Mists of Everness Page 7

  “He can throw the thing around corners?”

  “With English, I suppose, sir.”

  “Is that supposed to be a joke, Van Dam?”

  “I wish it were, sir.”

  “So all our men shoot each other to pieces in the cross corridor. And that’s how he got away? I don’t understand. How did he get out?”

  “We think it was at that point he threw the weapon through the fence.”

  “How far away would you say the fence was from here?”

  “Half a mile, sir. The alarm went off. Naturally, the men converged toward the breach.”

  “And he was here all the time?”

  “Yes, sir. He and his father were dressed in our uniforms at this point. He just lay among the wounded. You see where he got the idea; the father was still unconscious. When the ambulance crew came, naturally they just assumed …”

  Wentworth shook his head. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

  II

  Miss MacCodam smiled as she walked, for she loved the library. It had been built in a day and age when the local contributors had been generous and showed proper respect to learning. The main desk was in an atrium surrounded by tall Greek columns, and the light from the setting sun shined through the tall, green glass windows.

  Behind the desk quiet aisles led back among towering stacks. Miss MacCodam imagined, in that profound silence, the deep wisdom of the ages meditated. In her mind’s eye, these stacks of book were erected to the memory of the geniuses long dead, the monuments to the giants who had built civilization, or, if not monuments, then walls—walls holding back the tides of ignorance, barbarism, and decay, that each generation, rose up in new forms to pull down the pillars of society.

  She breathed in satisfaction. When the library was closed, it was so solemn and quiet here. The silence of a thousand sleeping stories, dreams, records, experiments, accomplishments …

  A slight snore rippled across the silence.

  Miss MacCodam halted in shock. She swung her eyes about. There, in the small room set aside for children, she saw a figure slumped over the tiny table. It was a shaggy-headed bulk in a long, black coat, now faded, torn, and stained. Because the table and chair were small, child-sized, he seemed huge.

  As she stepped into the room, she smelled a rank smell, as if the man had been sleeping among garbage. How could she have missed seeing him here before? She had checked this little room twice before locking the main front doors.

  She wondered if she should call the police.

  “Sir! Sir!” she said, in a stern voice.

  The shoulders jerked. The man snorted. Then he raised his shaggy head.

  It was not just the small size of the chairs that made him seem huge. The man was huge.

  His beard and hair were black. His face was pale and streaked with tears and dirt. He clearly had not eaten in days. And his eyes were the saddest eyes Miss MacCodam had ever seen in a human face.

  He spoke in a hopeless, lost, small voice. “You see me then, eh? You are mad then, or a poet. You are daydreaming.” He spoke in a thick, Russian accent.

  “It’s after closing time, sir.”

  The man nodded sadly. “There are no closing times for me. Turn your back. You will see me no more. I am ghost. But I cannot die, you see?”

  Miss MacCodam stepped backward.

  The man spoke in a sober, slow voice. “There is another world alongside the world you know. Men of shadow live there, wrapped in mist. They fade; they die. People cannot see them, cannot remember them. Invisible people, wrapped in mist. Wrapped in sorrow. Wrapped in loneliness. You see me; the mists have parted. Soon mists swirl shut again. You will forget. Go away.” And he put his head back down on his folded arms, which lay on the tabletop.

  He muttered, “Library is only place to go; can talk with the dead here. No one else can talk to me. Great minds. Fables …”

  She said softly, “Do you need something to eat? Do you need some money?”

  A laugh, or perhaps it was a sob, came from beneath the lowered head. “I need one hundred dollar bill of Ben Franklin.”

  She said, “There is a can of soup in the librarian’s lounge. I can microwave it for you …”

  The man slowly raised his head. “Why would you help me?”

  “Because, well …” She couldn’t tell him that his eyes reminded her of a picture she once liked when she was small. “Well, you’re not drunk or anything …”

  “Tell me. What do you see here?” And she saw he had taken several days’ worth of newspapers off the rack from the main room. “Look at this picture.”

  “It’s the flooding. Terrible, isn’t it? The government is going to ship them relief aid …”

  “Here.”

  “Fires in the Southwest. Terrible how many people died. They say it may have been arson …”

  “Here.”

  “This? Protestors in front of a hospital. They want more money to study the epidemic …”

  “Here.”

  “Hurricane Clement. The National Guard is giving tent space to people whose houses were blown down.”

  “Brain in your head, it is shrouded by mist. Look at where my finger is pointing. Right here. Look.”

  “It’s … I … I’m sorry, what was I saying? It’s after closing time, sir … .”

  “There is a giant wading down the river, stirring up floods. He made heavy snows in the mountains, you see? Is why coldest winter on record. Footprint of fire-giant there, in ashes investigator standing next to. Arson, yes! Can’t you see it? And storms! Man dancing in air above wreckage of flattened houses. Right there in picture. Look right here where my finger is touching. Man on rotting horse at door to hospital. The protestors are next to him, he kills them with his poison, he smiles, they cannot see him. Photograph does not lie.” The man had stood and now loomed over her, pointing down at the scattered newspapers.

  “Sir, the library is … what was I saying? What …”

  “Look. You see I have piece of paper here with a hole it?”

  “Sir …”

  “You see hole, no?”

  Miss MacCodam spoke in a small voice. “Yes, I see it.”

  “I put it atop the picture of the flood. I cover everything but the giant. Where is hole now?”

  “I … the whole picture is covered, I suppose …”

  “Hole cannot disappear. Where is hole?”

  “I …”

  “Use logic. Use reason. Magic cannot deceive logic.”

  Miss MacCodam screamed. “Oh, my God!! There’s a giant monster wading in the river! His face is covered with ice!”

  “Ah!” The man sat down with a smile. “Was hoping that would work. Interesting test, no?” He sat there, nodding to himself.

  III

  Then he said, “Did you say was some soup I could have?”

  She was pulling up the piece of construction paper and putting it back down again, staring at the newspaper photograph over and over again. “Oh, my God … oh, my goodness …”

  Miss MacCodam looked up. “What … who are you?”

  “My name is Raven, the son of Raven. I am one of the people in the Mist. One of the forgotten. One of the unforgiven.”

  Then he put his hand out to cover up the photograph. “Do not look too long, or you will fall into the Mist as well, perhaps. Do not tell anyone else what you have seen in the photograph or they will push you into the Mist. Do not look for the horrors in the pictures; you may see them. Do not watch the news on television this evening. Once you forget me, you are safe again … I think.”

  Miss MacCodam said, “Tell me.”

  He shook his head. “You might fall into Mist. Dangerous. And it is so lonely. So lonely. Did you ever have anyone you used to tell everything to? Someone who, unless they had heard the story yet, the thing didn’t seem like it really happened?”

  “Your wife?”

  He nodded sadly.

  “What happened? Did she … did she die?”


  “No. I did.”

  It was not until she persuaded him to come to the lounge and she started feeding him tomato soup (his hands shook, and he could not hold the spoon), that he began to tell his story.

  IV

  “Was in prison. Not real, legal prison, but was like prison in Russia. Soldiers, not guards. ‘Protective custody,’ they call it. Was put there by wizard. But wizard is from old times, and does not understand our modern American constitutional system of rights and rule of law, not like I understand, I who must study this for citizenship. So I confess, you see?

  “I killed Galen Waylock.

  “But he is not killed on federal territory. Is not federal case.

  “Is like with me; I am park police. Crime on park grounds, is federal land. Federal land, federal case. But I have no jurisdiction I see crime off park grounds, yes? So with them.

  “Wizard think is like old days. He think his friends can throw me in dungeon like a king throw man in dungeon. No explanation. No warrant. But, aha! Cannot do in America. Perhaps wizard is gone that day. Perhaps his friends make mistake or are not so hypnotized as he think. Someone make mistake, perhaps. They send me to real prison.

  “Real prison, I have rights. Right to a lawyer. But I have no lawyer. I only have one call; only lawyer I know is Wendy’s father, who does not exist. I call her house. Leave message for make-believe lawyer.

  “Next day, mistake corrected; federal men come to take me back. Now is federal case; very secret, very high level. Have papers saying they can take me. Signed papers. Signed in triplicate.

  “So I hit a guard with the leg from the cot. Maybe they think cot leg too thick to rip out of floor. Are wrong. I think I kill him. Maybe not. I thought they would shoot me. I tried to make them shoot me.

  “Now they move me to stronger cell. Different place. Bars everywhere. Real prison. Maybe is mistake again, or maybe wizard no longer care about me.

  “There was weight room. I work out. Make myself stronger. Other prisoners are bad men. One man, I broke his fingers, five fingers, when he say I must act like his woman for him; they leave me be after that.

  “There was television there. I could see the things on television. The Princes in the hurricane. The Kelpie with the sick and dying. The giant in the snowstorms. The giant in the fires. All my fault. So many people dead. My fault.

  “No one else can see them. All call me crazy.

  “Guards start to not see me. They leave me in cell sometimes at mealtimes or leave me in exercise yard when we should go in.

  “The news say the hurricane has killed many people; thousands have no homes, no food, many dying every day.

  “It is my anniversary. I decide to kill myself.

  “I hang myself with twisted pants leg from the light. Is no high place to jump from, so I must hang and choke myself. My eyesight goes dim. Darkness fills vision.

  “I see a light, surrounded by ring of light. It is like moon on evening of mist, with ring of silver around. Light hangs from the smallest finger of most beautiful lady I have ever seen, and she is walking through the jail cells, and her slippers make no noise at all. There is wind blowing her hair, and her long skirts of green and silver. Hair is black as midnight. And long, all the way to her knees, it goes. Eyes are green as the eyes of a cat. Wind touches nothing else. Wind makes no noise. The lamp is the elf-lamp I have seen before.

  “She speaks. Her voice is like silver. Like music. And I am terribly afraid of her.

  “‘There is hope,’ she says. ‘There is always hope.’

  “I tell her I can see no hope. Perhaps I only think I tell her, since, you know, I am choked.

  “She says, ‘There are always stars, though you cannot see them by day. And they are larger and older than all your world and all its troubles.’

  “I tell her I care nothing for stars; how can they help me?

  “And she smiled so sweetly. ‘And you, a sailor, can say that? You cannot see my star with your eye, but it is there. It will guide you safe to port. To home, to your wife again, if you let it. But you must raise your eyes to see it. My husband comes to save you, but he must travel across the man’s world with man’s steps and cannot come with the speed of dreams.’ And she looks at me between the bars of my cage, and her light is shining like a star.

  “I tell her my wife will never forgive me.

  “And she laughs again, and she says, ‘If you kill yourself, she’ll never speak to you again!’

  “But I killed a man.

  “And she tells me there is no death.

  “So I lift my hands and part the rope holding me to the lamp bracket. I fall. I breathe again. I see clearly again. She is gone.

  “I tell my cell mate this thing. He tell me a story. My cell mate, he tell me there is a man who is the foe of evil. Invisible man, who clouds men’s minds. A figment, a specter, a shadow. All criminals fear this man. Many stories of this man; but they are foolish tales, meant for children. Like funny book hero, you know? But criminals are frightened of him. Cell mate, he tell me the man of darkness is coming for me tonight.

  “I ask about this man to others when we are at mess hall. They look at me with fear. You are crazy, says one of them, only crazy people hear stories of this man; no one else can hear them.

  “That night, a black shadow came to cell door. He wear long, black cape, black hat, face hidden in scarf. But his eyes. His eyes stab through things like knives. Like the eyes of a genius. Like the eyes of a judge in a court of law. Like the eyes of a king!”

  V

  Raven had rolled off the bunk and stood up. His cell mate, on the rack above, had not stirred, but lay sleeping, mouth open, grizzled cheeks looking pale and sickly in the dim light from the cell block corridor. Evidently his cell mate had not heard the man speak.

  “Of course I can see you,” Raven answered the man in black. A black-gloved hand rose up. Redder than a spot of blood, redder than the planet Mars at night, a cool fire seemed to burn and flicker on his ring finger. It was a scarlet opal.

  The dark man said, “Then you are farther gone than I suspected. We must have you out of there.”

  The man took a length a wire from beneath his cape and connected the alligator clips to contact points on the cell door and wall. Then he took out what looked like a thin, metal instrument, painted with a nonglossy black paint. He turned the instrument in the lock, and there was a click.

  The door he opened only as far as the wire would allow.

  “Come!”

  “But I am criminal. Murderer. I belong in cage.”

  “Galen Waylock is not dead.”

  “What?”

  “He is only under a spell. You can save him. You can save yourself. Come! I have no time.”

  Raven slipped carefully out through the partly open door. The man in black shut it, relocked it, removed the clips, wiped the bars. Raven admired the swift, certain precision of his motions.

  “Follow me. I know how little noise you can make when you try. Try now.”

  With a whispering rustle of cape, the figure turned and glided off down the walkway.

  The cells rose tall to either side. There were men sleeping, turning on their bunks; one or two were awake. If any of them saw the pair, they did not cry out.

  The man in black took out a thin, telescopic length of rod from his cloak. When they arrived at the corner of the cell block, the man in black reached up with the rod and plucked away the Polaroid photograph that had been taped across a wire in front of the lens of the security camera. Raven saw it was a photograph of the walkway where they stood, a picture taken from the height and angle of the security camera.

  The man in black whispered, “Guard station at the end of the walk. I will spread my cape. Stay exactly behind me. You must always keep me between yourself and them. Understand?” And he held up his ring and stepped forward.

  When they had finally climbed down and were outside the last wall, and the man in black was winding the cable of the grapnel back into
the silent, air-powered catapult beneath his cloak, Raven asked in a voice of awe, “Who—Who are you?”

  The man pulled aside the scarf he wore doffed his hat. His features were dark and harshly handsome, hook nosed, high of cheekbone. His hair was silver.

  “You don’t remember me? That’s a good sign. Think of me as your attorney. I am a man of law; I bring justice where no justice is otherwise possible. Come. I arranged to have a cab waiting this way. The cabbie is a friend. He’s insane enough to be able to see us, but stable enough to fake sanity, at least to the degree as will satisfy New Yorkers.”

  They began walking in the tall grass along the side of the road. The night was crisp and cold, and the starlight glinted from frost along the roadside.

  “Don’t walk in the road. Motorists won’t see you.”

  Raven said, “Tell me what is happening.”

  “I arrived too late to stop Azrael from taking the mansion. Gwendolyn had flown away by then; and you and the Waylocks were in custody. I suppose you noticed how normal men could not see the mythical beings? That’s a phenomenon of the so-called mist.”

  “Mist?”

  “Think of it as a psychological barrier. You are familiar with hysterical blindness? No? Men who are hypnotized into thinking they are blind will still move to avoid objects placed in their path. They react to those objects but do not consciously remember them. There is a state of being whose objects are to normal men as normal objects are to men suffering hysterical blindness. I am one such object in that state. The mythical beings are other such objects, which, unlike me, are native to that state. You may soon be another, if you do not take steps immediately to prevent it.”

  “You must say more.”

  “Listen. Sometimes men, through despair, or madness, fall into this condition. It’s rare. People can’t see them. If they do, they can’t remember later. Most Men of the Mist start stealing to live. They can’t keep jobs, because their employers forget they are there. Relatives can’t feed them, because the relatives forget.”