Black Locust Letters (2 page)

Those in the circle looked to one another, turned their beaks
this way and that, as though they were holding a conversation with
no noises. Betty wondered if the crow might go free. She was blind
to his alleged crimes, blind to everything beyond being the one
against the many, and she bit her lip while his peers made their
silent debate. There was some dissension. Then they settled.
Decision made.

Wings unfolded as black capes and they leapt from the ground
with a single beat of feathers upon moss-laced mosaic, and as one
they descended upon the defendant. Screeches and screams rang
through hollow streets as a flurry of feathers gave way to all too
human cries of pain and fury.

Only
then, with the beating of wings upon the ground and the thumps and
grunts of murder in her ears, was Betty able to yank herself away
and run. Betty ran until her lungs burned and her ankle ached.
Still she pressed on. She ran, and she ran, not knowing if she was
followed yet presuming that she was and that she ran for her life,
until she ran weak-kneed and gasping into a man in a grey-brown
suit.

He
grunted and caught her by her elbows, which was good; otherwise she
would have slid to the ground and soiled her skirt. Betty swiped
her eyes with her sleeve and was too breathless to form an apology,
too lost in panic to think to check to whom she was
speaking.

“
Are
you well?” The stranger's light city accent broke through Betty's
disoriented consciousness, and he looked down a heavy nose into her
eyes.

Betty's first thought was to try to run more, but that was
impossible. Then she wondered at his concern, wondered why he was
not angry. She heard the slowing drone of footsteps, coming to a
stop behind her.

No
one, not even a Never Were, wanted a witness.

Betty turned to face the young crow who had chased her, an
ashen-faced youth with a malicious smile and sprightly swing to his
arms. Feathers dangled in his hair when he swept dreadlocks back
from his face.

“
Murder?” … guessed the man standing beside her.

Betty flinched.

The
crow flashed her a grin. Betty's legs turned to gelatin. Then the
crow said to the man, “He will not break the code
again.”

The
man in the grey-brown suit dipped his head, then said, “And your
interest in this one?”

“
Just a chase; all a bit of fun.”

The
man stared at him.

“
If
you do not mind...?” The crow jerked his head.

Betty wondered if she could use her shoe's heel as a weapon,
but then the man pulled her into his chest and made a quick
motion.

The
crow hesitated, and the man responded with a stare. The crow
shrugged and walked back the direction he came.

“
Fun, indeed,” said the man and let Betty stand on her own
again. She swayed.

It
started to rain. He opened up an umbrella, and held out his arm,
which Betty took out of habit rather than by conscience choice of
will.
Just
then, she started shivering.

“
You
must take care. You need a warm drink and a dry roof.” The man
looked to the sky as rain started hitting the mossy path they stood
on. His eyes gleamed and he tilted his head. “Come, come. There's a
diner around the corner. They'll see you're tended-to.”

Betty's legs felt weak from shock and stiff from running, and
her teeth chattered. A guilty part of her purred to be given such
undivided attention as they hustled down Vandermeer Lane while rain
came heavier and heavier.

None
too soon, they squashed together into a section of a rotating glass
door and entered Sammy's Diner. They sat in the booth with the
furnace blowing hot air out from under the seat, and a teenaged
girl with bad cases of freckles and giggles alike came to take
their orders then left again. Betty's savior looked less like the
dashing heroes in the penny shows and more like a scarecrow, with
his gangly long legs and arms and expressive hands. Quick, bright
eyes the same copper-flecked hue as the amber stone admired Betty
with a message whose meaning she couldn't fathom, just was
entranced by.

He
wasn't handsome in the classical sense, nor in the
artistic-angst-sort of way, not even in the stout, bad-boy
Gemmy
manner. His chin
was too fine, fit for a lady rather than a man, his cheek bones
tolerable if little else, his nose an ungainly hook too refined to
be Eastern European, and his brow swept back rather than strong.
There should have been nothing found desirable and everything to be
desired; yet, for some inexplicable reason, the exact opposite was
true.

The
waitress brought peach pie a la mode and a hot chocolate, and a
crumble coffee cake with blackberry tea. Betty sank her fork
through the crisp golden crust and mingled a peach slice with the
melted vanilla ice cream. Within three bites, her mood turned
jovial and she said with a blush, “Thank you for your
kindness.”

The
man across from her smiled. “It was my pleasure to meet you.
Clarkin Hannah, at your service.”

Betty tried not to cough at the Never Were greeting. What
sort of demon had saved her from the crows? She reached for her
cocoa, drank too fast, and scorched her tongue. Clarkin didn't
notice, he was too busy watching her with that steady gaze. Who
else was in the diner? An old woman with her knitting needles and a
young couple. No one had noticed her odd companion.

Betty ate her pie; glad that Clarkin's gaze wandered over the
red vinyl bar stools and bright chrome rods accenting the lips of
tables. Sammy's Diner was new, trending, and a man in striped
overalls was in the corner installing a jukebox. Every now and
then, music poured across stainless steel tables and black and
white floor tiles, and Clarkin would stop eating and listen to
it.

“
Some people don't like machines playing music,” she said.
Demons in particular didn't like machines. Brownies hated anything
new, even if it was a blouse. Gremlins itched to grab tools and dig
in to dissect and perfect whatever moving parts it could
have.

Clarkin smiled. “So long as sweet melodies are made, I cannot
help but adore the things which make it.”

Betty didn't know what to make of that response, so she ate
the last of her pie.

Clarkin motioned to the door by tipping his head. “Shall we
go?”

While Betty stood and pulled on her coat, Clarkin dropped a
five on the table and nestled it under a plate. Betty started to
object, but reasoned that her smallest bill was a five, as well,
and so she dropped a few quarters down as a tip. Clarkin helped her
with her scarf, lifting her walnut locks over the silk collar of
her coat. At five foot five inches, Betty considered herself
neither tall nor short, but as he began to tie her scarf, she
realized that he wasn't quite six foot, which surprised her as his
proportions implied a tall man. His finger brushed her cheek, on
accident or purpose she couldn't tell, and it set her to
blushing.

“
Thank you, but you've helped me quite enough.” She pulled
away with a nervous laugh.

Clarkin cocked his head for an instant, contemplating; then
he grinned and motioned for her to enter the rotating doors first.
Betty paused beneath the eaves, realizing with despair that it was
raining cats and dogs, and she hadn't brought an umbrella. She
would be soaked within ten feet.

There came the snap of spokes as Clarkin opened a big brown
umbrella.

“
I
never caught your name,” Clarkin said as they stepped into the
night where mists obscured the slippery sidewalk.

“
Betty. Betty Cratchet.”

“
The
morning show? I thought I recognized your voice. It’s a pity that
more of its charm isn't relayed accurately in
transmission.”

Betty laughed. “Thank you, I think.”

“
It
is indeed a compliment, if a bit clumsy.”

“
I
don't think you are clumsy,” Betty said before she could stop
herself, thinking that it was an appropriate response, as no one
wants to insult a demon.

“
Could I walk you to a bus stop? I believe there is one in
service on the half-hour.”

“
No
need, I live nearby.”

“
The
crows are still about and you don't have a hat. I will walk you to
your door.”

Betty did not object a second time. Neighbors would see her
with a business man, if they thought to view the street at all, and
she did fear the black birds. For the rest of their walk, they were
silent, even though Betty noticed every time their strides made
their hands brush. As they turned down her street, the rain started
to come in larger, harder balls which slid off the umbrella's rim
and turned the ground to slush. Overhead, a couple of flyboys in
leather suits and gas-powered jetpacks battled the coming storm,
dipping low and narrowly dodging the lamplighters on their
ladders.

“
Are
electric pyros real?” Betty asked, reminded by the lamplighters of
the reason Tesla's spark starter wasn't used on the
streets.

Clarkin's jovial stride faltered. “Yes.”

Yesterday's mansion fire had been attributed to pyros in the
electric wires from a clothes iron. Betty hadn't been sure if that
was a cover or a real event. Ever since Franklin Smith headed the
Secret Forces Police six months ago, some very strange occurrences
had happened.

“
Here's my house,” Betty said over the descending echo of the
jetpacks' hissing rush. They always sounded louder going away, but
she didn't know why. Gremlin tech. Although she intended to leave
him at the black metal gate heading her front garden, Clarkin
opened it for her and escorted her up her straight concrete path
lined on either side with purple mums and yellow marigolds. On her
porch the promised swing rocked in a gust of wind, and Betty faced
her rescuer. Had he been a man, courtesy would have demanded she
invite him to weather out the storm in her parlor, no matter how
long it took. Had he been a man.

He
removed his fedora and shook out his umbrella while she found her
keys.

“
Thank you again for all your help,” Betty said, holding out
her hand by way of parting. Clarkin didn't look disappointed,
accepting her hand and holding it longer than customary. Waves of
warmth trembled through her body, senses suddenly acute and aware
of his every movement. Betty withdrew her hand.

Unabashed, Clarkin studied her with amber eyes and asked,
“Will you attend Autumn Moon with me in a fortnight?”

She
had always dreamed of being asked to go to the festival, but not
like this. Not by a Never Were. She thought of her job, her family,
her career. Being a woman, not to mention the daughter of a
General, was hard enough.

“
I
am sorry,” she said. “I'm afraid I can't.”

“
Then I am sorry, as well.” He sounded as though he spoke from
the heart, but did not insist. Betty hastened inside, eager to
escape, but after she closed the door, she peered through the
curtains, watching him leave with a sprightly step and a whistle on
his lips. She resisted the urge to call him back, remembering the
scented letter in her bag.

Humans weren't meant to mingle with things that Never Were.
That was more than regulation, more than common sense, it was an
order direct from the General.

She'd heard that in other places, life is as it has been for
generations. No devils, no ever growing banana bushes or crying
heads in a cabbage patch. Her father said it was true, and that's
the reason for the order. That one day long ago devils existed only
in stories. When strange things happened with no reason or
explanation, humans just accepted it. Coincidence, they'd call it,
and carry on with their lives.

At
least, that's what the library says. Some old folks say, “When I
was young, when your keys moved, you forgot where you put them. Now
you've got a bogey.”

Betty had a bogey. She'd seen it.

The
rest was nonsense.

The
letter was there, and fragrant.

What
if she got another letter, then another, and another, so sweetly
scented and kindly written, and she grew to love the sender without
having opened a single one?

She
must burn it.

She
fumbled with Slim's old lighter and struck it, held the flame to
the edge of the envelope.

But
at the last second, she opened her hose drawer, threw in the
letter, and slammed it closed.

The
rattle of the force from slamming the drawer made her dresser
wobble, and her radio wriggled—Betty caught it before it could
reach the ground, and her finger pressed a button. Crackling came
first, and when she put it back in its proper place, it caught the
signal and the staticy voice of the Alpha day host, Betty thought
her name was Jenny, said through the speakers, “...and that was
Bippidy Bee by
Yours
Truly
. We at Aphla Bravo Charlie are with
you again after the commercial break, it is time for the
weather.”

Betty snorted and left it on, realizing that the sound of
another voice helped to take the chill off the room. She needed a
distraction. She set about cleaning, did some laundry, and was
getting out a broom when she heard, “The Sheriff is asking after an
incident which took place in Sunny Glenn earlier this
afternoon.”