Spirits in the Wires (17 page)

“But to believe they're eavesdropping—”

“I know.”

Probably the biggest bullshit paranoia dealing with computers is the myth that people—the government, aliens, your neighbours, it doesn't matter who—can watch what you're doing through the screen of your monitor. It's not even a new idea. I've heard it applied to TVs, as well. It's something you laugh off when you hear it, but now, thinking that perhaps there really are spirits in the wires—jealous of their privacy, as Estie put it—I'm wondering if maybe it's not such a farfetched notion after all.

Considering what happened to Saskia, and now this business with how the spirits are able to protect themselves by erasing any mention of them in electronic media, who's to say they
aren't
watching us from the screens of our computer monitors and TV sets? Maybe they're not simply inhabiting cyberspace. Maybe they can move through any technology that uses electricity or phone lines.

And how about satellite feeds? They could be listening and watching us from the skies, from our household appliances, from anything that's plugged in or utilizes power …

I should call Estie back, I think. Warn her that the spirits could have been listening to us over the phone lines. But I don't have her number. And—

I give my head a shake and force myself to stop thinking about this kind of thing before I drive myself crazy.

“You want to take a ride up to Holly's store with me?” I ask Geordie.

“Sure. It's not like I'm going to be able to sleep.”

Bojo stood alone in the library
of the Kelledys' house, feeling overwhelmed. The ceiling was almost fourteen feet high, as befit an old mansion such as this, but such heights also gave a room far too much wall space, so far as Bojo was concerned. He stood looking at floor-to-ceiling book cases that lined each wall except for the doorway where he stood, and a space across from him on the west wall, where the bookcases were broken up by a lead-paned bay window that had a seat underneath large enough to hold two people comfortably.

There were simply too many books. He walked slowly around the room, reading the spines. It was an eclectic selection—music books, fiction, histories, biographies, fairy tales, and esoteric texts, some of the latter written in languages so obscure that Bojo couldn't even recognize the alphabet they used. He wondered if the cursive marks and ideograms were, in fact, languages and not some sort of arcane code like the
patteran
of his own people—the ideographic marks they left on the sides of buildings and on roadsides as messages for each other.

It didn't help, either, that the books appeared to be filed in haphazard order. Nor that, when it came down to brass tacks, as his Aunt Jen would say, Bojo didn't really have a clear idea as to what he was looking for.

He wasn't really a book person—that was the main problem here. Bojo came from an oral tradition where advice was taken from tribal elders, or found in the tribe's stories and histories that had been handed down through the years. He knew how to read, but had rarely opened a book since learning to do so. Books, subsequently, had acquired a somewhat mystical connotation in his mind, this library being a perfect example.

He knew they were divided into two basic categories: those you read for entertainment, and those used for reference. Over the years of visiting the Kelledy house, he'd often seen either Meran or Cerin come into the library with a problem, take down a book, and there, as magically as he might read trail signs in the wild hills, they would have the solution.

But they knew what they were looking for, or at least where to look. And to further complicate matters, they as often found what they needed in the fictional books as they did in those that were more obviously kept for reference.

Sighing, Bojo stood in the middle of the room for a while longer, hands in the pockets of his jeans, gaze scanning the bewildering array of titles. Finally, he decided that whatever gift the Kelledys had for finding just the right needed book lay in them, not the library, and he called it quits. He would have to find what he needed in his own way.

He left the library, left the Kelledys' house with its gables and tower, and walked under the oaks in the front yard until he reached the sidewalk. There he looked up and down Stanton Street before lifting his gaze skyward, eyes half-closed. For a long moment, he stood, quiet and attentive, silently sifting through an overabundance of impressions.

Anyone without his understanding of the steady traffic between this world and those it bordered would be unaware of the greater percentage of whom and what Bojo sensed. He was looking for magic, and there was plenty to be detected in this rambling city, but he was also looking for wisdom, and that wasn't as readily found.

He was conscious of any number of bodachs and spirits, shadowmen and border folk, faerie and ghosts, all going about their business. They were under the trees behind him and up in the boughs of those same oaks. They wandered along the streets, keeping to the shadows. They slept in gardens, poked through dumpsters. They scurried about in the sewers and alleyways, crept along rooftops or along windowsills, peering into people's apartments.

Bojo wasn't particularly surprised to sense them out and about the way they were. The hidden people were always present—as much at the height of noon as in the middle of the night. But it was easier to spy them now, when the streets were quiet. Glimpses caught from the corner of the eye, rustles heard from an apparently empty corner.

Tonight the streets seemed very busy, as though this was a holy day when the bone fires burned high in the parks and empty lots. Beltane. Or All Hallows' Eve. Nights when the hidden folk ran in packs and troops, full of mischief and song. But though they were out in large numbers, they were subdued.

And there was a sense of something unfamiliar in the air, as well. As though the shadows in alleyways and along the sides of buildings were casting loose from their moorings. The power lines hummed louder than usual, and there was a scent like an electrical fire when wires short out—faint, but present. Bojo's curiosity itched, but whatever this new thing might be, abroad tonight, he didn't have time to investigate it.

He forced himself to concentrate on the inquiry at hand. He cast the scope of his search farther and wider and finally brushed up against an indication of the sort of magical sage he required—a faint and flickering spark that came from a good distance away.

Closing his eyes, he focused on that spark, trying to get a better impression of who or what it represented. All that came back to him was a whisper of old power and shadows. And that it was a man—or at least male. He couldn't get much more than that. It was as though a cloak of darkness lay upon the man, and it was impossible to tell if the shadows it cast grew from the one he was looking for, or were pressing in upon him.

It didn't matter. Whoever he was, he was the only presence Bojo could find tonight who might be strong enough for their purposes. For better or worse, the tinker knew he would have to find this man or go back to Holly empty-handed, and that, he was unwilling to do.

Thinking of Holly made him smile. Don't get involved, the uncles and the aunts were always telling him. That isn't your world. But how could he not be attracted to someone like Holly? She was so pretty and smart, and that red hair.

Bojo had a weakness for red-haired women. Especially when they rode a motorcycle. He wondered if Holly had one stowed away in a shed behind her shop. A Norton or an Indian. Perhaps a Vincent Black Lightning.

Concentrate on the task at hand, he told himself. Fail in this and he wouldn't be able to show his face back at the bookstore to find out. Women liked men who kept their word. He said he'd help, so first he'd help, then he'd determine how she felt about motorcycles.

Like the hidden folk with whom he shared the night, he kept to the shadows. His route took him east on Stanton where the estates became steadily more rundown before finally giving over to brownstones and storefronts. He ducked into doorways or alleys whenever he saw a vehicle approaching, or—more rarely—another pedestrian. He carried no papers, nothing to identify himself at all, so he was wary of being stopped by one of the city's authorities and having to answer questions about what he was doing out so late at night. Keeping a low profile was almost second nature by now.

It didn't matter what world one was in, tinkers were used to unwanted altercations with the law. The sheriffs and police of any place—village, town, or city—could never make up their minds if they wanted to lock you up or move you along, but they were united in their dislike of the rambling men and women of the tinker clans. That was no longer news for Bojo.

Once he reached Palm Street, he didn't need to be so cautious anymore. He passed more than one parked police cruiser, engine idling, the officers inside barely giving him a glance. They had far more to interest them here than one footloose tinker.

Palm was the main through street of the Combat Zone, this less reputable part of the city, the streets lined with pool halls, diners, strip joints, nightclubs, hotels, the Men's Mission, and innumerable small stores specializing in discount merchandise that were locked up so tightly at this time of night with graffiti-festooned metal sheeting that one might be forgiven in thinking they actually had something valuable to sell.

Even at this hour, cars drifted slowly by, drivers and passengers checking out the lively assortment of bikers, transients, drug dealers, prostitutes of both sexes, not to mention the slumming regular citizens drawn by curiosity or, more likely, the hope of conducting a transaction. The developers hadn't yet cleaned up the Zone the way that they'd Disney-fied Times Square in New York City, but that was only because no one had yet stepped up with enough cash in hand. Still, that time was coming and the gentrifica-tion had already begun at the south end of Palm, where it ran along Fitzhenry Park.

Bojo liked this part of town. He felt he could relax here where identification papers or one's station in life were of far less concern than how much money you had in your pocket. He'd spent time in some of the jazz clubs and pool halls and even sat in on a few back room card games, never drawing too much attention to himself, but still able to be himself.

But he didn't have time for amusements tonight.

The spark grew steadily stronger. It led him north on Palm, up to Grasso Street where he took a right, until he finally stood across the street from a diner that was obviously closed for the night. If it wasn't for the spark, he would have walked right by. He stood watching the darkened windows for a long time, but saw no movement, no indication at all that there might be anyone inside.

He waited a little longer before he finally crossed the street. He tapped on the glass door. There was no response. But when he pressed his hand against the cool pane, the door moved under the pressure.

He pushed it open, just enough to poke his head in.

“Hello?” he called, his voice pitched low, but loud enough to carry. “Is anybody here?”

Still no response.

He pushed a little harder, widening the opening until he could step inside.

“Hello?” he called again.

The pull of the spark towed his gaze to left side of the diner. There, in the middle of a row of booths, was a silent figure, a man sitting so quietly that he would have remained invisible except that his aura of potent energy drew Bojo's attention to him as surely as movement might have.

Walking slowly to show he meant no harm, he approached the man's booth. It was hard to make out his features in the poor streetlight coming in from the windows, but Bojo put him in his early twenties, a slender black man in a pinstriped suit, small-boned and handsome, with long delicate fingers and wavy hair brushed back from his forehead. An old Gibson guitar stood upright on the seat on the other side of the booth, as though the two of them were having a visit, sharing confidences.

Bojo opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, the black man's hand lifted from where it had been hidden under the table and Bojo found himself looking into the muzzle of what appeared to be a very large revolver.

“So you found me,” the man said. “Don't think I haven't felt you sniffing me out for the past couple of hours. But the question you've got to answer is, now that you're here, what am I going to do with you?”

we step outside,
I see what Geordie meant about there being an odd feeling in the air tonight.

Tonight? What am I saying?

I shake my head as we walk down the block. It's almost dawn and the night's pretty much gone. Though it's still dark here in the narrow canyons between the brownstones, the skies are already lightening in the east. But the dawn's not quite here yet and there's a
mood
on the streets that I can't quite put my finger on. I walk around a lot at night—a habit I first picked up from Jilly—and I'm used to the otherworldly air that the city streets can take on at this early hour when there's hardly anybody about. At least not in Crowsea. Other parts of downtown—like Palm Street, or up on Grasso— it's busy twenty-four/seven. But in Crowsea, the buildings themselves seem to drift off some time after midnight.

Here, you get a breathing space between when the last stragglers from the clubs have gone home and the morning rush hour starts, with its first trickles of commuters passing through on their way downtown. Movement in the corner of your eye could be an alley cat, could be some little man, hauling his goods to a goblin market. It doesn't matter. Everything just feels open and deep and … possible.

But tonight it's different. I spy flickering hints of electric foxfire along the edges of roofs and around distant manhole covers, blue-white and crackling. The transformers on the power and telephone poles are humming louder than usual, and I keep catching an echo of that same smell that filled my study when the computer imploded.

There's definitely something in the air and it's not something I recognize from other late night excursions on the streets. I don't know whether it's because my mood's been coloured by what happened to Saskia, or if there really is something new in the shadows, something dark and maybe a little hungry. But I can feel a warning prickle at the nape of my neck that's usually not there. It's like someone—
something
—is watching us.

My car's parked a couple of blocks away in a garage I rent from the owner of a dollar store over on Williamson Street—what we used to call dime stores back when Geordie and I were kids. There's a sign of inflation that I never thought of before. The car's an old Dodge stationwagon. Give me a North American car any day. These K-cars might not look like much when you've put the years on them like I have this battered old beast, but they just won't die. Stick the key in, winter or summer, and the engine turns over, pretty much every time.

I don't drive it often—maybe once or twice a week—and my apartment building doesn't have parking, but I don't like leaving it on the street, even if it's only the rust that's keeping it together. Sure, it's too beat-up to get stolen, but it would definitely get ticketed during the day, and it's a royal pain to have to keep moving it around every few hours, just to stay ahead of the parking control officers. I know people who do it, people who can easily afford the cost of renting a parking place, but they'd rather play the parking spot game. Takes all kinds.

We finally reach Mr. Li's building. I unlock the garage door and roll it up, metal sheets rattling loudly as they fold away. The Dodge starts right up and I pull it out, idling by the curb while Geordie shuts the garage door behind us.

“So what do you really think about all of this?” he asks as I pull away and turn onto Williamson Street. “This idea of Estie's, I mean. Trying to make a new connection to the Wordwood seems like clutching at straws.”

“I don't know what to think.”

“Well, I think we should call in someone like Joe, who can walk between the worlds. I mean, this whole cyberspace thing—it's like another world, right? A variation on
manidÃ-ak—
Joe's spiritworld.”

I give him a quick glance before returning my gaze to the street.

“I still can't get used to hearing you say something like that,” I tell him. “I mean, considering how hard you've always fought the idea of there being anything more than what we can see and feel in the World As It Is.”

“I've seen too much not to believe anymore, starting with how these days we've got Wendy and Sophie happily crossing over whenever the fancy takes them.” He gives a small laugh that holds more discomfort than humour. “I've actually gotten used to seeing someone step into a doorway and disappear instead of going on into the room the way logic says they should.”

“You've never been tempted to go over yourself?” I ask.

He nods. “But I'm waiting for Jilly to get better so that I can do it with her. It doesn't seem fair to go on my own—not when it's something she's always dreamed of doing.”

I think about how sad it is that the two people in this world that couldn't be more perfect for each other, always seem to have something keeping them apart from being more than friends. Before Jilly was with Daniel, it was Geordie with Tanya. They never seem to get it right.

“What about you?” he asks.

I take the time to light a cigarette before responding, cracking the window open on my side to let the smoke out.

“I've thought about it,” I say. “You know, asking Wendy or Sophie, or even Joe, to walk me over, but something always stops me. I think it's because everything that interests me about these kinds of phenomena centers around how they interact with the World As It Is, and how those of us living here react to these intrusions. To just cross those borders and be someplace where everything's magical, where anything can happen …” I shake my head. “I suppose I'll go one of these days, if only to have the experience. But I'm not in any hurry.”

Geordie nods. “It's funny. I always thought you'd be over there in a flash. That you were like Jilly and this was something you'd spent your whole life looking for.”

“I thought the same thing,” I tell him. “Until suddenly it was possible. Now I worry that if I do go over, this world will pale too much and it won't satisfy me anymore.”

“You think it's that much better?”

I shake my head. “That much more intense. I like this world too much to take the chance lightly.”

“You just don't like change.”

I smile. “That, too.”

“But what if we have to do it now?” Geordie asks. “To get Saskia.”

“I'd cross over in a flash.”

We fall silent for a couple of blocks, Geordie looking out the passenger's side window, while I keep my attention on the road ahead. There's next to no traffic. A few cabs and delivery vans. A police cruiser that followed us for a couple of blocks before it turned off onto Gellar Street.

“Do you really think we'll get them back?” Geordie asks. “These …” He hesitates, then uses the term CNN coined for their coverage. “The disappeared.”

I nod, light another cigarette. “Of course we will.”

“I don't see how,” he says. “What are we supposed to do? Download them from a Web site?”

“If they were able to vanish into their computers, then there's a way to pull them out again. Remember those pixies that caused all that trouble for Holly a couple of years ago? They stepped in and out of her computer.”

From the corner of my eye I can see Geordie just shaking his head. I suppose that even with all he's seen, Holly's pixel pixies are still too much like a storybook for him.

“Okay,” I say. “Think of the computers as portals—you know, doors to the otherworld—no different from the ones that Wendy steps through.”

“She has to hold some little red stone that this Cody guy gave her.”

“You know what I mean. It's a similar principle. Something has to act as a catalyst to open these hidden doors. In Wendy's case it's a magic stone. With the disappeared, it's something else—something to do with the Word-wood. We just have to figure out what.”

I don't know who I'm trying to convince more—him or me—and we fall quiet again as we cross Gracie Street and head into the Tombs, what the runaways call Squatland.

This part of town just depresses the hell out of me. I can't believe the city council ever let it get this bad. Or that after it had, they haven't done something to make it right. It's a whole condemned section of the city, block after block of abandoned buildings and empty lots. Except for a few through streets, mostly running north/south, the side streets are all blocked with rubble from collapsed buildings, the wrecks of rusting cars and trucks, and other, often less identifiable, debris. The rats grow as big as cats here, hunted by small packs of wild dogs that were originally family pets before they were cast aside and went feral.

It's not just an eyesore, it's dangerous. The wild dogs aren't the only things running feral in Squatland. This is where the bikers have their parties, where the dealers and outlaws hide out, because once you make your way into the Tombs, you disappear from the cops' radar. It's where the lost and the hopeless go to make their last stand—the runaways, the homeless, the junkies and winos.

I believe that everything has a spirit—people, animals, plants, minerals, water. Everything. Even places, like parts of a city. The one that hangs like a cloud over these streets is despair. When I'm as close to it as we are now, I can feel my own old depressions start to press against the walls of my chest. Maybe that's what starts me talking again—anything to distract myself, even if it's to tell Geordie things I've probably told him before. But we didn't really talk to each other for years and I can never remember what I have or haven't shared with him.

“But getting back to the otherworld for a moment,” I say, “I guess maybe the real reason I hold back from visiting it is that I have this feeling that once I cross over, that'll be it. This journey I've been on for my whole life will be over.”

Geordie gives me a puzzled look.

“The thing people chasing magic forget,” I tell him, “is that catching the magic isn't what it's all about. It's how you conduct yourself while you're along the way.”

“Like with Tao,” he says. “It's the journey that's important.”

“It's like everything, if you stop and consider it. I can't think of one process that an individual might undertake where it wouldn't hold true.”

Geordie nods. “It's why I don't really care about making the big time. I just want to make music.”

I'm surprised—here's more of what we don't know about each other. And I never thought of it like that… how his single-minded pursuit of his music might be the same as my chasing magic. That they're just different ghosts wearing the same coat.

We leave the Tombs behind and get back onto more civilized territory, though now Williamson is increasingly lined with fast-food outlets, muffler and body work shops, discount retail outlets. The older buildings still have apartments above them. The newer ones sport parking lots in various shapes and sizes. But they all back onto older parts of the city: tenements, and clapboard and brick houses set snug against one another with the odd driveway in between. We're still a few miles from the suburbs with their scrubbed houses and lawns.

I light another cigarette and find myself thinking about my shadow, that elusive piece of my childhood self, part Nimue, part Huckleberry Finn, who went walkabout when she was separated from me. They don't come any more free-spirited than her. I wonder if Geordie's ever met his shadow, and if he has, what she's like. Or maybe he doesn't even know that he has one. Most people don't. If they do interact with their shadow, it's in dreams, or they're unaware of it.

Then I realize that in a lot of ways, Jilly could fit the bill for him. She could easily be his shadow. Maybe that's why they connect so well as friends, but it never goes any further. I almost bring it up, but then we're turning onto Holly's street and the moment's gone.

“Holly's probably not going to appreciate this,” Geordie says.

I pull into a parking spot right in front of the store. There's no jockeying for a good spot at this time of the morning. I look at the darkened store. The apartment upstairs shows the same lack of lights.

“I don't know if appreciate's the right word,” I say. “But she'll want to know. They were all really tight in university.”

“Only one way to find out,” he says.

I step out of the car and up to the front door, Geordie trailing along behind me. I reach up to about a third of the way down from the top of the doorframe and move aside a false brick that's on a hinge. There's a buzzer hidden in the alcove that was behind the brick. I give it a couple of jabs, then cover it over again with the brick.

“Cute,” Geordie says.

“Holly got tired of customers ringing the apartment at all hours of the night and day, looking for a particular book that they needed
right now.
This is so her friends can buzz her. The other one—” I point to the regular buzzer on the exterior that's a foot or so below the hidden one. “—only rings in the store.”