Lukassa is Lukassa’s business.
Help her, help wicked magician. Never.
Care for a human, one human, no end to it. Not possible. I am who I am.
Old nothing: “You are my little finger, my baby toe, my whisker, my wart. Bring me to him, now, quickly. This is he, this is the one whose hunger disturbs my sleep. You shall have back the man-shape, I will lap up his power along with it. I will make him my left hand.”
Rotten board behind oven again? Stroll in the front way, like a guest, bite Gatti Jinni’s bottom, walk between fat innkeeper’s legs, pause a moment to wet his shoes—who would notice tonight? I start toward the inn. I stop. Old nothing: “What now?” I do not answer.
“What now, fingernail? Whisker?” So soft old nothing’s voice in me, it might be evening breeze barely stirring my fur. “Is a human more to you than the human shape? Choose then. This is interesting.” Everything interests old nothing when it is awake—everything, and nothing at all.
At night, just before sleeping, she asks, always, “Fox, fox, what is your name?” I have no name, she has lost her own. Alike that way, a little. Old nothing: “Choose.” I take two steps left, four steps straight up. Left again? Left, yesyes, four steps around a corner, one behind the other. And there. Magicians make such fuss of journeys.
Same darkness, why imagine any different? Same thin black road under my feet, same bad sky. Dull place, I always forget. I come here sometimes because old nothing never does. Cannot? No knowing. Hard to know things here, too sideways, too slithery. Sit still, fox, sit empty, listen. Never anything to see in this place, anyway. Listen for her.
I wind the griga’ath first. Smell cold, they do, not hot at all—under the fire, a sweet distant chill, smell of winter drawing near in summer. No mistaking. Ears go back, fur stands up, already on my feet unaware. No fear of gri-ga’aths, never me, only the body. Then I hear Lukassa.
Different here, around this corner. Time has no meaning, end is just the same as beginning, space is not real. Lukassa and griga’ath—perhaps behind me, perhaps beside, anywhere, underneath even. I might be facing them, never know it. But I hear Lukassa, because I am listening. Where man-shape was, that place hears her.
One short, small cry—why more, with no help ever, and a griga’ath turning? I answer—fox-bark only, words gone with man-shape. A moment later, just above me in the dark, there, Lukassa, almost lost in the fire-shadow around her. Griga’ath wants to swallow her, make her a living part of its fire. They cannot all do that, but this one can, could devour pretty me if I look away once. So. Fox sits back, very carefully, barks again.
Lukassa turns. Brown eyes gone gray with haze of being here. Wrong for humans here, wrong as bones being on outside. Cannot see me, not those eyes, cannot see anything but griga’ath. Wicked bloody magician should have told her what happens. Too late, after all.
But Lukassa: “My fox!” and I do not want this, but two words go through me like cold iron. “My fox!” and she is away from griga’ath and to me, kneeling, reaching across all nowhere to hold me. A calamity, she is, a weeping, laughing confusion of fear, exhaustion, joy, madness, ignorance, love. For this sake I let man-shape go. A favor, pigeons. Come and eat me.
Griga’ath over us, a blazing white sky of his own. Put me down, idiot Lukassa, but no words, no more. Nothing to do but nip wrist, hard—yelps, lets go, looks hurt, too bad. Back away slowly. Does he know us least little, old magician in there? No. Cold green eyes seeping through flames, he reaches to pick us up, gulp us both down, feed his oven heart. He can do it. If I could still take man-shape, he could still do it.
One way left. One.
How long, then? Long, long, long, even wicked magician not yet born last time I walk in my own self. No need, no use, too much trouble, fox will do. And when fox will not do, man-shape will. Now, no help for it. Old nothing would not like this. Old nothing is not here. No help for it.
Lukassa’s arms around me again, not caring if I snap or no. Trembling, shivering, holding too tight, trying to keep me from griga’ath. A calamity, that girl. I look in her eyes—let go, Lukassa, must not change in your arms, must not, believe me. Friend. My friend. Let me go.
And she does look straight back at me and let me go, as griga’ath’s hand closes on her. I reach down and in and down, shake my self awake, the deep that is no borrowing, no form, no part of old nothing even. Me. So sorry to disturb, nice nap, I hope. You are needed, me.
Never any notion of what I look like, but I see the change in Lukassa’s eyes. No cry when griga’ath takes her, no struggle in its hand—but now such terror, such betrayal, almost it would pain, except not possible. So dreadful, Lukassa, truly? Not to see me? No leavings of your fox, even in ancient thing I am? I would know you.
Griga’ath’s turn to back away, holding Lukassa up between us like a lantern. Deciding—fear, not fear? My turn to reach out, long gray arms and hands I have, a glittering edge to them, ridgy gray fingers bend the air. I say, “Put her down.” My voice a gray crushing. Lukassa covers her ears, her face. I say, “Put her down.”
A rising in me, a remembering. Water and sky, this world, when I came to be—water and sky and terrible trees and old nothing. Foxes, yes, plenty of foxes, but no humans, so no griga’aths. No magicians, not one, no magicians scuttling here, there, trying to be gods, demons, ordinaries, all together. Creatures like me, there were—other things, too, in the water, in the trees. Fox forgets, man-shape forgets. I remember.
Griga’ath remembers something. Sets Lukassa down slowly, she looks back and forth, which is more terrible? I say, “Lukassa, to me,” but she cannot bear my voice. I move toward her, reach out, she flitters away, behind me now, good. Griga’ath hisses, grins monsters at us, undecided yet. I speak to it in the First Tongue, fox and man-shape never knew. I say to it, “Behold me and begone. Dry stick, dead leaf, depart to whatever waits for you.” And I turn my back.
And for me an end of it. No more but to bring Lukassa home to that other world, hers. A skin away from this one, less, a whisper, but no coming and going, only the dead, the mad, the fox. Lukassa is not mad. Old magician’s doing, it would be—fool, fool, how could I not see? Lukassa. Poor one.
Look back a last time. Griga’ath crouches, not moving, will not attack again. A smaller fire now, under this liquid, shifting dark—instead of griga’ath consuming us, darkness is already drawing it in, drinking it down into itself. And serve you right, wicked magician, waking the dead to adore you. Even for a magician, shameful. What you have become, you always were. Justice for once to leave you here, a pleasure, too.
But Lukassa will not come.
Four steps right and around and down, that simple— but she will not. Afraid still, drive her ahead, use fear, no time and no choice. She eludes me, darts this way, that way, stupid-stubborn as a chicken, trying and trying to return to griga’ath. This is madness, what is this? I tell her to stop, come with me, but the voice makes her truly wild, she would hide behind griga’ath if she dared. She says, “I came for him.”
Always. Always. Any concern with humans, any feeling at all, there you are, telling yourself you do not know what you know. Walk right through you right now, she would—you, griga’ath, no difference, all for one wicked, lost old man. Dead, alive, an idiot, to the bone. And serve you right, idiot fox. Foolish, I clutch at her, carry her off where she belongs, be done with it. She scrambles out of reach—“No, no, I came for him! Fox, where are you? Help me, fox!” Looking at me as she cries.