Root (18 page)

“
What do you mean that is all? I’ve
gotten myself into some serious trouble.”

She rolled her eyes. “The trivia
that brings some people here I cannot believe. But … it is
your
heart …
your
soul that brings one
here. Some people are just more sensitive. Small tragedies are made
bigger for them.”

“
Small? You think it’s no big deal
that both my parents died within a half a year of each other and
now I’m in trouble with a bunch of gangsters?”

“
Yes. Is no big deal. Compared to
some.”

“
Jesus! “I’m almost afraid to ask
how you got here.”

She shook her head. “You can ask me, but I
will not tell you.”

“
That’s not fair.”

“
It is how it is.” I glimpsed
something behind the pits of her pupils that chilled me, a black
hole from which all who entered might never return. I didn’t dare
press for her story. Not yet, anyways.

“
Well, what would you do in a
situation like mine?”

She kept touching her bangs, making sure they
covered that left eye. “One. Sell the drugs yourself. Two. Go far,
far away to some island with no people.”

“
Yeah, right.”

“
I am serious. That is what I would
do.”

“
You don’t care that these drugs
hurt people? That they wreck some people’s lives?”

“
They also give solace. They make
some truly hopeless lives tolerable.”

“
Yeah, but … only for a little
while. And then you need some more.”

“
I would kill for one minute with
some heroin,” said Karla.

“
Say what?”

“
I have no access to any solace,
other than Root. You have an entire truck full. Consider yourself
lucky.”

“
It’s probably just cocaine,” I
said. “Ain’t gonna do shit to make me feel better.”

“
Then I would just sell it, and go
away.”

“
Wanna come with? You can. I’ll come
find you.”

“
I cannot.”

“
Why not? You’re alive, aren’t you?
On the other side?”

“
Barely.”

“
So, tell me where you live. I’ll
come find you.”

Her head tilted down. “You cannot.”

“
Why not?”

“
Because … it would disrupt … my
surfing.”

“
What?”

A deep rumble rattled the dome. Man, it was
close. And then it was joined by a bunch of lesser, but more
musical peals.

Karla smirked. “Do not pee your dress. It is
not the Reapers.”

“
Then what is it?”

“
It is Luther. He is ringing the
bells.”

“
Bells?”

“
He wants us at the square.” An
impish smile spread across her face. “Now I get to show you off to
my friends. Don’t you dare disappear this time!”

***

She led me through a shaggy, root-lined sleeve
much like the one that connected her dome to the tunnels, but it
widened and cleared out into a hallway painted canary yellow above,
with white wainscoting below. The hall led to a sitting room with a
floral print sofa, and a curtained window flanking an oaken
door.

“
You be careful around Luther,” said
Karla. “He does not handle disrespect well. Especially from someone
new.”

“
So I mouth off, what’s he gonna do?
Spank me?”

“
I am telling you, you need to be
careful. Luther is a Weaver of Weavers. He can weave flesh, souls.
And I am not kidding. It is for true. We can get away with some
sass because we are like family. He needs us. But you? Is another
story.”

I went up to the window and peeked outside.
“Whoa!” I said.

A cobbled town square stretched a good hundred
yards to a row of buildings that looked like something out of a
Bavarian fairy tale, with their dark, geometric timbers contrasting
with pale stucco. A massive stone church loomed over them all, its
copper-clad steeple gone green with verdigris.

Swallows swooped about the chimneys, hawks
hovered high above in a blue sky mottled with puffy
clouds.

There was something odd, though, about that
sky. The clouds morphed and drifted like real clouds, but there was
a texture to them evocative of brush strokes, as if they had been
painted onto an enormous canvas with oils.

“
Luther made all this?
Really?”

“
Welcome to Luthersburg,” she said,
pushing open the heavy door. The scents of lilacs and freshly baked
bread wafted in. “Come! I see Lille and Bern. I am excited for them
to meet you.”

She burst out on to the square. I hung back,
hesitant. She waved for me to join her. “Come on! Don’t be
shy.”

I followed her out. The place reminded me of
“Disneyworld”—one of those fake European town squares, scrubbed
clean, with every detail cute and quaint, every rock identically
faceted as if each were created from the same mold.

I saw no signs that this urban landscape was
woven from roots. The bricks bore glaze and char marks from firing
in a kiln. The stone cobbles had crystalline inclusions, flakes of
mica and facets that had been shaped with chisels.

The square was nearly vacant. A handful of
people converged on the center of the plaza where an array of
benches surrounded a stepped, stone platform where a couple sat on
a bench holding hands.

“
It is pretty, yes?” said
Karla.

“
Yeah,” I said, unable to keep the
nervousness out of my voice.

“
There are more souls coming here
than what you see,” said Karla. “What you see is the tip of the
iceberg. We cannot be here all at once. But things are unusually
quiet, it seems.”

“
That’s fine,” I said. “Never cared
much for crowds.”

“
If this was mine, I would make a
different kind of piazza,” she said. “Something with a fountain and
trees and more places to sit. This one I find too drab. Too …
German. But this is what Luther he likes. Have you ever seen Trevi
or Espania … eh … Spanish Steps in Roma?”

“
Nuh-uh,” I said. “Never been out of
the US, except for the Bahamas.”

“
Well, if you ever get a chance to
go, that’s the kind of piazza I prefer.”

My gaze drifted over to the central platform,
where an obelisk and podium were flanked by pedestals bearing
winged gargoyles.

“
Come see Bern and Lille!” She made
a beeline for the couple on the park bench.

Their heads turned our way in unison as we
approached. There was something odd about their faces. Their skin
was waxy and too smooth, as if they wearing many layers of makeup.
It reminded me of those rich people in South Florida who had every
square inch of their faces cut and lifted and botoxed until they
looked like mannequins.

“
And who do we have here, Mädchen?”
said the man, who had a cane with a jade handle propped beside him.
A bowler hat perched slightly askew on his brow. His billowy shirt
was contained beneath an intricately embroidered vest.

“
Bern, it’s the glow-worm!” said the
woman, who was practically smothered in silk scarves, beneath which
she wore something that looked like a purple bathrobe. “Remember
him? From the tunnels?”

“
This is the same boy?”

“
Bern, Lille? This is
James.”

They rose from the bench and each in turn took
my hand and kissed me on alternate cheeks, three times.

“
How are you feeling, Lille?” said
Karla. “You were a bit under the weather before, no?”

“
Terrible,” she said. “I’m coming
apart again.” She ducked her head and covered her face with her
hands.

“
But you look fine,” said
Karla.

“
I keep telling her that, but she
doesn’t listen to me,” said Bern. “I think she doesn’t like my
cosmetic work.”

“
Sorry my dear, your aesthetic
sensibilities may be fine, but you just don’t have Luther’s
panache. When he does me, I can go for days without worrying about
threads popping out of my cheeks.”

Karla pulled me close and whispered. “Lille
survived a fire. She is self-conscious about her looks.”

“
A fire? Here?”

“
No. On the other side.”

“
What are you telling this boy?”
said Lille, scowling.

“
Just explaining how this place
works,” said Karla. “He is very new, but I have to tell you, he has
wicked skill for someone so green.”

“
Oh, believe me, we already know,”
said Bern. “We came across him in the tunnels ages ago. He was in a
tight pod up near the branching. Of course, we would have helped
him, if he had needed it, but this was an early visitation. He
reverted rather quickly. But even then, we saw him, still in his
pod, already influencing the lights.”

“
When was this?” said Karla,
amazed.

Bern and Lille looked at each
other.”

“
Months ago, I suppose,” said
Lille.

“
Yes, months.”

“
I should tell you, Bern and Lille
help me when I first was visit. They were the ones who free me from
my pod and take me to their cottage. They teach me how to Weave
too, though I learn much more slow than you.”

“
We do our part, saving a few souls
now and then,” said Bern.

“
Such a terrible waste,” said Lille.
“All those souls getting Reaped without having a chance to succeed
in the Liminality. I truly believe that Weaving is in the heart of
every soul, you just have to show them the
possibilities.”

“
Sad, but most of them don’t
listen,” said Bern. “They can’t wait to be Reaped.”

“
But you see James,” said Lille. “It
doesn’t have to be that way. Weaving lets us create our own little
Heavens.”

“
Or a big one, in Luther’s case,”
said Bern.

“
But isn’t it … temporary?” I said.
“Don’t we all have to die some day? Some way or
another?”

Bern and Lille looked at each other
conspiratorially.

“
Maybe,” said Bern. “Maybe
not.”

“
I think we all can become like
Luther,” said Karla. “Maybe it is vain, but I hope someday to have
powers like him.”

“
Well, I hope that day comes soon,
my dear,” said Lille. “And then we can all move to
Karlaburg.”

“
Cinque Terra, I will call my
place.”

“
Oh?”

“
Shush everyone, here he comes,”
whispered Bern.

“
He has called this public assembly
to greet you,” said Lille. A flash of worry sparked in her eyes.
“Do not be alarmed by his appearance. He is just a man like you.
Just remember, he is a Weaver of souls.”

“
I know,” I said. “We’ve
met.”

***

At first I thought it was some giant bird
hopping across the rooftops, a huge thing, more stork than Great
Blue Heron, but it was Luther. He now sported six, armored and
articulated legs attached to a horse’s trunk, giant black-feathered
wings and a scorpion stinger dangling over the entire affair. Only
his face and upper torso remained human.

“
Jesus Christ” I sidled behind the
bench.

“
Oh, he’s just showing off,” said
Lille.

“
He’s such a drama queen,” said
Bern.

Luther galloped across the plaza, his six legs
striding in perfect synchrony one tripod at a time. He wore a queer
little green vest with brass buttons and gold brocade. A captain’s
cap perched on a frizzy puff of ginger hair. His proportions were
all wrong. His head looked too small, his face too pinched for the
length and bulk of his arms.

“
I gather you here today,” he
bellowed, as he pranced before them on the square, his voice
pitched high and edged with a rasp. “To meet our latest
supplicant.” He looked down at me. “Take a bow, son and tell them
your name.”

I turned to face the sparse crowd gathered
around. “Hi y’all.” I ducked my head, unable to meet their eyes.
“I’m James.”

“
Let me emphasize to you, James,
that your residence in our community is conditional. We are a guild
of Weavers. We do not tolerate charity cases.” He glared at Karla.
“Thus, I will require you to pass a basic examination of competency
to allow you to remain. After all, we have standards to
maintain.”

“
But the boy already has shown great
skill,” said Bern. “Lille and I, we’ve seen it.”

“
And me too,” said Karla. “That
shirt he is wearing. He shapes it himself.”

Luther pursed his lips and squinted. “I
require evidence not anecdote,” said Luther. “He needs to
demonstrate some basic competency, right here, right now.
Otherwise, it’s back to the tunnels. We can’t go cutting down every
sad little soul we pass because we feel sorry for them. The Reapers
must have their morsels. Don’t want them getting too agitated now,
do we?”