A Book Of Tongues (8 page)

He met his own eyes in the cheval-glass, searching for something
to take his mind off his current situation . . . ’cause when it stung
this awful, any port in a storm would do, in terms of distraction.
And there Rook lay on his belly, down between Chess’s wide-spread
legs, working away throat-first to the very red-gold roots of Chess’s
cock, so his spine jack-knifed with pleasure, while reaching up to
cover Chess’s face with one huge hand, at the same time — spreading
it over him, like a blindfold. Morrow could see him kissing Rook’s
palm as Rook did it, licking at those long fingers and moaning
gutturally, his eyes squeezed tight-closed.

Sighing out: “Oh Ash, oh God, oh
Jesus
— oh, God fucking
damn
,
that’s
good
— ”

Rook gave a rumble of laughter, right into Chess’s privatest spots.
“Sssh,” he managed, mouth too full for anything else.

Bad enough, but not the worst. Because even as Morrow trembled
in the grip of Rook’s spell, rigid with pain, he understood — with sick
certainty — that his own drained-white face had
always
been visible
in the mirror, from some angles. For example, the one Rook was
looking up at Morrow from,
right damn now
—

Yes, it’s true,
a voice —
not
his own — said, inside of Morrow’s
head.
I see you, Ed; know why you’re here,
and
what for. But, that said . . .
watch this.

Well, it wasn’t like Morrow could do anything else.

Dimly, Morrow began to perceive a weird light forming around
Chess’s ecstatic, prisoned face, some ectoplasmic substance flowing
off of him in a fluid, rotten caul up along Rook’s arm, illuminating
veins and muscles as it sunk beneath the skin, vampiristically
absorbed.

What the
Hell
?
Morrow wondered. Thinking, at the same time:
Bot-flies,
and knowing how “Hell” might be the exact correct word,
given.

I said to
watch
this, Edward,
Rook’s mind-voice repeated — as,
simultaneously, the Rook right in front of Morrow cupped his
other hand beneath Chess’s ass, two fingers teasing him open again
so they could drive up high inside, feeling for that magic button.
Chess’s flat stomach knotted, heels kicking, and a fresh blush blazed
up toward his throat; he gave a hoarse half-yell, flailing, while Rook
sucked even harder, draining him dry.

The phosphorescence hooding Chess’s head flickered once and
went out, a doused lucifer.

Rook grinned at Morrow, licking his lips. Then rose up, naked and
dripping as some well-fucked ogre, palming Chess’s lids delicately
shut as he went, like he was blessing some corpse he’d just defiled.
Didn’t even bother to put on a pair of pants before he crossed back
over to where Morrow stood, wavering in the magic circle’s barbedwire net, and pulled him bodily in through the Bridal Suite’s door,
kicking it closed behind them.

“So you’re a Pink,” the Rev said. “So what? That wasn’t exactly
hard to figure, even without my skills. Most men who’ll go out of
their way to join up with me got to have somethin’ really, truly
wrong with ’em, so the fact that you’re a good man, let alone good at
your job too? Dead giveaway, I’m afraid.”

Though mortified by his own weakness, Morrow couldn’t
quite stop himself from making noise at that — a shameful sort of
squeak — as the Rev looked back over at Chess, now fast asleep and
snoring. “Oh yeah, that’s right — Chess does hate Pinkertons, that’s
for damn sure. But that’s how I knew I could trust you, Ed, if things
came down to it — ’cause since I could always give Chess good reason
to kill you, I figured you’d probably do whatever it took for me not
to.”

Then: “But pardon me. I’m afraid I clean forgot you were still in
. . . difficulty.”

Rook made a sign in Morrow’s direction, and the pain took flight
all at once — such a relief, he all but collapsed into the Rev’s ploughhorse arms. Instead, he stumbled backward, almost flopping down
on the bed with Chess before he realized his mistake.

“Naw, don’t want to do that,” the Rev pointed out, mildly. “Try
over on that chair, instead.”

Morrow did, straining not to sprawl every which-way. His joints
burned like he’d been wrung out, heart tripping clog-step, bowels
full of cholera-water.

“. . . thank you,” he said, at last.

“Not so fast,” Rook said, rummaging in the pile of clothes flung
together by the bed’s side. Then re-emerged, with Chess’s knife at
the ready.

“Aw look, hey, now — ”

“Calm the fuck down, Ed, it ain’t what you think. Hold still.”

Spent as he was, Morrow sat there dumbfaced while Rook sawed
a chunk of his hair away, sheep-shearing-quick, then touched the
raw spot lightly, a soothing balm spreading briskly out wherever
his fingers lighted. The tuft itself he tucked away in a small leather
pouch he kept on his gun-belt.

“All right,” he said. “
Now
we’re done.”

“The shit was
that
?” Morrow demanded, hoarsely.

The Rev shrugged. “Insurance, mainly. Know what a mojo is?”
Morrow shook his head. “Well, the dolly-bag I’m gonna make from
this hair says you’re gonna do what I want, whenever and however I
want it — or I’ll throw it right in the fire, see what happens when it
starts to burn. And you
really
don’t want that, believe you me.”

“I believe you,” Morrow replied, his voice gone almost completely
juiceless.

Rook nodded. “Here’s the deal, then. I have to go somewhere, try
out this mirror of Songbird’s. Gotta talk to my Rainbow Lady, and
I need to do it alone; she’s gonna tell me things I don’t want Chess
tryin’ to talk me out of. I need him kept away.”

“All right. But he won’t listen to me — not like he does to you.”

Another grim grin. “Oh, I don’t need him listenin’
that
hard. Just
tell him I told you he has to take the rest of the gang to Splitfoot Joe’s,
lay low, and wait. That’s where I’ll meet back up with everybody.”

“He won’t believe — ”

Brooking no opposition: “
Convince
him, then.”

Rook turned his back, arrogant in his utter lack of wariness. And
if Morrow hadn’t been so damn drained, that alone might have been
enough to
make
him try something anyways, just on principle.

But instead, he simply looked back down at his hands, still
trembling in his lap, and asked: “Okay, well — what were you doin’
back there — with Chess? I mean . . . I know what
some
of it was,
obviously. But — ”

“Show me that ‘timepiece’ of yours, will you, Ed?”

Reluctantly, Morrow passed the Manifold over, as Rook stood
waiting with one hand out. Rook took it, studying it from all
directions.

“Very pretty,” he said, finally, and passed it back. “Might come in
useful, eventually.”

“You gonna answer my question, or what?”

The Rev turned once more, finally rummaging for his small-clothes, and tucked himself safely away. “Oh, I think you’ll figure it
out, soon enough. If you just keep your eyes open.”

Next morning, Chess came clattering down while Morrow was
checking his ammunition, immaculate from head to toe, like he
hadn’t spent half the night taking it from behind — his bright hair
combed and gleaming extra-sharp with fresh pomade, purple coat
brushed out ’til it shone, and in about as foul a mood as Morrow’d
ever seen him.

“How long that sumbitch been gone?” he demanded.
“Since ’fore dawn,” Morrow said, counting shells. Then, like he’d
just thought of it: “Yeah, he said you was to go to Splitfoot Joe’s, and
then he’d meet you there after.”

“After what?”

“Fuck if
I
know, Chess. He don’t make such as me privy to his
thoughts.”

“Well, why the hell wouldn’t he tell me that his own damn self?”

“Uh . . . ’cause you was asleep, I guess.”

“Oh, that Goddamn man!” Chess grabbed the bottle Morrow
already had going, and flopped down in the chair opposite him
to take a long drink. “Bible-beltin’ son-of-a
bitch
got business
somewheres he thinks he don’t need
me
for; thinks he can stick his
dick in my ass to keep me quiet, then run the hell off on me.”

Morrow squirmed, uncomfortably. “Aw, Chess, c’mon. I don’t
need to know — ”

“Well shit, Morrow, what was it you thought we was doin’ up
there? Playin’ Goddamn canasta?”

“Hardly. Ain’t stupid, you know.”

“I
do
know, so don’t act it. Oh, that damn man!”

“He’s a hex. They ain’t like other people.”

Chess gave a bitter little laugh, then chased it with an even
longer swig. “Oh no, they sure ain’t, and neither is he — ’cept from
the waist down. ’Cause that part of him’s pretty much like every
other motherfucker I ever met.”

Morrow didn’t know what-all to say to that, so he just kept quiet.
They sat together an interminable minute, locked back into a strange
parody of companionability — Chess looking off, eyes narrowed,
with Morrow too het up to do much more than keep his own breath
steady. ’Til both of them were finally interrupted by a noise — all too
familiar to Morrow — which grew ever more insistent.

Eventually Chess snapped out, “Just what the hell
is
that?”

“My . . . timepiece, I think,” Morrow said, at last.

“You need to do somethin’ about it, then, real damn fast. Thing’s
’bout to give me a headache. Jesus
Christ
!”

Reluctantly, Morrow drew out the Manifold, popped its lid —
and gaped, as both spinning needles instantly resolved, a set trap
snapping: red on red, upper part of the scale, same as Asbury’d
always claimed they would. Pointing, for all the Goddamn world . . .
straight at Chess.

Morrow heard Rook’s velvet rasp pick at his brain’s folds:
Thing’ll
come in handy, eventually — you’ll figure out why. Soon enough.

That’s
why I could never get a clear reading,
Morrow thought,
helpless to not complete the equation, even when it’d already been
made so mocking-clear.
’Cause Chess is always standing there, right
beside Rook. And Chess . . . vicious little Chess Goddamn Pargeter, who
used to suck cock for bullets, and’ll shoot you just for standin’ still if he
don’t like the look on your face while you’re doin’ it . . . Chess is a hex, too.

The
start
of one, anyhow, seeing how true “grievous bodily harm”
hadn’t had its way with him. But more than enough for Rook to
siphon a bit of it off whenever he’d been preyed on, and needed to
do some preyin’ of his own, in return.

All I need to trust about
you
, Ed,
Rook’s ghost-voice told him,
is
that you at least know to do what I tell you. So . . . do you? We good?

“Yes sir,” Morrow muttered, out loud — then rose in one heave and
walked away fast, while he could still be fairly sure Chess thought he
was talking to
him
.

Today’s Lord of Night (Number Six) is Chalchiuhtlicue, “She of the
Jade Serpent-Skirt” or “She whose Night-robe of Jewel-stars Whirls
Above.” Chalchiuhtlicue was the ruler over the Fourth Sun, the world
immediately previous to our own. That world was destroyed by
flooding.

The
Aztec
trecena
Mazatl
(“Deer”)
is
ruled
by
Tepeyollotl —
Heart of the Mountain, the Jaguar of Night, lord of darkened caves.
Tepeyollotl is Tezcatlipoaca disguised in a jaguar hide, whose voice is
the echo in the wilderness and whose word is the darkness itself.

By the Mayan Long Count calendar, the protector of day Acatl
(“Reed”) is also Tezcatlipoaca, who provides the days’ shadow soul.
Acatl is the sceptre of authority which is, paradoxically, hollow.

Today is a day when the arrows of fate fall from the sky like
lightning bolts. A good day to seek justice, a bad day to act against
others.

Once, the Rainbow Lady had told Asher Rook, in dreams, a human
ball-player was enticed by owls to pit his skills against the lords
of death, and made a descent into what was then called Xibalba.
He swam the river of blood, yet did not become drunk with it. He
reached the crossroads, the Place of All Winds, where he took not
the red road, nor the white, nor the yellow, but the black. He entered
the bone canoe, piloted by spiders and bats. He sank downwards,
through cold water, to the whole world’s bottom.

Xibalba, as it was called then. Mictlan, as it became. Mictlan-Xibalba, as it is now, and will be, forever more.

When he arrived, however, he was met only with mockery and
betrayal. The Sunken Ball-Court’s kings set him impossible tasks,
then cheated the rules to make sure he would fail, and sent him to
be executed, decreeing that his severed head should be set in a tree
by the wayside, as a warning to other travellers.

Promptly, the tree flowered all over, producing a hundred
succulent calabash melons that attracted the attention of Blood
Maiden, the Blood Gatherer’s beautiful daughter. She reached up to
pick one, only to discover she held the ball-player’s skull instead.
The skull spat in her hand, and told her:
Though my face is gone, it
will soon return, in the face of my son.
And she found herself pregnant.

Because this is how things begin, always, little king: in
darkness, in chaos. In blood.

The world we know, a child conceived in death, a saviour made
from bones. The flower from the skull.

This is what I want you to understand, as you already
should. You died in my way, after all — a valid sacrifice, whether
ordained or not. And ignorance is no excuse.