Janice Marsh sat in a tin bathtub, tarpaulin tied around her wattled throat like a bib, a bulbous turban around her skull. From under the tarp came quiet splashing and slopping. The hose fed into the bath and an overspill pipe, patched together with hammered-out tin-cans, led away to a hole in the wall, dribbling outside.
Only her flattish nose and lipless mouth showed, overshadowed by the fine-lashed eyes. In old age, she had smoothed rather than wrinkled. Her skin was a mottled, greenish colour.
“This cat’s from England,” said Charlie.
Leech noticed Charlie hung back in the doorway, not entering the room. This woman made him nervous.
“We’ve been in the desert, Miss Marsh,” said Charlie. “Sweeping Quadrant Twelve. Scoped out a promising cave, but it led nowhere. Sadie got her ass stuck in a hole, but we hauled her out. That chick’s our mineshaft canary.”
Janice Marsh nodded, chin-pouch inflating like a frog’s.
“There’s more desert,” said Charlie. “We’ll read the signs soon. It will be found. We can’t be kept from it.”
Leech walked into the dark and sat, unbidden, on a stool by the bathtub.
Janice Marsh looked at him. Sounds frothed through her mouth, rattling in slits that might have been gills.
Leech returned her greeting.
“You speak that jazz?” exclaimed Charlie. “Far out.”
Leech and Janice Marsh talked. She was interesting, if given to rambles as her mind drifted out to sea. It was all about water. Here in the desert, close to the thirstiest city in America, the value of water was known. She told him what the Family were looking for, directed him to unroll some scrolls that were kept on a low-table under a fizzing desk-lamp. The charts were the original mappings of California, made by Fray Junipero Serra before there were enough human landmarks to get a European bearing.
Charlie shouldered close to Leech, and pulled a magic marker out of his top-pocket.
The vellum was divided into numbered squares, thick modern lines blacked over the faded, precious sketch-marks. Several squares were shaded with diagonal lines. Charlie added diagonals to the square marked ‘12’.
Leech winced.
“What’s up, man?”
“Nothing,” he told Charlie.
He knew what things were worth; that, if anything, was his special talent. But he knew such values were out of step with the times. He did not want to be thought a breadhead. Not until the 1980s, when he had an itchy feeling that it’d be mandatory. If there was to be a 1980s.
“This is the surface chart, you dig,” said Charlie, rapping knuckles on the map. “We’re about here, where I’ve marked the Ranch. There are other maps, showing what’s underneath.”
Charlie rolled the map, to disclose another. The top map had holes cut out, marking points of convergence. The lower chart was marked with inter-linked balloon-shapes, some filled in with blue pigment that had become pale with age.
“Dig the holes, man. This shows the ways down below.”
A third layer of map was almost all blue. Drawn in were fishy, squiddy shapes. And symbols Leech understood.
“And here’s the prize. The Sea of California. Freshwater, deep under the desert. Primordial.”
Janice Marsh burbled excitement.
“Home,” she said, a recognisable English word.
“It’s under us,” said Charlie. “That’s why we’re out here. Looking. Before Chocko rises, the Family will have found the way down, got the old pumps working. Turn on the quake. With the flood, we’ll win. It’s the key to ending all this. It has properties. Some places—the cities, maybe, Chicago, Watts—it’ll be fire that comes down. Here, it’s the old, old way. It’ll be water that comes up.”
“You’re building an Ark?”
“Uh uh, Arks are movie stuff. We’re learning to swim. Going to be a part of the flood. You too, I think. We’re going to drown Chocko. We’re going to drown Hollywood. Call down the rains. Break the rock. When it’s all over, there’ll only be us. And maybe the Beach Boys. I’m tight with Dennis Wilson, man. He wants to produce my album. That’s going to happen in the last days. My album will be a monster, like the Double White. Music will open everything up, knock everything down. Like at Jericho.”
Leech saw that Charlie couldn’t keep his thinking straight. He wanted an end to civilisation and a never-ending battle of Armageddon, but still thought he could fit in a career as a pop star.
Maybe.
This was Janice’s game. She was the mother of this family.
“He came out of the desert,” Charlie told the old woman. “You can see the signs on him. He’s a dowser.”
The big eyes turned to Leech.
“I’ve found things before,” he admitted.
“Water?” she asked, splashing.
He shrugged. “On occasion.”
Her slit mouth opened in a smile, showing rows of needle-sharp teeth.
“You’re a hit, man,” said Charlie. “You’re in the Family.”
Leech raised his hand. “That’s an honour, Charles,” he said, “but I can’t accept. I provide services, for a fee to be negotiated, but I don’t take permanent positions.”
Charlie was puzzled for a moment, brows narrowed. Then he smiled. “If that’s your scene, it’s cool. But are you The One Who Will Open the Earth? Can you help us find the Subterranean Sea?”
Leech considered, and shook his head, “No. That’s too deep for me.”
Charlie made fists, bared teeth, instantly angry.
“But I know who can,” soothed Leech.
* * *
The movie people were losing the light. As the sun sank, long shadows stretched on reddish scrub, rock-shapes twisted into ogres. The cinematographer shot furiously, gabbling in semi-Hungarian about “magic hour”, while Sam and Al worried vocally that nothing would come out on the film.
Leech sat in a canvas folding-chair and watched.
Three young actresses, dressed like Red Indians, were pushing Junior around, tormenting him by withholding a bottle of firewater. Meanwhile, the movie moon—a shining fabric disc—was rising full, just like the real moon up above the frame-line.
The actresses weren’t very good. Beside Sadie and Squeaky and Ouisch and the others, the Acid Squaws of the Family, they lacked authentic drop-out savagery. They were Vegas refugees, tottering on high heels, checking their make-up in every reflective surface.
Junior wasn’t acting any more.
“Go for the bottle,” urged Al.
Junior made a bear-lunge, missed a girl who pulled a face as his sweat-smell cloud enveloped her, and fell to his knees. He looked up like a puppy with progeria, eager to be patted for his trick.
There was water in Junior’s eyes. Full moons shone in them.
Leech looked up. Even he felt the tidal tug.
“I don’t freakin’ believe this,” stage-whispered Charlie, in Leech’s ear. “That cat’s gone.”
Leech pointed again at Junior.
“You’ve tried human methods, Charles. Logic and maps. You need to try other means. Animals always find water. The moon pulls at the sea. That man has surrendered to his animal. He knows the call of the moon. Even a man who is pure in heart...”
“That was just in the movies.”
“Nothing was ever just in the movies. Understand this. Celluloid writes itself into the unconscious, of its makers as much as its consumers. Your revelations may come in music. His came in the cheap seats.”
The Wolf Man howled happily, bottle in his hug. He took a swig and shook his greasy hair like a pelt.
The actresses edged away from him.
“Far out, man,” said Charlie, doubtfully.
“Far out and deep down, Charles.”
* * *
“That’s a wrap for today,” called Al.
“I could shoot twenty more minutes with this light,” said the cameraman.
“You’re nuts. This ain’t art school in Budapest. Here in America, we shoot with light, not dark.”