Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb.
Sweet and kind and slow of mind, it really didn't know.
That everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went. Everywhere that Mary went, bad things were sure to go.
"Which accounted for its untimely demise the day Mary decided to visit the waterfront and ran into the big, bad wolf. Hello, Brother Hawk."
The Weatherman emerged from the shadow of a partially collapsed building along the dockside, his ravaged face like something out of a nightmare–the skin pocked and mottled, the strange blue eyes as mad as those of any Croak, and the wispy white hair sticking out in all directions. He wore his trademark black cloak and red scarf, both so tattered it was a wonder the threads still managed to hold together.
"Are you the wolf that Mary should have stayed away from?" Hawk asked him.
You never knew for sure what the Weatherman was singing about.
The old man hobbled over to him, giving Cheney a passing glance but showing no fear. Cheney, for his part, kept his yellow eyes fixed on the scarecrow but did not growl. "Hadn't given it much thought. Do you think I might be?"
Hawk shrugged. "I think you're the Weatherman. But you could be a wolf, too."
The old man came right up to him. He reeked of the streets, of the waterfront smells, of the poisons and the waste. His eyes were milky and his fingers bony as he lifted them to his scraggly beard and tugged on it contemplatively.
"I could be many things, Brother Hawk. But I am only one. I am the
Weatherman, and my forecast for you this day is of dark clouds and cold nights and of a heavy wind that threatens to blow you away." The mad eyes fixed on him.
"My prediction calls for a Ghost watch. Keep a weather eye out, boy, until I have a chance to provide an update."
Hawk nodded, not understanding at all. He never understood the
Weatherman's predictions, but out of politeness he pretended he did. "We came across a Lizard yesterday. It was all torn up. You know something out there that could do that, Weatherman?"
The ragged head cocked and the gaunt face tightened. "Something searching for food or establishing its territory. Something like
The times we live in–who would have believed they would come to pass? Do you know, Brother Hawk, that this city was beautiful once? It was green and sparkling, and the waters of this bay were so blue and the sky so clear you could see forever. Everything was lovely and new and filled with color and it could hurt your eyes just to look at it."
He smiled, the gaps in his teeth showing black and empty. "I was a boy like you, long ago. I lived over there, beyond the mist." He pointed west, glanced that way as if he might see something of his past, and then looked back at Hawk, his face stricken. "What we've done! What we've allowed! We deserve what's happened to us. We deserve it all."
"Speak for yourself," Hawk said. "I didn't do anything to deserve this.
The Ghosts didn't do anything. Grown–ups did. Tell me what you know about the Lizard."
But the Weatherman wasn't ready to move on yet. "Not all grown–ups are bad, Hawk. Never were. Not all are responsible for what happened to the world.
Some few were enough to cause the destruction–some few with power and means. It was different then. Do you know that people could speak with each other and see each other at the same time through little black boxes, even though they were thousands of miles away? Did you know they could project images of themselves in the same way?"
Hawk shook his head. "Owl reads to us about that stuff, but what's the difference? That's all gone now, all in the past. What about the Lizard?"
The old man stared at him as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing, then nodded slowly. "I guess it really is gone. I guess so." He shook his shaggy head. "Hard to believe. Sometimes I think about it as if it never really happened. An old man's dreams."
He sighed. "There are things coming out of the earth, Brother Hawk. Things big and dark, birthed by the poisons and the chemicals and the madness, I expect." One eyebrow cocked. "Haven't seen them myself, but I've seen evidence of their passing. Like your Lizard, a whole nest of Croaks, down by the cranes at the south end, torn to pieces. They fought back, but they were no match for whatever got them. That sound similar?"
Hawk nodded. Most creatures simply avoided Croaks, especially if there were more than one. What would attack several and not be afraid?
The Weatherman bent close. "It's not safe in the city anymore. Not on the streets and not in the buildings. Not even in the compounds. There's a change in the weather coming, Brother Hawk, and it threatens to sweep us away."
"It won't sweep me away," Hawk snapped, angry at having to listen to yet another bleak prediction. His lean face tightened and his patience slipped. "You make these forecasts, Weatherman, like they don't have anything to do with you.
But you're on the streets, too. What are you going to do if one of them comes true?"
The other's smile was gap–toothed and crooked. "Take shelter. Ride it out.
Wait for the storm to pass." He shrugged. "Of course, I'm an old man, and old men have less to lose than boys like you."
"Everyone has a life to lose, and once it's gone, that's it." Hawk didn't like what he was hearing. The Weatherman never talked about dying. "What kind of weather are you talking about, anyway?"
The old man didn't seem to hear. "Sometimes it's best to get far away from a storm, not try to ride it out."
Hawk lost the last of his patience. "I'll be leaving here one day soon, don't you worry! Maybe I'll leave now! I'll just pack up and go! I'll take the Ghosts out of this garbage pit and find a new home, a better home!"
The words came out of his mouth before he could stop himself. He didn't really mean to speak them, but the old man was always predicting something dire, always forecasting something awful, and this time it just got to him. What was the point, after all? How much worse could things get than they were now?
The Weatherman didn't seem to notice his distress. He turned away and looked off into the mist that hung over the bay. "Well, Brother Hawk, there's better places to be than here, I guess. But I don't know where they are. Most of the cities are ruined. Most of the country is dust and poison. The compounds are the way of things now, and they won't last. Can't, with what's coming. The worst hasn't reached us yet, but it will. It will."
Hawk shifted his feet from side to side, suddenly anxious to be gone. He glanced around the waterfront, then back at the old man.
"You better watch out for yourself," he said. "Whatever's out there in the city isn't anything you want to run across."
The Weatherman didn't reply. He didn't even look around.
"I'll come back down in a few days to see if you've seen anything else."
No response. Then suddenly, the old man said, "If you leave, Brother Hawk, will you take me with you?"
The question was so unexpected that for a moment Hawk was unable to reply.
He didn't really want to take the old man with him, but he knew he couldn't leave him behind.
Taking a deep breath, he said, "All right. If you still want to come when it's time." He paused. "I have to go now."
He walked back down the dockside, unhappy with himself for reasons he couldn't define, irritated that he had come at all. Nothing much had been accomplished by doing do. He glanced over at Cheney, who was fanned out to his right, big head lowered and swinging from side to side.
From behind him, the thin, high voice tracked his steps.
Happy Humanity sat on a wall. Happy Humanity had a great fall. All of our efforts to put him to mend Couldn't make Happy be human again.