February Thaw (5 page)

"Yah what?"

"We have no... What do you call them? Raw materials. Usually, we would use straw, or leaves, or other organics. But the wizard you called Beth Aswith used..." He looked a little embarrassed. "...herself."

"Say what?"

"You were the spark of life added to an inert ovum. Flesh of her flesh, contained by her magical force."

"Wait." Carlene flared, the wizards stepped back in unison, and Alynne covered the mouth of her glass. "Are you saying she really was my mother?"

"In all essential particulars, yah. Your mother. But unless you want to be an infant again, we can not repeat the spell."

"We?" the Asian wizard muttered, her eyes boring holes in the reindeer knit into the back of his sweater.

He ignored her. "We know how to build a body from organic matter and we know how to animate it, creating a golem of flesh as it were, but none of us..." One hand waved in the general direction of the wizards behind him. "...know how to keep it together more than a few days. It would not hold the magic necessary to hold you and to truly live."

"She really was my mother." Burning couldn’t express what she was feeling. Grief. Joy. Loss. Confusion. Overwhelmed, Carlene burned up a bundle of sage, Alynne's two sugar cookies, and Beth's old apron.

"Fire should not have emotion," the bearded wizard observed as Alynne smothered a spark that had fallen from the apron into the chair.

"So give her a body," Alynne snorted.

"I have explained why..."

"Use Beth's."

Carlene flickered and nearly went out before she remembered to begin combustion again. "What?"

Alynne settled back into the chair and took a deep breath. "Look, she died two days ago right? But Carlene disappeared so they don't know where to send the body so it's still in the hospital morgue. Beth isn't using it any more so you guys use it as the organic matter to build another body. Wizards hold magic so this new body made out of an old wizard will hold the magic needed to contain Carlene who does that whole spark of life thing again and voila! That's French for bride of Frankenstein lives," she added when all seven wizards reacted by staring at her in confusion.

Seven pairs of eyes blinked.

"But I don’t want to be the Bride of Frankenstein," Carlene protested as the wizards went into a huddle.

"You won't be; they'll make you a new body."

"Out of a dead body! That's just gross. How can you even think of something like that?"

"Oh, yeah, that's fine talk from someone who crispy crittered the body she was in."

"That was different. I am
fire
!"

"Yeah. And you don't want to be."

Carlene could see herself reflected in Alynne’s eyes – a yellow white flame, four inches high. Magical. Elemental. She turned away first. "You're right. I don't want to be."

"All right. It might work." Once again the bearded wizard spoke for the group. "But how do we get the body out of the morgue?"

Alynne snorted. "Well you all poofed in here without any trouble."

"This is a wizard's workshop. We can not poof in, as you say, anywhere."

"Figures. If I can get you into the morgue, can you poof the body out?"

"It will need two of us."

"Whatever." She checked her watch. "Oh look, Mickey's little hand is almost on the seven. Day shift'll be on in an hour. I'm heading upstairs to shower and borrow some clothes from Carlene's closet and that ought to give you time to decide which two are going with."

Fitting actions to words, Alynne pushed past the wizards. They watched her go, sharing varying expressions of disbelief. The bearded wizard leapt back out of her reach.

"But how she get into morgue?" asked one of the less fluent English speakers.

"She used to date one of the morgue attendants," Carlene told him.

"Somehow, I am not surprised," the bearded wizard muttered.

Carlene burned blue. "Look, if she keeps pinching you, just tell her to stop."

*

"Was that Mr. Chou you were talking to?"

Alynne sat down on the bottom step and watched Carlene burn slowly up a broom handle. "Yeah. I told him you were crashing at my place and I just came by for some of your stuff. He says if you need anything let him know. He's a sweet old guy. Those two turkeys get back with the body okay?"

"A few hours ago. I didn't want to watch. I mean, it's just organic matter to them, but it used to be my mother." She sped up a strip of varnish to the top then back down another strip to bare wood. "Doesn't it weird you out?"

"After my best friend turned out to be fire? No, not really. Besides, dead bodies are cool. You know what Gordon told me? If you catch them at the right time, you can pose them and they'll stay that way."

"That didn’t help."

Alynne shrugged. "Sorry."

"So, how was Gordon?"

"I lead him on, I left him hanging. Same old, same old."

The workshop door opened. Unable to maintain a steady combustion, Carlene flared.

"We are ready now, yah?"

"You go ahead," Alynne told her. "I'll put out the broom."

*

The organic matter no longer looked anything like Beth Aswith. That helped. The seven wizards had taken it down to its component molecules and totally rebuilt it. It didn't look like she remembered Carlene Aswith as looking either – probably because she'd never looked at herself from a fire's point of view. The hair seemed a little dry and she had to remind herself that wasn't necessarily a good thing.

"We will use the spell that inserts the spark of life, which is you," the turbaned wizard told her. "When you become conscious of it picking you up, do not resist."

"I'm ready."

The words of the spell were eerily familiar. Seven voices with seven accents overlaid a memory of a single voice and a single pair of hands holding her cupped in power.

"I've enjoyed being your mother. Watching you grow and learn was the most fun I ever had."

"I've enjoyed being your daughter."

It was happening. She could feel it happening. Feel herself settling into the body. Arms. Legs. Head. Heart.

"You're not human, you know."

Doubt.

The chanting grew louder. A little frantic.

Not human.

She could smell something burning. A horrible, final smell.

Then cool fingers slipped into hers.

"You're not going anywhere, girlfriend. You never gave them two weeks notice at work, you have a dentist appointment next Tuesday, your winter coat's still at the dry cleaners,
and
you still owe me a Princess Leia Star Wars glass."

You couldn’t get much more human than that.

"Alynne?" Carlene opened her eyes. "Where'd all the smoke come from?"

"You burned your hair off. Looks like hell. But don't worry, we'll tell people you belong to a cult and it's a weird mourning ritual."

"We have done it, yah?"

Cautiously, not wanting to shake herself loose, she moved all the bits that were supposed to move. "You have done it. Yeah."

As Alynne helped her to sit up, the wizards cheered. By the time she was standing, the mutual admiration they'd built rebuilding her had begun to fade. By the time she'd walked carefully over to the chair and sat down, they'd begun fighting again.

The small explosion took them totally by surprise. Shocked into silence, they turned to face Carlene who blew out the match and tossed the rest of the firecrackers back on the shelf. "Thank you for what you've done. With your help, my mother has given birth to me twice. It's been a long night, you're probably all very tired. Go home and rest."

"That is all then?"

She looked down at her hands then up at seven identical expressions. "Unless you want to stay for breakfast."

They had to fight about which time zone left which wizard the most tired, but eventually they left – simultaneously as they'd come, unwilling to allow any one of them to have the last word.

When the workshop was quiet, Alynne sat down and picked up the Slinky. "Can I ask you a question? What happens when this new body grows old and dies? Do you become fire again?"

"I don’t know," Carlene admitted, running her fingers through the ragged remains of her hair. "But then, you don't know what happens to you when your body grows old and dies either. No one does."

"...I was so looking forward to seeing how the experiment came out."

The Slinky whispered from hand to hand. "I’m having myself frozen so I can come back to a better world."

"Better?"

"Well, George Lucas'll have the Star Wars movies done anyway."

Which reminded her. "You know, the wizards didn’t bring me back. You did."

Alynne looked up and grinned. "Yeah, I know, but let them have their moment."

"You've been great right from the beginning of this."

"Why not? Your whole problem was that in spite of being fire, you were still Carlene."

"Well, yeah but..."

"If you were still Carlene, then the only thing that had changed was your appearance."

"True, but..."

"You were still you and I was still me and I'd be pretty small if I dumped you because you looked different. If I was going to do that, I'd do it now. At least until your hair grows back in."

"I guess if you put it that way, it's elementary."

The Slinky stilled. "You’ve been waiting to say that all night, haven’t you?"

Carlene grinned. "Hey, I’m only human."

This story takes place in the same mythos as “
Burning Bright.”
I had so much fun with my cranky wizards, it seemed a shame not to use them again. Or some of them anyway. Because I'd left Toronto in 1982, the Toronto in this story didn't exist when I wrote it ten years later and now, well, now it's a little piece of Toronto preserved in amber. (You can trust that I'd have had something to say about the addition to the Royal Ontario Museum had it been completed when I was writing.) Oh, and Isabel's answer in her chemistry class... I got part marks for that on a grade 12 test. I suspect that by the time he got to my paper, the teacher was looking for something,
anything
that would make him laugh.

I almost seem to remember that I'd intended to write a couple more stories about Isabel and Godfry, but it just never happened. Or, more precisely, it hasn't happened yet...

The first time Isabel saw him, he was rummaging in the garbage can out in front of
The Second Cup
at Bloor and Brunswick. He wore a filthy "I love New York" T-shirt, a pair of truly disgusting khaki dockers barely hanging from skinny hips, and what looked like brand new, high top black canvas sneakers of a kind that hadn't been made since the sixties – at least not according to her father who moaned about it every time he had to buy shoes. His dirty blond hair and full beard were streaked with grey, as well as real dirt, and both skinny arms were elbow deep in cardboard coffee cups and half eaten snack food.

She couldn't take her eyes off of him, which was just
too
weird. Having lived her entire life – almost seventeen years – in downtown Toronto, she'd seen street people before. Seen them, avoided them, given them her loose change if she was feeling flush and they weren't too smelly or too old. This guy was nothing special.

Thumbs hooked under her backpack straps, she took a step closer. Considering the heavy, after-school foot traffic, he had rather a large open area around him. Which turned out to be not at all surprising when the breeze shifted.

Did she know him? Was he like some old friend of her dad's who'd fallen on hard times? Breathing shallowly through her mouth, Isabel tried to recognize a familiar feature under all the dirt.

As if drawn by her regard, he rose up out of the garbage and turned. The small part of his face she could see wore an expression of extreme puzzlement.

"Half a Starbucks apricot square will last forty-six hours and seven minutes without going mouldy," he said. "A muffin..." Glancing into the garbage, he shook his head. Then he looked up again, locking blood-shot grey eyes on hers. "There isn't much time."

Isabel could actually feel the hair rise on the back of her neck. It was a totally gross feeling. Pulling a handful of change out of her pocket, she thrust it toward him. "Here, buy a
fresh
muffin."

The two dollar coin caught his attention. He plucked it off her palm, closed his right eye, and held it up to his left. "Twonie or not twonie. That is the question."

The coin disappeared.

She'd been watching the coin. Had almost seen it slide sideways into nothing. Had almost
recognized
the movement. She thought she heard something growl. A quick look around – no dogs. When she turned back to her streeter, he was in exactly the same position he'd been in when she'd turned away. "So, do you want the rest of this money or not?"

He shrugged and held out his hand.

Isabel dropped the change in his palm, careful not to touch anything, and hurried away.
Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe I should start taking taxis home from school.

*

"Dad? You home?" She didn’t expect him to be home, not at four thirty on a Tuesday, not on a day that Mrs. Gerfinleo was in, but it never hurt to ask.

Shrugging out of backpack and blazer, she dropped them on the floor, kicked off her sensible black school shoes, picked up her backpack, and headed for her bedroom. By the time she got out of the shower, her blazer hung brushed and pressed on the door to the walk-in closet and her newly shined shoes were aligned neatly in their cubby.

Grinning, she threw on jeans and a T-shirt and made her way to the kitchen for her bi-weekly lecture on how clothing didn't pick itself up.

The kitchen was as empty as the rest of the condo.

"Mrs. G.?"

A noise on the terrace, the sound of furniture being moved, caught her attention.

Well, duh. Mrs. G. was out watering the plants.

"Mrs..." Her greeting trailed off, leaving her standing silently in the open doorway staring at the biggest crow she'd ever seen. Perched on the back of a rattan chair, head cocked, it stared intently at her out of a brilliant yellow eye. And it was staring at
her
not just in her general direction the way most birds did.

"What do you want, bird?"

In reply, it dropped the biggest streak of bird shit she'd ever seen down the back of the chair.

"Too gross! Go on, get out of here!" Flapping a hand at it, she added an emphatic, "Scram!"

Instead of flying away, it dropped down onto the terrace and hopped toward her.

"I don't think so, bird." Stepping back, she slammed the door in its face.

It stopped, glared up at her, ruffled its feathers into place, and said... well, it didn't say anything exactly, it cawed like crows did, but, for a moment, Isabel was certain – almost certain – it had called her a stuck-up bitch.

"Okay. Low blood sugar. Definitely time for a snack."

Wherever she'd been, Mrs. G. had to be back in the kitchen by now.

She wasn't. But this time, Isabel saw the note.

Bella: Mr. Gerfinleo called from the emergency so I have to leave early. There was an accident with the forklift. Don’t worry, he's okay if you don't count the broken leg. Your supper is in the refrigerator in the stone casserole. Ninety minutes at 350 degrees then grate some of the Parmesan on top. Tell your father, I'll call him later when I know.

Well, that explained why the condo seemed so empty. It was.

About to peer into the casserole, Isabel paused. If Mrs. G. had left early, who'd picked up her clothes?

Clothing didn't pick itself up.

*

She saw him the second time on her way to Gregg's Ice Cream. Seven o'clock, her dad still wasn't home and half a dozen questions kept chasing themselves around in her head. If anything could take the place of answers, it was sweet cream on a sugar cone with sprinkles.

Her streeter was standing outside the Royal Ontario Museum, inside the security fence, inside the garden for that matter, both hands pressed flat against a floor to ceiling window, staring in at the Asian temple. His wardrobe had grown by the addition of a mostly shiny black jacket with the logo for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s CATS embroidered across the back. Nobody but her seemed to have noticed him, but then he did have the whole poor-and-homeless cloak of invisibility thing going.

About to cross to the southwest side of Queen's Park – the museum's corner – Isabel stepped back up onto the curb and crossed to the north side of Bloor instead. When she then crossed west, the four lanes of Bloor Street were between them.

It didn't matter.

As she drew level with him, her streeter turned and looked directly at her.

"Time is not an illusion, no matter what they say. Spare some change for a cup of coffee, miss. We need to start soon." He didn't shout, he didn't bellow, he just made his declaration in a quiet conversational voice.

She shouldn't have been able to hear him.

Then a transport drove between them. Caught and stopped by the red light, it completely blocked her view. All she could see was the side of the trailer and a couple of hundred pairs of closed eyes advertising – actually she had no idea what they were advertising. When Isabel crouched down, a pair of sedans the next lane over blocked that view too. When she straightened, the painted eyes were open, the irises a deep, blood red. As the transport pulled away, she thought she saw them blink.

The lawn at the ROM was empty except for half a dozen pigeons milling about like they'd lost something.

"Extra sprinkles," she decided, picking up her pace.

*

The best ice cream in the city was of less comfort than usual. She still needed answers. The light was on in her father's den when she got home.

"Hey, Dad?"

He pushed his laptop away and turned to face her, waiting expectantly.

"Have you..."

He was a good dad, the best dad – even if he did have a tendency to date men who weren't ready for commitment – but Isabel knew with a cold hard certainty, that he couldn't help her now.

"...heard from Mrs. G?"

If he realized that wasn't the question she'd begun, he didn't let on. "As a matter of fact, I have. She won't be in until Monday; Mr. Gerfinleo is going to need her at home. Will you be all right?"

"Me?" Did the weirdness show on her face? "Why?"

His brows dipped. "Because I've still got to leave for New York tomorrow morning and I'll be gone until Friday afternoon."

Oh yeah. New York. "Right. I forgot."

"You'll be on your own." He sounded less than convinced that it was a good idea.

"For less than three whole days." Isabel rolled her eyes. "I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't have a boyfriend to bring over, and I'm almost seventeen. Even if I eat nothing but crap – which I won't – I'll survive and, as long as I avoid Mrs. Harris, no one's going to call The Children's Aid Society on you."

"I don’t know. Perhaps you should go stay with your Uncle Joe."

"Uncle Joe thinks I should be allowed to get my belly button pierced."

He winced. "On second thought, you'll be safer here."

Four long strides took her to where she could bend and kiss her father's cheek, patting him on the shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting manner. "Have a good trip. I’ll be fine."

*

She had no close friends amongst the girls at school, no one she could call and say, "Do you feel like something weird's about to happen?"

That left only one person. Isabel reached out for the phone. It slapped into her palm and she actually had her finger poised above the numbers before she managed to stop herself. No. Things would have to get a whole lot worse before she called her mother.

Which was when she realized that the phone had been across the room on the bed.

Her fingers tightened around the red plastic. That was not normal. Hearing crows talk was not normal. Normal people's clothes didn't hang themselves up. Normal people didn't have street people talk to them across four lanes of traffic.

"Normal people," she told her reflection, "would be way more freaked about this, but I'm not. Does that make me not normal people?"

Her
reflection
looked normal enough.

*

She saw him the third time through the window of Dr. Chou’s chemistry class. He was shuffling up and down on the sidewalk in front of the school. She was supposed to be studying ionization constants.

"Ms. Peterson?"

Isabel jerked her attention in off the street to find Dr. Chou and most of the class staring at her expectantly.

"Le Chatelier's principle, Ms. Peterson."

The blackboard rippled and she was staring at the back of Mrs. Bowen teaching Classical Literature next door. And then it
wasn’t
Mrs. Bowen. And then she realized it was about to turn around.

That would be bad.

Very bad.

Its eyes would be a deep blood red.

I’m
so
going to die
.

The blackboard reappeared so quickly, the front of the classroom picked up a faint fog of chalk dust.

For a moment, she couldn't breathe, and then the moment passed and Dr. Chou was still waiting for an answer she didn't have. "Um, I'm guessing it's not the nice old man who was head of the school where Le Chatelier went as a boy?"

The class broke into appreciative giggles.

"Good guess. Loss of three points for being clever. Can anyone tell me the correct answer?"

Someone could. Isabel paid no attention to who. Her streeter was sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, shoulders slumped in apparent exhaustion.

He was still there, fifty-five minutes later when the final bell rang. Pushing past a small clump of fellow seniors, she hurried toward him.

"Hey, Peterson."

It was an Ashley. Or maybe a Britney. One of the highlights and high hems crowd, anyway. Experience having taught her that ignoring them did no good, she turned.

"I'm so glad to see you finally got yourself a boyfriend." A toss of long, blonde hair behind one slender shoulder. "What
is
that aftershave he’s wearing? Is it Eau de
toilet
?"

Isabel's lip curled. "Up yours."

Ashley – or maybe Britney – jerked, eyes wide. "You're such a total loser," she sneered, but the insult didn’t have the usual vicious energy behind it. Tugging at her kilt, she turned her attention back to her friends.

Isabel had to stand directly in front of him before he noticed her. "You did that. Stopped that... thing."

He nodded.

"You were waiting for it. How did you know it was going to be there?"

"It was drawn to your power."

"My power?"

He smiled then, showing incongruously white teeth. "The youngest is always the most powerful."

"The youngest?"

"Youngest wizard."

She wasn't even surprised by how little surprise she felt. "You keep saying there isn't time. Time for what?"

"To teach you before the test."

Uh huh. A test. "Is that what that... thing is? Was?"

"Spare some change?"

Isabel slapped her hands together an inch in front of his nose. "Hey! Let's maintain focus here!" He jerked back, his eyes clearing. "Is that... thing, the test?"

"No. It just wants your power."

"Great." A hundred new questions joined the earlier half dozen. She settled on the most mundane. "What's your name?"