flap, and those were
dated two years ago.

Betty's black cow came, frothing high from where the ice
cream had met with the pop, and she sipped at it. Root beer instead
of the cherry cola she had asked for, ah well, she couldn't expect
the girls to get it right when they were so occupied with flirting
with the boys from the grade above them. The book, likewise, turned
out to be not quite as expected.

Yes,
it was a journal and it was about a man who had been thrown into
the midst of Never Weres long before they had come out of hiding,
but the man had squandered his opportunity. He spent long, brooding
days hiding in the room they had given him, pondering deep
philosophical thoughts about writers who must have been important
in that day, and whom history had forgotten.

It
was then that Betty heard a familiar voice.

“
Lemon-lime pop and strawberry sherbert, please.”

Betty met Jenny's gaze and motioned that the woman should
join her, and once Jenny had paid, she did so, setting her purse
down on the edge of the table and groaning to be off her
feet.

“
They might not get the order right,” Betty said as a warning.
Jenny glanced at where one of the girls leaned with an elbow on the
counter, making eyes at some boy with cut off shirt sleeves and
muscles they both thought were impressive.

“
It
will be close enough,” said Jenny. “What do you have
there?”

Betty surrendered the book to her perusal, and within a few
pages, Jenny started laughing.
“He puts
his confusion together in the only way that an Englishman can! By
drivelling utter nonsense.”
²³

Betty grinned, but did not tell Jenny that she was used to
admiring British works of literature. In the case of the journal,
Jenny was spot on with her description.

“
Whatever did you get this thing for?” Jenny asked at last,
still browsing through the pages for the few illustrations which
added to the text.

“
In
the letter I read, he made mention of some things I don't know. I
was hoping that I could find something of Never Were stories, and
this was the closest thing they had in the library.”

“
I'm
surprised they even had this. Never Weres don't publish things,
unless you are to consider the sending of a letter to be
publishing.” Jenny paused to let the girl give her the float, then
watched as she left again. With a spoon, Jenny tasted some of the
overflowing ice cream. “Cherry.”

“
I
told you they'd get it wrong.”

“
At
least it is a complimentary flavor.” Jenny shook her head, then
continued, “What I was saying was that the Never Weres have verbal
storytelling. Ballads are particularly popular, we like the rhythm
and it is a nice way to spend the long nights of
winter.”

“
I'm
just curious about a couple of things.”

“
You
can ask me and I'll tell you anything I know, but I can't repeat
the stories. I don't know them that well.”

“
That might be fine.” Betty closed her eyes and tried to
remember. “What do you know of someone named Loti? Lah-ti? I'm not
sure how it is said.”

“
Loh-tee.” Jenny took a long drink and wiped her lips, taking
some color off her lips and onto the napkin. “He's a character, of
ambiguous gender, most often referred to as male but it's common
enough for Loti to be female. He's the watcher of the world, the
guardian against the night. It warns the others and keeps them
safe. If they do not listen to Loti, terrible things befall as a
result of not heeding his cries.”

Betty cocked her head. “He sounds a bit like a
banshee.”

With
a wave of her finger, Jenny set to correcting her. “No, no. A
banshee is almost always female, the ancestor or relative of those
who hear her scream over the moors. To hear her cry is to tell of
the oncoming death of a loved one. Very different.”

The
spoon beneath Betty's fingers clattered against the glass, a little
too noisily to be polite, but the youths didn't notice. She
considered what this meant, that her admirer considered himself to
be a guardian over her. That could be a comfort, or it could be a
concern. She didn't know enough of what was happening to draw the
right conclusions.

Before Jenny could ask why, Betty pressed on, “And what of
being afraid of the stealing of the bell?”

“
The
stealing of the bell?” Jenny blinked, confused. “How was that used?
In what context?”

“
'I
fear the stealing of the bell'.”

Jenny pursed her lips and rolled her shoulders. “Well, there
is the gremlins and their bells. I suppose that could make
sense.”

“
Tell me.”

“
Well, it's not a story, it's more of an
event...” Jenny trailed off and for a long few seconds, Betty
worried that she would not say more. Presently, Jenny continued,
“In gremlin society, every family lodge has a bell which symbolizes
all the wealth and status of their family. Every family protects
their bell and every generation adds to its adornment, often to the
extent where the bell consumes an entire room. They also try to
steal other's bells and defile them, and if this happens the family
will wage war until their bell is returned. In 'Exica and the
Gromils'
,
the
Gromil family had a beautiful bell which was encased in an equally
elaborate bell tower which was in the center of the Gromil living
quarters, in a courtyard of sorts.