Travellers in Magic (11 page)

“I've always thought so.”

“Did you see a doctor?”

She promises not to interfere, and then the first thing she says is interfering. “Yeah,” I say.

“What did—”

“The test was positive.” Even over the phone lines I can feel her straining to ask a question. “I haven't decided what to do yet.”

“Did you think about what I said?”

“No.”

“If you're going to have a child—”

“I thought you said you weren't going to interfere.”

“Well, I just thought that you could take less dangerous work for a while. At least until the child is born.”

“I've told you before. This is what I want to do.”

“I know that. I'm not saying you should stop being a detective. But maybe you could take different cases—”

I sigh loudly. My mother has never held a job in her life, and yet she thinks she knows everything about everything. If she meets a jeweler she'll talk with great authority about gem-stones. If she meets a car mechanic she'll go on about what the best makes of cars are. You can't correct her misconceptions; she feels absolutely no embarrassment when she finds out she's wrong.

Now she wants to tell me how to run a detective agency. “There are no safe cases,” I say. “You can never tell how a case will turn out.”

“Well, then, maybe you can stop—”

“No.”

“I've talked it over with your father—we can afford—”

I hang up. Next thing she'll suggest I move back in with her and my father, into the old bedroom they've kept for me all these years.

Angry now, I pull Dora Green's file. I start to dial her number and then change my mind. I'm going to go visit her. If Mickey's been hiding something then who's to say she hasn't been? What do I really know about her anyway?

I put on my coat and two scarves and leave the office, slamming the door behind me. My stomach has started to feel queasy again.

There are huge plants on Ms. Green's lawn, pushing up against her outside wall. Somehow they have managed to put forth a few leaves, though the trees on the sidewalk are bare. I ring her doorbell, wondering what it is about this woman and flowers.

Her house is light and warm, with wooden beams and hardwood floors, and, of course, pots of plants placed to catch the sun. Red and green and blue weavings cover the backs of white couches and hang from the walls. She leads me to one of the couches and sits across from me.

Once again I notice how calm she is, how composed. There is a stateliness to her that I don't associate with the parents of missing children. “Have you found my daughter?” she asks.

“No, not yet. But I have found—Well, I wonder how much you know about Mickey.”

“Mickey?”

“Yes, your cousin. He didn't seem very concerned about Carolyn at the restaurant. I wonder if he's holding something back.”

“Mickey.” She sits back on the couch and smooths down the edge of the weaving. “I've been thinking the same thing myself. I think that's one of the reasons I asked you to lunch, so you could meet him and form your own impressions. I don't think he's telling me everything he knows.”

“Do you have his address?”

“Yes, of course.” She recites his address from memory. It's in a very mixed part of town, with apartment buildings and middle-class houses and small neighborhood shops all jumbled together. It's miles from the warehouse district he led me to this afternoon.

I thank her and start to leave. “Take care of yourself,” she says.

Once again I get the unsettling feeling that she knows all about me. For a moment I want to tell her everything, to pour out the things I held back from my mother and the doctor. Why on earth did Carolyn Green run away from a mother like this?

Suddenly I realize that it's not the financial aspects of having a child I'm worried about. That would be tough, but I can handle it. What I'm terrified of is being the kind of mother my own mother was, interfering, small-minded, unable to let go. What other example do I have?

As I go back to my car I see that the streetlights are starting to come on. I've wasted more time than I thought following Mickey. I go home, and turn the heat up as high as it will go.

The next day I am parked across the street from Mickey's house. There is a car in the driveway, a late model Mercury. He might be out on one of his long walks, but I gamble that the car means he's still home.

Time passes slowly. My car is freezing, but I can't risk turning on the engine to start the heater. Finally the front door opens, and Mickey steps out. He passes the car in the driveway and heads for the sidewalk. Another walk today, I think.

I let him get a half a block ahead of me and then ease open the car door. This time I am certain he hasn't seen me. He walks slowly, as though he has no destination in mind; it is easy enough to keep him in sight.

He continues this way for several miles. He shows no sign of stopping. Finally he turns down a main street, and I see that he is heading toward the warehouse district he visited yesterday. He is moving faster now.

I follow, hurrying to keep him in sight. He comes to the corner at which I lost him and turns. I take the corner after him. He is still in front of me, moving very fast now, almost running.

The rain starts again, lashing the bare trees. He goes halfway down the street and pushes on one of the warehouse doors. I run after him, but by the time I get there the door is closed. I try it; it opens with only the slightest squeak of rusty metal.

I step inside and close the door quickly. The first thing I notice is the smell of corroded metal. I can see nothing; even minutes after I have shut the door the warehouse is pitch dark. I can hear nothing either, not Mickey, not anyone he has come to meet. After a few minutes I make out the distant sound of water dripping on metal.

A flare burns suddenly across the room, too dim to reach me. I move toward it cautiously, keeping close to the shadows by the wall.

As I get nearer I see two huge chairs made of rusted metal. One is empty; a man sits in the other. It is too dark to tell, and I am too far away, but I am almost certain he is the man in the photograph, Carolyn's husband. The sight of the empty chair makes me uneasy.

The light flares higher, and now I see Mickey among the shadows, standing before the man in the chair. The man wears a crown made of iron; its points catch the flames and glow red.

I feel the nudge of an elusive memory, a story I once heard or a lesson I learned in school. I know this place: the dark hall, the two chairs, the harsh smell of rusting metal. But before I can remember it fully the man in the chair speaks.

“Greetings, cousin,” he says. “What news do you bring me from the upper world?”

“She know nothing,” Mickey says. “She is unable to find her daughter.”

“Good. Her daughter is mine, gained by lawful means.”

“Of course,” Mickey says.

The red light erupts again. The shadows fall back. The man in the chair looks up and sees me. “Who is that woman?” he asks.

I turn and run. I find the door to the outside, but it is stuck, locked. I am still pulling on it when Mickey comes up behind me.

“Come, Liz,” he says. “This is no fit way to greet the King of Hell.”

I turn and face him, look beyond him to Jack Hayes. “King of Hell,” I say scornfully. “Is that King Jack, or King Hayes?”

“Hades,” he says. It is a while before I realize that he is correcting my pronunciation.

“Where is Carolyn?” I ask.

“My wife is safe.”

“Where is Carolyn?” I ask again.

“She is not Carolyn,” Hayes says. “Her name is Kore. Some call her Persephone.”

“I don't have time—”

“I will tell you where she is,” he says. “I first saw her many years ago. She was gathering flowers, and she had wandered too far from her companions. I fell in love with her then—I saw that she would bring light to my dark lands. I rode my chariot up from Hell, and I seized her and bore her down to my kingdom. Her mother Demeter searched all the earth for her but could not find her, and in her sorrow called down the chilling winter. It was Hermes who led Demeter to her daughter, that first winter so long ago.”

“Hermes?”

Mickey bows toward me mockingly. “The Romans called me Mercury. The messenger, the quick-witted one, the god of commerce. And also—” he grins “—the trickster, the god of thieves.”

I wonder if they are both crazy. But it doesn't really matter; the important thing is making sure that Carolyn is safe. “Where is she?”

“You
are
persistent,” Mickey says. “She chose well for a change, Demeter did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Demeter searches every year for her daughter. She will not end her winter until Kore is found, and we made the search more difficult than usual this year.” Mickey shakes his head, almost in admiration. “This is the first time she's hired a private investigator, though. I made sure that the one she found was incompetent, but apparently she tried again without my help.”

“Why didn't you just tell her where her daughter is?”

“Some years I do, some years I don't. You can't trust me, really.” He grins engagingly. “You know the Little Ice Age, during the Middle Ages? That was my doing. And now—she should have gone to you sooner. She's left it far too late.”

“Where—”

Jack Hayes raises his hand to stop me, then waves to a corner of the room still in shadow. Carolyn comes toward us. She is very pale; even her blue eyes seem paler, and there are dark circles under her eyes. Her long white dress is torn and dirty.

Suddenly I remember the rest of the Greek legend. “You've had your time with her,” I say to Hayes. “She ate four pomegranate seeds—that gave you four months with her. It's spring now—it's time for her to go home.”

Hayes nods. The foul light slowly diminishes. Before he can change his mind I grab Carolyn by the wrist and hurry toward the door.

Mickey is standing there, blocking my way. I didn't even see him move; I would have sworn that he was still behind me. “No,” he says. He's still smiling; it's all a game to him. “Let's have another Ice Age. The last one was such fun.”

I let go of Carolyn and turn to look at Hayes. It's a mistake; Mickey shoves me toward the throne and tries to force me to the floor.

I sidestep him, sliding to one side and crouching down. He is still lunging forward, and as he moves in front of me I punch him in the kidney.

He doubles over. Before he can get up I run for the door, taking Carolyn with me. The door opens easily.

We step outside. It's raining hard; we are drenched within seconds. I slam the door behind me and run down the street, taking Carolyn with me. As we reach the corner a taxi comes toward us. I hail it and we get inside.

I give the driver Dora Green's address and sit back. Carolyn stares through the wiper blades at the streets outside. There is a trace of sadness on her face, and—what seems worse to me—resignation. What does she think, having been delivered from the terrors of that warehouse? Has it happened before, as Mickey said? For how many years has she had to take this ride home?

A few minutes later we drive up to Ms. Green's house. I pay the driver and we walk up to the front door. I ring the bell.

The door opens. Dora Green steps outside and sees her daughter. She goes toward Carolyn and holds her close; they stand motionless for a long time. I cannot read the expression on her face.

The rain stops. A warm wind courses from somewhere, heavy with the scents of flowers and oranges. Tiny green leaves are budded on the branches of the trees; I hadn't noticed them before. They open as I watch.

After a long moment Dora releases her daughter and turns the full regard of her gaze to me. The air burns around her, bright as gold. She seems to read my entire life in an instant, both my past and what is to come. Her expression is perfectly balanced between joy and sorrow.

I want to fall to my knees before her. The goddess of earth, of fertility. “I thank you,” Demeter says.

I am taking a leave of absence from my job, at least until the child is born and is old enough for daycare. Demeter has been more than generous in settling up her bill, and Hermes, the god of commerce, seems to have shrugged off the incident in the warehouse and has offered me a loan. He is also, as he was good enough to warn me, the god of thieves, but I've dealt with crooks before. I am very glad not to have to take money from my parents.

The doctor tells me the child will be a girl. I am going to call her Demetra.

A
FTERWORD

I've always liked the story of Demeter and Persephone. Partly this is because it's one of the few Greek myths to deal with women, with the primal relationship of mother and daughter. And partly it's because around about January winter starts to seem horribly oppressive, and I long for spring. (My novel
Summer King, Winter Fool,
which I wrote around the same time as this story, deals with a prolonged winter as well.) I tried writing a story based on this myth three separate times—as science fiction, as mainstream, and as fantasy, which finally seemed to work.

Thanks are due to David Cleary for the title.

M
IDNIGHT
N
EWS

Stevens and Gorce sat at the hotel bar, watching television. Helena Johnson's face nearly filled the entire screen. Snow drifted across her face and then covered the screen, and five or six people in the bar raised their voices. The bartender quickly switched the channel, and Helena Johnson's face came on again, shot from the same angle.

She had told the reporters she was eighty-four, but Stevens thought she looked older. Her face was covered with a soft down and her right cheek discolored with liver-colored age spots, and the white of one eye had turned as yellow as an egg yolk. The hairdressers had dyed her hair a full, rich white, but Stevens remembered from earlier interviews that it had been dull gray, and that a lot of it had fallen out.