“I have a bootleg of Elvis doing ‘Suspicious Minds’ live that I’ll play for you when we get back,” said Spyder. “You’ll see it’s worth suffering any number of white-leather Vegas jumpsuits. For a song like that, you’ve got to take the good with the bad.”
TWENTY-NINE
Berenice
“It’s Berenice,” said Shrike. “We’re lucky we followed the river.”
“Now we know what town it is,” said Spyder. “We could have just walked here through some sewer pipe and skipped the whole Hindenburg drama.”
“No. Berenice isn’t like other cities. It isn’t really here. Only the memory of the city.”
“A city like the Coma Gardens?”
“Berenice is where memories live when we’re done with them. It’s where they’re born and it’s where they eventually die.”
“What good does it do us? We can’t ride the memory of horses to the mountains.”
“There are humans in Berenice,” said Count Non. “Someone has to be there to bear witness. Otherwise, the memories fade away. To make money, the human inhabitants trade with travelers.”
“Trade what?” asked Lulu.
“Lost keys, lost pets, lost dreams, lost hope,” said Shrike. “I passed through there once before. It can be dangerous. Psychically. You don’t want to turn a corner and run into your own lost virginity.”
“Speak for yourself. I’d do me at fourteen,” said Lulu. “Let’s follow the goddam yellow brick road.”
“No road, Lulu. Just the river,” said Spyder.
“Shit.”
“We’ll swim,” said Shrike. “We just have to get past the city walls. Inside, there are walkways along all the canals.”
“You cool with swimming, Lulu?” Spyder asked.
“Excuse me, son. You were the civilian. I was a lifeguard at YMCA summer camp, remember?”
“Yeah, but that was a while back before your troubles.”
“You think my empty eyes and guts are going to fill up with water and drown me? That ain’t going to happen. But thanks a fuckload for bringing it up.”
“I’m just worried is all.”
“Don’t be,” Lulu said, and waded into the river. When she was knee deep, she turned back. “There aren’t any sharks or things with stingers out here, are there?”
“Nothing that can hurt you,” said Shrike.
“Count, you get on one side and I’ll get on the other. We’ll put Shrike and Primo between us. Make sure no one wanders off course,” said Spyder.
The Count smiled. “A fine idea.”
“Primo, are you all right swimming with one arm?” asked Shrike.
“I’ll be a little slow, I think,” he said.
“Slow’s fine. No one’s in a rush to find their lost socks,” said Spyder.
Shrike took Spyder’s arm as they waded into the river. When she swam, she did so with ease and confidence. Spyder realized quickly that she didn’t need much looking after. He kept an eye on Primo, who was doing a kind of modified dog paddle with his one good arm. The swimmer Spyder kept wondering about was the Count. How he managed to stay afloat while still wearing his chainmail amazed Spyder. Lulu was ahead of them, a strong, steady swimmer. She’d tied her jacket around her waist and on certain strokes, her Hello Kitty shirt slid up her body, letting the morning sun glint off the glass and metal she’d inserted into her wounded flesh.
Something brushed along Spyder’s legs. Fingers touched his chest, tugged at his arms as they entered the water on each stroke. “What the fuck is happening?”
“They can’t hurt you,” Shrike said. “They’re just memories. Drowned sailors, corsairs, anyone who died in water.”
Spyder suddenly wanted very much to be out of the river and done with Berenice. The towering city walls, through which they soon passed, also seemed to be made of water. Not ice, but liquid water, pulled upward and carved into imposing barriers. If all that water ever came down, Spyder thought, it would wash the city away.
Lulu was already out of the water when the rest made it to the walkway. She helped Spyder out and he grabbed Shrike. The Count leaned down and practically lifted Primo from the water. The little man bowed in thanks.
“Where to?” Spyder asked.
“Uptown Saturday Night,” said Shrike.
“You know some weird shit, girl.”
“That’s an old movie, right? It just popped into my head. That happens here.”
As they walked along the marble concourse beside the canal, Spyder asked, “Earlier, why did you say that we’re lucky we followed the river?”
“There are four entrances to Berenice. Water, air, fire and earth. Fire is the memory of violence and war. Air is the perpetual hurricane of anger and lost souls. Earth is a freezing mountain of despair and fear.”
“The memories of the drowned are like the welcoming arms of your family compared to what lives in those other places,” said Count Non.
“Wonder what would’ve happened if I’d tossed in a handful of Alka-Seltzer back there?” asked Lulu. “Would it piss those dead guys off or make ’em feel better?”
THIRTY
A Universal Joke
Their clothes dried quickly in the bright sun, and by the time they reached one of the great boulevards that divided Berenice into its local parishes, no one would have guessed that they’d had to swim into the city.
From the interior, Berenice was much more impressive than it had seemed on the approach. At each corner of the boulevard was a whitewashed ziggurat topped with a gilt sun, angled to catch the light at different times of the day. Crystal globes hung from polished streetlamps. Spyder counted a dozen large bronze statues to different gods on the one street. Who knew how many there were on the others? Handsome residents came and went from temples and tailor shops, butchers and herbalists, paying no attention to the travelers. The street on which they stood was paved with pale pink flagstones, but green, yellow and sky-blue streets intersected it.
“Okay, we’re here, somewhere. What do we do now?” asked Lulu.
“Let us not sleep, as do others; but let us watch and be sober, putting on the breastplate of faith and love; and for a helmet, the hope of salvation,” Count Non said.
Spyder looked hard at the Count.
“St. Paul’s First Epistle to the Thessalonians,” he said.
“Yeah, I was just about to say that.”
“We need to find stables or a market,” said Shrike. “Some place big, with professional traders. And remember, you can’t tell the wandering memories of people from real humans simply by looking at them.”
“Then how do we know who we’re talking to?” asked Spyder. “How do we trade for anything?”
“It’s a question of attitude,” Shrike said. “If you’re talking to the memory of a trader, his responses will be mechanical and rote. A memory isn’t active. It can’t really do or say anything new or original. A human trader will be more eager and unpredictable.”
“Makes sense.”
“I’m going to go alone,” said Shrike. “A poor blind girl can sometimes count on a pity discount.”
“You’ll be able to find your way back here?” asked Spyder. “Maybe you should take Primo as backup.”
“I’ll be happy to accompany you, Butcher Bird. And a one-armed man with a blind woman might evoke even more pity from an anxious trader.”
“All right,” said Shrike. “We’ll meet back here in two hours. Can I trust you three to find your way back?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll look after Lulu and the little brother,” said the Count.