Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

“Sphinx, listen, would I be able to go to the Underside from somewhere else? Like from the Outsides?”

I climb out of the sleep, clutching at it at the same time, like at a warm blanket being pulled off.

“What? don't know.” My own voice sounds alien to me, muffled by the nonexistent blanket. “I don't think anyone's tried. There wasn't anyone to try. Also, you know what... Those lands, they're not as harmless as you might think. There are some pretty scary places too. It's just that I figure you weren't stuck there for more than two months.”

I continue to mumble. It is important, the thing he's asking about, I should try to explain... The sleep overtakes me, throws sticky cotton wool in my face, and it's hard to speak. I crash into it. Into a heavy, suffocating dream, where a man with steel front teeth and a face covered in small scars calls me “little bastard,” thrashes me for the smallest of missteps, and threatens to feed me to his Doberman pinschers. He has five of them. Five scraggy, razor-faced, completely insane creatures in transport cages. My duties include feeding them and mucking out after them, and I hate them almost as much as I hate our common master. They hate me right back. I am thirteen, powerless and alone, and certain that no one is ever going to save me. It's because of him that I learned to reach for beer when I was thirsty. There was never any water in his damn truck.

I awaken suddenly, screaming as if slapped, and jump up all covered in sweat. The hoary nightmare is still ringing in my ears with the throaty “ho-ho-ho” that makes me cringe in almost physical pain.

It's dark, except for the nightlight above Noble's bed. Goldenhead is hard at work over my cigarettes. He is still sitting up very straight, deep in thought. The tobacco smell has defeated the scent of the Sepulcher. No amount of airing is going to get rid of it now.

“Rise and shine,” Noble acknowledges me perfunctorily.

I lean back over the cot, still bearing the imprint of my body, over the damp spot where my head was, and wipe my forehead against the scratchy blanket. Then I go over to Noble's side. There is an aching in my bones as if someone jumped all over me while I was sleeping. Come to think of it, that's not far from the truth. Noble hands me a short stub of a cigarette.

“Sorry. No more left. I was bored. Here, they brought dinner.”

And they never said anything, either about the smoke or about my prostrate figure. Beauty is a horrible weapon. It even has an effect on Spider queens. Not much else does.

Noble inserts the cigarette end into my clamp, avoiding looking me in the eye.

“You were screaming. And talking. Scary stuff.”

I take a drag, scratching the itchy spot on my forehead under the tape with the rake-prong.

“It's the Sepulcher. It gets to me. Almost always does. I shouldn't have fallen asleep here.”

“Who was that man? Does he exist?”

The tiles reflect our voices in a barely perceptible echo.

“Could be. On the Underside. Unless someone snuffed him. Let's not talk about it.”

“Let's.” Noble pushes the hair from his face and finally looks at me full on. Like this is the first time he sees me. “It's late. I guess you must be going. Provided they did not lock the front door.”

I really must be going, but I am loath to leave him here, in the place where Steel-Toothed just came for a visit, albeit in a dream. Noble is scared, which means he's more susceptible to demons of all kinds, should they like to drop in. On the other hand, I need to replenish the stocks of food, cigarettes, and other useful items, and also tell people I was going to be spending the night in the Sepulcher.

“Right. I’ll go check the door. If it's locked, I’ll come straight back. If it isn’t, I’ll go see the guys. And bring some chow.”

Noble nods.

“OK. It's really bright out there, be careful.”

I make a wave with my rake and open the door into the shining snow-bound corridor.

The Sepulcher at night is a haunted castle. I hate its bluish lights. They turn faces into death masks. I reach the end of the side corridor and turn the corner. Now my sliding reflection is caught between the glass doors of the cabinets on both sides. I walk briskly. There's nowhere for me to hide, but I am somehow sure that it won't be necessary. And that's how it turns out. The night nurse's area is illuminated like a giant aquarium, and in its center floats the gorgon's cold face. If she were to open her eyes I'd have to turn into stone, rely on the inability of certain predators to notice stationary objects. But the Spider queen is asleep. Her eyes are closed, only the round-rimmed glasses glint menacingly.

Not only is the front door not locked, it's even open a crack. It catches me by surprise, but once I'm out on the landing I see the orange points of light glowing rhythmically and stop worrying. They're here. And they've been here for a long time already. Their bags are full of food. They brought bottles of water, blankets, the coffeemaker, and probably even utensils. Someone rises to meet me. They are all accustomed to the dark by now, so I am the only one here who can't see anything, but judging by the sureness of his movement, this someone must be Blind.

“Janus says it doesn't look good?”

Could be either a question or a statement. You can never tell with Pale One.

“More or less.”

“Let's go.” He addresses those left sitting against the wall. “Get up. Sphinx will show the way.”

Which I do. Our grotesque cavalcade floats past the aquarium with the illuminated gorgon, past the glass cabinets and opaque doors. We are nothing but long, transient shadows. The most extravagant of them is the one consisting of two, Tabaqui atop Lary's shoulders. It's the tallest and the most disheveled. Neither Black nor Smoker is here, but Alexander is lugging sleeping Tubby, whose reflection in the cabinet doors resembles nothing so much as a massive backpack. I let them go ahead and bring up the rear, looking at them with love and admiration. This is my pack. It can read minds and grab meanings out of thin air. It is both awkward and awesome. Thrifty and quarrelsome. I allow myself to dissolve in the tenderness toward them—Black isn't here, so there's no one to knock the sentimentality off me. But Lord Almighty, how few we are. I catch myself falling behind instead of blazing the trail and quicken my steps. Out of the corner of my eye I catch the last reflections in the last cabinet—Alexander under his softly snuffling burden, Sphinx right behind him, and then one more silhouette, flashing the white sneakers as it steps in sync with us until I turn around and it vanishes. I feel much better. And then, solely for that last invisible one, I start composing a poem out loud. It comes out incredibly silly, just the way Wolf liked them.

Stuffage welcomed them with jeers and giggles.

“Blind's Tail is back!” Muffin shouted.

Whiner and Crybaby played a drumroll on the bottoms of leaky pails.

“Blind's Tail! Blind's Tail!” they sang mockingly.

Their voices did not express hostility. It was more surprise. As if the month Grasshopper spent in the hospital wing had erased him from their lives.

Wolf was greedily lapping up the scene.

“And... And Grayhead is with him,” Muffin added hesitantly.

Almost the entire group was wearing sweatshirts with loud, garish messages. Grasshopper figured that those had become fashionable while he was away. The sweatshirts were declaring: