Кроха - Dedication

Listening to the crackle of the fire from the living room and watching its flickering reflections on the bedroom ceiling, Kit and Pan told Misto the wonders of those green-lit lands and the amazing beasts, the winged dragons, the white-feathered harpy, the dwarves and selkies and all the magical folk.

“We took a wrong turn at first,” Pan said, “where the tunnel split into five branches. Three crossed a sunken river on narrow stone bridges. The clowder cats argued; they weren’t sure which bridge, which path. We went a long way in the wrong direction and came out into the dark and fallen lands . . .”

“We didn’t mean to go there,” said Kit, “into that ruined part of the Netherworld. It is moldering and empty except for the grim old castles with their haughty rulers. The cruel royalty keep armies close around them, they are whip-masters over the peasants. The poor have nothing, nor do they care anymore. Why should they work when all they grow and any sheep or goats they raise are taken by the kings and they are left to starve?”

“They have turned to crime,” Pan said. “They think they have no choice, but they are courting even more evil. We moved through peasant villages where we saw no one, the cottages all collapsed, pasture walls fallen, fields fallow and untended. Not even a starving chicken remained, only mice and rats, scavenging. We hunted those, as did the peasants themselves; how thin were those poor folk, all weak and listless.”

“The magic is dead,” Kit told him. “We didn’t want to be there.” She tucked her bushy tail tight around her, her ears down as sadness filled her. “Dark spells rule them now. Greed rules that land.”

“We headed away,” Pan said, “seeking the one lone land that, the clowder cats said, had survived in brightness. Kate told us that, too. But she had approached on her own journey from another direction. We asked, from those who dared speak to us, which path, which tunnel. We asked from those brave enough to approach us.”

“We found the way at last,” Kit said, “beyond the Hell Pit and up the mountains. It was a hard journey—until the Harpy found us,” she said with a little smile. “The brash and loving Harpy. Oh, my,” Kit said. “A great, tall woman with a bird’s head, with bird’s legs and white-feathered wings, and she is all covered with white feathers. She is strong, she dines on the kings’ flying lizards. She took us on her back, all of us at once, our claws deep in her feathers to hang on, and she rose up to the stone sky on those great wings. She sailed up and up the mountains and over and down again in the green light, winging down into that clear, free land, into Zzadarray.

“She carried us down among the happy, smiling peasants,” Kit said, “to the only land still free, down among the strong selkies and the sturdy dwarves, and all of them welcomed us and their fields were green and rich and their animals are sleek . . .”

Misto sighed, seeing that land, seeing wonders he’d never known.

“No king,” Pan said, “rules that land. No bejeweled queen dictates tithes and taxes nor enslaves the villagers, demanding all their harvest. All farmers are master of their own fields and of what they wrest from them. All farmers own their land; they guard their small, free world fiercely against royalty’s cold sword.

“Those peasant armies,” Pan said, “with the help of the magical beasts, have gained the love and protection of the fiery dragons, too, the dragons who can be conquered by no man.

“One day,” Pan said, “that small country will take back the dark lands, you’ll see. Those who live in freedom will make the dark lands free again. Nothing of the Netherworld, then, will be ruled by avarice and greed. All rule will be born of love and caring—and of strength.”

“It is their strength in battle,” Kit said, “their fierce will to protect, that has kept alive Zzadarray’s magic.”

Misto rumbled a contented purr; Kit’s and Pan’s words brought strength to his thin face. The promise of freedom spreading from that one small land of Zzadarray lit his eyes, made the old cat smile. “I have lived many lives, but never in such a world as that magical place. Maybe one day fate will send me there, to that land.”

The three cats thought of that, and together they dozed and dreamed; it was not until they heard John bank the fire, to come to bed, that Misto said, “There is one more pleasure I crave, before my time is gone. Just one more visit to the sea, to say good-bye to the great and gleaming sea.”

John had come into the bedroom, Mary behind him. “In the morning, early,” he told Misto. He looked at Kit and Pan. “Will you come?”

“Oh, yes,” Kit said.

“Of course,” said Pan. “Where else would we be?”

“Early,” John said, “at low tide, when Mary and I feed the ferals. Misto, you can sit on the dock in your blanket as the wild ones share their breakfast. You can enjoy the beginning of their day with them, just as you like to do.”

“We will watch the sun rise,” Mary said, “red above the far hills, watch its reflection cross the sky and reach down to touch the sea.”

“We will watch the waves brighten,” Kit said, and as John and Mary climbed into bed, the three cats snuggled close together, yawning and safe. Kit and Pan were still tired from their journey, Misto bone tired from his lifelong journey, though it had been a rich passage. The old cat would soon be ready to leap up into the vast weightlessness beyond all barriers, to drift once again beyond mortal time, assured that one day he would return, to the finite world.

But never would Misto’s spirit, in life or in eternity, never would he abandon those he loved. All he had ever touched would remain close, forever would they be close, those spirits whom he treasured.

18

Max Harper’s office smelled of overcooked coffee, cinnamon rolls, and gun oil. The sweet-scented bakery box stood on the credenza just above Joe as he strolled in, his coat damp from the early fog. He shivered once, glanced up with interest at the bakery treats but padded on past. Behind Max’s desk he leaped up into the bookcase. Max glanced around at him, broke off a piece of his own cinnamon bun, and laid it on the edge of the shelf. Handily Joe licked it up, every crumb, then lay down against an untidy stack of pamphlets, DOJ reports, and government busywork. Detectives Garza and Davis were settled at either end of the couch with their coffee and snacks. Both looked unusually pleased. They paid little attention to Joe, and that was the way he liked it. He’d worked long and hard to become no more remarkable than the tattered volumes on the shelf behind him.

Juana’s uniform was dark against the leather couch, a Glock automatic holstered at her side, along with handcuffs, cell phone, and radio. Dallas’s pale jeans were neatly creased, his black polo shirt and tan corduroy blazer soft and well-worn, as were his leather boots. He set his coffee cup on the corner of the oversize coffee table, which was covered with files and binders. And, holding Joe’s attention, two batches of photographs were aligned atop the other papers.

The pictures in one set were as ragged as jigsaw puzzles: color photos formed of tiny, chewed fragments pieced together and glued to sheets of white paper—images of shoes, or of shoeprints with fancy treads. Juana hadn’t wasted any time. Joe imagined her moving Ben’s bed away from the wall, kneeling in her black skirt trying to favor her painful knee, fishing out pieces of the mouse nest a few at a time. He wondered if the mouse was watching. He tried not to picture it attacking Juana, but he had to turn away to hide a smile.

He thought of Juana sitting up late last night in her second-floor condo just across the street from the station, sorting through the torn fragments, carefully fitting them together piece by tedious piece. In one photo of shoes he could see part of what might be the porch of the remodel. In another, a waffle shoeprint gleamed at the edge of what could be the wooden ramp. That pasteup showed a fragment of running pants, too, with a black satin stripe down the side just like a pair Tekla wore—though, since he’d become alert to that pattern, he’d noticed a number of runners in the village with the exact same kind of pants.