Spiritwalk

  Though she could never explain how she knew it at the time, in that chance encounter, in that other girl’s eyes, she saw a kindred soul looking back into her own gaze, knowing just as she knew. In that moment a curious relationship was born between the two.

  The other girl’s name was Esmeralda Foylan. Her father was Cornish, her mother Spanish, so her name reflected a touch of either culture. They exchanged addresses and phone numbers, but when Button went to call Esmeralda that night, she found herself setting pen to paper instead. She drew an ink sketch of two tousle-haired waifs on an autumn cliff, the wind blowing their tattered clothes tight against their thin bodies. Under it she wrote, “Autumn meets the West Wind on a distant shore,” and mailed that instead of phoning.

  Esmeralda didn’t phone either. She wrote poetry and stories, it turned out, and she sent back a letter addressed to “My Lady of Autumn” and went on to tell a story relating to the drawing Button had sent her. She signed it “a Westlin Wind.”

  In the years that followed they corresponded regularly—even though they lived in the same city. Button went on to become a commercial artist, while Esmeralda took to university life and lost herself in her studies. They saw each other only two or three time in all those years, and although they got along splendidly, each knew some irretrievably precious thing would be lost if they allowed their relationship to go too far beyond the exchanging of letters.

  What they had was a truly Romantic love, unsullied by physical concerns. Neither had leanings toward a lover of the same sex, but what they had went beyond a plantonic relationship. It was something only two women could share, though it had deeper levels than a simple friendship. They were two souls united by some curious bond. To see each other, to do things together, would only bring the relationship down to a mundane level that would steal its magic.

  For magic was what it was.

  In time they drifted apart, the letters becoming more sporadic, finally one or the other not replying until neither had heard from the other in years. But the magic never died. That spark that flew between them at that first chance meeting lived on, long after the letters stopped. Then one day Button received a card in the mail. The outside was a reproduction of a Rackham print from his illustrations for Rip Van Winkle. It showed a raggedy girl, holding a cat, while behind her another figure climbed the boughs of a dead tree that were hung with red blossoms. It reminded Button of the first drawing she’d sent, all those years ago. Inside the card it said:

  My dear Autumn friend,

  I heard a whisper on a sister Wind. She said the waves have carried a blade of Winter across the seas and its point is aimed for your heart. Oh, beware, dearheart, beware. The knives of Winter are ever cruel. I fear they will cut you deep.

  your Westlin Wind

  Button stirred restlessly as she slept, remembering, but then her dreams changed from memories to those dreams we all have, dreams that shift and flow like chameleons and have only as much meaning as we wish to put to them. When she woke in the morning, all she retained of them was one word. A name. Esmeralda.

  5

  Blue’s fingers danced on the keyboard and the words HELLO, JAMIE appeared in green letters on the screen. There was a moment’s pause, as the cursor moved to the next line. Blue rested his chin on his hands and watched the screen as a reply appeared under his greeting.

  HELLO, BLUE. BROUGHT HOME A GUEST, DID YOU?

  “You ever miss anything?” Blue asked.

  NOT WHEN IT HAPPENS IN THE HOUSE, the computer replied.

  There was more to Tamson House than its vast size—secrets an outsider could never guess. Otherworlds bordered the world in which it was originally built by Jamie Tams’s grandfather. Tamson House straddled more than one of them. The spirits of Jamie’s father and grandfather were a part of its essence. When Jamie died—at the end of that war between the druid Thomas Hengwr and his darker half—his spirit had joined those of his forefathers to become a part of the House with them, living in its foundations and walls, seeing through its windows.

  Since their return from the Otherworld that last time, Jamie’s spirit had been dominant. It was Blue who discovered that his friend could still speak to him through the computer that sat in the Postman’s Room. That computer was never turned off now.

  “There’s something strange about her,” Blue said. “She doesn’t have a shadow.”

  The cursor pulsed for a long moment, as though in thought. Then the word ASCIAN appeared on the screen.

  Blue typed in ??.

  COMES FROM THE LATIN, Jamie replied. TWICE A YEAR IN THE TORRID ZONES, THE SUN IS AT ITS ZENITH AND THE PEOPLE LIVING THERE DON’T CAST A MERIDIAN SHADOW.

  “We’re not living in a torrid zone.”

  THEN PERHAPS SHE’S A CHANGELING. SOME FAERIE DON’T CAST SHADOWS EITHER.

  “And maybe I’m the bogyman,” Blue said. “Come on, Jamie.”

  YOU’RE TALKING TO A DEAD MAN, AREN’T YOU?

  Blue stared at the screen. There was that. He sighed. Taking out the bone disc that Button had been carrying, he set it on the desk beside the keyboard.

  “She was carrying one of those bones,” he said. “Like Hengwr’s Weirdin.”

  !?

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought, too. This one’s not like the one Sara found. It’s got what looks like a mask on one side and a stick or staff on the other.”

  The computer hummed to itself for a moment; then a block of information appeared all at once on the screen.

  SECONDARY: FIRST RANK

  21. A) THE MASK—PROTECTION, CONCEALMENT, TRANSFORMATION, NONBEING

  B) THE WAND—POWER

  Blue read the information through, shaking his head. All he knew about the Weirdin was the little he’d heard from Jamie back when Thomas Hengwr was still alive. It was some kind of an oracular device, like the Tarot or the I Ching, only it had a druidic origin. It was composed of sixty-one two-sided flat round discs, made of bone, with an image carved on either side. Each image meant something, but knowing how to put it all together was a subtle study that Blue had never had enough interest in to work on.

  “What’s all that supposed to mean?” he asked finally.

  AT FACE VALUE? Jamie replied.

  “Sure.”

  IF THE BONE RELATES TO YOUR GUEST, IT MEANS SHE’S EITHER UNDER SOME ENCHANTMENT, OR SHE DOESN’T EXIST BUT WE’RE SUPPOSED TO THINK THAT SHE DOES, OR SHE HAS SOME MEASURE OF POWER. PERHAPS IT ALL RELATES TO HER; PERHAPS NONE OF IT DOES. WHERE DID SHE GET IT?

  “She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know who she is, or where she’s from.” In a few brief sentences, Blue described his encounter with Button and what little he knew of her to date.

  SHE HAS NO PAST—NO IDENTITY? Jamie asked. KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD, BUT NO KNOWLEDGE OF WHERE SHE FITS IN?

  “That’s about it,” Blue replied. “So what does it mean, Jamie?”

  TROUBLE.

  “Yeah. I kind of figured that. But what can we do?”

  There was a long pause. The computer made a humming sound that seemed to resonate throughout the House. Finally a response appeared on the screen.

  WAIT UNTIL SHE WAKES UP?

  Blue leaned back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. He hated waiting for anything, but he didn’t suppose he had much choice. He couldn’t just go roust her after putting her to bed an hour or so ago. Who the hell knew what she’d been through before he found her? He remembered the feel of her against him, the guileless look in her eyes...

  “Shit,” he muttered. Leaning forward again, he sighed off.

  GOOD NIGHT, JAMIE.

  Directly under that, the cursor flitted across the screen, leaving behind the words, GOOD NIGHT, BLUE.

  Sighing, Blue got up and went to bed. He had the feeling that tomorrow was going to be a long day.

  6

  The night was almost gone when two men walked down into Central Park from where they’d parked their car on Bank Street. They settled on a bench that gave them a long
view of the south side of Tamson House. One of them took out a pack of Export A and shook a cigarette free.

  “What do you think, Joey?” Chance asked as he lit up. “Is that some place or what?”

  He tossed the match onto the pathway in front of the bench and leaned back, smoke drifting from his nostrils. His hair was long and slicked back from a high forehead, his eyes a pale blue and close-set. He wore jeans, a tan cotton shirt open at the neck and a summer-weight sports jacket.

  “It’s something all right,” Joey replied.

  At six-foot-four and two hundred and sixty pounds, Joey Martin topped his partner by four inches and outweighed him by eighty pounds. He was dressed similarly, though on him the clothes were more serviceable than stylish. His hair was cropped short in a military style.

  “Got to be two hundred rooms,” Chance said, shifting his weight so that he was leaning forward now. “I mean just look at the place.”

  “When’re we gonna start breaking heads?” Joey wanted to know.

  “Be cool, Joey. This is just a recon, nothing more. I just wanted to check the place out. We got a job to do and that comes first. Fact that Farley’s the local watchdog is just icing on the cake—now you remember that.”

  “Yeah, but he owes you.”

  “Course he owes me,” Chance said. “Everybody owes me something. I just choose my own time to collect it, that’s all. So don’t push me, Joey. I don’t like being pushed.”

  Chance turned to face the bigger man. For all his size, Joey looked quickly away, hunching his neck into his shoulders.

  “I didn’t mean nothing,” he mumbled.

  Chance pushed him lightly on a meaty shoulder. “I know that, Joey. You just get excited.” He took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked it out onto the grass. “But you have to learn how to be patient. See, we’re businessmen now. We’re wearing our colors in here now”—he tapped his chest—“where only we can see them. We don’t just go wading into places and break heads anymore. We think things through. We’re looking for the profit, now. The percentages, Joey.”

  “I don’t know about that kind of shit,” Joey said. “All I know’s breaking heads and partying, Chance. That’s all I know.”

  “And that’s why you’ve got me,” Chance said.

  Joey nodded happily. “So when’re we breaking some heads?”

  Chance sighed. He let his gaze follow the length of Tamson House. “Soon enough,” he said. “But not right now.” He stood up and shook loose another cigarette. “Right now it’s time to see if this gizmo that Our Lady of the Night gave us can do its job.”

  He took a small oval stone from his pocket and pointed it at the House, panning slowly along its length. When it was pointing near the O’Connor Street end, the stone began to glow softly. Chance looked down at the pale golden glimmer and smiled as he put it away.

  “Bingo,” he said. “She’s there.”

  “I don’t like working for these fags,” Joey said.

  “They’re not fags, they’re Faerie,” Chance told him.

  “Same difference—they’re all queer, right, Chance? I’d like to break their heads.”

  You’re like a big dumb dog, Chance thought, looking at his partner. You don’t understand shit, all right, but I wouldn’t swap you for the world.

  “Come on, Joey,” he said. “Let me buy you a doughnut.”

  “A chocolate doughnut?”

  Chance lit his cigarette, then led the way out of the park to where their car was parked on Bank Street. “Sure,” he said. “Any flavor you want, Joey.”

  He looked back at the block-long structure that was Tamson House one more time before getting into the Mustang. That’s one fucking monster of a place, he thought. You could hide an army in there. It might be smart if he renegotiated their fee—upped it to where they could hire some more muscle without it having to come out of what they were already getting.

  “Who do you know that’s looking for some work?” he asked Joey as he slid into the passenger’s seat.

  Two

  1

  “Esmeralda,” Button said as she came into the kitchen.

  Blue turned from the stove where he was frying up chopped vegetables for an omelet. The kitchen had a name, like most of the rooms in Tamson House. It was called the Silkwater Kitchen, but Blue never could remember why. It was a bright sunny room, with an old Coca-Cola clock over the door and a cassette player up on top of one of the cupboards. An Ian Tamblyn song was currently spilling from the pair of Braun speakers on either side of the tape machine.

  “Esmeralda?” Blue asked. “What’s that—your name?”

  Button shook her head. “I just woke up with it in my head. It’s someone I know... I think.”

  “Does she live in town?”

  “I seem to remember letters....”

  Blue signed and turned to give the vegetables another stir. If it was a friend who lived in town, a first name wasn’t much to go on. And if it was a correspondent... well, the world was a big place.

  “Don’t be mad,” Button said softly from the table in the nook. She was sitting with her feet up on a chair, hugging her knees.

  “Mad?” Blue took the frying pan off the burner and came to sit with her at the table. “I’m not mad, Button. What makes you say that?”

  She gave a little shrug. “I don’t know. You just seem mad.”

  “Frustrated, yeah—but for you, not at you. I just want to figure out a way to find out who you are.”

  “Me, too.”

  Before he realized what he was doing, Blue covered one of her hands with his own. “I know, Button,” he said.

  She clutched his hand tightly, a desperate look in her eyes. The intimacy of the moment stirred Blue’s own needs again. He wanted to fold her into his arms, but instead he gently disengaged their hands and stood up to return to the stove.

  “So—are you hungry?” he asked in a voice that was a little too bright.

  He scraped the vegetables into a bowl. Pouring a stirred egg, herbs and milk mixture into the frying pan, he waited until it was half-cooked, dumped the vegetables on top of it, then folded the omelet over. By the time he had their breakfast on the table, a steaming cup of coffee beside each plate, he had his own feelings under better control. When he looked at Button, something deep and warm lay waiting in her gaze for him, but she seemed to know enough to talk of other things.

  “Do you live here all alone?” she asked. “Sort of like a caretaker?”

  Blue shook his head. “I guess you could call me a caretaker, but I don’t live here alone. There’s just no one around this weekend. See, Tamson House is a strange sort of a place. It draws people to it—but only the right kind of people. They’re the kind of people who are a little different. They don’t always fit the norm, at least not in the outside world, and that can get a little hairy. Everybody needs a bit of a quiet space once in a while, a place they can just be themselves, and like Jamie always says, ’This is a place where difference is the norm,’ so nobody has to try and fit in here because everything fits in.”

  “Jamie’s the man who owns the House?”

  “No, he’s... “ Ever since he’d discovered that Jamie’s spirit was a part of the House still, that they could talk to each other through the computer, Blue couldn’t say the simple words “he’s dead.” He didn’t know what it was that Jamie was, but it wasn’t dead no matter what anybody—Jamie included—had to say about it.

  “The House belongs to Sara Kendell,” Blue said finally. “She’s Jamie’s niece, see? Anyway, since she’s off traveling right now, I’m sort of looking after the place for her.” Off traveling. Right. Which was a very simple way of saying that she was in one of the Otherworlds with the Welsh bard Taliesin at the moment, undertaking her own bardic studies.

  “What do you do when you’re not here?” Button asked around a mouthful of omelet. “I mean, what kind of a job do you have?”

  “This is like a full-time job,” Blue said with a
smile. “Or did you forget the size of this place?”

  Button smiled back. “That’s right. I felt like I should have a map just to get down here for breakfast.”

  “I’ll give you a tour later.”

  “Great.”

  They ate in silence then, until both their plates were clean. Button blotted up the last of her egg with a piece of toast, then leaned back in her chair.

  “So do you have a, you know, a girlfriend or anything?” she asked offhandedly.

  The question hit Blue with a flood of memories. For a moment he was back there at the end of that war between the druid Hengwr and his monstrous elf half. He could remember.... They were in the House, fighting off the enemy’s creatures, their own allies almost as strange. Norindian elves. The little manitou Pukwudji. A pair of wolves. Not to mention Tucker from the RCMP. Oh, they’d had it all—shaman magic and bardic magic and just plain guns and duking-it-out fisticuffs—but none of it had been enough. It had still taken Jamie’s life to end it.

  Only Jamie wasn’t dead, Blue never stopped trying to tell himself. Not like dead was supposed to be. But things just weren’t the same anymore anyway. How could they be? Everything had changed. They’d been like a family, only after the casualties there wasn’t much of a family left. Fred had died. And Sam. And Jamie.

  And when it was all over, Sara didn’t stay much in the House, so she left it to Blue to look after. And things didn’t work so well between him and Sally....

  “It didn’t work out the way it was supposed to,” Blue said softly.

  “I didn’t mean—” Button began.

  “That’s okay,” Blue said. “I want to tell you. The last woman I was close to—her name was Sally. Sally Timmons. We went through some bad shit that wasn’t her fault or mine—we just got caught up in what was like a war. I used to ride with the Devil’s Dragon and I wasn’t much of a human being. Man, I had the colors and the bike and the Dragon was everything. But the Dragon turned on me and I was on a downward slide until I ran into Jamie.