Excerpt from CHANGER'S DAUGHTER (formerly LEGENDS WALKING)
by Jane Lindskold.
Published by Obsidian Tiger in 2012.
Published by Avon Eos in 1999; Copyright ©
1999 by Jane Lindskold. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without written permission of the Publisher. Exceptions are made for downloading this file to a computer for personal use.
(These exerpts are based on uncorrected proofs and may slightly differ from the published version of the novel.)
= I =
The more you love your children the
more care you should take to neglect them occasionally. The web
of affection can be drawn too tight.
D. Sutten
Life has its own scent. Contrary
to common belief, there is nothing light or floral about it.
Rather, it is akin to the yeasty scent of rising dough or the
earthy richness of freshly turned soil.
Catching this scent one morning
upon the wind blowing from the Sandia Mountains of New Mexico,
the Changer knows that the change he has been considering is upon
him. Without further hesitation, he barks.
His sharp voiced summons is
answered by the emergence of his daughter from beneath the
gnarled juniper where she has been drowsing. Twigs and dried
juniper foliage cling to her fur. She yawns and shakes, emitting
a jaw creaking whine.
When she is alert, Changer begins
walking, setting his course downhill, out of this patch of autumn
sunshine, ultimately out of the mountains. His daughter follows
him without question, partly from trust, partly because she lacks
the vocabulary to ask anything as simple as "Where are we going,
Dad?"
* * * * *
The baby weeps, his little brown
face twisted up but his eyes wide open as if he seeks to make
sense of a universe that hurts so very much. His infant skin is
thickly marked with swollen pustules, dark red and running
against cocoa-colored skin.
His mother, a young woman just out
of college, cradles him in her hands, gently lowering him into a
basin of water in the hope of bringing down his fever. The water
is tepid, but it seems to bring some comfort. The baby stops
crying. After a moment, his mother realizes that he has stopped
breathing as well. She screams.
The dull slap of bare feet on an
earthen floor answers her cries. A shadow darkens the door to a
bedroom now become a death chamber. Beyond the shadow can be
heard the murmur of many voices, gossiping, conjecturing, a few
raised to wail, but the shadow does not speak.
It crosses the room and in the
light from the partially curtained window resolves into a large
woman, full-breasted and mature, but lovely as a ripe yam is
lovely. She lifts the infant's body from where his mother's
hands still cradle it within the cooling water.
"He has been taken by this
illness," the older woman says, "as are so many others."
"Oh, Oya, how I hate the King of
Heaven!" the young woman sobs.
"So do I, Aduke," Oya answers,
studying the girl quizzically. "I think the time has come to
make him answer."
* * * * *
Chris Kristofer opens the front
door of the hacienda at Pendragon Estates to find a tall, lean
man standing in the sandstone entryway. The man's black hair is
long and loose. He wears nothing but a pair of red nylon gym
shorts, this despite the fact that the overcast November day is
anything but warm.
"I want to use the telephone," the
man says in a deep, gravelly voice.
The last time Chris had seen this
man he had lacked an eye, but now he has two, both the same
yellow as those of the young reddish-gold coyote bitch sitting on
her haunches beside him. Catching Chris' glance her way, the
coyote thumps her tail in greeting.
Clearing his throat, Chris says,
"Come right this way, sir. You're the Changer, right?"
"Yes."
The Changer doesn't seem inclined
to say more, but when Chris had started this job a month and a
half before he had been given a short list of people who were to
be assisted without question. The Changer had topped this list.
So now Chris leads the Changer into an empty seminar room and
indicates the telephone.
"Is that all, sir?"
"Get me Frank MacDonald's
number."
Chris pulls an electronic organizer
from his pocket and scribbles a number on the pad by the
phone.
"And tell Arthur I'm here."
"Yes, sir."
"And don't call me 'sir.'"
Chris exits without another word,
noting as he does so that the young coyote has happily settled
down to chewing on a corner of an expensive, handwoven rug.
* * * * *
"Arthur?" Chris enters the king's
office after a polite tap at the door. "You have a guest."
The athanor who is once again using
the name Arthur Pendragon looks up wearily from his computer
screen and glowers at the human standing in the doorway. Chris
Kristofer is an Anglo of average height and average build. His
brown hair is neither too long, nor too short. His hazel green
eyes behind large wire-rimmed glasses are intelligent. There is
nothing distasteful about his appearance, except that he is not
the person whom Arthur wishes was there.
"Yes? Does this person have an
appointment?"
Chris knows perfectly well that the
king resents him. However, he also knows that keeping this job
is a matter of life or death for him. Literally. He schools his
voice to patience and answers:
"It's the Changer, Arthur."
"Oh!" Arthur's blue eyes widen.
He stands, smoothing his neat, reddish gold beard in a thoughtful
gesture. In that attitude, he no longer looks like a slightly
overweight desk-jockey. He looks like the king he has been in
many lifetimes. "Ask the Changer if he will come to me
here."
Chris hesitates. "Shahrazad is
with him, sir."
Arthur remembers the young coyote
with a fondness that is tinged by memory of the destruction she
can create.
"I see. The day is too chilly for
us to sit in the courtyard. Ask the Changer to come to the
kitchen. He'll be hungry after his journey. Shapeshifters
always are."
"Yes, sir."
Another thought strikes Arthur.
"Is the Changer wearing
anything?"
"Gym shorts."
Arthur sighs. Doubtless the shorts
are stolen. The Changer not only has no respect for personal
property, he doesn't really acknowledge its existence.
"Chris, there are clothes that
should fit the Changer in one of the ground floor guest rooms.
Ask him if he wants them."
"Right."
When Chris has left, Arthur recalls
that the last time the Changer arrived unannounced on his
doorstep, all sorts of trouble had ensued -- trouble that had
nearly meant the end of Arthur's reign. The trouble hadn't been
the Changer's fault, but Arthur has never completely discarded
the primitive superstitions that he had imbibed along with his
mother's milk in ancient Sumer.
"It can't possibly be that bad
again," he says to the empty air. But leaving his office he raps
his knuckles against his desk. The gesture is comparatively
modern -- having originated in ancient Rome.
"Touch wood," he mutters.
* * * * *
First their reservations had
been lost. Then the plane had a flat tire that necessitated an
overnight layover at some obscure airfield until a new tire could
be flown in. After that, they had paid a small fortune in bribes
-- "dash" the Nigerians called it -- before they could clear
Customs. Then they had paid even more money to be taken to a
small hotel run by friends of Anson, only to be told that the
manager and his wife had cleared out a week before, leaving no
forwarding address.
Fresh from the United States,
from not only civilization but also from the privileged life of a
wealthy man, Eddie Zagano is having the most fun he has had in
years. He'd forgotten how much fun it could be to be
irresponsible, to not be at anyone's beck and call, to not have
it matter when he arrived somewhere or when he left.
True, he'd fidgeted a bit at
first, but his travelling companion, Anson A. Kridd, had laughed
at him so hard that Eddie had fallen into a sulk. He'd let Anson
deal with everything. Then, when after a day or so no
catastrophe occurred, he realized that Anson could deal with
everything. After that, he had relaxed and enjoyed the ride.
"Your soul is taking color
from your face, eh?" Anson says some days after they arrive in
Lagos. "Not so much hurry-hurry, lots more taking the day as it
comes."
Eddie nods. "Ifa alone knows
the destiny the unborn soul has chosen, not me. Prayer might
change my life, but worrying won't."
His speech is in flawless
Yoruban, spoken with the accent of a native of Lagos, but Eddie
is no more Yoruban at heart than he is naturally dark brown of
skin, hair, and eye. Both his mastery of the language and his
new appearance come courtesy of Arthur's staff wizard, Ian
Lovern. These sorcerous alterations enable Eddie to pass as a
citizen of Nigeria, born to the Yoruba people, and a resident of
Lagos. The false papers he cobbled together from his complicated
data bank back in New Mexico complete the trick.
To conceal his ignorance of
Lagos, Eddie's cover story is that he has been studying for the
last ten years in the United States and has only just come home.
Since Lagos is as large as New York City and not an intimate
family compound, he can memorize enough details to maintain his
deception.
Anson A. Kridd (also known as
Anansi the Spider, and by many other names, not all of them
complimentary) needs no such elaborate cover. In this life he is
registered as Anson A. Kridd and possesses dual citizenship in
Nigeria and the United States. For this trip, he has cropped off
the long dreadlocks he had worn until recently and colored his
English with a heavy local accent, but otherwise he remains as
before: long, thin, and wiry with only a small pot belly despite
his voracious appetite.
For Eddie, who only
recognizes the perpetual five o'clock shadow in the face that
looks out from his reflection, Anson's constancy is the buoy he
holds onto as he launches into the uncharted chaos of Lagos.
"So, what's next, boss?" he
asks as they come out of a shop where Anson has been
interrogating the barber.
"I want to find my friends
who are missing," Anson says, "and I begin to think I know where
to find them. All the gossip says that they received a message
from their home city, Monamona, and went there."
"Without leaving a forwarding
address?" Eddie asks, the organized American in him surfacing.
"And knowing that you were coming?"
"They must have had a
reason," Anson answers, but he frowns as he says this.
"Fortunately, I, too, have business in Monamona."
"You do?" Eddie says, almost
indignant. "This is the first I have heard of it!"
Anson grins. "So, maybe I
forget to mention it, eh? No matter what good Arthur think, I
have a job and earn my living by it. That job is what will take
us to Monamona."
"Oil," Eddie says.
"Right?"
"Oil," Anson answers. "Come,
I ask some more questions. Then we see how best we get to
Monamona. Maybe we kill two birds with one stone and eat from a
full pot."
"Do you ever think about
anything except eating?" Eddie laughs, watching as his friend
tosses a few koba to a market woman in exchange for a bag of
thick chinchin.
"Oh, yes," Anson answers,
passing Eddie a couple of the sweet fried dough balls.
"Sometimes I think how I can fix it so that others can eat,
too."
* * * * *
Over bowls of lamb stew
liberally seasoned with green chile, the Changer tells Arthur his
plans. "I'm taking Shahrazad to Frank MacDonald's place in
Texas. I want her socialized."
Arthur cocks an eyebrow. "I
thought the entire reason you hauled her back into the mountains
was that you didn't want her socialized."
The Changer almost smiles.
"Yes. I've discovered that I was wrong. She has a much more
companionable nature than mine, but I can't have her running
around with other coyotes. Until she gets bigger, they'd hurt
her while jockeying for position."
"I thought you considered
such punishment part of the natural course of things," Arthur
jibes.
This time the Changer does
smile. "I do. For coyotes. Shahrazad is athanor. She needs to
learn that there is more to getting along with others than being
able to beat them up."
Arthur relents. "I wish that
more of our number had learned that lesson early in life."
"Indeed."
Shahrazad whines and places
her paws on the counter at which Arthur and the Changer are
seated. Her father hits her soundly on the nose and, when she
has dropped back to the floor, rewards her with a chunk of
lamb.
"I see that you're not above
a bit of parental brutalizing," Arthur observes.
"I am her father."
"Do you have plans on how
you're going to get to the OTQ Ranch with a coyote
passenger?"
"I am open to
suggestions."
"Very good. I'll put one of
my pet humans on it. Bill, I think. Chris is already too
busy."
"How are they working
out?"
"The humans?" Arthur sighs.
"Well enough. I just wish I didn't need to rely on them so
exclusively. It's a bloody nuisance that both members of my
staff have taken off just now."
"I thought this would be a
good time for you to be without a large staff," the Changer
observes. "There won't be another Review for almost five years.
The humans seemed intelligent enough when I met them."
"They are." Arthur's tone is
grudging. "But I am accustomed to having Eddie on call. Where
he is in Nigeria with Anson, he's lucky if he can get out a
letter, much less a phone call or E-mail."
"And Vera is still with my
brother and Amphitrite?"
"That's right. Plans for
Atlantis are proceeding apace, but I can't hope to have her back
full-time for months, maybe even for years."
"But you can still make
arrangements for me to travel to Frank's place?"
"That I can," Arthur
promises. "That is simple compared to some of the other requests
I've had recently. The day I can't play travel agent is the day
I turn in my crown."
* * * * *
Further inquiries after his
missing friends turn up nothing, so Anson leads the way to a bus
station. As they walk through the herd of vehicles parked every
which way on the packed dirt, Eddie pulls Anson to one side.
"Spider," he begins, only to
be stopped when Anson lays a finger to his lip.
"Hsst, not here, my friend,"
Anson cautions. "That's a powerful name in this country."
"Anson," Eddie begins again,
drawing on some of his legendary patience, "we aren't riding in
one of those, are we?"
"I was thinking that we do
ride in one," Anson replies, a twinkle in his dark brown
eyes.
"But they're not safe!"
Eddie gestures toward a typical bush taxi, a Peugeot 504 designed
to carry eight and already loaded with twelve men and women,
assorted infants and small children, bundles and duffle bags,
produce, and a nanny goat. A cage of chickens is being lashed to
the roof, along with more bundles.
"That one runs," Anson grins,
shrugging.
"That one must have been
bought during the oil boom of the mid-sixties," Eddie declares,
"and I doubt that it's had its oil changed every three thousand
miles much less a tune-up. Look at the tires! They're more
patch than tread!"
"Quietly, quietly, my
friend," Anson cautions, drawing Eddie back to where the maligned
vehicle's owner will not hear him.
"Your English is good, but
still the driver may understand you."
"Let him!" Eddie declares,
but he lowers his voice. "Anson, I've let you handle most of our
expenses since we've gotten here and I know you've been spending
the naira pretty freely. If you can't afford to hire a private
car, I'm willing. Hell, I'll buy us a car."
"You are kind," Anson says,
"but I think not. I wish to go to Monamona without drawing too
much attention to ourselves. A personal car -- or even a private
hired vehicle -- will make much gossip. People will remember us
as visitors with money."
"So?" Eddie replies, still
somewhat frantic at the idea of trusting himself to one of the
bush taxis. "That should make finding your friends easier:
'Here's a rich man. He pay much naira, much dash.'"
"Has it made finding them
easier so far?" Anson counters. "It has not. Indeed, I think
that some few who might have answered my questions have not
precisely because we appear wealthy."
Eddie grumbles, "And no one
in Monamona knows that you're wealthy?"
"I do most of my business in
Lagos," Anson says, "not Monamona. Or I could have lost my
money. Fortunes come and go quickly in Nigeria. There is no FDA
to insure banks, no Better Business Association to issue
warnings, very little reliable insurance. Money come, money go.
That's one reason why family ties are so strong. You help them
when times are good; they help you when times are bad."
"Enough lecture!" Eddie
pleads. "I surrender. If you want me to ride in a bush taxi,
I'll ride in a bush taxi. When do we leave?"
Anson pats his friend on the
arm. "I see if we can get a driver to promise to wait for us in
the morning. More business comes from Monamona to Lagos than
from Lagos to Monamona. So the bus might not be so crowded and
the driver might take a reservation."
"Wonderful."
"Hey, you've known worse in
your life," Anson says, the phrase almost a proverb among the
athanor.
"I know."
"And I promise you protection
of the finest type," Anson says, mock solemn.
"Oh?"
Anson points to a figurine
secured to the dashboard of the nearest bush taxi, waving his
fingers to indicate the other vehicles, many of which bear some
version of the same figure.
"What's that?" Eddie says,
giving the figure -- a powerfully built, dark-skinned African man
-- a closer look. "The African version of a plastic Jesus?"
"Oh, no, my friend," Anson
assures him. "Much better than that."
"Tell me."
"It is a plastic Ogun -- the
Yoruban god of war and iron. In these modern days he has become
the patron of lorry drivers as well. Don't you feel more
safe?"
"Ogun!" Eddie swears. "Dakar
Agadez. He still has worshippers here?"
"Oh, yes. The traditional
religion is not quite gone. Many who call themselves Christian
or Moslem become traditionalists in the bush -- or when they need
extra protection against witches and other dangers."
"Ogun."
"Yes. We travel under his
protection."
"For whatever good that is,"
Eddie says, thinking of the athanor he had last seen drunk and
brawling with his long-time rival.
"For whatever good," Anson
agrees. He lowers his voice to a whisper and places his lips
near Eddie's ear. "And I share a secret with you."
"Yes?"
"I told you I had
business?"
"Yes."
"Dakar is one of those with
whom we do business." Anson straightens, pleased with himself.
"So certainly we will arrive in Monamona safely."
* * * * *
Bill Irish tall, slim,
coffee-dark from his Jamaican father, lightened with cream by his
American mother taps his computer keyboard:
>> Wanderer: Arthur has a job
for you. Transport of two, one vaguely illegal and somewhat
messy. Contact Pendragon Productions, my address or phone.
Bill.
Running his hands over his
head, he tugs the end of his short ponytail to punctuate his
re-read, then sends the message.
"That should do it," he says
to Chris. "The Wanderer makes his living moving questionable
cargo. He sure did a good job transporting Lovern and his gear
to the new academy."
Chris swivels around his desk
chair, reads the message and nods. "And getting Swansdown there
when she flew in from Alaska. You know, I hadn't realized that
transporting a coyote would be such a nuisance. It's a shame she
can't shapeshift like her father."
"Or that her father won't
drive himself," Bill adds.
"Would you really want him
to?" Chris challenges.
Bill considers the feral
ancient who, once more in the shape of a grey male coyote, is
sleeping in the hacienda's central courtyard.
"No. Not really. He's
spooky."
"Yeah."
"And he'd probably
speed."
"I wonder if he can even
drive," Chris says.
"He has a driver's
license."
"Big deal. Arthur has a
birth certificate stating that he was born in England about forty
years ago. And Eddie -- who was an Anglo when we met him -- is
now darker than you are and apparently African by birth."
Bill shivers slightly, "These
athanor take a lot of getting used to..."
The ringing phone interrupts
him. He reaches over and answers it.
"Pendragon Productions, Bill
Irish speaking."
"Bill?" The voice on the
other end is unfamiliar. "This isthe Wanderer."
Bill sits up straight, his
feet, which he had been about to park on the desk, hitting the
floor with a thump.
"Wanderer?"
"That's right."
"We must have a bad
connection," he hazards. "I didn't recognize your voice."
"Oh. Right."
A clicking sound, rather like
a fingernail tapping something hard and plastic, follows, then
the Wanderer speaks again.
"Is that better?"
Bill frowns. "Yes. I wonder
what caused that?"
"Don't worry about it.
What's the job?"
"The Changer and his daughter
want to go out to Frank MacDonald's ranch."
"When?"
"Soon as you can leave."
"Anyone after them?"
"Not that I've heard. Of
course, the Changer isn't exactly the type to volunteer
information."
"No. Never has been. I'll
charge double what I did for moving Lovern's gear. Half in
favors, half in cash."
"That's quite a bit."
"I doubt that Shahrazad's
exactly house-trained and I live in my van. I want to be paid up
front for the clean up I'm going to have to do."
Bill, thinking of what he has
seen since the pair's arrival, says, "I think Shahrazad's better
behaved than she was at the Review, but when you put it that way
I don't think Arthur will quibble about the price."
"I'm up at the hot springs in
Ojo Caliente," the Wanderer says. "If this isn't a rush job,
I'll be there tomorrow morning. If there is, I can be there in
about two and a half hours."
"I don't think waiting until
tomorrow will be a problem."
"Great. See you in the
morning."
"Thanks."
Bill hangs up the phone.
"The Wanderer says he'll be here in the morning."
"I'll tell Arthur," Chris
says. "I have some papers I need him to sign." He pauses in the
doorway. "What was that fuss about at the beginning of the
call?"
Frowning, Bill looks up at
his friend. "The connection seemed perfectly clear, but at the
beginning of the call I... you'll think I'm crazy.. but I could
have sworn that I was talking to a woman."
Excerpt from LEGENDS WALKING
by Jane Lindskold.
Published by Avon Eos in 1999. Copyright © 1999 by Jane Lindskold. All rights
reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without written permission of the Publisher.
Exceptions are made for downloading
this file to a computer for personal use.
Copyright © 1999 by Jane Lindskold. All rights reserved.
This page updated August 2, 2001.