Megan Lindholm - Wizard of the Pigeons

He did not wonder at the looks he drew as he left the arcade.

He took the pedestrian walkway that had once been a block of Occidental Avenue South. A tourist information booth sprouted up out of the bricks in front of him. But it offered no answers to any of his questions. He knew the booth had once been an elegant elevator car in some building. But the scrap of information fluttered away from his mind. He couldn’t remember which old building it had come from. Suddenly it seemed less than trivial. He trudged on to the corner of Jackson and Occidental.

Across the intersection from him stood the building that housed his life. He stared at it. Wee Bit O’lreland’s windows were brightly lit and decorated for the season. It only made the rest of it drearier. The inevitable black fire escape twined up the front of the building. Great Winds Kites had one of its creations dangling from the lowest landing of it. The rain was ‘ battering the gay and fragile thing. He nearly yielded to the impulse to run and tap on their window and remind them of its plight. The energy for such a rescue drained from him. It seemed only natural that all things bright and airy should end up sodden and battered.

Faded white lettering gave a name to his home. The Washington Shoe Manufacturing Company- It hadn’t been that for years, but back in 1890, it had held the business to go with the name. The sign would still be there long after he was gone.

He was a passing bit of biological noise in the city, with no real place in its petrous existence. He could no longer see the faces in the brickwork, feel the underlying life in the crouching buildings. The facts and continuity he grasped at had no connection to him, any more than the scorching moth could claim the laurels of General Electric. He had tried to become part of Seattle, to blend with the streets and buildings. He'd failed.

Such a ridiculous quest. Why should he persist now in so fruitless a task? When all was said and done, what did he signify, with his listening attitude and his ridiculous ministry to the pigeons?

He crossed against the lights and turned into his alley. Framed by the blackness of buildings, the King Dome glittered at the far end of the alley chute like a sagging faery toadstool. He tried to imagine himself down there, at whatever sports event was filling it tonight, cussing about parking his car, hurrying the family along to the game. Would he carry a little banner to wave and know all the team statistics? Would he tie himself into that as he had tied himself into the city? The brightness of the lights against the darkness made his eyes water until it shimmered like an underwater scene. Would it make any difference? There weren’t many wizards left in the world, Cassie had said. Now he knew why.

His alley was as empty as his soul. He crouched beneath his fire escape and sprang. With weary expertise he hauled himself up and climbed to his fourth floor window. Crouching, he eased his window up.

A warm odor of food and hot candle wax flowed out to greet him. Wizard froze, not breathing, becoming part of the night. Then, soundless as any shadow, he eased into the room and slipped to his doorway. A yellow light spilled from his den, its source a candlestump burning on one of the pigeons’ shelves. The birds had retreated from it and were eyeing it nervously. The cardboard had been propped in the window with his books. In the darkest corner where his mattress. was, something sat up. Its single glowing eye bored into him-

“You KEPT ME WAITING,” Lynda said petulantly. “Where have you been?” She dropped her cigarette on his floor and ground it out with her boot heel. Wizard came the rest of the way into the room, wondering if he were relieved that it was only Lynda.

She caught him before he was halfway across the room, engulfing him in an embrace. She released him just as quickly, with a loud squeak.

“You are soaking wet and as cold as a fish! And listen to that cough! Now, you get out of those wet things right now.

It’s a good thing I decided to meet you here. I brought us some food, and a little something that will warm you right to your toes. I wanted to get you some clothes today, but I didn’t know the sizes. Now I wish I had guessed. Look at you. I mean it now, get those wet clothes off!“

“Sshh!” he cautioned her frantically. The stores downstairs are still open. They start staying open later this time of year.

Don’t talk loudly and don’t thump around like that. Take your boots off.“

“Oh, baloney! They’re two floors below us. And if they’re open for business, they’ll be playing music and listening to customers. You worry too much. Now, are you going to take off those wet things or do you want me to take them off for your‘

She must have taken the line from a movie. He stared at her. She stood hip-snot, her fists tightly resting on her thighs.

He wondered what actress she was imitating. Her tone was maternal, her stance sexually threatening. He shivered in his wet clothing.

“I’ll take them off myself,” he said slowly. She would have taken any other reply as a challenge or invitation. With grave dignity be turned his back cm her and slowly began to unbutton his shirt with chilled fingers.

“Aaw, rats!” Mock salacious disappointment was in her exclamation.“Well, if you won’t let me help, I’ll just get us something to eat over here. Let me know if you decide you want help.”

He listened to her dragging things about. He glanced over his shoulder to see her turning his food box on its side for a table. Like a little girl playing house. He went back to staring at the walls. He pulled his soaked t-shirt off over his head. His wet hair draggled down the back of his neck, chilling him. She was still chattering at him, her voice not lowered at all. Her boots clumped with every stop.

“Quiet.” he warned softly.

She mis-heard him. “I said, did you hear about that murder down near the ferry dock?”

He stopped moving, his fingers clinging to the waistband of his pants. “Knife,” he said dully.

“Yeah, that one. You heard, huh? But they don’t put it all in the papers. A real mess. Only seventeen, they say. Some little girt playing hooker. Will, you can’t say she didn’t ask for it. Do you have any salt?”

“No!” He suddenly hated her, her callous, shallow attitude.

A woman had died this day. Died of a knife because he hadn’t been able to summon the magic to prevent it. Behind him, she went right on making domestic noises, rustling through his possessions with a calm assumption of domain. Why don’t I get angry? he wondered. Why don’t I turn and yell at her to leave, to get out of my life and leave me alone? Because I am tired and sick, he excused himself. From the back corner of his mind came the voice of the girl on the bus. “Because it’s easier to let her do as she wishes, easier to let her take command and responsibility. You coward!”

“Because I am tired of being alone‘” He defended himself aloud. He had inadvertently injected the words into one of Lynda’s rare silences.

“Me, too, baby. Well, we aren’t alone anymore, arc we?

Here, put on your robe and come eat.“

He hadn’t realized how close she was. The warm dark cloth cascaded over his head and down his shoulders. He found himself shrugging into it, protesting as she tugged the collar down over his head, “I don’t have a robe.”

“Then what’s this?” she asked him indulgently. >

Wizard looked down. The shimmering dark cloth fell to his bare feet. Stars and crescent moons shone in the dim room, sparkled in the light of the candle on the food crate. His wizardly robe draped his chilled body. He froze, waiting. It warmed him. That was all. He smoothed his hands down me front of it, waiting for some tingle of power. Nothing. He squeezed his stinging eyes shut. Where had his mind been, and for bow long? What had he really expected of a discarded Hallowe’en costume? He felt Lynda draping his shoulders with the cloak.