The Deavys (9 page)

“Some,” Simwan admitted modestly. “My sisters and I are in town to visit our uncle.” He gave the address.

“I know where dat is. Nice neighborhood on the Lower East Side, near da bridge.” Sticking his head not out of but through the driver's side window, he yelled at a passing delivery truck that had nearly taken off his side-view mirror. “Hey, ya smelly spawn of da Unnamable, watch where you're goin'!” Pulling his head in, without any damage to the rolled-up window, he smiled anew at his passenger.

“Sorry for da language, kid, but dis is New Yawk. You don't stick up for youself here, you might as well be drivin' in Hell.” Hands on the wheel, he depressed the accelerator and pulled away from the curb.

“Are you a demon?” N/Ice inquired politely from the backseat.

“Well, sure. Whattid ya think? Dat some Ord would be drivin' a cab like dis?” Affectionately, he reached out to pat the dash to the right of the wheel. “Thoity million miles on 'er and she's still runnin' strong. She's got a top-drawer engine enchantment, but more dan dat, I was smart when I bought her license. Paid for a warranty dat covers me throughout all dimensions Now and Forever. 'Cept for da after-market accessories I added on myself, of course.”

“Uh, I don't want to tell you your business, sir,” Simwan spoke rapidly as the vehicle careened crazily toward a momentary gap between pedestrians, “but aren't we heading straight for the side of that really tall, really solid-looking skyscraper?”

“Appearances can be deceivin', kid. Especially in New Yawk.” Gripping the wheel with both hands and prehensile tail (the latter having slid out from beneath the driver's seat), eyes wide and expression maniacal, the cabby sent them hurtling straight toward a towering wall of stone, steel, and glass. Behind Simwan, the girls shrieked in delighted anticipation. Simwan just closed his eyes.

Only to open them again an instant later. Still accelerating, they were racing
through
the building. Occasionally, they would also pass right through an Ord, who would pause briefly and alternately blink, wince, belch, or otherwise react reflexively to the momentary unusual intestinal disturbance they could feel but not see.

Wheels screeching silently, the cab slid sideways, throwing Simwan against the door on his side and the laughing, squealing girls against one another. Simwan didn't see what the driver was fighting to avoid because he was too busy hanging onto the cat carrier (from whose darkened interior arose increasingly acerbic comments of displeasure regarding the violent turn their taxi ride had taken) and staying upright on his own seat.

“Shortcut.” Exposing pointed, six-inch-long fangs, the driver grunted at Simwan, then yanked sharply on the wheel again to steer clear of what appeared to be a small volcano erupting molten mercury. “I tell you, dis city ain't no place for da faint o' hearts.”

Shrinking back in his seat as they plunged into the nebulous interior of what appeared to be another solid, impenetrable building, Simwan could only agree. The Deavy coubet, meanwhile, acted as if they had been given a free pass to ride all day on a multi-dimensional roller coaster. Their enchanting (if not enchanted) shrieking and giggling filled the cab as it careened from one seemingly fatal encounter to the next. From within his cat carrier, an irritated Pithfwid snarled something about spilling newly carbonated milk, but otherwise kept to himself.

That left Simwan free to be alternately relieved and terrified, depending on the route the cab happened to be taking at that particular moment and the apparently solid objects at which their driver continued to insist on hurling it. Then, almost as soon as the wild ride had begun, they were back out on a normal street again. Second Avenue was also full of traffic, but in contrast to the jam they had left behind, it was manageable traffic.

“Sorry 'bout the detour,” the cabbie apologized. “Dere's a dead dragon blocking da intersection up at Thoity-thoid Street and I'm damned if I was gonna wait around for Spectral Removal to show up and haul it away. 'Course,” he added pleasantly, “it wouldn't really ha' mattered that much 'cause I'm already damned anyway.”

Eventually, they reached the far Lower East Side, down near the Manhattan Bridge, and found themselves in one of the oldest parts of the city. Here, where the East River flowed past the Brooklyn Navy Yard on the other side from Manhattan Island, remnants of the great city's nautical history and financial future were to be found.

The girls had gone silent. Heads tilted back, necks craning, they strained to see the fronts of the old apartment buildings that rose several stories high on either side of the constricted lane. Save for a brace of imps pushing a cart piled high with fresh fruits and vegetables and a cable installer truck parked outside one building, there was a notable absence of other vehicles. Shut out by walls of brick and chiseled stone, even the sun seemed to have taken a bye.

Emitting a grunt of satisfaction, accompanied by a match-size flicker of flame from between his otherwise tightly clamped lips, the driver slowed and stopped at one curb. In places where the concrete was cracked and buckled, weeds and grass broke through, announcing their imperfect but determined attempts to recoup the land for a paved-over Nature. On the surrounding structures, crows and ravens, sparrows and pigeons staked their claim to nesting spaces in a profusion of nicks and crannies and rooftops. Few were the windows that were not masked from within by thick shades or heavy curtains. A shadowy silence hung over the street, a quietude that affected even the air, which did not move. An old newspaper page that was skittering down the center of the street was doing so on its own, too impatient to wait for a following breeze. This was a neighborhood that had been overlooked by the ages.

Turning to Simwan, the driver extended a hand. The expectant open palm was rough-surfaced and covered with scales, not skin. “Yous won't find dis street on no regular map o' da city. That'll be ten lucks, please.”

For a moment, Simwan wondered if they had been brought to the right address. Eyeing the stolid buildings that constricted the street like a Sphygmomanometer around a bare arm, it didn't look as if anyone lived in any of them. On the other hand, he decided, if the cab driver had wanted to cheat them, he could have continued driving around Manhattan for another hour without his young passengers being any the wiser.

Digging out his wallet, he handed the driver two bills: a dollar (for a tip), and a ten-luck. Reflecting the nature of the unique currency, the face on the front of the latter was that of an older, happier Alexander Hamilton: one who hadn't died as a result of wounds suffered in his duel with Aaron Burr. In the currency of another place and time, Hamilton had lived on—a fact reflected in the knowing wink the face on the bill gave the driver as Simwan passed him the note.

Pulling his head and tail back inside the taxi, the cabbie pulled away from the curb and drove off, disappearing around the next corner. Or maybe he disappeared before he reached the corner. Simwan couldn't be sure. Turning, he put the cat carrier down on the crumbly, ancient sidewalk and together with his sisters, stood studying the building that loomed before them.

Constructed of brown brick the color of weathered wood, it boasted narrow curtained windows and touches of decorative gray granite. The pair of stone gargoyles that served as downspouts for the rooftop drain were just that: inert stone. In contrast, Simwan was sure that the pair of windows that fronted the small area that was visible below street level had blinked at him at least once. According to the information his parents had given him, Uncle Herkimer lived on the top floor. That meant a better view, more isolation from any street noise (assuming there ever was any noise on this street, he mused), and cleaner air. Picking up his backpack, he slipped the shoulder straps over his arms, hefted Pithfwid's carrier, and started toward the dozen or so wide stone stairs that led up to the building's front door. Chattering among themselves, his sisters followed, lamenting the neighborhood's apparent absence of any boys older than themselves. The nonappearance of any other type of human being did not particularly concern them.

The front door opened into a small alcove. Embedded in one wall was a single row of metal mailboxes. Inspecting them briefly, Simwan was unable to decide if they were made of weathered, blackened brass or true gold that had been disguised to look like weathered, blackened brass. The other wall boasted a somewhat haphazardly written list of residents and a built-in intercom. Befitting his location at the top of the building, the top of the list featured the name they were looking for: J. Herkimer. Simwan pressed the small, square black button opposite the name. Within the wall, something buzzed. There was no reply. He buzzed once more. Again, nothing.

Behind him, the girls crowded close. “Let me try,” offered Rose. Stepping aside, Simwan let each of them take a try at the button. The buzzer-bell worked fine, but no voice responded from the speaker set into the wall.

“Pick me up.”

Doing as Pithfwid requested, Simwan lifted and awkwardly held the front end of the cat carrier so that it was facing the wall speaker. From within the carrier came a peculiarly modulated yowl that to a non-Ord would have sounded no different from any other feline yowl. It sounded only a little different, and was equally incomprehensible, to Simwan and his sisters. But there was an immediate response from the speaker.

“Well why didn't you
say
so?” rattled a voice from within the wall. Listening to it, Simwan wasn't sure if it was the speaker or the voice that rattled. It didn't matter. It was the fact that they had finally roused a response that was important. “Marty and Melinda Mae's kids—I've been expecting you, already.”

The high, narrow double doors that blocked the entrance to the interior of the building promptly swung aside, opening inward, groaning and squealing alarmingly as they did so. Once more a voice issued from the speaker.

“Don't mind the doors. It's their job to scare off nosy salespeople. Everybody should have a job, even a door, yes? Come on up.”

The girls ran toward the broad central stairway that extended itself slightly to greet them. Simwan followed more slowly. He was tired from the trip, from the effort of battling the evil that had tried to drown them beneath the Hudson, from the responsibility of looking after the coubet, and from the less than tranquil taxi ride they had suffered from the train station. It would be good to relax for a while. He was also looking forward to sitting down and chatting with his uncle Herkimer. Even if he was dead.

VIII

The condition of the hallway reflected that of the apartment building as a whole: somewhere between decrepit and spotless. Certainly, it was quiet as they started up the wide, carpeted stairs. Dead quiet, Simwan decided. But it was not deserted. Occasionally, sounds loud enough to be heard reached the ascending Deavy brood: the muted mutter of televisions, the hum of people conversing behind tightly closed doors, the muffled chatter of a pet parrot. On the second-floor landing, a door opened and a hand emerged to place a bag of trash outside. The trash was ordinary but the hand was not. It was bright green, covered with large dark blotches and warts, and boasted six fingers that terminated in long, curving nails. Of the owner of this singular appendage they saw no more than the hand and the olive-skinned arm to which it was attached.

The third floor reverberated to the beat of fugitive music. Also to the footsteps of a diminutive elderly lady wearing a tutu; shiny white, cut-off top ballet slippers; and a harried expression. Hefting what looked like a butterfly net but wasn't, she was huffing and puffing as she chased the music around the central stairwell. As the Deavys looked on, the woman swung and swiped the net back and forth until it finally collapsed around something invisible to them but clearly not to her. Firmly holding the mouth of the net closed, she hurried past them, breathing hard.

“Terrible sorry; 'tis I.” She held up the choked-off white mesh net. Neither Simwan nor his sisters could see anything inside, but the frantic jerking and twitching of the gauzy material clearly indicated something was trapped within. Each time the net heaved, a different discordant melody rocked the hallway. “ 'Tis a pirate recording, you see,” the little old lady explained, “and as such, 'tis ever attempting to flee its proper venue. Sometimes it gets out, and the neighbors rightly complain.” Lowering her voice, she sidled closer. Gesturing with a nod of her head, she singled out a door identified as 3C by the large brass letters that had been screwed to the wood.

“MY DEAR MISS DALAPILLY! HAVE YOU SNUCKERED DOWN THAT BLASTED TUNE YET?” The entire building seemed to tremble.

“Yes, sir, yes I have, sir,” Miss Dalapilly piped up nervously. Tightly clutching the net holding her recaptured music, she proceeded to abandon the young visitors to the stairs and to their fate as she vanished into the apartment marked 3F.

Taking her comments to heart, the Deavys resumed their climb, making sure to keep their voices down and to step lightly on the carpeted stairs. Thankfully, no further tectonic rumblings were forthcoming from the mysterious depths of apartment 3C.

The top floor proved to be smaller than the four they had already passed. Saddled with the task of hauling the cat carrier, Simwan reached the landing a little out of breath. Burdened only by their backpacks, the girls were in fine fettle. Though they took care to kick the blue-blossomed fettle out of their way, other weeds and wildflowers growing out of the floor threatened to impede their progress toward the floor's only door. Unlike those fronting the apartments on the three levels below, it had only the number 5 attached to it, with no appended letter.

“Uncle Herkimer lives in a penthouse. Cool,” declared N/Ice. Standing next to her, Rose observed that there was no doorbell. In its absence, she reached out and grabbed the heavy ring of the brass lion's-head doorknocker.

Snarling, the golden-hued lion head bared its brass teeth.

Simultaneously startled and miffed, Rose yanked her fingers back sharply. “Hey, quit that! No biting. We're relatives.”

“Oh, sorry,” growled the doorknocker. “I thought you were selling cookies. Those Girl Scouts somehow sneak through all obstacles in their quest to make a sale. Please come in.” Emitting an appropriate grinding groan, the door swung inward.

The front room of the penthouse was larger than they expected, with a high, vaulted ceiling. The far side of the room was dominated by a quintet of tall, narrow windows that were presently blocked by heavy, dark curtains bound together with thick gold cords. Enough sunshine leaked in around the sides of the curtains to illuminate the room with diminished but adequate light. There were a couple of overstuffed eighteenth-century couches upholstered in azure blue damask, together with matching chairs, a slim-legged writing desk, and a pair of massive walnut armoires. The floor was covered with a huge carpet that might have been Persian, Berber, or Lemurian. Woven into it were fanciful images of plants and animals that no longer existed, might never have existed, or existed only in the minds of whoever had labored over the weaving. The ceiling was frescoed with stars, clouds, and a full moon that seemed to shine with a silvery internal light of its own.

Simwan's attention was drawn to a full suit of standing French armor mounted on a wooden base. The girls cooed delightedly over an oil painting in a heavy frame that depicted a young woman on a swing. A second glance was not necessary to note that the ropes of the swing were not attached to the tree in the painting. To right and left, open doorways led to other darkened rooms. Silence weighed on them like a goose down comforter on a cold winter's night. It was broken by the squeak of the door closing behind them. Sticking out of it and corresponding precisely and in proportion to the lion's-head doorknocker on the other side was the body and rear end of a male lion, rendered in brass. The tail continued to twitch back and forth and one foot to scratch the other until the door was completely shut.

A familiar feline voice came from within the plastic cat carrier, which a relieved Simwan had set down on the carpeted floor. “Someone's coming.”

Footsteps that were hushed yet distinct drew the Deavys' attention to the open portal on their right. As the sounds came nearer, Simwan could hear them, too. Slow, steady footpads whose noise was muffled by thick carpet. Next to him, the coubet ceased their chattering. A figure appeared in the doorway.

It was less than a foot tall. No wonder its footfalls had made so little noise.

It had four legs and no arms, oversize pointy ears, no hair, and a short, naked tail that wagged back and forth like a runaway ballpoint pen. Like the rest of the figure, the tail was a mottled, sickly green color.

A disbelieving Amber gaped at the apparition. “Uncle Herkimer—you've become a
dog
?”

The primordial Chihuahua trotted into the room. “I
beg
your pardon. I am Señor Nutt. A friend of your uncle's. A very old friend, in every sense of the word.” The small black nose tested the air, wrinkling distastefully. “Ugh. I smell cat.”

From within the depths of the pet carrier an appropriate response was swiftly forthcoming. “Drop the last word and the accuracy of your observation becomes indisputable.”

“Cut it out, Pithfwid.” Crouching next to the carrier, Simwan unfastened the latch. “If we're going to be guests, you're going to have to get along with
everyone
who lives here.”

“Hmph. Oh well. It can't be any worse than that time I was trapped for two days in the Sworl of Solemn Stinks just outside the Golden Gates of Azgremal.” Stepping delicately, Pithfwid emerged from the cat carrier and glanced perfunctorily at his surroundings before his gaze settled on the diminutive canine standing before him.

“Not only dead,” the cat sniffed disdainfully, “but bald as well.”

“Unburdened by an unnecessary coat,” the Chihuahua responded brusquely. Advancing, it cautiously and with obvious reluctance touched its nose to that of its feline visitor. Sparks flared from Pithfwid's tail, but that perpetual-motion appendage bottled up only slightly. From the greenish dog came the faint odor of essential preservation.

“You're cute.” Crouching, Rose patted the animal on its head. “You're dead too.”

“Naturally,” admitted the dog. “Quite ironic, in a way. Instead of digging up bones, another dog dug up me. Your uncle took me in, and we've been together ever since. I've actually been dead considerably longer than Herkimer. I have Aztec ancestors, you see. I come from a noble line of canines that stretches all the way back to the dire wolf.”

“How the mighty hath shrunketh.” Pithfwid had wandered off and was sniffing the furniture. Encountering a spot that Señor Nutt had sprayed, he drew back sharply, his nose offended. “Or stunketh, depending on the particular sense in use at the moment of revelation.”

“Nephew Simwan!” a slightly louder voice suddenly exclaimed, “and the whole Deavy coubet! How wonderful to see you, and all grown up, too!”

All eyes turned to the doorway that had brought forth the dead dog. Standing framed in the portal was an old man. Taller and skinnier than their father, he had tufts of white hair growing from the sides of his head. Also from his nostrils and ears, the sight of which the four visitors determined to ignore. Clad in a tattered but still serviceable shirt of maroon silk, matching dark pants, and hand-made Spanish loafers, he sported a gold skull earring in his left ear and heavy rings on several fingers. Spreading his arms wide, he welcomed them warmly—until his right arm fell off at the shoulder.

“Drat.” Reaching down, he picked up the disarticulated limb and forcefully jammed it back into its momentarily vacant socket. “That's the trouble with being dead. Maintenance.”

“Uncle Herkimer!” Delighted, the girls rushed into his welcoming arms, careful not to press the less securely attached right one. He managed a hug without losing any other body parts, then released them and stepped forward.

“And Simwan.” Unexpectedly alert eyes, though blotchy with age and migrating cataracts, brightened at the sight of the young man standing next to the cat carrier. Slipping off his backpack and letting it slide to the floor, Simwan extended a hand.

Herkimer took it firmly. The grip came down, as expected, on the side of clammy and cold. Yet Simwan did not feel distanced. This was his uncle, after all. A close relative, not simply some strange zombie. When Herkimer withdrew his fingers, Simwan waited politely until his uncle was looking the other way before wiping the slime from his hand.

“It's so good to have company.” Glancing down, Herkimer added, “Isn't it, Señor Nutt?”

“Aye and arf. It is good to have company.” The dog was keeping a wary eye on Pithfwid as the presently indigo and white-spotted cat continued his methodical inspection of the furniture. “Though only time will tell if the company is good.”

“Now, now, Señor N,” Herkimer admonished him, wagging a cautionary finger at the dog. “You two need to be friends. I'm the only one allowed to do any mournful howling around here.” Raising his gaze, he smiled at Simwan and the girls, displaying an astonishing array of ragged, broken, stained, and inlaid teeth the mere sight of which would have been sufficient to send even the most stalwart orthodontist fleeing in terror from the sight.

“Come this way, children, and I'll show you to your room. Only one for the five of you, I'm afraid. I don't get much company, so I only ever have one room ready for guests.”

Simwan's concern vanished as soon as he saw where they were expected to stay. Like the rest of the apartment, it was much larger than he expected. There were three beds. This suggested that two of the girls would have to double up, but N/Ice volunteered to sleep in the air above one of the beds, thus allowing Rose and Amber to each have their own. A padded window seat promised Pithfwid plenty of comfort as well as a view of the street below from beneath the bottom edge of the gold-fringed curtain. Many of the blood-red tiles that walled the attached bathroom were broken or chipped, as was the matching red bathtub-shower, but Herkimer assured them that the water that emerged from the penthouse's pipes was clear and clean, and that if it was not hot enough, he would have a word with the building's devil of a custodian.

“We'll be fine,” Rose assured him as she tossed her backpack onto one metal-framed bed.

Herkimer mustered an affectionate smile. “I'm just happy to see you, my nephew and nieces, and to have some company for a little while.” A ghostly green, partially decomposed hand fluttered in the direction of a distant cabinet. “See? I even have television. No cable or satellite, I'm afraid. Just what the building's roof antenna can bring in. But this is New York. There's plenty to watch.”

“You watch TV?” Simwan asked as he looked around for Pithfwid. Where had the cat gotten himself to? He hoped their pet was not eating Uncle Herkimer's canine companion, though he didn't think dead dog was much to Pithfwid's taste.

“Not much else to do when you're deceased,” Herkimer told him, “though I think I'm more alive than some of the stuff that's on these days.” He took a step backward. “I'll let you kids unpack. When you're through, come into the kitchen and we'll discuss how you're going to spend your vacation.”

As soon as he was gone and N/Ice had sealed the door, the Deavys gathered around Rose's bed. She was already talking on her cell phone, which, surprisingly, still functioned on the out-of-the-way street.

“Hi, Dad. Yes, it's me, Rose. We're here at Uncle Herkimer's and just settling in.” A pause, then, “Yes, the train ride was very—entertaining.” Nearby, N/Ice and Amber had to stifle their reactions. Simwan just stood and shook his head silently.

His sister's expression fell and he was immediately concerned.

“Oh. Oh, Dad.” The look on Rose's face as she glanced up at her siblings told them more than they needed to know. “Well, tell her we all love her, and that we'll be home soon. Bye.” She terminated the call and sat quietly.

Amber took a step forward. “What is it, Rose? What's wrong?”

The other girl swallowed. “Mom's in the hospital. But she says not to come home just yet. There's nothing we can do. The stupid Ord doctors don't know what's wrong with her, of course. Dad said he's going to insist that somebody come down from Boston to treat her.”