The Foul Mouth and the Fanged Lady (15 page)

Immigration, Ceinwyn Dale’s biggest
weapon.

As for how I was found . . . let’s just say
I made a lot of noise. When hasn’t that been true of my life?

I woke up pissed that day. I’d been drugged
and hadn’t been drugged enough. No cigarettes by the bedside. No
cigarettes in the room. I’d had one smoke the day before, below my
average as it was, and no more were in sight for the new day
dawned. None of my stuff was in sight. So I woke up pissed off.
More than usual.

Not a good thing for me or anyone I was
going to meet that day—especially Heinrich Welf, but we’ll get to
that Nazi asshole later.

The pictures followed me into the hallway.
Kids. Tons of them. One after another, smiling or glaring, it
didn’t matter—black, yellow, red, one punk girl with green hair,
every color under the sun and some so white it looked like they
went without it, all of them watching the hesitant, exploring steps
I took.

My feet were bare on the wood. Someone had
changed my clothes, which I tried to pretend was a purely magical
transformation and not Ceinwyn Dale stripping me naked. Gone were
jeans and t-shirt. Instead I was in some kind of uniform. I knew it
was coming but I still hated it, even though it was probably more
comfortable than a uniform has a right to being.

Long legs, some undershirt, and a coat.
Fucking coat in the summer. Even in the mountains, that’s an
unusual cruel. We were always hot during the summers at the Asylum,
save for the cryomancers. You know, all these years wondering about
it and I think I finally just figured out what Welf saw in Hope
Hunting. Must have cooled him off like a popsicle.

Popping the coat buttons open and pulling
the shirt loose from its tuck into my pants was the first gesture
of rebellion I took directly against the Asylum and not against
Ceinwyn Dale. Rebel without a cause, my next feat was finding a
bathroom to scowl into a mirror. She’d given me a haircut too.
Okie-long hair was gone and in its place I had a conformist-trimmed
cut. It made me look ten. Like I should be holding my mommy’s
hand.

As for the uniform, it was a deep brown job.
Think fertile soil, not dog crap. Get that mind out the gutter,
that’s my fucking job. All deep brown, a rich lush fabric. Probably
the most expensive thing I’d ever worn up to that point. Lot of
records set that day.

There were tags sewn on the front breast.
White. One was my name: King Henry Price. Second one was my year:
Single. In case you’re wondering, years go Single, Bi, Tri, Quad,
Pent, Hex, and Hep with a corresponding visual aid. For
fourteen-year-old-me it was a lonesome little dot. The third was my
class number, blank at the moment. The forth was my Mancy, Ceinwyn
Dale had already jumped the gun and added ‘
Geomancer
’.

Okay, maybe with the coat unbuttoned and the
shirt out the uniform wasn’t too bad. Kind of rakish outsider going
for it. But the hair, that’s bullshit. I’d been growing that
piece-of-shit, bangy mullet for years, man! It was redneck
cool.

I found her in the kitchen.

Ceinwyn Dale leaned back in a chair, at ease
with the world, slim-fingers grasping the stem of a cup probably
holding more latte. Robed in some kind of slinky fabric, a long leg
was exposed on its way to the floor, but the rest of her stayed
hidden. The leg distracted fourteen-year-old-me and I temporarily
forgot I was supposed to be mad at her for a good twenty seconds. I
didn’t know they made those things that long . . .

Sitting down the cup, a flick of Ceinwyn
Dale’s wrist engulfed the leg back inside her robe, where it hid
with the rest of her. Her other hand hadn’t left her newspaper—we
still had those back then—while her always present smile
twitched.

Without looking my way, she commented on my
near drooling, “Enjoying a show, King Henry?”

I remembered I was pissed at her. Being made
fun of often has a crystallizing effect on my anger, no matter how
much I’ve learned to control it . . . and the amount of that is a
truthful not very much even today as a wise and learned graduate of
the Asylum.
Wise and learned
. It’s on the diploma. “Not as
much as you enjoyed the show last night, bitch.”

“Are we really back to that, King
Henry?”

“You drugged me!”

“School policy.”

“With a giant needle!”

“Would you have rather I used a rag dipped
in chloroform?”

“You shaved my head down to nothing
too.”

“You really should thank me if you ever want
to find yourself a girlfriend in the next four years.” A sip of
latte broke up the scold. “We don’t allow much at the Institution
but we do allow love to bloom . . . not that much would bloom with
the ill-layered mop you called hair. But now . . . maybe a little.
Just like the rest of you.”

“Whatever, I’m over it. Where are my
cigarettes at then?”

“Ah . . . we come to the root of the
problem.” Her eyes twinkling, she motioned for me to sit at the
table with her. I did . . . reluctantly. “Love blooming and maybe
even turning our gaze the other way when it comes to love making.
However, there’s no smoking at this school, even for teachers.”

I was already starting to get a headache, my
fingers reaching for my pocket where I had always kept my pack.
“You’ve got to be shitting me. I’ve smoked for like over a year . .
.”

“You’ll survive, King Henry.”

She got up, got me a glass of water, and sat
it down in front of me.

“I quit,” I said. “I’ll walk if I have
to.”

“Too late. You’re enrolled. Four years at
least. Testing later today, then you’ll meet your classmates. It
should be exciting for you. No fighting though, we don’t allow it
either.”

Behind me on the wall, a piece of new-aged
metal artwork shattered into a thousand pieces, clanging down onto
the floorboards in a waterfall of steel. Musical notes piled on top
of one another in an imitation of a high school garage band, though
the falling metal probably had more talent.

There was shocked silence from the both of
us in the aftermath. I lowered my head. “Sorry . . .”

“You’re as bad as a pyromancer, you know
that?” Ceinwyn Dale accused.

“I said
sorry
. Maybe if I had a
cigarette I wouldn’t be so irritable,” I tried to reason with her.
Also a first for me. “I got a ‘D’ in Drug Ed but I’m guessing it’s
a side effect, me being so understanding and lovable usually.”

Ceinwyn Dale actually
tutted
me. “The
nicotine will be out of your system in a few days. You haven’t had
the habit for long . . . you’ll survive, King Henry,” she repeated,
adding, “We’ve had children addicted to far worse make it.”

“Oh?”

“None of your business.”

She returned to her paper.

I sipped my water for a bit, looking out the
back door at a wooded yard. There was some kind of red bird picking
at the bark. Nature Science, also a ‘D’. Be lucky I know what a
bird is. “Where are we?”

“The Institution of Elements, Learning
Academy and Nature Camp.”

“Looks like the suburbs out there . . . with
trees.”

“Each of the staff has a house for
themselves and their family. Though, size depends on your position
in the rank hierarchy.” Ceinwyn Dale’s expression was bored. With
me, with the paper, even with the Asylum. I suppose after the
ten-billionth time, the explanations get old. Plus, Ceinwyn Dale
ain’t exactly the type of person who sits drinking coffee at the
table with a newspaper every morning. For my stay at the place, she
was away from the Asylum more than she was there.

At the table of boredom, her paper turned a
page in her hand. She’s one of those people who folds the pages and
destroys the paper by reading it. Just selfish.

I drank more water, watching the red bird
get all horny with his bark picking. “Don’t suppose you have a
TV?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Everyone has a TV.”

“I’m not here enough to bother.”

“Ah . . . so I’m not living here with you?
There’s a relief.” False bravado. Ceinwyn Dale and I fought but I
didn’t mind it and, bereft of my parents, I gladly would have
latched onto her house as a home, especially a home with a busy
parental figure.

“Once you’re tested, you’ll be assigned a
room with your classmates—they’re communal,” she droned.

My headache flared. Communal. I didn’t know
what the word meant back then, but it sounded both hippie and
communist at the same time and that had to be a bad thing. “Good,
you couldn’t contain yourself for long after what you saw last
night.”

The smile twitched. “I don’t recall seeing
anything worth remembering.”

“That’s just mean . . .”

“Of course, memory is a funny creature,” she
continued running over my pride. “As an example, if one was dosed
up with a certain drug, they might not remember changing into new
clothes or taking a shower or even whining through a haircut.”

Oh crap.

I thought about it. Damn if it wasn’t a
perfect mind fuck. Still don’t know one way or the other to this
day. Suppose I could make a joke about the birthmark on my ass when
she ain’t expecting it and see if Ceinwyn has a reaction or
not.

“You’re full of it.”

“You’ll never know.” Might as well have
cursed me. Not that the Mancy can curse . . . but to use the
expression in the common vernacular. The education again. Gone way
past
communal
.

She switched to the business section,
ruining more dead tree and stinking ink.

“You live in this big house all alone?” I
asked.

“Yes.”

“Must be high ranking.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t think you could handle me, so I’m not
offering, but you should get a guy. You’d make a swell mom with all
the threats and stuff.
Do the dishes or I’ll papercut you! Take
out the garbage or it’s a ball of air!
”

Her paper finally lowered. “I did . . . have
a guy once . . . he died.”

One of the few times I’ve ever seen Ceinwyn
Dale get emotional enough to be near tears. Fourteen-year-old-me
went awkward. “Sorry about that, Miss Dale. Bet he liked your
legs.”

“If I give you the sports section will you
shut up?”

“No promises.”

[CLICK]

After awhile, Ceinwyn Dale headed to the
shower with the promise that if I even went near the bathroom door,
she’d know and would react accordingly, which I took to mean
papercuts, a mouthful of air, and probably some horrible affliction
I hadn’t thought of yet that involved my asshole.

The unknown is often more terrifying than
the known . . . more beautiful too. Us humans love and fear the
uncharted map. Once you get the game down, game gets boring. We
don’t have any uncharted left, which is probably why we’re so
screwed up now.

Fourteen-year-old-me stayed away from the
door. Instead, I went about making me some eggs—no bacon or
sausages in Ceinwyn Dale’s cupboards—so I had to settle for cheese,
pepper, and a couple herbs sprinkled in and scrambled. Helping Dad
in the kitchen again. First time that day I thought of him . . .
followed by thinking of Mom.

Probably a mistake.

Mom.

A mancer like me.

Dad always said she was a special woman. I
tried not to think about it, but it was hard not to. Ceinwyn Dale
said the Mancy drove you insane if you didn’t use it right—one of
the few things Ceinwyn Dale told the total truth about—and suddenly
my screwed up life wasn’t the blame of one cowardly screw-up parent
but partly the product of fate or chance or an asshole universe
that likes to play with people and God and dice and strings and
crap.

Some mancers start thinking of the Mancy as
the enemy, you can see why. Me—never. It’s my ticket out of my
shithole. But I felt bad about Mom for the first time in years. I
felt bad about Mom, about her being crazy, about me being away from
her for at least four years, for not being able to help her.

I was smart—Ceinwyn Dale said so—putting
those eggs on a plate, I’d already figured it out. Ceinwyn Dale
telling Mom the truth, Mom trying to save me from the same fate.
Mom knowing she’s doomed to die crazy one day.

Let’s just say that the eggs, despite the
skills Dad had belted into me, tasted not-so-hot. It wasn’t the
eggs fault either. Or my cooking. Just my attitude.

The doorbell ringing distracted me. Not just
the noise but the fact that there
was
a doorbell. Doorbell,
suburb housing, uniforms—damned Asylum.

The mundanity of it all—taking magic,
fucking
magic
and making it not so special at all. Looking
back on it, I’m pretty sure the effect is intended. These people
wanted four-hundred usable tools graduating each year, not heroes
trying to save the world. Ultras get a bit more about the whole
story, but not much. I learn so every day. You will too,
kiddies.

Mundane . . . take the door for example, I
got ready to open it expecting any number of possible badass
people. What I got was an old lady. Wrinkly, little chunky, veins
showing and skin patching like a farm during summer, probably had
saggy tits somewhere under her burgundy sweater too. She looked
about as excited with me as I was with her.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“I see . . . our late recruitment. Aren’t
you a cute little boy in your uniform?”

A great beginning to a legendary
relationship. Well . . . infamous relationship at the least. But I
never got caught, that’s what counts. “Can I help you?”

She had one of those old lady metal-canes
with the four rubber prongs on the end, which she used to prod me
out of the way.

“Where’s Ceinwyn?”

“Shower, I guess.” I frowned at her as she
walked into the kitchen like she owned the place.
Technically
she didn’t own it, but then . . . no one was
going to claim she didn’t either, so what’s the point quibbling
over the fine points of possession? “Are you like a friend or
something?”