The Dream Compass [Book 1 of The Merquan Chronicle] (3 page)

“Hey, honey, how ‘bout some sportin’ before we night out now?” said Red Boss, standing up.

And then Nora Londi thought back, way back, to the boiling summer day she lopped the heads off of six men with a log chain.

The roiling white river was a blinding spectacle when they emerged from the shadows of the forest. For the first time Londi could see both walls of the gorge, towering so improbably high; judging their scale and distance was impossible.

A rotting dory of silver-colored wood was beached nearby, fastened to a rope-and-pulley mechanism set up eons ago for crossing the unruly River 074. The llamas were groaning nervously.

“They don’t like the crossing, no sir,” Red Boss said, shoving Londi toward the boat. He tethered the llama harnesses to the stern while Londi boarded shakily. “It’s not that deep here, really, and llamas keep a better footin’ in the riverbed than humans ever could. I only lost two of the buggers to Oh-seven-four in all my years of Transport. Once you’re swept away in this water … downstream…” He shrugged and worked his little finger into his right ear. He withdrew the finger and examined the tip. “And if the rocks don’t kill you, the Indians will.”

“Indians?”

“Cannibals, wild pokers. They’ll gnaw yer bones ‘n’ put yer head on a stake.”

“Your mama told you some stretchers, Bossman.”

Red Boss shrugged again and tugged on the knot he had made. “All I know is, downstream from here is where I don’t go. All you have to show me is one head on a stake to learn that, an’ I’ve seen a dozen.”

“The llamas are terrified of the river,” Londi said. “Couldn’t we ferry them across first—in the boat? Couple at a time, maybe?”

“Maybe I should carry the li’l babes in my arms! Waste of time, coddlin’ yer work animals. Quiet, ya’ll. Less go!”

Red Boss shoved off and stood in the center of the dory. Hand over hand, he pulled them into the rushing water. The llamas followed the dory, stepping tentatively into the current, growling and bleating, rolling their brown eyes wildly. The pulley rope quickly lost its slack as the river tugged at the little craft.

Londi studied the boulders downstream. Indians? The river thundered away fairly straight for several hundred yards before disappearing to the right. She planted her booted feet against the bow supports and, as casually as she could manage, leaned back, laying her head at Red Boss’s feet.

“Aw,” Red Boss drawled, “is the dawggie napping while Bossman works?”

Londi had mentally rehearsed her next move hundreds of times: With a rapid gyration of the forearm, the deadly leather thong was wrapped four times around her wrist, making Red Boss’s end of the line powerless.

Red Boss dropped the pulley rope and snorted: “Look, bitch—”

Londi planted a palm against each wall of the dory and pushed. There was a creak as her arm muscles grew bulbous, then a thunderclap of shattering wood. Submerged in a dark storm of bubbles, Londi somersaulted over a stretch of stony river bottom and managed to stabilize her body somewhat in the violent current. The leather thong came freely now: Red Boss had dropped his end. She pictured the mechanism poised at the back of her neck, and wound the thong around her collar to hold the trigger lever flat—and, she hoped, harmless. A thought glinted through her mind: How curious to be underwater and not have breathing your first priority.

She thrust her head up and gasped, sucking in air and foam. Londi gagged, her lungs afire. She tried again and grabbed pure air that time. Slightly downstream she saw a cluster of flailing furry legs. She gasped again. They had rounded the river bend, and the water was churning furiously. She tried to stand, but the current would have none of that.

The riverbanks narrowed to a mere fifty feet, and the pounding current grew ever more violent. The banks were nothing but closely stacked boulders now piled up into narrowing walls, almost like masonry. Then, magically, all was at ease; there was no more clash of rock and foam, no more riverbed at all. Londi, five frantic llamas, and a fat man were airborne, delicately spat off the lip of a monster waterfall.

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“That’s not a real fish!” The challenge came from a smudge-faced six-year-old sitting cross-legged in the dirt among the children down front. This prompted giggles and a dissenting squeal, “It is too!” The dozen adults privileged with splintery folding chairs exchanged puzzled expressions: Perhaps it was not a real fish.

Pec-Pec was pleased. He preferred audience participation; it provided a chance to improvise, adding a whiff of danger to a magic routine he knew much too well. He thrust his eyebrows up in mock surprise and fanned the fingers of one hand across his eyes, making them glow menacingly red. He blinked, and his pupils again were coal black.

He swaggered to the edge of the tiny makeshift stage and planted his hands on his hips, glaring back at the fishbowl ontop of a pedestal. He crinkled his nose and silently, in exaggeration, mouthed the words, “Not a real fish.”

More giggles.

Pec-Pec leaped from the stage and grabbed the doubting six-year-old. Throwing the youngster gently over his shoulder, the magician marched back to the fishbowl. Linny Bartok howled in glee and terror. His mother, Suz, crossed her khaki-covered legs uncomfortably.

Linny was on his feet again. The magician arched his back and neck down in a stunning act of contortion, like a curious giraffe, touching noses with the grimy tyke. Pec-Pec again mouthed the sarcastic words: “Not a real fish.”

Linny stood frozen in his overalls. This dark-skinned stranger before him smelled of mint and coffee. His nostrils flared like the wings of a sea bird, and his chin, oddly, was clean-shaven. Most of his facial hair had been razored away in the fashion of men from the Southlands, except for a narrow, knotty mustache. From the top of his head fell a torrent of black braids, five of which ended in jewel-studded bands of gold.

“I am Pec-Pec, the magic man,” came the deep, soft words. “I tell you, that is a fish, a real fish, a dragon fish from the lagoon behind my home far away. Take the fish.”

The child examined the fish. Its body measured three inches, with long flimsy fins colored green, red, and gold.

“Take the fish, I say.”

Linny touched the bowl, hesitating.

“Not the bowl—the fish. Take the fish.” Whispers hissed among the adults.

Linny reached into the bowl. His hand was submerged, but he felt no wetness. The dragon fish surrendered to his grasp and he drew it out. It wriggled a little in the night air, and its iridescent fins wafted lazily, as if they were still aloft in water.

“Is it a fish?” asked Pec-Pec.

“It’s a fish.”

“Tell me: Is it a real fish?”

“It’s a real fish,” the child squeaked.

“Put it on my tongue, little boy.” A long, red V-shape snaked from Pec-Pec’s mouth, and Linny obeyed. The dragon fish disappeared into his mouth and Pec-Pec swallowed. The magician swayed his head meditatively until his braids formed a curtain over his face. He placed the side of his head on the rim of the fishbowl, and the audience heard a tiny plop. The dragon fish had fallen from the magician’s ear.

Lights out at Camp Blade had been hours before, but Pec-Pec’s night was not done. One kerosene lamp illuminated his tiny home, the back of a battered city-style delivery truck. The juggling torches were fitted with new burn rags and packed away. He had downed two bowls of his fiery bean soup and rinsed the utensils. The two wallets appropriated during the night’s performance were plucked empty and now were under a foot of mud in the parking lot. The folding chairs and stage were strapped to the truck’s roof, and the water and fuel tanks were full. The magician was ready to vanish. Almost.

Tapestries covered the walls. His folding cot was open, comforter, blankets, and pillow in place. He sat on the edge wearing a black robe, the fishbowl on his knees.

“Dragon fish, will you come with me?”

The fish was a prize, undeniably. But the longer he rambled the countryside with the glowing water-being, the more he came to feel awed, even uneasy, about its surreal talents.

Pec-Pec dipped in with both hands and drew the creature to his lips. He sucked it in, savoring the coppery taste. The patterns in the tapestries danced, then dissipated, and the truck fell away. He was the moon now: He could go where the moon went, know what the moon knew.

Summer night in little mud rut Camp Blade. Bodiless, Pec-Pec wafted down the boardwalk. He imagined himself an invisible air-fish, gently stroking his way through the cool pine-scent breezes. A barracks: snores and disinfectant and masturbation. He came to an empty bunk room, the thin mattress rolled, shelves robbed clean. For an hour, Pec-Pec studied every bared bedspring, every rent and stain and odor of the mattress, the microscopic particles of a minuscule dust storm playing across the floorboards—the leavings, the evidence and imprint of a man gone. Anton Takk had disappeared.

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Anton Takk awoke in a pillowed, perfumed luxury like he had never known before. At his feet a superfluous brass bed rail arced over vertical supports in decorative decadence. An acre of quilt, it seemed, blanketed his body in little squares fitted together neatly by invisible stitches.

He arose naked and studied the giant porcelain basin and its two spigots. The walls of the building, he realized, were webbed with pipes carrying water, hot and cold, to every room. He turned the spigot handles.

On the door was a notice in small print, tacked in each corner:

1. No spitting.

2. This room may not be used for any purpose considered illegal or immoral by the Government.

3. Guests checking out after noon may be charged for an extra day.

One hundred centimes a day for a room and still they treat customers like that!

Is it assumed, he wondered, that anyone who could afford a hotel room could read? Had things gotten that permissive in the cities—blocks of text posted anywhere you please? Or was it that most of the hotel’s customers were Government? His mood darkened, and he tried to fight off paranoia. He regarded the sign again and satisfied himself with a tentative answer: You loosen one rule so that you can publicize three new ones.

Takk slid into the thrumbling warm water. The side of the tub was cool against his back and a scant film of sand scraped at his buttocks. He imagined himself to be a large pestle grinding away in the mortar of some giant’s pharmacy. Takk resisted the return of drowsiness, feeling guilty about the splendor and the waste of time when he should be out gathering information.

There was a single thump at the door, and Takk’s sleepiness vanished. He turned to face the door, sloshing the rising water. It could have been a clumsy passerby bumping a swinging duffel. Or? Who would know, especially this fast, where to find him? Ben Tiggle might hazard a good guess, but he would never tell the Badgers.

There came another rap, harder.

“Who?” said Takk.

The knob turned, and Takk began to understand the importance of hotel door locks. Ach, big cities! A slender man entered wearing a blue velvety tunic belted at the waist. He was clean-shaven, from the top of his head to his chin, except for an odd ponytail of wispy hair protruding from his left temple. It was a costume that Takk took to be fashionable on the streets of New Chicago, and it made him laugh—in less vulnerable situations.

“I am a friend,” the stranger said.

“No, not a friend.”

“Friendly, then,” the intruder said, closing the door and seating himself on the edge of the bed. “You want some information.”

Takk sucked in a breath. What was this, telepathy? He turned off the tub faucets and considered getting out of the water but did not.

“I’m just a tired tourist from the Northlands,” Takk said slowly, “trying to take a bath. A city map costs half a centime. That I have, and that’s all the information I need. If I need a guide—”

“Enough,” interrupted the bald man. “Say what you like—I don’t give a poke for what your real story is. But you care about mine, I’ll boogie. That is, if you want to stay out of jail.”

Takk felt panic rising. He studied the little man’s bulky tunic, wondering if it hid any weapons. New Chicagoans seemed to be smaller than Northlanders, somewhat sickly—perhaps something to do with in-breeding, Takk told himself. Warmer weather didn’t really shrink people, did it?

“Go on,” Takk said, sitting forward in the tub.

“Well, I’m at risk with the authorities, y’unnerstand,” the stranger said. “They’ll be not happy not to find you. I need a thousand centimes, I think, for the information.”

“A thousand!”

The intruder’s friendliness fell away as he bolted from the bed. “Prison, muscle boy!” he said, face reddening. He pointed a quivering index finger. Takk gagged at the sweetness of his cologne. “And I’ll tell ya this much for free: I own three garages in town—private garages, discreet garages. When I study my logs for new customers, what do I find but—hooo, boogie—a Government registration number! Now what’s a Government truck doing in a private garage? Unless it’s stolen? And it’s all full of dry food and outdoor gear and fuel tanks and old marked-up maps and—hah—books!”

“You entered the truck?”

“Oh, I just hear such a tale, that’s all.” He bared his teeth in a hard, exaggerated grin, his lips pushed back into a yellowish rectangle.

Matter-of-factly, Takk rose from the tub and strode toward the desk against the far wall, leaving footprint-shaped puddles.

“And that’s all there really is to the story, right?” said Takk. “A thousand centimes for your silence?”

“A thousand.”

Takk pulled back the heavy oak chair as if to open the top desk drawer. He gauged the chair’s weight, then grasped it by its right arm. With a sharp grunt, Takk hurled the chair over the bed toward that bald dome with the surprised eyebrows.

A decade ago a hard-charging executive named Gould Papier was assigned a building project expected to be, literally, the height of his career: construction of the largest building in New Chicago, a five-story tower that would house all of the city’s Government offices. The new structure would be a monument to Governmental principles: power, efficiency, solidity.