Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls (3 page)

I draw a deep breath and begin: “Now this is the Law of the Jungle…”

Silence greets my conclusion. Then there is a rustle and a chorus of yips and barks and howls shake the metal walls. Only when I see Abalone's proud smile do I realize that the powerful cacophony is meant as applause.

The Head Wolf's brown face is lit with a fierce smile.
“Very good, Sarah. Do you understand the words that you just recited?”

“We know in part, and we prophesy in part,” I say, hastening to clarify. “When I was a child, I understood as a child.”

“You understand some, then.” Head Wolf awaits my nod before continuing. “Fine. The Law ends with ‘Because of his age and his cunning, because of his gripe and his paw, in all that the Law leaveth open, the word of the Head Wolf is Law.' I am Head Wolf and so I have ruled these two additions to fit our Jungle Law. Chocolate, tell Sarah.”

A pretty black boy with dreadlocks stands and bows. “No one shall have sex with anyone, anyway that one don't want it. Lest they die. No one pushes drugs here. Lest they die.”

Head Wolf grimaces slightly. “Without poetry, but the sense is there. Pretty good, Chocolate.”

“Sarah, since you don't understand all the Law, you'll need a Baloo, a teacher. Is there anyone who you would like?”

Betwixt whispers, “You were worried about Edelweiss, Sarah. Here's your chance to make friends with her.”

I nod, but I am hearing the memory of Abalone's triumphant cry “Beer and pizza!” She is looking hopefully at me and I point to her.

“Those having torches will pass them onto others,” I state.

Her bright smile is my reward.

After asking for Abalone and me to wait, Head Wolf walks among his people.

Some of the Pack members are clearly dressing—or undressing—for a night turning tricks. Head Wolf pats this one on the exposed cheek of her ass, straightens that one's hair, sends another to change her blouse. Nor does he shirk the boys. Most of these are groomed to maximize their youth. Head Wolf carefully rouges one fair-haired boy's cheeks. He sends another to redepilate his beard.

Across the Jungle floor, small teams are donning leather and spikes. I see the flash of blades and hear the dull clank of metal on metal. Many of these are as flamboyantly dressed as Abalone. While the prostitutes wear their wolf signs discreetly, this group has them blazoned on jackets, armbands, and jewelry.

My observations are halted by the return of Head Wolf. He gestures us into the tent.

“Come inside, Sarah. I need to explain to you how life in the Jungle works.”

We duck under the painted flap. The tent floor is thickly carpeted with rugs piled on each other. Pillows are heaped around the edges. Despite fresh air through net windows, the small space smells of sex.

My heart begins to beat faster and I am honestly not certain if what I feel is fear or anticipation. But Head Wolf merely lounges back on some of the pillows. Abalone sits cross-legged on the soft floor and I follow suit, placing Betwixt and Between in front of me.

When we are comfortable, Head Wolf begins his lessons. “In the Jungle, we follow the Law, as you have seen. And like any wolf pack, we must hunt to provide for ourselves and our people. The Law has several provisions for distribu
tion of the kill. I have simplified these somewhat for our different circumstances.”

Abalone touches my arm. “Is he going too fast, Sarah?”

I shake my head.

“Even if I am,” Head Wolf replies, “Abalone will teach you.”

Abalone nods solemnly, her silver-and-shell earrings rattling softly as she does. Head Wolf continues.

“Simply, each of us must support our own needs. Moreover, I take a payment from each member to maintain the Jungle. With this I buy necessities, bribe police and social workers, and give rewards. New members are carried by the Pack for a week—although most begin to contribute sooner. After that, they must hunt for the Pack.”

My head is swirling with questions that I cannot ask. I want to be part of this Jungle, but how? I still fear the madness in Head Wolf's eyes. Now he is the gentle teacher, but I sense brutality enforces his Jungle Law.

Abalone pipes up. “I checked her travel bag, Head Wolf. She has one other set of those awful clothes, a bit of soap and stuff like that, a slip that says she's had all her shots, and this.”

She holds out my credit slip. Head Wolf takes it, inspects the numbers, and hands it back.

“Print coded,” he says. “A fair amount, but not generous. The Pack will carry her for the remainder of the week. After, if you pool your resources with hers, the next week's fees can be handled. By then, you should find her something to do.”

Abalone nods. “Fair enough.”

Something flashes in the dark eyes at her words and she shrinks back.

Fawning, she rolls onto her back, exposing her throat and her bare breasts. Head Wolf straddles her and bites her throat, worrying the fragile skin. As he does so, he closes off her nose and mouth so that she cannot breathe.

I see Abalone's hands curl, but she doesn't whimper.

After a terrifying minute, he releases her. As she rolls upright, gasping for air, I see blunt teeth marks on her skin.

Head Wolf growls at her. “I am always fair.”

“You are always fair,” she agrees.

Trembling, I realize that she believes this.

M
Y EARLY DAYS IN THE JUNGLE FLIT BY
. A
BALONE IS A GOOD
Baloo, teaching me the customs of the Jungle. One of my favorite lessons is how to travel the Heights without fear. I am fiercely proud of myself the day that I graduate from the cubwalks to the lines and pulleys that the Wolves use.

Yet, many evenings she must leave me to hunt. All the Jungle awakens in the evening, its coming alive heralded by the chirping of the ‘Tail Wolves,' as the prostitutes are called. Their preparations take the longest, but soon after they awaken, their protectors—the Four they are called, although there are more than four—also rise, donning leather and weapons.

The Tail Wolves and the Four share each others' profits, but each pays individual fees to Head Wolf. I see he is careful that they do not become a Pack within his Pack.

Others of the Pack make their way by selling drugs.
Some of these fall prey to their own wares. Head Wolf deals with such harshly. When he repeatedly cannot pay his fee, one young man gone into designer dream is declared a hanger-on by Head Wolf from the same Council Rock where he taught me the Law. From my place in the Heights, I watch in horror as Head Wolf strangles the boy in his sleep.

Abalone is neither a Tail Wolf nor a member of the Four. She tells me she has turned tricks only when she has had no other way to earn her keep; something in her voice tells me that this is not often.

What she prefers is stealing. Her flamboyant exterior hides the soul of stealth and her special prey is vehicles. One good strike in a month and she is comfortable. Still, she takes a long time preparing each strike. All I understand of her craft is her oft-repeated phrase: “The days of hot wire and go are gone. Today, more than half the theft takes place in a computer.”

Tonight she has left almost before dark falls to take care of some business. I swing alone above the near silent Jungle, Betwixt and Between in my lap.

“From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs,” I say softly aloud.

“Wondering what you can do?” Betwixt asks. “I thought so.”

“Me, too,” Between adds, then recites, “Don't want to be a Tail Wolf/Don't want to be a Four/But no matter what you name yourself/You're nothing but a whore.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Betwixt retorts. “The Tail Wolves are whores, not our Sarah.”

“They're selling sex honestly,” Between snaps. “Sarah just sits here leaving half the Pack panting for a chance at her. You both know that Head Wolf took her so fast because he wants her.”

They bicker, but I do not interrupt. They have framed my dilemma perfectly. I have seen that not all who come to the Pack are so quickly welcomed. Most must prove themselves first—living as hangers-on, doing the filthiest chores.

Soon I must decide what I will do. My choices seem limited. Either I must become a Tail Wolf (The Four will only take proven brawlers) or be a beggar—a Tabaqui, in the lingo of the Pack.

The Tabaqui are barely tolerated and I have heard debates as to whether begging is really legitimate “hunting.” My choice seems clear—either I must choose a path that will disgust me or one that will disgust others.

I have not yet reached a decision when the welcome buzz of a pulley on wire signals Abalone's return to our roost. She skids down to my hammock and drops lightly next to me.

“Good Hunting, Sarah!” Her eyes are bright and her blue lips curl with mischief.

“Good Hunting,” I reply.

She leans close, so that she is whispering in my ear. “I have a heist ready. Want to come?”

I nod vigorously. “If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.”

“That's the spirit, I think.” She hugs me. “I don't understand you half the time, Sarah, but that's okay, too.”

Reaching for a guide rope, I stand, scooping Betwixt and Between up with my free hand.

“Can't you leave the dragon?” Abalone asks, a resigned expression anticipating my reply.

“I am a brother to dragons, a companion to owls,” I say stubbornly.

She shakes her head. “Put your brother in your shoulder bag, then at least it'll be out of sight.”

We make our way outside by the same route that Abalone first used to bring me into the Jungle. There are other ways, but this one, which requires memory, lightness, and grace, is her favorite. The few times she has taken me out, however, she has been careful to show me other ways.

Outside, I gulp the night air gratefully. The Jungle is one cylinder among a score which once held chemicals for a factory. It is vast, but by necessity it is enclosed and the air, seasoned by many bodies, is pungent and hot.

Abalone touches my hand and at her bidding I trot down the aisles. We walk into another deserted portion of the factory, cross through an underground tunnel, and emerge in a subway station that is deserted now, but once, Abalone assures me, was a busy place built to deal with the factory's traffic.

From there we walk down the service walkways to an active station and catch a train uptown.

In the near-empty station where we disembark, Abalone unlocks a closed rest room with a key card. Inside, she opens a backpack, fills a sink with warm water, and proceeds to transform herself.

Skintight trousers and T-shirt go into a heap on the floor.
She replaces them with a neat business suit—skirt, vest, and frill-trimmed blouse. Blue lips are scrubbed clean and tinted pale peach. Cheeks are discreetly rouged to highlight fantasy cheekbones. Eyes are resculpted with liner and shadow. A final touch dusts a couple of incongruous freckles across the bridge of her nose.

She winks at me and skins a wig over her fiery buzz and the fire is banked under a crop of close, dark curls.

“What do you think?” she asks with a proud smile.

I shake my head with amazement. “I have heard of your paintings, well enough. God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another.”

“Hamlet,”
she replies to my surprise. “I did some drama before I left high school.”

She scoops up the clothing from the floor and into her pack, fighting down some emotion. When she looks at me, whatever it was is gone.

“Never make known what you have seen tonight,” she says, and I sense the nervousness behind her smile.

“The rest is silence,” I promise.

“Good. Now, in those jeans and that sweatshirt, you'll be practically invisible if we cover your hair and you keep the dragon tucked down in your bag. I've brought you a baseball cap.”

Motioning for me to bend down, she tucks my hair up under the cap. The brim even shadows my pale eyes. Stepping in front of a mirror, I preen—this is one of the few times I've seen myself in the street clothes Abalone gave me and I like the look.

Normal. Mainstream.

“When we go up to the street, walk a little behind me,” she says, extracting a notebook computer in a slimline clutch from her pack. “If I get in a car, keep walking straight. I'll pick you up. Otherwise, just follow me.”

“Thou shalt not steal,” I say, striving to make the words express my concern for her rather than condemnation of her craft.

The wicked smile blossoms, incongruous on peachy lips. “I'm not. If the work I've been doing with my tappety-tap here has done the trick, I own the car. I just need to find where the former owner has parked. C'mon.”

I follow and the world outside is one I have never known. Here the streets are straight and smooth. Well-kept shrubs and slim-trunked trees grow with metal grids at their bases. Tall buildings, threaded to each other with glass tubes as the Jungle is with rope and wire, make cliffs that threaten the sovereignty of the sky.

Abalone walks confidently onto the sidewalk and I wait a moment before daring to trail her. Although the hour is late, there are still some pedestrians on the night streets. We become fish in that stream and no one gives either of us so much as a casual glance.

When Abalone turns to claim a car parked in a metered space, only a warning hiss from Betwixt and Between reminds me to keep walking. I do, but now all the things that had seemed benign, even mildly amusing when I knew that Abalone was there to deal with them, become frightening and threatening.

A man looks my way. I tense and prepare to run. He goes
by and I realize that his glance was for the clock in a shop window.

Thumping music announces a juvee gang. As I remember how the Four treat trespassers, a damp sweat prickles across my skin. I don't even dare to scratch lest they look my way. But they pass me without even a rude comment.

By the time Abalone hails me from where her new vehicle idles in a cross street, I am almost too weak with fear to climb in the passenger side.

She gives me a grin and we swoosh off above the dark streets. When she leaves me in an all-night diner with food and tokens for the video game built into the table, I am almost over my fear. Leaving Betwixt and Between in my bag, I slip them French fries and drops of oversweet orange soda.

Abalone taps on the window an hour later. Her hair is again the color of fire and her lips shimmering blue. We take the subway back to our turf, but, though dawn is a mere hour away, she does not take me to the Jungle.

Instead, we go to a strip of concrete and crabgrass that has been dubbed a Park by a municipal blueprints maker. We sit on a wall and Abalone lights a lovely little pipe made from copper tubing.

“It went really well tonight, Sarah,” she says after she has it drawing. “I made good money on that piece. Of course, time'll show it was floated, but flip 'em. If a kid like me can bust the codes, anyone can. They should write better codes.”

I gesture confusion. She puffs smoke rings, considers, then gives me one of her sparrowlike tilts of her head.

“Sarah, I told you that car belonged to me when I drove it away. That's true—I made it mine. A cop could have pulled me over and everything in the computer would have said that flitter belonged to ‘Abby Shane,' the name on the ID I was carrying.”

She breaks one of her smoke rings with her index finger. “Setting that up took me a month, but I'm rich now. I can pay my fees to Head Wolf until the next ‘repossession' is ready. And I can pay yours, too. That is, if you want a job.”

I nod vigorously. Not to be a Tail Wolf or a Tabaqui!

Seeing my excitement, Abalone holds up a hand. “The job doesn't ask much—on the surface. But you're going to need to learn a whole lot to swing it.”

“When the strong command, obedience is best,” I reply.

“Fine, briefly then. I want you to help me steal vehicles. I've been at the job long enough that before long someone is going to get wise to me. I change my appearance, use false names and prints, and forge IDs. Still, I'm the same general height and build and if anyone started really checking…”

She shrugs. “I want to start using you to pick up the cars and sell them for me. We'll split the profits, say seventy/thirty.”

A host of protests race through my mind. I can't drive. I can't bargain. I can't even talk! My worries choke me and my hands flutter to my throat.

Abalone pulls them down and holds them.

“Easy, Sarah. I think you can do it. If you don't want to, there are other ways to stay in the Jungle”—she looks away—“maybe even better ways.”

I tilt my head inquiringly. Abalone lets go of my hands and starts thumping her heels on the wall. I wait.

“Head Wolf may not like that I'm giving you work—especially since he doesn't quite know what I do. The Law states that adults should be able to hunt for themselves. You know the part.”

I nod. “The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown. Remember the Wolf is a hunter—go forth and get food on thy own.”

“Exactly, your Baloo is proud of you. I may be able to make Head Wolf see this as part of your training. Sweet Mike, you're innocent enough. I think he'd go for it.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Especially, if you're willing to make him feel good about it.”

Even in the dawn's early light I cannot interpret the expression on her face. Shame, pity, even jealousy seem to vie for dominance before she is again my weird, wild teacher. I touch her shoulder and point to the sky.

“Remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep.”

She stretches and hops off the wall. I stand and we walk back toward the nest of chemical tanks. We are almost there before she turns to me again.

“I'll speak to Head Wolf as soon as the Hunters have left tomorrow evening. Do you want me to?”

My heart is in my throat, but I manage, “Yes.”

 

A
BALONE HAS BEEN IN HEAD WOLF'S TENT FOR A LONG
while. I try hard not to wonder why.

Betwixt and Between can tell that I am worried, so to distract me they tell me what has happened while I was sleeping.

Betwixt starts. “Chocolate came running in here wearing this lovely leather biker's jacket. He was just starting to strut it around when what do you think happened?”

Between answers him. “What?”

“Shut up, stupid. I'm asking Sarah.”

Lest the dragons start sulking, I politely meet the ruby eyes and look interested.

Satisfied, Betwixt continues, “We hear police whistles and sirens from the way Chocolate had come.”

“The idiot not only propositioned a cop,” Between snickers, “but stole his jacket.”

“You can bet that Head Wolf wasn't pleased,” Betwixt says. “He had the Jungle sealed and members of the Four on each doorway. Everyone who was awake had to keep silent.”

“The cops never found any of the entrances,” Between adds with a wondering shake of his head. “And when they were gone, Head Wolf beat Chocolate until the kid looked like the worst side of a sadist's fantasy.”

I barely hear the end of the story. Below, the flap of the tent is moving and Abalone emerges. She waves for me to come down and I scramble with lines and pulleys.