Wizard of the Pigeons (24 page)

He journeyed to the heart of woman's magic, and found it was the journey home.

The rainy streets shone under the streetlamps. The squall had passed, leaving only an icy wind wandering the streets and alleys. He heard the final click of Cassie's door as it closed behind him. He turned back to it, but it was already gone, fading into darkness. She had left him alone to face it, turned him out like a stray cat to take his chances with the street dogs. He knew that she'd had to. But the night still seemed the colder after Cassie's warmth.

At least there was nothing about. Whatever grey Mir was, it wasn't bold enough to strike on Cassie's doorstep. He shivered and began to walk. He sensed the city around him, the living entity of each building he passed, the vacant windows that nonetheless watched him. He had not felt it so alive since the night Cassie had come for him through the snowstorm. Nor so ominous. It was as if he walked through a maze of spectators come to witness his execution. ‘Bring on the hatchetman,' he muttered to himself. He had screwed his courage to the pitch of being able to go forth to meet Mir. But he didn't know how long it would stand up to the tension of having to seek Mir out. That wasn't something he had prepared for.

His socks soaked up the rain water like wicks. The hem of his wizard robe and cloak dragged silently. Soon they
had absorbed a weight of mud and water that slapped unpleasantly against his ankles. He squelched along, feeling uncomfortable and slightly foolish. It was either very late or very early. Traffic was less than sparse, and the vehicles that did pass did not slow at the sight of him. He settled his wizard's hat more firmly onto his head.

Cassie's words replayed endlessly in his mind, and he fancied for an instant that he could still feel the warmth of her touch on his skin. She had left her scent upon him, like the colours of a high-born lady on her knight-errant. There had been a few precious moments when he had fancied himself in the garden she had mentioned. He had felt the grass and fragrant leaf mould under his palms, and a summer sun warmed his naked back. Her mouth had smiled beneath his. Never had he felt so full of a woman.

Or so clear in his mind of what he must face now. He was going to his death, Cassie's certainty of his magic notwithstanding. He wished he had been able to make her understand before he left her. He could tell her what he had done and felt, but he couldn't make her feel what he had. Did she think he hadn't tried to reclaim his magic? Could she imagine that he didn't ache for it? Gone and beyond him now. Despite her calm certainty, he was sure he knew more of Mir than she did. Mir had touched him; had already bent him to its will. He shuddered with the knowledge. It had touched him as intimately as she had. It would again.

‘But when?' he asked aloud of the watching city, flinging the challenge to the night. Nothing answered it. He passed grey parking meters with empty faces, reviewing the cold and passionless troops of the streets. Faces in the brick
alleys and the black storefront windows changed and stretched as he passed them, peered after him until he was out of their sight. He felt no heaviness of evil in the air. Where was Mir hiding? The wind kept the night clear of the grey fog he had come to associate with its wickedness. A reckless boldness settled on him. So he was going to defeat, was he? Grey Mir wasn't making it easy for him to meet his fate. He shrugged his shoulders and drew his cloak more closely around himself. It was warmer than he expected it to be, and for an instant he imagined he felt a rippling of power through it. But it was only the wind tugging at the blue cloth. He paced on.

He could always run away. He tempted himself with possibilities. He could hide from it, could leave the city on foot and take to the woods. It would have to come and hunt him down. He shook his head. He had been hunted before and remembered it only too well. He would meet it face to face in the night, not be dragged out from behind some dumpster in an alley.

He had been walking without thinking, but his feet had led him well. He stood at the mouth of his old alley. It was littered with charred rubbish from the fire. Well, why not here? He had felt it here more than any other place. He ventured into the alley and turned his eyes up to his fire escape. There was a terrible smell here, of wet charred wood and melted plastics. It was the burned odour of ruin and decay. No heat remained of the fire that had gutted the upper storeys of the building. All was silent and dark. More than hours had passed since the fire. A day and most of a night, he guessed. That would fit in with the lightheaded weariness he felt. He was running on nerves and adrenalin, his reserve energy long spent.
He wouldn't last much longer. It seemed to him that his strength had been slowly leeching away from him since the day Estrella had warned him. When Mir chose to attack, it would find him no adversary at all, crushable as a dried-out eggshell.

‘Where are you?' he called out bravely into the darkness, but the alley swallowed his challenge without an echo.

He crouched beneath his fire escape, tensing himself for the spring. Then he straightened slowly and shook his head. Not up there, no charred floorboards, if any remained at all. Not before the burned spectre of a footlocker, if it had survived. No. He would not be hunted, but he would not be lured into ambush either. He turned soundlessly and let his body do what it had been clamouring to do. He opened it to the night. His senses expanded and he walked as one with the darkness. No magic this; a skill learned in a night that had shrilled with insect noises and screamed with sudden silences. An easy awareness spread out around him, searching as any light of flare. It had guided him alive through trees and vines and grasses. Could brick and steel and glass be any worse? He moved with slow grace, in no hurry at all. Let it come to him.

He could not have told what made him turn and look up. There might have been a rustle of cloth, some scuff of skin against metal. He was in time to see the figure leave the fire escape, see it silhouetted, however briefly, against the far lights of the King Dome. It landed lightly, its legs bending nearly double to take up the shock. He pivoted slowly and silently to meet it. He had not expected a human form, but he sensed it, an electric prickling along the edges of his perimeter. A chill of readiness ran over
him. He smiled in the dark, and when he felt it looking at him, he gave a slow nod of acknowledgement. Mir.

‘Oh, there you are!' she cried and rushed at him, her arms held wide. In the next instant she had engulfed him and was covering his face with wet, panting kisses. ‘My god, I am so glad you're safe! I saw it in the papers this morning, and it said signs of recent habitation, but no remains discovered yet, and when I read the address I just about collapsed. The first thing that hit me, was, oh, god, he did it on purpose because we didn't make it last night! and I felt like I had killed you myself. I had to sit down and the boss asked if I was taking my break now, and I couldn't even talk, all I could do was point at the paper and shake. I guess I really looked bad, because he told me to take a day off, sick time. So I did and I looked for you everywhere. I musta fed those stupid pigeons ten pounds of popcorn, hoping you'd show up, and everyone kept walking by and staring at me; I guess I looked pretty stupid, sitting on a park bench feeding the pigeons and bawling. I am so glad you're safe.'

As she talked, she kissed, hugged, and shook him at intervals. He could conjure no emotional reaction to her greeting. It reminded him of the noisy greetings of a sheepdog he had known in his childhood, complete with wet tongue and cold nose. He knew he had to feel something for her, but all he could find was a quiet acceptance of her. This was what she was. No more than that, but certainly no less.

‘Lynda!' he told her firmly. He put his hands on her shoulders and moved her out to arm's length. She waggled happily in his arms and tried to move into his embrace, but he held her back. After an instant of struggle, she calmed
and looked at him. He tried to catch her eyes, to peer past the dumb devotion and electric lust to see what else might be lurking there. But she focused on his clothing instead and gave a squawk of dismay.

‘Have you been running around dressed like that all day? It's a wonder they didn't lock you up! Look at your feet! Poor baby! Come on, you're going home with me.'

There was an energy to her that verged on a natural magic. She had taken his arm and turned him and was walking him away before he realized that she was taking command. Her tongue was rattling like a pocketful of loose brass, and she ploughed down the centre of the sidewalk as if nothing in the world could wish her harm. Wariness was impossible with her around. When he tuned in to her words, she was still going on about hot showers and clean sheets. He dug his heels into the sidewalk and brought her around to face him. The look on his face stopped her chatter.

‘What is it?' she demanded. ‘There's nothing back there to go back for, if that's what you're thinking.'

He took a deep breath. ‘Lynda. There is nothing wrong with liking men, any number of men, as long as you still like yourself.'

Annoyance creased her brow. ‘What's that crack supposed to mean? Hey, I've been walking around down here all day, crying my eyes out over you, and when I finally find you, you say something like that. What do you think I am? Do you think I'd take in just anyone?'

‘That's not what I meant!' he protested.

‘Then just what the hell did you mean?' Colour was staining her cheeks, and with amazement he realized he had hurt her. He was surprised at the strength of the
remorse he felt. He touched her face quickly, stroking the hair back from her cheek as he might smooth a pigeon's rumpled feathers. She quieted under his touch. He took a deep breath.

‘There's no way I can explain that you will understand. But I'll tell you anyway. I've got to put the magic back in balance. That means I have to give more than I get, always. There were questions you asked me when we first met. You asked me why you should keep on going, you asked me if you had to live like a nun because your sister thought you should.'

‘I don't remember any of that,' Lynda began, but he put a soft finger over her lips.

‘Maybe not in those exact words, but you asked me. And I had things to tell you, but I didn't answer because I didn't want to talk to anyone who might endanger me later. I unbalanced things, and I owed you. The more you gave me, the further unbalanced it became. After tonight, there may never be another chance for me to put things back in balance. So I have to do it now.'

‘You are really sweet, you know that?' She leaned forward to kiss him again, with no more regard for his words than if they had been empty sweet-talk. She didn't know the difference, he realized. Had other men tried to reach her mind, only to have her shelve their words as verbal foreplay? He felt pity for her and wondered who had taught her that men and women never really spoke to one another. She was rattling on. ‘You don't have to say thank you to me. It's okay. Let's get you to my place now and run you through a hot shower and head for beddy-bye. I've got to work tomorrow, baby. Hey, it's already tomorrow, isn't it? I was going to say we could talk
about all this tomorrow, but I guess it'll have to wait for the next tomorrow. Hey, that sounds funny, doesn't it?'

‘This is the last tomorrow I have,' he told her desperately. He was selfishly relieved to find that he felt only pity for her. Loving a woman like her would have been hell. She believed all the old myths: men have no feelings such as women harbour; they can share your house, your bed, and your money, but not your life. She knew all about ‘how men are', but she had never really spoken to one. She wasn't going to let him get through. He made a final effort. ‘Lynda. I have things I have to say to you. For my sake, if not for yours, let me. You are a giver, and it brings you joy. Don't let your sister shame you out of it, for the world would be a barren place without those who give as you do. But it can also be a form of giving when you take. Let them give to you, the men that come into your life. The giving must flow both ways for the bond to be real. All your life, you've believed in only one kind of relationship; that in each pair, there is one who is loved, and one who does the loving. It doesn't have to be that way. Give yourself by taking. Then you'll find –'

‘Can't we at least walk while we're talking? I'm freezing, baby, and I've got to get home and get some sleep before work. I'm going to be dead on my feet as it is.'

He fell silent, allowing her to take his arm and tow him along. Perhaps the time for him to speak to her had passed, irretrievably. Perhaps the magic granted only that one moment of exchange, when the strange man with the pigeons could have spoken to her and she would have felt his words. Now he was too close. He was just another man to her, to feed and support and screw and, on occasion, when bored, to pester and irritate to the very edge of a
violent confrontation. She would never hear him again, and he would never know any more of her than he did at this moment. Why was he going with her?

He stopped abruptly. She rounded on him. ‘Now what? Baby, I have to –'

‘I'm not going home with you, Lynda. We have nothing for one another. There is a thing I have to do tonight, and I have to do it alone. Go along, hurry home to where you'll be safe. And if you can remember what I said to you, think about my words. I meant them.'

‘I don't believe this! What's the matter with you, are you crazy or what? You can't just walk off like that, running off in a Hallowe'en suit with no shoes on! You can't just walk out on me. You can't treat me this way! You've got no right to treat me like this.'

‘I've got no right to treat you any other way, either.' She wouldn't hear him. How can you say good-bye to someone who never ever heard you say hello?

For a moment she stared at him, her face an ivory mask in the darkness. Then she burst into tears, stamping her feet on the sidewalk. When he impulsively reached to comfort her, she hammered him with quick, forceless blows of her fists. ‘Go away, then. Go away! Leave me alone! I knew you would anyway, sooner or later. Everyone always leaves me, or makes me throw them out! All men use me! And you're no different.'